Chinatown - Part 3 - Throwing Stars, Feeling Pain

I spent much of Thursday night watching the webcam feed from Natalie’s apartment on my computer. I was in the middle of writing an update to this site to say that the idea hadn’t turned in any results when I saw movement on the screen. The door in Natalie’s apartment opened, and a figure came in. Someone of Asian descent, though I couldn’t see his face clearly. The person was rummaging through the mess of Natalie’s apartment, apparently looking for something.

I rushed out to my car and gunned it down to Natalie’s apartment, running a whole slew of reds and nearly killing a bum that refused to get out of the street, even when the light was green. I pulled up, parked in front of a fire hydrant, and ran up the stairs to her apartment. The door to her apartment was open slightly, and a dim light was streaming through into the hallway. I took out my gun and pushed my way through.

At first glance, the room was empty and everything was silent save for the hum of the computer running in the corner. Then I was staring at the bottom of a Nike running shoe as it made its way through the air toward my face. The kick met its mark, smacking into my nose and sending me backwards. I still held the gun, but before I could get balanced, the assailant had an arm wrapped around my throat and what felt like a very sharp knife pressed against my jugular. The person wasn’t going out of their way to be gentle, and I could feel the blade break the skin. A person can bleed to death in about 10 to 20 seconds from a wound to the jugular.

“Why are you here?” the person asked from behind me. Raspy, but definitely a female voice. Her body felt small yet very powerful.

“I’m just the neighbor. Natalie asked me to watch her cat while she was gone.”

“One more time, then you bleed. Why are you here?”

I stayed silent for a moment, then I felt her draw up her arm. “I came here to find what you’re looking for.”

“What am I looking for?”

“What Natalie stole.”

The attacker eased up momentarily on the knife, maybe in surprise, and I used this to my advantage. I sent an elbow into her gut, and as she doubled over, I smacked the knife hand away and trained my gun on her. She had a long face with thin lips and dyed-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. No one I had seen before. She stared at me with contempt, but dropped the knife knowingly.

“My turn for questions,” I said, rubbing my bleeding nose and keeping the gun trained on her. “Who are you, sweetie?”

The eyebrows lowered further than I thought possible. She said something that I imagine is very derogatory in Japanese.

“One more time, then you bleed, sweetie,” I said, and cocked my gun for effect. “Who do you work for?”

She was fast, and in my memory, her movement is a total blur. Suddenly, her hand was down by her waist, then there was a burning pain in my arm and she was out the window onto the fire escape. I looked down and saw what looked to be a throwing star sunk deep into my arm. Without thinking, I yanked it out, pulling along some strands of flesh I would have much preferred to keep apart of me. I ran to the window, but she was on the street level. In the time it’d take me to get out there, she’d be long gone.

I stared down at the bloody star in my hand, and realized immediately that the broken blade I had removed from Mr. X’s wall was an exact match (this roughly resembles it, from an online weapons store):



I found some rags under the kitchen sink and tied up my wound, which was bleeding pretty bad. From my brief conversation with the woman, it sounded like she still hadn’t recovered what was lost. Maybe she works for Mr. X. Maybe she’s another Voice girl. No clue. She definitely wasn’t either Ruby or Natalie, for anyone who was wondering.

I sat down on the couch and called Ruby. The next necessary step to take would be to find Mr. X, and I wanted to know whether it would make more sense for me to go to the escort service myself or for her. She said she had an idea, and would get back to me.

On Friday, I took both the throwing star and the broke throwing star blade down to a martial arts supply shop in Chinatown. The walls were hung with swords, though the $15-$100 price tags suggested that they weren’t anything more than for show. A few foam nunchucks were lying around, but nothing looked too dangerous. In fact, it almost seemed like a costume shop.

I showed the clerk the stars and asked where I could buy them in New York. He immediately began pointing at a sign, which detailed what was illegal in NY, and thus what they didn’t carry. There’s a whole array of weapons that cannot be sold legally in Massachusetts, New York, and California, including (among many, many others) throwing stars.

Then again, we’re in New York, the city where everything can be bought if the price is right. Just last year, for example, a Queens business was busted by the cops for selling tons of illegal weapons, from butterfly knives to canes with concealed blades. It only took a few minutes of hounding and bribery before the guy wrote down the address of a place a few blocks over that could give me more info on what I was looking for. He also gave me a line to say in Chinese to get in, and I wrote it down in my notebook phonetically.

I left and walked over through the bustle of countless pedestrians and arrived at what looked like a trinket shop. This type of store riddles Chinatown, and they usually all sell the same crap: faux-antique vases, cheap furniture, small statuary, and many other goods that can all be classified under junk. I made my way into the store to the back counter. A young man was there, and I tried to pronounce the line. He looked at me suspiciously for a second, probably trying to determine if I was a cop, then nodded over his shoulder. I realized he was directing me, and I walked around the counter through a pair of curtains into the backroom.

The backroom was not what you’d imagine. There were no knives, swords, nunchucks, throwing stars, bos, or sais decorating the walls. Just boxes. Countless non-descript brown boxes carefully arranged on shelves. An older man was back there, and I held out the stars.

“Where can I get these?” I asked.

He took a quick glance at them and seemed to size them up immediately. “These are custom made. Hard to find. Well-balanced. These cost much.”

“Do you have them?”

He shook his head. “These are unique, not mass-produced. Only one person I know of in Manhattan, and he won’t see you unless you are the type of person he will see.”

Nothing beats circular logic. “Am I the type of person he will see?”

“Depends on whether he will see you.”

Goddammit. “Where can I meet him?”

“Give me your name and phone number. I see if he’s taking orders now. If you don't hear back, answer is no.”

I wrote it down for him, and he put it in a pile of papers, then stopped paying attention to me. Our meeting was over, I took it, and left.

Saturday has been an ugly day, and I’ve been sitting around at Natalie’s apartment waiting to hear back from Ruby regarding Mr. X, or from the weapons guy about the stars. No one has shown up to wreck this place any further, though I don’t think that’s possible. Sounds like her neighbors just came home, so I’m going to go ask them a few questions.

This case has become a pain in the ass. Or arm, to be accurate.

----

Someone is in Natalie's apartment - I can see it on her webcam feed. I'm going over.

Chinatown - Part 2 - Vanished!

I went over to Mr. X’s (the Japanese businessman) apartment at 11 AM on Wednesday morning, located deep in Chinatown. When tourists come to New York, the Chinatown they tend to see is mainly relegated to Canal Street, a large avenue that runs from east to west in downtown Manhattan. Canal Street is hell on Earth, and why tourists put up with it is beyond me. The traffic is always bumper to bumper, and so are the pedestrians, who stop to look at every bootleg piece of crap being sold on the street for ludicrous prices, from jade Buddhas to fake Rolex watches (otherwise known as Frolexes).

If you go to the end of Canal Street and take a right, you’ll eventually find yourself in Chatham Square (recently rechristened Kimlau Square). The square has a large arch dedicated to Chinese Americans who died fighting for democracy, as well as a statue of Lin Tse-hu, who played a major role in the Opium War. One street over is Mr. X’s apartment.

Mr. X’s building looks pretty much like those surrounding it: red brick covered in filth, with a rusted fire escape zigzagging up the front. The first floor is occupied by a storefront, which I think deals in electronic repair, though the sign is in Chinese, and they appear to also sell flowers. Beside it, a grimy glass door leads to the apartments above.

I unlocked the front door with the keys Ruby had given me and found myself in a small entryway. Steel mailboxes lined the wall, and I checked the apartment number Mr. X lived in (13). No name on the box, which wasn’t a surprise. I entered through the second door into the apartment and started the hike up the stairs. My first impression of the building was that it is a loud place to live. In one apartment, I could hear a mother yelling at her child for having done something wrong. In another, the television volume had been cranked to full blast. In another, someone was giving piano lessons to a very untalented youth.

I finally got to the door to 13 and put my ear to it. No sound. I took out a small device designed to amplify sounds on the other side of a wall or door, consisting of a receiver mic, small base unit, and headphones – all in all, smaller than an iPod. It’s capable of picking up whispers, but all I got was the sound of traffic coming from outside the apartment. No one home, or at least, no one making noise. I took out my set of keys and opened the door slowly. No one objected, so I continued inside and shut the door.

The apartment was completely empty. Ruby had told me the apartment was lightly furnished, yet the place looked like no one had lived there in ages. It was a studio apartment, with a closet, small kitchenette off to one side and a bathroom to the other. The main room was totally empty – no furniture, nothing on the walls, no lamps. Same went for the kitchen – nothing in the fridge, nothing in the garbage, nothing in the dishwasher. Bathroom was completely empty too. Not only was the place empty, but it was also incredibly clean. It looked like a professional job – the floors were totally free of dust, the windows had been Windexed to perfection, and the walls smelled like they had been recently painted.

I did a thorough search of the main room but found not so much as a piece of lint. I had a feeling that a full team of forensics experts wouldn’t do much better. Hell, there weren’t even any stray eyelashes or pubic hairs to be found (keep in mind it’s a room used for principally for sex). The bathroom was more immaculate than the pope’s, and if the kitchen had ever been used for food-related purposes, there was no sign of it now.

OK, I thought – the cleaners have clearly done their job. Nothing to be found in the room, and in addition, nothing seemed to be missing.

That’s when I began to focus my attention on the walls. They had been repainted for a reason, and there was the likely possibility they had been more than just a little dirty. I got up close to one wall and began feeling along carefully for any bumps or indents. I spent about twenty minutes running my hands very slowly along every square inch of it, but didn’t find anything. Then I cut myself.

There is no way I would have seen it otherwise, but my finger had pressed down onto an incredibly small yet very sharp piece of jagged metal sticking out from the wall. The exposed amount was nothing longer than the bit of exposed lead on a pencil, but it was enough to draw blood. I took out my jackknife and began scraping away the paint. It soon became clear that whatever it was was much larger and deeply embedded. I began hacking at the plaster until the piece of metal finally began to loosen. I opened the small wrench on my knife and pried it out.

What I had looked like the broken end of a knife blade, only the sides were too round to have been part of a knife. Rather than angling slightly down to where a base would be, they curved out to the sides. Also, the piece was too small to belong to a larger knife blade – less than an inch on each side. It looked almost like a metal arrowhead.

Then I heard the lock begin to open – someone was coming in, and I didn’t have any escape plan. My eyes looked to the closet, then to the fire escape, but it was all too late. The door swung open, and a Chinese man came into the room followed by a young couple. The Chinese man was in the middle of describing the apartment to them in broken English.

“We have all amenities you could want – hot water always hot, pressure good -”

He turned and saw me, and an angry expression flashed onto his face.

“Who are you? Whatchoo doing here?”

I quickly explained that I was a friend of the previous occupant, and that he had given me a key, but this only made the man - who I took to be the landlord - angrier. He demanded I hand over the key, and told me that the previous occupant had moved out on Saturday. He began herding me out of the apartment, clearly angry at having been embarrassed in front of his potential tenants. I threw a series of questions at him, but I was totally unprepared and it showed. The only answer I got in the middle of his cursing and threatening to call the police was that the place had been cleaned by someone the previous tenant had hired.

He had finally succeeded in getting me out into the hallway. As he started to close the door, I yelled in: “The previous tenant used this room to meet prostitutes in!” The door slammed shut, but I know the couple had heard. I wanted to talk to the neighbors, but now wasn't the time.

I walked through the streets of Chinatown to the subway, which I took to Natalie’s apartment in the Lower East Side. I buzzed my way in, then went up to her floor. On Tuesday, I had placed a small string running from the door to the door frame to see if anyone would enter while I was away. The string was lying on the ground. I took out my lockpicking tools and was about to go to work when another thought occurred to me. I tried the door and found that, unlike on Tuesday, it was unlocked.

Inside, the apartment had been completely trashed. Couches were overturned, with cushions split open and stuffing poured out onto the ground. The rug had been yanked up, and was heaped in a pile in the corner. The drawers of Natalie’s computer desk were all lying on the floor, the contents spilled across the room. In other words, it was clear that the room hadn’t been randomly destroyed – someone had been looking for something. I went through the rest of the apartment and found the same mess throughout.

I returned to the front room, uprighted her computer chair and sat down. A line of reasoning began to formulate: The hooker has been seeing Mr. X for a while. Then one night she disappears. Mr. X cleans out his apartment completely, then moves out. A blade of some kind is left in the wall. Then, Natalie’s apartment is trashed because someone was looking for something.

To me, this suggests that Natalie took something of Mr. X’s; he got angry; threatened her; she wouldn’t or couldn’t give him the answers he wanted; he killed or kidnapped her; then finally he went on a treasure hunt in her apartment. Whether he was successful or not in finding what he was looking for is unknowable. As for me locating it (whatever “it” is), I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking. I did a once over, but all I found were items I wouldn’t expect in the home of a prostitute: books on philosophy, for example, and DVDs of old Fellini flicks. I sort of assumed that all the literature in the apartment would be on Kama Sutra, and all the movies, pornos. Call me crazy. The frustrating aspect was that the answer probably was in the apartment within ten feet of where I was sitting, yet was totally beyond my reach.

One positive turn of events came out of my visit – I noticed that Natalie’s computer had an impressive webcam connected to it, along with a cable connection. Without a doubt, Natalie makes side money through a web presence of some kind. I turned on the camera and logged it on to a web-based cam service, then turned it to face the living room. Free surveillance is always a plus.

The next step is to try and figure out what the blade might have broken off of, and perhaps try to contact the escort service. I’ve never been to the office of such a place, but something tells me it’s not the Playboy mansion that I’d like it to be.

Chinatown - Part 1 - Turning Tricks in Chinatown

The Village Voice is a free left-wing newspaper in New York City that comes out every week and can be found on just about every other street corner. Despite its numerous scathing condemnations of current political leaders, the most infamous section is always found in the classifieds, where the Voice has its Adult advertisements. Each small 1-inch by 2-inch ad features a picture of a woman in sexy lingerie, a comically fake name, and a phone number. The idea is that you call the lady pictured and receive some kind of pleasure, whether over the phone or in person. There are about ten pages of these ads, and there’s a fetish for everyone, from BBW to S&M to shemales and trannies.

Is this prostitution? Not by the books. None of the women overtly advertise themselves as providing sex for money, as if the most they’ll do is a hardcore striptease or massage. Ultimately, what actually occurs on your outing with “Crystal” or “Bambi” depends on their mood, as far as the law is concerned. If, while you are paying for the pleasure of their company, they suddenly and coincidentally get the urge to fuck you, this supposedly has no relationship to the money you have already paid them. Of course it’s all a big lie, but that’s the way it stays legal. Once in a while, you find a girl who works solo, but most belong to an escort agency that gets a cut of the payment in exchange for protection and business.

The girl who came in to see me today is a Village Voice ad girl. We’ll call her Ruby, and if you open up this week’s Voice to the Adult Bodywork section, she’s easy to spot. In fact, if you look through the year's worth of Voice classifieds, you’ll see the same ad for the same girl over and over again. Ruby brought the latest issue with her, and though she looks a bit more worn in person, she still has all the beauty of the girl in the Voice ad. Asian, black hair going about halfway down her back, thin as a rail, and breasts the size of grapefruits (obviously implants, but I don’t think anyone’s complaining). She was wearing a very small red dress that achieved the wonderful trick of being cut too low at the top and too high at the bottom.

When Ruby first came into my office and sat down, my cat Sammy ran over and jumped onto her lap. Sammy tends to be very picky about who he lets pat him, and the fact that Ruby was allowed to immediately should be taken as a compliment.

Ruby works for a somewhat trashy escort service dealing in Asian women that operates out of Chinatown. She is concerned because last Friday, a friend and fellow co-worker we’ll call Natalie disappeared after going out on a job. Ruby pointed out her color picture in a Voice ad – with shoulder length black hair and falsely innocent eyes, Natalie was dressed in a sexy white bathing suit and bent over on all fours. Definitely a knock-out, even if some airbrushing was involved.

Last Friday, Natalie had been eating with Ruby when she got a call on her cell phone from the escort service. She had been specifically requested by a repeat client - a Japanese businessman who had become a regular with Natalie. In the escort business, regulars are much preferred over new customers for obvious reasons: you know that the guy isn’t a cop; you know more about how to pleasure him with each new meeting; and there’s a good chance that because he didn’t hurt or kill you the first time around, he won’t do so the second.

Natalie told Ruby that the businessman had rented an apartment in Chinatown specifically for his indiscretions. It was only lightly furnished, as the businessman otherwise had his real apartment in New York to go home to. She had described the guy once briefly as a fairly docile lover, easily pleased, and always a good tipper. Also, he was wealthy, meaning a few added perks once in a while. She was supposed to meet him at 10:00PM on Friday evening, and left dinner with Ruby to get there a little early.

Ruby hasn’t heard from Natalie since. Calling her cell phone leads automatically to the voice mail, and she hasn’t gone home to her apartment in the Lower East Side. To make matters worse, the escort service doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong. They received the call from Natalie at the beginning of the session saying that the businessman had paid, and started the clock. They called back after the allotted time was up, and Natalie again answered the phone sounding fine. She was on her way out the door then. After that, the escort service doesn’t feel she is their responsibility.

When clients like Ruby come along, I always think back to the movie “Goodfellas,” when the main character mentions in his narration that the mafia is the group you turn to when you can’t go to the cops. A great line, but not necessarily true. There are other options, and I’m one of them. Ruby can’t go to the cops right now without fear of bringing attention to a business that only gets noticed if it asks to get noticed. The risk is too high, and she thus came to me.

Ruby gave me the address of Natalie’s apartment, as well as the address of the apartment in Chinatown where Natalie met the businessman. She also gave me an added bonus: the businessman had given Natalie her own key to come and go as she pleased, and Natalie was smart enough to make copies, one of which she gave to Ruby for her own usage.

Ruby got a phone call at this point in our conversation. It was the escort service. Some guy named Jeff in Tribeca was at his apartment waiting for Ruby, and she had to go. She paid me my initial fee, and judging by the wad of bills in her wallet, I'm guessing she makes more than I do for far less work. She left, and I went back to another case I had been dealing with when she came in.

At the end of the day, as I was driving home, I stopped at Natalie’s apartment in the Lower East Side. Apparently she lives alone in a one bedroom, which is expensive in New York. I got into the building by buzzing a random apartment, then found her door. I started to work on the lock, but it was tricky, and neighbors kept popping out into the hall without warning. In the end, I decided to try to get in another day. Before leaving, I taped a thread from the doorframe to the door. If anyone opens the door, they’ll have to break the thread. Just curious to see if anyone’s coming and going.

Tomorrow, I’m going down to check out the apartment in Chinatown. Like film detective J.J. Gittes, Chinatown isn’t exactly the section of the city I want to be working in. However, Ruby has the cash, and if she tells me to go to Antarctica, I’ll be on the first plane so long as the money is right.

More soon.

Space Ring - Part 6 - Recovered!

Did I mention my patience for this case was wearing thing? After my encounter at the club on Friday evening, I was more or less convinced that Cassandra wasn’t involved. She clearly had her own set of problems, but also seemed to be smart enough to handle them on her own. And if she couldn’t handle them, her wallet could. Sure, she could’ve stolen the ring for extra money, but as many of you have pointed out, it’s somewhat difficult to sell anything of great value in a hurry without raising a few eyebrows. In other words, there are easier ways to get emergency cash.

Greg’s alibi, however, was still up in the air. The only witness I have to his going out at 8:15PM on the night of the theft is his sister, who only can affirm that she heard him say he was leaving. She was not willing to commit to whether or not she actually saw him leave.

So Saturday night, I pulled up yet again to a familiar apartment on Park Ave., whose appearance makes me more and more depressed each time I see it, and waited. If Greg truly had a girlfriend, which again I doubted, they’d probably be going out tonight. It was late, but Greg answered my anonymous call to the apartment, thus indicating that he hadn’t gone out. As I sat in my car waiting for him to make an appearance, I began to imagine what a girlfriend to Greg The Lump might look like. Would she be lump-like in appearance as well? Or had he somehow landed a girl that was physically an alpha to his omega?

As it turns out, Greg’s girlfriend is neither a model or a lump. At around 11:30, Greg came out accompanied by a girl that is the very definition of the word average: average hair, average face, average body, average clothing. In other words, boring. However, it is important to note that average for Greg is not a small accomplishment, and I was surprised that such a girl would be seen with a guy whose neck is simply an extension of the width of his head.

Problem is, Greg and Girlfriend weren’t going anywhere. They talked outside for a while, then Greg leaned in for a kiss, and they said good-bye. Greg returned to the building, and Girlfriend started walking away. This meant that the evening was a total bust in terms of learning more about Greg. I sat in the car thinking about the situation, then decided that knowing more about the girlfriend was equivalent to knowing more about Greg. I still hadn’t called her after getting the number from Greg - hell, I didn’t even know her last name. I got out of my car and quickly followed after her.

She hadn’t gone too far – only to the crosstown bus stop around the corner. We both stood there waiting for the bus for about 20 minutes, then got on and road over to the West Side. Girlfriend got out, walked down to the 1/9 subway stop and boarded the train when it arrived, which goes north/south under Broadway. I got in the next car and kept an eye on her through the adjoining door.

The train arrived at 116th Street, and I got off. For any of you who know New York, 116th and Broadway is the address of Columbia University. Girlfriend is a Columbia University student, or at least knows a Columbia University student. She got out of the station and immediately took out her cell phone and made a call. Several minutes later, a girl came up to her, a girl I recognized:

Kim the dog walker.

Then the two of them took off to The West End, a local bar which was filled with more underage teenage girls looking to score than a National Lampoon movie. They bought a pitcher and started drinking in earnest.

I had to be careful - I had no disguise, and Kim knew full well who I was. I walked around the bar and ran into a group of rowdy frat guys who were downing shots and screaming their heads off. I bet one of them ten bucks he couldn’t get both Kim and Girlfriend’s names and numbers, and he took the bet with a roar of testosterone. I had my doubts, and was surprised to see him sidle up, successfully start a conversation, get invited to sit down, then walk away about five minutes later. He returned to the bar with Girlfriend’s full name, and I gave him his money, which he promptly spent on more alcohol.

Other than that, there wasn’t much more I could do. The Girlfriend reportedly lives in a dorm according to the frat boy, and stalking young college students across campus is generally a bad idea when it comes to security. I got a beer, then took off, depressed that the case wasn’t finished.

The answer I was looking for finally came on Sunday, as I was tooling around online (you can't be a private detective in this day and age without also being an internet virtuoso - someday, I'll write about how the internet has changed the field completely). I was searching The Girlfriend’s name across the internet, and decided to look her up on the Columbia website. Much to my surprise, a so-called people search reveals more than just name and e-mail. You also get a phone number, dorm address, mailing address, and major. It was this last section that stands out.

The Girlfriend is an Astronomy major.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. Kim comes over to the house sometime to walk the dog with her friend from Columbia. Friend meets Greg. Greg likes friend, and wants friend to become girlfriend. Greg learns that friend is an astronomy major. Greg decides on an easy way to impress friend: give her the ring and tell the exact same story Dad used on Mom. While it may have failed on mom, astronomy major would definitely go for it. In addition, dad gets the insurance money and mom gets rid of a ring she hates. Everyone benefits, save for dad’s ego. The alternative might involve something along the lines of the girlfriend stealing it herself, or having Kim steal it for her, but both seemed unlikely. Kim certainly wouldn't benefit from any type of scheme, and it is similarly unlikely that she could get away with it without Greg knowing something.

I waited outside The Girlfriend’s dorm the next day (waiting isn’t as suspicious as stalking), and around noon, she finally came out. I walked up to her trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

“We have to talk about a ring Greg gave you,” I said.

Her head jerked to the side, and I knew immediately that she was guilty to some degree. She started walking faster.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone.”

“Listen,” I said, as she made an attempt to get ahead of me. “I’m not a cop, but I can bring cops if I need to. You’ve got a very, very expensive stolen item in your possession, which in turn will bring a hefty prison sentence if you don't turn it over.”

Somewhat of a lie, but the astro major bought it. She stopped walking and turned to face me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This guy, Greg, gave me a ring. I don’t know anything about it being stolen.”

Bingo.

“So your friend Kim hasn’t mentioned anything about being interrogated last week by the cops about a ring stolen from Greg’s house? Maybe she didn’t mention how a private detective also asked her a few questions about it last week? Most people don’t take it too lightly when they’re considered suspects in a robbery.”

She looked like she was about to cry.

“Listen,” I said in a softer voice. “Go upstairs and get the ring for me, and I’ll make sure no one finds out you had anything to do with it. Greg too.”

“I don’t give a shit about him,” she said, lip trembling. Poor baby.

Defeated, she went up to her room, then came down a few moments later. In her hand was the ring – just as damn ugly as it was in the photographs. She gave it to me.

“Greg told me this story about how the ring has a meteorite, and…”

“And how the meteorite had traveled billions of lightyears across the galaxy only to wind up on your finger?” I finished. She stared at me in surprise. “I’ve heard the story before. It was trite the first time, and it's trite now. Thanks for this.”

I started to walk away.

“Wait,” she called after. “You’re sure I won’t get in trouble like you said?”

I laughed. “Go study, kid. You’ll be fine.”

Ivy League pansies. They run the world.

-----

The look on Southern’s face as I held out the ring to him was utterly priceless. Our conversation was short and sweet.

“How did you…who took…how is…”

“Your son took it,” I told him. “He gave it to his girlfriend, who studies astronomy. Perfect gift for a girl like her.”

“Greg? He wouldn’t – ”

“Mr. Southern, it’s not my place to prove anything to anyone. Bottom line is that the ring is back, and that solves any issues as far as insurance is concerned. In the future, we’d appreciate it if you’d discipline your children a bit better so as to save all of us trouble. Also, your daughter’s into some pretty heavy drugs these days.”

His face turned red.

“My daughter would NEVER - ”

“Again, Mr. Southern, it’s not my job to prove anything to you. I merely mention it so you can’t say you were totally unaware when she O.D.’s down in the Bowery in the next week or so.”

“Get out.”

I winked at him and left.

-----

As I said, bottom line is that the ring has been returned, no insurance fraud has been committed, and Toby’s company gets to keep their money. The one aspect I’m not completely clear on is when Greg stole the ring, though I suspect he didn’t leave the apartment the night of the theft until after 10PM, despite telling his sister otherwise (and perhaps slamming the door for effect). Hopefully both he and Cassandra will get some serious grounding from mom and dad. Won’t make up for the small scar on my forehead from the beating the other night, but it eases the pain. So will tipping off the cops about Brody and his limo. But the best pain reliever is money, and right now, I’ve got a wallet fat with it thanks to the generosity of Toby’s insurance agency.

Still, I work a job with no standard hours in a city that never sleeps, meaning there’s always more work coming in the door. Someone stopped by today with something potentially more interesting than the run-of-the-mill deadbeat dad stuff. More info as soon as I know a little more myself.

Finally, do any of you live in New York City?