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She saw Max looking at her. Willing her. Begging her. Don’t. Do. It.
“I would like to see that, Your Honor. But ADA Donovan was just telling me he wore out his best red silk number modeling it for you.”
Max was doing his best in the hallway to appear annoyed, but he couldn’t help breaking a smile.
“Red silk? Really? Seems a little hoochie-momma.”
“Oh, you’d be much classier as a lady fella, I’m sure. Brooks Brothers. Burberry. All those blue-blood labels. Sorry, I sort of lost it with the Big Pig.”
“Whatever. The motion’s a slam dunk. Even the defendant’s own allegations make clear he was playing the grieving boyfriend at the start. Besides, there’s no way for the state not to be all right with Knight. He sides with the prosecution like he’s on autopilot. I could tell him the court should enter an official finding of alien invasion, and he’d do exactly as I said.”
“I’m praying I’ll still get home at some reasonable hour tonight. You?”
He let one hand wander to her waist. “As soon as I’m done here, I have to go out to Rikers. Gang shooting. Guess a few weeks in a cell has someone second-guessing his loyalty to a coconspirator. I’ve got to hammer out the cooperation details.”
“Could the good citizens of New York please stop fucking killing each other for a night?”
“Do you at least have time for that lunch? I’ve got a few minutes.”
“Depends. You still got that red silk dress?”
“Those pants are a little butch.”
“Not underneath,” she said. He returned her smile. When her cell phone buzzed at her waist, she tensed up at the sight of Rogan’s name on the screen. He had predicted a shitstorm to follow their walking away from the Whitmires’ townhouse. Apparently it had taken little more than an hour for Julia’s parents to work their way through their network back to her cell phone.
She held up a finger while she took the call. “Yeah?”
“We shouldn’t have left. You told me yourself Donovan didn’t really need your testimony.”
“I take it Tucker tore you a new one?”
“It’s not just the Lou. We should have at least gone through the motions. Like I said: Protect the crime scene, talk to the friends, do what we do.”
“Like I said, it’s a waste of time.”
“That’s why I let you convince me to leave. But we screwed up.”
“And how exactly did we do that?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there. Meet me out on Centre Street. I’m three minutes away.”
Neither one of them said goodbye.
Three hundred and seventy-five miles northwest of the city, in Buffalo, New York, Assistant District Attorney Jennifer Sugarman took a call from the front desk. “There’s a James Grisco here to see you.”
“Okay. Send him back.”
She had heard all the terms used to describe the other stars in the office. Dan Clark was a natural born trial lawyer. Joe Garrett was a genius in front of a jury. Mark Munson was a courtroom machine.
Munson? Really? She’d popped in on him in trial one day to see what the fuss was all about, only to hear him argue that the defendant’s story was all an “elaborate rouge.” He even touched his fingertips to the apple of his cheek, just in case she was wondering if she’d misheard the word that was supposed to be “ruse.” An elaborate rouge. What an idiot.
Jennifer Sugarman? Ask around the office, and they’d say she was a hard worker. Diligent. Detail oriented. Conscientious. Burns the midnight oil. When men were good, they were born that way. If she was just as good—better, even—it must have come by way of tremendous effort.
She didn’t mind those descriptions, though. She’d made it out of misdemeanors into felonies faster than any ADA on record and was now first-chairing murder cases after only five years in the office. Rumor was she’d be named a unit chief in the next round of promotions. And when the big boss finally retired, her reputation for working hard would come in handy. Voters liked to know they were getting their money’s worth with public employees. She planned to be Erie County’s first female district attorney.
And she was, in fact, harder-working than most. Take the call she got from the jail this morning about Grisco, for instance. Most of the ADAs would have blown it off. At most, they would have passed the information on to the parole officer and forgotten about it.
But she had been the one to negotiate Grisco’s release from prison, and she knew ex-cons feared the official power of a prosecutor much more than they feared the often-empty threats of parole officers. If there was some reason for a person to call the prison inquiring about Grisco’s whereabouts, she wanted Grisco to know she hadn’t forgotten about him. She wouldn’t hesitate to pull his ticket if it came to that.
He removed his baseball cap when he entered her office. It was a good sign he knew who was in charge. She told him about the call that had been made to the prison that morning. She reminded him of his release conditions, going so far as to read them aloud from his file.
“You don’t need to remind me, ma’am. I got no plans of messing this up.”
“Good to hear, Jimmy. I stuck my neck out for you.”
“Yes, ma’am. I appreciate it.”
She shook his hand and walked him to the hallway. As she watched him make his way toward the exit, she found herself hoping he might actually find a decent life for himself. He wasn’t even forty yet.
It wasn’t until she returned to her office that she realized she should have covered up the note pad on her desk, the one on which she had scribbled the information she’d received from the prison. It was a stupid mistake, but Grisco hadn’t seemed to notice. His eyes had remained on his shoes the whole time, anyway.
She flipped the pad to the next page. It was nothing. She was certain of it.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_4f739408-8289-530c-80aa-e8553cb03a77)
As Casey Heinz jogged up from the 6 subway train at Bleecker, he was thinking that, all in all, it had been a good day.
Ramona’s school had some kind of teacher in-service Monday, so she’d been able to spend the day with him, starting with a snack at AJ’s. On a day without Ramona, he might have had only a chocolate-chip muffin, forcing himself to chew slowly, careful not to show his hunger. The fact that he was getting sick of that particular food option would have helped to slow the pace of his eating. He was tiring of nearly all the choices at AJ’s, one of the only places left on the Lower East Side that allowed them to hang out without buying too much. A cup of coffee first. A couple hours later, a muffin. Sometimes Brandon or Vonda would drop in with enough collected change for another cup of java.
AJ’s was starting to feel like home.
But, today, time wasn’t a problem, because Ramona was there. Girls who carried themselves like Ramona were never asked to leave, no matter who they consorted with.
Cost wasn’t an issue, either, when Ramona was around. He appreciated how Ramona paid. Not just the fact that she paid. Of course she would, given their different circumstances. But it was cool how she did it. Always ordering something for herself, too, even when Casey knew she wasn’t hungry enough to finish it. And she always seemed to order the things that Casey liked. Today it was chicken breast, mozzarella, and basil on a baguette. She’d picked off a bite or two, then, when Casey had finished his muffin, she’d pushed the sandwich toward him, insisting, “I’m so full. Here, can you finish this?”
As they had walked through SoHo after lunch, he had studied her profile. He’d never known a girl as pretty as Ramona. She wasn’t classic pretty. Or even cute pretty, the way most straitlaced high school girls were, with their misplaced confidence and upturned noses. Ramona was actually sort of funny-looking. Her nose was a little too long and flat, and he knew from memory that one of those big eyes of hers fell a little lower than the other. And her lips were on the thinnish side, her smile a bit crooked. But all of those features together? Ramona was, by any definition of the word, a stunner.
Even cooler was the fact that she didn’t try to be pretty. No highlights in that short jet-black hair of hers, the ends chunky as if cut with a razor. Plus, she wore way more vintage clothing and black eyeliner than acceptable among Upper East Siders. Plus, she hung with the likes of Casey.
Usually, they goofed around the neighborhood, making fun of the pretentious, surreal art galleries and the wannabe punk kids. And usually one of them had someone in tow—he with Brandon, or her with Julia. But today it had been just the two of them.
And they hadn’t just goofed around. Today, Ramona had really talked to him.
“I’m worried about my mom. I think she’s depressed or something.”
Casey couldn’t imagine what Ramona’s mother could possibly be depressed about. From what he could gather, her full-time job was to shop and work out, but he held his tongue.
“I called Julia last night. She thinks I should talk to my dad. Tell him that she’s spending so much time holed away in her room all day.”
“See this?” Casey had pointed to his own face. “This is a look of pain and humiliation that you talked to Julia about this before me.”
“Sorry.” She had leaned over and grabbed his shoulders from behind in a quick half-hug. “She’s just constantly in contact, you know, with text and IM and everything.”
Texting and instant-messaging. Two other conveniences of a normal life that Casey did not enjoy. At Promises, there was a fifteen-minute limit on computer use unless it was related to a job search, and residents didn’t have their own phones. Anyone who wanted to contact him had to leave a message at the front desk. Or with Joy, who worked the register at AJ’s from noon to five on weekdays. She was a sweetheart that way.
The pain and humiliation were feigned, in any event. Ramona and Julia Whitmire had known each other since the single-digit years. Casey’d met Ramona only last December, when they were both hanging out in Washington Square Park. Casey would probably never be Ramona’s best friend, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t his.
Julia was supposed to meet them today at AJ’s but had once again been a no-show. In her absence, he made a few comments at her expense.
“Julia thinks you should tell your dad because as much as she bitches about those parents of hers, she’s a daddy’s girl. She’d love nothing more than a chance to tattle on her own mommy to get a few brownie points from her dear, distant dad.”
“Harsh.”
“Not harsh. Just true. You know I love that girl. Almost as much as you.” Then he’d felt awkward, but Ramona didn’t seem to mind the comment.
After the stroll through SoHo, they headed west and hung out on the High Line, then they walked store to store in the Village. Maybe if Julia had ever shown up, she would have forced them to buy something. Not Casey, of course, but Ramona.
When Ramona announced at two o’clock that she needed to go home, he wondered whether she would have stayed longer if Julia had been there. Then he wondered whether he’d ever stop having those kinds of thoughts. He hated realizing how insecure he was at heart.
But then he’d bumped into Brandon on Eighth Street, holding his latest cardboard sign. “Trying to get home to Louisiana. Need $55 for a bus ticket.” If Casey had a hundred dollars, he’d bet it all that Brandon had never been south of D.C. Brandon was cockier than Casey. Bolder. Undoubtedly a little shady. Casey had been careful to keep his distance those few times while Brandon did hand-to-hand sales in the park. Casey made a point never to challenge Brandon, though, or to show that he was worried. Brandon was the only guy Casey had met on the streets who was willing to accept him.
It had been a good day.
By the time Casey made it back to AJ’s, it was just shy of five o’clock, so Joy was still there. As usual, she snuck him some food with his coffee. Sometimes it was pumpkin or zucchini bread—whatever they had the most of and would likely have to throw out at closing—but today he scored with a piece of lemon cake.
“Got a message for you, too, hot stuff.” Joy was only twenty years old and had a bleached white pageboy haircut and a sleeve tattoo on her right arm, but she liked to talk like a 1960s waitress slinging hash in a Waco diner. “Your favorite little lady called.”
“Natalie Portman’s finally seen the light, huh?”
“You know which one I mean. Little Missy Ramona’s sweet self. She said to call her faster than green grass through a goose.”
Casey was pretty sure that was Joy’s choice of words, not Ramona’s. He made a show of taking his time leaving AJ’s, then hightailed it to one of the neighborhood’s last remaining pay phones, at the corner of Lafayette and Bleecker. After four rings, he heard Ramona’s familiar outgoing message: “Hey, there. It’s Ramo—” Typical. Ramona had a habit of leaving her cell phone silenced, in her purse, and otherwise ignored. Any other person his age could leave a message and expect a call back on his cell within an hour, but Casey didn’t have that luxury. He fished through his wallet for his list of contacts, dropped fifty more cents, and dialed another number.
Ramona’s father answered. Damn it. “Hello, Mr. Langston. This is Casey Heinz. May I please speak with Ramona?”
Casey had met Ramona’s parents only once, that night when they walked out during intermission—some play they called a “cheap Albee rip-off”—and came home early to find Casey and Ramona watching a marathon of Arrested Development. They didn’t know the details of Casey’s living situation, but it hadn’t taken them long to infer from his appearance and vague responses to their questions that he was not from Ramona’s usual social circle. He made a point of using his best manners on the rare occasions he called her house.
“Ramona is—well, she’s very upset right now. She’s in her room. I think her mother’s trying to talk to her.”
“Did something happen? I got a message from her and it sounded urgent.”
“She wanted to speak to you, huh? Well, I guess I should let her know you’re returning her call, then. Just a moment, Casey.”
He heard murmuring in the background, and then Ramona was on the line. “Casey, oh my God, Casey. Please come over. Please. I need you here.”
I need you. How many times had he fantasized about Ramona saying those words? But in his imagination, her voice had been soft and vulnerable. Now she barely sounded human, the syllables coughed from her throat between rasped sobs.
“It’s Julia. It’s Julia. She’s gone, Casey. Julia’s dead. She killed herself.”
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_b9a5208c-6943-5c6d-bdd3-413900f463fd)
Ellie was sitting on the front steps of the Criminal Court Building when she spotted Rogan pulling a U-turn to meet her at the curb. He greeted her with a frustrated shake of his head before tearing up Centre Street.
“So where have we been summoned to now?” she asked as she snapped her seat belt in place.
He remained silent for another six blocks before he finally spoke.
“Don’t try to pretend that what we did today was good work, Ellie.” He rarely used her first name. “We were in and out of there faster than a straight-to-cable movie, and we spent the whole time looking to prove the conclusion we came to within a minute of entering that house. We’re no different than those lazy uniforms and smart-ass EMTs. We assumed the spoiled little rich girl slit her own wrists, and we made sure not to notice anything that might pull us in another direction.”
“You seemed fine when we left.”
“And that’s on me. I deferred to you, but I should have realized you’re the last person who should’ve made the call on this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? I made the same call as everyone else there—except that girl’s mother, who’s not exactly objective.”
“We both know it’s not our job to make calls that fast. You mean to tell me nothing else is going on here?”
Ellie looked out the window, as if that could buy her some space.
There were days when she was grateful that she and Rogan could navigate their way through an interrogation with only exchanged glances. She had even learned to accept the fact that Rogan could tell she was PMS-ing before she could. But if there was some way to lobotomize the part of his brain that knew about her father, she’d saw open his head personally.
Ellie had never talked about her father to anyone at the NYPD, not even Rogan. But she couldn’t help that other people knew her background. After police in Wichita had finally arrested William Summer and named him as the College Hill Strangler, she had decided to go public. She thought the pressure would convince the WPD to reverse its decision and finally award her father’s pension to her mother. Turned out to be a shit idea, but she had to try.
Now, because her face had been on Dateline and in People magazine, everyone knew that—despite what she appeared to be now—she had once been the little girl who could never accept the fact that her cop-daddy blew his brains out. She wondered if that was all people saw sometimes.
As Rogan pulled next to a fire hydrant in front of the Whitmire townhouse, she knew that even her partner suspected that, maybe—just maybe—a cold night at the side of a rural road in Wichita was the real reason why Ellie had been so quick to chalk up Julia Whitmire’s death to suicide.
But Ellie knew her true motivations. She was being rational. She was acting on evidence, not emotion; on reality, not old memories. Julia had killed herself, and her parents needed to come to terms with that fact.
She noticed the engine was still idling. “So are you going to tell me why we’re here? Who’d the Whitmires call?”
“Everyone, from what I can tell. I did, in fact, get an earful from the Lou. So I asked myself whether we might have missed something.”
“I know, you told me that on the phone. So what is it? What did we miss?”
He turned off the engine, only to turn it right back on. “You know what kills me? This is exactly the kind of thing that you would notice. Think, Hatcher. Think about what we saw today.”
“Are we playing twenty questions? Is it bigger than a bread box? Animal, mineral, vegetable? Oh, wait, I know: it’s a screwed-up kid in a bathtub. Will you hurry up and tell me before we knock on that door again? Because we better have a damn good reason if we’re going to disturb that woman just as she probably finished downing her third Valium to try to get some sleep after watching her daughter’s body hauled away.”
Rogan turned off the engine again, and this time took the keys out of the ignition. “You were the one who spent the most time in her room,” he said. “The girl was a junior in high school—a member of her generation in every way, with every gadget in the world at her fingertips.”
“Yep, every luxury money could buy, and what did it do for her?”
He shook his head once again. “You still don’t see it? Ellie, you really got to get yourself right on this one.” He didn’t wait for her to get out of the car before making his way to the front door.
Katherine Whitmire started talking as soon as she opened the door. “It’s about time. The EMTs. The medical examiner. The two of you. Your lieutenant. I lost count of the number of times I heard the word suicide today and the number of people who used it. All of you were lining up to tell me and my husband that our daughter did this to herself. And every single time, I believed it even less. I tried. I begged.”
A man came up behind her and placed a protective arm around her shoulder. “I’m Julia’s father, Bill Whitmire. Please, come in.”
