The subway roared into the station and Denton got off. This was the last time he would meet Vallie up in the fucking Bronx. He had made the decision. Vallie had forced his hand.
Terri looked past the drawing in her gloved hand to the victim sprawled on the pavement just a few feet away: life imitating art.
She handed the drawing back to Crime Scene. “Not for public consumption,” she said. She did a slow three-sixty of the quiet street, the four- and five-story brownstones, mixed with taller apartment buildings, and tried to reconstruct the crime.
Had the shooter approached the vic, shot him point-blank, or had the shots been fired from a distance?
“Any witnesses?” she asked one of her detectives, Vinnie Dugan, a pug-nosed Irishman who’d expected to get Terri’s job and hadn’t gotten it. He’d been going through the crowd, which wasn’t that big, maybe twenty people who had been awakened by police sirens at 2:00 A.M. Had it been earlier, and a different neighborhood, this sort of spectacle would have been SRO.
“Nada,” said Dugan. “And no one heard the shots.”
But someone had to have the heard shots! Terri took another look at the quiet residential street. Had the shooter used a silencer? And if so, why? Was it some sort of paid hit? But that didn’t make sense. And there was another drawing, another fucking drawing.
Terri tapped a CS tech. “Have you checked the vic’s shirt for anything that could have gotten on it when the drawing was pinned onto him?”
The guy looked insulted by the question. “Of course.”
“And you’ve got the pin, right?”
He displayed a plastic bag, the pin inside.
The medical examiner swabbed the dead man’s forehead with a Q-tip and zipped it into a bag. “The lab will do further tests for GSR, but right now I’m saying there’s residue.”
Terri studied the victim’s position and turned to the photographer. “Can you get a shot of the vic from both east and west? Full-body shots. Pictures of the street too—and the crowd.” She turned to survey them, the outer fringes already breaking down, people returning to the comfort of their homes, which surprised her. Most people did not leave until the body had been bagged and taken away, the best part of the show. She figured things weren’t moving fast enough for them, no close-ups, no snappy dialogue. She signaled to Dugan.
“Who’s doing the canvass?”
“Detectives from the Twenty-third,” he said. “It’s their beat, remember?”
“And part of our investigation,” said Terri. “Take a uniform and start on the north side of the block.” She gestured to her other men. “O’Connell, you and Perez can work the south.”
“People up here don’t like being awakened in the middle of the night,” said Perez.
“Like I give a shit?” Terri sighed. “Look, guys, I know it’s late. I’d like to be home in bed as much as you. Tell you what, finish up here, meet me at the station, and I’ll treat you to breakfast.”
“As long as it’s a real one,” said O’Connell. “None of that Egg McMuffin crap.”
“You got it.” Terri watched them walk away. Maybe they wouldn’t be calling her bitch behind her back, which she knew they’d been doing her first few months on the job. She wondered where Denton was. Off screwing one of his interns, her best guess. He’d be pissed that he had missed a photo op. The press had just arrived, TV reporters hooking up mikes, film crews angling for shots as CS finished up and EMT finally bagged the body.
She glanced over at the man who had discovered the body, a young guy who had been to a bachelor party, reeling a bit as if his feet were glued to the ground and his body tugged by opposing magnets. He hadn’t seen anyone, just the body. He’d probably tripped over it.
One decent witness, was that too much to ask? Someone who had seen something, who could sit down with Rodriguez and let him do his transference thing, his magic.
Terri’s adrenaline was starting to ebb, replaced by an empty sinking feeling.
Hell, it would have to be real magic if they did not have a witness. After all, Rodriguez could not make up a face from thin air.
10
Perry Denton’s office had the look of an important man, leather and brass, a wall of books that Terri knew he’d never more than glanced at. He’d had it redecorated when he assumed the job because, he’d told Terri, the chief of department had to set the right tone.
“So where were you last night?”
“Busy,” said Denton. “Is that why you’re here, to ask me where I was? I don’t have time to run to every crime scene, Russo, that’s not my job.”
“Sorry, I was simply asking. I thought…” She let it go, glanced at the Post and News on Denton’s desk. The murder had made both morning editions. A man shot dead on the Upper East Side was the sort of story that made New Yorkers uncomfortable. They didn’t notice if someone was gunned down in Harlem, but this sort of thing didn’t happen in their neighborhoods, and when it did, they wanted answers.
The PD had managed to keep the victim’s name out of the papers, and, more important, the drawing. If the press got hold of that piece of information, it would be a field day. And it was only a matter of time before some eager reporter sniffed it out. They always did. Terri knew it. Denton knew it too.
She turned the Post around to read it and Denton stopped her, his hand on top of hers.
“Is there a reason you’re here, Russo?”
She slipped her hand out from his and laid the sketch on his desk.
“What’s this?”
“A sketch by one of your men, a freelancer, a cop. Nate Rodriguez.”
“Yeah, I know who he is. Sketch artist. So what?”
“So the perp was caught. Detectives say they picked him up by the sketch alone.”
“Meaning what?
That it was a good sketch?”
“More than a good sketch. A great sketch. Perp’s been booked. Witness positive ID’d him.”
“So it was a great sketch.” Denton looked perplexed.
“Well, Rodriguez is an asset, a good cop.”
“What’s your point, Russo?”
“Rodriguez is being underused.”
Denton grinned. “Meaning you have an idea about how he should be used, that it?”
“Yes.” Terri took a deep breath. “I’d like to take him with me, let him talk to a few people around each of these vics, the ones found with the drawings—”
“Rodriguez? On the street? You shitting me?”
“No.”
“Wait a minute.” Denton leered. “What is it? You sweet on the guy?”
“Sweet on the guy? You been reading romance novels, Perry? But for the record, no, I’m not sweet on him. I think he can help with the investigation, that’s all. He’s a cop with a special talent.”
“A cop who spent what, three days on the job?”
Terri tried to collect her thoughts. She’d done her homework, stayed up late reading the files: Rodriguez’s college and police academy records, references from his stay at Quantico, all excellent. “He was top of his class, aced every course, Crime Scenes, Elements of Proof, Interviews and Interrogations, Communications—”
“I know the course work, Russo. So what?”
“There are letters in his file from over a dozen academy instructors, all testifying to the guy’s talent. Before the academy there was Hunter College, double major in psychology and art.” She put a hand up to keep Denton from interrupting. “And of course there’s the Quantico forensic art course, which included profiling, more psychology, more interview techniques, plus commendations from every Quantico instructor.”
“But the guy’s got no street creds, and—”
“I’m not asking him to shoot anyone. I just want him to do what he does, draw. You ever look at the stats on his success rate? One of two of his drawings has resulted in an arrest.”
“I’m impressed,” said Denton, voice flat.
“You should be. Half the PDs in the States call
him in to do freelance work for them, Seattle, L.A., next week the Boston PD. We’re lucky to have him.” She paused to let that sink in. “Maybe he can come up with a sketch, a composite of our unsub.”
“But nobody’s seen our unsub; remember that part, Russo?”
“All I’m asking is to let me take Rodriguez to meet a few of the witnesses who—”
“—didn’t see anything.” Denton shook his head. Did he need this petty shit, now of all times? “Bet you didn’t take this up with your department chief because you knew he’d turn you down.”
“No, I didn’t because I’m asking you, Perry.”
“Forget it.”
“Look—”
“No, you look.” Denton pointed his finger at her like a gun. “I’ve got a city to take care of, and people to answer to. I’ve got a reputation to protect, you understand that, Russo?”
“Oh, yes. I understand all about protecting your reputation.” She didn’t have to spell it out and didn’t want to say what Denton already knew—that she could do him some real damage, though it would probably end both of their careers. She let it hang in the air a moment before she went back to Rodriguez. “The guy’s got a talent for getting people to talk, for drawing the pictures they have in their heads.”
“But nobody’s seen anything. Do I have to say it again?”
“Maybe someone saw something and they don’t even know it. I’ve seen what Rodriguez can do with a witness and a sketch. I’m just saying maybe he can add something.”
“So bring in whoever you can dig up and let Rodriguez work with them at the station.”
“I want him to talk to the witnesses on their own turf and I want him to get a feel for the scenes—the places where our unsub has struck.”
Denton stared down at his shoes. He seemed to be thinking about something else, but Terri didn’t know what.
“Hey, the G is going to be all over this any minute,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather take care of it in-house? Isn’t that what we’d all like?”
“You think Rodriguez is our ticket to scooping the G? Because if that’s it, you’re too late. The G is already in. FO’s have already been assigned. Manhattan FBI wants everything we’ve got, case and lab reports, everything.”
“Shit.”
“It’s a done deal, Russo. Like so many things.” Denton gave her a leering, knowing smile.
“When does this go into action?”
“Now.” Denton sighed. “What the fuck, Russo. Let them have it if they want it. It can be their problem, not ours.”
That last case Terri had worked with the feds started playing in her head, but she wasn’t about to quit. “So what about Rodriguez?”
“Isn’t that a moot point?”
“Are they sending in a profiler?”
“We’re on a waiting list.”
“That could be weeks.”
“Your point?”
“Rodriguez has a profiler’s mind.”
“But again, not the creds.”
“He’s Quantico-trained.”
“In fucking portrait painting.”
“Give me a break, okay, Perry? Let Rodriguez come with me, talk to a few people, do some drawings. If nothing pans out we haven’t lost anything.”
Denton decided to let her have her new toy, but didn’t feel like saying it yet. He was enjoying the fact that he had the power, that he could make her wait.
“Rodriguez has been around the PD for seven years, assisted on hundreds of homicides, rapes, and robberies—more than most cops ever get to work.”
“Making drawings, Russo.”
“And that’s all I want him to do. But I want him with me on the street to do it. Jesus, Perry, are you going to make me beg?”
Denton almost said yes, but he was getting tired of the game and had bigger things to worry about. “Okay, if you want this guy so bad.” He took a few steps closer and aimed a finger at her. “But anything fucks up, Russo, I’m holding you responsible. It’ll be your ass on the line, remember that.”
11
Terri Russo had called. She wanted me on the case. Just like that.
My grandmother would not agree that the call had come out of nowhere. She believed that everything happened for a reason. She would say that the spirit of the dead had brought Russo to me; that I had been beckoned by someone’s ori.
I looked around, a bit sorry it had beckoned me here of all places, to the morgue.
The smell of formaldehyde was leeching through my mask, the Vicks VapoRub smeared on my nostrils not quite doing the job. If I’m smelling death, am I also breathing it in? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that.
The coroner, a tired-looking guy with streaks of blood and viscera across his smock, said, “Vic never knew what hit him. Bullet went straight into the medulla oblongata and came out the other side.”
Russo was beside me. “Thought it would be good for you to see the real thing to compare it to the drawing,” she said.
I looked at the victim, a Latino man between thirty-five and forty. She handed me a bagged drawing.
“Can you confirm this was made by the same guy?”
“It looks it, but I’d like to see the others along with it to be sure.”
“Right,” she said. “I’ve got copies of everything in my office.”
I looked from the drawing to the corpse. “It’s a decent likeness, which means the unsub stalked him, earmarked him for death. But why?”
“Well, that’s the big question,” said Russo.
“Any witnesses?”
“Not that we know of. But I’d like you to talk to all the people who last saw any of the vics, or had contact with them. Maybe they saw something and didn’t realize it.”
“And you want me to draw a sketch from their descriptions, that it?”
“You think you can?”
“I can try.”
I could see Terri smile even behind her mask. She checked her watch. “I’ve got a meeting, but you can start with this vic’s wife.” She handed me an address and phone number.
“The guy’s hardly cold.”
“That’s why I want you to speak to her now—while everything is still fresh in her mind.”
The woman who opened the door was probably in her mid-thirties, but at the moment it was hard to tell, her face strained and pale, eyes red-rimmed.
I showed her my temporary shield. She sighed deeply and let me in. She lived only a few blocks south of Julio and Jess, Eighty-sixth and Park, primo Manhattan real estate.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I’d like to help.”
She looked up at me, incredulous. “And how are you going to do that?”
“By finding the man who did this.”
She led me into an art-filled living room, Warhol Brillo Box on the floor, cool minimal Robert Mangold painting on one wall, Catherine Murphy landscape, Chuck Close portrait on another. An eclectic, expensive mix.
“Amazing art collection,” I said.
“That was Roberto’s realm, but I enjoyed it.” She managed a slight smile. “He started collecting in the eighties, after the Wall Street boom.”
“He was a trader?”
“Oh, no,” she said, as if insulted. “He had his own fund.”
“He obviously did well.
She sighed again. “Yes.”
I got her talking about the art, and she said her husband had recently bought the Warhol at auction, which I knew meant he’d paid well over a million. After a while I asked, “Tell me what happened the night he was killed.”
“You mean last night?”
I said I was sorry again, but the sooner we knew, the faster we could do something about it.
“There’s not much to tell. Roberto was keyed up, so he decided to go out for the paper. I told him it was silly. We get the Times and the Journal delivered every morning, but when Roberto has his mind set, it’s useless to fight him.” She welled up with tears. “If only he’d listened to
me.”
“Don’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault, Mrs. Acosta.”
“Cambell. I use my maiden name.”
“Sorry, Ms. Cambell. But you need to put the blame where it belongs, on the man who did this.”
“That’s very kind,” she said, and seemed more eager to talk. We went through the events of the past night: Her husband had gone to a store on Lex for the Wall Street Journal and hadn’t made it back; she hadn’t seen the shooting and couldn’t imagine there was a reason for anyone to kill him. “I’ve been through this with the police. Roberto had no enemies.”
I opened my pad and explained what I did. That same look of incredulity passed over her features, but I convinced her to sit down and close her eyes. Then I asked her to think back over the past week.
“Has there been anyone hanging around that looked suspicious? Anyone. A delivery boy who seemed weird?”
“No, I, I don’t think so, but…” A moment passed. “There was this one man; I saw him twice. He wasn’t doing anything, just standing on the corner of Park Avenue, which was odd, just standing there and looking over at the building.”
“Was he black or white?”
“He was definitely white, but he was across the street, so I didn’t see him close up. He was staring at the lobby entrance when Roberto and I came out. I mentioned him to Roberto, but he didn’t pay attention. I kissed my husband good-bye and…” She stopped and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “I’m sorry.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing. Roberto left for work, and when I looked across the street, the man was gone.”
“And that was it?”
“Well, no. I wouldn’t have thought about him again except he was there the next day. And it’s Park Avenue. People just don’t hang out on Park Avenue. I wondered if he was a Realtor scouting our building. But he didn’t look like a Realtor.”
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