Who’s That Baby?

Connie flipped her long, straight blond hair over her shoulder as she smiled at the patrolman guarding the door. When it was apparent that flirting wasn’t going to get her in to the room, she whipped out her badge and said, “NYPD Detective from the 1-5.”

Diane suppressed a smile as the patrolman’s face pinked up and he shuffled aside to let her into the room.

“Why do you do that to those poor guys?”

“It’s my way of attacking stereotypes,” Connie grinned. “Plus, I love the look on their faces when they realize I’m a superior officer. It’s priceless.”

Diane and Connie stepped around two kids who were lying in a bloody heap on the floor. They made their way to the back bedroom, careful not to disturb the evidence that the crime scene technicians were photographing and collecting in labeled plastic bags. A large box full of Baggies with yellowish powder was on the coffee table. Two uniformed officers were waiting with a young man who was sitting on his mother’s hope chest, elbows on his knees to steady himself. He raised a shaky hand to his face and took a long drag on the cigarette in his hand. Diane flashed her badge and nodded at the officers, and they left the room.

“Hey,” Diane said, crouching down to get a look at the young man’s face. “Why don’t you tell me where the smack came from?”

“I already told that guy I don’t know,” the young man scowled.

“Well, if you can help us out here, those murders won’t be on you. And the possession charge is a lot more negotiable,” Connie added and flipped her hair again for good measure.

The young man leaned hard on his knees, world-weary and exhausted. He stubbed out his cigarette on his mother’s Persian rug. Diane and Connie shared a glance of disgust when he did that, and he caught them. He sat back against the footboard of the bed with his arms stretched out and tossed his head back. With a cocky smile, he said, “My life ain’t worth nothin’ anymore anyhow. Rogelio. Those dead losers in the living room bought it off Rogelio. Real pure stuff. Primo shit from Peru or someplace like that.”

“Where can we find this guy, Rogelio?” Diane asked.

“What’s there to lose? I’m a dead man anyway. Try the club No Me Molesta on the next block. Rogelio usually hangs around there.”

“No Me Molesta?” Connie looked at Diane, confused.

“It means leave me alone, or don’t bother me,” Diane chuckled.