The Doll Maker (26 page)

She looked at her watch. Late already. She had ten minutes to get halfway across town.

The bar was about half full. A standalone low brick building, The Ark was located at 52nd and Chestnut, near the heart of University City in West Philadelphia, an unincorporated neighborhood that was home to both the University of Pennsylvania and Drexel University.

There were enough people in their late twenties and thirties in the bar that Vincent and Jessica did not attract much attention. It was one of those West Philly taverns that brought in people from the universities, including faculty and grad students, as well as locals.

One of Vincent Balzano’s great attributes – one that made him a great undercover detective – was his ability to look like anyone he wanted to be. Tonight he wore a Flyers jersey and jeans, a three-day beard. He looked like the guy who delivered the beer. Jessica wore a short leather jacket and her favorite black Levi’s. No one gave them a second look.

They made their way to the middle of the bar, sat on stools. The bartender was a man in his mid-twenties, probably a grad student. He gave Jessica his best younger guy smile, Vincent a nod. He put a pair of napkins on the bar. ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’ll have a diet Coke,’ Jessica said. ‘And a Miller Lite.’

‘You got it.’

He took a few steps away, put some ice in a glass with a scoop, put the glass beneath the Diet Coke tap. While it was filling he grabbed a Miller Lite from the cooler, twisted off the cap. From order to serve was no more than thirty seconds. This was not his first bartending job.

‘My name’s Kurt,’ he said. ‘If you need anything else, just holler.’

Jessica leaned in. ‘We’re supposed to meet Denny Wargo,’ she said. ‘Have you seen him?’

Kurt held Jessica’s gaze a few seconds, as if summing her up. Jessica knew she could be mistaken for a lot of things, but trouble was not among them. Besides, she’d done things like this a hundred times. She could stare down just about anyone. A few seconds later the bartender looked around the bar. Left, right, back to the left.

‘I don’t see him,’ Kurt said.

Jessica pushed a five across the bar. ‘Let me know if he comes in.’

The five was off the bar in a flash. ‘Will do.’

Jessica turned, leaned against the bar, sipped her Coke. Suddenly the crowd looked a lot younger to her. When she had gone to Temple – the first time, when she got her undergraduate degree in Criminal Justice – the people in this bar would have skewed older. On the rare instance when she’d gone out with some of her classmates in law school – her second time at Temple – she felt like somebody’s mom. Now she felt like a fossil.

At the jukebox, someone put on House of Pain’s ‘Jump Around,’ and the place went nuts. The song was a little too raucous for someone of Jessica’s refined sensibilities, but at least it was her era.

A few songs later Jessica found Kurt at the end of the bar. She saw that he was looking at the door. Jessica couldn’t see what he was looking at, but when he turned to look at Jessica, and nodded, she knew that the man they had come to see, Denny Wargo, had arrived.

‘We’re on,’ Jessica said to Vincent.

A few moments later Jessica saw a man in his late twenties making his way over to them. He wore a black down vest and a blue flannel shirt, beige chinos, expensive watch. He had about him the look of the over-privileged and under-employed.

‘Hey,’ he said to Vincent. ‘You Hector?’

‘Yeah,’ Vincent said. ‘Denny?’

‘Yeah.’

The two men shook hands. Vincent gestured at Jessica. ‘This is Marta.’

The man looked Jessica up and down, nodded. ‘How ya doin.’’ He looked back at Vincent. ‘You a cop?’

‘Yep.’

The man just stared. Vincent smiled.

Wargo returned a nervous smile of his own. Vincent clapped the man on the shoulder, said: ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Wargo clearly didn’t know what to do. He decided to believe Vincent was bullshitting. Vincent Balzano was very good at this. He started laughing and Wargo laughed with him.

‘What are you drinking?’ Vincent asked.

‘Johnny Black double, neat.’

‘Dream on, sport.’

Vincent ordered the man a Miller Lite.

Kurt pulled the bottle, uncapped it, slid it over. He made himself busy at the other end of the bar. It was clear he had a pretty good idea what Denny Wargo did for a living, and he wanted some real estate between himself and the transaction.

Wargo sipped his beer. After what he considered the right amount of foreplay, he said: ‘Luis said you guys want some ‘shrooms.’

Luis Rodriguez was a confidential informant that sometimes worked with the Narcotics Unit. If Vincent had thought there was a possibility that this night might end badly, he would not have used Luis for the meet. Once you burn a CI, that CI stayed burned.

‘You double parked?’ Vincent asked.

‘What?’

‘You in a hurry?’

‘No, I was just—’

‘Relax, Denny,’ Vincent said. ‘Enjoy your beer.’

Wargo looked to Jessica. Another nervous smile. Jessica began to wonder if Denny Wargo was cut out for this business. On the other hand, he wasn’t selling heroin or crack. The worlds of hallucinogens and hard-core street drugs were night and day.

Thirty minutes later they stood at the back of the small parking lot next to The Ark. The temperature had dropped. Jessica wished she had worn something other than her leather jacket.

‘So,’ Wargo said. ‘You’re looking for ‘shrooms.’

Vincent nodded. ‘Luis said you’ve got some satori.’

‘The best there is.’ Wargo looked up the street, back. ‘But they’re expensive.’

Vincent held the man’s stare for an uncomfortable amount of time. He then reached into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled a roll that could choke a Clydesdale.

Wargo’s eyes widened. He reached into his pocket, took out a twist of baggie, handed it to Vincent. When Vincent didn’t hand him any money, he knew.

‘You’re not Hector and Marta, are you?’

Vincent smiled. ‘Man, haven’t you ever seen
Scarface
?’

Wargo shook his head. ‘Damn, man. I
knew
I’d heard those names together somewhere.’

They were talking about the scene when Al Pacino, as Tony Montana, goes up to the motel room to meet with the Colombians. The woman on the bed – the hard-looking woman with the machine gun – was called Marta. Jessica wasn’t thrilled with the casting decision, but she’d done enough undercover work to know you take the role given, and do your best.

Jessica loved Al Pacino, but she’d never understood the appeal of that movie.

‘Man, I
asked
if you were cops.’

‘And I told you the truth.’

‘Am I busted?’ Wargo asked.

Vincent gave the question the appropriate weight. ‘That depends.’

A look of relief came across Wargo’s face. It turned quickly into one of concern. ‘On what?’ he asked.

‘The answer to my next question.’

‘Okay.’

‘I need to know who has bought this recently.’

‘The satori?’

‘Yes, Denny. The Schedule One, illegal narcotic I have in my hand at this moment.’

‘Nobody.’

‘And why is that?’

‘It’s a little bit beyond the college crowd, price-wise. And Pink Floyd isn’t touring.’

The joke, if that’s what it was, fell flat.

‘How did my guy get this drug, Denny? We’re not going to part company until this question is answered to my complete satisfaction.’

Wargo took a few seconds. ‘The only way to get this cheaper is to grow it yourself, but growing mushrooms is not that easy, okay? It’s really easy to catch a mold, then the whole batch goes south.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There are a few things that people need to start a grow. Syringes and substrates. I sell those, too.’

Vincent said nothing. Wargo kept talking.

‘There is this one guy I’ve sold syringes and some satori substrates, too.’

‘More than once?’

Wargo nodded. ‘More than once.’

‘What does this tell you?’

‘It tells me he’s no chemist.’

‘Who is this guy?’

‘Just a guy,’ Wargo said. ‘Young fella. Name is Mercy or something.’

‘Mercy?’

Wargo shrugged. ‘What do
I
know? You told me your name was Hector.’

Vincent let the attitude slide for the moment. ‘How young?’

‘A freshman, maybe. Maybe a sophomore.’

‘He goes to Penn or Drexel?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How did he find you?’

‘How does anyone find me? How did
you
guys find me? A guy who knows a guy who knows a guy.’

‘How does he get hold of you?’

Wargo held up his phone. ‘He has my cell number.’

‘When was the last time he called?’

‘Maybe a month ago,’ Wargo said.

Vincent held out his hand. Wargo started to roll his eyes, thought better of it. He handed over his cell phone.

Vincent began to scroll through recent calls. ‘About when was this?’

Wargo thought for a few seconds. ‘Late October.’

‘Remember the day of the week?’

Wargo snapped his fingers. ‘I do. Funny the way you remember things.’

Vincent looked up, waited. ‘It’s much funnier when you answer the question, Denny.’

‘It was a Saturday.’

‘And you remember this how?’

‘I get my daughter on weekends.’

Jessica could see that her husband wanted to mention that this guy was doing drug deals on the phone while he had custody of his daughter, but he’d save that for later.

‘When did you get the call?’ Vincent asked.

‘Afternoon,’ Wargo said. ‘Late. Three or four.’

Vincent went to the second last Saturday in October. He showed Wargo the screen, scrolled slowly down. There were a dozen incoming calls between three and five p.m.

‘That’s it,’ he said, pointing to one of the numbers, a 215 area code, meaning it was Philadelphia metropolitan.

‘You’re sure.’

‘Yeah,’ Wargo said. ‘I know all the others.’

Vincent wrote down the number. If Jessica knew her husband – one of the most feared narcotics detectives in the city – she knew that he memorized another half-dozen numbers from Wargo’s phone. It was an uncanny ability he had.

Rule one for drug dealers, Jessica thought: Never hand your phone to a narco unless you have to.

Vincent handed the phone back, let Wargo twist for a few seconds.

‘Can you describe this guy to a sketch artist?’ Vincent finally asked.

For Wargo, the night just got worse. He looked across the parking lot for a second or two. Vincent Balzano, at his most patient, was like a Rottweiler looking at a brisket. That is, not so much.

He grabbed Wargo by the wrist. ‘All right. Let’s go.’

‘Wait!’ Wargo said. ‘Yeah, okay. I can describe him.’

Vincent pulled the man close. ‘Fuck with me one more second, Denny. One second.’

‘I’m sorry.’

After the right amount of time, Vincent let go. He then reached into his pocket, handed Wargo one of his blue cards. Blue cards, while not technically a get-out-of-jail card, when presented meant that Vincent would get a call the next time Wargo ran afoul of the law, and was caught at it. Might never happen. Probably would.

‘This is a one-time only call,’ Vincent said. ‘If you fuck up too badly, or you sell to kids, I will personally supervise your trip to hell.’

Wargo just stared at the ground.

Vincent continued. ‘You are now going to drive to the Roundhouse. We will follow you, and walk you in. When you’re there, you will give a highly detailed description to our sketch artist.’

Wargo listened.

‘Run one stop sign, or make one funky turn, and the next year of your life will look like
Scared Straight
. Feel me?’

Wargo nodded.

‘Say it out loud.’

‘I feel you.’

‘That’s the Denny Wargo we have all come to know and love,’ Vincent said. ‘Which one is your car?’

Wargo pointed to a ten-year-old Taurus. Jessica had spent half her time in the department in one just like it. Truly glamorous. Maybe the ‘shroom business wasn’t so good.

Vincent nodded to the driveway leading to 52nd Street. ‘We’ll be right there.’

Wargo turned to leave. Vincent put a hand on his arm.

‘By the way,’ Vincent said. ‘They
are
touring.’

‘Who?’

‘Pink Floyd. Next summer. Let me know if you need tickets. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy.’

At ten o’clock the next morning Byrne received a call from the Loss Prevention manager of the Cheltenham Avenue Home Depot. While Jessica followed up on the doll they had found at the Gillen crime scene, Byrne took a ride back to the big box store.

The morning’s status report included the information that Jessica and Vincent had gotten the night before, that being the name ‘Mercy,’ a suspect sketch, and a phone number, which turned out to be a pay phone at a gas station near the West Ridge Pike exit on the Blue Route.

These were all long shots – the possibility that the man who purchased the mushroom-growing accessories from the dealer was not the man they sought, or was simply someone who grew the mushrooms, and sold them to someone else, was likely – but every lead needed to be followed. There was, at that moment, a detective from West Division sitting on the pay phone, and the homicide unit was running the name ‘Mercy’ through NCIC.

While at the Home Depot, in addition to watching the surveillance footage, Byrne decided to pick up twenty-five gallons of exterior paint for his new house, an order Josh Bontrager promised to pick up later in the day. Josh drove a Subaru Forrester.

While Byrne was there he had a brief conversation with one Donte Williams, the young man who had mixed the gallon of Candlelight. Donte said he recalled mixing the paint, but couldn’t remember the customer. He said the reason for this was that the customer probably knew exactly what he wanted. If he’d had to do some selling, it would be more likely that he’d remember.

If it had been a woman – any woman – Donte said he’d remember. He was asked to sit in when Byrne watched the surveillance video.