Obsessed, page 7
A mere twenty-three minutes later, I stepped into the Starbucks. The place was moderately busy. I craned my neck and saw Bill “Suicide” Stanton sitting by himself in the corner. A hard-copy case file rested on the small table in front of him. An extra-large coffee cup scribbled with the name Bill sat next to the folder.
I eased onto the stool across from him. “What brings you all the way down to the city, Bill?”
“I had to talk to Suzanne Morton’s parents.” Sweat started to build on his brow.
“Ugh. I don’t envy you at all.”
“It was brutal. I swear, Bennett, I’d rather get shot at than talk to grieving parents. It sucks the life out of you. I’ll have more nightmares about my conversation with them than I would if I had a car accident.”
I knew Suicide Stanton hadn’t come here to discuss his psychological hang-ups. I said, “What can I do for you, Bill?”
He looked down, removed a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his face. He mumbled something and shoved the case file toward me.
“Bill, I have no idea what you just said.”
He swallowed hard, sat up straight, and said, “If this case is related to a serial killer, I have to admit I’m in over my head. Way over my head. I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve read in the Daily News about your cases involving serial killers over the years. I’m willing to transfer the entire case over to you.”
I let out a laugh. “I bet you are. There are a couple of problems with that.”
“Like what? My chief won’t care. As far as he’s concerned, it’s another closed case. One less thing for New Rochelle to worry about.”
I understood what Stanton was trying to do. I couldn’t ever do it myself. The idea of handing a case of mine over to someone else just sounded weird. But I understood that if you had a caseload that included everything from burglaries to homicides, you might have to clear your plate any way you could.
I thought about it for a few moments. Finally, I said, “The first thing we need to worry about is establishing that there is definitely a single killer. We’re working on a theory based on two bodies we’ve recovered that were dressed in a similar manner and had similar backgrounds. I’m trying to piece together the rest. We don’t even know for sure if we have a serial-killer case yet.”
He looked at me hopefully. He raised his eyebrows and pushed the file folder a little closer.
I let out a sigh. “You realize the NYPD would frown on me investigating homicides in other cities, right?”
“We can at least work it together until you decide if the murders are related or not.”
“Aside from Suzanne being a pretty college student, I don’t know if any of the circumstances of her death match up. Like, how was she dressed, what was the cause of death, when did the death occur? We still have a lot of questions like that to answer.”
Stanton’s face lost its scowl. It was like I’d given him a glimmer of hope. He started talking quickly. “She was nude and wrapped in a painter’s drop cloth. Cause of death was blunt trauma to the head. She was hit with something heavy with a round base. The killer was strong enough to leave an imprint of the weapon in the victim’s skull.”
“How long had she been in the cabinet before anyone found her?”
“The medical examiner and forensic people estimate about three weeks. Right around the date she disappeared.”
I made a few notes, then leveled my eyes at the detective. “I’m not saying this will all work out, but let’s keep in touch. It’s better to be prepared than be surprised.”
“I agree. I also agree to let you take this case whenever you want.”
I chuckled. “Okay, Bill, if these do turn out to be related, there’s nothing I want more than to find Suzanne Morton’s killer.”
Then I heard the opening piano chords to my ringtone.
Stanton let out a laugh and said, “‘Layla.’ Love it.”
The three-number exchange code made it clear it was someone from One Police Plaza. That was rarely good news.
Chapter 27
BILL STANTON WAS annoyed I wouldn’t take his homicide case yet. I left him at the table with just a final nod as I walked quickly out of the Starbucks to answer my phone. Someone speaking very quickly said their name and title, but I didn’t catch any of it.
I said, “I’m sorry. Who is this?”
The woman slowed down like she was talking to a child. “This is Persephone Garland. I work in the office of public outreach. I think we might’ve found a lead on your case.”
“A lead? On my most recent homicide? I’m not following how public relations uncovered a lead.”
“Public outreach.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’d get paid more if it was a public relations job.”
I laughed. She’d already picked up a cop’s sense of humor, even if she worked in a non-sworn position.
She said, “Can you stop by my office? I have the info from the tip all right here. It came from a post on social media I put up about the body you recovered from the Hudson River.”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.” I cut off the call before I started asking questions about the privacy of the victim’s family or who had approved using an active homicide as part of community outreach. She better have some good answers or a hell of a lead. Otherwise, I was going to be annoyed. Loudly annoyed.
Two trips to One Police Plaza in one day was very unusual. I hoped to keep it that way. I marched into the public outreach office about thirty minutes after I got the call. I kept thinking about Estella Abreu’s family and if they’d seen the social media post. I would’ve liked to have given them a heads-up before it came out.
The office was empty. For a moment I thought I’d walked into the wrong place. To be honest, I’d never been in the public outreach office. I knew they existed and occasionally interacted with the people who worked in the unit. Most of them were marketing and technical people. Their job was to get out the word about what the NYPD was doing and how the public could help.
I stood by the door to the office and called out, “Hello?”
A young woman stepped out from one of the rear cubicles. “Detective Bennett, right? I’m Persephone Garland.”
Persephone was a very attractive Black woman in a professional blouse and skirt, but she looked impossibly young. Young enough to easily pass for one of my teen daughters.
As soon as she saw me, Persephone smiled and started walking toward me. But she must’ve seen the look on my face because she stopped, folded her arms, and said, “No, I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-four years old and a University of Maryland graduate.”
“I’m not questioning your qualifications.”
“I’m not offended at all, Detective. In fact, I’m an army brat. I’m not offended by anything. Except maybe extreme stupidity.”
I laughed. She may have looked like a Girl Scout, but she talked more like a marine. I liked that.
“I know I look like I’m only twelve. I’ll tell you what I tell every other detective I work with: Get over it. This is the best result I’ve gotten in my five months working for the NYPD. And I think it’s something that could be useful.”
Persephone led me back to a computer in another room. She brought up a simple Facebook post that had a picture of Estella Abreu and the facts surrounding her death. Any cop will tell you that if you open up a tip line, you’ll get a lot of tips. Many will be from well-meaning citizens who have no relation to your case. Some of the tips come from people bent on disrupting the police department. They are tips designed to waste time. And some tips just come from crackpots who believe every conspiracy theory that floats down the internet.
The biggest thing I look for is someone willing to put their name to a tip. Anonymous tips are generally bullshit.
Persephone didn’t disappoint me. She pulled out a single sheet of paper with two photographs printed on it and some biographical info.
I studied the upper photograph for a moment. “Is that Estella at a bar?”
Persephone nodded. “Almost three weeks before she was murdered. And the man to her left was her date.”
The photo wasn’t the highest definition. I wouldn’t have been able to positively identify the man in court. But I could tell he was young and looked athletic. He was wearing a nice suit, and his hair was cut short.
Persephone kept going. “The name in the text box is the man who gave us the tip. He’s willing to talk to a detective, and I have his contact information.”
Today seemed to be the day for NYPD personnel to be at the top of their game. This was the second well-thought-out and well-presented lead I’d gotten from someone at One Police Plaza today.
Persephone leveled a stare at me. “Now you want to make any cracks about my age or experience?”
“Persephone, I believe you just made it into my investigative plans on every case I ever get.”
“Then can you do me a favor?”
“Anything you want.”
“Will you keep me in the loop? This is the most exciting this job has ever been. I was already looking on LinkedIn to see if there were any public relations jobs on Wall Street. Now I feel like I have to stay here to do my part.”
“Spoken like the daughter of an army vet. Your dad should be proud of you.”
“Mom.”
“Excuse me.”
“My dad is a deadbeat living somewhere in Los Angeles. My mom was a medic in the army.”
“Your mom must be proud.”
Persephone beamed. “She is.”
Chapter 28
I BOLTED FROM One Police Plaza again, already trying to reach the tipster by phone. I had called Walter Jackson, who did a quick profile for me. The tipster’s name was Ivan Mirotic. He had graduated from Boston University six years ago and now worked for one of the big trading houses on Wall Street. No criminal record. And no obvious reason to provide a fake tip. Even I had to admit this looked pretty good.
I called the cell phone but got no response. I didn’t want to barge into his office if he was just a good citizen providing information. People get funny when cops show up at their work. It doesn’t matter if they’re a suspect or not. No one wants to answer questions from their boss about a visit from a homicide detective.
About twenty minutes later, Ivan finally answered his phone and agreed to meet me at South Cove Park, overlooking the Hudson. Not far from where we’d found Estella Abreu’s body a few days ago.
The Hudson still had some wind chop, and the breeze whipped along the surface. Clouds floated across the afternoon sun. I was surprised how much it made the temperature dip. I wished I’d worn more than my North Face windbreaker.
I saw a man standing alone at the seawall, looking at the screen of his iPhone. I approached him slowly. He was about thirty and average height. But he was dressed like a guy trying to impress people. A dark Brooks Brothers suit with a dusky red tie. A similar look to a lot of the people in finance.
“Mr. Mirotic?”
He looked up from his phone, assessed me for a moment, then just nodded. If he was trying to show that he had little use for anyone who didn’t work with him, he was doing a good job.
Why would a guy like this take time from his work, which he probably thought was the only job that mattered?
I went the whole official route. I pulled out my ID and badge and dispensed with any small talk I might’ve made to put him at ease.
I held up the info sheet with the photo he’d sent us. Walter Jackson had also texted me the original electronic photo, which had better definition.
“Tell me, what made you post the tip?” I asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. Just trying to do the right thing, I guess.”
“Where was the photo taken?”
“We were at a big Wall Street party at an after-hours club by The Battery. Everyone from all the big financial houses was there. I saw this hot girl, and she was fumbling with a contact lens. I wear contacts too, and had some rewetting solution in my pocket so I let her use it.”
“Did you know the man she was with?”
“I’ve seen him around. I’m not sure who he works for. He might be an analyst for one of the smaller firms. He always seemed like a dick to me. Hair always perfect, always in a nice suit. Then I see him with this gorgeous girl and it just sort of annoyed me that night.”
I said, “You’ve never talked to this guy?”
“Never.”
“And you have no personal relationship with him?”
“If I’ve never spoken to him, how can I have a personal relationship with him?”
I let the comment slide. Besides, it was accurate. I was just trying to get as much information as I could.
I said, “You said the photo was from about three weeks ago. Is that correct?”
“Not quite three weeks. Friday night will make it three weeks.”
“Do you guys get together like that often?”
“We usually do one big blowout in the fall and another in the spring. Plus, there are all the holiday parties, but the firms usually pay for those.”
I made notes about the bar and exact date. We’d have to see if the bar had security video and look through credit card receipts for the night.
“You said you’d seen this guy around before. Can you recall where?”
Mirotic looked at me like I was a child asking him the same question over and over. Then Mirotic said, “I’ve already told you; I just saw him at parties like this once in a while. Listen, I’ve got a lot to do. You got my cell phone number if you really need to reach me again.”
I had been dismissed.
Chapter 29
NOW I HAD a photo of a suspect and a rough time period he was with the victim. I racked my brain to figure out how to identify the man with Estella Abreu. I sent the photo to several different units at the NYPD, and Walter Jackson was running it past his contacts in all the federal agencies.
Was the man Estella’s boyfriend? How did she know him? The questions were rolling into my head.
This was the first decent lead I’d had on this case. Actual physical evidence. It was frustrating to see what a potential suspect might look like but not be able to put a name to the photo.
I took the extra step of calling Ronald Higdon, Esquire.
He answered the phone talking. Before he said hello or anything else, all I heard was “I’m working on finding out about the dead girls, Bennett. I’ve got guys all over the city asking questions.”
“That’s good because I’m going to need you to use the same network to ID a man in a photo. I’m going to send it to your phone in a few minutes. He’s standing next to the beautiful girl. He’s in a dark suit and has short light-brown hair. I think he works on Wall Street somewhere.”
Ronald said, “I’ve got good connects on Wall Street. Back from my days when I used to make deliveries down there.”
No great surprise. But it showed how much Ronald trusted me to casually admit he used to deliver cocaine to people on Wall Street. Everyone knew the industry was a major consumer of cocaine as well as amphetamines. Financial people’s personalities seemed to push them toward drugs that made them more hyper than they already were.
My next plan involved looking through the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority, or FINRA, files of every man registered in New York as a trader. But there were thousands and thousands of those. And if the picture on the respective man’s driver’s license or employee ID was even a year or two old, he might look quite different from the man in the bar photo.
I thought about Persephone Garland in the public outreach section. Maybe she could work some more magic. Problem was, if we put out the suspect’s photo, he’d be just as likely to see it as anyone. He could flee. He could change his appearance. He could figure a way to cover his tracks and develop alibis.
I dismissed the idea. When I finally found this guy, I wanted to be able to surprise him. Instead, I sent the photo to four other informants. None of them nearly as good as Ronald Higdon, Esquire. But one of them operated in lower Manhattan and had been a trader himself until addiction knocked him all the way to the street. Now he was a financial advisor to people who couldn’t afford one of the big firms. And he made extra cash by helping law enforcement with information.
I’d covered my bases. And I still had time to make it to Holy Name and teach some middle-school girls how to throw elbows and not be seen by the refs. Or at least understand others would be trying to do the same to them.
Chapter 30
THERE IS ALWAYS something comforting about walking the grounds of Holy Name. Maybe because I essentially grew up on the campus, or perhaps it’s the artistry of the architecture. I always breathe a little easier when I’m here.
I felt like I had wheels in motion on my investigation. I had informants trying to identify the man in the photo with Estella Abreu, I had Walter Jackson skimming through trader licenses, and Terri Hernandez was discreetly visiting some of the financial houses where she had contacts.
I was trying to make sure my kids had well-rounded childhoods so I could produce good citizens. At least that’s how I justified taking an hour out of my day to go over to my kids’ school on the Upper West Side and work on basic basketball skills.
The girls were already lined up when I arrived. I saw that Fiona had taken charge during my three-minute absence. She was adjusting some of the other girls’ stances for shooting free throws. And she was right on the money.
It was a good thing I had backup on the court. I may have been able to block the investigation out of my mind for a few minutes to spend some quality time with Fiona, but seeing Trent, Eddie, and Ricky all sitting at the end of the bleachers, waiting for a turn to play on the court, broke my heart. The bullies had accomplished just what they wanted: they had scared us. That’s what bullies do.
