by James Hayman
“Well into the morning actually, but you lucked out and didn’t wake us up. Zev and I just got back from a late party and we’re sitting here having a nightcap. How’re you doing, old friend?”
“At the moment not so great. I need some information and I was hoping you could help me. I understand you’re still working with Caswell?”
“Yeah, full partner now. Agent to the stars. Or at least a couple of their New York stars. Company’s bigger in L.A. than here but we’re still number one on what my compadres in Century City like to call the Least Coast.”
McCabe had heard the term before. Hollywood slang. The Best Coast versus the Least Coast.
“Anyway, let me know what’s going on with you. Last time I heard from you, you were off in Maine playing cops and robbers up there in the woods.”
“At the moment I’m back in New York. On temporary assignment with the NYPD. You know a guy who works for Caswell named Corey Ziegler?”
“Sure, I know I know everybody in the New York office. Only about fifty of us there.”
“Tell me about Ziegler.”
Petras paused. His voice lost the smartass tone. “Before I start gossiping to a cop about one of my employees, maybe you’d better give me a hint what’s going on first. Aside from anything else I need to know if the agency has reason to worry.”
It was pretty obvious McCabe was going to have to level with Petras if he was going get any useful information. It didn’t really much matter since Pryor would be holding that news conference later in the morning. “You still living in the city?” asked McCabe.
“C’mon, Mikey, where would you expect somebody like me to live? Scarsdale? Of course I’m in the city. West 56th Street.”
“Can we talk there?”
“Sure. If you don’t mind my husband listening in. But Zev can be pretty discreet.”
“What number on 56th?”
“Four twenty-six. Between Ninth and Tenth. North end of the old Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood.”
“Okay. My partner, Margaret Savage, and I will grab a cab and be there in ten minutes.”
Alan Petras’s apartment was a drop-dead-modern two-bedroom on the top floor of an older refurbished building. The apartment was super-cool with curvy opaque glass walls and high-style glass and steel furniture. More interestingly, the walls were covered with dozens of abstract paintings all signed by a single artist. Z. Rosenberg. McCabe spent more than a minute studying the work. His years living with his ex-girlfriend Kyra, who was a painter and printmaker, had given him more than a passing interest in modern art.
“Like them?”
“I do. It’s very strong work. Who’s the artist?”
“All Zev’s,” said Petras. “Last name’s Rosenberg. His work’s pretty hot right now. Got a big show at the Abitole Gallery in Chelsea coming up in April. He’d probably give you a special price on one if you buy now.”
“Like what?” McCabe asked, more out of curiosity than genuine interest. No way he could even think about buying expensive art on a Portland cop’s salary. Not even on two Portland cops’ salaries.
“You’d have to ask him. But probably between forty and fifty.”
“I’m guessing you don’t mean forty and fifty dollars.”
Alan smiled. “I don’t.”
“Is Zev here?”
“In our bedroom. When I told him you two were coming, he decided to beat a hasty retreat and hit the sack. We’ll have all the privacy we need. Sit down. Let me get you some wine and we’ll talk.”
“No wine for me, thanks,” said Maggie.
“Mike?”
“Maybe coffee? We’ve got a long morning ahead of us.”
“No problem. Two coffees and one wine.” A minute later he returned from the open-plan kitchen carrying two mugs, set them down and went back and got a glass of red. “Okay,” he asked when he was settled. “What’s going on with Corey Ziegler?”
“Marzena Wolski wouldn’t happen to be his client, would she?” asked Maggie.
“No. She is, or I’m afraid you’re going to tell me that was would be more accurate, my client. Have you found Marzena?”
“Yes.”
Petras took a deep breath. “Is she okay?”
“No.” Maggie admitted.
“Dead?”
“Sorry to say.”
“Oh Christ. That makes two.”
“Two?”
“Ronda Wingfield was our client as well. Not mine personally but one of our other agents.”
“Did the police talk to you when either or both of them first disappeared?” asked McCabe.
“Yes. A couple of detectives showed up at the office. I have their cards somewhere. Ronda’s agent and I talked to them for about twenty minutes when she went missing but we really couldn’t be much help. The same two showed up again when Marzena disappeared. For my part, I hadn’t spoken to Marzena for a couple of weeks prior to that. Basically I didn’t know anything useful to them so they thanked me and left. Ziegler’s name never came up. Why are you asking about him now?”
“He’s under arrest on suspicion of murdering Wolski, said McCabe. “A cop discovered him dragging her body through the woods on the north end of Central Park.”
Petras let out what could only be described as a moan. “I am so sorry about all this. Marzena could be difficult to work with. Between us girls, she was a self-centered pain in the ass, but she didn’t deserve to end up like that. Nobody does.”
“Could Ziegler have met her while she was visiting the agency?” asked Maggie.
“Of course. Richard isn’t an agent but it’s a small office. He works . . . or should I say worked for us for about nine months now.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s an attorney. Writes up contracts. Negotiates talent payments and commissions. Handles all the disagreements between our clients and whoever wants to hire them. Was good at his job but he was always a gawker. Sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maggie.
“Well, he was always managing to be hanging around when talent . . . especially attractive female talent . . . was in the office. To the point where it was frankly embarrassing. I had to tell him to go back to his cube more than once. Even though he was good at his job, I was thinking of letting him go.”
“You said Wolski met him?”
“Yeah. The last time she came in, he walked up and introduced himself. Started telling her how much he admires her, how terrific she is in Malicious. That’s the TV show she’s one of the major characters in. He’s done the same thing with a couple of our other clients. Richard’s what we in the biz call a starfucker.”
“What do you mean by starfucker?” asked Maggie.
“It’s a term for people who obsessively want to hang around with, want to see or be seen with, celebrities. The bigger the celebrity, the bigger the urge. They get turned on by proximity. They think the stardust rubs off on them. I’ve got a feeling that’s one of the reasons Ziegler took the job here. He could make a lot more money with a law firm.”
“Do you suppose Wolski would have remembered meeting him if he approached her, say on a dark street?” asked McCabe.
Petras shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. She certainly would if he mentioned meeting her at Caswell.”
“How about Sarah Jacobs or Zoe McCabe. Are they Caswell clients?”
“No, just Wingfield and Wolski. I’d heard of Jacobs. I go to the ballet a lot and she was on her way up to being a principal dancer. And I actually met her just to say hello at a benefit party at MOMA the night she went missing. But Zoe McCabe is totally unknown to me. Never met her or heard of her until she was mentioned on the news today. Is the name a coincidence or are you two related?”
“She’s my niece,” said McCabe.
“Oh Christ, Michael, I’m so sorry. Is that why you’re working on this?”
McCabe nodded. “The NYPD allowed me back to help out. They think I’m good at this k
ind of thing.”
“Anything else you can tell us about Ziegler?” said Maggie. “Like how he got along with the other people in the office?”
“Not well. Corey projects an arrogance most people don’t like. He has an oversized ego. Everything he did was great, terrific, fabulous. Never could admit to doing anything wrong. If there were ever any problems with residual payments or talent contracts he’d always act like it was somebody else’s fault, never his. He’s been with the agency less than a year but like I said, even before you told me about Wolski, I was getting ready to fire him.”
“What’s somebody like Ziegler earn?” Maggie inquired.
“Not much for a lawyer. A hundred K. Plus a ten percent bonus at Christmas, which he won’t get because he won’t be working for us at Christmas. He was making more than that at his last job with one of the big law firms. He claims he quit but I suspect he was let go.”
“You know the name of the firm?”
Alan Petras closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Oh Christ, yes. What the hell was it? Hadley . . . Hadley . . . Hadley and Bradshaw. That’s it. Located downtown somewhere.”
McCabe rose. “Okay. I think that’s all for now. Forensic folks are going to want to go over his cube at your office so please don’t let anybody touch anything.”
“Kind of tricky since it’s all open plan,” said Petras, before smiling broadly. “I suppose I could just hang crime scene tape over the opening. Got any extra?”
It was that last remark that reminded McCabe of what he’d never really liked about Alan Petras back in their student days at NYU. Son of a bitch had to make a joke out of everything. Even the brutal murders of at least three women. But McCabe didn’t respond except to say, “Your call. But seriously, keep everybody out.”
“I will.”
“Thank you for your help, Alan. Here’s my card. Please give me a call if you think of anything else that might be pertinent,” said McCabe.
“And here’s mine. It lists my personal number at the office. And I do hope everything goes well with your niece. Please let me know. And if everything turns out all right, maybe we can grab lunch and catch up on pleasanter things before you head back to the hinterlands.”
McCabe offered his hand. “Thank you, Alan. I will.”
Chapter 38
Twenty minutes later a taxi deposited the two Portland detectives in front of the Seventh Precinct. They entered the three-story redbrick building, introduced themselves to a different desk sergeant and headed upstairs to the detective squad where Astarita was waiting along with Ramon Morales and Diane Capriati. McCabe suspected both detectives were likely pissed that a couple of interlopers from Maine were about to get the next shot at the so-called Star-Struck Strangler. McCabe didn’t blame them. He would have been pissed too. It was the kind of case that, if you were the one who got the confession, could make your career.
The five of them all squeezed around a monitor in the small conference room. Maggie and McCabe studied the man on the screen. Corey Ziegler was sitting still, his hands folded in front of him on the wooden table. Occasionally he’d glance up at the camera, which was semi-hidden above and to the right of the door. Even seated he appeared to be a big guy. About the size the three witnesses had described. But he had a bland face with fair skin and dirty blond hair. Not the intensity and dark brown hair all their witnesses had mentioned.
“Sarah Slade’s certain this isn’t the guy from the theater?” asked Maggie. Slade had probably gotten the closest and best look and she had probably suffered less directly the emotional threat Mooney had been put through.
“Yup. Both she and Mooney say they’re certain. They say Ziegler’s got a totally different face. A different presence.”
“And Ziegler still hasn’t lawyered up?” asked McCabe.
“No. Not yet. Which surprises me,” said Capriati. “The guy’s a lawyer himself. He ought to know better.”
“So he’s just been sitting there the whole time saying nothing?”
“Pretty much,” said Art. “He seems to have taken his right to remain silent literally. Diane and Ramon worked him over pretty good for over an hour. Refused to say a word. Won’t even admit he’s Corey Ziegler.”
“You think he’s debating whether or not to confess?” asked McCabe, thinking about all the famous serial killers who’d just been itching to confess everything. Let the world know what cool and dangerous dudes they were. “Whether he wants to brag about it?”
“That’s the feeling I get,” said Capriati. “He just hasn’t made up his mind yet. Once he decides we’ve really got the goods on him I think he’s gonna let loose.”
“We have any estimate yet for the time of Wolski’s death?” McCabe asked Astarita.
“Jonah Eisenberg’s best guess is that she was strangled not all that long before Donaldson found her. Certainly tonight. Probably around seven or eight p.m.”
“Okay, so let’s suppose he gets Zoe. Secures her back in his hidey-hole. And then he kills Wolski. Once she’s dead he stuffs her in the body bag and then drives her up to the north end of the park and drags her in. I assume you checked Ziegler’s apartment? Maybe that’s where he’s keeping Zoe,” said McCabe.
“We checked. If he has a hidey-hole it’s not his apartment. Renee Walker and Will Fenton searched the place. A one-bedroom on West 12th. Practically under the south end of the High Line. No Zoe. No other young captives there. No signs there ever have been any. Crime scene unit is going over the place now to see if they can pick up any traces of Wolski or either of the two earlier victims. Computer folks are trying to figure out if Ziegler owns another apartment or house somewhere.”
“I wonder if he made Zoe watch Wolski’s murder,” said Maggie. “Sort of a warning of how she might end up if she didn’t do what she was told.”
McCabe felt a sudden rush of rage at the thought and nearly snapped at Maggie. He pushed against the feeling, knowing that if he let himself explode there was a good chance he might just charge into the interview room and try to beat the truth out of Ziegler right then and there. Maggie sensed what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She slipped her hand down and squeezed his, a silent signal to keep his cool. He took her lead and did a little deep breathing. Then he asked what seemed like an innocuous question. “Has he just been sitting there like that the whole time?”
“Yup.”
“I think he just may be enjoying his moment as the star,” said Maggie, thinking back to Alan Petras’s description of the guy. “Maybe that’s what he’s wanted all along when he decided to start killing young actresses. To be the center of attention. The star of the show. And now he’s here he doesn’t want some other lawyer stepping in and ruining his moment in the sun.”
Astarita shrugged. “Maybe so.”
“Weird if you ask me,” said Morales.
“Serial killers are weird by definition,” said Maggie. “What else do we know about him?”
“Not much,” said Astarita. “No criminal record. Not much presence on the Internet. Just that he graduated in ’04 from Hofstra with a degree in political science and then went to Fordham Law. Passed the bar first time around and then went to work for a white-shoe kind of firm called Hadley and Bradshaw. Specialized in entertainment law. Left there and went to Caswell earlier this year.”
“Anything else?” asked Maggie.
“Yeah. He’s got Facebook and LinkedIn pages but they’re fairly inactive. When he does post something it’s usually something about himself. Who he knows. Who he’s met. How cool he is. How smart. How well connected. Posted one selfie of him posing with Wolski. Captioned it Me with my good friend, the star of Malicious, Marzena Wolski. Don’t know how he got that.”
“Probably just walked up while she was in the office at Caswell and asked,” said McCabe. “Actors like to accommodate fans when it’s not a hassle. It all fits with what Petras said about him. An oversized ego. Always sounding off about how much smarter he is than anyone else. The
way Alan described Ziegler, he’s clearly a narcissist.”
“And narcissism,” Astarita added, “is well up there on Hare’s list of psychopathic tendencies.”
“Ziegler got a wife? Or a girlfriend?” asked Maggie. “Or maybe a boyfriend?”
“What do you think?” said Capriati.
“I think not.”
“You think right.”
“Anything else we can use?” Maggie asked.
“Nothing other than he was caught in the act of dragging a body bag containing the mortal remains of Marzena Wolski into the woods. Insisted he had nothing to do with killing her. Totally ridiculous.”
“Totally,” said McCabe. “Especially considering that he bragged online about knowing her.”
As far as McCabe was concerned, the fact that Ziegler had met Wolski eliminated any possibility that he wasn’t the killer, the guy the press had dubbed the Star-Struck Strangler. But unless they could get him to confess to the crimes, just dragging Wolski’s body might not be enough to convict. It was compelling evidence, certainly strong enough to convict most guys. But McCabe knew there were no sure things in any murder trial. Just look at the bullshit the jury bought in the O.J. case. If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit, Johnny Cochran told them. And acquit they did. With this guy McCabe wanted certainty, and certainty would come only with a confession. Which meant they had to get him to talk. And in the process tell them where in hell he was keeping Zoe. God willing, she was still alive.
“You still with us, McCabe?” asked Astarita.
“Sorry, Art. Lost in thought for a minute. What were you saying?”
“Just that it would seem working as a lawyer for a talent agency must bring in pretty good money.”
“How do you figure?” asked Maggie.
“Ziegler’s condo is over in the far West Village. Under the High Line. A very cool and very expensive neighborhood.”
“Not like it was when I lived in the city,” said McCabe. “Back then it was just south of the old meat-packing district. It was where all the hookers hung out. Both gay and straight.”
“Times have changed, McCabe. One-bedrooms around there now sell for a million plus.”
