At the nearest bar counter, Billy the Kid Rattigan was clinking glasses with moron Charlie Maslow and trying to pick up one of the campaign aides. Fucking second-rater, Joey thought. A district attorney willing to give cops a free hand had been elected in a landslide. There was an open bar until midnight. And the whole banquet was full of desperate, unattached women and Billy ordered the house scotch and tried to hit on some dowdy married church lady who’d volunteered with the campaign.
Joey sneered and turned his attention to more promising prospects. There was one in a purple dress under the red exit sign just to the right of the stage. She’d been on and off his radar all night. Somehow he’d always had a sense for them, feeling them before he could even see them. The ones you could corner without too much trouble. Purple Dress had the big hair and big shoulder pads they all wore these days, to try and signify that they had some kind of power in the world. Lots of makeup, padded bra. But inside, a mouse. Nibbly, skittish, and good for experiments. He had caught her looking back at him two or three times. Like she already knew her role in this play. The chooser and the chosen.
Joey turned back toward the stage as a cheer went up and Kenny walked to the podium. He stopped and waved, put his arm around his wife, Annemarie, and their four-year-old, Christina, then tried to tilt his head and smile like the president. A twenty percent victory margin, an undisputable mandate, banners with his name all over the hall, and the man was still a stiff. Still carrying himself like the one Greek altar boy at a Roman Catholic mass. Steve Snyder, a Catholic with a Jewish name who’d just been elected county executive, came over to pat him on the back and revel in their shared victories.
Meanwhile, Phil O’Mara, the retiring DA, came over and shook Kenny’s hand. Like he was thrilled he’d been forced out of the race.
Another reason Kenny Makris owed Joey for life. Like he needed more.
“My friends, this is a great night.” Kenny gripped the mike, stage lights catching the red tint he’d added to his hair to cover his premature gray and look more Reaganesque. “This community has a reputation among the city elites for being provincial and close-minded…”
The crowd before the stage began to grumble, almost imitating the grumbles of the crowd on TV when Ronald Reagan mentioned his opponent.
“But tonight, you’ve made an outsider feel like an insider,” Kenny said. “I promise that I will never forget any of the people who got me here tonight.”
Somehow, even with lights in his eyes and the smudges on his glasses inadequately wiped, the new DA’s beady eyes found Joey at the edge of the crowd. Kenny gave him a wink. Acknowledging him again, but not too much.
“Today marks a new day in Long Island law enforcement,” Kenny was saying. “A few years ago, it looked like our beautiful towns were about to get overrun by the same problems that have turned New York City into the filthy, festering sewer that it is.”
People began to clap and hoot.
“Not here.” Billy Rattigan bellowed, hands around his mouth. “Not on our watch, baby.”
Makris grimaced. Whatever goodwill Billy the Kid had gotten from the Kim Bergdahl case, he’d squandered by acting like a drunken lout in public ever since, and by being sloppy in both his police work and bar business. Which just meant more credit left over for Joey to collect on, even after Kenny Makris had helped him get into the police academy. It was getting close to the point where Joey could safely say he’d learned what he had to from the man, had absorbed his most useful traits, and it was almost time to discard the original and go with the new, improved version.
“‘Law and order’ used to be dirty words.” Kenny turned awkwardly to the next page of his speech: the man was no natural like the Gip. “But we are going to keep our towns and villages safe. And we are going to do it on our terms. And no matter what, we are going to support our fantastic, amazing police officers.”
Joey turned to look for the mouse again. But another woman was standing where she’d been. Even mousier, at least on the outside. Smaller and less buxom. Wearing a dress almost down to her ankles that was the color of a potato sack and even bigger shoulder pads than the other woman. Trying to make herself more imposing. Her hair was longer, but the big ears gave her away. Half-Nelson the hall monitor.
“What do you say there, Nelson?” He came over. “Long time no see.”
“Good evening.”
She was doing that stiff thing again. Trying to look around him to see something, instead of looking right at him.
“How you been?” he asked. “I think I haven’t seen you since, what, the Lapidus trial?”
“I left the department after that,” she said. “I’m guessing you already knew.”
“How would I know?” He opened his arms, playing the life of the party. “You think I’m that obsessed with you? You must have a high opinion of yourself, officer.”
“Believe me. I don’t.”
She cocked her head to one side, the way she’d done that day she caught him looking into the Escort with the Mercy College sticker.
“Yeah, so where you at these days?” He moved to stand closer to her, blowing cigar smoke past her ear.
“I’m with social services in Riverhead. I decided it was a better fit for me.”
Not a good sign that she’d taken a pay cut to go elsewhere. Especially since Trevor Knightsbridge had been convicted of raping and killing Stephanie largely on the basis of his prints being found on rolling papers in her car.
“You seem nervous,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Have I done something that made you uncomfortable?”
“No, not at all.” Her eyes danced over his shoulder; she was dying to get away from him.
“Can I ask you something?” He set down his beer bottle.
She turned her needle nose away from him. “That would depend.”
Other people were moving around them as Kenny’s speech droned on. They could tell this wasn’t just some regular social conversation or election night pickup.
“You read any of that bullshit in Newsday about Knightsbridge’s lawyers trying to get his case reopened?” he asked.
“I try not to pay attention,” she said. “The past is the past.”
“Again, with the nerves. What’s the matter, Nelson? Have any of those lawyers been in touch with you?”
He noted how the tip of one of her shoes came off the floor before she answered. “Why do you ask?”
Another less-than-encouraging sign. Not yes. Or no. But a question.
“The story in the paper said they were trying to put together an appeal,” he said, his suspicion fully aroused now. “Supposedly on evidentiary grounds.”
“Well, I guess that’s their right. Isn’t it?”
Another question instead of a straight yes or no. If they weren’t in a crowded room, he might have had his hands all over that potato sack dress, feeling her up and down for a wire.
“It’s a bunch of crap: they’ve got no grounds for an appeal,” he said. “We found definitive evidence that Trevor Knightsbridge was in that car with Stephanie before she was raped and murdered. It’s his blood type…”
“Which happens to be the most common type.” She immediately looked like she regretted the observation.
“And he’s not just a drug dealer; he’s a violent criminal…”
“Yes, I know.” Her nostrils puckered and her ears appeared more prominent as she drew herself up, the mouse trying to be brave. “And now that you’re bringing it all up, I have something I’ve been wanting to say to you.”
“And what’s that?”
“I didn’t know you were the one who locked him up two weeks before, for beating up a rival in Babylon. No one told me that before I testified.”
“No one was keeping it from you,” he said. “The judge wouldn’t allow in predicate acts until Makris proved the relevance. Would it have made any difference to you?”
“Well, it’s a concern now,” she said, lowering h
er voice.
“And why is that?”
She looked both ways, like a child trying to cross a two-way street for the first time. “This evidentiary issue,” she said with a quiet intensity. “It has to do with a packet of rolling papers that was confiscated from his first arrest and never returned to him. They’re saying the police held onto it and planted it in Stephanie Lapidus’s car two weeks later to make him look guilty.”
“Yeah, right.” He feigned a laugh.
“I’m on record as being the officer present at the crime scene.”
“Yeah, so?”
Her eyes became small and dark as rat pellets. “So if somebody did something they shouldn’t have with evidence in that case, I shouldn’t be the one who pays for that.”
“Who said anybody did anything wrong?”
“I am telling you, Officer Tolliver, I am not going to prison for tampering with evidence. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He took a long pull on his cigar and then found an ashtray, the confident edge the coke had given him earlier starting to dull. “What exactly did they say to you?”
They had to wait as Kenny Makris said something that made everyone in the hall hoot and stomp.
“No one’s said anything yet.” Half-Nelson blinked her false eyelashes. “But there’s rumors around the courthouse that the defense has filed a letter with the judge and is asking the governor to start an independent investigation into the whole police department.”
“It’ll never go anywhere.” Joey expelled smoke, the back of his throat still throbbing from the coke leaking down. “Lawyers have tried that before.”
“Not usually in cases with white college girls who’ve been brutally murdered on their way home to see their mothers.”
“Trevor Knightsbridge raped and killed Stephanie Lapidus and he’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison for it. End of story.”
“Unless they keep looking into it,” she said in a low, anxious voice. “Listen, I shouldn’t be on the hook for this. But I’m listed as one of the officers who was supposed to be watching the car. You aren’t. I shouldn’t be held responsible.”
“You want to protect yourself?” He studied the lit end. “Don’t bet on long shots coming in. Kenny Makris was favored to win this race two to one after Phil O’Mara backed out. Ronnie Reagan just won in a landslide, second time around. No one loves an underdog anymore, Nelson. There’s not going to be any state commission or retrial as long as Kenny is DA. Figure out who your friends are and where your best interests lie. This could be a good time for us.”
The ballroom lights shimmered in her eyes in such a way that he thought she was about to start crying. Then Kenny Makris finished his speech, that “I’m proud to be an American” song came over the loudspeakers, and a shower of balloons fell from the ceiling. Joey kissed Nelson on the cheek and she teetered off like someone who’d never worn high heels before, disappearing from his sight amid the bouncing spheres of red, white, and blue.
13
AUGUST
2017
Chief Joseph Tolliver’s office in Yaphank was a testament to a long career dedicated to public service, culminating in a job as the operational head of one of the largest police departments in the United States.
There were photos of the chief with a mighty squadron of motorcycle cops in shiny leather boots astride dozens of gleaming hogs. Then there were photos of the chief with key political figures including the governor, both U.S. senators, and the new president himself shaking hands with Tolliver in the Oval Office. Along all the walls were plaques from Mothers Against Intoxicated Driving, framed letters of appreciation from other law enforcement agencies, headlines from Newsday about major drug busts and immigration roundups, and a glass trophy case full of awards and statues for personal valor in the line of duty, support for local civic organizations, and success in martial arts competitions.
No wonder we had so much trouble getting a meeting with him, Lourdes thought. We weren’t offering a prize.
“Sorry it took so long to set this up,” the chief was saying. “I really appreciate the two of you making the long haul to get out here.”
Lourdes could see right away why he had been put in charge. He projected the air not only of a man’s man, and a cop’s cop, but also kind of a likeable guy. A great combination if you were going to be the head of a sprawling department overseeing a bunch of little towns and fragile egos. He wasn’t a humongous dude, but he had a compact muscular physique that he was obviously proud of. As a former fatty herself, she had to respect that. His hair was shaved down to stubble and he had a Magnum PI mustache that imbued him with a serious studly authority. But he had a goofy laugh and an easy way of smiling that could help you forget that you’d just spent an hour and a half in traffic on the expressway trying to get out here. Within seconds, he had such a relaxed jokey rapport with B.B. that she wondered if they’d already been out drinking whiskey and smoking cigars at some high-end steak house.
The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why something in herself was holding back and refusing to yield to his charm.
“Good ol’ Charlie Maslow gave me the update and I want you to know that we take all these cases very seriously,” Chief Tolliver was saying. “But we also see them a little differently.”
“Really?” She found the end of her pen between her teeth. “You had three women found dead on your side of the county line. Had you already connected them to the women found dead on the Nassau side before we contacted you?”
“I’m still not really sure there is a connection,” Tolliver said mildly, like it was something you could talk him out of. “I know I don’t have to tell you guys that things can start off looking one way and end up being something else entirely.”
“Yeah, I hear that.” B.B. grinned as the chief’s secretary brought him an espresso brewed on Tolliver’s personal machine. “The best cup of coffee you’ll have on Long Island,” Tolliver had said. B.B. winked at the secretary with some of his old confidence. Like he was Frank Sinatra tipping the coatroom girl at Rao’s or some shit.
“Not to tell tales out of school…” Tolliver lowered his voice as the secretary exited and closed the door after her. “But our neighbors in Nassau tend to get a little overexcited sometimes.”
Was it just Lourdes’s imagination or was the chief consciously not looking at her every time he spoke?
“You saying these aren’t all murder victims?” She stopped chewing her pen.
“Of course that’s not what I’m saying.” The chief rocked back in his chair, arms in starched white uniform sleeves stretched behind his head. “But before we start getting crazy and making the local property owners hysterical about some alleged serial killer, let’s look at some facts.”
“Works for me.” B.B. took a sip and nodded approvingly.
“A lot of these killings you’re talking about are MS-13 related,” the chief said. “Salvadoran gang members killing each other and killing their girlfriends to keep them from snitching.” He paused and finally met Lourdes’s eye. “And no offense, miss, but a lot of them are people who shouldn’t be here in the first place.”
“Why would I get offended?” Lourdes shrugged. “I’m from Brooklyn. I couldn’t even find El Salvador on a map till I was in high school.”
So was he dissing her because she was Hispanic or because she was a woman? Or just because she was an outsider?
“What you have to remember is sometimes bad guys move bodies after they do the deed,” Tolliver said. “So we don’t know where anyone actually died. A few more of these might even be New York City murders, where the bodies got dumped in our territory. So somebody could be playing a numbers game and trying to make it look like our crime rate is up while yours is going down.”
“Hold the phone, chief.” Lourdes gave B.B. a double take to try to remind him who he’d brought to the dance. “You think we’re playing politics with homicide stats?”
“I’m not saying that
is the case, but anything is possible. Am I right?” Tolliver nodded at B.B., keeping the bond going. “Especially when people are trying to protect the value of their property.”
Lourdes shrugged, ready to concede that point to him. Real estate numbers in this part of the world were as important as air quality to people in the Bronx. She’d been googling real estate in Long Island on her iPhone while they were in traffic. Median sales prices for last year in the county were close to $400,000. Property taxes were some of the highest in the country. Which helped pay for decent schools, cops’ salaries, and spacious offices like the one they were in right now.
“Hey, my neighbors in Massapequa don’t want to hear they got a homicidal lunatic around the corner,” B.B. nodded. “They got a lot of money in their homes.”
“Exactly,” Tolliver said. “Which is why I’m just saying let’s not get caught up in smoke and mirrors.” He turned to Lourdes again. “Forgive me, miss, but I’m not completely sold on your Rockaway victim being part of a pattern that started out here.”
She pounced. “But you do see a pattern.”
“Of course, some of these cases could be connected.” Tolliver looked at B.B. as if to ask, Where did you find this dumb chick? “I just don’t buy that it’s Son of Sam all over again.”
“It could be worse, because this dude could be hella smarter,” Lourdes said, starting to get seriously irked.
“How do you figure?” Tolliver rested the side of his face against his palm.
She used her fingers to tick off her points. “He picks his victims more carefully. Makes sure they have minimal attachments. Changes his MO. Removes the bodies from the crime scenes and dumps them when no one’s looking…”
“Not that smart.” Tolliver grinned at B.B. “Or else he would have buried the fucking bodies. Right?”
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