by Carrie Smith
Julia nodded, but her look seemed to say, Why are you explaining all of this?
“I’ve also got to establish chain of custody for the video you showed me. That’s an important piece of evidence in this case. We’ll use it to convict your mother’s murderer.”
“So you do think it’s the caregiver—or the nurse?” she asked.
Codella ignored her question. “I need the camera that took that video, Julia. Otherwise, I can’t prove my case.”
“I see.”
“You still have it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”
“Good,” said Codella, and she pulled a form from her jacket pocket. “Then we can establish the chain of custody right now. Can you go and get it?”
Codella watched the flare of Julia’s nostrils on the intake of a breath. She saw the paralysis of her diaphragm as she held the air in and the blankness of her eyes in panic. “Who are you going to arrest? Is it Brandon or the nurse—or is it my father?”
Codella placed her palm on Julia’s knee. “Listen to me. You have to be strong in this. Whether it’s a stranger or someone close to you, that person is a murderer who must be punished. You can’t protect them. You need to help us.”
Julia nodded. “Yes, of course. I know that.”
“Get it now,” Codella insisted, and she watched the young woman rise slowly and uncertainly from the couch.
CHAPTER 66
Hodges deposited her coat on the waiting room chair in front of Heather Granahan’s desk. Then she walked straight to the powder room at the end of the hall, locked the door, set her purse on the sink, and reached inside for the small bottle she’d purchased yesterday evening. She broke the seal and drank. How was she any worse than Merchant downing his two bourbons an hour ago? They both needed shoring up right now. They would cooperate, and they would get through this. He would call off the Eldercare dogs, and she would attest to his loyalty. Codella would find out who had killed his wife and Baiba. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t possibly be him.
She dropped the empty miniature into her purse, combed her hair, and poured mouthwash from a large bottle into one of the small white cups kept on a tray for that purpose. She swished the mouth-stinging liquid around and spit it into the sink. Then she wiped her lips, applied fresh lipstick, and smiled at herself. Anxiety almost immediately loosened its grip on her mind and muscles. But then, out of nowhere, a chilling question entered her mind: What if Thomas had done it? What if she had just made a deal with a murderer?
She stepped out of the powder room and into her office, shut the door, and sat on her couch. What if he had used Baiba to murder his wife, and then killed Baiba to keep her from talking? But why? It always came down to that. Why would he kill his wife? She was harmless to him. And by keeping her here, he looked like the devoted spouse. It was in his best interests for so many reasons to keep Lucy alive and well cared for—unless Baiba had threatened to tell his dirty little secrets if he didn’t marry her. Had she coerced him into a violent act? Had he, in a moment of desperation, conspired with Baiba to kill his wife and then murdered Baiba, too?
Don’t think about it, Hodges told herself. All that mattered was Park Manor—not the place, but her place in it. If she lost her position, where could she possibly go? No other institution would have her after a scandal like this. She was fifty-four years old, she had no husband, and without Park Manor, she would have no role or status in this status-conscious city. People would cease to ask her to cocktail parties or invite her to sit at their fundraiser tables. The older men of Park Manor would no longer wink at her. She had even entertained the idea of marrying one of them. Why not? It was a better retirement plan than her 401(k).
If she left Park Manor, she would soon be forgotten. That was the painful reality of life on this island. You were what you had and what you did, and if you had or did nothing, you didn’t belong anymore. You didn’t really exist. And Constance couldn’t handle that. She had to shield Thomas so that he would protect her.
She called Michael Berger. “It’s time for us to address the press.”
CHAPTER 67
Codella sat in her car and listened to the voicemail messages from McGowan and Detective Cooper. She called Cooper back first. “That Juice Generation cup on Lielkaja’s table?” he said. “It contained oxycodone.”
“So we’ve got a loose connection between the deaths. Very loose. But it’s a start.”
“The CSU guys think it’s suicide, and the autopsy revealed no evidence that someone forced her to swallow the drug. So it looks like maybe she killed Lucy Merchant and then she killed herself.”
“No. That’s not what happened, Cooper. I don’t care what anyone says. I think I know what happened.”
Five minutes later, she called back McGowan. “Where are you?” he snarled. “Get the hell up here. I want to talk to you.”
She was in his office doorway ten minutes later. “You must have really pissed off Merchant yesterday,” he said.
“What makes you say that?”
McGowan stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. “Because his attorney called the DA’s office to complain about you, and then I got a call from One Police Plaza. I don’t like getting calls from 1PP, Codella.”
“Who complained? Martinelli?”
“Whatever her name is. She accused you of trying to intimidate her client. Jesus Christ, Codella.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Bullshit or not, it’s what she’s saying. And they’re listening. I told you that you were playing with fire.”
“It means he’s feeling the heat.”
“And so am I,” snapped McGowan. “I’m clipping your wings. You’re off it. Lielkaja’s a suicide—I just got the report—and Fisk will take over the Lucy Merchant investigation.”
“But I’ve almost got it wrapped up. I just need one more day.”
“You’re out of days,” he said. His right hand came out of his pocket, and he wagged a finger in her face. “This is what happens when you try to go it alone. You never learn, Codella. Now go write up your notes and turn them over to Fisk. That’s an order.”
“You can’t do this, Lieutenant.”
“I just did.” He turned away.
CHAPTER 68
Brandon was sitting in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Tenth Avenue and Thirty-Sixth Street when Maybelle Holder called his cellphone. “Where you at, Brandon?”
He told her.
“Oh man, everybody got something to say about you today.”
“Yeah, well, it’s all lies. I didn’t do anything.”
“I believe you,” assured the caregiver. “But Merchant got Hodges on his side now.”
“What do you mean?”
“They doing a big press conference here at five o’clock.”
“A press conference?”
“Right outside the building. Her majesty call everybody together and tell us nobody allowed to come and go from the building while it going on—even on our break.”
Brandon stood up and tossed his coffee cup into the trash. “I’m coming up there. I’ll talk to you later. Thanks, Maybelle.”
“You watch yourself, Brandon.”
Brandon caught the Number 7 subway at the Hudson Yards, transferred to the Number 6 at Grand Central, and was in front of Park Manor twenty-five minutes later. A large crowd had gathered just around the corner from Madison Avenue in front of Park Manor’s main entrance. Cameramen held heavy camcorders on their shoulders. At least six or seven reporters gripped microphones connected to satellite uplink vans nearby. A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered as well. Brandon positioned himself at the back of the crowd.
They all waited at least twenty more minutes in the cold. The sun had descended now, and bright lights mounted on tripods illuminated the steps to Park Manor. Finally, several people emerged from within the building. Brandon spotted Constance Hodges and Thomas Merchant among them.
Hodges stepped in front o
f a microphone stand and introduced herself. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. She had applied fresh lipstick. She stared into the crowd confidently and said, “As you know, a sad event occurred at Park Manor on Monday morning. Lucy Martinelli Merchant passed away. I can tell you that all of us at Park Manor are honored to have provided a caring, comfortable home to Mrs. Merchant in the last eighteen months of her life. We share her loving family’s deep grief, and we join them—Thomas and Julia—in extending our condolences to everyone around the city and around the world who also mourn her death.”
Hodges paused and stared at the faces in the crowd. She was a polished speaker, Brandon thought, but everything she said was a lie.
“There are still unanswered questions surrounding Mrs. Merchant’s death,” Hodges acknowledged, “and Park Manor is working hand-in-hand with the police and the Merchant family to answer those questions.” She paused before adding, “The recent suicide of our care coordinator Baiba Lielkaja has come as an additional shock to our Park Manor community, and we mourn her loss as well.” She gave a tight smile that Brandon knew from experience was completely insincere although others, he surmised, would interpret it as fortitude. “Watching a loved one face devastating illness is not for the faint of heart. As the executive director of Park Manor, I have seen many residents take their final journeys. I have watched family members struggle to come to terms with loss. I have observed many courageous acts of love and loyalty. Lucy Merchant’s family has stood by her throughout her illness. Thomas Merchant is here with me today, and I’d like to turn the microphone over to him with a message for all of you.”
Brandon watched the carefully choreographed movements of Hodges and Merchant as they traded places on the Park Manor steps. Merchant had to bend slightly to be closer to the mics. He spoke confidently and with no script. “I first saw Lucy Martinelli on the stage of the Majestic Theater when she was performing Vegas Nights in 1993, and I had the honor of going backstage to meet her after the show. What can I say except that Lucy was beautiful inside and out. She was a brilliant performer. And she was a loyal friend, wife, and mother. I will always treasure the years we had together.”
He paused, took out a handkerchief, and wiped at his left eye before he continued.
“My wife, as many of you know, was uncompromisingly committed to the arts. I remember the day we were dining in our favorite restaurant, the Four Seasons, and she insisted we do something to help struggling artists. Her vision became the Lucy and Thomas Merchant Foundation, and through it we have supported independent theater productions around the country, ensuring that young artists have hundreds of small venues in which to perfect their craft. While I am personally devastated to have lost my beautiful wife, I’m happy that the foundation we started together lives on in her name.”
Merchant scanned the faces in the crowd, and Brandon ducked behind a taller man to ensure that their eyes did not meet.
“When my wife began to exhibit the signs of early onset Alzheimer’s disease two years ago, I learned firsthand what that illness does to victims and their families. I created another foundation—the Lucy Martinelli Merchant Alzheimer’s Research Foundation. In the last year alone, that foundation has funneled twenty million dollars into research to help speed new drugs to the market. I just wish I had started that foundation in time to help Lucy. We have got to eradicate this terrible disease that strips people of their minds and robs them of years of productivity.”
He paused again—for effect, Brandon thought. He was a liar. But he was a bold and convincing liar. Everyone in the crowd was nodding at his words. He would get away with his lies. People would focus on the millions of dollars he had given away. He would look like a hero. It wasn’t fair. Who was going to put the hard questions to him? If Lucy meant so much to you, why did you fuck Baiba Lielkaja, and who else did you fuck?
Brandon wanted to push his way through the crowd, shove Merchant aside, and shout into the microphones, Let me tell you the truth about this man. He didn’t just take his wife to the Four Seasons. He also wined and dined Baiba Lielkaja there, and then he took her home, fucked her, beat her up, and turned her head around with expensive jewelry and flowers. Brandon would tell them how Lucy Merchant really felt about her husband. He could tell them about the time Merchant came into her room and she screamed, No, Daddy, no! He could tell them how she had once picked up a framed photo of him and smashed it on the floor.
Merchant was speaking again. “And as you can imagine, this has not been an easy time for my family, and I ask all of you to respect our need for privacy as we mourn. We also want answers to how Lucy died, and we will do everything in our power to get those answers. Nothing is more important to me than finding out the truth. I want to end my statement by thanking everyone out there who has sent messages of love and condolence our way. They are comforting to my daughter and to me, and I know that Lucy would be so grateful for them. Thank you all.” Then he turned his back to the microphones as questions roared from reporters in the crowd.
CHAPTER 69
“Just tell me, am I right?” Codella knew her words sounded more like a plea than a question. She was now disobeying McGowan’s direct order.
Muñoz moved the glossy four-by-six photograph under his desk lamp and stared at it long and hard. “You’re right. You’re definitely right. What does it mean?”
“It means I’ve been lied to all along and didn’t see it coming.”
“It’s understandable.”
“It was stupid. I ignored the signals.” She shook her head and slapped Muñoz’s squad room desk in frustration.
“We’re only three days into this,” he reminded her. “We’ve sifted through a lot.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “It ends today. I’m going to make an arrest. I’m out of time.”
“But you don’t have anything that will stick. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to talk to Merchant. I think he knows.” When Merchant had come to Manhattan North, she’d asked him all the wrong questions. The answers she needed, she realized now, were not concealed in the events of the past few days or weeks. They were buried in the dirt-black past. And if she didn’t dig them up soon, someone else would die.
“You want me to come?”
She shook her head. “No. I want you to get a search warrant.”
CHAPTER 70
Brandon sat on a bench against the stone wall separating Fifth Avenue from Central Park. Behind the wall was the Central Park Zoo, which was shut down for the winter. In front of him, cars and buses streamed south in an intermittent flow dictated by the timing of traffic lights. And across the avenue, Merchant’s building sat like a stately palace. Numbers on a crisp green awning announced the exclusive address. Meticulously groomed shrubs decorated the base of the limestone façade. Intricate wrought-iron railings secured windows at ground level. And two doormen in caps, coats, and white gloves anchored the picture of fortified elegance.
Each time a resident arrived, one of the doormen held the door. Whenever a car pulled up, one of them flew curbside to assist. What would they say when he walked across the street and asked them to put Mr. Merchant on the house phone? More important, how would Merchant respond when he said, Let me come up or I’ll hold my own press conference. I’ll tell my story, and you won’t like it a bit.
The last streaks of pink had faded into the inky black sky by the time he worked up the courage to cross Fifth Avenue. He stepped under the awning, and the two doormen turned. “I’m here for Mr. Merchant,” he told them. “I—”
One of the doormen pointed his finger toward Sixty-Fourth Street. “Side entrance,” he said.
Brandon gave him a confused look.
“The penthouses have their own elevators, young man.”
Brandon nodded and walked around the corner to an equally stately entrance guarded by a third doorman. “I’m here to see Mr. Merchant.”
The eyes looked at him suspiciously. “He isn’t home.”
&nb
sp; “Are you sure?”
The eyes looked annoyed. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“When will he arrive?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Brandon wasn’t sure he believed the doorman. Where else would Merchant have gone after the press conference? He stepped outside and stood against the wall just beyond the doorman’s view. He would wait. He would have his audience.
CHAPTER 71
Codella crossed Central Park at Eighty-First Street, turned onto Fifth Avenue, weaved around the M1 bus, and pulled the car in front of Merchant’s building. A doorman came out at once and said, “You can’t stay here, ma’am.”
She showed him her shield. “Is Mr. Merchant home?”
“His entrance is around the corner.”
Codella turned the corner and parked in front of the side entrance. And then she saw him in the shadows. He was leaning against the building, wearing the same green parka he’d worn to the station last night. She lowered her window. “What are you doing here, Brandon?”
He walked over. “Waiting for him.”
“Waiting for him why?”
“To talk.” She heard the resolve in his voice.
“Just talk?”
He didn’t respond.
“Get in the car. Right now.”
A doorman approached. “Is there a problem here?” His eyes darted from Codella to Brandon and back.
“No problem,” said Codella.
“Because I can call the police if—”