“Horse tranquilizer?” Rafael asked incredulously. “Good times. Like heroin isn’t strong enough?”
“Stanton was high on ketamine, and there were traces of PCP and MDMA in her system.”
“Damn, she must’ve had technicolor hallucinations,” Rafael said. “No wonder she went off the roof.”
“It’s true that we’ve had cases where jumpers were just high and delusional,” Sheryn answered, her voice steely. “But there’s more to the story. Traynor confessed to her murder. We have it on video.” Sheryn pressed a couple of buttons, and a video started to play on the screen. In it, Alex Traynor was slumped over a table in an interrogation room at the precinct. Sheryn wasn’t visible, but it was her voice that came on first. “Tell us about the girl, Mr. Traynor.”
“I never meant to hurt her.” His voice was slurred and unusually slow, like he was operating at a different speed than the rest of the world. He clutched something in one hand; there was a glint of silver. “I never would’ve done it if I thought she was going to die. I killed her.”
“What did you do to Cori?”
“Cori?” Traynor seemed confused, almost dazed. “What happened to Cori?”
“She died early this morning,” Sheryn said. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”
“I . . .” His voice trailed off into something inaudible.
“Speak up, please, Mr. Traynor. What did you say?”
“We were going to kill ourselves.”
“You were . . . planning to jump off the building, Mr. Traynor?”
On the video, the room was silent except for Traynor’s labored breathing. He opened his fist and gazed at the silver lighter he was holding. “I told her I was going to kill myself. Overdose. She also wanted to die.”
“Did you kill Cori Stanton?”
“It was like I infected her . . . ,” he murmured.
“Did you push her off the roof?”
“Push her?” He seemed startled by the idea, but his head drooped, and he mumbled unintelligibly.
“Speak up, please.”
“I . . . I don’t know. She wanted to jump . . .”
“And what happened?”
Traynor convulsed suddenly, wrapping his arms around himself. “I don’t remember.”
Sheryn paused the video. “You can watch the rest of it, if you want, but he doesn’t say much after that. Basically, he started retching and threw up. We had to send him over to Bellevue.”
Rafael arched an eyebrow. “Everything you’ve shown me makes what I’d call a strong circumstantial case,” he said slowly.
“Excuse me?”
“Drugs. No witnesses. A kinda-sorta confession he made while his brain was looping around another planet. No physical evidence.”
Sheryn’s eyes narrowed. “There was physical evidence. Scratches on Traynor’s face with Stanton’s DNA in them, and Traynor’s skin under Stanton’s nails. There was clearly a physical confrontation between them.”
“How’d Traynor explain that?”
“He said she’d been enraged when he refused to have sex with her.”
“A likely story.”
“Unfortunately, it was backed up by one of Traynor’s neighbors, a Mrs. DiGregorio,” Sheryn said. “He came to her door at midnight and asked her to take care of his dog. She saw the scratches on his face then.”
“So, there was a fight, but it didn’t happen right before Stanton flew off the roof,” Rafael mused.
“Then there was the way Stanton fell from the building,” Sheryn added. “She landed in the street, some distance from the building.”
“So, it wasn’t just an accidental fall.”
“More than that, she landed on her back.”
That made Rafael lean in. “So, unless she flipped position in midair . . . how tall is this building?”
“About fifty-five feet.”
“Wow. She either jumped backward, or she was pushed.” He was quiet for a moment, his face frozen in contemplation. “Tell me why Traynor’s not in jail.”
“Two reasons,” Sheryn said. “One: the video was thrown out. Traynor was at the station for questioning. He wasn’t under arrest, and he hadn’t been read his rights. He had a high-priced lawyer who got the confession quashed.”
“Aha. Maybe Los Angeles and New York aren’t that different after all.”
“It didn’t help that Traynor was flying high on powerful drugs. He’d calmed down by the time we brought him into the station, but before that he was raving. Sandy, my old partner, heard him say something about an angel.”
“An angel?”
Sheryn shrugged. “The second reason Traynor’s not locked up is worse: his girlfriend changed her story. The first uniforms on the scene swear Emily Teare told them she was on the corner and saw a woman fall into the street. She didn’t make a formal statement until the next day. At that point, she claimed she saw Cori Stanton jump from the edge of the roof onto the street.”
“She changed her story from a fall to a jump?”
Sheryn nodded.
“But wasn’t there other physical evidence she was pushed?” Rafael asked. “There was a case I worked—a fall that was really a push—where the autopsy showed hematoma on the victim’s upper arm. She’d been forcibly grabbed and shoved out a window.”
“Nothing like that here,” Sheryn said. “There was hematoma of the ventral neck muscles, but that was consistent with the fall and how her head hit the pavement. Stanton had a heavy persian lamb coat on, so if she was grabbed, that prevented any marks from showing.” Sheryn paused for a moment. “She had one strange injury. There was a fresh cut in the palm of her right hand. The ME said she might’ve grabbed something to keep from being pushed off the roof, or that she tried to grab the fire escape on the way down. But there was nothing to grab. The roof has a low parapet around it, no railing at all. We never found any of her blood on the fire escape.”
“Were there any witnesses?”
“None. Traynor’s neighbor who took the dog, Mrs. DiGregorio, is going on seventy-five and hard of hearing. Her apartment faces the wrong way, so she didn’t see anything. Everyone else on the fifth floor—Traynor’s floor—had cleared out. It was one a.m. Thanksgiving morning. Manhattan was a ghost town on account of the holiday. There’s no security camera footage. There was one other big thing against us: Stanton had a history of suicide attempts. No jumps, but pills and razors. Between that history and the girlfriend’s testimony, the ADA thought our case was too weak to go to trial.”
“There’s a real possibility Cori Stanton actually did off herself,” Rafael said.
“This jump was nothing like the other attempts. Those were in front of other people, basically cries for help. They were part of a pattern for a troubled young woman. Leaping off a building wasn’t part of her repertoire.”
“You think Emily Teare was covering up for her boyfriend?”
“That’s how it looked to me. Still does. She claimed she was too horrified and shaken up by the woman’s death to think straight the night it happened.”
“You sound dubious.”
“This woman’s a surgeon who’s gone into war zones with a relief group,” Sheryn said. “I don’t believe she was so traumatized by Cori Stanton’s death that she gave a false statement. I believe she decided to help her boyfriend out of a murder rap.”
“You couldn’t shake her?”
“Believe me, I tried,” Sheryn said. “I told her that woman’s death was a preview of what could happen to her down the road. She swore Alex Traynor wasn’t dangerous. She wouldn’t listen.”
“And now she’s missing,” Rafael said.
“You got it,” Sheryn said. “Maybe Emily Teare ran away. Maybe he hurt her. Either way, I can promise you one thing: this time, I’m nailing Alex Traynor’s ass to the wall.”
Rafael’s cool expression didn’t shift, but he crossed his arms. “That sounds personal.”
“It’s not. All I care about is justice.”
>
“Sure,” Rafael said. “But I have to be completely honest with you. With this evidence, I see why Traynor walked. It’s not all circumstantial, but a good lawyer could spin alternate theories that fit.” He was quiet for a moment. “There’s something else to this story. You’re holding something back.”
“I’ve shown you all the evidence,” Sheryn answered, forcing herself to keep her tone even. Because there was one more thing about this case, something that didn’t fit in an evidence locker. But she’d be damned if she was going to share it with someone she didn’t trust fully.
CHAPTER 7
BOBBY
Bobby Costa had a love-hate relationship with his job as a superintendent. On the plus side was free room and board, because there was no way he’d be living in Manhattan otherwise. He was responsible for the care and maintenance of two low-rise buildings owned by the same company, and he made some extra scratch doing chores for a couple of brownstones too. Sure, he had tenants complaining at him all the time, but taking care of different buildings let him do a round-robin with them, so nobody knew exactly where to find him at any given time. It wasn’t that he was lazy; the buildings’ public spaces might be old, yet he kept them gleaming, and he made sure the aging guts of the properties stayed in good working order. But tenants were like monkeys, always doing stupid shit in their apartments. That was the problem with rentals: no one cared what they broke.
Another downside: when he was at home, trying to get some rest after a long, anxious night wrestling with a diva of a water heater, people felt free to lean on his buzzer for hours. Worse, they’d come banging on his door. That Monday morning, he had both. He played possum as long as he could, but when he heard shouting in the hallway—“NYPD! Open up!”—he gave up and lurched to the door.
“Hello, Mr. Costa. I’m Detective Sterling,” said a tall woman who flashed a gold shield. She had one of those faces that looked like it belonged on a statue: ebony skin, black hair pulled back in a strict bun, high forehead, full lips, and catlike eyes that cut right through him. “You’ll remember me from last year.”
Bobby’s head was still swimming. “Huh?”
“I interviewed you last November when Cori Stanton died in a fall from this very building.”
“Oh, riiiight.” He remembered her all right. This lady cop was a hard-ass.
“Meet my new partner, Detective Mendoza,” she added. “When’s the last time you saw Emily Teare?”
“Who?” Bobby rubbed his eyes. Don’t give anything away too easily, he reminded himself.
“Looks like somebody had a rough night,” the guy said. “Maybe you should take an aspirin, pal.”
The lady cop had as much sympathy as a brick. “She’s one of your tenants. Lives up on the top floor.”
“Oh, Emily,” Bobby said. “Riiiight. I dunno. Last week, I guess.”
“Last week?” Her tone shifted. “What does that mean? Last Monday?”
“Uh, no. More like . . . Thursday?” He pretended to think about it. “No, wait, it was Friday evening. She was going out for a run.” He could’ve told them more than that, if he’d been so inclined. He could’ve revealed that Emily went running in Central Park every Tuesday and Friday night. On Sundays and Wednesdays, she had her karate class with her loser of a boyfriend. She was hard core, that Emily. He knew her schedule inside out.
“What about her boyfriend, Alex Traynor. When did you last see him?”
“Sunday.” He didn’t need to pretend to think about that. “Yeah, Sunday evening. He was, like, bleeding all over the place.”
“Bleeding?” Her cold expression was faintly incredulous.
“His arm was cut up, dripping blood. I don’t know what happened to him. He’s antisocial. Doesn’t talk much.”
“Emily Teare has been reported missing,” the lady cop said. “We need you to let us into her apartment.”
“Is that legal?”
“She’s missing.” The lady cop glowered at him, dark eyes stormy and suspicious. “Step one is making sure she’s not at home. She could be injured. You better believe that’s legal.”
“Okay, okay.” He didn’t like pushy broads. “Lemme get the keys.”
He had nothing against cops, per se—he had a cousin on the force in Philly, after all—but he never liked dealing with them directly. He could feel their suspicious eyes on him while he grabbed the keys. He glanced back and saw the woman staring at him hard, and he realized how she was reading him. Like a sucker, he’d gone straight to his desk and grabbed the key for 5C, which made him look like a stalker who let himself into that apartment on the regular. He muttered, “No, that’s not it,” and tossed the key back, then fumbled around for a bit before grabbing the same key ring again.
The lady cop didn’t look convinced by the performance. “Let’s go.”
Another thing Bobby hated about being a superintendent was the fact that he was stuck with walk-ups. A couple of floors were fine, but by the time he got to the fifth, he was winded. That day it was especially bad, what with the shadow of a hangover and the trickle of fear running down the back of his neck. That Alex Traynor was nothing but trouble.
He knocked on the door. “Hello? Alex? Emily? It’s Bobby, the super.”
No answer.
“Unlock it,” the cop said, as he started to knock again.
“But maybe they’re still sleeping. I mean, it’s pretty early.”
The look the lady cop gave him made it clear she was used to being obeyed. He turned the key in two locks.
“Same key for both locks?” the lady cop asked.
Bobby nodded.
“We’ll take it from here,” the male detective said. “Stand back.”
Bobby shifted a little to the side, but when they entered the apartment, he followed them in. There was a sound of claws scuttling on linoleum, and suddenly that creepy hellhound bolted at him.
“Oh, is that Sid?” asked the lady cop. “C’mere, boy. Sweet boy. What a good boy you are.” The dog went running to her, stubby tail wagging. The sight of it made Bobby wince. The dog looked like hamburger meat, all gnarly and defective. Why would anyone keep a mutt like that around? It snuggled up against the lady cop, and when she introduced the dog to her partner, it licked the man’s hand. Then it stopped dead, stared at Bobby out of its one good eye, and growled.
“Any reason you don’t like him, boy?” the lady cop asked the mutt, but her eyes were on Bobby.
“I don’t like dogs,” Bobby muttered.
“I find they tend to be good judges of character,” she said. “If anything, they’re too forgiving of people.”
The male cop walked over to the bookcase and picked up a photograph. “This is Emily?”
“Yes.” Bobby and the lady cop spoke at the same time. She gave him a side-eye glance that said, What are you still doing here?
“And who’s this other woman?” her partner asked. He held another photo up.
“That’s her,” the lady cop breathed, as if not believing her eyes. “Cori Stanton. The woman he killed.”
“Pretty girl.”
“Interesting he has her photo front and center.” She stared around the room. She was like a heat-seeking missile, the way she launched herself through the space and into the bedroom. A minute later, she called out, “Rafael? You gotta take a look at this.”
Bobby quietly followed the man into the bedroom. It didn’t look that interesting to him. The bed was unmade, and there was a pretty green silk robe lying on a chair. That was one of Emily’s, he knew. She liked pretty, silky things. She wasn’t an ostentatious lady, that Emily, but she always smelled good. He reached out one hand and ran a finger along the collar.
“‘I can’t live like this anymore,’” the male cop read aloud. “‘I’m going away for a few days. When I get back . . .’”
Bobby yelped. He couldn’t help it; he recognized those words. The sound got the attention he didn’t want: two pairs of hostile cop eyes settled on him. “You sai
d something, Mr. Costa?”
He needed to push their curiosity off him any way he could. “Sorry. I thought that might be one of the letters,” he said.
“What letters?” the male detective asked.
“A while back, Emily got a letter that really upset her,” Bobby said. “She came to see me about it.”
“Why would she come to you?”
The contempt in the question dripped like rattlesnake venom, but he chose to ignore it. He was the superintendent; people came to him with all kinds of problems. “She wanted to know if I’d seen who delivered it.”
That caught their interest. “Did you?”
“No. But I can tell you she seriously freaked out about it.” Boy, had she ever. Emily was one of those girls who was friendly enough, but frantic like a hummingbird. She couldn’t sit still. He knew she had a stressful job and worked out like a maniac. She was hot, but she needed to learn how to chill out. Some wine, some weed, and she could be a different person. A happier person. Of course, he wasn’t going to say any of that to the cops. They’d want to know how he knew so much about Emily, and he couldn’t tell them that.
“Did she show you the letter?”
“I don’t think so. At least, I don’t remember it.”
“Can you remember, precisely, when you saw Emily Teare on Friday evening?”
Bobby considered that. He needed to be careful. The way that lady cop stared through him made Bobby feel like she had ESP.
“It was around eight,” Bobby said. “She was coming back from her run.”
“She told you she went running?”
“We didn’t really talk—she just said hi,” Bobby said. “She always goes running Friday evenings. And she was wearing her running gear.”
“Can you describe it?”
“Black leggings, sneakers, a gray hoodie. Emily runs a lot.” That was accurate; he’d seen her leave the building, and that was what she’d been wearing. Her ass was really cute in those leggings.
“Where did you see her?”
“On the stairs,” he improvised. “She was coming up; I was heading down.”
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