by James Hayman
“Yes. I was an entertainment lawyer but I haven’t worked for a few years now. I have plenty of money.”
“Well, that would be nice, but what do you do with yourself? Other than going to the theater twelve nights in a row?”
“And kidnapping the female lead?”
“Yes. Other than that.”
“Come with me. I’ll show you my other passion.”
Still holding her hand, Bradshaw led her toward the barn. They went in and he turned on the lights.
“This is my workshop. My retreat. The one place where I can feel fully whole.”
Zoe looked around. The barn was all one large open space with dusty wide-plank walls and floors, and heavy rough-hewn beams supporting the ceiling. To Zoe’s left was the black SUV he’d used to bring her here. To her right, a large open space filled with worktables and woodworking tools. All manner of saws, files and chisels. And some cutting tools like Zoe had never seen before. None of the tools were hidden. None of them locked away. All of them potentially deadly weapons. But none of them easily purloined. At least not at the moment.
Along the far wall were tree stumps and blocks of raw wood. “Did you cut down those trees yourself?”
“Yes. We have some walnut and cherry and, of course, plenty of maple and oak. But sometimes I’ll buy more exotic woods, mostly for my sculpture.”
Zoe let her eyes roam across an array of handcrafted sculptures of birds, figures, and abstract forms. She picked up one highly stylized sculpture of a woman that looked like a cross between a Modigliani painting and a primitive African figure.
“This is exquisite. Are you saying you carved this yourself? From raw wood?”
“Yes. I made everything here. That’s one of my favorite pieces that you’re holding.” His smile was almost shy. “It reminds me of you.”
Zoe wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
The smile broadened. “Would you like it? As a gift?”
“I’d love to have it. May I take it back to New York?”
There was a pregnant pause. “For the moment, I think we’ll just take it back to the house. You can put it in your room.”
“Well, thank you. It’s a lovely gift.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
He pulled her closer to him and kissed harder, allowing his tongue to explore her mouth. As Zoe returned the kiss, she found herself wondering how much longer she could keep her performance going.
She pulled back and said, “Let’s go back to the house and have something to eat, and perhaps another glass or two of that delicious wine.”
Chapter 36
At one-thirty a.m. on the same night, NYPD Sergeant Thaddeus Donaldson was riding through the mist-filled night at the north end of Central Park. He was seated on the back of his partner and best friend, a sixteen-hand, twelve-year-old chestnut gelding named Rambler. Sergeant Donaldson was a veteran of more than twelve years as a member of the department’s mounted unit, and because of his tenure and experience he’d been rewarded with what most in the unit considered the most plum assignment a mounted officer could get: patrolling the roughly one thousand acres of the park on horseback. As Donaldson approached the North Woods section of the park he slowed Rambler to a walk, then to a halt. He peered into the woods in the direction of one of the half dozen or so manmade waterfalls that were scattered about the area. No question. Someone or something was moving slowly toward the falls about fifty yards ahead of him. Though he could barely make out the dark shadow, he could tell it had the shape of a man. A man who Donaldson was pretty sure was dragging some kind of large bag toward the rocks that surrounded the falls. The cop dismounted and silently signaled Rambler to stay where he was. The horse was well trained and had had years of experience on the job. Donaldson was sure he would do what he was told.
The officer moved silently into the woods toward the man. Soon he could clearly see his prey. A big guy, maybe six foot two, with a full head of dirty blond hair. He was pulling what looked suspiciously like a black body bag toward the waterfall. Donaldson drew a Glock 19 from his holster and advanced silently till he was no more than ten yards away from his target.
“Freeze! Police!” he called out. “Put your hands over your head and keep ’em where I can see ’em.”
The man’s head snapped up. He looked around rapidly from side to side, and when he saw Donaldson he dropped his hold on the bag, turned and started to run.
“Stop or I’ll fire!”
The guy kept running. Donaldson fired a warning shot over his head and the guy stopped in his tracks. He turned. Looked back at Donaldson as if debating whether there was any point in trying run further. With Donaldson pointing the gun at his midsection, he apparently decided there wasn’t.
Instead he did what he’d been told and put his hands over his head. “What’s the problem, Officer?” the man asked in a tone of injured innocence.
“All right. You. Flat on the ground. Face down. Hands behind your back.”
There was a moment of hesitation. “But I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“I said down! Now!”
The man sighed, dropped to his knees and then lowered himself to a prone position on the rocks near the waterfall. Donaldson moved in. Pulled the guy’s arms behind his back and snapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists. Donaldson patted him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying any weapons. At the bottom of the man’s left leg he found an ankle holster and a small caliber automatic. He removed the gun.
“Hey, I have a permit to carry that and you have no right . . .”
“Shut up.”
The man stopped talking and Donaldson continued his search. In a side pocket of the guy’s jacket he pulled out a small but deadly-looking folding knife.
“I’m placing you under arrest . . .” Donaldson started reciting the suspect’s Miranda rights.
“All right, Hopalong,” the guy interrupted, and twisted his neck trying to look up. “I know my goddamned rights and your ass is going—”
“I said stop talking.” Donaldson’s words interrupted what the cop figured was going to be a long spiel about citizen’s rights. Finished going through the Miranda recitation. When he was finished he asked, “Where’s your ID?”
“Hey! You have no right to be handling me like this. I’m just an innocent citizen enjoying a walk in a public park.”
“Okay, innocent civilian, please show me your ID and tell me exactly why you were dragging what looks an awful lot like a body bag into the woods at this time of night?”
“Oh, fuck.”
“ID! Now!”
“Back pocket. Left side,” the guy said, resignation in his voice. Donaldson reached in and pulled out a brown leather wallet. A New York driver’s license identified him as Corey Ziegler. D.O.B. 6/22/82. Address listed as 543 West 12th Street, Apartment 4B, which Donaldson knew was way over on the West Side. It had to be close to, if not directly under the High Line—the old set of elevated freight tracks that had been transformed a few years back into an elegant public park and walkway. Donaldson took a business card from one of the slots in the wallet. It identified Ziegler as an attorney employed by a company called the Caswell Agency, which apparently offered theatrical and film representation. Donaldson figured Caswell must be a pretty profitable company, since it occupied some of the city’s most expensive real estate on the twenty-first floor at 51 West 52nd Street, one of Manhattan’s landmark office towers that had been nicknamed Black Rock and was located on the corner of Sixth Avenue.
“All right, Mr. Ziegler, maybe you’d like to tell me what you’ve got in the bag?”
“I have no idea.”
“You were dragging it into the woods and you don’t know what’s inside?”
“That’s right.”
“Since it happens to be a body bag, you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a human body in there, now would you?”
“I told you I have no idea what’s in there.”
/> “If you don’t know what’s inside, can you explain why you were dragging it off into the woods?”
There was a slight pause before Ziegler spoke in calm, measured tones. “I was simply taking a late stroll through the park. Getting a little air. And I almost tripped on that damned thing. Thought I’d better get it out of the way so nobody else would trip and maybe hurt themselves.”
“Just being a Good Samaritan, eh?”
“Well, I was.”
Donaldson stifled a laugh. It was a weak attempt at a lie but at least it was original. “Really? Well, since you discovered it by accident, I’m sure you won’t mind me taking a look so we can both find out what’s inside.”
“That’s up to you. But you know you shouldn’t just go looking at people’s private property without permission or probable cause.”
“Sorry, Mr. Ziegler. The simple fact that full body bags usually carry dead bodies, plus the fact that you tried fleeing the scene when I ordered you to stop, plus the fact that you say you came upon it by accident, gives me more than enough probable cause to take a look. I understand that you’re an attorney, but I’m pretty sure a judge would agree.”
Donaldson, keeping one eye on Ziegler, walked over to where the bag was lying on the rocks. Kneeling on one knee, he pulled down the zipper and separated the flaps. He pulled out his mini Maglite, flipped it on and peered into the bag. Gazing back at him were a pair of empty blue eyes and the pale and very dead face of Marzena Wolski, the young actress who starred in what just happened to be one of the Sergeant Donaldson’s favorite crime shows.
Donaldson swore silently to himself. He rose and looked down at Ziegler. “Does Marzena Wolski happen to be one of your agency’s clients?”
“What are you talking about?” Ziegler shouted.
“Your card says you work for a talent agency. One that represents actresses. There’s a dead actress in the bag named Marzena Wolski who’s been missing two weeks. She wouldn’t happen to be one of your clients, now would she?”
“A dead body? Jesus Christ, you’ve got to be joking. Poor Marzena! Oh my God! Marzena Wolski! How horrible.”
Donaldson told Ziegler to drop the histrionics and quiet down. He then used his cell phone to make the necessary calls to inform the department that he’d found the so-called Star-Struck Strangler and had placed him under arrest. Told his captain he’d just caught the guy in the act of trying to hide the body of his third and most famous victim.
“What are you doing?” Ziegler called out.
“Me? Exactly what you just heard me tell the department I was going to do. I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder. Just take a few minutes for the troops to arrive. While we’re waiting, maybe you want to tell me why you had to go and kill one of the stars of my wife’s favorite show. One of my favorites too.”
Ziegler started squirming. “I didn’t kill anybody! I couldn’t kill anybody. If there’s a dead body in there somebody else must have put it there.”
“Y’know, Mr. Ziegler, you really picked the right profession. What with all the bullshit you’re feeding me, I figure you just had to be a lawyer. Or a politician.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you, Mr. Ziegler. You sure as hell ain’t lacking in the chutzpah department,” said Donaldson.
Chapter 37
It was after two-thirty in the morning when the next call came in from Astarita. Maggie and McCabe had just gotten back to Bobby’s apartment and were sitting in the small office space that was temporarily theirs. Too anxious about Zoe to sleep and too tired from what had seemed like an endless twenty-four hours to do much else, they both sat silently leafing through the first day of notes and e-mails from the task force. As they read, McCabe was sipping from a glass of Macallan 12 single malt that had started at about three fingers but was now down to less than a pinkie. For her part, Maggie was chugging her second Brooklyn Lager straight from the bottle.
Just as McCabe was considering the wisdom of pouring another three fingers, the sounds of Ellington’s “Take the A Train” emerged from his pocket. Caller ID indicated it was Astarita.
“What’s up now? More from the homeless guy?”
“Looks like we got the son of a bitch. And it ain’t who we thought we were looking for.”
McCabe snapped to attention. He felt his pulse rate instantly shoot higher and, though he couldn’t feel it, he suspected his blood pressure was no doubt following suit. He pressed the speaker icon on the phone so Maggie could listen in. “Where? How? When?”
“Central Park. Like I said, about an hour ago. A horse cop found a guy named Ziegler dragging Marzena Wolski toward the North Woods in a body bag.”
“What about Zoe?”
“Not yet.”
“Did he tell you where she was?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what?”
“Just slow down and let me give you the short version. Like I said, around one-thirty a.m., this mounted cop named Donaldson comes across a guy dragging what appeared to be a heavy body bag through the park. Guy claimed he’d tripped over the bag in the dark and was dragging it out of the way so no one else would hurt themselves.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Definitely not kidding. Turns out the bag contained the very dead body of Marzena Wolski. She’d been strangled to death exactly like Jacobs and Wingfield before her.”
“But Donaldson didn’t actually see him killing her?”
“No.”
“So the guy wasn’t literally caught in the act.”
“Like they say, close, very close, but no cigar. Still, it obviously constitutes pretty compelling evidence that he’s our guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Corey Ziegler.”
“Does he fit the description we’ve got on the guy who took Zoe?”
“Nope. Once again, close but no cigar. Right size. Wrong complexion, blondish hair, not dark. Ramon Morales was still at the precinct when Donaldson made the collar. He called me and Diane first and I told him to wake up Mooney and his girlfriend and have them come back in to have a closer look. They both swear he’s not the same guy who was hassling them in the theater so it looks like that direction’s pretty definitely a dead end. Mr. A12’s not our killer.”
“What about the homeless guy? Jamil Harris?”
“He says he’s not sure. Says Ziegler could be the guy. But he’s not exactly the most reliable witness in the world.”
McCabe’s mind was racing. The guy they’d seen in the videos had that stupid bush hat covering his head so maybe he really was blond. Lighting and focus on the video sucked, so McCabe figured that was possible. On the other hand, what if this guy Ziegler really had tripped on the damned bag and was telling the truth about dragging it out of the way. Sounded weird, but weirder things had happened.
He let that swirl around in his mind for a while and then said to Art, “I still want the DNA reads from that wad of chewing gum. I’m not a hundred percent convinced.”
“No problem. It’s already in the works. I’ll text you a photo of Ziegler.”
“Press pick up on it yet?”
“Not yet. They’re aware a body’s been found and a suspect has been detained. Hard to hide once Donaldson called in the arrest. But they don’t know for sure who the body belonged to. Even if they’re assuming it’s Wolski, they can’t go to press without official confirmation. Also they don’t know who we have in custody. They’re probably assuming it’s their Star-Struck Strangler, but again they can’t go public till we confirm it. And for the time being all our people have been ordered to admit to nothing and keep their mouths shut.”
“Tell me about Ziegler.”
“So far he’s not saying a word. Business card in his wallet says he’s an attorney for a company called the Caswell Agency. It’s a talent agency that according to their Web site represented not just Wolski but also Wingfield.”
“But not Jacobs?”
“No.”
“I’ve heard of Caswell,” said McCabe. “It’s one of the biggest in the business. Guy named Alan Petras, who I went to film school with, used to be an agent there. For all I know he still is.”
“Petras? Yeah, he’s still there. I looked it up. Petras runs the New York office.”
“Interesting.”
“Very. Why don’t you get in touch with your old schoolmate, Mr. Petras, and see what he can tell you about Ziegler?”
“You said Ziegler’s not talking?”
“Not a peep.”
“Ask for a lawyer?”
“Not yet. But according to his business card, he is a lawyer, so maybe he thinks he’s covered.”
“Jerk. Doesn’t he know what Abe Lincoln said? Any lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.”
“Yeah, I know. And in this case an arrogant fool. Morales and Capriati have been working him over for nearly an hour. They’re still at it. Refuses to answer a single question. Just sits there with a smug look on his face smiling at them.”
“What’s he got to smile about?”
“Beats me. But so far not a peep out of him. At the moment, he’s sitting all by himself in our small interview room. Just looking around and occasionally glancing up at our not so hidden camera.”
“How much should I let Petras know?”
“Charlie Pryor wants to schedule a televised press conference tomorrow morning at noon, so Ziegler’s arrest will go public then. Plus the fact that we suspect him of Jacobs’s and Wingfield’s deaths and Zoe’s abduction as well as the murder of Wolski. So the short answer is use your own judgment.”
McCabe broke the connection with Astarita. He’d occasionally touched base with Alan Petras over the years and knew his cell number. He tapped it in.
“Jesus Christ, Michael McCabe! I assume this is my old friend Mike McCabe from NYU who later became the famous and fearless Detective McCabe?”
“One and the same. Sorry to call in the middle of the night.”