Unholy City

by Carrie Smith

  “You spoke with Roger Sturgis yesterday, Mr. Johnston. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. Sturgis was here. Nice guy.”

  “He bought a car, I believe.”

  “Yeah. For his lady friend, Monique. She had an old Focus. She was way overdue for something new.” He chuckled.

  “That’s Monique Vincent, you mean?”

  “No. Her name was Wilson.”

  “Oh? So that’s the name she’s using now?”

  “What do you mean?” The salesman’s voice turned suspicious. “What’s your interest in Mr. Sturgis?”

  “Oh, I’m not interested in him,” Haggerty lied. “It’s her I’m interested in. I work for her ex-husband’s attorney. Custody problem. She won’t let him see his kids.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Why would I joke?” Haggerty asked. “Men get screwed over too, you know. A lot more often than you think.”

  “But she seemed like such a nice lady.”

  “Maybe she is,” said Haggerty, “but the father hasn’t seen his kid for a year, and he wants his parental rights. Look, I can go through the channels and get a subpoena for the information you’ve got on file, or you can give me her address right now and save us all a lot of work.”

  “I don’t know,” said the salesman.

  “Do it for all the men who get screwed over,” said Haggerty.

  He hung up three minutes later and smiled down at the Chandler Park Drive address he’d scribbled. “God, I can’t believe anyone buys a phone scam like that anymore,” he said to Portino. Half an hour later, he had Monique Wilson’s life story as told through her DMV, Social Security, and credit records.

  CHAPTER 59

  Every time Codella opened the door to the one-seven-one, she remembered all the years when this had been her precinct. Captain Reilly, her former commanding officer, had been her champion—not her nemesis—and stepping into his precinct today was like stepping into a sanctuary at a church.

  She waved to the uniforms behind the bulletproof partition and took the side stairs two at a time to the detective’s squad room on the second floor. Haggerty, Muñoz, and Portino were already in a huddle.

  Codella told them what she’d learned from Susan Bentley.

  “Jesus Christ, that’s a story I haven’t heard in all my years,” said Portino.

  “What a bastard Graves was,” said Muñoz.

  “The important thing is that we now know Susan Bentley gave Roger Sturgis the keys to Graves’s apartment. But we still can’t prove that Roger actually used them.” She looked at Haggerty. “Did CSU get any prints off Graves’s doorknobs?”

  Haggerty shook his head. “None that they could trace.”

  “If Sturgis’s prints were there, they’d be traceable. He’s ex-military.” She turned to Portino. “Did you have someone go to Graves’s Columbia office and make sure his laptop’s not there?”

  Portino nodded. “I drove up myself. Nothing.”

  “Susan Bentley is convinced Graves was blackmailing Roger too,” Codella told them. “That’s why she gave him the keys. She was hoping he’d go in and find whatever incriminating documents Graves was keeping there. But she couldn’t tell me what compromising information Graves had on Roger.”

  Haggerty slapped the top of his desk. They all looked at him. “I know what Graves had on him—a woman named Monique Wilson.”

  “Who’s that?” Codella asked.

  “She’s a woman in Detroit, Michigan. She works at Brooks Brothers. She’s got one child, a boy. And yesterday Roger Sturgis flew to Detroit and bought her a car. I did a little digging, and guess what? Roger flies to Detroit about once a week.”

  “So he’s got a woman on the side. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Codella, remembering how Roger had looked her up and down on Wednesday night in the Blue Lounge.

  “But what does it all add up to?” asked Muñoz. “Are we changing our minds about Todd? Are we thinking maybe he didn’t kill Graves and that Roger Sturgis did?”

  “I have no idea,” Codella admitted.

  “If Roger killed Philip and Emily,” said Haggerty, “it might explain why Vivian is so determined to get you off the case. She might want to protect Roger for her niece Kendra’s sake.”

  Muñoz raised his hand to get their attention. “The medical examiner isn’t convinced that Emily Flounders was an intentional homicide.”

  Codella stared at him. “What?” And it occurred to her she’d been so focused on Stephanie Lund’s death and Vivian Wakefield’s scathing comments to the press yesterday that she hadn’t spoken to Muñoz about the Flounders autopsy.

  “She died of cardiac arrest,” he explained. “She had four severely blocked arteries. Gambarin called her a ticking time bomb. He suggested that she might have seen something that frightened her and triggered the heart attack.”

  “But what could she have seen to frighten her in her car?” asked Haggerty.

  “She didn’t die in her car,” said Muñoz. “She died in the garden. She had sediment and a little rosemary leaf in her hair. Gambarin thinks she fell on the stone path. She had a scratch on her head.”

  Codella combed her fingers through her hair as she processed the new information. “So perhaps Emily came out of the parish house and heard whatever scuffle was going on. Maybe she followed the voices to the side of the church and witnessed the murder.”

  “And the shock caused her heart attack.” Haggerty finished her train of thought.

  “Right,” she said, “but if she died in the garden, who carried her into her van—and more importantly, why?”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” said Muñoz. “I mean, let’s say I’m Todd Brookes. I’m in the garden with Stephanie Lund and Philip Graves shows up. I panic and kill him. Then I realize Emily Flounders has seen the murder and died. Am I really going to take the time to carry her body to her van? Doesn’t it make more sense for me to send Stephanie back to the church—to her piano—and get myself inside the rectory as fast as possible?” He paused. “Unless—”

  “Unless what?” she encouraged him.

  “Unless I’m looking for something.”

  “Like what?” asked Haggerty.

  “Like the vestry minutes,” Muñoz answered. “We haven’t found them yet. They weren’t in the church, in her van, in her purse, or anywhere on her person. You didn’t see them at Stephanie Lund’s apartment either. Maybe the killer carried her body to the van so he could search for the minutes without being discovered.”

  Codella stood up and paced. “But if I’m Todd Brookes, why do I need those minutes? They’re not going to give away any secrets about me and Stephanie Lund. They’re only going to describe whatever occurred in the Blue Lounge that night.”

  “What if the deaths have nothing to do with Todd and Stephanie’s affair?” Haggerty suggested. “What if Roger Sturgis is our killer? He might have wanted those minutes.”

  “Why?” Codella demanded. “They wouldn’t have revealed his affair with Monique Wilson. He and Susan voted against the cemetery proposal. Graves had no need to expose their secrets. So what incriminating information could the minutes contain?”

  Haggerty shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “We need to figure it out.”

  She continued to pace as she searched her brain for an answer that made sense. She replayed the Wednesday-night interviews with vestry members. Susan Bentley had extolled the diverse and welcoming nature of the church but had shed little light on the meeting itself. Vivian Wakefield had talked Haggerty’s arm off about Seneca Village. And Roger had dismissed the entire vestry agenda as much ado about nothing. Rose, he’d said, had wasted their time describing the Palm Sunday flower arrangements. Vivian had “pitched” an after-school reading program that he obviously didn’t care about. And Peter had made his “usual complaints” about the vestry not investing enough in cemetery improvements.

  She stopped pacing and stared at a scuff on her boot for se
veral seconds.

  “What?” asked Haggerty. “What is it?”

  “Last night Rose Bartruff told me that Vivian Wakefield acted upset with Emily Flounders at the end of the vestry meeting. Rose seemed to think it was because Vivian wanted the cemetery proposal to pass and Emily voted against it.”

  “Did she say why?” asked Muñoz.

  Codella shook her head. “Apparently, Rose left the vestry meeting for fifteen minutes. She missed the whole discussion before the vote was taken.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Haggerty banged his desk. “She didn’t mention that when I interviewed her.”

  Codella ignored his apparent annoyance. “The point is, something obviously happened in those fifteen minutes, and no one wants us to know what. Emily Flounders’s vestry minutes would probably shed some light on it.”

  Codella’s cell phone vibrated, and McGowan’s name came up on the screen. She declined the call. She hadn’t checked in at Manhattan North this morning, and she didn’t intend to. Going there would only invite McGowan to strike back for what she’d said to him yesterday. He’d contained his fury, but he wouldn’t contain it for long. He would be looking for a way to pull the plug on her. She turned to Haggerty. “Let’s go find Roger Sturgis. We certainly have enough on him to justify asking some hard questions.”

  Then she looked at Muñoz. “Take a ride to Graves’s office. We know the laptop’s not there, but maybe something else is.”

  CHAPTER 60

  When Codella called Roger’s home number, Kendra Sturgis picked up. “He’s at the gym,” she volunteered. “Equinox Sports Club on Broadway.”

  Haggerty signed out a car and drove them to the club. They waited at the curb in front of the entrance until Roger emerged half an hour later carrying a gym bag. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes. His curly black hair was slicked back, Codella noticed, and even his moustache still looked wet from the shower. Codella climbed out of the front passenger seat and called to him. “Mr. Sturgis, you’re a hard man to find.”

  Roger turned, and his lips curled into a closed-mouth smile. “Detective Codella,” he said.

  “And Detective Haggerty.” She gestured toward the car. “Shall we take a ride together?”

  Roger looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I have some meetings very soon.”

  “Why don’t you call and reschedule those meetings,” Codella suggested amiably.

  Roger frowned. “What’s this about, Detective?”

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  “I’d like you to tell me anyway,” he insisted.

  “All right, it’s about those two dead bodies at St. Paul’s, one comatose choir director at Bellevue Hospital, and a woman named Monique Wilson in Detroit.” She crossed her arms. “Now, are you going to get in the car with us?”

  Roger held up his free hand in a gesture of mock surrender. “I guess I have no choice, do I?”

  Codella watched him climb into the back seat before she got in. “Where are we going?” he asked as Haggerty pulled away from the curb.

  Codella turned to face him. “Well, we can take you to your place, and Kendra can make us all some tea while we chat about your other life in Detroit. Or we can go to Detective Haggerty’s precinct. Which would you prefer?”

  Roger didn’t ask any more questions as they drove to the one-seven-one. They led him into the precinct, up the stairs, and straight to Interview Room A. Roger dropped his gym bag on the floor, propped his sunglasses on his head, and reluctantly pulled out a chair. In the small enclosed space, Codella could smell his freshly applied cologne, and it reminded her of the cologne her father used to wear, although Roger’s was undoubtedly more expensive.

  She slipped off her jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door. Haggerty stepped out and returned sipping a bottle of water.

  “I’d like some water too if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure thing,” said Haggerty, and Codella recognized his strategy. Make the suspect ask for something. Make him a supplicant.

  Haggerty left the room and came back with two more water bottles. He set one on the table in front of Roger and handed the other to Codella, who twisted off the top and took a drink.

  Roger, she could see, was already getting impatient. He obviously wasn’t the kind of man who liked to operate on other people’s clock.

  As she and Haggerty took their seats, she felt them slip into the familiar rhythm they’d shared when they were partners at the one-seven-one. Now like then, they didn’t need to rehearse their game plan. She knew without looking at him that he was waiting for her to break the ice. “How was your little trip to Detroit yesterday?”

  “Great, thanks.” Roger smiled, but his voice was noticeably curt.

  “And how was Monique? Did she like her new car?”

  His fake affability dropped away instantly. “Did you speak to her?”

  “No,” said Codella. “At this point, we haven’t yet talked to Monique about Kendra or Kendra about Monique, but of course, if we don’t get what we need from this little chat, we just might have to talk to both of them.”

  Roger inhaled a long, slow breath through his nostrils. He exhaled even more slowly. “What do you want to know?”

  Haggerty stepped in. “Did you go to Philip Graves’s apartment after you left St. Paul’s Church in the early hours of Thursday morning, Mr. Sturgis?”

  Codella watched Roger smooth down the edges of his mustache, twist the top off his water bottle, and take a slow slug. “Yes.”

  “Good,” said Haggerty. “We appreciate honest answers. Let’s see if you can continue along that line. Did you take anything out of Philip Graves’s apartment?”

  This time Roger considered his answer for a longer interval of time. He took another sip, set his sunglasses on the table, and flattened the edges of his mustache again. “Yes,” he answered.

  “What did you take from his apartment?” Codella asked.

  “You already know.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you, Mr. Sturgis.”

  Roger tilted the chair back and looked from one detective to the other. “Are you planning to arrest me?”

  “That depends,” she said.

  “On what?” he demanded.

  “On what you’ve done,” Codella answered. “We’re not interested in a thief. We want to find a killer.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he said.

  “Just answer the question. What did you take from Philip Graves’s apartment?”

  “I took his laptop.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” Roger didn’t conceal his irritation.

  “Why did you take it?”

  “Come on, Detective. You obviously know that already. Philip was blackmailing me. He had documents that belonged to me.”

  “Did you find the documents on his computer?” Codella asked.

  “No, and believe me, I looked.”

  “We’ll need that computer,” Haggerty said. “As soon as this interview is over.”

  “Tell us when and how he blackmailed you,” Codella continued.

  And then Roger Sturgis told a story that was eerily like Susan Bentley’s. “He met me at the Metro Diner last week. He was in one of his puffed-up moods. ‘Who would have thought you were such a complicated man, Roger,’ he told me. ‘Two cities. Two lives.’ Philip always thought he was so, so clever. He pushed some documents across the table. They were tuition payments I’d made on behalf of Monique’s son. He threatened to show them to Kendra.”

  “What did he want in return for his silence?” asked Haggerty.

  Roger took another swig from the bottle. “He wanted the St. Paul’s cemetery improvement plan to go down the drain. He wanted his air rights deal—he’d been pushing for us to sell the air rights for two years, and he must have gotten impatient using the powers of honest persuasion. I’m sure Susan told you that too since you obviously spoke to her before you came to see me.”

  “Did Philip Grave
s blackmail anyone else?” Codella asked.

  Roger shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  “What time did you get home from your little B and E?”

  “Around three, I think.”

  “Did you go anywhere else before you went home?”

  “No.”

  “Can you prove it?” Codella asked.

  “I took a taxi, but I don’t have the receipt. Why?”

  “Because someone went to Stephanie Lund’s apartment and tried to kill her early that morning.” She watched his reaction.

  He stared straight at her, and his surprise looked genuine. “It wasn’t me, Detective. Give me a lie detector test if you want. I hardly even knew that woman. Why would I want to kill her?”

  CHAPTER 61

  Anna felt an almost unprecedented relief when she stepped out of Bellevue Hospital and heard an angry chorus of car horns on First Avenue. The ear-splitting street noise was infinitely more welcome than the soft sobs of Stephanie Lund’s mother as she weighed the difficult decision of whether or not to take her daughter off a ventilator. And then Anna remembered her own difficult decision—should she pick up Christopher from school and go home to Todd, or should she take her son somewhere else until she could get Todd to move out? She could still feel Todd’s fingers clamped around her wrists. She could hear his voice: Are you with me, Anna?

  She rode the Number Three train uptown. When she climbed the subway stairs at Ninety-Sixth Street, she still didn’t know what to do. She stood on the corner and watched two Con Ed workers emerge from a manhole on Broadway. She walked two blocks north, toward St. Paul’s, and stopped again. She didn’t want to go home. She remembered Detective Haggerty gently holding her hand yesterday afternoon and telling her to relax as he rolled each of her fingers over the ink to take her fingerprints. She recalled staring at the small cleft in his chin as he swabbed the inside of her cheek to get a sample of her DNA. She heard his words from just before she left the station house, an echo of the offer he’d made after letting her write an e-mail to her congregants: If you ever need to talk to me, Rector, call me any time at all.