212

by Alafair Burke

  “But Abbott’s date with Mancini was not on Sparks’s charge card.”

  Sparks had rung up plenty of business at the escort service, but Tanya Abbott’s date on May 27—like Katie Battle’s on Friday night—was booked anonymously as a cash date. “Just hold on a sec. We’ve also got Judge Bandon connected to Tanya Abbott. And Judge Bandon has been bending over backward to help Sparks.”

  “And what exactly are you ready to speculate from that?”

  “We cleared Sparks on the Mancini murder because we thought there was no way he could have known that Mancini was at the 212 that night. But we’d been assuming that Mancini lined up the date on his own.”

  Rogan finished the thought. “But if Sparks was the one who hooked Mancini up with a woman for the night, he would’ve already known where Mancini would be taking her.”

  “Correct,” Ellie said. “And then his timeline in the afternoon would be meaningless.”

  “But Sparks was at a fund-raiser at the time of Mancini’s murder. Showed up in the tux and everything.”

  “A guy like Sparks doesn’t pull the trigger himself. He hires someone to do it for him. And if Sparks was behind Mancini’s murder, Judge Bandon’s special interest in the case takes on a whole new light. If Sparks knew about Bandon’s little visits to Tanya Abbott—”

  “That’s a big if,” Rogan interrupted.

  “Hey, we’re in speculation land here. Let me speculate. If Sparks knew Bandon’s secret, he could’ve pressed Bandon to keep us away from his financials and to keep a close eye on the case for him.”

  “So now we’d be looking at Bandon not just for prostitution, but—”

  “Bribery,” Ellie said. “A quid pro quo where Bandon keeps us away from the financial records that would have shown a connection between Sparks and Prestige Parties. And in return Sparks keeps Bandon’s extracurricular activities to himself. Maybe helps him get that plum federal judicial appointment Bandon wants so desperately.”

  “You really think Bandon would help cover up a murder?”

  Ellie shook her head. “No, but maybe he doesn’t realize Sparks is the doer. He threw me in the clink for even thinking about it. He just thinks he’s helping Sparks cover up the prostitution stuff. Maybe Sparks put it to him as, ‘Hey, I hear we have something in common that would be better kept a secret’?”

  “But again, this only makes sense if Sparks and Bandon both knew about the other’s connections to these women. How would that happen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t forget that you were setting aside our friend Tanya.” Rogan snapped the caps back onto the markers. “How does she fit into all this if Sparks is our guy for Mancini?”

  Ellie looked at the facts on the board. “I don’t know. We’re missing something.”

  Rogan shook his head. “If I said something that stupid, you’d throw something at me.”

  Ellie paced the interrogation room, taking in the tiny bites of information laid out like oddly shaped pieces of an enormous jigsaw puzzle. The phone calls. Tanya’s fingerprints at the 212 and in Megan’s apartment. May 27. The photographs.

  And then she saw it.

  “It’s not Tanya,” she said.

  “What’s not Tanya?”

  “Our killer.”

  “I know, you think it’s Sam Sparks.”

  “No, I mean, at all. It’s not her. She’s not a killer. She’s not on the run. Or at least, not from us. She’s running from the killer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The photographs, Rogan. The pictures. This one.” She plucked one of the color prints of the 212 crime scene from the linoleum-topped interrogation room table. It showed the bathroom of Sam Sparks’s apartment on the night of Mancini’s murder.

  “It’s a fucking bathroom.”

  Ellie flashed back to her testimony in Paul Bandon’s courtroom. Every room in Sparks’s penthouse had been torn to pieces—except the bathroom. Max had even made that lame joke: I guess extra rolls of toilet paper and back issues of Sports Illustrated aren’t the usual targets of a home invasion.

  But the bathroom wasn’t completely untouched. A single cabinet door was ajar; its former contents—a stack of towels—had spilled to the tile floor.

  Ellie tapped the open cabinet in the photograph. “That’s where she was. That’s where she was hiding.”

  “Tanya Abbott was hiding in the bathroom.”

  “Yep. She heard the shots—or maybe an argument preceding the shots—and tucked herself into the back of that cabinet behind the towels. She heard it all. And when the shooter was gone, she crawled out, leaving the cabinet open and the towels on the floor behind her. The shooter never realized she was there. Not until Max posted this photograph in Paul Bandon’s courtroom.”

  “Where Sam Sparks saw it,” Rogan said.

  “Where Sparks saw it and realized whoever he hired to do the job left a witness behind. Whatever Tanya overheard could lead back to him.”

  “So now Tanya’s on the run to get away from Sam Sparks. Or whoever’s killing people on Sparks’s behalf.”

  “They came after Tanya at her apartment, and Megan was caught in the crossfire. And then when Tanya saw the news about Katie Battle’s murder, she realized she was being hunted and took off.”

  Ellie interrupted her own train of thought as she realized the flaw in this latest thread of speculation. “But wait. The timing’s backward. If Sparks was covering his tracks, he would have started with Katie. She was the one who was supposed to be at the 212 with Mancini. Torturing Katie for answers would have led him to Stacy, who would have eventually led him to Tanya.”

  “But Tanya was attacked first, not Katie. And Stacy’s just fine.”

  “Damn it.” Ellie flopped into the chair next to the table, still holding the photograph of the bathroom cabinet. “She was there, Rogan. I can feel it. Tanya Abbott was hiding inside that bathroom. And the fact that Sam Sparks saw this picture in Bandon’s courtroom has something to do with all these bodies.”

  “If Tanya Abbott’s our victim and not our bad guy, how do you explain the posts on Campus Juice?”

  She looked up to the ceiling as if the answers might be found there. “I don’t know,” she finally said.

  “Don’t tell me,” Rogan said. “We’re missing something.”

  “We’re missing something. But if even part of what I’m thinking is right, then Stacy Schecter is a link in the chain. We have to warn her. Now.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  3:10 P.M.

  Stacy’s music was cranked to ear-numbing decibel levels again. This time she was listening to Patti Smith’s cover of the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter.” Ellie had to hand it to the girl, she had excellent taste—just the kind of woman she wished her brother would date, minus the occasional penchant for prostitution.

  She knocked on the door to no avail, and then quickly shifted to a pound.

  Inside, Patti was howling. “Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away.” Ellie tried to ignore the irony and thumped harder on the door with the butt of her fist. “Stacy, it’s Detective Hatcher from the NYPD. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

  Ellie felt eyes on her and turned to see a pair of tired, pale blue ones staring through a crack in the door of Apartment 2C just as the music’s volume dropped. “It’s about time you people came out here. It’s constant. At all hours. And the most horrendous noise.”

  “Mind your own business, you old—” Stacy halted in the doorway when she spotted Ellie. “Jesus Christ, I gave you an entire night already. I’m totally in the zone. Just let me do my work in peace.”

  “You really want to talk about your work out here in the hallway?” Ellie asked.

  Stacy stepped aside to make room for Ellie to pass and then closed the door behind her.

  “I know, I know. Sex for money, bad. Law-abiding life of goodness, good. The NYPD has done its soul-saving for the week. Message sent.”

  “I’m no
t here to lecture you, Stacy.”

  “Could’ve fooled me the other day. And I notice you’re here alone. Did your partner realize you were wasting your breath?”

  “My partner’s finishing some reports the DA’s office needed in our case against Prestige Parties. We made arrests this morning.”

  Stacy looked genuinely surprised. And impressed. “You two didn’t waste any time, did you?”

  “And we kept your name out of it, just like we promised. You went into the affidavits as a confidential informant. We found another girl who was willing to go on record. Together, it was enough. We’ve got the head of the company cooperating already. Still no sign of Tanya, though, and still a lot of theories about who might have killed Miranda.”

  “You mean Katie.”

  “I do, but you knew her as Miranda.”

  Stacy wiped a smear of yellow paint from her thumb onto her smock. “Can’t really know someone if you don’t know their name.”

  “I’ve got a couple of follow-up questions, if you can spare the time.”

  “Yeah, sure. I needed a break anyway.” She gestured to her bed and then perched herself on the corner.

  Ellie removed two photographs from her purse. One was a snapshot she had pulled from the Web archives of the New York Post’s Page Six column. It showed Sam Sparks braving the rain to enter the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the annual Costume Institute benefit. He posed for the camera on the red carpet beside event organizer and Vogue magazine editor Anna Wintour while a drenched Nick Dillon held a black umbrella over their dry heads.

  The second photograph was Judge Paul Bandon’s official head shot from the New York State Unified Court System’s Web site, complete with black robe, an American flag in the background, and a gavel in Bandon’s right hand. According to the bio beneath the picture, Bandon had served as a career prosecutor inside the Department of Justice until he’d moved to New York as special counsel to one of the country’s most elite law firms and then on to his current spot on the bench. It was indeed the perfect résumé for a federal judicial appointment. And all of it would be ruined if his relationship with Tanya Abbott were revealed.

  “Have you seen either of these men before?”

  Stacy took the printouts from her outstretched hands. She reviewed them carefully before handing them back. “No, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sure?” Ellie said.

  “Positive. I mean, yeah, the one—Sam Sparks—obviously I’ve seen him before in the paper and stuff. But never in person. What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “We don’t know. Maybe nothing. Did Miranda ever mention he was a Prestige Parties customer?”

  Stacy stifled a chuckle. “Really? That’s awesome.”

  “I kept your name out of our case, Stacy. You need to keep the fact that I asked you about these men to yourself.”

  She waved away Ellie’s concerns. “No, it’s just funny is all. I mean, the tabloids are always hinting he swings for the other team, and turns out he’s a big old horndog. Hey, maybe now that you’ve brought Prestige Parties down, he’s in the market for a new girl.” She mimicked a Mae West primp.

  Ellie rose to leave. “Not a good idea. I said I wasn’t here to lecture you, but I did come here with a warning. These guys are poster children for rich, educated, highly distinguished men, and here I am flashing their photographs as part of a homicide investigation, Stacy. You’ve got to watch out for yourself.”

  “Always have, always will.” The hardened tone was back.

  “I mean it. If you see Sam Sparks or Tanya Abbott, you have got to steer clear of them.”

  “You think they’re in on something together?”

  “No, not together.” Ellie had neither the time nor inclination to explain the competing theories about Tanya. “I can only tell you so much, Stacy, and I’m telling you to call me immediately if you see Tanya, or either of these two men, or anything else you think I need to know about.”

  She handed the woman a business card. “Just in case you didn’t happen to hold on to the last one.”

  Stacy tried to hand the card back to her. “You made me put your number in my cell, remember?”

  “Last time I checked, numbers could be deleted.”

  “Whatever. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  As Ellie made her way through the tiny living area, cramped with painting supplies and easels, she noticed a canvas still gleaming with wet oil. She recognized the tortured expression on Katie Battle’s face.

  “This is really amazing work.”

  Stacy said nothing but nodded her appreciation.

  “I guess there’s a part of you that’s not brushing this off so easily after all.”

  She didn’t let the door hit her on the way out.

  The trip to Union City had taken nearly forty minutes. Genna Walsh was waiting for Ellie on the front porch of a modest white-wood duplex, a baby bouncing on her hip and a cordless phone balanced against her shoulder. She waved at Ellie and then held her fingers an inch apart to indicate that her call was almost completed.

  “The lawyer told me he faxed it to you yesterday…. Fine…I’ll ask him to send it again. And then how long does it take?…Okay, I’ll call again tomorrow to make sure you get it. Good-bye.”

  She let out a sigh and rested the handset on the porch railing. “I tell you, when all this stuff is over, the first thing I’m doing is getting a will for me and my husband. My brother never wrote one. I’m Bobby’s only family left, but I swear, sorting through all the legalities, I’d rather just give the money to charity at this point.”

  Ellie gave the baby, a chubby thing with black wispy hair topped with a pink bow, a pat on the cheek. “Hopefully it won’t be too complicated and you’ll get it sorted out.”

  “Well, I guess you know as much about my brother’s finances as I do after all the poking around you did.”

  Ellie started to offer an explanation, but Genna shook her head. “After what I saw in that courtroom, I understand why you had so many questions about Bobby. My brother wasn’t perfect, but he worked hard. Never went to college, but managed to buy that nice apartment in Hoboken and everything. He was a good uncle, wasn’t he, sweetie girl?” She bounced the baby on her hip again. “This one was only two months old when it happened. My other one—she’s asleep inside—just turned three. Breaks my heart his nieces won’t remember him.”

  “Did your brother ever have a problem with Sparks?”

  Genna shook her head.

  “No. He was grateful for the money. His only complaint is he might have liked something a little higher up the food chain. He was pretty much a glorified bodyguard, but hey, he knew he was getting paid well for it.”

  “And he seemed to get along with the man he was guarding?”

  “Yeah, sure. Not like Sparks was his buddy, but Bobby said he was a pretty decent guy. I mean, not a lot of rich people would let employees use that apartment and everything.”

  “Did he ever mention Sparks using an escort service called Prestige Parties?”

  “Oh, no. Really? That’s crazy. Why does a man like that have to go paying for it? No, Bobby never said anything about that. I would’ve remembered for sure.”

  “And, I’m so sorry to have to ask this, but what about Bobby? Did he ever, you know—”

  “Go to a prostitute? Oh, God, I don’t think so.”

  “Through fingerprint evidence, we finally identified the woman who was with your brother that night. We believe she was hired to be with him.”

  Genna shook her head. “I just don’t understand men. I’ll kill Carl if he knew.”

  “What makes you think your husband would know?”

  “Because when Bobby was over the day before he was killed, I caught him and Carl snickering, and they got all secretive when I walked in. Later on Carl told me that Bobby said he had this date the next night and it was a sure thing. I figured he meant the girl was easy and let it drop. I don’t need to hear some
thing like that. I can’t believe he’d go to a hooker, but honestly? How much can a sister know about that part of her brother, you know?”

  Too much, Ellie thought. “And your brother never mentioned seeing something at work that maybe he wasn’t supposed to see?”

  “No, and even if he did, Nick would’ve vouched for him.”

  “They were pretty tight?”

  “Nick loved Bobby. He took care of him, you know?”

  “In what way?”

  “Bobby went in the army to get some skills and a better life. We didn’t have a lot, you know? And we both tried to do good for ourselves, but you can only do so much. I got married to a good man, but frankly, we only have this roof over our head because Bobby let us have the house when our parents were both dead. And for Bobby, the army was at least something, but a job like what he had at Sparks? That was all because of Nick. Nick could’ve hired any one of those fancy guys he knew from the private military contractor. But he didn’t. The only guy he hired, from all the people he knew from when he was over in Afghanistan, was an enlisted man: Bobby.”

  “I can tell you’re proud.”

  Genna gave her a half smile. “So proud. And I never once told him. Like I said, he wasn’t perfect. No wife. He liked to party. All I ever said to him was, ‘When are you gonna grow up?’ I wish he knew how much he’s helping his nieces. His life insurance. His apartment. We’re going to put it all away for the girls. They’ll be able to go to college. Do whatever they want.”

  “I’m sure your brother would be happy about that, Genna.”

  Ellie thanked Genna for her time and then watched as she gently opened the front door and stepped inside. As she walked to the car, she wondered whether there had been any point to driving out there.

  Her cell rang just as she hit the Holland Tunnel. It was Jess.

  “Hey,” she said. “Talk fast because I’m about to lose the signal.”

  “I think I just saw that girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “The one in the picture you sent me. The one you warned me about.”