Skeleton Justice

by Michael Baden

  “That may well be, but Mrs. Martinette is just looking for the obvious connections; you might be able to find more subtle ones there in the files,” Jake said.

  “They’re confidential adoption records, Jake. No judge is going to give me a subpoena to go on a fishing expedition when I don’t have the slightest evidence that I’ll find something relative to Amanda Hogaarth’s murder.”

  Jake sighed. Of course Pasquarelli was right. The only clues they had to Amanda Hogaarth’s murder were a Spanish-language cookbook, an adoption agency, and a torture method. They needed more data points here. Suddenly, a vision popped into Jake’s head: the clean ring on Hogaarth’s coffee table left by an object the criminalists had taken away. “Say, did the crime-scene guys find any prints on that thing they took from the vic’s apartment—what was it, a cup, a glass?”

  Pasquarelli drained his beer and looked around Ian’s.

  “You want another beer?” Jake raised his hand to signal. “Our waitress is over there.”

  The detective yanked Jake’s hand down. “No! Don’t call her.” Pasquarelli leaned forward and Jake did the same, straining to hear his friend’s suddenly lowered voice over the clamor of the bar crowd. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone this. They lifted a perfect print from a coffee mug. We sent it off to SAFIS, the national fingerprint database, and the next thing you know, I got a call.”

  Pasquarelli twisted his head around again. Jake thought he would have rotated it 360 degrees if that were biologically possible. “I’m to report to Twenty-six Federal Plaza tomorrow to discuss that print with none other than the assistant director in charge of the FBI, David Conroy. He’s flying in from Washington, D.C., especially for this meeting.”

  Sam sat at his brother’s dining room table, reading the New York Times, a cup of steaming coffee before him. Things sure had improved around here since Jake started seeing Manny. Now there was always French-roast coffee and toast made with Portuguese sweet bread in the kitchen, not to mention toilet paper in the bathroom. Ah, the civilizing influence of women! He glared at his brother, also engrossed in the Times, across the table. One thing hadn’t changed. There was only one copy of the paper delivered, and he, as the uninvited guest, had to content himself with the sections Jake cast off. He’d already read the Arts and Dining Out sections, and he had no interest whatsoever in Business. That left Metro, since Jake was selfishly hogging both Sports and the main section. He picked it up unenthusiastically.

  MAYOR VOWS TO RAISE CITY READING SCORES. Yeah, yeah, they kept that story on file and had been rerunning it every year since he’d been in kindergarten; CITY TO ALLOW PEOPLE TO CHOOSE SEX ON THEIR BIRTH CERTIFICATES—only in New York. Sam turned the page. LONG ISLAND POLITICO ACCUSED OF CORRUPTION, like that was news. He glanced over at his brother, who appeared deeply engrossed in the op-ed page. Then why couldn’t he have Sports? Sam casually extended his long fingers and slowly drew the Yankees coverage closer.

  Slap!

  Sports was snatched back.

  “C’mon, Jake, you can’t read two sections at once. Just let me check the standings.”

  “No, I won’t get it back. I want to read the paper in peace before I leave for work. You have all day to read it. Wait.”

  Sam sighed and returned to the Metro section. No new stories on the Vampire or the Preppy Terrorist. It really was a slow news day. He turned to the third page of the section and scanned the “Metro Briefs,” stories so minor that they didn’t merit a bylined article. A fire in Westchester, a hit-and-run in Connecticut… His gaze slid down the column in boredom, then stopped, riveted.

  EXECUTION-STYLE SLAYING IN KEARNY

  On May 24, police found the body of a twenty-three-year-old man in a litter-strewn lot in Kearny, New Jersey. He had been shot once in the temple, execution style. The victim was identified as Benjamin Hravek, who worked intermittently as a roofer. Police are seeking a ponytailed, tall, thin Caucasian male with silver hair, age approximately thirty-five, known to have had a violent encounter with Hravek at the Gateway Inn several days before his death.

  The Metro section slipped onto the table and Sam stared out the window behind his brother’s left shoulder.

  “Oh, here—take the damn Sports.” Jake tossed him the section.

  But Sam was already out of the room by the time the newspaper landed.

  Manny paced the space in front of her desk with the phone pressed to her ear. She covered the distance in a few strides of her long legs, pivoted at the first of the white Carrera leather chairs she had purchased to inspire the confidence of her clients, and marched back toward the other chair, where Mycroft sat licking his paw.

  “I want to talk to your client and find out what the hell’s going on.” Sam’s voice came through the phone loud enough to make Mycroft’s ears perk. “This little odd job you recruited me for is going to end up getting me arrested for murder.”

  “Look on the bright side, Sam. You’ll have the best defense counsel on the east coast.”

  “Damn it, Manny! This isn’t funny. There’s some serious shit going down here.”

  “I know there is, Sam. And I’m not sure it has anything to do with the Iqbar case and Islamic terrorism. You know, Brueninger has presided over scores of controversial cases. What if the feds were sidetracked by Travis’s reading material? What if they’re looking at this all wrong?”

  “You’ve got a point. I can’t see a guy like Boo agreeing to work for a bunch of Muslim extremists. He’s more of an organized crime kind of guy.” Sam paused. “Was, I should say. Did Brueninger preside over any Mafia trials?”

  “I’ve got a list of every case that came before him in the past five years,” Manny said. “There was a Mafia money-laundering case a while back where a few mid-level capos got sent to minimum-security prison. I don’t see the mob retaliating over that. They take those convictions as the cost of doing business.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed. “A little R and R and the boys are back to work. Besides, Boo’s not Italian. Hravek is what—Czech, Hungarian, Serbian?”

  Manny scanned the list of Brueninger’s cases. “Hey, here’s something. The judge convicted a bunch of guys from former Soviet-bloc countries for human trafficking—smuggling poor Albanian girls into the country and forcing them into prostitution.”

  “Sex-slave traders. They sound like the kind of guys who might carry a nice grudge against the man who sent them away.”

  Manny had done a Google search on the case while she and Sam were talking. “Apparently, he sent them far away. They were deported to serve their sentences in Albania.”

  “Eeew—that sounds unpleasant. If they’re still there. But who knows—bribe the right people in the old country and they could very well be back on the streets here in New Jersey.”

  “And how would we ever know?” Manny asked. “We can’t do follow-up in Albania.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you say so, because I’m not taking a field trip to Tirana.”

  Manny kicked at the side of her desk in frustration, then hopped up and down in pain. Mycroft studied her mournfully. Since getting expelled from the Little Paws doggy day-care center for fighting with a Boston terrier, he’d been spending long days in the office with Manny. “Somehow we have to find out who hired Boo, and why. Why did the bomber want to involve Travis?”

  “Travis and/or Paco,” Sam said. “The two guys Boo took with him to Club Epoch aren’t going to know anything. We have to find the other guy, Freak.”

  “Or Deke or Zeke,” Manny said. “No one seems clear on his name, where he came from, or where he disappeared to.”

  “The police maintain a database of nicknames bad guys use on the street,” Sam said. “Do you know if the feds tried to find this guy in there?”

  Manny dropped into her desk chair and swiveled to look out the window. Twenty floors below, the hustle and flow of lower Manhattan moved silently by. “If you ask me, the feds seem to be doing all they can to pretend our mystery man never existed. An
d I find that in itself to be very suspicious.”

  “Ah, Manny—you see conspiracies everywhere. Why not give plain old incompetence credit sometimes?”

  “You’re right, Sam. It’s hard to overestimate that on the federal level. Luckily, I know a guy high up in the New Jersey Bureau of Criminal Justice. I’ll suggest he run those names for us—for their investigation.”

  Manny waved Kenneth into the office. He was wearing a faux tiger-skin shirt topped by a short feather boa jacket. The jacket was a concession to the need for formal law office decorum. Despite his new natural-toned acrylic nails, he’d done an excellent job typing up the Eduardo wrongful death summary judgment brief that had to be filed with the court the next day.

  “Thanks, Kenneth. I’ll sign that and you can send it off.”

  “Hello? Are you still there?” Sam demanded.

  “Sorry. Where was I?”

  “Tracking down Freak.”

  “Right. If I could find him, the feds would have to accept that Travis didn’t plan this. If I can’t, I have to find another way to convince them Travis was an unwitting dupe, not an intentional coconspirator.”

  “Are you sure that’s true?”

  Manny sighed. “Not entirely. And that’s exactly why I’m telling you to stay away from Travis Heaton. He’s under house arrest, and I’m sure there are federal marshals keeping an eye on his apartment. If they see you waltzing into his building, a fleet of cruisers will be waiting for you when you come out. I’ll talk to him.”

  This suggestion was met with silence. Finally, Sam spoke again. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

  Manny smiled. There was a sentence you’d seldom hear any man utter.

  “Listen, this is what I want you to find out. Whose idea was it that they go to Club Epoch? Why that place, that night? Did Travis know they were going to be meeting anyone?”

  “I want to know those things, too, Sam. And believe me, I intend to find out.”

  “And what about this Paco kid—are you going to talk to him?” Sam demanded.

  Manny switched the phone to her other ear and reached out to stroke Mycroft. He yipped and scooted away from her hand. “Mikey, what’s—”

  “Manny! What about Paco?”

  She wasn’t eager to answer this question. The truth was, Paco Sandoval was proving quite elusive and it was really pissing her off. And worrying her. He was hiding behind his diplomatic immunity and letting his friend take the fall. If Paco was just an innocent dupe, as Travis claimed to be, then why wouldn’t he at least cooperate in his friend’s defense? She suspected that this mysterious caller who’d contacted Boo Hravek was somehow connected to Paco. But how could she prove it if she couldn’t even talk to the kid? His family’s apartment near the UN was a veritable fortress; the Monet Academy had treated her like a damn pedophile when she tried to reach Paco there. Still, she didn’t want Sam to panic. She could handle this.

  “Look, Sam, Travis went to school today, and he’ll talk to Paco and let him know we need to meet with him. I’ll work it out.”

  “You’d better. Call me as soon as you’re done with those kids.”

  “Fine. Expect to hear from me by five.”

  As soon as she’d put the phone down, Manny scooped up Mycroft to examine the paw he was licking. The dog held perfectly still as her fingers searched gently. Then he shuddered and yelped when Manny found the swollen wound hidden in his curls. He’d been bitten by that damn terrier! The nip he’d given Kimo had been in self-defense.

  “Oh, Mikey, I’ve got to get you to the vet. You’re wounded. And unjustly accused, too.”

  Jake peered at slides through a microscope set up on a small side table in his office. While he’d been obsessed with the Vampire, a multitude of work on other cases had piled up. Stacks of case folders and unproofed autopsy reports teetered on his desk. The medical degrees and awards hanging on his walls seemed to mock him as he worked.

  As much as he tried to focus on wrapping up the details of these other cases, thoughts of the Vampire continued to derail his concentration.

  A light tap at the door made him look up. Vito Pasquarelli stood on the threshold of his office, looking as gaunt and nervous as Jake had ever seen him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Vito stepped into the office, shut the door, and leaned on it. “I had my meeting with the FBI this morning.” His eyes were half-closed as he spoke. “They want to take over the case.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” Jake came out from behind his desk and waved Pasquarelli into a chair beside him. “This Vampire thing has put you in the hot seat. Let them have it.”

  Pasquarelli shook his head. “The mayor’s fighting it. Ever since the FBI fouled up that near-miss subway bombing in Brooklyn and let the conspirators slip away, the mayor never misses a chance to hang the feds out to dry. He says no one does a better job of protecting New Yorkers than the NYPD.”

  Jake grinned. “His confidence in you is touching.”

  “Yeah, yeah, tell me about it. He’s just grandstanding for reelection, and jabbing our congressmen for not getting New York more federal antiterrorism money. That all looks great on the news, but I’m the one who’s gotta figure out how to solve this Vampire thing, and I don’t see how I’m going to do it if the FBI gets its knickers in a twist and refuses to help me.”

  “Why do they want the case? What do they know that you don’t?”

  “They know whose fingerprint was on that coffee mug, but they don’t know how it got there. And neither do I.”

  “It didn’t get there when the person was drinking from the mug?”

  Vito leaned back and stared at the warped and grimy ceiling of Jake’s office. “Well, maybe. But he sure as hell wasn’t having a drink with Ms. Hogaarth.”

  “Why not? Whose print is it?”

  The detective gave up on trying to divine the future by reading the stains in the acoustic tile and met Jake’s eye. He spoke the words as distinctly as if he were calling the person forward to accept an award.

  “The former president of the United States—Richard Milhous Nixon.”

  Manny stood on the front stoop of the five-story walk-up on West Ninety-seventh Street and pressed the button next to the faded nameplate reading HEATON. When nothing happened in response, she pressed again.

  She’d managed to squeeze in a visit to Mycroft’s new vet on the way to Travis’s apartment, but the detour made her fifteen minutes late for her client. Dr. Costello had been so accommodating, examining Mycroft right away, bandaging him up, and even placing a call to Little Paws to argue, successfully, for Mycroft’s readmission. Efficient, kind, and handsome, too. But Dr. Frederic Costello was married, to his receptionist, and she had Jake, so enough of that little daydream.

  Manny leaned on the button again and tried shouting into the scratched and dirty speaker. “Mrs. Heaton? It’s me, Manny Manfreda.”

  A window on the second floor opened and a woman in a green-and-orange housecoat leaned out. “Bell don’t work. You gotta call.” The window slammed down.

  Manny sighed and dug out her cell phone. But as she dialed, the buzzer opening the outer door sounded and she was admitted to the building. In the small tiled vestibule, Manny was assaulted by the mingled scents of industrial-strength roach spray, cooked cabbage, and ammonia. The stairs ahead were steep and narrow. Manny looked down ruefully at her Chanel wedges and began the long climb to the fourth floor.

  On the second floor, the sounds of Spanish-language holy-roller radio blared. “¡Dios, Dios! ¡Yo te amo Dios!” over and over, barely muffled by the scratched brown metal door to apartment 2A. This was not the kind of two-bedroom Manhattan apartment most Monet Academy students were familiar with. She wondered if Travis ever brought his friends home. She wondered what he felt when he visited them in their luxury co-ops and town houses.

  Manny shifted her purse to her other shoulder and kept climbing, pausing to catch her breath at the next landing, but she was motivated
to press on by the intense cooking smells on the third floor. With a stitch in her side, she reached apartment 4A, positioning herself directly in front of the peephole before she knocked, so Mrs. Heaton could see her clearly.

  She had barely grazed the door with her knuckles when it flew open. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I’m still in my work clothes. I just got in a few minutes ago.” Maureen Heaton stepped back to let Manny in. The door opened directly into the kitchen, a room with cracked greenish linoleum and a window that looked out onto a brick wall. Manny hadn’t seen such an ancient gas stove since she’d last visited her great-aunt Cecilia.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Mrs. Heaton offered. “Lemonade? Tea?”

  “Just a glass of water will be fine, thanks.” Manny tried not to pant as she spoke.

  Mrs. Heaton gave her the water and led her down a long, narrow hall that ran past two closed doors and ended in a small, bright room overlooking Ninety-seventh Street. “Have a seat,” Mrs. Heaton directed. “Travis should be home any minute now.”

  Grateful for the rest, Manny dropped onto the lumpy sofa, which was not completely sheathed by a ready-made slipcover. The room was filled with books. Books, and photos of Travis. Travis as an infant, Travis at his first birthday party, Travis on the shoulders of a tall, thin man who was obviously Mr. Heaton. More recently, Travis playing violin, Travis receiving a science fair award, and Travis in a Monet Academy fencing competition.

  “So, Maureen, before Travis gets here, tell me a little about Paco Sandoval. How long have the boys been friends?”

  Maureen sighed, the sigh of every mother who’s ever disapproved of her kid’s friends but can’t figure out what to do about it. “Paco. Well, Paco is everything that Travis isn’t. Wealthy, worldly, popular, hot with the girls.”

  Manny arched her eyebrows. “Yet he befriended Travis?” In her experience, that wasn’t how high school worked.

  “They were placed together in a peer tutoring program,” Maureen explained. “Paco was failing math and chemistry. With Travis’s help, he got his grades up to B’s.”