I speak with the hotel manager about room availability, withholding the specifics until after I’ve secured the reservation. At best, a surveillance operation is a hassle, involving security concerns and unsavory characters. At worst, it poses a danger to everyone in the vicinity. There’s no way to predict everything that could go down. The perp could be armed; he could open fire in a crowded area or take a hostage.
“I have two lovely rooms, adjacent to one another,” the manager says.
I give her the office credit card, and as soon as she completes the transaction and hands me the key cards, I explain that we’ll be using the rooms as part of a sting operation. She immediately tries to backtrack.
“I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake. The computer is showing that we’re fully committed.”
I’ve been through this before.
“If I have to, I’ll go to court and seek an emergency judicial order. You’ll have to retain a lawyer to oppose the request, and I promise you’ll lose.”
After more back and forth, she concedes defeat and introduces me to the head of hotel security, a retired state police lieutenant. I don’t give him details about the case, but he’s been around the block and can probably figure out what we’re up to. I’m not worried about him leaking information, since it’s in his interest to protect the hotel from this kind of publicity. The last thing the Taj wants to be associated with is a serial killer.
Our undercover officer is barely recognizable. When I saw her at the station a few hours ago, she was in a police uniform. Now, she’s wearing heels and a low-cut blouse. I hate that men get to go undercover as tough guys, Hells Angels, and Mafia wannabes, while women are stuck being prostitutes. Nonetheless, she looks like a pro in every sense of the word.
The detectives survey the layout of the first-floor lounge, which has a clubby atmosphere with upholstered armchairs, mahogany furniture, and a fireplace. The undercover takes a seat, alone, at the bar. She grabs a handful of nuts from a bowl and pops them in her mouth, one by one. Plainclothes detectives are scattered around the room, with glasses of ginger ale and club soda with lime, to look like they’re drinking cocktails. Since Kevin and I are recognizable from news reports of the investigation, we go upstairs.
A forensic team plants audio- and video-monitoring devices in the takedown room. We settle in next door, in the observation room, with the technicians. Kevin paces; I sit in front of the one-way mirror. We wait for word of his arrival, hoping he’s our guy.
An hour later, we get a text from one of the detectives downstairs in the lounge. Target entering. I want to get up and go downstairs, but stay in my seat.
A few minutes later, another text comes in. They’re on the move. I imagine the undercover and the creep leaving the bar, getting on the elevator together, pressing the button, and walking toward the door. I can’t wait to get a look at him. Our audio picks them up as soon as they reach the room. The heavy door opens and closes with a thud; the lock clicks.
“Would you like a drink?” LoveToLoveYou2100 says.
His voice is softer than I had expected, and he has a European accent, possibly German. He comes into view, and I can see that he’s about six foot two, two hundred and fifty pounds; he’s heavier and taller than the man who brushed up against me on the steps behind city hall. He takes a nip bottle from the minibar and pours them both rum and Cokes. The undercover never puts the glass to her lips; she isn’t going to risk getting roofied.
He downs his drink in two gulps and loosens his tie. She gets down to business. “It’s a thousand for the night,” she says, “plus four hundred for the room.”
“Yes, I understand,” he says.
She sticks her hand out. “Cash up front.”
He looks through his wallet and removes a few bills. She counts the money and stuffs it in her pocket. Then she pulls her handcuffs out from the small of her back. “Hands where I can see them, asshole.”
“Hold on,” the man says. “I’m not into that kind of thing.”
The guy thinks that she’s a dominatrix and this is part of her repertoire. He starts to put up a struggle, twisting his body and trying to free his hands from her grip, but he’s no match for her. Even though he’s got more than a hundred pounds on her, she’s fresh out of the academy, well trained in defensive tactics. She grabs his wrist and elbow, applying pressure in opposite directions, and brings him to his knees. I feel a sense of pride, seeing her in control of the suspect.
Suddenly, the door to the room blasts open, followed by the satisfying sights and sounds of a well-executed takedown. The securing of the room: All clear. The arrest: On the floor, keep your hands behind your back. The denial: You got it all wrong. I didn’t do anything.
The man is arrested for soliciting a prostitute and transported to police headquarters. Kevin and I follow behind the cruiser. The trip is a blur. We speed through stop signs and traffic lights, until we reach One Schroeder Plaza. The detectives take him inside and put him in an interview room, and Kevin goes in to talk to him. I take a seat behind the one-way glass to watch. The man clears his throat, runs his fingers across his acned forehead. He’s not the cold-blooded killer I was expecting.
“Officer, I apologize.” His accent is thick. “Prostitution isn’t even a crime where I come from.”
“Where’s that?”
“Amsterdam.”
“How long have you been in the country?”
He rubs his wrists. “I arrived two nights ago.”
“From where?”
“Canada. I was at a dental convention.”
In all the time I spent picturing the killer, imagining his voice, I never once thought of a Dutch dentist. The man shows Kevin his passport, who inspects it and leaves the room to verify its authenticity. We call Homeland Security and are not really surprised to learn that his travel documents check out, and so does his alibi. This man is not our killer.
Even though we could prosecute him for soliciting a prostitute, we don’t press charges. He’s had enough punishment. And, more importantly, it could blow our cover and compromise the investigation.
After he leaves, Kevin and I sit, unsure of what to do. The surge of adrenaline ends in a crash, sapping my energy and enthusiasm. Kevin offers me a bottle of water.
“We’ll find our guy,” he says. “It’s a numbers game. Like real Internet dating, you have to kiss a bunch of frogs before you find Mr. Right.”
Chapter Forty
Kevin and I meet in my office, and we get back online. A dozen more messages have come through since yesterday. We sort through them, add the data to our spreadsheet, and select our next candidate. One man stands out from the pack, PlatoAtPlay, who sounds anything but playful. He’s aggressive, having responded three times; he sent two e-mails yesterday, and another today. His final e-mail ends with an admonition: It’s rude to ignore me. At least you could respond. He sounds promising: hostile, sanctimonious, and desperate.
He suggests we meet at the Lenox Hotel, on Boylston Street in the Back Bay. We engage in a brief e-mail exchange. Me: I’ll text you the room number when I get there. Him: No, meet me in the piano bar. See you soon, sexy.
My chest tightens, and I have a hard time breathing. I calm myself by remembering he can’t see me and he doesn’t know who I am.
A couple of hours before the scheduled meet, we head over to the hotel and scope out the lounge. It’s only eight o’clock, but there are already about ten patrons, drinking and waiting for the show to begin. The manager is less than thrilled when I tell her why we need to secure the lounge and that we need two hotel rooms.
The patrons don’t seem to notice when the detectives discreetly position themselves around the lounge and set up surveillance. A few plainclothes detectives are stationed on Boylston Street in case the perp tries to take off. The undercover settles in at a table, away from the lights and the piano, and nurses a Coke.
Soon the pianist starts to belt out show tunes, and people sing along; most are off-key, but
it’s a nice distraction. I stand off to the side and try to regulate my breathing as I listen to the familiar songs: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “Charlie on the MTA,” “You Give Love a Bad Name.” When I feel Kevin’s elbow in my rib cage, I notice that my foot is tapping. I hope I was only singing in my head and not out loud.
“It’s time to turn into a pumpkin,” he says.
We both have a bad feeling about this guy and decide to stay close to the action. Reluctantly, the manager lets us wait in her office. A few minutes later, we get a text. Target is on site. I put my ear to the wall to listen, but all I can hear is music.
After about fifteen minutes, we hear loud voices and banging. Kevin opens the door, and we see the back of a man’s head; he’s being pulled outside by detectives. The man resists, but after a few futile attempts to break free, he surrenders.
Kevin steps into the hallway and signals me to follow.
“The coast is clear.”
Outside, the suspect is standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. He’s surrounded by police; I can only see the top of his head, his reddish hair and glasses, similar to the man who planted the GPS in my tote. The rest of my view is obstructed by the swarm. An officer guides him into the back of a cruiser and slams the door. The driver whisks him away.
On our way to headquarters, I call Max, and Kevin calls the commissioner. We’re cautious not to brag. This could just be another creepy john. When we arrive, we sprint inside and take the stairs to the third floor; it’s faster than the elevator, and it will help burn off some adrenaline. I peer in the glass opening of the interrogation room; the suspect is seated, his back to the door. His disguise, the reddish wig and glasses, are on the table. His hands are clasped behind his head, his fingers interlaced.
These could be the hands that strangled the life out of Caitlyn, Rose, Britney, and Valerie. They look strong, powerful, and eerily familiar. I feel a pull in the pit of my stomach. Before I can say a word, Kevin taps on the glass, and the man twists around. I take a hard look at his face, but it’s not really necessary. I already know who he is. I freeze, try to speak, but my throat constricts. I can barely eke out a whisper.
“Oh my God,” I say.
“What?” Kevin says.
“I know him.”
The man sees me standing outside the door, looking in. He grins and waves.
“Who is he?” Kevin says.
“His name is Chip Aldridge,” I say.
Chapter Forty-One
I tell Kevin everything. Chip’s bogus story about our families summering near each other on the Vineyard. The accidentally on purpose encounters at the Mass General and Starbucks. And, most humiliating of all, our lunch at the Four Seasons. As soon as I’m done, I go to the bathroom and throw up. Then I wash my face and look at my reflection in the mirror. I have a new understanding of victims who fall prey to catfish scams and Ponzi schemes. I’ll no longer ask myself: How could she be so stupid?
Kevin is predictably nonjudgmental.
“You’re in good company. This guy fooled a lot of smart people over the years. So far we’ve tied him to eleven aliases.”
I nod, but there’s nothing he can say to make this right. I’ve been conned by a con man. While I was regaling Chip with stories about my grandmother, over a bowl of blood orange sorbet, he was sizing me up and planning his next move. The question is: Why? It’s possible he’s just a stalker. Or he could be a swindler with bad timing. More likely, he’s our killer.
I drop my head in my hands. When Kevin starts to speak, I look up, hoping for words of wisdom and compassion, anything that will make me feel less awful.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but you got to get your head on straight. In a few hours, we can drink a bottle of booze or eat a bucket of ice cream, but right now, I have to interview him. We need to prepare.”
I take a breath, shake my head. “What else do you want to know?”
“Where were you the first time he talked to you?”
“Near my apartment, walking to my car on Clarendon Street.”
“When?”
“It was the day after I picked up Caitlyn Walker’s case.”
“So he probably planted the first GPS right around that time.” He smiles. “How many times have I been on you to clean out that clown car of a pocketbook?”
Chip is in the interview room, drumming his fingers on the table. He looks directly into the one-way mirror and flashes a toothy smile at his own reflection. I take a step backward. He can’t see me, but he knows I’m on the other side of the glass, watching.
“I’m going in,” Kevin says.
When the interview room door opens, Chip looks over, expectantly. His expression sours when he sees it’s only Kevin. I turn on the audio.
Chip keeps his eyes trained on the mirror and smooths his hair.
“Why isn’t Abigail here?” he says.
Kevin turns on the recorder and Mirandizes him. “You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you.” If ever I’ve wanted a suspect to waive his Miranda rights, it’s now. “You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have one present during questioning.” Please don’t ask for an attorney. “If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided at government expense.” This is taking forever. Hurry up and close the deal. “Do you understand these rights?” Chip thinks for a minute and nods. “Knowing these rights, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”
Kevin takes out the form and slides it across the table, along with a pen.
“I’ll talk, but under one condition.” Chip’s Yankee accent has developed a midwestern tang.
“What?” Kevin says.
“I want Abigail in here.”
Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse, it does.
“ADA Endicott can’t represent you, she’s a prosecutor,” Kevin says.
“I’m fully aware of her position.”
“Then why do you want her?”
“She’s an old friend. If you want to talk, she has to be here.”
Kevin cuts the recorder and comes out to consult with me. Participating in a prep meeting, a proffer, or an interview is acceptable practice. But prosecutors don’t sit in on postarrest interrogations with suspects. We don’t want to make ourselves a witness in our own case.
“It’s your call,” Kevin says.
“I don’t have a choice. We want to get a statement, and he won’t talk unless I’m there.”
“It’ll give him a soapbox so he can embarrass you.”
“That ship has sailed.”
Chip stands when I enter. He moves to pull out my chair, but Kevin blocks his path.
“Don’t make me shackle you to the floor,” Kevin says.
“I was taught to stand when a lady enters the room.”
I move quickly and purposefully to a chair. When I sit, I clasp my hands in my lap so he can’t see them shaking.
“How is your mother?” Chip says. “Has she recovered from her accident?” I start to talk, but Kevin cuts me off. “If you’re trying to threaten ADA Endicott, you oughta know that case has been resolved.”
“The Breathalyzer was thrown out,” Chip says, “but no one seems to have followed up on the blood tests. We both know what they’ll show.”
I don’t believe a word he says anymore. There was no blood test. I hope.
“You’ve been stalking a county prosecutor,” Kevin says. “Keep it up and I’ll put a tag on your file. Corrections officers have a special place for prisoners like you.”
I could press charges for stalking and intimidation, but that would be playing into his hands. It would force me to walk into an open courtroom and testify about what will be described as our blossoming romance. Worse, it could conflict me out of this case.
Kevin takes Chip’s brief silence as a sign of retreat.
“We’re going back on the record, and you’re going to behave,” Kevin s
ays.
He turns on the recorder, and Chip signs the Miranda waiver.
“What’s your true name?” Kevin says.
“I’ll take a pass on that question.”
“Your date of birth.”
“Pass.”
Chip could have declined to speak with us altogether, but he didn’t want to miss an opportunity to show how clever he is, and to further embarrass me. This is fun for him, part of whatever sick game he’s playing.
“Are you employed?” Kevin says.
“Some people think I’m a surgeon.”
I search my memory. When I saw Chip at the hospital, he wasn’t wearing scrubs, he didn’t have an ID badge clipped to his jacket. I assumed he worked at the Mass General; there was no reason to doubt it. I wanted him to be a successful surgeon. It made me feel more desirable.
“Where do you live?”
This one he answers. He can’t resist.
“In the C Street projects.”
I was so swept up in the illusion that Chip was some kind of Ivy League knight in shining armor that when I stood outside the townhouse on Comm Avenue, I never bothered to check the name on the buzzer. Again, I had no reason to distrust him.
“Do you know Tommy Greenough?” Kevin says.
“Sure, he’s the guy who’s been all over the news.” Chip stops talking, looks at me, clenches and unclenches his jaw.
I shouldn’t speak, but I’ve broken a lot of rules already.
“Did Tommy Greenough introduce you to anyone?” I say.
Chip leans in. “Like who?”
“Females. Victims,” Kevin says.
“Victims?”
Kevin plants his elbows on the table and extends his forearms. For a second, it looks like he might reach over and strangle Chip. If he does, I won’t intervene.
Chip shifts in his chair, turns, and looks directly into the camera. “I’m invoking my right to remain silent. This conversation is over.”
Kevin looks at me: Now what?
It’s a tough call. Without a confession, we don’t have much to arrest him on, but we can’t release him back out on the street. Not until we have proof that he’s not the killer. I nod, giving Kevin the go-ahead.
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