“You’re going to call the police?”
“No,you’regoing to call the police, from a pay phone, with an anonymous tip. I don’t want my voice anywhere on record, but they don’t know you. But before that, I need a Coke.”
That’s what they do. Nomi buys a soda from a bodega near the corner of Church Avenue. Simon follows her instructions and calls the cops from a phone kiosk at the subway station, hanging up when the operator asks for his name. They get back on the subway—Simon holds his breath when the train dips and enters the tunnels again. Nomi gives him some of her Coke as a consolation prize.
He tries distracting himself with conversation. “So ... you were a cop?”
“Keep your voice down.” She scans the carriage, but the only other passengers are near the far end. She’s sitting facing him across the aisle, knees wide, forearms resting on them as she leans forward. She still looks a little haggard. “Yes. For two years. I quit in ’85.”
He takes another sip of soda. “Folks in the district, like Solange, will trust an ex-cop?”
“The relevant word isex. And yes, they trust me because I’m one of them.”
Her eyes dart around. Something she’s hiding there, but he’s not going to pry. Once again, she reminds him of a mink, a trickster animal—slippery, predatory, a true survivor.
He diverts. “So what does the business with Cevolatti mean for your case?”
“Nothing good.” She shakes her head, reaches into her jacket pocket. “At least I got this.”
She’s holding a man’s wallet, brown leather, bulging with receipts and cash and other detritus.
Simon’s eyebrows lift involuntarily. “You told me not to touch anything!”
“I toldyounot to touch anything. And I only touched the stuff I was going to steal.” She tucks the wallet back into her pocket. “Looks like Cevolatti never threw anything away, so hopefully there’ll be something useful in there.”
Simon examines an advertisement for Newport 100s above her head, turning things over. “Solange is mixed up in some bad stuff, then.”
“Yeah.” Nomi straightens. The silver handrail on her left casts glinting reflections on her skin. “Her daughter has been abducted.”
Simon’s eyes snap back. “To keep her quiet?”
“To keep her compliant. So she does what Lamonte tells her to do.”
“What is he telling her to do?”
Nomi shakes her head again; that’s something she won’t reveal. But talking about it has given her a brittle, glittering energy—this isn’t just a job she’s been employed to do; she has some kind of personal stake in this.
“And Solange doesn’t want to go to the regular cops?”
“She’s been warned by Malcolm that going to the cops would put her daughter’s safety at risk. Anyway, why would she go to law enforcement? So she can have her case deprioritized? Even if they got Brittany back, they’d take her away from Solange and give her to social services.”
It’s starting to come together for him now. “Because Solange is a prostitute. And Malcolm is her pimp.”
“Give the man a prize.”
Simon hands her the soda bottle. “How old is Brittany?”
“Seven.” Nomi screws the cap back on slowly. “She’s seven years old.”
Simon looks at her flinty expression—a solid tell. She’s angry and worried about the kid. “That’s heavy. You weren’t joking when you said you had a full slate.”
The phrase seems to deflate her a little. “I don’t mind being busy, but I don’t like it when dead bodies are involved.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about that with my case.”
“We’ll see.” Nomi’s look is cool, appraising. “I don’t know you very well yet.”
“That’s funny,” he says. “Neither do I.”
