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The man looks across the street at the two young women. One of them waves to him, tosses her chin in his direction. The other yells, “Bobby! Got a drop for you!”

Maddy has a very basic question—what the hell is going on here? But she knows from her criminology classes: just wait long enough and the person you’re interviewing will start talking.

CHAPTER 27

“SO, HERE’S MY deal,” the man says, clearly trying to impress Maddy as he chews the last chunk of his pizza crust. “I’m Detective Robert McCarthy. And this is a special strip in Midtown East. Very special. You see, I help the girls when I can, and they help me, and that’s that.”

“Well, I’m here to help also,” Maddy says.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” McCarthy says. “You can’t help. I can’t help. This is not a nice place to be.”

“Why not?” Maddy asks.

He answers. “You know how with doctors there are specialists—cardiologists and dermatologists and stuff like that? Well, the woman who runs the operation on this strip here is Carla Spector. She’s a specialist, too. She knows how to move large quantities of H without anyone knowing, because she uses the right kind of girls.”

“Like, what kind of girl?”

“See those two girls?” McCarthy asks, nodding across the street. “They look like trouble to you?”

“No, they look like—”

“Like nice girls,” McCarthy interrupts her. “Exactly. The kind of girls who can walk around with their pockets full. Plenty to sell, and the cruisers move right past them.

“My only job is to make sure they each get into the right car, the client’s car.”

“And after they get in?”

“After they get in, they’re on their own.”

Maddy senses that some of those girls might be the ones who sell more than drugs to their clients, and she wonders if Carla gets a cut of that, too.

“Stay away from here, lady,” McCarthy goes on, as if he’s actually trying to do her a favor.

“This is no little deal. This is like a chain of stores. Carla’s got this op running from here to Cleveland and Atlanta and some second-string cities you never heard of. Just get gone.”

Maddy looks away from him, her eyes following the two girls across the street as a car pulls up next to them. They hug, and one gets in. McCarthy gives her a little wave.

“Can I ask you one thing, Detective?” Maddy asks. “Do you by any chance remember a girl by the name of Chloe?”

“Yeah,” McCarthy says. “Chloe. Nice girl. Just like the others.”

Maddy is anxious, nervous. Then she says what she wants to say.

“Do you know where she is now?”

McCarthy doesn’t quite smile, but he doesn’t quite sneer. Then he says, “Listen. That Chloe chick? She disappeared a long time ago. And that’s what I advise you to do.”

McCarthy puts his hand on Maddy’s upper arm and rubs her skin softly. Maddy doesn’t merely pull away from him. No, she snaps her fist into McCarthy’s neck. He pulls back, gagging, clawing at his throat.

Then there’s a flashlight coming toward her. Maddy looks up, terrified she’s about to be arrested for assault. But it’s being held by the same girl Maddy spoke to in the CVS. The light passes off Maddy to shine on McCarthy’s face; he is still red-faced and choking.

The girl with the flashlight speaks loudly. “Leave her alone, Bobby. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Good advice,” says Maddy.

“He’s a cop,” says the girl.

“Hey, JoJo, I told her who I was,” says McCarthy, angry. “It’s not like I’m a liar.”