“You’re right,” I said. “So let’s start by going through Parker-Steele’s emails, phone records, credit card transactions—whatever we can dig up—and see if she knew any of the other three victims.”
“Based on their backgrounds, she probably didn’t know them,” Kylie said, “but let’s see if they’re connected in any way. Maybe they have a common enemy. Also, let’s talk to the family and see what they can give us.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Because zillionaires are always quick to divulge all their dirty little family secrets to help the authorities bring the truth to the surface. Now who’s in La-La Land?”
“Now you’re right,” she said. “Let’s call Muriel Sykes. Even if she doesn’t know anything, we can at least get our hands on Evelyn’s computer.”
Sykes had given us her personal cell number on Saturday when she’d called in to report Evelyn missing. Kylie dialed.
“Mrs. Sykes, this is Detective MacDonald. I’m—”
Sykes cut her off. It was at least twenty seconds before Kylie got a word in. “Ma’am, I called you as soon as I could find a minute. We were at the crime scene and—”
Pause. Then: “What do you mean, ‘what crime scene’? We were in Central Park with Ev—”
Another interruption. Kylie’s expression went from exasperated to confused. “No. Nobody told us. When did you report it?… That’s the Seventeenth Precinct. What was taken?”
Kylie turned to me and mouthed a string of silent curses.
“Please don’t leave,” she said. “We’ll be there in—”
A few seconds of silence, and then she exploded. “Then where are you now, Mrs. Sykes?” she demanded. “Where?”
She signaled me to get moving, and I followed her toward the door.
“Please don’t touch anything,” she said into the phone. “And don’t let anyone else in. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
She hung up and flew down the stairs, yelling, “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! We are a couple of idiots!”
Chapter 17
The Ford Interceptor was in front of the precinct, and Kylie got behind the wheel. I barely had the door closed when she peeled out and sped west on East 67th. She flipped on the lights and sirens and ran the red on Lexington. Then she hung a hard right on Park and blasted her way uptown.
“Are we on a Code Three?” I shouted over the howl of the siren.
Code 3 is for life-threatening emergencies only. We’re not supposed to totally disregard traffic laws, but we can muscle cars out of our way. Code 2 is for high-priority non-emergencies. Must follow traffic laws.
“Code Two and a Half. I’ll try not to kill anyone,” she said.
“Then slow down.”
She didn’t hit the brakes, but she eased up on the accelerator.
“Now, where are we going, and why are we idiots?” I asked.
“What was Mayor Spellman’s biggest—no, make that his only—concern?”
“Arrest the Hazmat Killer before next Tuesday, or he’ll be former mayor Spellman.”
“Exactly,” she said. “If we do it on Spellman’s watch, he’ll hog the glory and tell the world that the tough-on-crime candidate is already in office. If we haven’t cracked it by the time the voters go to the polls, Sykes will blast the mayor for being weak and impotent. So what do you think she wants us to do?”
“Shit,” I said. “Not catch him.”
“Bingo. It’s in her best interests to slow us down, and she may have figured out how to do it. There was a break-in at campaign headquarters early this morning, and guess what? Evelyn’s computer was stolen.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We are idiots. We were so busy being cops that we never looked at the big picture. Politics.”
Kylie swerved around a cabbie who was either too slow or too arrogant to get out of the way. We barreled across 86th in our race uptown.
“Wait,” I said. “Campaign headquarters are on Fifty-Fifth. Where are we going?”
“Ninety-Fourth and Park. Evelyn Parker-Steele’s apartment. The same place where she murdered Cynthia Pritchard two years ago.”
“What’s there?”
“Muriel Sykes. And I’ll bet a year’s salary on what’s not there,” she said. “Evelyn’s personal computer.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said, pounding the dash with the flat of my fist. “Screw Code Two. Floor it.”
Chapter 18
As Park Avenue buildings go, Evelyn’s was rather modest. It wasn’t one of those grand old dames built at the turn of the last century. It was a 1960s-era redbrick building, and Evelyn probably bought her two-bedroom co-op for a couple of mil, which in this zip code is practically Walmart pricing.
Of course, Evelyn and her husband, Jason Steele, owned an eighty-million-dollar horse farm in Pound Ridge. So for her, 1199 Park was just a simple crash pad, tastefully appointed with a few million bucks’ worth of modern art and antique furniture.
We didn’t have to wave our badges at the doorman. The flashing lights on our double-parked Ford was all he needed.
“You’re here about Mrs. Parker-Steele,” he said, holding the door for us.
“That’s right,” Kylie said. “Mrs. Sykes is upstairs. She’s expecting us.”
“Fourteen A. The elevator’s over there,” he said. “Shame about what happened. She was a good tenant. Never any problems.”
Except for that one time she tossed her girlfriend off the terrace. It’s amazing how much you can block out about someone’s past when you’ve seen them being tortured on the Internet.
The door to the apartment opened before we could ring the bell. Muriel Sykes let us in. She had played NCAA lacrosse at Penn State. Thirty years and four kids later, she still had an imposing athletic physique. Her casually styled chestnut-brown hair and her slate-gray skirt/jacket ensemble were age and image appropriate for a woman who wanted to appeal to voters across a broad economic spectrum.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Sykes said as if we had accepted her gracious invitation and not as though we’d bolted out of the precinct when we realized she was trying to undermine our investigation.
Evelyn’s apartment was blandly tasteful and remarkably inoffensive. The walls, the furniture, and even the art were all varying shades of beige. The one thing that popped out was the sour-faced octogenarian in the black suit and red turtleneck sitting on a minimalist ecru sofa, a silver TV remote in one hand, a bright green can of Canada Dry ginger ale in the other.
“This is Evelyn’s father, Leonard Parker,” Sykes said, introducing us.
We did the usual sorry-for-your-loss routine. He thanked us but seemed more interested in the stock ticker crawling along the bottom of the TV screen.
“She’s not gay,” he said, looking up from the TV. “They tortured her into saying that. Evelyn and Jason were happy as a couple of newlyweds.”
He made no attempt to deny the fact that his daughter was a murderer—as long as we didn’t walk away thinking she was a homicidal lesbian. What a dad.
“You find this Hazmat bastard for me,” he said, forgetting that Kylie and I worked for the city and not him. “We’ll get the truth out of him. I have people.”
Sykes jumped in before he could spell out his revenge plot. “Leonard,” she said, “this is all very stressful. I desperately need a cigarette.”
He looked at her as though she’d said she was about to pee on the carpet. “Not in here,” he said. “I have to sell this place. Buyers will smell that shit from the lobby. Take it outside.”
Sykes walked us over to a sliding glass door and opened it.
This was the famous terrace where Cynthia Pritchard had spent her final moments. Because it had belonged to a wealthy woman, I had always pictured it as a spacious yard in the sky filled with expensive Frontgate patio furniture and lush vegetation. This wasn’t that.
This was a balcony. Just another one of those small shelves you see hanging off high-rise buildings where storage-starved city d
wellers cram their bikes, rusted-out hibachi grills, and other crap they don’t want inside.
There was no place to sit, and we stood there waiting for Sykes to light up a Capri, one of those ultralong, ultraslim cigarettes preferred by women who want to look sophisticated while they inhale nicotine-infused carcinogens.
“No photos, please,” she said after taking a drag. “It’s bad for my image.”
“Tell us about the break-in,” Kylie said.
“All they took was a couple of computers,” Sykes said. “I’m sure it was Spellman’s people. You know politics. You’d think people would have learned something from Watergate, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I guess the mayor will do anything to save his ass.”
“Did you report the theft?” Kylie said.
“Someone from my staff called it in.”
“Then why are you here instead of at campaign headquarters?” Kylie asked.
“Leonard is a dear friend. He’s trying to cope with his grief, and he asked if we could spend some time here alone. He’s a crusty old codger, but Evelyn was his only daughter, and he adored her. I think he wanted to have a quiet moment to commune with her.”
All politicians are full of shit. Muriel was fuller than most. From what I could see, her dear friend Leonard was more concerned about her cigarette smoke lowering property values.
“Did you take anything from the apartment?” I asked.
“Detective,” she said, “that borders on insulting. You do know I was a former U.S. attorney? Taking anything from this apartment could be considered a criminal act—at the very least, it might be considered obstruction of justice. The answer is an unequivocal no.”
“I apologize,” I said. “Typical cop question.”
“Except you’re not a typical cop—neither of you are. You people at Red are trained to deal with high-profile situations like this one. You were front-page heroes a few months ago. I expect you to think twice before you ask me any more stupid questions.”
The best defense is a strong offense, and Muriel Sykes had just pummeled us.
“Now where are you on Evelyn’s murder?” she said.
“We wanted to go through her computer,” I said. “Does she have a laptop here?”
“I have no idea. If she does, I can assure you that neither Leonard nor I touched it.”
And if there were any lesbian porn lying around, I’m sure you and Leonard didn’t get rid of that either.
“Do we need a search warrant, or can we look around?” I asked.
“Of course. I’m here to help,” she said, turning on the warm, grandmotherly smile that graced all her campaign posters. But from the neck down, her six-foot body was steeled for battle. As one columnist put it, “Sykes is a political enigma. You’re never sure if she plans to beat the daylights out of you or bake you cookies.”
“Can you think of anything that might have connected Evelyn to the three previous victims?” I asked.
“No, nothing,” Sykes said. “The killer didn’t know her either. He killed those three scumbags, but the mayor didn’t give him what he wanted. Attention. So he targeted someone in power, beat a false confession out of her, and now he’s an international media sensation. If I were mayor, he’d have been locked up before he ever laid a hand on Evelyn.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and popped an Altoids. “Now let me get back to Leonard,” she said, yanking the handle on the glass door. “You’re free to look around all you want.”
Kylie and I expected to find nothing, but we went from room to room, going through the motions.
“This is interesting,” I said when we got to Evelyn’s work space. “No computer, no modem.”
“Maybe she was Amish,” Kylie said. “Good thing we know Sykes was a former U.S. attorney, otherwise I might suspect her of tampering with evidence.”
We went back to the living room, where Leonard was pacing and yelling into his cell phone. “Hold on, Vernon,” he said when he saw us. “I’ll ask the cops.”
“Hey, lady detective—is this a crime scene?” he asked, twirling a bony finger around the room. “The apartment? Is it a crime scene?”
“Technically,” Kylie said, “there’s no current evidence—”
“Just yes or no. Crime scene? Not a crime scene?”
Nobody, no matter how old or how rich, steamrolls Kylie MacDonald. “Mr. Parker,” she said slowly, deliberately, “to answer your question, the New York City Police Department does not currently consider your late daughter’s apartment as a crime scene.”
“We’re good to go, Vern,” Parker said into the phone. “List it at one point nine five and see if anyone bites.”
And with that, the grieving father hung up, brushed past us, and strode out the front door.
Chapter 19
“Well, that went swimmingly,” I said when we were back in the elevator. “I practically accused a former U.S. attorney of tampering with evidence, you came this close to telling the victim’s father to take a flying leap off the balcony, and Evelyn’s computer, which is probably our best link to finding the killer, is mysteriously missing.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about it,” Kylie said. “Plain and simple. Muriel Sykes took it.”
“Try proving that one,” I said.
“You think I can’t?” she said as the elevator door opened. “Watch this.”
She headed straight for the doorman.
“How’d it go up there?” he said, all cheery, as though Christmas were right around the corner and she was the heavy tipper who lived in the penthouse.
“What’s your name?” she demanded, all badass cop, no charm.
“Nestor,” he said meekly.
“You have video surveillance in this building, Nestor?”
“Just closed-circuit,” he said, pointing to the eight tiny monitors on his console. “It doesn’t tape anything. It just lets me keep an eye on things as they happen.”
“So you’re pretty alert,” Kylie said.
“That’s my job.”
“Then you’d remember if you saw Mrs. Sykes go upstairs to Mrs. Parker-Steele’s apartment early this morning.”
“If she did, I didn’t see her,” he said all too quickly.
“Nestor, do you know why we’re here?” Kylie demanded.
“Mrs. Parker-Steele,” he said. “Somebody killed her.”
“Correct. We’re investigating a murder. So if I ask you a question and you lie to me, you are guilty of obstructing justice, which is a felony. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“Then let me restate the question,” she said. “Did you see Mrs. Sykes go upstairs to Mrs. Parker-Steele’s apartment early this morning? And before you answer, ask yourself if whatever she tipped you to keep it quiet is enough to get you through the next two years, because that’s the minimum you’d pull for lying to a homicide investigator.”
“Mrs. Sykes came by this morning,” he said. “A little after seven. I know the time because I start my shift at seven, and I was still drinking my coffee. She pulled up in a town car, and she told the driver to wait for her. She went upstairs—she didn’t have anything with her when she went up, but when she came down five minutes later, she had Mrs. Parker-Steele’s laptop. I recognized the carrying case. It has one of those Apple stickers on it. She gave me a hundred bucks.”
“For what?” Kylie asked.
“She said, ‘If anybody asks if I was here, you say no.’”
“And that’s what you said, so you earned your hundred bucks. And then you told the truth, so now you won’t be getting into the back of that police car with me,” Kylie said. “Have a nice day, Nestor.”
She grabbed the brass handle on the door and yanked it open. She waved me on through and followed me to the car. Nestor just stood there, shell-shocked.
“As I was saying,” Kylie said as she slid into the driver’s seat, “there’s nothing mysterious about it. Muriel Sykes beat us to the punch. And now that
I know she’s out to sandbag us, I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?” I asked.
She eased the Ford into traffic. “Next Tuesday I’m voting for Spellman.”
Chapter 20
We were back in the car, heading downtown. “You realize of course that Evelyn’s laptop is only missing temporarily,” Kylie said.
“You think it will turn up next Wednesday morning as soon as the election is over,” I asked, “or do you think Sykes will keep it under wraps until she’s sworn in on January first?”
“Either way, NYPD Red is not waiting. Let’s go pay Evelyn a visit. Maybe she can tell us something. Give Chuck Dryden a call and ask if he minds seeing me twice in one day.”
“I don’t think he’d mind if you moved in with him,” I said. “In case your keen cop mind hadn’t picked up on it, the boy has the hots for you.”
“Oooooh,” she said breathlessly, tossing her blond hair in a spot-on imitation of Marilyn Monroe. “He’s so smart and I’m so dumb, I can’t imagine what he sees in me.”
“My guess is he’s smitten by your humility,” I said.
The Office of Chief Medical Examiner is on East 26th Street, just around the corner from one of their primary sources, Bellevue Hospital. As expected, Chuck was more than happy to see us, and when I say us, I mean not me. I let Kylie do the talking.
“Chuck, we’re running into roadblocks left and right. We definitely need your help,” she said.
He smoothed out his white lab coat with both hands. “This way,” he said, and walked us into an autopsy room where Evelyn was on a slab.
“We’re not usually this fast,” he said, “but she went right to the front of the queue. We just finished stitching her back up.”
“Tell us what you found,” she said.
“This is not a copycat murder. In life, this victim may have come from an entirely different social stratum than the first three, but they all died the same death. Asphyxiation. Probably suffocated by putting a plastic bag over their heads. All four were in captivity for at least seventy-two hours, their bodies were all scrubbed down with ammonia, and they all had the same stomach contents—pizza. And not just any pizza. Same dough, same sauce, same quality cheese. This was authentic, homemade—not commercial like Domino’s or Pizza Hut.”
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