by James Tucker
“Had to.”
“And he told you he knew nothing about Haddon House or Cromwell Properties?”
“Yeah.”
“You put pressure him?”
“Certainly. The pressure of a Beretta.”
Buddy knew his face showed shock. “Sometimes I don’t get you.”
Ward was silent.
Buddy wanted to slug his brother, but at the same time he was relieved—relieved that Malone was clean and someone he could trust.
Buddy reached into his jacket and handed Ward a pair of latex gloves. He said, “Put these on. We’ll go room by room. But fast. CSU won’t be long.”
He led Ward on a search of the condominium. Bedrooms, baths, living room, kitchen, small laundry room, everywhere.
As Buddy searched, he found no evidence of anyone, not even Vance McInnis. No photos of family. Nothing but a bottle of vodka in the freezer, some white wine in the refrigerator, and red wine in a small rack on the marble countertops. Plates, dishes, bathrooms—all of it clean. Or cleaned, Buddy thought.
He stood in the master bedroom, with the gray area rug and the king-sized black lacquered bed frame. The mattress had been stripped of linens, even the mattress pad. A few books partly filled one shelf. On the wall opposite the bed hung a flat-screen television but no DVD player, no movies.
Listening to his breath in the quiet, he thought more about the condo. Then he walked into the kitchen and began opening the cabinets. He saw very few pots and pans, a few bowls, plates, drinking glasses, and cheap flatware.
Ward followed and pulled out the plastic garbage can and peeked inside. When Buddy glanced over, Ward said, “Dirty napkins and take-out containers, used chopsticks. A pizza box.”
Buddy said, “Guys with everything eat the same shit as everyone else.” And then he checked the cupboards for weapons, ammunition, anything to indicate McInnis knew how to threaten or get violent.
But there was nothing.
He went into the room next to the kitchen, which turned out to be a laundry room. Opening the washing machine door, he saw the barrel of the machine was filled with white sheets and a white mattress pad. He sniffed, smelled the stench of bleach. Far too much bleach.
Someone beat us here, he thought. Did that person set up McInnis?
He returned to the kitchen, studied the faucet handle, the stainless-steel refrigerator door. Then he hurried into the bathrooms. Checked the faucet handles, the handle of the toilet seats, the toilet seat itself. He stood and looked at the gleaming space before going back into the master bedroom. Leaning over, he put his eyes at the level of the nightstands. He heard movement behind him, straightened, and turned around.
Ward was staring at him. “Did you find something?”
Buddy laughed angrily. He said, “It’s too clean. I see no prints on anything. The guy’s here eating greasy pizza, and everything is spotless. No, this place has been cleaned professionally, and I don’t mean by a cleaning lady. The person who did this job was careful and in no hurry. The paper towels or cloth towels or rags or whatever were used are gone.”
Ward said, “Maybe Vance McInnis knew they were coming for him and wiped it down.”
Buddy didn’t respond. He left the master bedroom and walked along the hallway into the living room. There, he switched on the television to the local NBC station.
Perfectly done, he thought.
110
He saw live coverage of the arrest of Vance McInnis. Stock photos of the Cromwell Properties vice president of development; images of McInnis, his wife, and two children at a neighborhood barbecue. Video of McInnis teeing off at a Pebble Beach charity event. Buddy turned up the volume and listened.
The newscaster, Leonard Baldwin, a man in a dark suit and a dark tie, announced to the world that the NYPD had charged Vance McInnis with first-degree murder in the death of Sloan Richardson, having thrown her out of a two-engine propeller plane—the image to the right of the announcer’s shoulder changed to a distance shot of the plane Buddy knew only too well, at rest under the glare of CSU’s lights. The newscaster stated that the murder had been two nights ago, according to air traffic control records, between midnight and 1:00 a.m.
Buddy felt confusion and anger. He noticed Ward was standing beside him, but he didn’t speak. He listened as the newscaster passed the narrative over to Gabriela Stone, a reporter at the airfield. He grew distracted, not by the news story but by what hadn’t been included.
The Sungs, he thought. Not a word about Chen and Lily Sung.
Gabriela Stone lifted her chin and said, “Sources inside the NYPD have revealed that the airplane contains fingerprints of both Sloan Richardson and Vance McInnis. Yesterday morning, Sloan Richardson was reported missing by a friend. A highly placed source with the Federal Aviation Administration has told me exclusively that footage from an exterior security camera may show McInnis, hiding himself under a knit cap and black clothing, dragging Sloan Richardson onboard the aircraft two nights ago. The strange thing, Leonard, is that the plane’s regular pilots have airtight alibis. So it’s unclear who piloted the plane on its fateful voyage. Maybe McInnis himself, as he had a pilot’s license and was rated on this aircraft. This is in conflict with McInnis’s story that he was with Ms. Stella Bannon, the CEO of Cromwell Properties, at the time he was to have killed Sloan Richardson. The NYPD has yet to confirm. But I’ve learned from a confidential source that Miss Richardson was the lone holdout preventing a new condominium project in Chinatown by Cromwell Properties.”
Buddy saw the video cut to a different reporter, in a live feed, standing with Stella Bannon outside the offices of Cromwell Properties. Enormous tinted windows and slabs of granite behind her, Bannon stood before a dozen handheld microphones and phones.
Buddy leaned forward and turned up the volume.
Stella Bannon looked confidently at the cameras, her eyes steady despite the bright lights, her shoulder-length raven-colored hair pulled back from her face. She said, “Two nights ago, and last night, I was at home, alone, working. I didn’t see Vance McInnis after I left the office on either night. I’m shocked and saddened by the charges against my associate, and I hope that he takes responsibility for his actions. I must state for the record that I knew him to be hardworking and ethical. I’m as surprised as anyone by these charges against him regarding the young woman, Sloan Richardson, and her murder.”
Stella Bannon then turned from the microphones, ignored the shouted questions, and walked calmly yet briskly into the building housing the Cromwell Properties offices. Her hair shimmered in the lights and then was lost behind the tinted glass of the large doors.
Buddy switched off the television. He stood next to Ward in the silent room and stared at the black screen. He thought the scene was out of a movie. There was the young, attractive female victim. The rich guy who kills her in a terrible way. The evidence in a private plane. A motive viewers could understand: McInnis killed Sloan Richardson so construction on Haddon House could begin, leading to his continued success and millions of dollars. A crime, a motive, the bad guy caught. Perfectly done, he thought again.
Buddy hated perfection because it was found only in movies.
Instead of the movie he was meant to see, he saw an investigation that was too easy and that had progressed too fast. It was a movie, limited by a show time of no more than one hundred twenty minutes. He tried to ignore the newscast they’d watched, for he had questions the reporters hadn’t thought to ask.
How did Mario Mingo find out about Sloan Richardson’s murder?
He was too young, too green, too out of the loop to make that discovery by himself. He must have been fed information about Sloan Richardson, just as someone had fed the Swiss bank account established in Mario’s name. Fed by someone with endless money—someone like Stella Bannon of Cromwell Properties. By someone who’d known Sloan Richardson was dead and could connect Sloan to the location of that particular plane.
He also knew why. Since he’d been
thrown out of an airplane, his killers needed a new fall guy for Sloan Richardson. Soon, they’d probably add his own death to McInnis’s crimes. As a cop killer, McInnis wouldn’t last long in prison. McInnis would be silenced, forever unable to give interviews or write a book claiming his innocence.
Buddy turned to Ward and said, “Let’s go.”
They went through the condo, switching off the lights. At the door to the hallway and the elevator, Ward looked through the peephole.
“Clear,” he said, and began opening the door.
Buddy raised his hand and pushed hard against the door until it closed. “Hang on.”
Ward turned to him. “What is it?”
Buddy said, “McInnis’s dinner.”
“Cheap delivery pizza. So what?”
Buddy walked back through the dark rooms to the kitchen. He switched on the overhead light and pulled out the plastic garbage can. It was empty except for the crushed box and a few napkins stained yellow with grease and red with tomato sauce. He lifted out the box and looked at it.
Ward said, “You hungry?”
Buddy ignored him, turned the box on end, and saw the printed label stuck to one of the sides of the box. The label read: “Mediterranean, extra olives. McInnis. Apt. 804, 56 Little West 12th 02/02/15 12:51 a.m.”
He rotated the box so Ward could read the label. He said, “This was two nights ago, at the time McInnis was supposedly throwing Sloan Richardson out of one of Cromwell Properties’ planes.”
Ward looked at him, eyes wide. “But McInnis was home, eating Mediterranean pizza with extra olives.”
Buddy nodded. “Take a photo of the box and label, would you?”
Ward took out his phone and snapped a dozen photos, and then Buddy returned the pizza box to the trash.
Buddy said, “Maybe CSU will find the label and establish the alibi, but maybe not. This case was closed before it was opened.”
At the door, they stood for a moment. Ward checked the peephole a second time.
“Clear,” he said, and opened the door.
Buddy went first, his hand near the Glock. He pressed the button for the elevator and waited. When both of them were inside the elevator and the door had closed, he said, “The police and the media will be all over McInnis. But McInnis is a frame job.”
Ward looked at him. “So who’s at the top of our list?”
111
Buddy and Ward crossed Little West Twelfth Street and climbed into Ward’s idling silver Range Rover. It was 8:00 p.m. and they were hungry, but Ward’s car was stocked with food. Brick had picked up sandwiches and coffee at Petrossian. Buddy reached for the coffee and thought about Ward’s question.
“At the top of our list?” he repeated, and then drank deeply of the coffee. The caffeine went right to his heart. The hot black liquid gave him energy and sharpened his mind. He sat forward and turned to Ward, who sat next to him in the spacious back seat. “People with money,” he said. “People with power. Think about Haddon House. Who gains if the project moves forward?”
Ward said, “Cromwell Properties. Stella Bannon.”
Buddy looked out at the street and saw that snow had begun to fall. It came down almost sideways between the residential buildings, turning golden as it passed under the streetlamps. Fast, and a lot of it. He thought the snow would cover the city’s dirt and make the hard buildings softer, prettier. It would disguise the ugly parts of the city and make the attractive parts even better.
If only I’d solved this case. If only Mei and Ben hadn’t . . .
He pushed away these thoughts. He couldn’t allow himself to consider all he’d lost, because those losses would cripple him. They’d interfere with his work on this, the last case he’d handle for the NYPD. And to solve this one, he’d need total focus.
The cold had gotten him down, but it wasn’t cold in the Range Rover. In the cabin, the seat cushion and back were heated. He ate part of a turkey sandwich, washed it down with coffee, and said, “That’s part of it. Cromwell makes millions on the project. If they run into trouble, the EDA threatens eminent domain. The EDA is a nonprofit, so it would be Erica Fischer, the executive director, or someone on her staff—maybe Jack Carlson—who get payoffs from Cromwell. If the holdouts fail to make a deal, they disappear. Remember, the Nanjing building is one of many projects. Add up the profit from all the projects over, say, the past fifteen years, and you have a shitload of money. So what we’re missing is who makes the holdouts like the Sungs and Sloan Richardson disappear? And why do they do it? Are they paid in cash or in some other form?”
Ward said, “Other than Cromwell—and Erica Fischer, if she’s paid off—I’m not sure who else benefits, other than people who buy condos.”
Buddy set down the turkey sandwich on the wrapper and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. He sat, immobile, for half a minute. His pulse spiked, and suddenly he became so hot that the warm interior of the Range Rover stifled him. He reached to the back of the center console and turned off the seat heater.
It’s obvious, he thought. So obvious I didn’t even . . .
He looked at Ward. “That’s who benefits. The people buying the condos.”
Ward shook his head. “I’m not following. That could be anyone—anyone rich enough to afford a place in Haddon House.”
Buddy leaned closer and said, “No, it couldn’t.”
112
“No, Ward,” he said. “Not in this case. Not in the cases of the other projects where the holdouts have died. These aren’t your usual buyers.”
Ward opened his hands. “I’m lost. This is capitalism, the free market. People with money can buy as many condo units as they can afford.”
Buddy smiled, remembering what Erica Fischer had told him. This is an international city, Detective.
In response to Buddy’s silence, Ward said, “Who, then?”
Buddy said, “You’ve read the articles. People use shell companies to buy properties in New York. You can’t figure out the real buyer. Maybe it’s a prince from Saudi Arabia. Maybe a billionaire from China. The buyers could be any of these.”
Ward said, “Or none of them. They don’t have to kill for condos.”
But they do, Buddy thought. They kill for condos and money and maybe for something else. He said, “Cromwell Properties set up and sacrificed Vance McInnis. Cromwell has to be involved.”
Ward sipped from his bottle of Perrier. “They’re either involved, or they know what’s happening and don’t object. Maybe they’re making too much money to rock the boat. Maybe they’ve been threatened.”
Buddy thought there must be a connection to the NYPD. This connection would be the string that led to the truth. Facing Ward, he said, “Here’s my working theory. Maybe it’s more than a theory. Cromwell builds condo towers. If Cromwell has trouble getting people in the existing buildings to leave, or if those people want too much money to go, others—maybe Erica Fischer and Jack Carlson—threaten eminent domain. But if the holdouts still don’t sell, someone makes them disappear. Probably someone in the NYPD or someone who coordinates with the NYPD. It’s not Mingo. He’s a junior detective and this would have to go higher. After tonight, we know it’s not Malone. So we don’t have the name of the person or persons at the NYPD. But the force is part of it, part of . . .” Buddy let his voice trail off.
Ward wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Part of what?”
Buddy thought about each person who’d died for a reason related to the building site for Haddon House: Chen Sung, Lily Sung, Sloan Richardson. He could explain the Sungs’ deaths because they were holdouts. So was Sloan Richardson. But had there been more to Sloan’s death?
Had she been killed because she refused to sell her condo in the Nanjing building? Or because she’d threatened to make public her mother’s identity?
His mind raced. Who is her birth mother? he wondered silently. And why did her birth mother give her up for adoption?
He thought perhaps Sloan Richardson had been on the cusp
of discovering a secret that might damage someone. Maybe her biological mother. Or biological father, whoever he was.
He finished his sandwich, crumpled the wrapping paper, and drank the last of his coffee. The more he thought about these possibilities, the more he doubted they were true. He tried to remember that theory, the one about Occam’s razor. The idea that the simplest explanation is the one most likely to be true. In this case, he believed the simplest explanation was that Cromwell Properties had murdered the holdouts to keep the Haddon House project on schedule and under budget. Maybe buyers of the condo units were involved. Maybe not. The success of the scheme didn’t rely on anyone else in power. But it did rely on at least one dirty cop. As did the framing of Vance McInnis.
His mind went around and around for another minute. Finally, he hit the side of the door with his knuckles. “Fuck!” he said aloud.
Ward regarded him warily. “You figured it out?”
“Just the opposite.”
Yet he was beginning to see large sections of the puzzle, as if from a distance. It was like climbing over a hill and looking down into a natural amphitheater, the sound of the music rising up into the night sky. But the music was only sound. He could almost hear the melody, but not quite. Not yet. But now he knew the key in which the music was played. He recognized some of the instruments. He was close to hearing the theme around which everything had been structured.
Stella Bannon, he thought, and Erica Fischer. You need each other to make money. To threaten the holdouts with eminent domain. To pressure the holdouts to sell for a reasonable price. Failing resolution, to make the holdouts disappear.
Zipping up his jacket, he said, “Take me up to Forty-Ninth and Eighth. I’ll watch Bannon. You take Erica Fischer.”
Thirty minutes later, when Brick pulled along the curb on the other side of Eighth Avenue from the offices of Cromwell Properties, Buddy opened the door of the Range Rover and climbed out. Looking upward, he saw snow falling thickly across the city, in great waves of white, whose cold pricked his eyes. He knew that by tomorrow morning the city would be white and almost pure. But tonight it would be slippery and lethal.
