She listened as the officer radioed in the essentials. They were at East River Park, south of Houston, north of the tennis courts. They had a 10291.
It was standard 10 code. A 10291: 29 for a past crime, 1 for a homicide. Across the country, 10-codes were dying out in favor of so-called plain language. The Department of Homeland Security had gone so far as to force the NYPD to train its officers in the kind of plain English that was supposed to assist interagency communications in an emergency. Instead, the entire notion of an eight-hour training session on plain talk became just another opportunity for the NYPD to mock the feds.
We still need EMTs, the officer said. Emergency Medical Technicians would have been dispatched with the original 911 call, but these days ambulances were in higher demand and correspondingly slower to respond than law enforcement. The homicide call-out would now bring technicians from the crime scene unit and the medical examiners office. So much for solitude along the East River.
Ellie motioned the woman to speed it along. The officer confirmed Ellies badge number and notified the dispatcher that a homicide detective was already at the scene.
And tell them J. J. Rogans on the way too, Ellie added. Jeffrey James Rogan, my partner. Tell them to put us in the system. No need to do a separate homicide call-out.
Ellie nodded as the woman repeated the information. Then she went to check on Jess. I see you met my brother, she said to the young male officer. Hes not as dangerous as he looks.
Jess cocked his thumb and forefinger toward the cop. Turns out your compadre here is a certified Dog Park fan.
Dog Park was Jesss rock band. Their biggest gigs were at ten-table taverns in Williamsburg and the occasional open mic nights in Manhattan. To say that Dog Park was an up-and-coming band would be a serious demotion to those groups that were actually on the ladder to stardom.
I knew someone out there had to love them as much I do, Ellie said.
Yeah. Small world. The officer smiled with considerable enthusiasm. Jess was eating it up, but Ellie suspected that at least some of the officers excitement was attributable to his relief at having a subject of conversation other than the dead body hed just seen.
She turned at the sound of an engine and saw a second blue-and-white arrive at the scene.
Would you mind giving my brother a ride home, uh, Officer Capra? Ellie asked, squinting at the officers name tag. I think his hearts had enough of a workout for the morning.
Sure. No problem.
Hell give you my gear and a suitable change of clothes for you to bring back here, if thats all right.
Uh, yeah. Capra glanced at his partner, as if worried about her reaction. First hed almost vomited on the body. Now he was being sent away on an errand.
I really need my gear, Ellie said, following his gaze. Ill make sure she knows I told you to go.
She touched Jesss shoulder. Get some sleep. Ill call you later.
Ellie looked at her watch. Five forty-five. Forty-five minutes since Jess threw shoes at her head. Thirty-four minutes since she made a mental note of her start time outside the apartment. Thirteen minutes since the first jingle of the Gwen Stefani ring tone.
She looked at the girl, abandoned and exposed against a pile of construction debris. If Ellie had kept on jogging, this would be someone elses case. Someone else could deliver the news to the family. Someone else could offer their anemic reassurances that they were doing all they could to find out whod done this to their daughter. But she had stopped. She had made the patrol officer use her name on the radio. This was her case now. This girl was her responsibility.
It was time to find out who she was.
Two hundred feet away, on the other side of East River Drive, a blue Ford Taurus was parked outside an apartment building on Mangin Street. The man at the wheel watched as a second patrol car arrived, followed by an ambulance with lights and sirens. Two patrol cars carrying four uniform officers had all arrived before the ambulance. He found that ironic. Good thing the girl was beyond saving.
The first of the patrol cars to have arrived left the park and turned north on the FDR. One cop up front. Civilian male in back, no cuffs. Everyone else remained at the scene for now. He wanted to stay and watch, but knew theyd be canvassing the neighborhood soon.
He turned the key in the ignition. The digital clock on his dash read 5:46. He adjusted the channel on his satellite radio. Fourteen minutes until Howard Stern.
At 5:48 a.m., twenty-two miles east in Mineola, Long Island, Bill Harringtons eyes shot open when his newspaper carrier missed the porch once again, thumping the shutter outside his bedroom window. His body felt clammy. He kicked the quilt away to the side of the bed and welcomed the slight chill on his bare legs.
He had been dreaming of Robbie.
The dream began at the Alcoa plant outside Pittsburgh, a place he hadnt set foot in since Penny insisted that they retire to Long Island five years ago. But he had worked in that plant five days a week for twenty-five years of his life the majority of them happy melting and pouring steel castings. In his dream, when he walked into the familiar employees break room, he found himself instead at the Harrington familys old kitchen table.
It was Robbies sixth birthday. Jenna was only twelve at the time, but shed insisted on baking the cake with only minimal assistance from her mother. The cake was lopsided, lumpy, and topped with a bizarre shade of green frosting, but Robbie hadnt seemed to notice.
There she was, propped up on her knees on the vinyl padding of the kitchen chair, elbows on the table, her blond hair held back by a pink paper birthday-girl tiara, eagerly staring at the six burning candles while Bill, Penny, and Jenna drew out the final line of the birthday song to prolong Robbies excitement. Bill had smiled in his sleep when Robbie clenched her eyes shut, took that enormous breath, and whispered it cautiously across the tips of each candle. I did it, Daddy. I got everyone of them, just like you told me. Will I really get mywish?
Youll have to wait to find out, Robbie. But, remember,dont tell anyone.
In Bills dream, Robbie had crawled down from her chair and walked out of the kitchen into what had moments earlier been, in his mind, the Alcoa plant. Bill followed her, longing for more time, but it was too late. He found her as hed last seen her nearly eight years ago naked on a stainless steel gurney, draped with a white sheet.
All these years later, Bill still found himself thinking about his younger daughter. How often, hed never bothered counting; at least once a day, certainly; usually more. And, just as he had in the very beginning, when Penny was still with him and Jenna still lived nearby, Bill occasionally woke from dreams that gave way to nightmares.
But it had been a long time since Bill Harrington had been visited by such vivid memories of Robbie.
Chapter Five
Ellie was still in her T-shirt and sweatpants when J. J. Rogan pulled up in a white Crown Vic, hopped the curb off the FDR, and claimed a patch of dirt as his parking spot.
As she walked toward her partner, she cursed the young Officer Capra for not yet having returned from what should have been a quick errand. Her mind flashed to an image of her brother showing off a guitar riff to his newest fan while she worked a crime scene in her dirty running gear.
Her self-consciousness only heightened as Rogan stepped out of the car. As usual, he was dressed to the nines. Todays ensemble consisted of a three-button black suit, well-starched steel gray shirt, and a purple tie with small white dots. Two days earlier, shed seen the label on a jacket hed thrown on the back of his chair. Canali. About two grand. She assumed this one ran about the same.
Ellie hadnt figured out how her new partner could afford the wardrobe or whatever other, less obvious indulgences he might have but she wouldnt have been surprised to learn that he worked off-duty as a model. He was average height, but with a solid frame, probably just shy of six feet and at least two hundred pounds. Dark mocha skin. Smooth bald head. Really good smile.
In short, J. J. Rogan was at the top of the bell curve for looks.
And apparently that fact wasnt lost on the almost entirely male squad of homicide detectives at the Thirteenth Precinct. Nor had it escaped their attention that Ellie wasnt half bad herself. Ellie had already overheard another detective referring to them by a team nickname: Hotchick and Tubbs. She assumed that with time theyd conjure up something more clever, but the general theme had been established.
Barely six a.m., Hatcher. You know this shit should have been someone elses call-out.
Youre telling me that if you were first at a scene, youd wait for someone else to catch the case?
She couldnt tell whether Rogan was satisfied with her response or was simply moving on to the business at hand, but he made a beeline to the construction site. A crime scene analyst was still cordoning off the area with yellow police tape.
Rogan winced at the sight of the body. I guess someone meant business. Where are we?
No official word from the ME, but based on the swelling in her face and eyes, my guess is she died from the strangling.
Rogan nodded his agreement and shone a flashlight across the body. And the cuts were just for fun. Most of them look postmortem. Without a beating heart to move the bodys blood, stab wounds inflicted after death were dry and bloodless. The hatch marks in the victims skin had the telltale look of sliced Styrofoam. Have you found ID yet?
We found a purse, probably tossed over the fence, but no wallet, and no ID.
What about her hair?
Nothing yet. He either chopped it off before he brought her here, or carried it off with him maybe kept it as a souvenir.
Rogan was still taking in the full visual of the body. Too healthy for a working girl. No track marks. Fresh pedicure. Matching lingerie.
Ellie had made the same observations.
How old, do you think? You know thats not my strong suit, Rogan said with a small smile. When hed first met Ellie last week, he had volunteered that she looked a mere twenty years old, but then added that he could never tell with white people.
Early twenties, tops. She could even be a teenager.
Rogan clicked his tongue against his teeth.
We pulled a cell phone from behind the body, Ellie said. It must have fallen out when the guy dumped her, before he tossed her purse.
So start dialing all her contacts. Lets find out who this girl is.
Easier said than done. Theres something wrong with the screen. The display kept cutting in and out when I was turning off the alarm. Now I cant get any image at all. Nothing but black lines.
Rogan took a look at the broken phone. The same thing happened to me when I dropped my Motorola at the gym. That things shot.
I did, however, find this in her purse. Ellie held up a ziplock bag containing a white plastic card not much larger than a business card.
He smiled, registering the significance of the bags contents. Now that narrows it down. You plan on staying in your sweaty clothes all day?
As if on command, a marked car pulled up next to Rogans Crown Vic. Officer Capra stepped out, carrying a familiar blue backpack. She hoped Jess had remembered to pack her shield, Glock, and the necessary undergarments.
Im ready when you are.
The white plastic card was a hotel key emblazoned with a blue capital H surrounded by a curly Q.
We got three Hiltons in Manhattan, Rogan said. Times Square, Rockefeller Center, and the Financial District. Try your luck.
Ellie was wriggling out of her running clothes in the footwell of the backseat, trying not to think about the various forms of mucus that had been hurled and smeared against the upholstery since the cars last disinfection.
Girls that age dont stay near Wall Street.
Unless theyre hookers, Rogan interjected.
And we dont think she was. So between the other two, Ill go with Times Square. Who doesnt love Times Square these days?
By the time Rogan pulled up to the giant copper clock outside the hotels Forty-second Street entrance, Ellie had just finished snapping on her holster. As she stepped from the backseat, she waved off a uniformed valet. Rogan flashed his shield as he followed behind her. Well be quick, man. Thanks.
To their surprise, the hotel lobby was on the twenty-first floor. They bypassed whatever businesses occupied the towers bottom half with an express ride in the Art Deco elevator. At the front desk, they cut to the head of a long line of guests who were presumably waiting to check out.
The woman who greeted them had pale skin, red hair knotted into a bun, and glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. How may I help you?
Rogan produced the hotel key and explained in a hushed voice what they needed and why.
Oh, my. The clerk lowered her voice as well. Unfortunately, that key isnt ours.
Are you sure?
Im certain. She produced a white card that looked identical to the one theyd found in the victims purse, but with the addition of the words Times Square below the corporate logo. This heres one of our keys. People like the Times Square thing, you know. And were considered boutique style. People like that, too. You should try our hotel at Rockefeller Center. Theyve got over two thousand rooms.
And the one in the Financial District? Ellie asked.
Five hundred and sixty-five.
So, if youre playing your odds
Our Rockefeller Center location is on Fifty-third Street and Sixth Avenue.
As the two detectives rode the elevator back to the ground floor, Ellie watched as Rogan checked out his freshly shaven scalp in the mirror. She snuck a look at herself, then quickly thought better of it. She knew from experience that messy strands of her shoulder-length blond hair would be flipped in every direction, thanks to dried sweat and the ponytail holder shed worn during her run. At some point shed try to find a hairbrush and at least wash her face.
How come between the two of us we didnt figure out to hit the monster-sized hotel first? Ellie asked, keeping her eyes on the elevators digital display as it counted down each passing floor.