I’d gotten Niki as a partner on a temporary assignment to handle a spate of murders three years ago. When things calmed down, Whitton requested that Niki be transitioned back to Vice. She was attractive and Asian, and Whitton saw little beyond those assets. I fought to have her remain in Homicide. I won that battle, which ended with Whitton storming out of Chief Murphy’s office.
The second part of the fight, the part I’d never mentioned to Niki, happened on the steps of City Hall. I was leaving that day and found Whitton waiting for me. Although he pretended that our meeting was the product of mere chance, I knew better.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You got yourself quite the little geisha there.”
I tried to ignore him and walk away, but he stepped in front of me.
“Don’t think I don’t know why you want her for your partner, Rupert. I know exactly what you’re up to. Got yourself a case of yellow fever. Think you’re going to bang her between calls. Well, think again. She’s a frigid bitch.”
My eyelids sank to half mast, which is something I’ve noticed that they do just before I lash out. It probably makes me look more sleepy than dangerous. I started to ball up my fists, and the thought of striking a higher-ranking officer played out in my mind.
“She struts around like she’s the queen of the fucking Mekong Delta, but in the end, she’s a tease. She’ll use you the same way she used me. I’m just another stepping-stone, and so are you, Rupert. You can have the bitch—get her the fuck out of my hair. I’m done with her.”
With that, he turned in a sharp twist and walked away. He’d said what he needed to say, and that was the last time that I’d spoken to Commander Reece Whitton.
Whitton ended our silence by clearing his throat and saying, “Yes, Detective. What can I help you with?”
Good, he was going to keep it professional. “I’m looking into a tattoo. I believe it may be a pimp brand. We’ve found it on two different females. I was hoping you might have some background on it.”
“Maybe,” he said, with an air of being an authority on the subject. “We’re seeing more and more of that going on lately. What’s the tattoo look like?”
“It’s a ruble—you know, the symbol for Russian currency. It looks like a capital P with a—”
“I know what a ruble looks like, Rupert. I’m not an idiot.”
So much for professionalism. “Have you seen any of these around town?”
“Where did you find this tattoo? On what part of the body?”
Does that matter? I thought. “They had the tattoo on their necks, just behind the ear.”
“And you say you’ve seen more than one?”
“Have you seen any tats like that? Can you give me a name?”
“When was it that you came across any of these ruble tats?”
“It’s a cold case that we’re taking a fresh look at. If you have any names we could check out . . .”
“No.” He drew out his words as if giving my query due consideration. “I can’t say that I’ve seen a tattoo like that on any of the girls we’ve picked up. Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”
What a waste of time. “Well, I appreciate the input anyway,” I said. “If you come across anything like that, let me know. Okay?”
“Certainly, Rupert.” He gave emphasis to my last name as if it were an insult.
I hung up the phone and stewed in my remembrance of why I hated that prick. I didn’t expect Whitton to be helpful, but it was a bridge that needed to be crossed.
Farrah McKinney walked into the cafeteria at exactly ten o’clock, looking like a model from some businesswoman’s catalogue: black suit, white blouse—both stiffly pressed, a leather coat over one arm and a computer bag under the other. A far different look than what she wore to the Hen House. I stood as she took her seat.
“How was court?” I asked as a way of breaking the ice.
“Slow. Court is the worst part about being an interpreter. I have to translate legal documents, and my God it can be boring. Lawyers use ten words when one will do. But, it pays the bills.”
Farrah lifted the computer bag onto the table and pulled a tiny black thumb drive out of one of the pockets, sliding it toward me. “After the funeral,” she said, “I wasn’t sure what to do with this, so I tossed it into a drawer—just in case I ever got the inclination to send it to you. I honestly forgot about it until you called.”
“I can’t tell you what it means to me . . .” I picked up the drive and held it like a present that I wasn’t allowed to open.
Farrah must have guessed my thoughts and asked, “Would you like to listen to it? I could play it on my computer.”
“I’d really appreciate it,” I said.
She slid her laptop out of its case and flipped it open. I handed the thumb drive back to Farrah, and we sat there in an uncomfortable silence as she waited for her computer to wake up. Then she plugged the drive into the port.
“It’s not much. She only spoke for a minute or so.”
Farrah looked up from the computer screen, I suppose to see if I was ready to listen. Then she hit play, and I heard the voice of my dead wife fill the air. “Ms. McKinney, this is Jenni Rupert, from HCMC. We met earlier today . . . with Zoya. I came by her room just now, and she’s awake and talking. I’m writing down what it sounds like she’s saying, but I can’t make anything out.”
Jenni must have turned the phone toward Zoya because the girl’s unintelligible rambling became clearer. Then it faded again, and Jenni resumed talking. “I’ve set up a meeting for three thirty today . . . if you can make it, that is. If you can’t, let me know, and I’ll reschedule. She still seems frantic, almost terrified. I don’t know what to make of it. Give me a call.”
I couldn’t speak past the knot in my throat, so I just sat there, staring at Farrah’s computer, letting Jenni’s voice soak in. Yet, mixed with my wife’s voice, were the words of a young girl, frightened words uttered in a language that tangled in my ears. I didn’t understand what she said, but I could hear the desperation in her voice.
I found my voice. “The girl in the background . . . that was Zoya, right?”
“I assume so.”
“Can you make out what she’s saying?”
Farrah played the recording again. At the part where Zoya’s voice gets louder, Farrah said, “She’s talking about wanting to go home.”
“What about the rest?”
“I’ve never really listened that closely before.”
Farrah played the recording a third time, her eyes squinting as she strained to hear the voice behind Jenni’s. “I think she’s saying . . . ‘Don’t call him. Please don’t call him.’”
I put my hand on Farrah’s arm to signal for her to pause. “Does she say who not to call? Does she say a name?”
Farrah backed it up and listened again. “I can’t make it out. I don’t—wait.” Farrah hit pause, reached into her bag, and pulled out a set of earbuds. She plugged them in and played it again, translating as she listened. “‘Don’t call him. Please don’t call him.’ Then she says, ‘I just want to go home. I want to go back to . . .” Farrah backed up and played a small portion again. “‘I want to go back to’ . . . it sounds like she’s saying ‘Lida.’”
“Lida? Does that ring a bell?”
“No, but it sounds like it may be her hometown.”