Phantom Angel by David Handler Page A

Internet porn trade. Also not a surprise if they kept a webcam girl like Boso stashed in an apartment building somewhere off the radar. And it doesn’t get more off the radar than Staten Island. Boso was linked to Morrie’s missing angel, R. J. Farnell. That much I knew. But what was the link between R. J. Farnell and Joe Minetta? “Rita, does the Crown Towers have a health spa?”
    â€œUm, it has a pool but I don’t see anything about a spa. Why?”
    â€œCheck out Boso’s abs. She works out like a fiend, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œYes, I would. Pilates, I’d bet.”
    â€œWhere’s the nearest Pilates club?”
    â€œHang on … Okay, there’s a Sharp Fitness Center two blocks away on Bay Street. They offer Pilates and yoga.”
    â€œYou done good, Rita.”
    â€œ You done good. You’re the one who noticed that reflection. The moron who shot the video was too busy getting a chubby. She is a sexy little thing.”
    â€œShe’s okay,” I said quietly.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œWhy, don’t I sound okay?”
    â€œNo, you sound lonesome and mournful. Do you want to talk? I’m always here for you, you know.”
    â€œI’m fine, Rita. Really.”
    â€œOkay, if you say so. Sleep tight, little lamb.”
    I rang off and watched eighteen-year-old Jonquil Beausoleil of Ruston, Louisiana, rub baby oil on her naked self for a little while until I decided that that was a really bad idea and shut down my laptop. Then I lay there staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Not that it’s ever totally dark in the city. There was enough of a glow from the streetlights and neighboring buildings that I could make out the intricate pattern of cracks and water stains in the plaster over my bed. As I studied them I thought about Cricket and wondered why things hadn’t worked out between us. Too soon, probably. My scars had still been fresh. I thought about Rita and how much I missed being with her. I thought about calling one of the numbers in my little black book. Except, well, I don’t have a little black book. So instead I just lay there, restless and alone.
    But I didn’t sleep. I don’t sleep. Not if I can help it.
    That’s when the nightmares come.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
    â€œGOT A DELIVERY for a Miss Bo-so-leel from Rosebank Florists,” I announced, standing there in the well-kept lobby of the Crown Towers with the dozen long-stemmed roses that I’d just bought at a shop on Bay Street.
    The uniformed doorman gave me the once over. I was wearing a striped T-shirt, reversed Yankees cap, my third-best pair of four-year-old madras shorts from the Gap and a pair of drug store flip-flops. I passed for seventeen. The doorman was a burly guy in his fifties who looked as if he’d put in a solid two decades as a bouncer in a strip club.
    â€œWho’s that you say?” he demanded gruffly.
    â€œMiss Bo-so-leel. Or I guess it could be Mrs. Bo-so-leel. Am I pronouncing that right?”
    â€œWho do I look like, Alex Trebek?”
    â€œWell, is this the right building?”
    â€œI’ll make sure she gets them.”
    â€œBut I’m supposed to make sure gets them.”
    â€œYou just did, Skippy.”
    â€œShe’s supposed to sign for them, I mean.”
    He scribbled his signature across my delivery slip. “Now beat it.”
    I beat it. Strolled a hundred yards down Hylan Boulevard and across the street to my dad’s Caddie. It’s a ’92 burgundy Brougham with a white vinyl top and matching burgundy leather interior. The Brougham had been his pride and joy. These days it’s our company car. I got in, rolled down the windows and took off the Yankee cap and striped T-shirt. I wore a plain white T-shirt underneath. It was Day Four of the Heat Wave of the Century. Supposed to top out at 103 in Central Park that afternoon. Possibly be a degree or two cooler out on