Bronx Noir

Later still, two detectives arrived on the scene. Both men were white and middle-aged. Both wore light trench coats and dark ties. One, “DiRaimo,” he identified himself, was heavy and the other detective called him “Fats.” The other, “Hamilton,” was thin by comparison, but his face was lined with deeper grooves and wrinkles and his teeth hadn’t recovered from smoking days.

“So what happened here?” Hamilton started. He seemed impatient, like he just wanted to take Yolanda in as a suspect.

Yolanda told the whole story, starting with the first time she met Jasmine, and Hamilton wrote some of it down. DiRaimo interjected a couple of times to ask for clarification—for instance, how did Yolanda know the girl’s name? After a short conference between themselves and a consultation with some of the crime scene technicians and a talk over the radio, the detectives came back with one last question.

“The dispatcher says this was called in by a man. Any idea who?” Hamilton asked.

Yolanda shook her head. “But if a man called it in, then he’s a hero. Now go and get those rich white boys I told you about.”

The detectives kept her a while longer and got all her information before letting her go. DiRaimo walked her a few yards away from the scene.

“You’ll be around?” he asked, even though she had already been told it would be better for her if she stayed easy to find.

“I’ll be around. You gonna catch those guys?”

DiRaimo wanted to say yes. With a license plate, it should be easy to find the owner of the car, but there was a long distance between finding the owner and finding whoever was in it the moment Jasmine died. And even if they found that out, the young men could just as easily say that they saw Yolanda at the scene. There were clear footprints on the body and they didn’t match Yolanda, but that wasn’t the greatest evidence. Since the dead girl had been a pro, even the blood and semen on her was going to be useless. He believed everything Yolanda had said, but the most he was hoping for was to scare the young men. A stern talking-to from an assistant district attorney. Who knew? Maybe they could be tricked into saying something stupid. Of course, with wealth came lawyers, so this was unlikely, but anything was possible.

“We’re going to try,” he told Yolanda. She rolled her eyes, and he didn’t blame her. She went her way home and DiRaimo headed back to his partner.

“The McElhones of Westchester,” Hamilton said. “Tim McElhone, Jr. He’s the registered driver. Dispatch just got back with the info.”

“Are we going to talk to the McElhones?” DiRaimo aked.

“What the hell for? Look at the address.” Hamilton passed his partner a scrap of paper. “One of the swankiest addresses in the state. I’ve been up there. You need to get through security gates. That’s going to take a warrant right there. Can’t even ring the doorbell without getting a judge out of bed.”

“So let’s get one out of bed. It’s a murder case.” DiRaimo didn’t like dragging feet.

“Oh, and I forgot the best bit of news. Here, take a look at this.” Hamilton passed another slip of paper.

DiRaimo read it and felt a headache creeping up his spine.

“Yep, you read that right. Our good Samaritan here did seven for accidentally killing her own daughter, two-year-old Rosaura Morales, way back when. Accidentally with a knife, you see. Drug-induced blah blah blah. Got off light, I’d say. Oh, and here’s the best bit.” He passed DiRaimo another slip of paper. “Yep. Known associates include Raymondo Morales, a.k.a, Ray, a.k.a, Rosaura’s father and this Yolanda’s ex, a.k.a, guy who did eighteen long in a federal pen for his part in a murder. Probably our mystery caller. So tell me, you feel like waking up a judge for this? Say the word, I’ll let you make the call yourself.”

The headache took a firm grip on DiRaimo. He looked at the pieces of paper in his hand and then at the body of Jasmine Doe. Hamilton cut into his thoughts.

“Look, I’m thinking this Yolanda lady and her ex are back together and they were probably pimping this poor girl out. Maybe little Timmy McElhone got a bit carried away, but there isn’t going to be any way to prove that unless we can find witnesses…witnesses that haven’t done time for serious crimes. Hell, I’d take a homeless guy. And this isn’t exactly Grand Central here.”

“So you’re saying just forget about it?” DiRaimo asked.

“I’m saying we probably have a much better chance of getting a conviction against the people who called it in than getting to even talk with McElhone. Look, it’s a shame what happened to this girl, but there are better ways of spending our time. We could be tracking people who kill real citizens.”

“Well, we got a job to do here anyways.”

“Sure, sure, but we’re not going to get anywhere with this. Guaranteed.”

“Well, let’s make sure that if the case doesn’t go forward, it’s not because of anything we failed to do.”

“Whatever you say, chief.”