by R.J. Ellory
′More what?′ she′d said. ′More serious?′
′Sure. You know, like—′
′Like you want me to move in with you or something?′
′I don′t mean that, no. Not unless you wanted to, of course. I just meant—′
′Hell, Ray, why mess it up? We′re good for each other. We′re good company. Figure if we saw each other any more often we′d most likely discover all those little idiosyncrasies that end up being the reasons you leave someone. This is good. I′ve been through this enough times to know that this is better than any other arrangement I′ve had, and I like it this way. If I didn′t I wouldn′t do it.′
He hadn′t asked again.
Little had changed for the better part of a decade, and then Deborah Wiltshire had died. Late November 2005, sudden, utterly unexpected, a hereditary weakness in her heart. Down and gone. Dropped like a stone.
Ray Irving took the news like a head-shot. He′d been useless for a month, and then had somehow clawed his way back to reality.
In the final analysis, the thing that heralded Irving′s return to the real world was a child murder. The killing of children could never be explained or justified. Didn′t matter who did it or what the circumstances, the supposed reason and rationale back of it, a dead child was a dead child. The case had been arduous, had lasted months, but Ray′s diligence and commitment had resulted in the successful conviction of an irredeemable man.
In the subsequent six months Irving had used his job as an anchor and, with the stability it offered, he had pulled himself back from the brink of the abyss. He would never forget Deborah Wiltshire, would never wish to forget her, but he had begun to believe that the small world within which he existed still required his attendance. There was no easy way out of grief - that much he understood - and so he stopped looking.
Ray Irving′s apartment looked the same as the day he′d moved in eleven years before. Eight trips in a station wagon from his previous place of residence, armfuls of belongings, no boxes, no packing crates. Those possessions had assumed their rightful positions, and had remained there for the duration. His mother did not visit because she had died of emphysema in early ′84. His dad played dominoes and mumbled baseball scores in a nursing home other side of Bedford-Stuyvesant. There was no-one to tell him that he should live differently. This was how things were. This was how he believed they always would be.
Morning of Saturday, June 3rd, a little after nine, Ray Irving took a call-out. Rain had varnished the streets and sidewalks. Inadequate distance between earth and sky. It had been overcast all week and the atmosphere was close, brooding, impenetrable. The weather seemed raw and unfinished, perhaps served some purpose for farmers and horticulturalists, but to Irving it was simply trouble. Rain obscured evidence, turned earth to mud, washed things down, erased partials.
By the time he reached the edge of Bryant Park, back of the library and close enough to Fifth to smell the money, the uniforms had taped the scene. The grass was flat, the ground was oatmeal, and already the traipsing back and forth had chewed the perimeter ragged.
′Melville,′ the first officer said, and then spelled his name.
′Like Herman, right?′ Irving asked.
Melville smiled. They all wanted to be remembered. They all wanted the call from Homicide or Vice or Narco: You done good, boy, you gonna get the badge.
′What we got?′
′Girl,′ Melville replied. ′Teenager I′d say. Head staved in. Body wrapped in black plastic and left under the trees down there.′
′Who found her?′
′Couple of fat kids from across the street. Twins. Fourteen years old. I have someone over there with the parents.′
′Did the kids know the vic?′
Melville shook his head. ′Not from her clothes. Head is too fucked-up for a facial ID.′
′Walk with me,′ Irving said.
The ground sucked at his shoes. The rain had eased off some, become a fine mist that surreptitiously penetrated everything. Irving was unaware of how wet his hair was until he brushed the back of his head with his hand and felt droplets coursing down his neck.
Irving didn′t know trees, but the ones beneath which the girl′s body had been unceremoniously dumped were short, thick-trunked, the lower branches providing a dense canopy. This was helpful. The ground beneath seemed relatively firm considering the rain. There were scuffs and marks in the dirt, areas of flattened grass, and two precise patches beside the body where it appeared that someone had knelt. The body itself was shrouded in black plastic sheeting. The girl was obscured from the upper torso to her feet. Her shoulders, her neckline, the little that remained of her face was all that was visible. Irving put on latex gloves, carefully lifted the sheeting at one side and looked at the girl′s hands. They were apparently untouched. Perhaps she would be identified by prints, perhaps by dentals. He lowered the sheeting. Behind the trees was a wrought-iron fence, beyond that the 42nd Street sidewalk. The fence and the trees provided a more than ample screen. Irving wondered how many people, maybe even her parents, had walked right past the body and never realized a thing.
′Forensics on the way?′ he asked as he peeled off his gloves and tucked them into his jacket pocket.
Melville nodded. ′May be a little while . . . half an hour perhaps.′
Irving rose to his feet. ′Get a couple of guys on this side, another couple on the road. I want to talk to the kids.′
Melville had been compassionate in his description. The twins were not fat. Clinically obese was the phrase that came to mind. Taut skin, cardiac stress already evident in their eyes. They looked pale, cold, upset, identical. The parents were the opposite, the mother painfully thin, the father of average height, less-than-average build.
Melville hung back at the front door to alleviate potential crowding.
A female officer rose from a chair at the kitchen table when Irving appeared. He knew her from the precinct. She was married to a narc undercover who had good arrest and conviction stats, but a too-generous record of one-eighty-ones for excessive force.
′Mr and Mrs Thomasian,′ she said, and then she nodded at the boys. ′And this is Karl and Richard.′
Irving smiled.
Mr Thomasian rose, extended his hand, asked Irving to sit down.
Irving smiled, thanked him, said he wouldn′t be staying. ′I won′t keep you. I just wanted to make sure the boys were okay, see if you needed anything, someone to come down and talk to them perhaps.′ He looked at each of the kids in turn. They stared back at him with expressions of vacant, sugar-shocked emptiness.
′We′re okay,′ Mrs Thomasian said. ′We′re dealing with it. We′re gonna be okay, aren′t we, boys?′
One of them looked at his mother, the other just stared at Irving.
Mrs Thomasian smiled once again - forced, almost painful. ′We′re gonna be okay now . . . we really are.′
Irving nodded, walked to the kitchen door, asked the officer to join him in the front hallway.
′Adopted,′ she told him. ′Lost their birth parents four or five years ago. Some kind of accident. They′re okay. They don′t know who the girl was. They had extra tutorial this morning with one of the teachers from the school. Karl threw Richard′s workbook over the fence. The pair of them walked round to retrieve it and they found her.′
′Have the parents witness the statement, both of them, and get the kids to sign it too. No questions without both parents there.′
′For sure . . . wouldn′t consider it.′
Irving left, and he and Melville walked back to the crime scene. Forensics were unpacking field kits.
Lead CSA, a tall, narrow-set man called Jeff Turner, held up a baggie. In it were two or three items, amongst them a school ID card.
′If the card is hers then her name is Mia Grant, fifteen years old,′ Turner said.
Irving turned to Melville. ′Call it in. See if she′s a runaway.′
Melville walked back towa
rd the black-and-white parked back of the subway station.
′So what we got?′ Irving asked, his tone one of philosophical resignation.
′First report, that′s all. COD is the blunt force trauma. No other obvious signs. No ligature marks, no GSW. Have to do a rape kit, but right now it doesn′t look like she′s been sexually assaulted, and she died somewhere else. This is just the dump location. At a guess I′d say twenty-four hours, maybe less. I′ll do liver temp but I don′t think that′s gonna help us much with the weather as it is.′
′Out Friday night,′ Irving said. ′Never came home.′
Melville called Irving from thirty yards away, waved him over.
′We got her on a Missing Persons,′ he said. ′Parents called it in last night, just after eleven. Said she went out at seven-thirty, think it might have been after a job. Lives in Tudor. No official report because it′s not been forty-eight hours, but there′s a notation in the desk log.′
′We need a proper ID before we talk to the parents,′ Irving said. ′I′m not going down there to question them about their daughter′s murder only to find out it′s not their daughter.′
′The chance it′s someone else—′
′Is pretty much zero,′ Irving interjected. ′I know that, but I have to be absolutely sure.′
Turner nodded. ′We′ll need an hour here . . .′ He glanced at his watch. ′Call me at eleven, we′ll see what we have.′
Eleven-fifteen, Jeff Turner reached Irving in his office. ′We got her,′ he said. ′She has her prints on the system. Her father′s a lawyer. Anthony Grant, bigshot private defense attorney . . . put his daughter on that ID database thing when she was thirteen. I′ve got them coming down here now.′
′I′ll meet you there.′ Irving tugged his jacket from the back of his chair and signed out to the coroner′s office.
TWO
Evelyn Grant was a wreck. Her husband, attorney-at-law, a man that Irving now vaguely recognized from some noisy murder trial a handful of years before, sat like a spartan - resolute, outwardly emotionless, but in his eyes that drawn and terrified smack of reality that would now never be forgotten.
′A job?′ Irving asked.
Anthony Grant nodded. ′She was saving for a car. She wanted to have enough for a car by the time she went to college. I told her I would double anything she earned. I wanted her to understand—′
He paused as his wife gripped his hand. A strangled sob hitched in her throat and she buried her face in her handkerchief.
Grant shook his head. ′I wanted her to understand the importance of working for something.′
′And the job? ′
′Just domestic stuff, cleaning or something. I don′t know.′ Grant looked at his wife. His wife looked away, as if she somehow held him responsible. ′She was an independent girl,′ Grant went on. ′I let her do what she was capable of doing. She visited people she knew, she came back at the times we agreed. Sometimes she stayed over with friends. She was very adult about these things.′
′First thing I have to ask, of course, is about you, Mr Grant,′ Irving said. ′Unhappy clients. Obviously if you were a prosecutor it would make more sense, but even as a defense attorney you′re going to make enemies.′
′Of course.′ He hesitated, then shook his head. ′Jesus, I don′t know. I′ve fought hundreds of cases. I win more than I lose by a long way, but I do lose. Who the hell doesn′t? There′s a lot of people in prison who are pissed off at me.′
′And people who are now out who hold you responsible?′
′Could very well be.′
Grant looked at his wife again. Recrimination flashed in her eyes, and Irving sensed she was a cold woman. He figured that the husband did all the work to keep their relationship together.
′Look, I understand all of this is necessary, but must it be now? I really don′t think this is something—′
Irving smiled understandingly. ′I just need to know if you have any idea of where she was going.′
Grant shook his head. ′All she said was that there was the possibility of a part-time job in Murray Hill. She was going to use the subway. I would have driven her but my wife and I had a prior engagement.′
′And the time Mia left the house?′
′Six, six-thirty maybe. We left about half an hour later, got back just after ten. Mia wasn′t home, didn′t answer her cellphone, and at eleven I called the police. They told me—′
′That they couldn′t file a report for forty-eight hours,′ Irving interjected.
′Yes, that′s right.′
′And she didn′t say anything else about where she was going or who she was going to meet?′
Grant was silent for some time, and then he slowly shook his head. ′No, nothing that I can remember.′
′Okay . . . so as far as reaching you?′
′I′m going to take my wife to my mother′s in Rochester,′ Grant said. ′I′ll drive back in the morning to deal with everything.′ He took a sheet of letterhead from his briefcase and gave it to Irving. ′My office and cell, and here—′ He wrote two more numbers on the page. ′That′s my house here in the city, and that′s my mother′s number if you really need to reach me tonight. Call my cell first, but there′s very little signal where she is, and I′d prefer it if you didn′t call. I′ll come see you tomorrow. You′re at the Fourth Precinct, right?′
′Yes, up on Sixth at 57th.′
Grant rose from his chair, helped his wife. Mentally, perhaps spiritually, she was no longer in the room. She had long since gone. She didn′t see her husband, didn′t see Irving, didn′t see the uniformed officer who opened the door for them and showed them to the exit. She′d be like that for days. Grant would inevitably call a doctor and the doctor would give her something to postpone reality a little longer.
Irving took a left down the hallway and found Turner.
′No sexual assault,′ Turner told him. ′Haven′t unzipped her, but there are no outward signs of anything but the blunt force to the head. Looks like a hammer, something small, you know? From lividity and laking I′d say between nine-thirty and eleven last night. Wherever she was killed she didn′t stay long. Moved almost immediately. The horizontal laking from where she lay in the park is primary, not secondary. That means you have another scene to find.′
′If there′s anything else would you call me?′
′Sure.′ Turner nodded. ′The parents?′
′Nothing of any great use as yet. Girl went out after a job. Six-thirty, thereabouts.′
′He didn′t say anything when he saw her, you know,′ Turner said. ′Even looking the way she did, it didn′t seem to affect him.′
′It will,′ Irving said. ′Tonight, tomorrow, next week. It will.′
′He′s not a suspect?′
′They′re all suspects until they′re not. But Grant for the murder of his own daughter? I don′t get that from first impressions. Could be a revenge killing, someone he didn′t do such a good job defending. But hell, the truth is always stranger.′
Turner′s pager buzzed. He had to leave. He and Irving shook hands. Turner assured Irving that if anything significant arose in the autopsy he would call him.
It did not.
Forensics drew a blank as well.
Reports came in from both departments on the morning of the fifth. Mia Emily Grant, fifteen years old, date of birth February 11th, 1991. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, massive internal bleeding; there was no sexual assault. The edge of Bryant Park beneath a canopy of trees was confirmed as the dump site, not the primary. Extensive walk-about had turned up very little. The subway crews at 34th and Penn, 50th, 42nd, Times Square, Grand Central, 33rd - all those that might have seen Mia Grant as she made her way from her home near St Vartan′s Park to Murray Hill, were shown her picture and questioned. Of course, Irving knew that there was no guarantee that she′d even taken the subway. He knew that she might never have made it further than a block from her
house. He also knew that the part-time job might have been nothing but a ruse to misdirect the parents. Bright, pretty, fifteen-year-old girl . . . Enough said.
On Saturday, 10th of June, just a week after the discovery of her body, the case went cold. Every lead, every line, every potential scenario that Irving could extrapolate from the girl′s death, had been explored, explored again, explored a third time. The parents′ alibis were incontrovertible. There was nothing. Irving repeatedly put his hand into a paper bag and came back empty.
The file sat on the edge of his desk. It was very soon hidden beneath a copy of The New York Times, an envelope of photographs that seemed to have lost its case-ID tab, a coffee cup, an empty Coke can.
No more than half a dozen blocks south west, John Costello sat staring at a cork board across from his desk in the research office of the New York City Herald. Pinned at eye level was the small two-inch column detailing the discovery of Mia Grant′s body, the few details regarding her age, her school, her father′s occupation, and at the very bottom - now underlined in red - the fact that she had apparently been en route to a job inquiry in Murray Hill.
Beside the newspaper clipping was a half page torn from the locally circulated freep, and on it - circled in ink - was an ad from Thursday June 1st.
Girl wanted. Part-time domestic work. Negotiable rates of pay. Flexible hours.
The phone number given carried a Murray Hill prefix.
In John Costello′s measured and precise hand he had written June 3 Carignan Want Ad and then, alongside the circled item ????.
It seemed, from where he sat and the intense expression on his face, that he was transfixed by these items.
When the phone on his desk rang he started, snatched the receiver from the cradle.
He listened, half-smiled, and then said, ′Yes ma′am, be there in a moment.′
THREE
′The simple truth is that we′re looking at something like eighteen T thousand murders a year in the U.S. That′s fifteen hundred a month, roughly four hundred a week, fifty-seven every day, one every twenty-five and a half minutes. Only two hundred a year are the work of serial killers . . .′ John Costello smiled. ′As far as is known.′