“Come on inside,” Lauren told us.
As soon as I stepped into the living room and looked at the photos lined up on the small fireplace mantel, I had the confirmation I needed, that Lauren Cedar’s husband was definitely the same man from the sports bar.
I talked to her for a minute more but didn’t want to give out too much information. She was still shaken.
Lauren sniffled, recounting for me the outburst from her husband that had prompted the call to the police. It had started when she found a couple of burner cell phones and confronted him with them, accusing him of cheating on her. Instead of denying it, he’d gone on the offensive, yelling and throwing things around.
She said, “I told him he was being too loud and that he was scaring Tyler. That he was even scaring me. You know what he said?”
I shook my head.
“He said that Tyler and I should be terrified of him. Then he grabbed my arm and jerked me back into the kitchen.” She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse and showed me her right arm, where a perfect imprint of a large hand was already turning into a bluish bruise.
I asked a few more questions and wrote down the information she gave me.
Her husband, Jeffrey Cedar, was an attorney in lower Manhattan, and according to his wife, he was a lying piece of shit.
Which certainly seemed true.
But I was growing more and more convinced that this lying piece of shit might actually be a killer.
My only real question was whether he’d killed them all.
Chapter 68
Jeffrey Cedar sat in his law office not far from the criminal courthouse in lower Manhattan. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on the client sitting across from him. He’d had an argument with his wife that morning after she questioned where he went at night when he said he was working. Then she accused him of cheating on her. She’d found a couple of the burner phones he often used to stay in touch with the different women he met. He always took care to bring these women to places far from Cobble Hill or lower Manhattan—anywhere, really, as long as it wasn’t the kind of spot his wife would ever have any interest in going.
But this morning, no matter what he said or how loud he said it, his wife just wasn’t buying it. She seemed to be spinning off the rails, she was so upset. He even had to grab her arms and hold her still just to get her to listen to him. That, added to the sound of his son wailing, had started his day off on a sour note. And it didn’t feel like it was getting any better.
Once, about three years ago, Jeffrey had smacked Lauren in the face after she refused to stop nagging him. The blow had left a mark on her cheek for over a week, and he’d had to keep her at home for fear of getting arrested for domestic abuse. Even worse, she’d been pregnant with Tyler at the time. But he’d learned from his mistake. Now he was always careful. Subtle. Never did anything that would show up on his wife’s face.
Jeffrey returned his focus to the client sitting at his desk. He twirled his pen in his left hand as he listened to the young man across from him explain that he wasn’t actually “dealing” drugs so much as he was “redistributing” them for someone else.
Jeffrey felt like his degree from Syracuse put him a notch above a lot of the other bottom-feeders in the criminal justice system. He did admit to some jealousy at the NYU and Columbia grads working at the big firms. But he’d found his niche and was doing fine on his own. He usually wouldn’t even take on a low-end dealer client like this kid, except that said kid’s parents had plenty of cash and had thrown a big chunk of it at Jeffrey to clear their son of the drug charges against him.
He tuned in to hear some of what his client was droning on and on about. “The damn cops took my entire stash. All of it. I couldn’t believe what dicks they were.”
“It sounds like we’re going to have to cut a deal, Jason,” Jeffrey told him. “It’s too hard to explain why you were holding so much heroin and four thousand dollars in cash.”
“All I was doing was helping someone out. They needed this stuff delivered. I didn’t negotiate with no one. I didn’t force no one. All I did was deliver.”
“And now, unfortunately, that solid work ethic is going to have to be put on hold for one to five years.”
Jeffrey wrapped up that meeting with his disgruntled client and, a few hours later, found himself listening to another douchebag talk about how he had been railroaded. He felt like he’d been listening to this particular pitiful client all day, though they’d been meeting for only about forty minutes.
The client insisted on sticking to the story that his eight-year-old niece was making a wild and unsubstantiated accusation against him. He was outraged that the police had arrested him on the word of a child. He never brought up the fact that forensics had found semen on one of the girl’s dresses and that two different psychological assessments had determined the niece was rational and telling the truth.
Jeffrey put on a show for the client, who was already paying an exorbitant rate for his services. “I think we can work this out. It’s going to take some extra time on my part. And I’m afraid I can’t make any absolute promises. I will, however, need a much larger retainer to pursue the case the way I think it should be pursued.”
Without a word, the douchebag client reached into the front pocket of his baggy pants and pulled out a checkbook. Jeffrey had already run the guy’s credit score and talked to him about what assets could be open to a civil judgment if his wife’s sister’s family sued him. Using that as a cover story, he’d learned the guy had more than three hundred thousand dollars in a 401(k) plan and another thirty-five thousand dollars in liquid investments. The only real calculation Jeffrey made was how much he could ask for without scaring the client off. It was almost like betting on a hand in Texas hold ’em poker. If you raised too much, the suckers at the table tended to fold.
When he saw the hesitation on his client’s face, Jeffrey said, “I can almost guarantee, no matter what happens, you won’t do any jail time. I can point out your record of employment, no previous convictions, and I assume you will be able to get character witnesses to speak on your behalf.”
The client nodded solemnly, his long brown hair flopping in front of his face.
Damn, Jeffrey Cedar thought, this bluff is almost too easy.
Chapter 69
Once again, I was back in my car, returning to Manhattan. Between using my phone, speeding, and no doubt driving recklessly, I was violating a few traffic laws.
I wanted to wait to call in backup until I verified a little more information. I contacted the analyst in our squad and had her run the name Jeffrey Cedar in every database she could access. I had to learn everything I could about this guy before I pulled up to his office.
What I got back was the information that Cedar was thirty-seven years old, had worked as a prosecutor for one year, and then had moved to private practice in the same office for almost nine years. He had been disciplined twice by the state bar, once for misrepresenting his relationship with a witness and once for trying to keep money the government had seized when they agreed to return it to his client. But as was the case with most bar complaints, not much had been done about either ethical lapse. Both times he’d just been put on probation for three months.
He’d also received a number of traffic violations and a bushel of parking tickets, but nothing outstanding.
None of this painted a picture of a homicidal maniac to me. But I did recall the fear in Lauren Cedar’s eyes when she talked about her husband. To me, any kind of domestic violence is an indicator of a much more serious problem.
Cedar’s office was a few blocks west of the criminal courthouse. Although the twelve-story building looked well-maintained, it had an older fire escape that wrapped around the sides of it like an awkward, rusty snake. To update it would cost a fortune, but it might be worth it. I wouldn’t have called it a luxury or high-end building, but it was clearly occupied by professionals.
I lingered in the lobby for a mome
nt and looked at the tenant listing, which was displayed in a glass-paneled case by the elevator. There were at least a dozen attorneys, a couple of architects, an accounting firm that looked like it took up an entire floor, and a couple of administrative offices. I found a listing that had several names on it, including Cedar’s. He was on the fifth floor, so I took the elevator up there and found another door with the same names on it when I exited the elevator. As soon as I opened the door, however, I figured out it wasn’t a firm—it was just three attorneys sharing a receptionist.
The receptionist looked up and smiled, giving me a very professional “May I help you?”
I smiled back. I wanted to keep this friendly—at least for now. “I need to speak with Jeffrey Cedar.”
Her eyes darted to her appointment book, then to the closed door on my left. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I do not.” I pulled out my badge. “I just need to ask him a couple of quick questions.”
She made no pretense of hiding her phone as she texted someone and received a message in return. She then smoothly informed me, “Mr. Cedar is with a client at the moment.”
“I’ll wait.” I suppressed a smile at the receptionist’s uncomfortable squirm in her desk chair.
The receptionist texted some more. I was only mildly worried about Cedar trying to avoid me. My bet was that he would definitely consider himself more than capable of talking his way out of the domestic dispute he probably assumed I was here regarding.
A few minutes later, the door opened and I saw a middle-aged man with long brown hair walk out. He turned in the doorway and said, “Thanks, Jeff. I feel a lot better now.”
I popped up before the lawyer could close his door. I could hear the receptionist calling out to me as I pushed Cedar’s door open.
I found myself inside a large, comfortable office, staring right at the man I’d seen on the video from the sports bar, in photographs at Lila Stein’s and Marilyn Shaw’s apartments, as well as at the home he shared with his wife and son.
I still had my badge in my hand. I held it up and said, “Are you Jeffrey Cedar?”
He tried to smile as he stood up. “Officer, is this about my argument this morning?”
“With your wife?”
I could see the relief in his face. What criminal defense attorney couldn’t talk his way out of a domestic dispute? I let him relax. His confidence would be his undoing.
I waited a moment before I burst his bubble, then said, “No, this is not about your wife. It’s about Marilyn Shaw.”
For starters, I thought. This man had a lot to explain, or he’d be pinned for multiple homicides. He was an attorney who’d thought he could walk a tightrope. He had just fallen off, and there was no safety net.
Cedar said, “Who?”
I held up one of the still photos I’d gotten from the sports bar security system. It clearly showed Cedar and Marilyn holding hands.
He tried to act casual. “Oh, you mean Mary. I’d be happy to talk about anything you want. I’m just a little busy right now.” He casually picked up his mug of coffee from his desk. “Maybe we can schedule a meeting later.”
“Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
I spoke slowly. “I want to talk to you right now.”
That frustrated Cedar. He sighed and looked away. Then he said, “Not without my attorney.”
“Okay, who’s your attorney?”
That’s when Cedar surprised me. I mean, big-time. By committing the fresh offense of assaulting an officer.
With his left hand, he flung his warm coffee in my face in a smooth motion, then used the heavy mug to swat me across the temple. It felt like a bomb going off right next to me. I saw streaks of light and heard the heavy ringing of a head injury.
Yet even as I felt myself falling, I knew to block Cedar’s exit. I felt for the door and shoved it closed as I hit the thick carpet. With what energy and clarity I had left, I rolled toward the door so Cedar couldn’t open it.
I kept my right eye open as I reached for my Glock. I couldn’t risk him coming at me again. If he managed to kick me in the throat, I’d be done.
Once again, I was surprised by the guy.
Cedar saw my movement as I reached for my weapon, and he panicked. He raced across the room, opened a tall window, kicked out the screen, and jumped.
Chapter 70
Just as I managed to get to my feet, the receptionist burst through the door.
“Jeffrey!” she called, rushing to the open window. Her voice was filled with emotion—not shock, but something deeper. Her boss’s bizarre exit meant something more to her than just a disappearing paycheck.
I was right behind her. I still couldn’t believe that the low-rent attorney had jumped. Not far, though, it turned out. The fire escape was less than three feet below the windowsill.
Craning my head—still dizzy from the blow Cedar had dealt—out the window, I saw my assailant making his way down the old fire escape. He was already two floors below us and moving fast.
I didn’t like the look of the drop from the fire escape. But I had no choice. I couldn’t risk him escaping arrest. Not if he was our killer.
I got on my phone and called dispatch directly. As soon as someone came on the line, I said quickly, “This is Detective Michael Bennett of Manhattan North Homicide. I have a suspect on the run. His name is Jeffrey Cedar, thirty-seven years old. White male, over six feet, sandy hair.” I gave my location and told the dispatcher to get some patrol cars headed my way. Immediately. And to have the office building locked down. The receptionist could not be allowed to leave the premises.
My forehead was throbbing. I’d definitely have a bump where Cedar had hit me. I crawled out of the office window and onto the fire escape. I immediately regretted it. My acrophobia kicked in big-time. I’m not fond of heights. As soon as I took a few steps down the fire escape toward the fleeing man, I realized I could have taken the internal stairs. But on the other hand, if I didn’t keep Cedar in sight, who knows what direction he’d run—and then I’d have no chance of finding him.
I focused on making sure my feet connected with each metal step as I carefully but quickly climbed down the fire escape. I had a little spin in my vision, the world swirling as I took in the distance to the ground. The sounds of the city faded to a soft white noise. My determination to get justice for Cedar’s victims pushed through any fears I had.
I’d just about reached the third floor when Cedar managed to make the jump down to the narrow road below.
He never once looked back, although he must have heard the clattering sound of my footsteps in pursuit. I guess he thought he’d hit me hard enough to slow me down. Like I said, his confidence would be his undoing.
Chapter 71
My legs weren’t quite as shaky by the time I made it to the fire escape’s second floor. I had just seen Jeffrey Cedar running through the street and around the corner of a building. I knew he was headed west.
Once I landed on solid ground, I felt my stomach rumble like I’d just gotten off the Cyclone in Coney Island. I was panting. I swallowed the feeling and kept going.
My rubber-soled work shoes are not dedicated running shoes, but I made it to the street and turned the corner in an all-out sprint. I didn’t shout or draw attention to myself. Cedar wasn’t going to stop at the command Stop! Police! Instead, I relied on my running ability to close the distance.
My plan went into the toilet once Cedar looked behind him and saw me gaining ground. Then he shoved aside a couple of people next to him and picked up the pace from a fast lope to a mad dash.
I looked around, hoping one of the patrol cars I had called for would come roaring up and save the day. That didn’t appear likely at this moment. I had to keep running. I could feel the sweat bead on my forehead and my lungs start to burn as I pushed my own pace.
Cedar was almost a block ahead of me now. All I could do was look for his white shirt. Then he came to a sudden stop. I thought h
e might be surrendering. Or maybe he pulled a muscle. Instead, he turned to his right and grabbed a messenger just getting on a bicycle.
Cedar threw the guy to the ground, then jumped on the bike awkwardly. The seat was set to the messenger’s much shorter height, not Cedar’s large frame, but he still got moving pretty fast. There was no way I could catch him.
Just as I came to this conclusion, I reached a stand marked CITI BIKE. A woman was sliding one of the blue unisex bikes popular with commuters and tourists into one of the slots. Before the locking mechanism could click into place, I shouted, “Excuse me! I’m sorry!” as I grabbed her bike and hopped onto it. It was a little low for me as well. But I stood on the pedals and started pumping for everything I was worth. I called over my shoulder to the woman, “I’ll return it, I promise!”
I had to dodge two men who tried to gallantly stop me. I didn’t even bother yelling Police or NYPD. I just threaded the needle between the men trying to grab me, and found myself about a block behind Jeffrey Cedar.
I fell into a rhythm on the bike and realized once again how much riding with Mary Catherine had helped my stamina as well as my leg strength. I started to close in on Cedar. Now we were almost to the Hudson and it looked like he was turning south.
He cut across West Street without even looking for oncoming traffic. The man was desperate. And I had no idea where this idiot was headed.
I put my head down and pumped the pedals hard.
Chapter 72
There were a lot more pedestrians here. Mostly tourists looking at the waterfront. That didn’t help me in any way. Now I could only see Jeffrey Cedar every time his head bobbed up from a pedal stroke. But he was definitely riding south as hard as he could.
Eventually he slowed his pace, and again I closed the distance between us. Once I had to slam on the brakes and throw the bike into a slide to avoid hitting a woman with a double baby stroller. For all my effort and a scrape on my ankle, all I got was a dirty look from her.
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