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by Alafair Burke

  She compared the two children in the picture more closely, trying to figure out what was familiar about the boy. Physical similarities could be elusive that way. Although she and Jess looked like polar opposites in all of the most salient ways—coloring, body type, the shapes of their faces—plenty of people had told them there was some indescribable resemblance between them.

  Something about that little boy made her feel as if she’d seen him before, and recently at that. There had to be something in his face that reminded her of the adult Tanya, but whatever it was, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  After a few more photographs, the pages suddenly went blank. In the final image, Tanya dangled a set of keys and a tiny card that Ellie guessed was her learner’s permit to drive. By then, Tanya had discovered makeup, hairspray, and the power of cleavage. But despite the girl’s bolder appearance, something else in her had flattened. While the youthful Tanya was radiant, with a broad grin, this older version seemed withdrawn and less secure, as if someone was cajoling her to pose with her newfound driving props.

  Only five years later, she’d be arrested for prostitution.

  Rogan plopped down on the bed next to her. “Remember that couple in Canada? Those two whack jobs who went on a killing spree somewhere up there.”

  “You mean the Ken and Barbie murderers?”

  “Yeah, it was this dude and his girlfriend. She helped him rape and murder multiple women, including her own little sister. We could be looking at something like that. They had a reason to take out Megan if she realized the scam Tanya was running. Once they killed Megan, maybe the guy developed a taste for it. Went next to Katie.”

  “Yeah, but why Katie? And why set up a date? If Tanya knew Katie, she wouldn’t have needed the ruse. And if she didn’t know her, it’s a little coincidental that they wound up going after a prostitute who just happened to be friends with Stacy.”

  Rogan shook his head and then flopped backward on the bed. “I don’t know, but I’m so fucking tired, I could fall asleep right here.” He shut his eyes, and for a moment Ellie thought he might have actually nodded off until he muttered one word: “Tomorrow.”

  “What’s tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow we find Tanya Abbott.”

  “How? We have no idea what she’s been up to in New York. She could be on her way back to Baltimore. She could be on her way to Mexico for all we know. And she’s got a head start.”

  “You’re right. We have no idea where to look, which is why there’s no point trying to chase her ass down now. But tomorrow we won’t be exhausted. Tomorrow we’ll figure it out. We’ll find her, and we’ll get some answers.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Ellie grabbed Tanya’s photo album before they left. “If we ever catch up to her, this might be useful.”

  Ellie returned home to find Jess sprawled on her sofa. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream rested on his slumped chest as he took in an episode of The Hills.

  She unholstered her Glock and threw her jacket on a chair in the corner. “I thought you worked tonight.”

  “Called in sick after I met that girl at Gaslight.”

  She nudged him with one knee and found a place for herself next to him. “I can’t believe you watch this vacuous garbage.”

  “Hot girls juggling work, school, and boys, all in sunny southern California. What more could a guy want?”

  “One little ounce of testosterone?”

  “Just ask that girl from the bar if I’ve got a problem in that territory.”

  “Ugh,” she said, snatching the pint of ice cream while the spoon was resting in the carton. “And here I thought I might actually get some decent sleep tonight.”

  “What about your juggling of work, school, and boys? No Captain America tonight?”

  “No. We were off to a good night, and then I wound up at the Royalton. The victim’s a realtor for Corcoran—a frickin’ realtor, and she’s whoring herself on the side. Oh, excuse me—she worked for an escort agency. Prestige Parties.”

  “Classy. My employer could take a lesson from them.”

  “Well, unlike the fine gentlemen’s establishment that employs you, these escort services are always, without exception, a cover for prostitution. I really don’t get it. This woman had a good job. A roof over her head. How can a woman with options do something like that to herself?”

  “It’s more common than you’d think.”

  “Oh, God, don’t tell me—”

  “Relax. I’m talking about the girls at work. They’re doing dry humps in the VIP lounge for a hundred bucks. Fifty of that goes to the house. Another twenty-five gets tipped to the waitresses and people like yours truly who don’t have to get groped. By the time those girls are done paying percentages and the flat fee to the house to work, they’re lucky if they’re not in the hole on a slow night. Inevitably a few of them see customers on the side for a little more action.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “Try not to judge, little sis. That’s always been your weak spot.”

  “Kind of hard to be in my business and not have the occasional streak of judginess. You can’t be throwing people in a cell if you think it’s all relative.”

  “If you want, I can ask around at the T&A Café about this service. Prestige Parties?”

  “Yeah.” She handed the ice cream carton back to him, and he growled when he saw the empty bottom. “I’m hitting the sack.”

  She had removed her contacts, washed her face, and moved on to the brushing of her teeth when she heard the phone ring, followed by Jess’s voice saying, “Come on up.” She spit out the minty foam before yelling toward the living room.

  “Please tell me you didn’t invite company for the night.”

  “I wouldn’t say I invited it, but when contacted, I didn’t exactly decline the offer.”

  “Jesus, Jess.” She used her hands to make a sipping cup beneath the faucet and rinsed. “You can’t just assume I’m not coming home. Now where the hell—”

  “Relax, El.” He was pulling on his jacket. “The company’s not for me. Captain America texted a few minutes ago to see if you were back yet. I guess it was supposed to be a surprise. Gag. And really, I know you two are on the road to being that old married couple at Denny’s every night, but seeing how he’s trying to be so romantic and all, you might want to put in a little effort.” He pointed a scrutinizing finger up and down her general person.

  Ellie was no longer in front of a mirror, but looking down, she got the gist. Blue flannel pajama bottoms. Extra-large David Bowie T-shirt. The slippers her mother had given her, adorned with plush green frog heads. Not to mention her hair was pulled back in a red terry-cloth sweatband and her face was slathered with overnight cream. She heard a tap at the door.

  “Off with you,” Jess said. “I’ll buy you some time.”

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “Out.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sis, when are you going to figure out that I can always find a place to sleep?”

  Ellie dashed into the bathroom and slid the band from her hair while she wiped at her face with Kleenex. She threw the slippers and the sweatpants in the bathtub. By the time she heard Jess say good-bye to Max, she was ready to emerge—just her and her David Bowie T-shirt—for some well-deserved privacy with Max Donovan.

  From the look on his face when he saw her, he didn’t mind the attire. His smile—and every activity that followed—kept her mind off Tanya Abbott, Megan Gunther, Katie Battle, Sparks, her lieutenant, all of it. She and Rogan had big plans, but not until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  8:15 A.M.

  She takes a triangle stance in her stall at the firing range. The sound of gunfire echoes through the cold room. She levels her Glock in front of her, fixes the torso of the paper target in her sights, and locks her right elbow to prepare for the recoil. She pulls the trigger but nothing happens. She tries again but, a
gain, nothing. She pulls the trigger once more, and this time, the weapon falls from her hand.

  “Hatcher.”

  She turns to find Robin Tucker standing behind her.

  “You’re not ready, Hatcher. You knew you weren’t ready, but you came here anyway. And now everyone is pulling their weight except you. Take a look at Nick’s work.”

  Ellie hears a rumble as a paper torso in front of the adjacent stall flies in her direction like a ghost. Six holes form a tight cluster in the middle of the target’s chest.

  “Excellent shooting.”

  She turns to see Nick Dillon, the head of security for Sparks Industries. He kisses Tucker on the cheek and gives her a playful tap on the ass. She giggles in delight.

  Ellie hears another rumble. She sees another target being pulled in from the end of the firing range. More rumbling. More targets, all with centered shots. She fumbles for her Glock on the floor and makes one more futile attempt to fire. She hears another rumble as her own target moves toward her. She looks at the paper and sees the gloating sneer of Sam Sparks.

  “Ellie.”

  She holds her hands in front of her to keep the paper from swallowing her.

  “Ellie.”

  She feels hands on hers, pushing her arms closer to her body.

  “El, your phone.”

  Ellie opened her eyes to see her bedroom ceiling. In bed next to her, Max let out a tired groan. “You okay? You were waving your arms around. Thought you were going to coldcock me for a second.”

  She heard another rumble from the nightstand as her vibrating cell phone crept against the maple top.

  “Hatcher,” she said, not bothering to check the screen before answering.

  “This has to be a first.” It was Rogan.

  “Hmm?”

  “Me waking your ass up. I’ve been a busy boy this morning.”

  “Yeah?” She rubbed an eye with her free hand, trying to knock out the grogginess of sleep.

  “I pulled the records for that cell phone number we had for Tanya Abbott. No calls in or out since the night before Megan’s murder, and no current signal.”

  “She must have known to turn it off so we couldn’t track her.”

  “Smart girl. I also checked out the calls she’s made in the months since she moved in with Megan. Not a lot of use.”

  “You found some calls to Stacy Schecter, I assume?” Ellie sat up in bed and pulled up the comforter to cover her chest.

  “Yeah. Another familiar name, too.”

  “Not Katie Battle?” Ellie asked. A call between Tanya Abbott and Katie Battle would bring their mutual connection to Stacy Schecter full circle. A direct connection between the two would also strengthen Rogan’s suspicions that Tanya’s sudden disappearance was related to Katie’s brutal murder the night before. But it wouldn’t be that straightforward.

  “Nope,” Rogan said. “Someone else.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  He paused for dramatic effect. “Paul Bandon.”

  “No…way. As in future federal judge Paul Bandon?”

  Max turned on his side next to her and whispered a curious “What?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yep. And it’s not just one call. There’s a lot of them, back and forth between the two, like almost once a week. I didn’t think you’d want to miss the chance to ask him about it.”

  “Hell, no.”

  Ellie was already pulling on a pair of pants by the time Rogan said good-bye.

  Judge Paul Bandon lived in what New Yorkers called a white-glove building on the Upper East Side. White-glove buildings not only have doormen, but doormen in white gloves who hail the cabs, carry the groceries, walk the dogs, and perform whatever other menial tasks are beneath their privileged tenants. This particular white-glove building was prewar, with marble floors and gold-leaf mirrors in the elevators. The woman who came to Bandon’s door, with her navy blue tailored sweater jacket and perfectly set, shoulder-length blond bob, looked like she was born to live in such a building.

  “May I help you?” she asked. Even through the crack in the door, Ellie recognized the woman from the photograph Bandon kept on his bench in court.

  “We’re with the New York Police Department, ma’am. We’re here to speak with Judge Bandon?”

  “If you have a warrant or something for my husband to review on a Saturday, I would assume that could be taken care of by one of the weekend on-call judges. Isn’t that usually how it’s done?”

  “This isn’t about a warrant, ma’am. Is your husband home?”

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, alarm now registering in her voice. “I knew his handling a criminal docket could lead to something like this.”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about,” Rogan said.

  “Laura? Where are you?” a man’s voice called from inside the apartment. “Are you even listening to me? I thought we were having a conversation, and you just walk away. Oh—”

  The judge’s voice trailed off as he realized someone was at the door. The woman widened the crack in the door for them to step inside. “Paul, these detectives are here to see you. I’m Laura, by the way. Laura Bandon.”

  Next to her stood Judge Bandon in a light blue oxford shirt, khaki pants, and shearling slippers. He hadn’t gotten to the leather belt in his hands. And he apparently wasn’t going to get around to proper introductions. “Well, gosh. Detectives Rogan and Hatcher. This is, well, certainly a surprise, seeing you at my home like this, unannounced.”

  Along with the smile, he maintained a tone that was country-club pleasant, but the content of the words could not be ignored.

  “It was urgent, Your Honor.”

  “But not so urgent that you could have raised it yesterday morning when you spent a good two hours in my chambers? Or was this a matter that you wanted to speak to me about, Detective Hatcher?”

  Ellie returned the pleasant smile. “It’s a subject my partner and I both feel is important. And it only arose early this morning, so yesterday wasn’t an option.”

  “And what exactly is this pressing topic?”

  “We found your—”

  Ellie was ready to forge ahead, but Rogan cut her off. “Perhaps we could speak to you in private, Your Honor.”

  “Well,” his wife said, clasping her manicured hands at her waist, “I can certainly recognize when it’s time for me to take my leave. I was going down to the corner anyway to pick up some milk. Paul, we can continue our conversation when you’re finished with this…intriguing meeting.”

  They waited for Laura Bandon to pull a tan windbreaker from the front closet and make her way out the front door.

  “You may as well have a seat,” Bandon said, leading the way into a museumlike living room adorned with Persian rugs and Chippendale-inspired furnishings. Ellie perched herself lightly atop an upholstered ladder-back chair. Rogan looked more comfortable as he crossed his legs on a velvet-adorned settee next to her.

  “So what precisely brings you here this morning, Detectives? I thought just yesterday we had squared away everything we needed on this Sparks matter, but I have to say, your coming to my home outside of business hours has me thinking about his charges in a different light. There is a line, I believe, between thorough policing and harassment.”

  Rogan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “With all due respect, Your Honor, you haven’t given us an opportunity to explain why we’re here. Any comparison of this to harassment seems…premature.”

  Rogan’s tone was pitch-perfect, yet Ellie found herself troubled by a nagging feeling of guilt. She wondered if the judge had a point. So his name turned up in a missing prostitute’s cell phone records. That single fact made the likely scenario apparent. He wouldn’t be the first married man of prominence who partook of the sex trade. Coming here would at best confirm their clear impressions. But it wouldn’t get them any closer to finding Tanya Abbott or figuring out what role she played in the murders of Megan Gunther or Katie Battle.
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  Had they jumped too quickly at the tantalizing appeal of confronting this man with his sins? Maybe, but now that they were here, there was no turning back. They had to lock it down.

  “What can you tell us about your relationship with Tanya Abbott?” she asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I think you heard the question, Judge.”

  “I very well did. And I don’t appreciate the obvious insinuation.”

  “If the insinuation is inaccurate, feel free to correct us. You do know a woman named Tanya Abbott, don’t you? She also uses the name Heather Bradley.”

  “I believe you said you were going to explain why exactly you’ve come here. All I am hearing from you, Detectives, are questions, but no explanation as to why you are asking them, either of me or at my home at this early hour on a Saturday morning.”

  She gave him a small smile. He was smart. The people they were used to interrogating would immediately lock themselves into a lie. “Never heard of her,” they’d say without pausing.

  But Bandon was too good for that. Lies to a police officer create presumptions of guilt. Lies could lead to cover-up allegations against a judge who might otherwise manage to survive what some would wave away as just another sex-scandal. So rather than lie, Bandon was using his power and authority to try to intimidate them.

  She handed him a printout of Abbott’s Maryland driver’s license. “Have a look. Perhaps you know her by another name, Your Honor. But we’re confident that you know her.”

  He glanced at the photo for only a second before returning it to Ellie as if it burned his hand. He focused his gaze instead toward the inner depths of the apartment, down the hallway of what Ellie recognized as a classic six. Before the days of her rent-stabilized pad, during the brief shack-up with the investment banker, Ellie enjoyed the spaciousness of an Upper East Side apartment with almost precisely this same layout. With Mrs. Bandon safely outside the apartment on her way to the corner market, she wondered who might remain to jeopardize the seeming privacy of the living room.