by Nancy Grace
“It would mean a lot to me . . . Harry’s show really sells the books . . .”
“That’s exactly right! It does! Showcasing your book on Harry’s show could put you back on the New York Times top ten list! Wouldn’t that be great?”
“It really would . . .”
“Oh yes! I forgot to ask you! How are the children? They’re growing so much! Any of them following in Mommy’s footsteps? Anybody want to be a singer? Please tell me you have pictures with you!” Tony really was shameless.
“I do, as a matter of fact! I carry a little album in my makeup suitcase! Let’s sit on the sofa and go through them. Want some more hot tea?”
“I’d love some!”
Tony Russo was in Heaven. Snuggled together on the sofa, the two drank hot Throat Coat while Tony listened to stories about each of her four children, their braces, their schools, their manners good and bad, how they’d handled the divorce . . . by the time they’d gone through the huge binder of photos . . . Cassie Lake’s appearance on The Harry Todd Show was a lock.
It was like taking candy . . . from a baby. He couldn’t wait to call Sookie.
Chapter 37
IT WENT GREAT!”
“How can you say that?” Cassie Lake was in tears as she left the studio.
Tony was right beside her, his arm again entwined in hers. Actually, it hadn’t been bad at all, since Harry was, basically, in his starstruck, sucking-up mode.
But the few questions he’d read off his yellow cue cards regarding her divorce, her admitted alcoholism, and her eating disorder had really upset her. She’d addressed it all in her book, but talking about it unnerved her. It wasn’t until Harry read one of the last questions about how the divorce devastated her two-year-old that she really broke down.
Tony almost felt bad.
“You emoted! There’s nothing wrong with that! America will love you for it!”
“I thought we were just going to talk about the Radio City show and the book . . . I didn’t think it would be so . . . personal. I mean the questions about my relationship with my ex-husband were bad enough, but the ones about the children . . .” Cassie couldn’t finish her sentence for sobbing.
Tony offered Kleenex.
“Well, I think America is going to love you even more for this interview. And the photos you shared with us, the ones from the photo album . . . They were just so wonderful!”
“You know that’s the first time I’ve ever let them all be pictured on TV . . .”
“And we are so grateful!”
Tony walked her all the way to the limo, helped her in, handed her a wad of Kleenex, and slammed the door. He waved half-heartedly at the car as it eased away from the curb and into traffic. Whew. That was done. The taping was over, and Lake was safely, albeit in tears, headed to LaGuardia for the next outbound flight to L.A., and the show was in the can. And it would be a hit . . . the numbers would be huge!
Walking back through GNE’s thick glass doors, he felt a presence fall in step with him. It was Sookie. She’d actually driven to meet with Lake beforehand and watch the taping from the control room.
“Brilliant! Brilliant!” I can’t believe you got her! And she started crying! She could hardly make it through that horrible song you got her to sing! Did you write up Harry’s cue cards? I know he didn’t think of those questions himself! And the photos!!! How’d you ever get them? She never shows her kids on air!”
“I learned it all from you, Sookie! All from you! Want to have lunch?”
He almost hated to ask. Every lunch in the city was followed by a shopping spree of some sort and Tony would end up being bullied by Sookie into buying her things again.
“No . . . I can’t. I’m super-pressed for time.”
“You’re coming back for the Cassie Lake edits?”
“No way. You’ll have to handle it. I’ve got an appointment I can’t rearrange. It’ll go into the evening and I doubt I’ll be on cell. Can’t you handle it on your own? Oh, and did you pick up that stuff for me from the drugstore?”
“Sure did!” Tony had worked all his life to be in the world of TV. It had been his dream since he was a little boy watching sitcoms alone on the floor of his family’s den. TV was wonderful, magical . . . a whole different world from the one he lived in. Being part of it made him feel wonderful, too. And if he had to run errands and pick up laundry and get Sookie’s lotions and potions at the drugstore . . . so be it. He never complained.
“I have the receipt.” He knew she wouldn’t expect him to expense it.
“Oh, you cover it, I don’t have any cash. Anyway, Cassie Lake, what a get! It’ll go straight on the air!”
Tony walked her all the way to the glass doors and then out onto the sidewalk. He looked around for her usual driver in a sea of black limos, but then, a candy-apple-red Porsche Boxster Spyder pulled up to the curb. At the wheel was defense attorney Derek Jacobs.
“Hi, Sookie! You look fabulous today! Nobody wears a miniskirt like Sookie Downs. I’ve said it a million times.” Charm just oozed out of Jacobs.
“Hi, Tony.” Jacobs added it as an afterthought, and the effect wasn’t lost on Tony Russo.
Sookie’s face visibly brightened. “Hi, Derek! What are you doing at GNE?”
“I had a meeting around the corner. Want a ride?”
“Great!”
“Hop in.”
The two were off in a moment and Tony Russo watched as the Porsche’s red taillights disappeared around the corner. The celebration over the Cassie Lake booking certainly was short-lived.
But, hey, what was Tony expecting? A medal? Sookie was always all about the next show. In a couple of days, she’d forget all about how he was hunched down in the snow for hours waiting for Lake to show up. She’d forget all about how he had to sweet-talk her and hold her hand and look at countless family photos of her kids crammed into a thick album . . . how he sought out, bought, and made her special Throat Coat tea. It would just be another show, another rating.
Tony’s BlackBerry buzzed. It was an e-mail alert from the show’s editorial producer. A guy had just thrown battery acid onto his ex inside a cell phone store in New Jersey. A show producer was on her way to the hospital.
His heart raced and he nearly clicked his heels together as he practically ran back inside and headed for the elevators.
Chapter 38
SO, YOU’VE GOT A BULLET MATCH ON ALL THREE: STOCKTON, Love, and Malone? And you’ve got Scott Anderson connected to all three, and lying about it. Why would he lie about it if he were on the up-and-up? There’s got to be something there . . .”
Hailey stood at the widest window of her apartment, the one facing the West Side. The sun shone down brightly on them through low-hanging clouds, making the buildings sparkle in the morning light.
“Exactly,” Kolker said. “Why lie unless there’s something more nefarious involved other than just a fling? From what we can tell, he’s had plenty of those. Just usually not with dead girls.”
“Other than knowing them, and actually having an affair with one of them, Malone, what else do we have? Let’s see, he was the last person to see Malone alive, a history of alleged violence on women, a wife and a girlfriend. We have him lying about Stockton at Pebble Beach, that we know of; there may have been more between them . . . Then we’ve got him basically stalking Prentiss Love at the Memorabilia Fair at the Javits Center.”
“I can’t believe you found that clip, Hailey. That’s incredible. You basically found all the hard evidence we’ve got on him.”
“No way. The best thing so far is him on the Malone security cam. Thank Heaven they hadn’t taped over it already.”
“They would have, but they just hadn’t re-set the camera yet. We lucked out. And, true, the security cam is great evidence, but I can’t make a case out of a couple of house calls. I know you stayed up late sifting through it all.”
Hailey thought for a split second and decided to leave out that she’d woken up with her he
art pounding from another nightmare about Hayden’s and Melissa’s murders. “I was just lucky when I found it.”
“You always say that. Look, Hailey, thanks. I really mean it.”
“No problem. I kind of miss working cases. So tell me about Scott Anderson. He’s good-looking, I can see that from the video. But what’s he all about?”
“Lives alone . . .”
“Of course. They usually do . . .” Hailey was automatically beginning to profile him in her mind. White male, early thirties, college educated, single again after a divorce, split on bad terms, living alone, house pretty much bare, based on what Kolker had told her earlier . . .
The buzzer rang and Hailey left the window and walked over to the intercom linking her apartment to the front desk.
“What’s up, Ricky?” She spoke clearly and directly into the intercom on her kitchen wall.
“Hailey, you order food?”
“Yeah. I got a hungry cop up here.”
“Okay. I’ll send him up.”
“Thanks, Ricky. I ordered you a pastrami. Get it out.”
“You’re the best, Hailey. Thanks.”
“And there’s a cherry seltzer water in there too for you.”
“Thanks, Hailey.”
Hailey smiled, picturing Ricky diving into the brown paper delivery bag from the diner across the street.
She looked at Kolker. He was making a disgusted face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ugh! Cherry seltzer?” He looked like he chewed poison.
“Yes, Ricky went on a diet and exercise kick a while back. After a few weeks, he stopped the diet and exercise. The only thing that stuck was low-cal seltzer water!”
They both laughed again and Hailey answered the door, signed for the food, and brought it back to the kitchen to lay it out on the kitchen counter.
“So even if you prove he knew all three, or at least knew two and stalked one, had an affair with one of them, maybe two, what else do you have? Although I gotta tell you, that’s pretty strong circumstantial evidence linking him to all three women . . .” Hailey pulled bottled waters out of the bottom of her fridge.
“That’s right. I mean, come on, what’s the likelihood one guy is going to be linked to all three dead women? Practically zero.”
“Don’t know and don’t care. Statistics are not allowed in as evidence. I only care about what I can put before a jury. What about prints?”
“Nothing. Nada. Zilch. This guy knows what he’s doing. I brought in the best, and nothing.”
“Get the outside of the car? Up around the window? The doors at the pool house? The light switch in the pool house? The chair where Stockton was sitting?”
“And then some.”
“What about the doors and light switches at Malone’s place?”
“Done.”
“Any glasses out in the kitchen you could check for prints or DNA?” Hailey was grasping at straws now.
“The place was clean as a whistle. Turns out the maid had just come the day before. We looked over the whole apartment, bedroom and bathrooms included, for glasses. Matches, cigarette butts, you name it.”
“Bathroom door handles and light switches? Just in case he went in here? Was her bed made?”
“Checked all the bathrooms and, no, her bed was not made. But it was only unmade on one side, the side she slept on.”
“How could you tell?”
“Glass of wine there from the night before on the bedside table and a stack of Variety magazines. Looks like Fallon Mallone was seriously looking for a comeback project.”
“Hmm.” Hailey’s mind was racing. “How about the gun? The murder weapon?”
“Well, you’d think the killer would dispose of it somewhere close to the crime like they always do. The fact that he hasn’t makes me think more murders are coming.”
“Me, too. But this guy will never get rid of that gun. If he hasn’t already tossed it, he’ll keep using it. It’s one of his signatures. He’s used it in all three. The gun matters to him. Or else he’d probably ditch it.” Hailey watched as Kolker dug into his turkey sandwich. She unfolded her own and began pulling out some of the lettuce that was piled on so thick she could hardly bite the thing.
She really didn’t even want the sandwich. What she really wanted, she couldn’t have. Right now, anyway. She wanted collard greens. The kind from home.
Hailey had been to all the great New York City restaurants and, yes, they were truly great. Italian, sushi, Chinese, seafood, American cuisine, vegetarian, raw, she’d done it all. But nowhere could she find collard greens
That very morning, she’d tried to get some in a grocery store. Of course, the produce clerk had to ask his boss what they were. When the manager showed up in the vegetable and fruit corner of D’Agostino’s grocery store, he said they rarely got them due to lack of demand.
The manager then sagely advised she try the pet shop around the corner. When Hailey threw him a puzzled look, he responded, “Don’t you have a pet iguana?” Turns out, the only reason New Yorkers ever buy the stinky greens is so they can chop them up and feed them raw to the little lizards who, apparently, would kill for a plate of collards just like Hailey would.
Good to know.
Thus, the turkey sandwich. “So, bullet match, no prints. Cell phone, text, or e-mail links?”
“One link other than Scott Anderson. Some kid by the name of Jonathon Kent. He apparently wrote all three, but from what we can tell from his e-mails, he’s a high school kid with major crushes on the women he sees on TV. Seems pretty harmless. But it’s odd he was writing all three.”
“That is strange. Almost as odd as Anderson being connected to all three. What’s this kid writing about?” Hailey lived by the rule that there were no coincidences in criminal law.
“Oh, let’s see.” He took another bite and washed it down with water. “School, classes, movies he’s seen. Asks a lot about what they’re doing, where they’re going, always seems to have caught their last appearance, even rents their stuff and watches it and comments. Asks all sorts of questions about movies, sets, co-stars, whether they date anyone, you know, the typical things a high school kid would ask a female TV star.”
“I don’t think it’s ‘typical’ that a high school kid is in close touch with one female TV star, let alone three female TV stars. And for your information, Malone was a screen star. A has-been, true, but a screen star nonetheless.”
“True.” Kolker wolfed down the last bite of sandwich and kind of looked around like he was still hungry.
“I made a lemon pie last night. Want some?”
“You cook? I had no idea!”
“Yes, I do, pretty much whenever I’m hungry,” she joked back.
“But New York is a take-out and delivery town!”
“I know. But sometimes I just want some home cooking. Anyway, do you want the pie?”
“I never turn down lemon meringue pie.”
Hailey went to the fridge and pulled it out. She handed him a plate, a knife, and a fork. Only a tiny sliver was missing from the pie.
“You sure didn’t eat much of it.”
“My eyes were bigger than my stomach. It’s all yours. Back to Jonathon Kent.” Hailey saw Kent as much more of a possibility than Kolker did.
“Have you been able to locate this kid Jonathon through his texts? They’ve got to come straight from a phone. A cell phone has to be listed to somebody. Right?” Hailey was trying to think of everything.
Kolker nodded. “Done. He usually e-mails, but when he does text, we think it’s from a disposable phone or a phone card.”
“Oh, Kolker, that’s going to be hard to run down. There’s a million ways to beat a text ID. You can always sign in to Yahoo! or AIM with a fake name, and text whoever you want, and it’s free. Or you can use a different SIM card. And the disposable cell phones are a whole other animal. You don’t have to sign a contract or have a credit card, and they’re next to impossible to track. Eve
n terrorists use them to detonate bombs, much less some high school kid. Much less if he’s spoofing the number. Then we’re really in trouble.”
Hailey thought for moment before she went on. “He’s either awfully smart or he’s cheap and doesn’t want to pay monthly rates for a cell phone. But you’ve started locating where the cell phones and cards were sold, right?”
“Right. Louisiana.”
“Hmm. If this ‘kid’ is down in Louisiana, that makes him a lot less of a suspect than Anderson, who’s right here under our noses. So other than school and classes, what else does he talk about?”
“His dog, Ringo.”
“Ringo?”
“Yep. It’s a Maltese. And it has a heart condition.”
“Okay. He talks about a Maltese dog named Ringo with a heart condition. Anything else? Like about visiting?”
“Not that we’ve seen. Yet, that is. These e-mails go way back. At least two years or so.”
“Two years? Now that’s a dedicated fan! Or a stalker, wouldn’t you say?”
“Good point. It’s just that the content of all the e-mails and texts are so benign, we don’t see Jonathon Kent as much of a threat.”
“Kolker, please. Everybody’s a suspect right now.”
“Okay, you’re right. I’ll step up the heat on Jonathon Kent. Poor kid. He’s got Hailey Dean after him now.”
“Thank you very much.” She said it with a smile. “Tea or coffee? I’m having some.”
“Sure.”
“Which one? Tea or coffee?”
“Whatever you’re having. Thanks, Hailey.”
“Okay. So it’s a no-go on the cell phone. What about e-mail? That should be easy. It’s amazing to me that in this day and age, people think their true identity and location are hidden. You’d have to live under a rock not to know that the IP address of the computer used to send the e-mail can be uncovered and traced. It can lead directly to a person. Your people know about the IP addresses, right? Every computer connected to the Internet has, or shares, an IP address. You know, a series of four numbers from zero to 255, separated by dots. Every time this so-called ‘kid’ e-mails, his IP’s included on the header.”