He announced the date and time, and then studied Paulo’s file while Ben inspected his fingernails. Eventually Ron set the file aside and fixed Paulo with a hard stare.
“Murder one, Paulo. The big time. We’ve got you cold,” he said.
“You’re higher than a crack whore,” Paulo fired back.
“Where were you Friday night a week ago?”
Paulo frowned. “Friday? Oh, that’s right. At a party. High end. In Connecticut.”
“We know about that. How about from midnight to four Saturday morning?”
Paulo’s brow furrowed, and then he grinned. “At a bar down on Avenue B. Cleo’s. Kind of a dive, but comfortable, you know?”
“You were there the entire time?” Ron demanded skeptically. “How do you know what time you left?”
“Easy. They close at four. Took about an hour to get from Connecticut, and I left the party about eleven fifteen, so…twelve thirty to four.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Place was half empty. Didn’t see anyone I knew. Maybe the bartender. Why? What’s this about, anyway?”
“We found your DNA on a murder victim – pubic hair. You were with her that night. Case closed.”
Paulo squinted in disbelief and then laughed. “You mean Dusty? That’s easy. I banged her at the party. More like an orgy.” Paulo winked. “Slice off a cut loaf, you know? Never could turn down free pie.”
“You admit to having sex with her?”
“Yeah, but if every girl I banged died, half Manhattan would be in the grave, you know?”
Ron sat forward. “You think this is a joke?”
“I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t do anything but drink too much that night.”
“You don’t seem surprised she’s dead.”
Paulo shrugged. “Hookers buy it all the time. Especially a freak like her. I’m supposed to pretend I’m shocked?”
“You didn’t recognize her from the news?”
“I don’t have time for light reading, and I don’t own a TV.”
“Of course not. You’re a busy guy.” Ron looked at Paulo like he’d wiped him off the sole of his shoe. “How you making a living?”
Paulo smirked. “This and that. Whatever comes my way. I get by.” He hesitated. “Look, check out my alibi. Save us a lot of headaches. I got places to be this evening.”
Something about the man’s tone gave Ron pause. “Let’s say I believe you. How did you get from Connecticut to the city?”
“Train. Grand Central.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw Dusty?”
“At the party. She was hanging out with some of the others. Friendly like.”
“Know their names?”
“Not really.”
Ron let the lie go by. He’d circle back to it later and hang the little prick with his words.
“How’d you get from the house to the station?” he asked.
“I walked to a main street and caught a cab.”
“Remember the company?”
“Dunno. Besides, I did a deal with the cabbie – no fare on the books, so there’s no record.”
“Convenient.”
“Not really. Sounds like that fare would have been worth its weight right about now.” Paulo coughed and looked at them both. “Check my story. If after that you want to hold me, I call my lawyer and we dance. But that costs me four jings an hour. Go do your job so I can go home.”
Ron and Ben left the cell, and Ron exhaled heavily. “Nothing about this case is going right.”
“You think he’s bluffing?”
“Nah. Look how cocky he is.”
“Could be he just thinks he can bluff us. Remember the FBI profile – delusions of grandeur. Superiority complex.”
“The guy’s a skid mark.”
“Yeah, but smart.”
“Street smart, maybe,” Ron agreed. “I suppose I’ll have to go to Chloe’s and check.”
“Want a ride?”
“No. You go ahead and take off. It’s getting late.” Ron checked his watch. “Can you have the boys go by Gunter’s again? He’s odd man out.”
“Sure. Same plan as before?”
“Yes. Call me if he’s there.”
“Done.”
“Oh, and pull the security footage from Grand Central for the Connecticut trains between midnight and two for that Friday and see if you can spot our boy Paulo. Shouldn’t take too long.”
Ben nodded. “So much for going home, huh?”
“I meant after that.”
“Right.”
Ron headed back to his office to get his jacket and was slipping it on when his desktop phone jangled. He scooped up the handset and held it to his ear.
“Stanford.”
“Ron, I’m sending the autopsy report in a minute.” It was Amy.
“No rush. I’m on my way out the door.”
“Then I’m glad I caught you. You sitting down?”
Amy’s tone stopped him cold.
“Why?” he asked softly.
She told him, and everything he thought he was sure of collapsed.
Chapter 31
Ron’s mind was racing as he rode the subway toward Avenue B, the once infamous area of New York that had been the haven of drug fiends, violent criminals, vagrants, and gangs. In recent years it had undergone somewhat of a renaissance, but was still sketchy, littered with low-end watering holes, abandoned lots, and tenements that were breeding grounds for crime.
Dusk was streaking the western sky with vivid hues of purple and rose when Ron emerged from the subway station and made his way down the street to where Chloe’s was sandwiched between a Korean grocery and a beauty shop advertising the lowest-priced French manicures and hair weaves in Manhattan. Both establishments were closed for the Sabbath, steel shutters locked across their storefronts, which were covered with gang tags and obscene graffiti. Ron’s nose wrinkled at the pungent stench of urine wafting from the doorways, obviously used as toilets by the neighborhood homeless, who instinctively gave Ron a wide berth.
He glanced up at the red brick buildings that lined the block, built as low-end housing when the city had been in its sprawling growth phase, and shook his head at the thought of the cost to buy even the most decrepit tenements nowadays. A property mania had seized the city twenty years earlier and, in spite of all predictions, had continued unabated, the disastrous events of 9-11 a hiccup as Wall Street salaries skyrocketed and foreign money from Asia poured in, snapping up even the most questionable areas.
Chloe’s had resisted gentrification and was still as squalid a bar as any Ron had seen. Its open doorway was dark, from which a wailing blues guitar from a blown stereo speaker howled like a banshee, and the stoop was littered with cigarette butts that hadn’t been swept away from the prior night. Once inside, Ron’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, where a half dozen rummies sat at the bar, nursing boilermakers and glasses of rotgut whiskey, all male except for a lone prostitute who looked like she’d gone nine losing rounds with Ali.
The bartender was a heavyset shaved-headed man with three chins and a broken front tooth, who called out to Ron with a sandpaper voice seasoned by too many cigarettes and hard liquor. “What can I get you, partner?”
Ron approached as though considering the question and then discreetly flashed his badge so the other patrons couldn’t see it.
“Got a few questions,” Ron said softly.
“All my permits is in order,” the bartender countered. “Everyone got their vig.”
“Not that. Were you working here Friday a week ago?”
The man’s eyes drifted to the stained ceiling and then back to Ron. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Guess, or were?”
“I got Fridays, so were.”
“What time did you close?”
“Around four, like always.”
“You have a good crowd?”
The ma
n shrugged noncommittally. “Decent enough. Payday’s always high times in this slice of paradise.”
Ron’s gaze swept the room, taking in the darkened tables that lined the wall. “I can only imagine.” He looked over at the hooker, who suddenly became fixated with her phone screen, and then back to the bartender as he slid Paulo’s photo from his jacket pocket onto the bar. “This guy here that night?”
“Aw, man, how would I know? I mean, we mighta had eighty people. Maybe more. I don’t give ’em interviews or nothing. I just pour and keep my head down.” He took another look at the photo. “Why? What did he do?”
“Parking tickets,” Ron said, his expression unreadable.
“I’d like to help, but I really don’t know. I mean, I mighta seen him. I know I have. But a busy night that long ago? Good luck.”
“So you can’t say he was here.”
“Can’t say he wasn’t, either.”
Ron recognized a Mexican standoff and nodded. “You the owner?”
The man laughed, the sound unpleasant as the grinding of gears. “Nah, just doing my time, you know?”
“Aren’t we all,” Ron agreed.
They stared at each other for a long beat, and then Ron turned and walked to the entrance. He stopped just inside and looked up at a mirrored dome over the door. Nodding to himself, he returned to the bartender and leaned over the scarred wood counter. “See you got a security cam there.”
“Yeah? Oh. Yeah, we do. Sure.”
“How long you keep the footage?”
“I don’t know. The owner’s in charge of that.”
“Where’s the control for it?”
“All that’s back in the office.”
“Show me.”
The bartender looked around the room and shrugged. “I guess I could do that.”
Ron accompanied the big man to a room at the rear of the building and waited as he unlocked the door. A whiff of sweat sock and sour vomit drifted from the interior, and Ron swallowed his distaste and breathed through his mouth. The bartender led him to an ancient DVD system in the corner and pointed to a stack of disks stacked haphazardly beside it. “I think he reuses them.”
Ron nodded. “Looks like, what, twenty?”
“About that.”
Six minutes later Ron had found the correct disk and skipped forward to midnight as the bartender eyed him suspiciously. Ron watched the footage stream by at quadruple speed and then paused the image when Paulo walked into the bar at twenty after midnight. The bartender glanced at the still and grunted. “That the guy?”
“Yeah. Can we skip ahead somehow? He said he left at around closing time.”
The bartender toggled and advanced the image to the three-thirty time stamp. A voice called out from the barroom, and he screamed back. “Be right there. Hold your horses.” He turned to Ron. “Got to do my job, man.”
“No problem. I’ll be right here.”
The bartender’s eyes looked doubtful, obviously weighing whether he should leave Ron alone, and then another voice called out, deciding it for him. “Just don’t touch anything,” he warned. “Be back in a flash.”
Ron continued watching the playback and nodded to himself when at three fifty an obviously inebriated Paulo staggered to the door, stood unsteadily as he fumbled to light a cigarette, and then disappeared out of the frame.
When the bartender returned, Ron had finished and was waiting for him. “Thanks. I’m going to keep this disk. I’ll sign a receipt for it.”
The big man looked him up and down. “No sweat. He’ll never miss it.”
The breeze was cooling when Ron emerged from the seedy bar, and he hurried as he made his way back down the street, frustrated that he’d wasted more time on a dead end. His phone warbled at him and he answered it on the fly.
“Stanford.”
“Hey,” Ben said. “He’s on the Grand Central video. Alone.”
“What time?”
“Little before midnight.”
“Damn. Same here. He’s clean. At least of that one.”
“The guys called from Gunter’s apartment. He answered the intercom.”
Ron glanced at the time. “I’ll be there in ten. Have them stay in position.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You still at work?”
“It was either that or have a life.”
When Ron hung up, his phone almost instantly rang again.
“Stanford.”
“Ron? It’s Tess.”
He slowed. He’d been so busy he’d completely spaced on calling her to check in. “I’m glad you called. I’ve been meaning to.”
“No problem. Any progress?”
“Just running down leads.”
“I found out where Jeremy works.”
“You did? How?” Ron asked, his voice wary.
“Dakota’s roommate called. I asked her.” Tess told him about the brokerage. “I looked up their employee directory online. Only one Jeremy there – Jeremy Glass.”
“That’s great. I’ll interview him in the morning.” Ron turned the corner and slowed further. “We got the labs back. Did Dakota seem…I don’t know, amped up or anything to you when you last saw her?”
“Maybe a little. She was high strung. Excited about the performances, her boyfriend…” Tess trailed off. “Why?” she asked.
There was no point in sugarcoating it. “She had meth in her bloodstream.”
Tess was silent as she digested the news. “He drugged her? That would make sense.”
“No, the coroner says it was from a few days earlier.”
Tess cursed softly. “Coffee, my ass.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. But it makes sense. All the girls are freaked about their weight. That’s one way to get extra energy.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“More disappointed. But I should have seen it.”
“You mentioned she was kind of odd the last time you saw her?”
“Yeah. Boyfriend problems.”
Ron considered not saying anything and had almost decided not to when Tess interrupted his thoughts. “What’s going on, Ron? What is it? You think he was giving her meth?”
“I have no idea,” he answered honestly.
“Then what is?”
Ron sighed. “Dakota was five weeks pregnant.”
Chapter 32
Ron met the pair of plainclothes cops Ben had engaged to help locate Gunter and peered up at the darkened building as they gave him a brief rundown. When they finished, he nodded.
“Nobody’s come out?” Ron asked.
“No. I pretended I had the wrong building. I don’t think he’s wise to us.”
“Well, let’s go get him. There a back to this place?”
“Nope.”
“That makes it easier.”
Ron’s phone rang as Ben’s unmarked sedan crawled down the street toward them. It was Larraby.
“Guess who got a call from Stibling?” the captain asked, his voice tense.
“I was as gentle with him as a kitten.”
“Not to hear the mayor tell it. He says you tried to blackmail him.”
“Does that sound realistic to you?”
“You’re dealing with some powerful people here, Detective. Go very easy unless you have him dead to rights. He’s got the juice to bury you if he wants.”
“You can pull me off the case whenever you like.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying do this by the book. No more playing cowboy. Am I clear?”
Ron exhaled and swallowed the bitterness that threatened to choke him. He took a deep breath, and when he answered, his voice was flat. “What’s clear is that some scum are more equal than others.”
“Where have you been all your life? Just play ball, Stanford. I didn’t make the rules, but I expect you to play by them. Am I clear?”
Ron glanced at Ben’s car. “Crystal.”
Ben got out of the cruiser and
came over to where they were standing. Ron filled him in and Ben patted his holstered pistol. They followed Ron to the front door and he pressed the intercom button. When Gunter answered, Ron spoke slowly and neutrally. “Gunter Ausberg?”
A pause. “Who is this?”
“Police. Detective Ron Stanford. You can look out your window and see me if you like. I need to speak with you.”
Another pause. “I’m sorry. I’ve been sick today, or I would have called.”
“Not a problem. Can you buzz us in?”
They could hear Gunter breathing heavily. “I’ll be right down.”
Ron exchanged a glance with Ben and the two detectives, the shorter of whom shrugged. They waited, and after a few minutes the front door opened and Gunter stepped out, the front of his orange satin dress shirt beneath a black velvet jacket oddly formal. Even in the gloom Ron could see the dark bags beneath the man’s eyes, and he wasted no time with niceties.
“I’d like you to come down to the station and answer a few questions for us, Mr. Ausberg.”
“What’s this about?”
“We’re investigating a murder, and we think you might be able to help.”
“A murder! Who?”
“A young woman.”
Gunter pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know many of those, Detective…Stanford, was it? Can I see some identification, please?”
Ron flipped out his badge case and showed him his ID. Gunter studied it and nodded. “You say you think I might be able to help you?” Gunter asked.
“We’re certainly hoping so.” Ron had decided to go the soft route with Gunter, who so far exhibited no hostility.
“On a Sunday evening? Surely this can wait until tomorrow…”
“I wish it could. I really want to get home to dinner,” Ron said, sounding long-suffering.
Gunter huffed. “How long will it take?”
“As little time as possible. We’re really sorry to inconvenience you, but it’s important.”
“Well, I suppose now that I’m up and around. But I really am under the weather.”
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