about it.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe he had some use for it later on. Claim it was stolen, build an alibi in advance, you follow?”
“Can you write down the names of everyone who was working here while the car was in the shop?” Carella asked.
“Sure.”
“Would anyone else have access to that key cabinet? Aside from your people?” Hawes asked.
“Sure. Anybody walking in and out of the office here. But there’s always one of us around. We would’ve seen anybody trying
to get in the cabinet.”
“Addresses and phone numbers, too,” Carella said.
Despite the cold, the blonde was wearing only a brief black miniskirt, a short red fake-fur jacket, gartered black silk stockings
and high-heeled, red leather, ankle-high boots. A matching red patent-leather clutch handbag was tucked under her arm. Her
naked thighs were raw from the wind, and her feet were freezing cold in the high-heeled boots. Shivering, she stood on the
corner near the traffic light, where any inbound traffic from Majesta would have to stop before moving into the city proper.
The girl’s name was Yolande.
She was free, white, and nineteen years old, but she was a hooker and a crack addict, and she was here on the street at this
hour of the morning because she hoped to snag a driver coming in, and spin him around the block once or twice while she gave
him a fifty-dollar blow job.
Yolande didn’t know it, but she would be dead in three hours.
The detectives coming out of the gas station office spotted the blonde standing on the corner, recognized her for exactly
what she was, but didn’t glance again in her direction. Yolande recognized them as well, for exactly what they were, and watched
them warily as they climbed into an unmarked, dark blue sedan. A white Jaguar pulled to the curb where she was standing. The
window on the passenger side slid noiselessly down. The traffic light bathed the car and the sidewalk and Yolande in red.
She waited until she saw a plume of exhaust smoke billow from the tailpipe of the dark sedan up the street. Then she leaned
into the window of the car at the curb, smiled and said, “Hey, hiya. Wanna party?”
“How much?” the driver asked.
The changing traffic light suddenly turned everything to green.
A moment later, the two vehicles moved off in opposite directions.
The night was young.
They found Gus Mondalvo in an underground club in a largely Hispanic section of Riverhead. This was now a little past four
in the morning. His mother, who refused to open the door of her apartment despite repeated declarations that they were police,
told them they could find her son at the Club Fajardo “up dee block,” which is where they were now, trying to convince the
heavyset man who opened the chain-held door that they weren’t here to bust the place.
The man protested in Spanish that they weren’t serving liquor here, anyway, so what was there to bust? This was just a friendly
neighborhood social club having a little party, they could come in and see for themselves, all of this while incriminating
bottles and glasses were being whisked from behind the bar and off the tabletops. By the time he took off the chain some five
minutes later, you would have thought this was a teenage corner malt shop instead of a joint selling booze after hours to
a clientele that included underage kids. The man who let them in told them Gus Mondalvo was sitting at the bar drinking …
“But nothing alcoholic,” he added hastily.
… and pointed him out to them. A Christmas tree still stood in the corner near the bar, elaborately decorated, extravagantly
lighted. The detectives made their way across a small dance floor packed with teenagers dancing and groping to Ponce’s Golden
Oldies, moved past tables where boys and girls, men and women alike were all miraculously drinking Coca-Cola in bottles, and
approached the stool where Gus Mondalvo sat sipping what looked like a
“Like what?”
“Maybe he had some use for it later on. Claim it was stolen, build an alibi in advance, you follow?”
“Can you write down the names of everyone who was working here while the car was in the shop?” Carella asked.
“Sure.”
“Would anyone else have access to that key cabinet? Aside from your people?” Hawes asked.
“Sure. Anybody walking in and out of the office here. But there’s always one of us around. We would’ve seen anybody trying
to get in the cabinet.”
“Addresses and phone numbers, too,” Carella said.
Despite the cold, the blonde was wearing only a brief black miniskirt, a short red fake-fur jacket, gartered black silk stockings
and high-heeled, red leather, ankle-high boots. A matching red patent-leather clutch handbag was tucked under her arm. Her
naked thighs were raw from the wind, and her feet were freezing cold in the high-heeled boots. Shivering, she stood on the
corner near the traffic light, where any inbound traffic from Majesta would have to stop before moving into the city proper.
The girl’s name was Yolande.
She was free, white, and nineteen years old, but she was a hooker and a crack addict, and she was here on the street at this
hour of the morning because she hoped to snag a driver coming in, and spin him around the block once or twice while she gave
him a fifty-dollar blow job.
Yolande didn’t know it, but she would be dead in three hours.
The detectives coming out of the gas station office spotted the blonde standing on the corner, recognized her for exactly
what she was, but didn’t glance again in her direction. Yolande recognized them as well, for exactly what they were, and watched
them warily as they climbed into an unmarked, dark blue sedan. A white Jaguar pulled to the curb where she was standing. The
window on the passenger side slid noiselessly down. The traffic light bathed the car and the sidewalk and Yolande in red.
She waited until she saw a plume of exhaust smoke billow from the tailpipe of the dark sedan up the street. Then she leaned
into the window of the car at the curb, smiled and said, “Hey, hiya. Wanna party?”
“How much?” the driver asked.
The changing traffic light suddenly turned everything to green.
A moment later, the two vehicles moved off in opposite directions.
The night was young.
They found Gus Mondalvo in an underground club in a largely Hispanic section of Riverhead. This was now a little past four
in the morning. His mother, who refused to open the door of her apartment despite repeated declarations that they were police,
told them they could find her son at the Club Fajardo “up dee block,” which is where they were now, trying to convince the
heavyset man who opened the chain-held door that they weren’t here to bust the place.
The man protested in Spanish that they weren’t serving liquor here, anyway, so what was there to bust? This was just a friendly
neighborhood social club having a little party, they could come in and see for themselves, all of this while incriminating
bottles and glasses were being whisked from behind the bar and off the tabletops. By the time he took off the chain some five
minutes later, you would have thought this was a teenage corner malt shop instead of a joint selling booze after hours to
a clientele that included underage kids. The man who let them in told them Gus Mondalvo was sitting at the bar drinking …
“But nothing alcoholic,” he added hastily.
… and pointed him out to them. A Christmas tree still stood in the corner near the bar, elaborately decorated, extravagantly
lighted. The detectives made their way across a small dance floor packed with teenagers dancing and groping to Ponce’s Golden
Oldies, moved past tables where boys and girls, men and women alike were all miraculously drinking Coca-Cola in bottles, and
approached the stool where Gus Mondalvo sat sipping what looked like a
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