Crosshairs, page 8
On the way to the apartment, Trilling insisted we stop so he could buy flowers for Mary Catherine and a bottle of wine. He took my suggestion and picked up a bottle of Wirra Wirra Catapult shiraz. Seamus loved the Australian wine, and it wouldn’t break Trilling financially.
Once in the elevator to our apartment, Trilling turned to me with a very serious look on his face. “I’m sorry, I have to ask.”
“Ask what?”
“How do you live in a building like this? Does your family come from a lot of money?”
I laughed out loud at that. “The quick story is that my first wife, who died of cancer, inherited the apartment from an elderly man she used to take care of who had no other family. He loved her like she was a daughter. He even set up a trust to pay the taxes. Trust me, that’s crucial—my entire NYPD salary might not cover the taxes on this place.” Obviously the answer satisfied Trilling’s curiosity. I had to add, “Why, were you worried I was on the take?”
Trilling shook his head. “That never crossed my mind. Too many people have told me what a great cop you are. You don’t get a reputation like that if there was ever any suspicion about your honesty.”
It was the closest he’d ever come to giving me a compliment, so I took it with a satisfied smile.
When I finally opened the door to our apartment, the shock on Trilling’s face was priceless. Mary Catherine stood with nine of the kids, looking like they were in a receiving line for a wedding. Only Jane was missing, I assumed off working on her secret project. My grandfather, wearing his tab-collar priest shirt, stood next to Mary Catherine, grinning.
Trilling introduced himself first to the crowd, then more formally to Mary Catherine. He just stared at everyone for a moment, trying to take it all in.
For her part, Mary Catherine almost swooned at the beautiful flowers and wine that my handsome young partner presented to her.
Trilling made it a point to shake hands with each of the children. I noticed Juliana lingered and chatted for a moment. She clearly approved of my new partner. Maybe I hadn’t realized Trilling wasn’t that much older than her.
It’s tough to think of your kids becoming adults right before your eyes. Juliana had been doing an internship at Holy Name for a sociology class she was taking at City College. It just felt like she was still at the family school.
Then Trilling found himself face-to-face with my grandfather. Seamus made a show out of sizing up Trilling. The young officer fixed his gaze on my grandfather’s collar.
Seamus grinned at the attention. He said, “Are you a man of faith, Rob?”
“Yes, sir. I even attended the first Methodist grade school in Bozeman.”
“So you’re not a Catholic?”
“No, sir.” Trilling paused and finally worked up the nerve to say, “I’m a little confused. If you’re Detec… I mean Mike’s grandfather, how can you be a Catholic priest?”
I waited for the answer, hoping Seamus didn’t lay it on too thick. I was still cultivating this shy young man. Maybe bringing him here to the entire brood was a mistake. My family is a lot to take in.
My grandfather smiled, clapped Trilling on the shoulder, and said, “I entered the priesthood quite late in life.”
“May I ask what you did first?”
“I owned a bar.”
“Really?”
Seamus put on a serious face, placed his right hand in the air, and said, “Swear to God.”
Both men started to laugh at that.
CHAPTER 32
WE WAITED FOR Jane, who burst through the door just as Ricky’s pot roast was ready to come out of the oven. Ricky has a talent for mixing cheap red wine, onion soup mix, and Campbell’s mushroom soup in a way that would make even vegans want to dig into the meat. It’s phenomenal.
Rob Trilling seemed comfortable at the table, though that might’ve been because Juliana made it a point to sit right next to him. I noticed them speaking quietly whenever they had a chance.
My grandfather opened with a prayer, as usual. “Dear God in heaven, thank you for the many blessings you’ve given us and for our special guest tonight. Although not a Catholic, he assures me he is a man of faith.” The old priest had an impish grin.
Trilling smiled at the comment as well. Maybe he wasn’t as stiff-necked as I’d thought.
Mary Catherine asked him a series of casual questions that any CIA interrogator would have envied. I think as soon as she saw Juliana sitting next to him, she wanted to find out everything she could about Rob Trilling.
Mary Catherine was a master. She kept it flowing and never got him overwhelmed. I learned more about the young man in three minutes than I had in the days we’d been working together.
After the initial round of questions, Mary Catherine moved into follow-ups. “How on earth did you end up in New York City from Bozeman, Montana?”
“I spent my first eighteen years in Montana. Then after four years in the Army, I was looking for a change. Plus, my sister and her kids don’t live too far away—they’re about an hour or two from here, up in Putnam County in a little town called Ludingtonville.” He gave the group a charming smile and said, “I used to think Bozeman was a big city.”
Mary Catherine asked, “What do you do when you’re not slaving away for the NYPD?”
“That’s another reason I moved here. I’m finishing up my degree using the GI Bill and a couple of grants that Columbia got to help veterans with their education.”
I broke in. “You’re taking classes at Columbia University?”
“So far, just one class a semester, except last spring when I took two.”
Jane said, “I just came from Butler Library at Columbia.” She leaned forward as if in a courtroom. “How does a Columbia student get a black eye?”
I liked how she sounded like a prosecutor about to spring a trap.
Trilling took a moment, as usual. “I was trying to put one of my heavier textbooks on a high shelf and it slipped out of my hand and hit me in the face.”
I noted that his excuse for the black eye had changed from when I asked him about it this morning. Clearly he didn’t want to talk about how he came by the injury. On the bright side, he was not a particularly good liar. That is a trait I appreciate in people. Good liars can manipulate you and lead you anywhere. Bad liars are usually basically honest people.
Trilling turned to Ricky and said, “This is the best pot roast I’ve ever had in my life. And our beef in Montana was as fresh as it could be.”
Ricky beamed at the recognition from an outsider.
My grandfather said, “How do you like working for the NYPD?”
Trilling hesitated.
I noted it and assured him, “Everything said at this dinner table stays at this dinner table.” I looked around at everyone’s heads nodding.
Trilling sat up straight and said, “I’m still adjusting. I thought it would be a lot more like the military. Turns out, every unit has a different agenda and different ways of completing that agenda. I like the work. I like continuing my public service. I’m still getting used to the politics.”
Mary Catherine said, “Michael says you’ve been a great help on this case. At least the department is using your military experience.”
“I wasn’t a sniper in the Army. We practiced with rifles a lot, but like I’ve been telling Mike, there’s a huge difference between a military sniper and someone who can shoot well.”
“That’s saying something, from a guy who can shoot very well,” I said. The conversation moved on from putting Trilling on the spot, and dinner was capped with ice cream for dessert.
I was surprised Trilling was willing to stay after dinner. He played video games with the boys for a few minutes, then continued to chat quietly with Juliana. It reinforced how young he actually was. He was much more comfortable with my kids than with me.
But I continued to gain appreciation for this quiet young man.
CHAPTER 33
I STROLLED INTO the Manhattan North Homicide office the next morning feeling pretty good. Rob Trilling had been a huge hit at dinner. I also felt like I understood the young man much better. Now all we had to do was catch some nut who could shoot long-distance, whom no one had ever seen, and who seemingly chose his victims at random. And we had no leads. Easy.
Harry Grissom was in early this morning as well. I could hear him talking to someone in his office. I was afraid the person might be from One Police Plaza, so I tried to scoot past the lieutenant’s door without saying good morning. It didn’t work. I heard Harry say, “Mike, come on in here for a second.”
When I stepped through the door into Harry’s office and saw who was sitting in the chair opposite his desk, I’ll admit I was surprised to the point of being shocked. Lois Frang from the Brooklyn Democrat was chatting pleasantly with my boss.
Harry said, “Why didn’t you ever introduce me to this lovely woman?”
Lois smiled. She had me and she knew it.
Harry said, “You know, she’s the one who came up with the nickname ‘the Longshot Killer.’”
“Really?”
I hadn’t seen this kind of glow around Harry since the last time the Jets made the playoffs. That had been a while ago. He said, “Anything new we can give her?” He turned his head to look at Lois.
I caught Lois’s satisfied expression. The reporter had Harry eating out of her hand.
I said, “Not a lot of leads. We’re working on it.”
Now Lois said, “C’mon, Bennett, at least give me something I can write about.”
“I don’t know what to tell you but the truth. We really don’t have a lot of good leads. It’s not particularly exciting and probably doesn’t play well in a newspaper column. But that’s exactly what’s going on.”
Lois said, “I tried speaking to some of the victims’ families. But no one is talking. At least not to me. The second victim, Thomas Bannon, the fireman from Staten Island?”
I nodded, interested in hearing what she had to say.
“His family is a real piece of work. A couple of them are firemen too. Classic close-knit Irish Catholic city workers. And they don’t like outsiders coming into their neighborhoods.”
I said, barely concealing my grin, “I’m not sure I can relate to a close-knit Irish Catholic city worker and his family.” I did like Lois’s insight on the second victim’s family. By coincidence, that’s where I was heading today. I wanted to talk to the firefighter’s widow and see if I could find out any details from her that other detectives had missed.
Harry’s glare told me my time bantering with the reporter was over.
I took that opportunity to head in to speak with Walter Jackson. I could see a light on in his office and wondered if he had anything new for us to look at since yesterday. When I knocked on his door, I found the big man involved in a detailed search of records for one of the other detectives. Even so, Walter handed me a folder with all the information on the firefighter’s family that I’d asked for yesterday.
He also passed along a new lead on a woman who supposedly worked out at a gym in the Bronx every day around 2 p.m. The woman, Wendy Robinson, was a former Army sergeant who had been part of a special program bringing women into the ranks of snipers. Someone had called in a tip about her and how she’d occasionally brag about shots she’d taken in Afghanistan. The caller said the way she talked about shooting people made them uncomfortable.
I took the folder. It was as good as any lead we had now.
CHAPTER 34
I SAT AT my desk, looking through the folder Walter Jackson had given me and feeling a little uneasy because Lois Frang was still sitting in Harry Grissom’s office. Every couple of minutes I heard Harry’s cackle. That was not common.
Rob Trilling walked in carrying coffee and donuts for the entire squad. That’s a classy move that everyone remembers. After setting down the donuts and coffee, Trilling marched directly to my desk and sat in the chair across from me. He had a serious look on his face.
I said, “When you said you were going to appointments, I didn’t realize you were taking a class at Columbia.”
“That wasn’t the appointments. My class is at night.”
That was it. He offered no further explanation about his appointments and why he left in the middle of the day. I decided it was something I’d deal with if it became more of a problem. I was more concerned about the dour expression on Trilling’s face.
I said, “What’s wrong?”
“That obvious?”
“Even for you who’s a sourpuss, as my grandfather likes to say.”
Trilling hesitated, then said, “I need to be up-front with you, but I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”
I said slowly, “I’m listening.”
“Juliana texted me this morning and asked if I wanted to hang out sometime in the next week or two.”
It took a moment to digest what he’d just said. My voice was louder than I’d intended when I blurted out, “My Juliana?”
Trilling nodded.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. I haven’t replied yet. I thought I should discuss it with you first. Even if she is legally an adult, I’d never come between a father and a daughter.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m not crazy about my daughter dating a cop. Though you’re right, I try not to dictate to her or Brian what they have to do. They’re both old enough and smart enough to make their own decisions.”
Trilling thought about that. Then he said, “I’ll decline her invitation. That way you don’t have to seem like the bad guy. It also avoids any stress in your family.”
“I appreciate your mature approach.”
“I appreciated you inviting me into your home last night. Your family is so different from mine. I only have one brother, one sister, my mother, and my grandfather.”
I noticed he didn’t mention his father at all.
Trilling said, “I especially enjoyed speaking with your grandfather. My grandfather raised me. He had a little car lot in Bozeman. But he always had time for my brother, sister, and me. Now he kind of splits time between my sister’s house and my mother’s house. He’s still in good shape physically at seventy-two, but he’s been diagnosed with early onset dementia. He has good days and bad. It’s scary.”
I understood. I worried about my grandfather every day. Every grunt or sigh from him set me on edge because I was afraid it was the start of some terminal ailment. But I couldn’t imagine Seamus ever losing that sharp mind of his. That would just kill me.
I tried to cheer up my new partner. I put on a smile, leaned over, slapped him on the shoulder, and said, “You ready to go to a resort?”
“What do you mean? Where is there a resort?”
“Staten Island, my boy. It’s an island, so it’s kind of like a resort. And we’ve got people to talk to.”
CHAPTER 35
LOUISE BANNON, WIDOW of the sniper’s second victim, Thomas Bannon, lived in a nice neighborhood, Dongon Hills, off Hylan Boulevard on Staten Island. The GPS said traffic was bad, even for New York, so we came down through Brooklyn and took the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge over to the island.
The Bannon house was a cute 1960s two-story. The tricycle turned on its side in the front yard immediately broke my heart. Even with the sun shining and the temperatures comfortable, I felt gloomy when Rob Trilling and I walked up to the house.
As I knocked on the wooden door, I noticed that someone spent a lot of time on the porch. There were stacks of magazines next to a comfortable rocker and a little heater tucked in the corner.
A woman in her late thirties with frizzy brown hair came to the door. A cute toddler and a little girl about five years old stood behind the woman, staring out at us.
I held up my badge and identified myself and Trilling. Louise Bannon didn’t say anything for a few seconds, then finally said, “Do you have news on Tommy’s killer?”
“No, ma’am. We’re working the case and just wanted to talk with you about any details we might’ve missed.”
“You’re not even the original detectives. I haven’t heard shit in three weeks.” She opened the door and shook her head, muttering something about the NYPD.
I knew this wasn’t the time to make apologies or excuses. Everything would be forgiven if we could find the killer. To do that we had to ask questions, and I needed her to be open to answering questions. So I kept my yap shut.
After the rough start, we chatted with Louise to get background on her husband. I didn’t really learn anything new. He’d been with the FDNY for twenty-one years. He had numerous commendations and was well thought of generally. The whole family had connections to the Fire Department and Staten Island. Thomas Bannon’s brother was a paramedic and their father had retired as a captain.
Even Louise Bannon’s family was tied to the department. Three of her four brothers were with the FDNY. The fourth worked at a machine shop just a few blocks away from the Bannon house.
After the usual questions, I came in a little hotter with “Did your husband have anyone who could be angry with him? Anyone who felt he did them wrong?”
“Tommy was a good guy. Everyone liked him.”
“He didn’t have any vices, did he? I mean ones that might draw some attention. I’m not trying to insult your husband’s memory, just hoping to find some lead that will catch this shooter.”
“But the way you asked that question tells me you are willing to smear Tommy’s reputation.” Now she set the toddler on the floor and told him to go play with his sister. Louise looked at me and said, “Vices? We all have vices. I don’t see what this has to do with your investigation. Tommy was a good guy,” she repeated.
Then her phone rang. She pulled it from the outer pocket of the loose cardigan sweater she was wearing. I heard her mumble answers to a couple of questions, then say, “No, the cops are here right now. They’re starting to piss me off.”
When she looked up at me after ending the call, it was clear she had no use for the police. Louise Bannon said, “Do you have any questions that will catch my husband’s killer?” She folded her arms and started to tap her right foot.
