Dead Connection

by Alafair Burke

  Ellie tried to call Flann again. Still straight to voice mail. She stared at the registration for Ed Becker’s 1995 Gibson 5900 Cabin Yacht, then Googled “Gibson 5900” on Flann’s computer. She double clicked on the first result and pulled up a listing of a 2002 yacht. Asking price: a quarter of a mil. She let out a whistle, then checked a few more listings. The cheapest 1995 she could find was still $160,000. How did a retired cop afford a boat like that? It certainly explained why Flann had been curious, but what led him to ask Jason Upton about the boat in the first place?

  She remembered Upton’s computer tutorial about cookies. She used the computer’s mouse to click on the history of Flann’s Internet Explorer, then clicked on a folder marked today. Beneath an entry for “images.google,” a name popped out at her: Ed Becker. She clicked on it.

  The screen changed to a collection of small photographs. A number in the top right-hand corner of the screen indicated that she had pulled up more than five hundred matches. She searched Google Images again, this time for “Ed Becker New York.” That narrowed it to a manageable thirty-two matches. She browsed the photos. A kid graduating from high school. A paleontologist reconstructing the skeleton of a T. rex. Some guy with a smile and a rifle next to a really dead Bambi.

  She clicked over to the next page of photographs. Between a head shot of a bankruptcy lawyer and a poster for the movie City Hall was a group photograph that caught her eye. It was too small to make out faces, but the text beneath the picture read, Bronx Yacht Club Activities. She clicked on the photograph to enlarge it.

  Retired NYPD Detective Ed Becker stood third from the left, beer in hand, on the deck of a sailboat. A description beneath the picture read, Blue Cup Regatta.

  Ellie returned to Flann’s history and saw a listing for the Bronx Yacht Club. She clicked on the link to pull up the club’s Web site. The home page announced, “Welcome to the site of the Bronx Yacht Club, located in the nautical community of City Island, New York.” A separate entry in Flann’s browser history showed that he also visited a Web site about City Island itself.

  City Island. City Island. Where had she just seen something about City Island? She rummaged through the clutter scattered across Flann’s desk until she found what she was looking for: the list of Internet café locations that Enoch used to access the FirstDate server. Every spot was in Manhattan, except one — an Internet café called JavaNet on City Island, New York.

  She opened Mapquest, then entered the address of the Bronx Yacht Club and requested directions to JavaNet. Only a quarter of a mile separated the two.

  She continued scouring the papers on Flann’s desk, hoping to find something to confirm her suspicions about where her partner had gone. Resting inside his top desk drawer was a sealed envelope marked “Ellie.” She ripped it open and read the note inside:

  Ellie — Tomorrow morning I will tell you whatever I learn tonight about Ed Becker, and you will undoubtedly be angry that I did not invite you on my snooping adventure. I will explain my reasons, and you will accuse me of holding out on you once again. Then I will show you this note to prove that, unlike some moments in the past few days, I am sharing my island with you. I have every intention of sharing any and all information with you, but I have good reasons for acquiring it on my own. I know you hope I’m wrong — I do too — but I need to check on Becker. As you know, the NYPD can be a harsh place for cops who check on other cops. There’s no need for you to be associated with my snooping. But I promise, I will tell you everything I know tomorrow. Now that you’ve read this, do you forgive me, or shall we go another round? Your partner, Flann.

  She read the letter again, so frustrated she wanted to tear it to pieces. I hope you’re wrong. That’s what she’d said to him when she called him from the car and he voiced his concerns about Becker. He’d written this note after that phone call.

  She dialed Flann’s number again, but this time it did not go into voice mail. It rang. Then an answer. A loud humming sound in the background, then Flann’s voice: “Can’t talk,” followed by a click. She hit redial immediately, but the call went directly into voice mail this time. She tried twice more, but no luck. Flann must have turned off his cell after Ellie had finally made it through.

  The noise in the background had been familiar. And loud. She pulled up a map of City Island on the computer screen. The Bronx Yacht Club was near Pelham Bay Park, not far from LaGuardia Airport. It was also not far from Westchester, where Ed Becker lived.

  She pulled up the yacht club’s Web site again and clicked on the link for directions. The #6 subway line ended at the Pelham Bay Park station. Ellie tried Flann’s phone again. It was still off.

  She walked downstairs to the car checkout desk. Behind the counter, a gray-haired woman with black-framed glasses and very red lipstick read a paperback called To the Power of Three.

  “Hi, I’m Ellie Hatcher. I’m here this week working with—”

  “I know who you are, sweetie.” The woman looked up at her over the tops of her reading glasses.

  “Would you mind checking to see if McIlroy has a car out?”

  “I can tell you for a fact that he does not. I saw him walk out of here — what, it must have been an hour and a half ago.”

  Ninety minutes. It was about the length of the ride on the #6 train to Pelham Bay Park. Flann was out there alone, with a significant head start and without a partner.

  “I need to check out a car.”

  34

  WITH THE OCCASIONAL HELP OF A SIREN, ELLIE MADE GOOD time, crossing the small, green City Island Bridge only forty minutes after leaving the precinct. But she was still at least forty minutes behind Flann, and his phone was still turned off.

  She started at the Pelham Bay Park train station and drove from there to the Bronx Yacht Club. The roads were dark, empty, and still. Ellie felt like she had driven hours away, to the eastern seaboard, but she was only twenty miles from Manhattan. She drove slowly, checking both sides of the street for signs of Flann.

  It was her fault they were separated. I hope you’re wrong. She should have said more when he voiced his concerns about Becker. She should have at least made it clear that she’d back him up no matter where the leads took them, even if it was to the boat of a former cop, docked off City Island, just a quarter mile from the Internet café used by a man who called himself Enoch. Maybe if she had said all that, he would not be out there alone. The only way to make it right was to find him.

  When she reached the yacht club, she parked along Hunter Avenue and walked toward a stately white-columned building with a wraparound porch. On her way to the large double-doored entrance, she passed two silver-haired men resting against the nearby deck railing, smoking cigars and drinking from lead crystal highball glasses.

  The interior of the clubhouse was ensconced in high-gloss dark wood and white leather, as if the building itself were on water. In a large ballroom toward the back, a crowd danced and mingled to big-band music. Ellie made her way to a mustached man behind a discreet reception desk on the left side of the lobby.

  “The Meyer wedding?” His tone was friendly even as he eyed her cable knit sweater, black pants, and bulky parka skeptically.

  “No, sir.” She showed him her shield and a picture of a Gibson cabin yacht that she’d printed from the Internet. “I’m looking for a potential crime witness. Can you tell me if you’ve seen this boat?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. If you need information about one of our members, you’ll have to talk to our director in the morning.”

  “Pretend you’re down the street on your coffee break, and I’m just asking you as a private citizen who works on City Island if you’ve ever seen this boat. Please. I’ll keep your name out of it.”

  He checked out the lobby for interlopers, then leaned in close to whisper. “The truth is, hon, I don’t know a damn thing about boats. They’re all the same old hunk of wood and rope to me.”

  Ellie zipped her coat as she left the clubhouse, prepared to walk ev
ery pier of the island to find Ed Becker’s boat and her partner. The thinner of the gray-haired duo with the highballs stopped her on the way out.

  “Snoozeville with the septuagenarians in there, right?”

  His heavier friend placed a hand over his heart. “Please make my day and tell me you’re a whiskey drinker.”

  “On another day, I would be. I’m looking for this boat and was hoping someone at the clubhouse could help me.” She unfolded her picture of the cruiser.

  “If you’re asking about boats, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Bud, and this is Jim.” The heavy man pointed to himself with his cigar-holding hand, then pointed to his friend.

  “Ellie.”

  “Tell you what, Ellie. I’ll answer your questions about that boat if you have a little sip of whiskey with us. Our goal is to finish this bottle, and we could use the help.” Bud offered her the bottle, no glass.

  Johnny Walker Blue. Very expensive. Very tempting. And arguing with these guys would take far longer than swallowing a quick drink. She grabbed the bottle and took a sip.

  “Come on now,” Bud said. “Take a real drink, then we’ll talk.”

  She took a long draw this time, and she felt the warmth of the liquid fill her stomach.

  “Now that’s a whiskey drinker,” Bud said with approval. “So, here’s the thing about your boat. That’s a Gibson Cabin Yacht, one of the big ones.”

  “A 5900 series, I think,” Jim added.

  “It’s a hell of boat.” Both men nodded, sure that they were in agreement that it was a damn fine boat.

  “I know what kind of boat it is.” Ellie tried not to sound too testy. “I really need to find it.”

  “You got a scavenger hunt going with that other guy or something?” Bud asked.

  “What other guy?”

  “I got a confession for you,” Bud said. “Me and Jim don’t know squat about cabin cruisers. We’re sailboat men ourselves. But we were down by the marina about half an hour ago. A guy asked us about Gibson Cabin Yachts and showed us a picture a lot like that one and said it was a 5900.”

  “Red hair, not too tall?” Ellie asked.

  “Yeah, sort of a funny-looking fellow if you ask me,” Bud said.

  “He’s a friend of mine. We’re both looking for the same boat. Like I said, it’s urgent.”

  “I don’t suppose you want to tell us your friend’s name?” Jim asked. “The one who owns the boat?”

  “It’s not like any guy’s going to be embarrassed about having a visit from a woman like you,” Bud added.

  “Ed Becker. Do you know him?”

  “Now why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Bud said. “Walk past the yacht club’s slips, then you’ll get to the marina. Ed’s on the fourth row — is that right, Jim?”

  Ellie thanked them and was already heading toward the water when Jim called out behind her, “The fourth row of slips to the east. Then take a left. He’s about halfways down, on the right. Drag your buddies on back here. We’ll get another bottle.”

  ELLIE FOLLOWED THEIR directions along the shoreline, walking at first, and then breaking into a fast jog along the boardwalk. Cold air burned her lungs, and a damp heat began to build inside her zipped coat. When she reached the boat slips at the marina, she slowed her pace, mindful of the sound of her heavy breaths and footsteps on the concrete beneath her.

  She counted as she walked, four rows. Scanning the marina, she wondered if she had a good enough eye for boats to recognize Ed’s, even with a picture. As her eyes ran across the boats moored to the right side of the pier, she compared each to the features that stood out to her from the picture. Big. Windows. Raised cabin. They all looked the same.

  As she neared the middle of the pier, the job of identifying Ed Becker’s boat became considerably easier. Her eyes were still adjusting to the absence of streetlight, but a man’s dark figure stood out against the white back of one of the boats. He was leaning against the outside of the boat’s cabin, peering through the edge of a set of double doors that led inside. Even with the moonlight as her only illumination, Ellie recognized that profile. It was Flann McIlroy.

  She exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Flann. It was Flann. She’d found him, and no one with a Slavic accent had put him in an emergency room.

  Ellie waved, trying to get his attention, but Flann was fixated on whatever he was watching in the cabin. She walked slowly toward him, each gentle step sounding louder than the last among the unoccupied, darkened boats. With four boats between her and Flann, she was reluctant to move any closer. Presumably Ed Becker was inside his boat, and Flann did not want him to know he was being watched. Walking along the pier, Ellie felt as if she glowed in the dark.

  She lowered her body to the ground and began to crawl along the right edge of the pier so any view Becker might have of her would be blocked by other boats. She also got a better look at Flann. He held his weapon at his chest, hands set to fire if necessary. She crawled faster.

  As she quickened her pace, her leg caught a loose nail head protruding from a plank in the pier. She sucked in her air to suppress the cry in her throat, then continued her crawl. Just two boats away now, but Flann was too focused on whatever he was watching to feel her eyes on him.

  She was still watching Flann when a high-pitched chirp penetrated the silence. It was coming from her hip. She smacked the side of her cell phone and saw the incoming text message through the small window. #1 Jess. Jess had identified as one of his assailants the first of the photographs she faxed to him. Number one was Vitali Rostov.

  Just as Ellie slapped her phone, she heard Flann move on the boat in front of her. He’d made a sound, on Becker’s boat, just feet away from Becker. She watched Flann pull his body back from the glass doors of the boat. She didn’t dare move as she watched him freeze too. He waited three beats, then leaned to look inside the cabin again. She held her breath and convinced herself that Flann could talk his way out of the situation if Becker saw him.

  It happened so fast that she had a hard time later remembering what Flann had said. Flann swung his entire body to the right, stepping directly in front of the boat’s cabin entrance. Then he cried out. She would replay the video in her head over and over again on an endless loop, but the sound was lost. It was loud though. Urgent. Panicked. Abrupt. Maybe he had yelled, “No.”

  By the time Flann rushed through the double doors, Ellie was moving too, out of her crawl stance and into a full sprint. She pulled her gun from her holster. Twist, then up, the Glock was at the ready. She chose speed over silence now. She jumped from the pier onto the boat’s stern, but as the weight of her body landed, she heard a louder noise than she’d prepared herself for. It wasn’t the sound of her boots on the boat. It was a pop, followed by two more. Three shots. Three gunshots.

  Moving quickly through the cabin entrance, Ellie found herself alone in a sleeping cabin. She walked more cautiously to a doorway at the end of the bulkhead, then held her breath as she slowly pushed the door open from the side. To her left, Ed Becker had collapsed on a small couch. The bottom of his face was gone, replaced by a hollow red cavity of bone and skin. To her right, Flann sat with his back against the wall, his legs splayed in front of him. One dark red hole pierced his neck above his left shirt collar. A flower of red blossomed across the right side of his shirt.

  There had been one, two, three gunshots. Her senses competed for her complete attention. As she tried to comprehend the visual, she heard different noises. In front of her, then behind her. A scurry along the right side of the deck, past the cabin, and then gone. The department would try to convince her later that she should have looked — that if she’d really heard the noises she described, her instincts would have carried her out of the cabin, down the pier, after whoever it was who was responsible for making those sounds. But in that moment, all she could think about was the hole in Flann’s throat, the wound in his stomach, the amount of blood that indicated massive inter
nal damage.

  Her instinct was not to chase the noises. All she could do was fall to her knees beside Flann. She pulled off her coat and pressed it against his belly, then held him tight while she punched 911 into her cell phone. She screamed at the dispatcher, “10-13, Officer shot, City Island marina, fourth row of slips on the east. 10-13. He’s shot. Hurry. Please.” And she screamed at Flann. She held him and rocked him and pleaded with him not to die.

  PART FOUR

  GREED, JEALOUSY, LUST, REVENGE

  35

  FOUR MORNINGS LATER, ELLIE CONFRONTED HER REFLECTION IN the bathroom mirror. She dabbed more concealer under her swollen eyes, but nothing could cover the circles that had grown darker every day since Flann had died in her arms on Ed Becker’s boat. She ran a brush through her hair, knowing that her appearance would do nothing to change what was going to happen at this meeting.

  Jess had gotten up early to fetch coffee and breakfast sandwiches from the deli down the street. Ellie tried to wave off the food, but he insisted that she’d feel better if she had a little energy when she went in to work. This would be her first trip back to the Thirteenth Precinct. According to standard protocol for police homicides, she’d been driven that night from City Island to the precinct to meet with an appointed police union representative. With this stranger by her side, she had sat in an interrogation room for three hours with Lieutenant Dan Eckels and two homicide detectives whose names she no longer remembered.

  She gave them a detailed timeline of the entire FirstDate investigation, from the moment she met Flann McIlroy to the moment an ambulance carried his body away. She made sure to tell them about Stephanie Hart, and her mother, Miranda. Flann had a daughter. Someone needed to tell her that her father was dead. She would miss him. She should get his benefits. She should get his Siamese cat. Then Lieutenant Eckels sent her home, and the union representative delivered the news that she was officially on administrative leave. Again, it was standard protocol, she was assured.