Leon rolled his eyes. “Please. You get to my age, and a girl is any female below sixty. You know her how?”
Jack restrained a wince. “We met through a friend.”
Leon nodded. “Very nice. You going to marry this one?”
Jack laughed. “For chrissakes—I just met her!”
His uncle shrugged. “Let me tell you, my friend: you could do a lot worse. … This one’s a keeper.”
Despite himself, Jack was pleased. He had probably had enough of marriage, but still … pleased.
Zhenya returned, they finished their tea, they bid Leon farewell. The old man insisted on kissing Zhenya’s hand again—his signature move.
DINNER WAS TOUGH FOR Jack. Zhenya heated up some prepared food from the market, some salmon and very garlicky roasted potatoes and broccoli, and they took their plates out on the balcony and watched the sun set. Every few minutes Jack took out his cell phone, checking to see if the Joral surveillance team might have called, but his mind wasn’t really on the case.
He thought of how uncomfortable he had felt the first couple of times he had been in Zhenya’s apartment, and then how suddenly things had changed, opened up, grown intimate. For a few evenings he had felt profoundly comfortable here, but now things seemed to have somehow regressed a little, and that hurt. Love was a fishhook: the more you struggled, the deeper it set.
Zhenya went into the kitchen to prepare some dessert. When she returned, Jack announced that he had to leave shortly, to go deal with a work situation.
She looked surprised and a little hurt.
He didn’t go back to work, though—he just turned toward home. As he drove there, he felt like a fool. He had been jealous and wanted to teach her a little lesson, to show her that he still had his independence, but he had succeeded only in robbing both of them of another shared night.
BEFORE HE HIT THE sack, he called one of the detectives on the surveillance team. A slow evening: their suspect had gone to a local video store, rented a couple of movies, and returned to his apartment.
Lying in bed, Jack tried to watch The Tonight Show, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Joseph Joral and about Zhenya Lelo. After a while, he turned off the lights. Surprisingly, he was asleep within minutes.
He was in some kind of dark warehouse, with narrow, constricting hallways. He was looking for something, or someone, but he didn’t know what. He climbed a couple of flights of stairs, then walked down another hall, stopping to peer into empty rooms that looked like abandoned classrooms. He opened several doors—offices—and then he opened another one: a janitor’s closet. He gasped—a young woman was hanging by her neck over the big metal sink, twisting slowly, and as her body swung around he saw that it was Zhenya.
He shot upright, breathing heavily. Over the years, he had learned not to bring the job home, even in his dreams, but every once in a while … He lay back and tried to calm his heart rate, but he was thinking of Joseph Joral again, hoping the creep was still in his apartment, far from any potential victims.
JACK WOKE LATE, SORE and cranky from another bad night’s sleep. He didn’t have time to make himself breakfast; he stopped off at a deli on the way to work and picked up a cup of coffee and a fried egg on a bagel. He settled back into his car and was trying to eat the sandwich without dripping egg yolk on his tie when his cell phone trilled. A few seconds later he hung up, stuck his rotating beacon on the dash, and zoomed off toward Eastern Parkway.
Nine minutes later, after running several red lights, he careered onto Eastern Parkway and raced past the giant old classical façade of the Brooklyn Museum. At the next corner, he veered right. A block and a half down, on a side street outside the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, he spotted a Traffic Enforcement vehicle double-parked in the street. He pulled up behind it, got out, and jogged up to the driver’s window. The agent, a plump little woman with marcelled hair, nodded toward a silver car parked across the street.
“There you go,” she said matter-of-factly.
Jack wanted to kiss her. “You’re gonna get a gold medal for this,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “I’d settle for a vacation day.”
Jack approached Joseph Joral’s car slowly. He didn’t have any legal authority to search the trunk or to get the doors opened, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t peer in the goddamn windows. From the outside, from thirty feet away, there was nothing suspicious about the car, but after he walked just a few feet closer, his face opened up in a big smile and he sang himself a little song: Boom, boom, boom, another one bites the dust. …
A Playboy air freshener hung from the rearview mirror.
And the steering wheel was wrapped in luxurious brown fur.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IT TOOK THE REST of the day to get a search warrant, open the car, run the steering wheel cover down to the lab, and get the results, but Joseph Joral was back at the Seven-one Precinct House by 6 P.M.
Jack, Kyle, and the sergeant held another powwow out in the squad room. They’d have to wait several days for DNA testing of the fur but were confident that the results would tie Joral to both crime scenes. The problem was that this was all the new evidence might accomplish—it wouldn’t prove that he had actually committed either murder.
To accomplish that goal, the detectives had two different tools. The first was simply their skill at drawing out a confession. The second was more technical: they would provide Joseph Joral with a beverage at the start of the interview, whether he asked for one or not. At the end of the interview, after he abandoned the container, they’d have it tested for DNA. (The courts had ruled that such “surreptitiously sampled” material—discarded coffee cups, cigarette butts, even spit—was legally up for grabs, with no need for a court order.) The problem was that the results on the two condoms had still not come in. If they didn’t provide any analyzable DNA, this whole line of inquiry would be shot.
Before Joral’s lawyer showed up, Jack and Kyle joined their suspect in the little interview room while the sergeant and some other precinct detectives looked on via closed-circuit TV. The two lead detectives came in sipping from cans of Coke. They “casually” set a fresh can down before their suspect and did their best to distract him with small talk. Joral wouldn’t answer any questions. “I want my goddamn lawyer” is all he’d say. The detectives shrugged, left the room, and then watched on the monitor, waiting to see if their suspect would open the soda.
After a minute or two, Joral started looking very bored. He got up and paced around, but the room was so small that he soon gave up and sat again. After another minute, he picked up his Coke can.
Next door, the detectives made pumping motions with their fists. “Yessss!” Kyle said.
But Joral just rolled the can between his palms for a few seconds. Then he set it down. He got up and paced again, waiting for his lawyer.
The detectives groaned. It was like watching a baseball game. Two outs, bottom of the ninth …
Finally, Joral picked up the can again, cracked it open, and took a couple of sips.
Five minutes later, his lawyer arrived. “What the hell is going on?” he said to the detectives as they followed him into the interview room. “What grounds do you have for bothering my client again?”
Jack and Kyle just sat calmly on the other side of the table, their chairs squeaking on the old linoleum as they moved as close as possible to their prime suspect.
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Jack said. “First we have a few questions for Mr. Joral here. We’d like to know where you were on the evenings of August sixteen, seventeen, and twenty-one.”
The lawyer shook his head. “My client has already answered those questions, Detective.”
Jack stared at Joral. “You’re sticking by your story?”
“You’re damn right he is,” the lawyer replied.
“Is that what you say, Joseph?”
Joral nodded. “Damn straight.”
Jack opened a manila folder. “Were you at th
e Sandalwood Lounge at any point on the evening of August twenty-one?”
The lawyer started to say something, but Jack held up a hand. “Joseph?”
Joral stared at him, wary.
Things were starting to get interesting. If the man stuck by his original alibi, then he could be caught out in a lie here. If he said that he had been at the bar, he’d be placing himself at the scene of Shantel Williams’s last known public appearance.
Joral opted for the lie. “I was home, man. Watching Law and Order.”
The lawyer sat up in his seat. “Now, are you going to—”
Jack held up a hand again. “One minute. Now, Joseph: was your car, a 2000 Acura with license plate number GFC-237, in your possession on the evenings of August sixteen, seventeen, and twenty-one?”
Joral frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, did you lend it to anyone? Or maybe it was in the shop?”
He watched Joral mull over this new question; another opportunity to get trapped in a lie. He could practically see the gears turning in the perp’s head. If he said that it was in his possession, it might somehow tie him to the murders. If he said that it wasn’t, he’d be stuck trying to back up another lie.
Jack pressed him. “Which was it?”
Joral scowled. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘possession.’ I park my car on the damn street. Anybody could’a got hold of it.”
“Are you saying it might have been stolen?”
Joral was looking sickly now. If he lied and said it was, the next question would be why he hadn’t reported the theft. Jack looked on with satisfaction: it was like watching a checkers champion suddenly forced to figure out future moves in chess.
“Nobody said nuthin’ about it bein’ stolen.”
“All right.” Jack nodded. “So your car was in your possession all three of those nights.”
The lawyer drew himself up. “You know what, Detective? It sounds to me like you’re just on another fishing expedition here. Once again, if you don’t have any evidence against my client, I’m going to have to demand that he be released immediately.”
Jack sat back and smiled. “But that’s the thing, Counselor. We do have evidence.” He reached into the manila envelope and pulled out a Polaroid of Joral’s fur-wrapped steering wheel. “We found a certain type of animal fur at both crime scenes, and it matches what we found today in your client’s car. DNA doesn’t lie.”
The lawyer crossed his arms. “There’s no way you would have had time to conduct a DNA test.”
“You’re right,” Jack admitted. “But a preliminary forensic exam indicates that the fur is the same, and we’ll get the DNA results soon. What would you like to bet that we don’t get a match?”
“You can’t do a DNA test on no goddamn animal,” Joral muttered.
Jack smiled. “Why not? Animals have DNA, just like we do. And it’s just as traceable. Interesting fact, huh? Maybe you should’ve been watching some nature TV.”
After all this talk of DNA the lawyer’s eyes alighted on his client’s soda can. He turned to his client. “Say, Joseph, are you finished with your soda?”
Joral nodded.
“Would you mind if I have the can?”
Joral looked puzzled. “Why?”
“I collect them,” his lawyer answered, smirking to let the detectives know that he was on to their ruse.
“Help yourself,” his client said. The P.D. picked up the can and tucked it into his briefcase—now he was in legal possession of it.
Jack nodded at the man. “Your point, Counselor.”
The lawyer grinned.
Joral looked on, mystified.
Jack shrugged. “The match on the fur will do. It’s over, Joey.” He knew that he needed to regain the power in the interview, not to mention distract the lawyer. It would only take a minute for the man and his client to realize that the fur was not evidence of murder. Jack leaned toward his suspect. “Why don’t you just tell us why you did it? It’ll make things easier for you if you cooperate.”
The public defender held up a hand. “Not so fast, Detective. All this evidence might establish is that my client could have been at these scenes. You haven’t presented anything that directly implicates him in any crimes.”
Kyle spoke up angrily. “We know he did them, and I’m sure a jury will agree.”
The public defender kept his cool. He stood up. “If you think you have what you need to prosecute my client, then go right ahead and arrest him. Otherwise, let’s put an end to all this dancing around.”
He nodded at Joral, who started to stand up.
Jack saw his case walking out the door again. He spoke up quickly. “Tell me something, Joey: do you consider yourself good in bed?”
The lawyer’s eyes went wide. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Joral scowled. “Why you asking, cop? You some kinda fag?”
Jack tapped his manila folder. “I was rereading LaTanya Davidson’s complaint. She said that when she wanted to have sex with you, you couldn’t perform. Is that right, Joey?” He didn’t feel good about teasing anybody about their sexual difficulties, but given the circumstances …
The precinct was air-conditioned, but not much of that cool air made it into the little interview room. Of course, Joseph Joral might have had other reasons for starting to sweat.
“This interview is over,” the lawyer said, but his client wasn’t done.
“That’s a goddamn lie! I didn’t wanna have sex with her. She was too skanky.”
The man’s hatred of women was practically pouring out of him, and Jack ached to take him down.
“Is that so?” he tapped the folder again. “Here’s an interesting little fact from our crime scenes: at both of them, we found dry, empty condoms lying on the ground.” He turned to Kyle. “What does that suggest to you, partner?”
Kyle picked up on the last-ditch strategy. He leaned forward and sneered. “We know why you killed those girls, Joey. You were ashamed ’cause you can’t get it up.”
Joral jumped to his feet. His lawyer put a hand on his client’s arm, but it was too late.
“That’s a lie, motherfucker! I banged both those stupid bitches. And they only got what they had comin’.”
The lawyer slumped back and put a hand over his eyes.
BACK OUT IN THE squad room, Kyle traded high fives with the other cops. “Beautiful!” said one. “Schweet!” crowed another.
Jack just shrugged. “Like shooting ducks in a barrel.” He was pleased, though. Talk about job satisfaction: this was what it was all about. They had caught the killer of two young women and likely saved others from a similar fate.
Sometimes it was just this simple: the Good Guys won.
ON A NORMAL NIGHT, Smith Street made Jack Leightner feel severely out of place. He couldn’t believe how this humble little thoroughfare from his childhood was now swarming with twentysomething hipsters who thought nothing of dropping nine bucks on a trendy mojito or saketini.
Tonight he was feeling a bit old and square, but those feelings were balanced by the situation: he was out for a celebratory dinner with a beautiful young woman. It was funny: Zhenya didn’t really fit in here either. Jack didn’t know anything about fashion, but he knew that his date didn’t blend in with the casually chic women roving these crowded sidewalks. She had dressed as if she were going to some expensive but rather garish 1940s Manhattan nightclub: she tottered along on impossibly high-heeled shoes, wore fishnet stockings, and sported a skintight evening dress. She looked—Jack was ashamed of the thought—kind of like a high-priced escort. Even so, she was so sincere in her excitement about this rare night out that she somehow pulled it off. Young hipsters dressed all in black swiveled around as she walked by; she was like a brightly plumed bird passing through a flock of crows.
The setting was so foreign to both of them that they didn’t have to worry about bumping into Russian friends who might disapprove of the young widow, or cop frie
nds who might wonder what he was doing socializing with a victim’s widow. The restaurant choices were dazzling: French bistros, Japanese sushi, tapas bars, Peruvian, Jamaican, Korean … They settled on a candlelit Argentinean restaurant with tables out on the sidewalk and a live salsa band inside. After a couple of cocktails, they took to the crowded dance floor; neither of them really knew how to do Latin dancing, but they had a great time pretending.
For most of the evening Jack was able to stay in the moment and enjoy himself, but by the time they had finished their dinner—a steak for him, some sea bass for her—his mind had wandered back to the other evening, when Zhenya had suddenly declared herself too busy to see him. He sat pensive, stirring his coffee, a powerful, muddy brew.
Zhenya watched him for a minute. “What you are thinking, Mr. Thinker?”
He tried to smile but failed. Ah, what the hell, why not just bring it out in the open and be done with it?
“Listen,” he said, “I know it’s really none of my business, but the, ah, the other evening, when you said you had ‘plans’ … I was just wondering what you meant by that?”
She stared at him and said nothing for a moment. Jack sank into a horrible flashback, the moment when, in another New York restaurant, he had proposed to his last girlfriend, and she had stared at him just like this, then burst into tears and announced that she was having an affair.
But Zhenya just shrugged. “I had dinner with an old friend who visits New York.”
Jack winced. “I just … I thought maybe you had a date or something.”
Her eyes widened, and he was afraid she was going to get angry, but she shook her head calmly. “I promise you, on my mother’s grave: I did not have a date.” She reached out, laid a hand on his, and grinned. “You were zhealous? You know what?”
He smiled, hesitantly but more genuinely this time. “What?”
“When you are jealous, Zhack Leightner, you are looking very cute.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JACK SNORTED WHEN HE saw the tabloid headline the next morning: NYPD K.O.S RACIST KILLER.
The story was fundamentally wrong: Joseph Joral actually had a thing for black women, and he was clearly into hip-hop style. (It was women he had a problem with.) Jack couldn’t blame the paper, though—they were just running with the Deputy Commissioner of Public Information’s official spin on the story. The Department was trying to score a few points with the black community. Jack shrugged: the brass and the press could do whatever they wanted with Joral’s story; he was just glad that he had gotten another killer off the city’s streets. And, he reflected, still feeling a good buzz from the previous day’s events, if he and his colleagues could take down one arrogant creep, surely they could take down another. It was Semyon Balakutis’s turn.
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