“I’ll call you in an hour to figure out where to make the switch?”
“No problem.”
Ellie flipped the phone shut and rolled toward Max. She kissed him, softly at first and then more urgently. And then, before she even realized her mind had been wandering again, she suddenly sat up.
She knew whom she needed to call, and it wasn’t Rogan.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
6:04 P.M.
Stacy had instructed tonight’s client to meet her at the bar at Gotham. The Alfred Portale restaurant was more upscale than the dives she frequented with friends, but for the business at hand, it offered two clear advantages.
The first were its bartenders, Mark and Jill. Some places would balk about the same woman regularly using their establishment for the briefest of drink dates with an array of strange men. But three months ago, Jill had greeted her with a drink and a comment, both served straight up. The drink was Bombay Sapphire. The comment was, “I hope you know what you’re doing, woman. Promise you’ll be careful.” Mark had followed up with a smile and a nod. From that point forward, Stacy had never worried about getting thrown out, not when Mark or Jill was there.
Of course, Stacy could avoid the risks of being eighty-sixed by simply switching up her meeting places, but few bars offered Gotham’s second advantage: the view. Thanks to the bar’s proximity to the front of the restaurant, and the front of the restaurant’s glass exterior, she enjoyed a clear shot of the street from a seat at the bar. Had she arrived early enough, as she usually did, she could monitor the client’s approach to make sure he arrived alone.
But because she had not arrived early, she now stood on the outside of the glass looking in at the crowded bar. Mark was jiggling a martini shaker over his right shoulder, and Jill was uncorking a bottle of wine. She scanned the bar for singles among the couples and foursomes waiting for dinner tables. She spotted two men alone, one at the far end of the bar facing the entrance, another who in profile appeared to be reading a newspaper.
She couldn’t get a good look at the face of the man farthest from her, but she could tell he was large. She hoped he wasn’t the one. Part of the way she had adjusted to sex with strangers was to think of them not as people, but as objects. Mannequins. Human props. That kind of detachment was easiest with generic bodies. Scars, birthmarks, obesity—those imperfections reminded her of the humanity beneath the skin.
She focused her attention instead on the man with the newspaper. Short hair. Middle-aged. Generic. Unremarkable. He’d be the better choice.
As she reached for the door, he turned to look outside. He noticed her. Raised his eyebrows as if he’d been expecting her. He was the guy.
But before she even realized why she was doing it, she dropped her hand from the door’s handle. Something about the man was familiar. She’d seen him before.
He was still looking at her. He knew she was there, but she couldn’t bring herself to enter the restaurant. Where had she seen him?
She focused on his face—too light for the ridiculous head of dark hair that was surely a piece. And then suddenly she saw him again, this time in the two-dimensional image of a photograph.
She turned and retreated on Twelfth Street as quickly as she could in her stupid new shoes. She looked behind her, praying that he hadn’t followed her. She took an immediate right at the corner, heading south on University.
She knew where she’d spotted the man before. He was in one of the photographs the blond detective had brought to her apartment. You’ve got to watch out for yourself. That’s what the detective had said when she’d shown her the pictures, when she’d tried her best to warn her.
She wound her way through the East Village—south on University, east on Eleventh, south on Broadway, east on Ninth—glancing behind her every half block. Still no sign of the man she’d seen at Gotham, the man she’d seen in the picture.
She stepped off the curb to cross Second Avenue, and the left strap on her new pumps slipped, pulling the shoe from her foot and nearly sending her out into the street, belly-first in front of oncoming traffic. She pulled her shoe from her other foot, scooped up both in one hand, and dashed across the street on her bare feet.
From the corner on the other side, she looked behind her again. No sight of the man on Ninth. No sight of him on Third. He’d seen her, she was sure of that. What troubled her most was that he’d seemed to recognize her. How had he recognized her? She was certain she’d never laid eyes on him before, other than in that photograph the detective had shown her.
Even if he’d somehow discovered her real name—if he was the same man who killed Miranda, he could have gotten it out of her—how would he have known what she looked like? Her number was unlisted. So was her address. But her address was on her driver’s license. And so was her photograph. But those records were private. Weren’t they? Or was all of it available on the Internet these days? She didn’t think so, but wasn’t sure.
She tried to convince herself that he hadn’t really recognized her. He had looked at her that way because she was an attractive brunette walking into the restaurant alone, and he was expecting an attractive brunette to walk in on her own. Once she’d turned the other way, he probably assumed she wasn’t the woman he was waiting for—just some passerby who’d mistakenly grabbed the wrong door.
She stole another glance behind her. No sign of him. He hadn’t followed her. He hadn’t recognized her. He didn’t know who she was and therefore could not know where she lived. She’d never see him again. Her lesson had been learned. She’d close her Craig’s List account and live off her savings for a couple of months while she found some other way to pay the rent. If worse came to worst, she’d turn back to her parents.
One more glance to be sure. No sign of the man, but she did spot a yellow cab with its rooftop medallion number lit. She waved her shoes in the air and climbed into the backseat when the driver stopped.
Safe in the backseat, she slipped her pumps back onto her blackened feet. The miniature television installed in the seat back in front of her was muted, but she recognized the duo of anchors from the local ABC affiliate. The display then changed to a photograph of the woman whose face had captured the local media’s constant attention for the last three days: Tanya Abbott.
She wished she had never met Tanya. She had no idea what the woman had to do with any of this, but if she’d never met Tanya, she could never have called her to cover that date for Miranda. Maybe then Miranda would be alive. Or, who knows, maybe Stacy would be dead. She didn’t know how her life would be different if she’d never known Tanya, but in that moment, she wished Tanya was the one being followed by the man in the pictures. She wished Tanya was the one with police officers coming to her apartment and asking questions. Worse, she wished Tanya was the one who was dead.
She turned off the television so she would not have to see the face of the woman who had to be at the center of all of this. She slipped her cell phone from her leather clutch. The detective had assumed Stacy had removed her number from her directory, but she hadn’t. She’d certainly thought about it, but for some reason, hadn’t hit the delete button.
She pulled up the number and was about to hit the enter key when the driver turned onto Avenue B. Only five more quick blocks and she’d be home. She didn’t have enough time left in the cab to start the call now. She also didn’t want to wait.
Instead of hitting the call button, she hit the button to send a text message to Detective Hatcher’s cell phone and began composing. “From…Stacy…Schecter…Saw…guy…in…photo…Tried to meet me…Call…when…you—”
She felt the cab come to a stop. “Five-eighty.”
She reached into her purse, gave the driver a ten, and asked for three dollars back. The driver groaned as if the plucking of three singles from his stack pained his fingers. Tucking the change and her phone into her purse, she removed her keys, stepped out of the cab, and crossed Avenue B toward her building. As she slipped the key into the g
ate, she heard the cab speed south in search of its next fare.
She turned the key and pulled the security gate open. As she lifted her foot to take the one step up from the sidewalk into the building, her strap slipped again, sending her tumbling onto the concrete, the white gate smashing against her shin. She let out a yelp and grabbed her leg to soothe the pain.
“Let me give you a hand there.”
She saw black dress shoes and dark gray slacks and reached on instinct for the hand extended toward her. And then she looked up. It was him. She yanked her hand away and crawled like a crab on the ground, trying to pull her body inside the building to slam the gate closed behind her. He grabbed her by the ankle. She twisted away from him, swatting at his hands to free her leg.
The sight of the gun at his waistband froze her body. She knew she should scream. She knew she should resist. She knew that if she yelled loud enough, that busybody in 2C would call the cops, if not to rescue her then to shut her up. But all she could see was the butt of the handgun. All she could think about was the half a second it would take him to reach for it and put a bullet in her brain. She’d be dead. She’d no longer exist. And she’d never know what happened next. She was paralyzed. He pulled her limp body up from the ground and shepherded her toward the curb.
As he shoved her into the front seat, she slipped her fingers into her clutch purse and hit the send button on her cell phone, followed by the delete button to clear old text messages from her phone. As the man hopped into the driver’s seat next to her, she tried not to think about his gun. She tried not to think about what he would do to her. And, most of all, she tried not to think about the expression this man had left on the face of the woman she’d known as Miranda.
CHAPTER FIFTY
6:15 P.M.
As promised, Tony Carenza was on the southwest corner of Union Square Park. The narcotics officer wore a fitted plaid western shirt, tight white jeans, and cowboy boots. His long dark hair was slicked back in waves across the crown of his head.
Ellie was four steps away when she heard him pawning his wares.
“Smoke, smoke, smoke.”
“Take a break for a second?”
He looked both directions. “Yeah, but follow me like we’re making a deal.”
She did her best to look nervous as she walked south with him across Fourth Street onto McDougal.
“What kind of luck do I have? Two times I see you this week, and both times I’m dressed like a cowboy trannie. More UC shit. Doing some pot sales here, but later on I’ll hit the clubs and get some felony busts.”
That first meeting with Carenza seemed like a year ago. Before Megan and Katie were killed. Before Tanya disappeared. Before she’d ever heard of Prestige Parties. Wednesday morning in court, Sparks’s attorney had argued that Mancini could have been killed in a home invasion gone bad. He’d known about the knock-and-talk at the apartment next door. But when Carenza assured them the neighbor was chump change, they’d moved on to other theories. They had failed to ask the important follow-up question.
“When my partner and I first talked to you about Sparks’s neighbor at the 212, there’s something I never asked you.”
“Ask away.”
She’d wanted to have this conversation in person in case Carenza was uncooperative, but now she wondered if the trip downtown had been necessary.
“You said you told Nick Dillon about your knock-and-talk because you knew Sparks owned the apartment across the hallway?”
“Yeah. I thought Dillon would get a kick out of the two old ladies downstairs, so sure they’d found a drug dealer on the premises. Sorry if I stepped on any toes mentioning it to him, but I figured he’d been on the job and all.”
“When did you mention it to him?”
“A while ago, I guess.”
“How long a while ago?”
He shrugged. “I don’t really remember. Before the knock-and-talk, because I hadn’t gone to the building yet. We were still keeping the old birds busy writing down all their notes.”
She had first learned of the investigation across the hall just that week, when Sparks’s lawyer, Ramon Guerrero, had brought it up in court. And Guerrero said he had just learned about it himself. They had simply assumed that the knowledge was new to Sam Sparks as well.
“How much earlier than the knock-and-talk?” Ellie pressed.
“Way before. Maybe just a couple of weeks after the ladies came into the precinct complaining about the guy. Why?”
The neighbors had first complained in March. If Carenza mentioned their suspicions prior to the murder, and Dillon had relayed them to Sparks, Sparks could have staged Mancini’s killing to look like a home invasion, knowing that a pending narcotics investigation across the hallway would bolster that theory of the crime.
She felt a buzzing at her waist. A new text message:
From Stacy Schecter. Saw guy in photo. Tried to meet me. Call when you
The message stopped mid-sentence. Had Stacy simply hit the send key prematurely? Or was Ellie’s quickening pulse confirming her worst fears?
She hit the call button on her phone, grateful that Stacy’d had the piece of mind to identify herself in her message. It rang four times before going to voice mail. She tried again. Another four rings. She tried again. This time the call went directly to voice mail, as if someone had turned off the phone’s power.
“I’ve got to go.”
She heard Carenza ask her if everything was all right as she jogged east.
The first call was to Rogan. He didn’t bother with hello.
“You ready to switch?”
“Where’s Sparks?” she asked.
“Right here.”
“Where’s here?”
“I’m parked outside Ouest.”
“West what?”
“It’s a restaurant. O-U-E-S-T. Broadway at Eighty-fourth. He went inside about twenty minutes ago.”
A restaurant Rogan knew, and she didn’t. Definitely expensive. “Can you still see him?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m watching the only door.”
“Do me a favor, please? Go inside? Make sure you can see him?”
“If I do that, he’ll make me. He might not hate me as much as you, but he’ll recognize me.”
“I don’t care. Go check. Please.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s no time. Just make sure.”
She hung up and placed the next call to Paul Bandon’s chambers. Given the hour, she was surprised when a secretary answered.
“This is Ellie Hatcher from the NYPD. Is Judge Bandon available?”
“I’m sorry, Detective, but he’s not in chambers right now. May I take a message?”
“Where is he?”
“Pardon me?”
“When did he leave?”
“Well, he didn’t. He’s on the bench. We’re all hoping he’ll call it a day any minute now.”
“But you’re sure he’s there?” Ellie asked.
“Of course. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“I know this sounds crazy, but can you literally see him from your desk?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Can you please do me a favor and make sure he’s physically in his courtroom?”
“Is something wrong, Detective?”
Ellie could tell from the secretary’s tone that she was worried about the potential of a threat against the judge. Ellie saw no need to disabuse her of that impression.
“It’s very important. Please. Just make sure he’s in one piece and accounted for.”
The secretary returned to the line thirty seconds later. “Yes, he’s still there with the lawyers. Do I need to worry—”
Ellie hung up and dialed Rogan again. He picked up on the third ring.
“Got him,” he said. “Pretty sure he spotted me, but—”
“Who was he with?”
“He’s with some couple and an absolutely gorgeous woman.”
“Not Stacy Schechter?”
“Hello? I think I’d recognize Stacy. What’s going on?”
Ellie was crossing Second Avenue. She was almost there. She looked again at the text message: Saw guy in photo. Tried to meet me.
Sparks and Bandon were both accounted for. Maybe Stacy had seen one of them earlier in the day and only just got around to texting her. Maybe there was an innocent explanation for the cut-off text message, the turned-off phone.
But then Ellie realized that Sparks and Bandon were not the only men in the photos.
“Forget Sparks. Meet me at Stacy’s place. She’s missing. We have to find her. And we have to find Nick Dillon.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
6:45 P.M.
Stacy’s apartment was empty.
They had squandered fifteen minutes tracking down the building super to unlock the door, and all they had to show for it was an empty apartment. No break-in. No signs of a struggle. And no Stacy.
Ellie tried her cell again, but once again the call bounced directly to voice mail.
“She was smart enough to text you,” Rogan said. “She should know that if her phone was on, we could use the signal to locate her.”
Ellie tried to ignore the tormented face of Katie Battle, staring at her from the canvas in the center of the room as if Ellie had failed not only Stacy, but her as well. “I have no doubt Stacy knows that. And so does Nick Dillon. That’s why her phone’s turned off.”
They had already called in to have patrol officers check Nick Dillon’s house in Riverdale. She called the dispatcher and asked for a progress report. The car that had caught the call had not yet reported on scene.
“Okay,” Ellie said. “I also need to issue BOLOs for two subjects: Nick Dillon and Stacy Schecter.” She recited the basic identifying information and waited while the dispatcher pulled up the plate information for Sparks’s black Infiniti sedan.
“Better be some major crime wave up in the Bronx tonight,” she said, flipping her phone shut. “They’re slow as molasses getting to Dillon’s place.”
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