To avoid any appearance of eavesdropping, she picked up her phone to make a call of her own.
“Peter Morse.”
“Hey there.”
“Hey, yourself. I’m glad you called. I was worried maybe you met some other guy last night when I wasn’t on watch.”
“Nah, maybe back in my old skanky days. I kicked it at home alone last night.” Ellie had only known Peter Morse for two months, and she’d been in Kansas for half of that time. But since she’d been home, they’d spent more nights together than apart. “Did you get a lot of work done?”
Peter was a crime beat reporter at the Daily Post by day, aspiring author by night. After spending all weekend together, Ellie had insisted that they have two nights on their own so he could have some time to write.
“Oh, tons. Forty pages, at least. A book contract is just around the corner, complete with an all-expenses-paid tour and a straight shot to the top of the best-seller list.” Peter tended to understate just how important his writing was to him, and sarcasm often proved handy on that front.
“If you’re really on a roll, maybe we should take tomorrow night off, too.”
“Don’t even joke. I was sort of hoping I could come over tonight.”
“Nope. Two nights. Those are the rules.”
“Damn you and your stinking rules.”
“You were the one who told me it always takes you a day to get up to speed after a long break.”
“Damn me and my big mouth.”
“Tonight you’ll be in the zone,” Ellie said.
The grumble on the other end of the line suggested he had doubts. “And tomorrow?”
“And tomorrow, we’ll make up for lost time.”
“Now I like the sound of that.”
Rogan flipped his phone shut at the desk across from her.
“Hey, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“I always mean what I say,” she said before hanging up.
“Sorry about that,” Rogan said, holding up his cell. “With you dragging my ass out of bed so early this morning, I didn’t get a chance to take care of some personal business.”
“No need to explain.”
“So, turns out our girls from Indiana are a little tougher than you’d think. I told them we found a body this morning. Said you and I both saw her. That she resembles the picture they showed us of their friend.”
“You didn’t tell them the rest, did you?”
Rogan shook his head. “I made it clear there still needs to be an official ID, but they know we’re pretty confident this is Chelsea. For a couple of kids, they’re handling it all right. A whole lot of crying, of course, but I persuaded them to give me their phones until we’ve had a chance to call the family.” He opened his desk drawer to reveal two cell phones.
“And we’ve got a sketch artist on the way?”
“Done,” he said. “It sounds like they got a decent enough look at the shaggy-haired guy that we might have a shot with him. On the one they called Jake, their descriptions are so vague, it might be a lost cause. Anyway, that’s for the doodler to figure out. We can have a victim’s advocate get them back into the Hilton once they’re done here.”
“So what’s next?”
“I call the parents. You call CSU and the ME. See if they’re ready for us.” Breaking the news of a daughter’s death compared to checking on the status of the crime scene unit and medical examiner’s office? Definitely not equal billing. The call to Indiana was something she had signed on for when she took responsibility for the girl she’d found during her run.
To a cop, it was one call at the beginning of yet another case. One call to deliver the news before the real investigative work started. But to the people at the other end of the line, that one phone call would mark the indelible moment that changed everything they thought they knew to be true. One minute, they’re living their lives—worried about the costs of remodeling the kitchen, trying to lose a few pounds before the upcoming reunion, wondering what to eat for dinner. The next, the phone rings, and nothing else matters.
Ellie’s father used to say that was the worst part of the job—the knowledge that good people would forever remember your voice, your words, that one phone call, as the moment that changed everything. Ellie wasn’t looking forward to making her first call to a family, but she knew she had to do it eventually.
“Not exactly a fair trade,” she said.
“That first call to a family is enough to rework your brain for the next twenty-four hours. I’d rather make the call than be stuck with a brain-dead partner all day.”
Rogan was offering to carry the load for her on this one. He had been a detective in NYPD’s homicide squad for a little more than eight years. That was a little more than eight years longer than Ellie. With some amount of guilt, she gratefully accepted.
HER CALLS TOOK less than three minutes. CSU would be ready for an initial briefing from the crime scene in an hour. The ME needed two.
Rogan was still on the phone. He had his head down, eyes closed—right hand on the handset, the other massaging his left temple. It was as if he were picturing himself outside this room, away from New York City, standing on a front porch with two parents in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Ellie could almost imagine Rogan looking Mr. and Mrs. Hart in the eye and breaking the news: Your daughter was supposed to take a cab back to the hotel, but she never arrived.
The image gave her an idea. She opened Internet Explorer on her computer, Googled the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission, and dialed the telephone number listed on the commission’s Web site.
For decades, drivers of New York City’s taxis had maintained their trip sheets by hand, using pen and paper to log the location and amount of each fare. Trying to track down a cab driver on the basis of paper trip sheets was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack of thirteen thousand yellow cabs.
The tide in the sea of paper had shifted just last year, however, when the city’s new high-tech requirements for all medallioned cars had gone into effect. Although a few drivers remained at war with the commission over the expensive technology, a critical mass of taxis was now equipped with computers that not only accepted credit card payments but also used GPS technology to automate the ancient trip sheet practices. Obtaining a list of the cabdrivers within a one-block radius of Pulse around the time of last call would have once been impossible; now it was just a matter of a few keystrokes on a computer.
Ten minutes later, they had finished their calls. Rogan had learned that Chelsea’s parents would be coming to New York City on the next available flight. Ellie had faxed a photograph of Chelsea Hart to be circulated among cabdrivers who’d picked up early-morning fares in the Meatpacking District. And the lives of Paul and Miriam Hart were forever changed.
CHAPTER 8
THE PROCESSING of the East River Park crime scene was in full swing. NYPD vans lined the park, backing up traffic on the FDR in both directions as drivers slowed to rubberneck. Yellow police tape, fortified by rows of uniform officers, closed the park from Sixth Street down to Cherry.
They badged an officer standing guard north of the tennis courts, ducked beneath the yellow tape, and made their way to the construction site. Ellie had never been here in full daylight. Torn up and cluttered with piles of dislodged dirt, backhoes, and other heavy equipment she couldn’t name, this area of the park would have been almost as desolate as it had been during her early-morning runs, were it not for the chaos of the ongoing police investigation.
Four officers were working the scene inside the fence. Rogan headed directly for a tall female officer with long red hair pulled into a braid that ran down her back. She was crouched in a squat, using tweezers to place something in a ziplock baggie.
“Is that Florkoski?”
The woman sealed the evidence collection bag and eased herself back to standing. She had a broad face that broke into a friendly smile at the sight of Rogan.
>
“Hey there, Double J. Good to see you.” She snapped a latex glove off of her right hand and extended it for a shake, first to Rogan and then to Ellie. “Mariah Florkoski.”
“Ellie Hatcher,” Ellie said, returning both the smile and the handshake.
“New partner,” Rogan said.
“Oh, sure.” Florkoski nodded. “I recognize the name.”
Ellie had no doubt that the recognition was due to her one and only previous homicide case two months earlier, when she had been recruited to help investigate a series of murders tied to an Internet dating company. By the time the case was solved, a serial killer was arrested, a Russian identity-theft ring was busted, and one of the best cops Ellie would ever know was dead. And apparently other cops knew her name as a result.
“What happened to Casey?” Mariah asked.
“Retired. Last month.”
“Don’t tell me. He’s finally going to Scottsdale.”
“The movers are coming next week.” Rogan turned to Ellie and explained. “My last partner. Jim Casey. He’d tell anyone who’d listen he was retiring to Arizona.”
“That his only wish was to die on a Scottsdale golf course,” Mariah said.
“With a gin and tonic in hand,” Rogan added.
“You getting along all right without him?”
“Hatcher here’s good peeps.”
Ellie gave a tiny mock bow of gratitude.
“Well, at least you didn’t wind up with that lazy slug Winslow.”
Ellie struggled to place the name, then remembered Lieutenant Eckels’s remark—that she would have been the one stuck with Winslow if it hadn’t been for Rogan.
“I take it this case belongs to the two of you?”
“What have you got so far?” Rogan asked.
“Well, I can tell you the vic wasn’t killed here.”
Rogan’s lips set into a line of disappointment. All crime scenes were important. Any could yield evidence. But it was the primary crime scene that was most likely to yield blood, saliva, semen, hair, fibers, and fingerprints—all of the physical evidence that jurors increasingly insisted upon, now that the fictional world of the multiple CSI shows had become ingrained in the minds of ordinary people.
Mariah pointed to a male officer who was photographing the dirt in front of him. “We’ve got a whole bunch of footprints in the area in front of her body—all with treads, consistent with athletic shoes. But fortunately, our runners didn’t crowd the body. They gave her some space. Closer in to the corpse, we’ve got another set of footprints—smooth bottomed, not likely an athletic shoe—pointing into and then away from the body. One guy. He carried her in, dropped her, then walked out.”
“Any chance you’re going to tell us the shoe is one of a kind,” Rogan said, “custom-made at the foot of the Swiss Alps?”
Mariah smiled and shook her head. “It looks like any footprint you’d see on a Ballroom Dancing 101 instruction chart. Oval toe, square heel. No markings. About as generic as it gets.”
“How do you know she didn’t walk over here with him, then he walks out alone?” Rogan asked.
“Chelsea was wearing high heels,” Ellie said.
“Lucky for us.” Mariah walked a few feet to a blue plastic storage bin resting on the ground just beyond the yellow crime tape. She reached in and pulled out a larger baggie containing a pair of high-heeled sandals. Ellie recognized them as the shoes Chelsea had been wearing that morning.
“These bad boys would have left behind an imprint like a big exclamation point.”
“Anything else?” Rogan asked.
“We picked up a bunch of garbage lying around—Coke cans, cigarette butts, that kind of crap. We’ll look for prints. Have you guys talked to the ME yet?”
“Next stop,” Rogan said.
“Well, I’ve got one piece of good news for you. I took the shoes, but the ME took the clothes. But before they carried the vic away to the bus, I dusted her shirt. I pulled one latent off the underside of the top button of her blouse.”
“Chances are, she was the one to leave it behind.”
Mariah nodded. “Probably, but that’s not the best part.” She paused to make sure she had their full attention. “When I was working on her blouse, I saw a stain that may or may not have been seminal fluid.”
Rogan rubbed his palms together. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t go getting too excited. The girl could’ve dripped a smoothie on herself, for all I know. I can run the print in a couple of hours, see if there’s a match in the database. The stain—I can tell you within a day or so whether it’s bodily fluid or Tasti-Delite. But if it’s the former, it’ll take a good couple of weeks before we get DNA back.”
“But the fingerprint in a couple of hours?”
“End of the day at the latest.”
“Call my cell, all right?” Rogan gave her his card.
“No problem. And congrats on landing Jeffrey James here, Hatcher. He’s a good egg.”
MORE THAN FIVE MILES NORTH, a man exited the 6 train at 103rd Street and Lexington. He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, focusing on each step as he tried to ignore the steady push of harried subway riders hoping to catch a waiting train.
He hated the proximity to other people that was required by mass transportation. The eye contact. The bumps. The pressing of sweaty bodies against one another in the rush of squeezing onto the train before the doors closed. The name—mass transportation—said it all. The transport of the masses. Moving through narrow turnstiles like cattle moving through the sorting gates. Moo, cow, moo.
His hatred of the subway was part of the reason he paid for a car and two garage parking spots, one near home, one near work. But today his car was on West Eleventh Street for complete interior detailing—rugs vacuumed, mats shampooed, every surface hand-polished. He had worked quickly last night on that desolate Tribeca corner outside the Holland Tunnel, but he’d nevertheless been careful, strangling the girl in the front seat, then moving the body to the carefully draped plastic tarp in his trunk for the cutting. Now, for a mere hundred bucks, any trace of the girl would be gone from his Taurus.
He walked briskly up Lexington Avenue to the familiar brick building at 105th Street. He used his security key to open the front door. No doorman. No elevators, which meant no cameras. No electronic entry system that tracked the residents’ comings and goings. Those were the kinds of luxuries that could cost you big-time down the road.
He climbed the stairs to his third-floor apartment. Used one key on the auxiliary mortise dead latch. Heard the metal tumble from the block cylinder. Used another key on the dead bolt. Inserted the same key into the doorknob. Then he was home.
He did a quick protective sweep of the apartment. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, two closets. Everything was in place. He checked the light on his answering machine. No calls.
He rolled the brown leather ottoman away from its matching chair and pushed it against the living room wall. Then he took a seat on the floor—back against the ottoman, legs crossed in front of him—and carefully pulled up six wood parquet tiles, stacking them neatly to his left as he went, one through six. He worked his index finger into a crevice in the subfloor. It took three tries before he popped up the rectangular piece of removable particleboard. That was how perfectly he had cut it to fit—like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle, disappearing into the rest of the world around it.
He propped the particleboard carefully against the sofa, then took a deep breath. He reached in and removed two ziplock bags. He placed both on the floor in front of him. He didn’t dare remove the contents of the one on the right—too much of a danger that it wouldn’t all make it back in. He allowed himself to open the one on the left and remove a single earring and a small plastic card.
The earring was a chandelier of crystal and red beads dangling from a simple gold hook. The plastic rectangle was an Indiana driver’s license. It had been in the girl’s teeny-tiny
purse, along with a lipstick, a cell phone, a hotel key, and a credit card. Name: Jennifer Green. According to the date of birth, she was twenty-four years old.
The license probably wasn’t real. She hadn’t said she was from Indiana, and girls like that often had reasons for using fake names and IDs. Not to mention, he realized now, that the photograph was too good—too posed, too pretty—to have originated with any DMV.
The girl’s credit card had been in yet another name, and the thought had crossed his mind it might have been stolen. He’d tossed it in a garbage can along the FDR, along with the tarp and the girl’s pants.
The picture on the license was definitely his Jennifer, though. Those were undeniably the same girl’s bright blue eyes, round cheeks, and square jaw. That sexy smile, turned up on one side like she had a secret she might just be willing to share under the right circumstances. And, whether it was real or not, the card had belonged to her. She had carried it, touched it, used it. Those were the things that mattered—not the name or address.
He looked at his watch. He was running on empty but had a meeting at three. He held the ID carefully between his left index finger and thumb. He unbuttoned his pants with his right hand. For the next three minutes, his eyes remained fixed on the other plastic bag—still sealed, its contents still safe and contained. All of that beautiful wavy blond hair worn by Jennifer Green in her fake Indiana driver’s license belonged to him now.
CHAPTER 9
BY ELLIE’S ESTIMATE, the drive from East River Park to the medical examiner’s office up by Bellevue would take at least eight minutes, even with the help of police lights on the FDR. Eight minutes wasn’t a lot, but it was too long to ride in total silence, and just about the right amount of time to ask Rogan the question that was on her mind.
“So I noticed Mariah Florkoski said you were lucky not to get paired up with Larry Winslow.” She had seen Winslow around the squad room. As far as she could tell, he worked on his own, and only on desk jobs.
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