Ellie was new to homicide cases, but she had arrested enough suspects to be familiar with the typical responses to confrontation. Regret. Panic. Anger. Defiance. She also recognized the physical acts that tended to accompany these emotions. Regret and panic tended to trigger tears, while anger often brought violence. Defiance was usually accompanied by either an adamant and detailed story of innocence or an invocation of counsel. And sometimes spit. Spit paired well with anger, too. She hated it when the angry and the defiant spit.
But Jake Myers caught her by surprise.
He smiled. He grinned like a man with a well-kept secret. Whatever apprehension they had temporarily instilled in him was gone, and the arrogance she’d initially witnessed at Pulse was back in its full glory. “Fine. Do what you have to do, beautiful.”
Ellie pictured herself delivering a knee strike to Myers’s groin, followed by a left jab into his skinny head. That’s what she had to do. At least a good smack. Something.
Instead, she said, “I take it you’re not answering any questions.”
“Not without a lawyer. You’re welcome to my DNA, however.”
It was Rogan who delivered the slap to the back of Myers’s head, and it wasn’t just in Ellie’s imagination. “Not another word.”
And that was the last they heard out of Jake Myers for three days.
THAT EVENING, at precisely 5:30 p.m., the man watched the entrance of Mesa Grill from a counter at an Au Bon Pain across the street.
He had come across the bartender accidentally the previous night. He had been walking downtown, looking for his next project; given the changes in the city over the last several years, it was his impression that downtown was the best place to look for the kind of girls he liked—girls who had fun, too much fun.
He started in Washington Square Park. A lot of NYU girls there. Hippie chicks. Down-and-outs. But compared to Chelsea, none of the girls he saw had that kind of spark.
From the park, he’d made his way over to the West Village. Spent some time in three different sex shops. He figured any woman who worked in a place like that would eventually be easy to grab. But to his disappointment, the employees had all been men. Most of the customers, too. It was the neighborhood, he figured.
He’d gotten his hopes up at a store called Fantasy when he’d spotted one of the employees from behind. She’d been reaching for a foot-long purple dildo from a top shelf. She must have been six feet tall. Thin. Long, white-blond hair. Then she had turned around, and it was clear that she was a he. Not his type.
From the Village, he had headed to the Flatiron. The district had once been known as Ladies’ Mile, famous for the department stores that drew the country’s most elegant women, shopping for the finest luxuries. First ladies frequented Arnold Constable at Nineteenth Street and Broadway. Tiffany & Co. had sat at Fourteenth Street and University before the jeweler decided that Union Square had coarsened. A century ago, this neighborhood had catered to the choosiest of women. Now, a hundred years later, he hoped that he might find precisely what he was searching for, somewhere on Broadway before he reached Madison Park.
The sidewalks were crammed with hundreds of interchangeable girls in blue jeans and winter coats, carrying shopping bags and designer purses. Most were in groups. Those who weren’t were attached to their cell phones—so uninteresting that they couldn’t stand the idea of being alone with their own thoughts for the handful of minutes it took to move on to the next purchase.
The man wondered if perhaps he was too spoiled in New York. He suspected that in any average city, the majority of these girls he’d written off would shine like flawless D-grade diamonds. Maybe his problem was that he had it too good. So many, many girls, not paying attention.
So he had tried again once he reached Twenty-third Street, making the turn where Broadway met Fifth Avenue. If anything, Fifth Avenue was even more crowded than Broadway. More girls. More shopping. More vacuous phone calls: “Nothing. What are you doing? Where are you? I’m going into Banana.”
He tried to remind himself that this was only his first attempt to find his next project, and less than twenty-four hours since Chelsea Hart. He had decided to call it an evening when he passed a busy restaurant. The brightly painted letters on the front window read “MESA.” High ceilings. Big crowd at the bar. Probably expensive. He was looking in the window, wondering whether it was expensive-stupid or expensive-good, when he noticed the bartender with the blond ponytail. She was pouring from two bottles into a martini shaker and talking to a middle-aged couple at the bar.
He spent a lot of time in bars. Despite the stereotype about bartenders, they really weren’t good listeners. If they were, he’d spend less time in bars. But this girl, she was really listening. She was nodding, laughing, looking the female half of the couple right in the eye, even as she frantically mixed away. Giving the mixer a vigorous shake, she scratched her cheek with her sleeve. Then she laughed about something. He could tell it was a real laugh, from the belly.
A margarita sounded good.
He’d waited until the seat next to the couple was empty before he ordered. House margarita, rocks and salt. Good, generic, forgettable order. As he sipped his drink, he’d learned more about the bartender, eavesdropping on her conversation with the couple. She was an aspiring writer. Two published short stories, a few magazine essays, and one unpublished novella. Now she was working on her first thriller, an attempt to go commercial at the suggestion of her agent. The setup featured a small-town female cop who realized her son was a serial killer.
He also overheard the bartender swap shifts with her bald male colleague for Tuesday and Thursday. She’d be covering his 11:00 to 5:30 shift; he’d take her usual 5:30 to midnight. “Thanks a lot for doing that,” the bald guy had said. “Not a problem,” she’d replied. “It’ll be nice to actually have a night to go out like a regular person.”
Only one pop-in, and he’d already nailed down a big piece of her schedule.
After he’d signaled for the check, he noticed that the top of the computerized slip of paper listed the name Rachel next to the date and time. He owed her twelve dollars. He opened his wallet and fingered a hundred-dollar bill inside, smiling as he remembered finding it in Chelsea’s purse. He removed a ten and a five instead and left both bills on the bar. Not too cheap, not too generous.
Now it was Tuesday evening, and the bartender should have just wrapped up the first of her two day-shifts this week. He watched from the bakery window, coffee in hand, as the girl he presumed was called Rachel buttoned up her beige peacoat and dashed across three lanes of traffic on Fifth Avenue.
Taking the corner onto Fifteenth Street, she passed directly in front of him. He lowered his gaze and then made his way to the exit, also turning at Fifteenth.
He was thirty feet behind her. He caught a whiff of musky perfume. He figured she probably spritzed herself on the way out of the restaurant to mask the smell of southwestern food.
He noticed she wore flat black loafers. Hopefully she would turn to something less practical when she wasn’t working. A healthy girl like her could run in loafers.
She reached her right hand to the nape of her neck, slipped off her ponytail elastic, and shook her blond waves loose. He stole a glimpse of her profile reflected in the window of a sushi restaurant as she passed. She looked good with her hair down.
Before she reached Union Square Park, she turned and disappeared into a storefront.
He crossed Fifteenth Street and kept his head down as he walked directly toward the park. He glanced in his periphery as he passed the spot where she had disappeared. “Park Bar.”
When he reached Union Square West, he found a seat at an unoccupied picnic table near the curb. He would sit here, and he would wait. And watch.
Patience. Diligence. Dedication. Timing.
He had found his project. Now he had to nail down the routine, learn the habits. Chelsea had caught him off guard. This time, nothing should be unexpected.
As he sat at the picnic table, watching subway riders dash to their trains at Union Square, he found himself smiling and remembering a line from Jack Finney’s classic novel Time and Again: “Suddenly I had to close my eyes because actual tears were smarting at the very nearly uncontainable thrill of being here. The Ladies’ Mile was great, the sidewalks and entrances of the block after block of big glittering ladies’ stores….”
He too had a very nearly uncontainable thrill of being in the Ladies’ Mile.
CHAPTER 20
“WHAT CAN I GET YOU, HATCHER?”
“Johnnie Walker Black. Rocks.”
“A week on the job together, and I still don’t know your drink,” Rogan said. “That ain’t right.”
As much as Ellie wanted to go home, flip on the tube, and crash on the couch, this had been her first invitation for a group drink out of the Thirteenth Precinct, and she was not about to blow the opportunity. They were celebrating Jake Myers’s arrest at Plug Uglies, a cop bar on Third Ave. between Twentieth and Twenty-first.
Even though this wood-paneled pub—originally named for one of the city’s old Irish gangs, now accessorized with the shoulder patches of hundreds of police and firemen—was the official hangout of the Thirteenth Precinct, this was Ellie’s first visit with other cops. Her only previous invitation had come from Jess after her first day in the homicide squad—not his sort of place, but it was close to work, and with a $2 happy hour, it was one of the few spots in Manhattan where her brother could afford to pick up a tab.
Tonight, drinks were on Rogan, and that meant that half the squad tagged along, even though they had nothing to do with the Chelsea Hart case. When it came time to celebrate, a case clearance for one was a win for all.
She spotted a familiar face at the end of the bar and indicated to Rogan she’d be right back.
“Hey, stranger.”
Peter Morse greeted her with a peck on the cheek. Ellie automatically looked around to confirm that the other cops were preoccupied.
“How’d you know I’d be here?” she asked.
“I didn’t. I’m meeting Kittrie.” Peter glanced at his watch. “His idea to be here, and now he’s fifteen minutes late. Typical.”
“He made you stay late last night, took top billing on this morning’s story, and now you’re having a drink with him? I thought you hated that guy.”
“Doesn’t matter—he’s the boss. Everyone’s tiptoeing around him anyway these days, ever since Justine accidentally connected to his line and heard some doctor saying something about a tumor. I’m convinced she made up the whole thing to fuck with me, but I’m not going to risk being an a-hole to the guy. He wanted to work together on the Hart story, we worked together. He wants to have a drink, I’m having a drink.”
“And he just happened to pick Plug Uglies out of all the bars in Manhattan?”
“Of course not. He’s convinced you pick up the best dirt at cop bars. Little does he know I have found a much more pleasurable method of cultivating inside sources.”
Peter placed his palm on the small of her back, and she pulled away. Enough PDA for one night.
“Ah, except I don’t actually give you any inside information. I just use you for the sex.”
Peter snapped his fingers. “I knew there was a problem with my plan. That probably explains why I’m in the doghouse with Kittrie. He’s pissed we didn’t get a better picture of your victim.”
“You had the same one as the Times.”
“Exactly. But the Sun didn’t. Now he says I shouldn’t have just taken whatever the family handed us. He says the graduation shot was too controlled.”
“What did he expect you to do? Go to her MySpace page and steal pictures off the Web?”
“That’s actually not a bad idea.”
“Too late. We already told the family to pull down the profile. But it would still be less tacky than nagging Chelsea’s friends. That’s how the Sun got their picture.”
“You’re tracking journalists’ practices now?”
Ellie got the impression he didn’t agree with her assessment about the tastelessness of chasing down a murder victim’s loved ones to help a story. “No, but it’s the only way they could’ve gotten it. One of Chelsea’s friends snapped it with her cell phone the night before the murder.” She was still annoyed that the photograph had run on the front page of tens of thousands of newspapers, with Chelsea’s missing earrings on full display.
She felt a hand on her right shoulder and turned to find herself in the middle of an enthusiastic handshake. The man pumping her arm was about forty years old, medium height and build, with wire-rimmed glasses and not much remaining hair.
“Hi there. George Kittrie. I believe you’re the famous Ellie Hatcher?”
“Hopefully less famous by the day.”
“Not if we have anything to say about it, isn’t that right, Peter?” Kittrie nudged the visibly uncomfortable reporter. “Ignore me. I’m being a jerk, even if I was only kidding.”
Kittrie looked familiar. She tried to place him—probably the author photo on his book. “Have we met before?”
“Nah, but you may have seen me around. I’m a big believer that any crime-beat reporter worth his salt has got to hit the cop bars. It’s all about contacts. I had a real good relationship with Flann McIlroy, by the way.”
Given the circumstances of McIlroy’s death, Ellie supposed her name would always be linked with his in New York City law enforcement circles.
“What kind of drink can we get you?” Kittrie asked.
She turned to see J. J. Rogan encircled by Thirteenth Precinct cops, a lonely Johnnie Walker Black on the bar next to him, getting more watered down by the second, calling out to her: Drink me.
“I’ve got some friends waiting for me,” she said.
“Sounded like a celebration when I passed. I don’t suppose there’s a break in the Chelsea Hart case.”
“Just an after-work drink is all.” The Daily Post would get wind of Jake Myers’s arrest soon enough from the Public Information Office. She said her good-byes and left poor Peter on his man date with Kittrie.
As Ellie made her way over to Rogan, she saw that the first patrol officer who responded to Chelsea’s crime scene was holding court. If she had to guess, he was probably leaving out the part where he tossed his cookies and was sent off to fetch her clothes.
She plucked her drink from the bar, and Rogan nodded his head in her direction.
“Capra here was just telling everyone about being first on the scene this morning.”
Ellie saw a hint of color creep into the cheeks of the young officer. “First uniform on the scene, Detective. Your partner, of course, was first man there. Or woman, or—”
“Someone get this officer another drink,” she said with a laugh. John Shannon, the detective whose desk was behind hers, raised his glass in a toast. The rest of the crowd, however, greeted her with stony stares and uncomfortable glances. It was apparently going to take more than one arrest and a round of drinks to win some folks over.
Her cell phone vibrated at her waist. The screen read, “Unavailable.”
“Hatcher.” Ellie plugged one ear shut with her index finger.
“Hi, it’s Max Donovan from the DA’s office.”
“You got our message?” She maneuvered her way to the front of the bar.
Their message had actually been left by Rogan. She stole a look at her partner.
“Yeah, this is my first chance to get back to you. The good news is, well, it couldn’t be any better. I cut a deal with Nick Warden.”
“He’s flipping on Jake?”
Ellie opened her backpack and pulled out a manila folder that the Central Records Division had delivered that morning. It contained the file on the murder of Roberta Harrington, aka Robbie. The original reports dated back to the summer of 2000. Given that Jake Myers was barely out of middle school at the time, any connection between the two cases now seemed impossible.
She skimmed w
hile Donovan brought her up to speed.
“No question. It helped that I could go in there this morning with the fingerprint match and the cabdriver’s ID. I told him, ‘Look, we’ve got our case against Jake. The only question is whether we’re going to have one against you, too.’ Once he and his lawyer heard what we already had on Myers, and what Warden was looking at on his drug case, it was easy. The guy’s got loyalty, though. He wanted a deal for Jaime Rodriguez, too.”
“You’re kidding me? White-collar recreational drug user taking care of his dealer? Who’s ever heard of such a thing?”
“I know, right? I guess Warden feels bad about getting the guy in trouble. He said Rodriguez hooking up the girl with some dope was kind of like helping him out, too. This isn’t exactly politically correct, but I got the impression she was quite the box of chocolates?”
“If tall, thin, and ridiculously sexy is your kind of thing.”
“Absolutely not.”
“So you made the deal? I thought Rodriguez would be looking at some serious time with his prior conviction.”
“His prior for Burg of a dwelling with a gun counts as a violent predicate. He was looking at six years minimum under the second felony law. But we made the deal. He and Warden both get dismissals. Rodriguez will lose his job with the club just for the arrest, and he’ll have a hard time finding work anywhere else.”
“You don’t need to sell me on it,” Ellie said, her eyes still scanning the Harrington file as she flipped to the next report. She hadn’t known a prosecutor to ever care in the past whether she approved of a plea deal. Besides, she had learned a long time ago that drug cases—no matter what quantities, no matter how many priors, and despite all the rhetoric about the war on drugs—were all expendable when the prosecution of a violent crime was at stake.
“Our case against Myers is looking strong. Warden’s not only going to testify that Jake left with Chelsea alone, well before closing, but he’s got real corroboration. And it’s good.”
Angel’s Tip Page 14
