by James Hayman
“Is Zoe there?” There was more than a bit of anxiety in his brother’s voice.
“No, just Maggie and me,” he said, becoming more alert. “Why?”
“She’s missing.”
“What do you mean missing?”
“Just what I said. I can’t find her anywhere. She doesn’t answer her phone. She hasn’t responded to either e-mails or texts. I called all her friends. At least the ones I’ve met or she’s mentioned by name. Including her ex-boyfriend . . .”
“The doctor?”
“Yeah, Dr. Asshole who she was living with till she kicked him out a couple of weeks ago. But nobody, including said asshole, has a clue where she is. And none of them could suggest anyone else to call. I left her messages about Mam and I was hoping she’d be up there with you and had just turned her phone off or it had run out of power or something.”
“Have you gone to her apartment?”
“That’s where I am now. I buzzed the buzzer about ten times. No answer. I managed to get inside the building when one of the other tenants opened the door to leave. I’ve been banging on the door of her apartment and nobody answers.”
Maggie mouthed the words, “Who is it?”
McCabe mouthed back, “Bobby,” then spoke into the phone. “And you don’t have a key?”
“No. Zoe didn’t want me dropping in unexpectedly. Not that I ever would.”
“What’s her address?”
“One-twenty-one Clinton Street on the Lower East Side. Apartment 5F.”
“All right. Stay where you are till you hear from me. I’m going to call in a favor from an old friend. Guy I worked with for three and a half years on the NYPD. He was my partner as well as a friend.”
“Who?”
“Cop named Art Astarita. Lieutenant Art Astarita. Last I heard he was he was running detectives down in the Seventh Precinct, which covers the Lower East Side where the apartment is. I’ll try to reach him and call you back.”
Astarita’s cell number was still permanently etched into McCabe’s brain. He went out of the room to the hall before hitting Call.
“Well, Jesus Christ. Michael McCabe. How the hell are you?”
“Hey Art. To be honest I’ve had better days.”
“Sorry to hear it. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I’m in town because my mom’s up at Montefiore. Doesn’t look like she’s gonna make it out.”
“Aw, geez. I am sorry to hear that. She’s a nice woman. I always liked her. As I recall from our partnering days, she made the best pasta fagioli any Irish lady ever turned out. Please give her my best.”
“Thanks, Art. I’m not sure she’ll understand but I will. Anyway, what I’m calling about isn’t Mom. It seems my niece, my brother’s daughter . . .”
“Didn’t know Tommy had a daughter.”
“My other brother, Bobby.”
“The lawyer?”
“Yeah. Seems his daughter, Zoe, has turned up missing. You’re still with the Seventh, right?”
“I am.”
“Okay then. She lives right in your neighborhood. One-twenty-one Clinton.”
McCabe filled Astarita in on what Bobby told him. “My brother needs to get into the apartment. Make sure nothing bad’s happened to Zoe. Specially since she happens to be an actress.”
“I guess that means you heard about our serial killer?”
“Yeah. It’s on the news everywhere. Even in Maine. I was hoping you could send somebody over to lend Bobby a hand and check things out.”
“No problem. In fact, I’ll head over there myself. Make things simpler if you tell your brother to hang by the building front door and let me in when I get there. Ten minutes max.”
“Will do.”
“Will I get to see you?”
“I’ll be on my way downtown as soon as I can get my sister over here to sit with my mother. I don’t want her to die without at least one of us being here to hold her hand.”
“How long you think?”
“Probably take a while but I’ll see you when I get there. If not at the apartment, then at the precinct. And if you find anything wrong, please let me know. In fact, let me know in any event. Zoe’s my only niece and she means a lot to me.”
“Of course.”
McCabe broke the connection. He called Bobby back and told him to expect Astarita and that he’d be there himself as soon as he could. And then he called Frannie and asked her to head over.
“You want me to go with you?” Maggie asked him.
“Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, what I’d like you to do is stay here with Frannie and Rose.”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“I know, but at this point she barely knows me either. And I’d like you to spend a little time with her. You are almost family.”
“Almost family.” Maggie mused on the phrase. “Funny. I never thought we’d ever get to this point.”
“No. Me neither.”
She leaned in and gave her brand-new fiancé a kiss. He drew her in and hugged her hard. “I’m glad we did.”
“Yeah. Even if Shockley’s gonna have a shit-fit.” Tom Shockley was head of the Portland PD, and there was a definite rule against intimate relations between supervisors or supervisees to which he could no longer turn a blind eye if and when Maggie and McCabe exchanged vows.
“We’ll ignore him. Won’t even invite him to the wedding. And don’t worry about Rose,” she said. “I’m happy to stay with her. And it will give me a chance to get to know your sister a little.”
“Thanks. I’ll take the subway and leave the car with you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Probably be faster or at least no slower.”
“Call me and let me know what’s going on.”
“Yeah. You too. Especially if anything happens.”
Chapter 16
McCabe caught the elevated southbound 4 at Mosholu Parkway station. As long as the train stayed above ground or was stopped at a station he would have cell service. Astarita could reach him. So could Maggie. But as soon as the train entered an underground tunnel, the little no-service indicator would pop on the screen and stay there.
The exploits of the serial killer who preyed on performers had made the news everywhere. Zoe was way less well-known than any of the first three victims, but otherwise she fit the killer’s profile to a T, and McCabe found himself whispering a silent prayer that Astarita and Bobby wouldn’t find anything bad, and that maybe Zoe should get the hell out of the city for a while. Go to Maine, go to L.A., go wherever until the bad guy was caught.
The damned train seemed to be taking forever, stopping and starting between stations, and waiting for trains ahead of it to start moving as it headed south into Manhattan. For the whole ride McCabe stared at the screen on his phone, if just in case, by some miracle, it latched on to a signal. It didn’t. Not even during the brief stops at the stations. He didn’t get one until he got off the 4 at East 59th and waited for the downtown F. There he saw texts from both Bobby and Astarita. No solid information. Just a call-as-soon-as-you-get-this message from both. He called Astarita first.
“Art?”
“Yeah. You better get over here as fast as you can. We’ve got a murder on our hands,” said Astarita. He hastened to add, “And no, it’s not your niece.”
McCabe breathed a small sigh of relief. “Okay, keep going.”
“The victim is Zoe’s next-door neighbor. Woman named Annie Nakamura. Looks like some creep beat her to death and stuffed her body in a closet.”
“Motive?”
“Not sure. She’s fully dressed. Not robbery either. Whoever it was left her wallet in her bag. Couple of hundred bucks in cash and half a dozen credit cards.”
“What about Zoe?”
“No idea. She’s not in her apartment. But a table’s upended and what Bobby says was a Navajo rug is gone. My best guess right now is the bad guy wrapped her up in her own rug and took her with him.”
; “Meaning Zoe was the real target,” said McCabe, any sense of relief now evaporating.
“Yeah. I’m afraid I see Nakamura as nothing more than collateral damage. Bad guy probably ran into her on his way out with Zoe and decided to take her out as a possible witness. She was just one of those unlucky souls who turned up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Bobby still there?”
“Yeah. I tried to get him to go home. Told him we’d let him know as soon as we had anything. But he won’t budge. About the only way I can get rid of him is put a pair of cuffs on him and have a couple of uniforms perp-walk him out of here. And I’m not about to do that.”
“He’d sue you if you did.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“How’s he holding up?”
“Not so good. I’m sure he’s imagining the worst. Like I’m sure you are. Like I would if she was one of my kids. I figured I’d let him hang around till you got here. After I give you the grand tour, maybe you can take him home. I’ll leave word with the uniforms downstairs to let you in.”
“Okay. Be there in maybe fifteen or twenty max. F train’s just pulling in.”
McCabe broke the connection and hopped onto the half-empty car. Didn’t bother sitting. Just hung on to a pole feeling more than a little shell-shocked until the train got to Delancey and the doors opened. He took the stairs two at a time and half-walked, half-ran the four short blocks to Zoe’s place at 121 Clinton. The area immediately surrounding the building was blocked off by NYPD squad cars. A uniformed cop stopped McCabe about twenty yards from the entrance. McCabe showed his ID and badge and said Lieutenant Astarita was expecting him. The cop checked with Art, nodded, then called out to a second uniform manning the door. “Hey Zack, this is the guy the lieutenant said to let upstairs.”
The cop named Zack called to double check before letting McCabe go in.
He nodded in response to whoever was on the other end of his call. “Okay. Go on up. 5R.”
5R had to be the Anne Nakamura’s apartment. Zoe lived in 5F.
McCabe hit the elevator button and waited, drumming his fingers against his leg, until the car finally arrived and the door opened. Someone in a suit got off. The medical examiner? Maybe. One of Astarita’s detectives? More likely. Guy looked like a cop, and as the saying goes, it takes one to know one.
McCabe got in. Pressed 5. The elevator started rising. Slowly. Too slowly. Probably would’ve been faster walking up the five flights. When the door slid open, an overweight guy wearing a shiny suit and an ugly tie looked him up and down before asking, “Your name McCabe?”
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“I’m Hollister. Detective Pete Hollister.” Hollister held out his right hand. McCabe shook it.
“Lieutenant’s waiting for you. Wait here. I’ll get him.”
“Thanks.”
Crime scene tape was strung across the open doors of both 5F and 5R. A uniformed cop stood in front of Zoe’s door. Hollister ducked under the tape and entered 5R, the apartment to McCabe’s left.
To his right he saw Bobby leaning with his back against a wall on the far side of the open door to Zoe’s place. Not moving. Just standing there staring at the floor. McCabe walked over. Bobby looked up. His face looked blank. Like only half of him was there. The other half was stuck in some terrible, grieving place McCabe hoped he’d never have to go. He’d never seen his tough litigator brother look like this. Not when their father died. Not when Tommy was killed. Not at six o’clock this morning when McCabe and Maggie arrived at the hospital and Bobby was there, sitting alone with their dying mother.
Hollister came out. “Lieutenant’s going over the place with the crime scene crew right now,” he said. “Wants you to hang in. Said he’ll be with you soon as he can.”
McCabe nodded his thanks and turned his attention back to Bobby. “She’s gone,” Bobby said, his voice thin and empty. “Some bastard got into her apartment and took her away. I don’t know if they told you that.”
“Yeah. They did. But right now that’s just a theory. Might just have been a break-in and Zoe spent the night somewhere else.”
Bobby looked at his brother like he was totally full of shit. There were a few seconds of silence before Bobby spoke again. “Don’t try to feed me pabulum. You know as well as I do if she’s not dead yet, she probably will be soon.”
“No. We don’t know that. You don’t know that. Not yet.”
“Yeah, I do. I can feel it in my gut. And if she’s not dead yet . . . I don’t want to think about what he might be doing to her. What she must be going through. Probably better off if he’d killed her already. Like he did the woman in the other apartment. And that Jacobs woman they found on the beach at Westport. You hear about that?”
McCabe nodded. He and Maggie had listened to the story over and over again on 1010 WINS . . . All news, all the time . . . as they were approaching the city. The news reader talked about a suspected serial killer. How the murder was similar to at least one other confirmed death and how one more possible victim hadn’t been found yet. He didn’t know if the tabloids had given the guy a nickname yet but McCabe was sure they would. They always do with serial killers because it helps sell papers. Draw more viewers and listeners to the TV and radio news. Son of Sam. The Hillside Strangler. Cowboy Mike. BTK. Over the years there’d been dozens of them. Whoever this guy was, he was obviously targeting young performers. The body they found last week belonged to a woman named Sarah Jacobs, who was a dancer. The one before her, an actress like Zoe. And one other was still missing. Another actress who had a major role in a successful TV crime drama. It didn’t take a profiler to know that Zoe, aside from the fact that she was not nearly as well-known as the others, was still a perfect fit, and McCabe knew Bobby knew that. He put his hands against Bobby’s two shoulders. “Look at me,” he ordered. Bobby looked up.
“We don’t know what happened yet. It might not be anything as bad as you’re thinking and we’re not going to give up on her before we know. She could be anywhere. With a friend. With a lover. Maybe her phone’s turned off. Maybe she just decided to take off on her own. Maybe she’s being held hostage by some kidnapper who’s holding on to her for ransom. But wherever she is, we’re going to find her. And the best thing you can do right now is keep your cool, try to stay hopeful. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure. Fine. Okay,” Bobby whispered, his voice hoarse with the strain of the moment. “But let me tell you what I need, Mike. I need you to find her. Wherever she is, dead or alive. Not your buddy Astarita. Not the FBI. You. To them it’s a job. Maybe it’s one they care about. Or maybe, if they put in too many years like Pop did, maybe it’s not even a job they give much of a shit about anymore. But even if they do, it’s still just a job. But for me and I know for you, this is more than that. This is family. Our family. Yours and mine. Just like Tommy was when that scumbag killed him. You’re good at this. You were one of the best the NYPD had. And I’m sure you’re the best Portland’s ever had. You know how to do it better than most of those guys in there. Maybe better than any of them. That’s why I need you to promise me not to go home. Not until we find Zoe. She’s your only niece. My only daughter. Find her. Find her dead. Find her alive. But find her. And when you do, I need you to find the guy who took her and do what needs to be done.”
McCabe didn’t react. At least not with words. Instead he kept looking into his brother’s bloodshot eyes and finally gave a small nod. He knew exactly what Bobby meant by Do what needs to be done. And McCabe’s problem was he felt exactly the same way. He knew, whatever the consequences, this was family and he would do what needed to be done.
Art Astarita was a good cop. He and McCabe had worked homicide together for over three years back in the day, and McCabe knew that as head of the detective squad in the Seventh Precinct, Astarita and his people would be all over this one. They’d do everything they could to find Zoe and the guy who’d taken her. In a serial killer case like this, the department would spare no re
sources to catch, arrest and indict the man who had kidnapped Zoe. And then send him to prison for the rest of his life. And for both McCabe brothers that was kind of a problem. Neither wanted any guy who’d raped or possibly murdered Zoe and probably three other women, if not four, spending the next forty or fifty years working in the prison laundry or making license plates.
McCabe put his arms around his older brother . . . his big brother . . . and pulled Bobby to him. “I’ll find her, Bobby,” he said softly, “I’ll take care of it.”
He wanted to add the words I promise, but he didn’t because he wasn’t sure it was a promise he could keep.
Chapter 17
Art Astarita ducked under the yellow crime scene tape strung across Annie Nakamura’s doorway and stepped out into the landing. “Hey, McCabe. CSU guys are mostly done in there. You can come on in if you want and have a look-see. The MLI is gonna be here any minute.”
McCabe turned to his brother. “Bobby, you stay here and let me see what I can see. Any cops tell you to move or to leave the building, tell ’em to talk to me or the lieutenant here.”
Astarita looked a little grayer than the last time McCabe had seen him, which must have been five years ago, but otherwise he looked about the same. Art stripped off a pair of latex gloves, and he and McCabe shook hands and then exchanged man hugs while Bobby maintained his post against the wall and looked on.
“Been a while, Art. How are you doing?”
“You know. Same old, same old.”
“And they’ve still got you running detectives out of the Seventh?”
“Yeah. Probably keep at it till they make me a captain and kick me upstairs or until I say the hell with it, move out to Montauk full-time and go fishing.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad it’s you running things and not someone I don’t know.”
Astarita gave him a questioning look. “Let me guess. That’s because of my unmatched talents solving murder cases?”
“Yeah, that. But also because I wanna work this one with you.”