In the three and a half days since she walked out of the precinct, the New York Police Department had erected a wall between her and the investigation into Flann McIlroy’s murder, Ed Becker’s apparent suicide, and the tying together of the connections between Becker and four dead women. Despite the occasional urge to smash down the wall and continue investigating on her own time, she forced herself to steer clear. She did not want the department to blame any shortcomings in its conclusions on her interference. She’d spent four nights and three full days completely shut off from the case that had been all consuming until those three shots. Pop, pop, pop.
She found other ways to keep busy. She was back to her kickboxing schedule, cheered for Dog Park at an open mic night in the West Village, and finally visited the top of the Empire State Building. She even went to Miranda Hart’s house and told her how much it meant to Flann to see his daughter for dinner. But still, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of Flann, dead on the floor of Becker’s boat. The finality of his death seemed to feed like parasites at her heart.
After three days of silence, Lieutenant Eckels called to say he wanted to see her first thing in the morning. When she asked if she would be going back to work, he informed her they would discuss it in the morning. He reminded her of her right to bring not only union representation but an attorney of her choice. For three days, she had heard nothing — no request to question her again, no appointment with the D.A.’s office, and no estimation for when she would return to work. Now, the department wanted to see her, and the request was accompanied by none of the expected assurances — just a formality, one last interview, you’ll be back on duty tomorrow.
The way Ellie’s union representative explained it, the department’s questions would be about her competence. She could lose her detective designation. She could lose her shield. She was a new enough cop that they could even strip her of her pension. But as the union rep pored over the potential consequences, all Ellie could hear was her own internal voice. I deserve to lose it all. Flann was alone on City Island to protect me, then I forgot to turn off my phone and got him killed.
ELLIE WALKED alone into the Thirteenth Precinct. She felt the eyes of the homicide bureau — the detectives who worked with Flann McIlroy, the ones whom she never had a chance to know — follow her to the office of their lieutenant, Dan Eckels. Eckels was waiting for her. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to a large head that perched on a short, squat body — a fire hydrant topped with a Brillo pad. Ellie smiled sadly, remembering Flann’s depiction of him as the gruff boss in a Hollywood cop movie.
To Ellie’s surprise and relief, she recognized another face in Eckels’s office. It belonged to the man who had warned her not so many days earlier about getting too far ahead of herself in a homicide assignment. “Lieutenant Jenkins,” Ellie said with a nod.
“Detective.” Randy Jenkins’s tone was formal, but he returned the nod. Ellie found the gesture from her own Midtown North supervisor comforting under the circumstances.
Eckels directed Ellie to a chair across from his desk, and then moved straight to the business at hand.
“When I spoke to you yesterday, you were adamant about waiving your right to have either a union representative or an attorney here on your behalf. I take it from your arrival here alone this morning that you continue to proceed without representation?”
“Yes, sir. I’m fine on my own.”
“Very well then,” Eckels said. “Two of my detectives have worked around the clock putting together a report of the City Island incident.”
Ellie stifled a wince at his use of the word incident.
“As with all police homicides, a grand jury will hear the facts of the case, probably not for another couple of weeks, but we do not anticipate any problems here. I thought it fair, Detective Hatcher, to share with you what we’ve learned since we spoke last.”
“I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.”
“The evidence very firmly establishes that Ed Becker, a former detective of this department, is the man that you and McIlroy were looking for.”
Ellie had come to that realization herself four nights earlier, but hearing it said aloud as an official determination still sounded surreal. A former homicide detective had killed four women. The man who called himself Enoch had given her a ride home.
“As you learned before going to City Island,” Eckels continued, “Ed Becker kept a boat not far from the cybercafé used two nights earlier by Enoch. He appears to have ignored the Tatiana Chekova investigation that he conveniently headed, and his name was found in Caroline Hunter’s notes. We have learned more in the last three days. We have confirmed that the laptop found on Becker’s boat is the same computer used by Enoch to sign on to the FirstDate account. The Internet usage matches up with Enoch’s, and a copy of the letter left for Peter Morse in the Midtown library was saved to the hard drive. We also found a marked-up copy of The Book of Enoch in Becker’s possession. It looks pretty straightforward. Becker saw McIlroy on his boat and realized it was all over. He fatally shot McIlroy, then shot himself.”
“But why?” Ellie asked. “Why did he do all of this?”
Eckels was clearly put off by the question. “You of all people should know you can’t make sense of the motivations of a serial killer.”
Jenkins offered a suggestion. “Obviously I’m not one of the leads on this, but maybe he had some kind of relationship with Tatiana. She was a prostitute. Some cops have been known to sample the trade. If she was trying to get out of the life, as you said the club manager indicated, maybe she was shaking down Becker, trying to find another way to support herself. He shoots her, then realizes he likes it. He used FirstDate as his outlet.”
“I spent the entire weekend mulling all of this over and came up with the same theory. But what I can’t figure out is why I found him at the Rostovs that day in Brooklyn. He claimed the loose ends he left behind on Tatiana’s murder were bothering him. If he’s the one who killed her, then why was he outside of her sister’s apartment?”
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Eckels said. “McIlroy would’ve been proud of you, Hatcher, trying to get into the head of a sociopath. We can make up motivations for him all day long. Did you ever think he might’ve gotten off watching her sister? Maybe he sat out there every day for the past two and a half years, like revisiting the scene of the crime. When you ran into him, he provided a convenient cover story.”
“Or maybe there’s more to this. We know the killer somehow got into Amy Davis’s and Megan Quinn’s FirstDate accounts. And he doctored that phony e-mail to get Amy to sign up in the first place. Becker didn’t strike me as someone with that kind of computer sophistication. Becker must have had a partner, and it obviously has something to do with Vitali Rostov. My brother was assaulted just a couple of hours before Flann was killed. He says Rostov did it and included a warning for me to back off. Clearly something I said to his wife touched a nerve. And Becker’s got that expensive boat. If he was dirty, taking money from the Russians, then we don’t know the whole story yet.”
Eckels looked at her like a gnat he wanted to squash. “There’s no corroboration of that account, Detective. Officer Connelly was left with the impression that the assault against your brother was drug related.”
“I’m the corroboration. I know what my brother told me.”
“So you’re saying you permitted your brother to file a false police report?”
“He told the truth to me, and the last time I checked, I was also a cop.”
“A cop who might have a hard time admitting the true nature of her brother’s problems. Have you ever considered that your brother told Officer Connelly the truth about what happened in the parking lot, and told you what you wanted to hear?”
Ellie pictured Jess lying on that hospital cot, pleading with her to stay safe, and fought the urge to tell Eckels precisely what she thought of his theory. She needed to focus on getting the investigation back on track.
“Where did you find The Book of Enoch?” She hadn’t seen it in the yacht’s cabin before she was physically pulled away from the scene.
“On the deck.”
Ellie nodded, picturing the layout of the boat. Doors in the back of the cabin. Another set of doors on the right side of the front bulkhead.
“Was it on the right? The side by the doors?”
“I believe that’s correct. On the starboard.”
“He left a book on the deck of his boat at night in the winter? The right side is where I heard the noise. The footsteps. If someone dropped that book there for us to find, that explains the footsteps. And the shots. I told the detectives. It was like one pop, then a pause, then two more, closer together. Someone else was on that boat. Someone shot Becker first — one shot — then Flann.”
Eckels gave Jenkins a told you so look.
“That’s one of the things we need to talk about, Ellie.” Jenkins placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure you heard something that could have sounded like footsteps from your position. You were in an unknown place, under incredible stress. And the sounds of bullets can be very misleading. You said yourself that things happened quickly.”
Ellie quietly shook her head, disappointed. She hadn’t brought a lawyer or a union rep, because their only role would be to protect her. They wouldn’t care about getting the department to do the right thing. With Jenkins’s unexpected appearance, she’d hoped to have an ally. But here he was, trying to throw her a lifeline, yet willing to cover up the truth.
“So what you’re both saying is that you want me to fall in line and get with the official story. Ed Becker acted alone. The serial killer’s dead now, and the women of New York can feel safe once again.”
“What we’re telling you,” Eckels said, “is that you’re in no position to contradict the very clear evidence in this case. Ed Becker put two bullets from a. 38 into McIlroy, then ate one in the mouth. The ballistics back it up. It’s that simple.”
“You tested for GSR on his hands?”
“As soon as we’re done talking here, the assistant chief will be making a public statement. This case is closed.”
“So you’re just glossing over all the details,” Ellie said. “You’re going to wrap this whole case up with a nice little bow without ever answering the hard questions about why Ed Becker would do these things, how he managed to pull it off, and what it all had to do with the information Tatiana Chekova was giving to the FBI. Call the press, everyone — the NYPD saves the day.”
Eckels pursed his thin lips. “Listen up, young lady. If you think the department comes out of this looking good, you’re a lot stupider than I thought. One of our own did this. A cop murdered four women, then took another cop out with him. And don’t think for a second that the assistant chief won’t face some hard questions about why he let McIlroy pull you in to a case like this.”
Ellie noticed the throbbing vein on Eckels’s neck. Flann’s description of a chew-out session from his lieutenant had been right on the mark. Ellie swallowed, wishing Flann was here with her, realizing how much she missed him. He would not have stood for this. He would have pushed back, no matter the consequences. The thought helped steel her resolve.
“The department should face harder questions than that,” she retorted. “If Becker killed Tatiana because she could implicate him or the men he worked for, then that raises serious doubts about the kind of cover he was giving to Russian organized crime while he was on the job. It should also make you wonder about his partner’s death. Tendall could have been wrapped up in whatever Becker had going on with Rostov, or maybe he had concerns about Becker.”
“You’re dragging Barney Tendall into this conspiracy theory now? You realize how hysterical you sound?”
“I believe that was Freud’s term for ‘female.’ Why don’t you go ahead and make it transparent? Haul out the B-word and the C-word while you’re at it.”
“I think we could all use a break—”
Eckels waved off Jenkins’s attempt to mediate.
“As I said, the case is closed. Experienced detectives have been working it tirelessly. We owe you no further explanation. The decision you have to make, Detective Hatcher, is how you want to be depicted in the formal account of this closed case.”
“And what precisely are my choices?”
Lieutenant Jenkins interrupted again. His voice was gentle but assured. “Can I give you some friendly advice, Ellie? Why don’t you take some credit for the hard work you and Detective McIlroy did. Take some credit, and then take some time off. You’re automatically entitled to paid leave. You’ll return to detective borough in a month or so under my command. We’re eager to have you back where you belong.”
“Listen to your lieutenant,” Eckels continued. “McIlroy comes out a hero this way. You get to stand by the side of the assistant chief as he announces the end of a killing spree that could have become another Son of Sam.”
“And the other way?”
Jenkins worked his jaw as Eckels spelled it out for her. “Both you and McIlroy abandoned protocol. McIlroy went to City Island on his own, not bothering to notify his own partner, let alone call for backup. When you realized what he’d done, you worsened matters by following him, again, totally on your own, without backup. You made the trip, in a department vehicle, despite the fact that you’d been drinking that night—”
Ellie opened her mouth to interrupt, but Eckels only raised his voice.
“And you continued to consume more alcohol once you got to City Island.”
“I told the detectives I took two sips because—”
“You were a rookie detective, in over your head, without backup. You’d been drinking. Your judgment was impaired, and your partner was murdered right in front of you. Not to mention you’ve got some demons in your past that might keep you from accepting the department’s conclusion that your friend Ed Becker committed suicide.”
“That’s a low blow,” Ellie said quietly.
“And it’s precisely what the media will say if you try to derail the closure of this case. There is no one-armed man that we have yet to chase down, Detective. Ed Becker killed those women, and he killed Flann McIlroy.”
“Are we done here?” Ellie asked.
“The assistant chief expects you to stay for the press conference,” Eckels said.
“No thank you.” Ellie stood to leave.
“What exactly are your future plans with respect to this department, Detective?”
“Am I required to answer that in the course of my duties?” Ellie looked to Randy Jenkins.
“No,” her lieutenant said quietly. “You’re entitled to paid leave regardless of what you do. And you cannot be forced to attend a press conference.”
“Well, then. Lieutenant Jenkins, I guess you’ll be hearing from me when my leave is up. Thank you for taking the time to be here for me this morning. I really do appreciate it.”
Jenkins urged Ellie to stay, but Eckels cut him off. “You’re wasting your time, Randy.”
“That, Lieutenant Eckels, was the strongest show of leadership you demonstrated all morning.” Ellie walked out of Eckels’s office and out of the Thirteenth Precinct without looking back. The media vans were already lined up on Twenty-first Street for the assistant chief’s forthcoming announcement. She had a decision to make.
But she had already made the decision six years ago, that night under the Washington Square Arch. She had decided that sitting with blissful ignorance on life’s sidelines was not in her nature. She decided to become a cop. For the last three days, she had been fighting her nature, filling her schedule with back-to-back activities in an attempt to ignore the questions eating away at her like cancer. She had waited for the department’s conclusions. Now that she’d heard them, it was time to follow her instincts. She owed this to Flann and to herself. She was going to find out what really happened.
She pulled up the hood of her coat, swaddled herself in her scar
f, and headed away from the cameras while she dialed the number for the FBI field office.
36
“YOU KNOW THIS IS BLACKMAIL, DON’T YOU?” CHARLIE DIXON stood behind his desk with his arms folded, looking out the window at lower Manhattan.
Sitting in a guest chair across from his desk, Ellie Hatcher uncrossed her legs and shook her head in mock disappointment. “Is that how far the FBI has gone astray from its traditional law enforcement concerns? You consider it blackmail now for a local police officer to share information about criminal activity and expect some modicum of cooperation?”
Dixon turned to face her. “When it’s accompanied by threats if I refuse, then yeah, I consider that blackmail.”
“All I said was that if you couldn’t help me, I’d have to find someone who could. And the fact that you were previously seen, multiple times, at Vibrations with Tatiana Chekova — a very attractive federal informant, by the way — might be relevant.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to help you find out the truth about Ed Becker if the NYPD’s not interested?”
“I need two things from you. The first is a federal arrest warrant for Vitali Rostov, Tatiana Chekova’s brother-in-law. My brother was assaulted Friday night by two men in the Vibrations parking lot. He can ID Rostov as one of the assailants. Rostov did it so I’d back off the questions I was asking about Lev Grosha.”
Dixon shook his head. “There’s no federal jurisdiction for a garden variety assault. And even if he intended to send a message to you, it’s not a federal offense to interfere with a local investigation.”
Dead Connection Page 28
