“Yeah, well, we’re taking some vacation time. Need to chill after the funeral and all,” said the cousin, not sounding very convincing, even to Raley, who didn’t speak the language.
“That’s a lot of luggage for just a vacation. How long you plan to be gone?” When the cousin just stood there with his door keys in one hand and a CVS bag in the other, Ochoa rose from his chair and walked the line of suitcases. “Let’s see, you’ve got two jumbo sizes here. A garment bag—I guess that’s for those new clothes we saw hanging on the door the other day. Another large suitcase. Three carry-ons . . . Homes, you are going to get so hit with baggage fees. And tips. You’re going to need to tip that skycap a ton to help with all this. That’s going to cost you, my friend. But you can handle that, I guess, right?”
Victor said nothing, just stared at a dead spot in the air somewhere between himself and Ochoa.
“Well, I think you can swing it no sweat. Tips, baggage fees . . . I bet you could even get a limo from your cousin’s old boss to drive you to the airport and it still wouldn’t make a dent. Not in this.” The detective nudged a small sport duffel with the toe of his shoe. The skin on Victor’s forehead tightened and his gaze slowly descended to the bag. The top zipper was wide open and the stacks of cash were visible.
“I told you to zip it,” Victor said to the boy.
Ochoa wanted to ask whether he meant his mouth or the duffel, but he didn’t want to ice the conversation. They had a lot to talk about.
Back at the precinct, Heat took a call from Raley, who told her about the carry-on of cash and that they were bringing Victor and Pablo in for questioning. She agreed that since the bag was open and in plain view, spotting the money likely obviated the need for a search warrant, but that he should consult the DA in case any charges came out of this. “How much cash was it?”
“Ninety-one thou.” Raley paused before he added, “In twenties.”
“Interesting number.”
“Yeah, and we ran a check, the cousin’s straight. No drug busts, no gambling or gang affiliations. That chunk of change smells like some sort of payoff that’s light by about nine thousand. My guess is it went to plane tickets, wardrobe, and luggage.”
“A hundred grand just doesn’t go as far as it used to, does it, Rales?”
He laughed. “Like I would know.”
When Heat hung up, she turned to find Sharon Hinesburg hovering around her desk. “We’ve got a customer coming.”
“Who?” Nikki figured it was too much to hope it would be the Texan, and she was correct.
“Morris Granville. The Toby Mills stalker? They picked him up in Chinatown trying to get on a Fung Wah bus to Boston. He’ll be here in thirty minutes. Or you don’t pay.” Hinesburg handed her Granville’s file.
“They’re bringing him here?” asked Heat. “Why not the Nineteenth Precinct or CPK? Central Park claimed turf on him, we’re just cooperating.”
“Except the arresting officers say the guy mentioned you specifically by name. He says he saw you in yesterday’s ‘Buzz Rush’ and has something he wants to talk to you about.”
“Know if he said what?”
Detective Hinesburg shook her head. “Maybe it’s a desperate attempt to bargain.” And then she chuckled. “Hey, I know. Now that you’re a big celebrity, maybe he wants to stalk you.”
“Hilarious,” said Nikki mirthlessly.
Oblivious as ever, Hinesburg said, “Thanks,” and moved on.