Lourdes glanced at B.B., trying to figure what this old crank was on about. Or what he hoped to protect. From the brief look they’d had upstairs, there was no Mrs. Rattigan and no other family to look out for. He seemed like the kind of man who would have driven off anybody close to him years ago and now was surviving pointlessly.
“I could still have skin in the game,” Rattigan said abruptly, as if he’d just been shaken from a slumber. “Kenny Makris is still the DA and there’s no mandatory retirement age for investigators. You know, I just put an application in the other day. How’s it going to look if I’m going around talking trash?” He turned to B.B. “You might want to consider that as well. You look like you aren’t getting any younger yourself.”
Lourdes waited for B.B. to deflect him or say something to turn the conversation back in a comfortable direction. Instead, he just looked down at his shoes again. As if the suggestion of time running out had shaken him as well.
“Go on, get out of here.” Rattigan shuffled toward the stairs to show them the way out. “I’ve said enough already. In fact, I’ve said a lot more than I should have.”
“Can we at least leave a card?” Lourdes asked. “If you change your mind about talking to us.”
“Hell no!” Rattigan raised his arm as if he wanted to backhand her. “Watch your step getting out of here. The ceilings are low.”
26
JULY
1995
The last time Leslie was out in this part of Long Island, the pub was called Cheers Too. Now it had been turned into a TGI Fridays with a standardized menu, Marilyn Monroe on the walls, Tiffany lamps, stripes instead of checks on the tablecloths. But the seats of power were still at the banquette in back, where she sat facing the district attorney, Kenneth Makris, during a relatively quiet happy hour.
“You know I really would have preferred to have had this meeting at your office or at another more discreet location,” she said.
“Why?” The district attorney raised a glass of wine. “I don’t have anything to hide. Do you?”
“Sir.” She rapped her knuckles on the table and then realized she needed to pace herself. “We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Captain Tolliver and his history.”
“You have most of his service record.” He gestured at the file on the seat beside her. “I’ve always known him to be a dedicated public servant. He’s brought us a lot of good cases and has always testified credibly.”
“I was at the Lonnie Donges trial several years ago.” She pushed aside the plate full of wilted salad leaves that she hadn’t touched. “I did not find that testimony credible in the least. In fact, I’m surprised your office didn’t initiate an investigation on its own into whether Tolliver perjured himself on the stand.”
Kenny frowned, as if his hamburger was giving him indigestion. “Ms. Martinez…”
“It’s Jesperson now.”
“Ms. Jesperson. I thought you’d already looked into this back in ’89…”
“When I was pressured into filing a report prematurely and shut down after one of my key witnesses died under suspicious circumstances.”
“I looked into Amy Nelson’s death personally and found nothing questionable about it. And I believe Captain Tolliver and his lawyer went up to Albany and answered your questions personally. I was told that they presented incontrovertible evidence that he could not have been involved…”
“Yes, I know. I saw the Halloween pictures. You’re part of his alibi. But we’re developing some evidence to undercut that.”
She’d known she was going to get resistance, trying to jump-start this investigation again. Especially since there were stories of an unholy alliance going back years between Makris and Tolliver. But she had a feeling that the DA would sever his ties under the right circumstances.
“What kind of evidence?” Makris asked, glasses slipping down his nose.
“Let’s just say it’s early days, but some people are talking who might have been afraid before.”
It was only a partial bluff. She’d reached out last week and had coffee with Tom Danziger, one of the other officers in the Ninja Turtles photo. He had served under Tolliver and still seemed deathly afraid of him. But he’d definitely perked up when she said she had connections with the incoming state attorney general’s office, and she had a feeling he could be leveraged into opening up about Joey T. if she played him right.
“You sure it’s not just sour grapes?” Makris put too many teeth into his smile. “There’s a lot of older cops who are bitter about being leapfrogged by Joey and all too willing to talk trash to an attractive female investigator.”
The compliment landed like unexploded ordnance. Inexpertly delivered and wide of his mark.
“It’s not just sour grapes,” she said. “It has to do with Tolliver’s history. Isn’t your office supposed to independently investigate police-involved shootings?”
“In certain situations.” He pushed back his glasses with a touch of defensiveness. “Why do you ask?”
“Did you ever take a second look at the fatal incident involving Tolliver and Randy Carter in Smithtown?”
“No need.” Makris shrugged. “Everyone agreed Mr. Carter had multiple guns in the house and he was waving one of them around when Joey and the other officer entered.”
“So you never reopened the case, even after Tolliver moved in and got married to the widow?”
“That was long after.” Makris waved a hand. “And I’m not in the business of investigating officers’ off-duty lives—”
“Well, maybe you should be,” she interrupted, picking up the tempo. “My understanding is that the neighbors have called 911 several times recently after overhearing disturbances in that house.”
“My, aren’t you the little busybody?” He rested a hand on his cheek.
She bristled almost literally, close-cropped hairs rising on her scalp. “I’m telling you, there is a pattern of troubling behavior from an officer you’ve been closely associated with throughout your career. I wouldn’t keep my star hitched to his wagon if I were you.”
“Are you threatening an elected official, Ms. Jesperson?”
“I’m giving you fair warning,” she said through a locked jaw. “Especially since I hear you have higher aspirations of your own.”
“Are you sure I’m the one with ‘higher aspirations’?” He crooked his fingers and offered a smile edged with contempt.
“The wheels are about to come off. You may want to get out in front of this.”
“You’re suggesting I hop aboard your wagon instead?”
“Joey Tolliver is bad news, Mr. Makris. This time, I’m going to get him.”
“You aren’t the first, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. If nothing else, the man is a survivor.”
A waitress came over to check on them. Leslie scared her off with an Iron Lady glare. This had been a mistake, she realized, trying to get the district attorney on her side for this. Makris would not be enlisted or even neutralized.
“Why are you protecting Tolliver?” she demanded, losing patience. “What does he have on you?”
He looked down, as if befuddled to find his napkin still neatly folded next to his plate. He picked it up and shook it out with a fury that did not seem purely connected to the present conversation.
“I’m on the side of any law enforcement professional devoted to doing his or her job,” he said, not meeting her eye.
“Then why aren’t you helping me?” Leslie asked.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” he muttered. “I need to ask you to respect my position.”
“How can I? We’re talking about at least four women dead and at least two men wrongly in prison.”
“I think this conversation is done.”
“We’re still sitting in a restaurant.” Leslie turned her head from side to side, looking at the other customers. “And neither of us are done eating. Should we just finish the meal in silence?”
“N
o, let’s just get everything to go.” Makris raised his hand. “Check please.”
27
SEPTEMBER
2017
When the white car first appeared in the upper right-hand corner of her mirror, Lourdes ignored it.
They had been way the hell out on the Island the day after seeing Rattigan, trying to track down some of the girls who’d been at the party where Magdalena said she’d almost been choked to death. Two of the three were no longer at the addresses and phone numbers she’d provided. The third was married with children in Syosset and had made it clear that no way was she ever talking about that part of her past, and if they didn’t get out of her driveway, she was calling the local bulls on them.
By the time the sun was starting to set on Sunrise Highway, B.B. was fed up. Too restless to sit in traffic back to the city, he had Lourdes drop him off at the nearest LIRR station and agree to sign out for him at the squad. He claimed he had a cousin he wanted to drop by and see near Massapequa. Which Lourdes translated to mean that all the talk of hookers and cocaine had gotten him nostalgic and horny, and he was probably headed off to see one of his old girlfriends.
Not that Lourdes honestly minded having time on her own to listen to her own music and think about the case on the way back to the city with windows down and the breeze in her face. Having the chance to finally put her eyes on these Long Island parkways, nature preserves, and wildlife refuges where the bodies were found made the cases feel much more real to her. Someone had actually done this over and over again for several decades without getting caught.
Other guys in the squad were going to have trouble swallowing that a cop could have done this. Even the suggestion would be heresy to some. But Lourdes was starting to warm up to it. She’d known a few head cases who had somehow made it past the NYPD psych services exam. And whoever did this was sharp enough to evade detection as he selected his victims, murdered them, and got rid of their bodies. But the question that nagged at her as she hurled past the Olive Garden, Dollar Tree, and Dunkin’ Donuts with Nicki Minaj blasting, was, how could he have managed it on his own if he wasn’t someone as high up as Tolliver?
At least ten bodies and counting in thirty years. Somebody must have seen or noticed something suspicious in that time. She put pedal to metal and turned up “Anaconda” until the chassis shook as she began to focus in. Chain outlets and auto body shops gave way to wooded areas along the side of the road. Why would anyone keep quiet for so long? Talking to Rattigan had got her thinking about the nature of conspiracy cases, which normally were about money and power. It was only worth protecting someone if they had enough juice to make it worth your while. Serial killers weren’t usually big into the Favor Bank. They were lone wolves, which was why you never heard about Ed Gein and Jeffrey Dahmer handing out money and patronage jobs. Why would anyone literally enable a homicidal maniac?
The road had gotten dark and twisty. She realized it had been several minutes since she’d seen a streetlight or an open store. Nicki Minaj and the big snake were getting buried and lost in radio static. Her headlights caught the android-green eyes of a deer standing by a copse of trees on the right, getting ready to dash out onto the road. She pulled out her iPhone to check Google Maps and her messages. There was a voicemail from John Gallagher, the state cop. She listened to it through the Bluetooth on the dashboard.
“Hey, I just talked to a lawyer named Ford upstate. He had news for us about the state investigations commission’s report and Leslie Martinez. Long story short, don’t hold your breath waiting to have an informed conversation with her. It’s a dead-end. Ms. Martinez left this earth a while back. Call me back, I’ll explain.”
She “left this earth”? The words struck her like a severed hand through the windshield. Why did he have to say it like that? Instead of just saying she passed. Her chest got tight and her scalp felt cold. She tried to call him back and had to leave a message when it went to voicemail. The road curved in the other direction and turned darker. Feeling lost, she called Mitchell, who was out, and then Sullivan.
“Yeah?” As usual, he picked up like they were already half an hour into a conversation.
“What’s a Bird Dog?” she said.
“Come again.”
“I told you we were going to see this old detective Billy Rattigan and he said he’d known Chief Tolliver since he was a witness in something called the Bird Dog case. I’ve been trying to look it up and not finding anything. You know what he’s referring to?”
“Sure he hasn’t lost his mind?” he asked. “I hear that happens with old cops who have too much time on their hands.”
“You don’t say…”
She moved into the left lane and slowed down a little, noticing that the headlights in the corner of her rearview had flipped up to high beams. She realized the white car had been lagging behind her for several miles, without her paying too much attention to it.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“I think someone is tailing me.”
The headlights started to get bigger and brighter in the glass as the car accelerated toward her. There were fewer cars on the road now and the lights increased to migraine-level intensity as they moved toward the center of her mirror. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she checked her side mirror to see where it was trying to pass her. Instead it dropped its velocity to stay directly behind her. Colored lights burst on, triggering her internal alarm system and removing any doubt that this was a police car.
“Damn,” she said. “It’s the police.”
“You’re the police.”
“I’m not in the city. I’m out here.”
She put on her directional signal and switched into the right lane, hoping the police car would just go by. Instead the driver flicked the high beams on and off, making his intention as blindingly clear as the reflected lights stabbing into her eyeballs.
“Pull over,” the voice on the loudspeaker said.
“I heard that,” said Sullivan. “Leave the phone on while they’re talking to you.”
She placed her phone in the recess between the seats, slowed down, and put on her rear flashers with an unmistakable sense of déjà vu. Like something like this had happened before, not necessarily to her, but somewhere around here. Part of a collective memory. The high beams went off as the police car pulled in behind the borrowed Charger she was driving. She could see two male officers get out.
She watched their approach in her side mirror, their silhouettes appearing and disappearing in the tick-tock red glow of her rear blinkers. Of course, they’d picked a spot where the signal was weak. These guys had this down to a science.
“Good evening.”
The officer who came up to her driver’s side window already had his hand on his gun. She was almost sure that it wasn’t one of the gym rats who’d taken down their license plate number outside Ronnie Meltzer’s house. But that was worse; it meant there were more of them. This one was stockier and sturdier, and he spoke with what sounded to Lourdes like a very slight Mexican accent. Clever that they would send another Latino to do this. This way, no one could say it was racist profiling.
“Good evening.” She started to reach for her billfold. “How you guys doing?”
“Ma’am, keep your hands where I can see them please. On the steering wheel.”
They weren’t playing. Not even a pretense of friendliness.
“I was going to show you my shield,” she said. “I’m on the job, like you are.”
“When we want your ID, we’ll ask for it,” said the other one, who was standing by the passenger side window.
He sounded younger and whiter than his partner, and more eager to prove something.
“Is there a problem, officers?” Lourdes asked, playing it straight and polite, knowing they were looking for excuses.
With their headlights off and both cars parked in the shade of the trees, a dashboard camera in the vehicle might not see
much. And she doubted they had turned on any body cameras. But they might be recording the exchange on audio with an idea of editing it later to make it sound like she was being belligerent and combative.
“You know that you were texting while you were driving, right?” the officer at the driver’s window said.
“I was?” She remembered Sullivan was silently listening.
“We saw your screen was lit up from behind you and then you switched lanes without signaling.”
“I’m sorry, officers. I didn’t see you when I looked at the phone.”
She realized it was going to be a while until she got to hear the Leslie Martinez story and see what work her predecessor had done out here previously. And whether she’d been tailed and messed with similarly. A little more information would be useful right about now.
“So—like, what?—you only follow the law when you think there’s a cop watching?” The one at the passenger side was plainly trying to gin up a reason to get furious with her.
“No, sir.”
That they were going to fuck with her now was a foregone conclusion. The open question was how far they would take it.
“And you know you were weaving all over the road,” said the one with the accent.
“I don’t see how that could be true, officer.” She raised her chin, trying to meet his eye without challenging him. “Is that what you recorded on your dashboard camera?”
“Never mind what’s on camera,” said the one at the passenger window. “Are you gonna argue with us?”
It was difficult to read his face in the dark. But he sounded hard and closed off. Like he was determined not to deviate from the steps needed to escalate this encounter.
“I’m not arguing,” she said. “I’m just trying to—”
“You want to fight this, there’s two of us and one of you,” he spoke over her.
The interior of the car had begun to feel humid and close, even with both windows open. As if they had found a way to suck the air out of the vehicle.
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