The Girl in Times Square Page 20

  The Copa Cabana where Amy used to work had got itself a spanking new staff, everybody had heard of Amy but nobody knew much about Amy or her affinity for the destitute.

  Spencer called Joshua who said oh yeah, she did do something with them, but I can’t for the life of me remember when or what or how or where. I may never have known it.

  Lived with the girls for seven months and may never have known it? Lily was lucky to be rid of him.

  Spencer had no choice. He had to talk to the one person who could help him. What day was it? It wasn’t Friday, that was for sure. His hands were shaking. It had been two weeks between drink. He had to keep holding something between his fingers: pens, pencils, backs of chairs, the wheel of the car, so that no one would notice.

  After work he went back to Mount Sinai.

  Marcie had gone, DiAngelo had gone, the night nurse didn’t want to let him in since visiting hours were long over. Spencer had to flash his badge and say he was here on police business. Why did he feel like such a heel saying it? Because it was true?

  The grandmother wasn’t there either. So there was a time to come when no one was around her. Trouble was, she wasn’t around herself either. Spencer sat by Lily’s side in the quiet as the water dripped in the bathroom and the TV was on mute. He hated the TV on mute. He turned the sound up a little. Lily looked so helpless with the tube in her nose, under her covers, lying propped up slightly, with what little was left of her hair falling out in dark shavings onto her pillow. Through her chest catheter a fluid tube was connected, a glucose solution dripping in, like the bathroom faucet. Drip, drip.

  After watching her a while, he whispered her name, until she awoke, looking stranded. “What’s wrong, what happened?” she mouthed.

  “Nothing, all’s okay.”

  “I keep dreaming people whisper my name over and over, and then I open my eyes and you’re here.”

  “Whispering your name over and over.” He gave Lily a drink, asked if there was something else he could get her. No, she said, sheepishly adding, maybe another business card? Spencer took from his pocket the one she threw on the floor and put it inside her bedstand drawer.

  “So what did your little policemen friends think about your hair?” she asked.

  “The other kids made fun of me.”

  They fell quiet.

  “Lily,” he said, “What soup kitchen did Amy go to every Friday?”

  Her eyes barely open now closed for good. With a hurting sigh, her arms went around her stomach. She groaned. “A church on 51st and Seventh.”

  Spencer couldn’t help himself. He wished he could. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me three months ago she had somewhere to be every Friday?”

  Lily didn’t reply. A small tear rolled down her temple.

  The nurse came in to take her vitals.

  Spencer sat with her for a while longer, and then left.

  27

  Liz Monroe and 57/57

  The next day, after the morning meeting, Spencer was in the evidence room sifting through Amy’s various empty shopping bags, receipts, papers, notebooks, textbooks, jackets, pockets of jeans, with a fourth cup of coffee in his hand, when Harkman stuck his head in and said, “Spence…”

  Spencer decided to ignore him. He didn’t like the tone of the whisper.

  Harkman slowly brought his sour-smelling bulk over. Spencer resisted the urge to ask him if he had taken his gout medicine. This was just too strong a smell for nine in the morning. Harkman rested his rump on the table and with his bypassed heart panting an ostensible and unacceptable 137 beats a minute, said, “Spence, I gotta tell you something.”

  Spencer didn’t look up from Amy’s shopping bags. He was interested in their variety and their quality. “What?” He was studying a matchbook he had found in one of her jacket pockets. It was from the Four Seasons Hotel lounge bar, called Fifty Seven Fifty Seven. By itself it would have meant nothing, but the jacket was thrown into a Frederic Fekkai bag. Frederic Fekkai was also on 57th. Of course Amy also had matchbooks from the Caviar Bar on 58th and from Bombay Palace on 52nd. He was trying to put one and two together when Harkman said, “They want to see you upstairs.”

  Spencer looked up from the Four Seasons matchbook. “Who’s they?”

  Harkman didn’t speak for a moment and then leaned his head forward and said in a low voice, “I swear to God, Spencer, I have no idea what it’s about, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” Spencer said, sharply getting up out of the chair, dropping the matchbook on the floor and coming toward him. “I was barely listening because I was trying to work. Who wants to see me upstairs?”

  All Harkman could do was mutter an impotent, “IA.”

  “IA?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’re sure whatever it is, it’s got nothing to do with you? How do you know? Maybe it’s got something to do with you. Maybe they want to ask me about that bit of graft you receive from the drug dealers in Tompkins Park to look the other way, and not bring back the MPs that are strung out on the scag they’re selling, huh, maybe it’s got something to do with that?”

  “Stop it, nothing to do with me, I’m telling you. Rumor has it that IA got an anonymous letter about…you…”

  “What letter?”

  “About Greenwich, Connecticut.” Harkman was whispering. His lips were shaking. “But I didn’t do it, I didn’t send it.”

  Spencer grabbed Harkman by his jacket. “What the fuck do you know about Greenwich, Connecticut?”

  “Let go of me, O’Malley.” His voice was thin. “You don’t want more trouble with IA, do you?”

  Spencer shoved him hard. Harkman fell back against the rattling table, which slowed his tumble to the floor.

  Upstairs, Spencer sat at the end of a long conference table across from three people whom he’d never met. One was an attractive woman in her early thirties, sharp, swift, efficient, in a dark blue business suit, with perfect make-up and without a mitochondrion of a sense of humor. The other two were men. Spencer did not pay much attention to men and so didn’t notice what they looked like. They were older than the woman and in suits that were nowhere near as sharp or as ironed. Spencer was displeased with himself that he, breaking his own protocol, deliberately wore jeans instead of a suit today, preparing to go casual to the soup kitchen. Should have worn a suit.

  Harkman was such a bastard.

  The ironed-out woman introduced herself as Liz Monroe. “These are my colleagues.” She pointed to her colleagues and Spencer was grateful she didn’t tell him their names.

  “Do you know why we’re here, detective?”

  “No.”

  She cleared her throat. Spencer thought she might have expected a follow-up “Why?” but he wouldn’t give her what she expected. Only the unexpected for her.

  “We’re here because inquiries have been made regarding your possible involvement in the death of a Nathan Sinclair.”

  Spencer said nothing. He had nothing to say.

  “Do you know who Nathan Sinclair is?”

  “Well, obviously.”

  “Inquiries have been made—”

  “What inquiries?”

  Monroe started looking through her notes. “What do you know about the circumstances of his death?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “You already asked that. The answer is still yes.”

  “Who was he?”

  “One of the witnesses in a murder investigation.”

  “This was in Hanover, New Hampshire?”

  “Yes, this was in Hanover, New Hampshire.”

  “You were the senior detective there for ten years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you leave? Was it because of…Nathan Sinclair?”

  “No, it was not because of…Nathan Sinclair.” Spencer tried hard not to be too obvious with his mimicking. “I left because of a difference of
opinion with my superiors regarding the murder investigation you mention.”

  “And then?”

  “I came back home to Long Island and was rehired by the Suffolk County Police Department.”

  “What did you do for them after you were rehired?”

  “That’s not in my records? I was a traffic patrol officer.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I transferred to the NYPD. Four years ago.”

  “Let’s just stick with Suffolk County PD for a moment. You went from being a detective-sergeant in Hanover to being a traffic cop?”.

  “That’s right.”

  Liz Monroe said nothing. “That’s quite a demotion.”

  Spencer didn’t respond as no response seemed necessary, or even possible. “Not monetarily,” he finally said.

  She looked down into her notes again. She was barely taking her head out of them. “It was brought to our attention—”

  “By who?”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m afraid it is the issue.”

  “We received an anonymous letter, if you must know. All admissible evidence, as you also must know. The letter stated that witnesses saw you having lunch with Nathan Sinclair, at a Cos Cob, Connecticut diner.”

  “Ms. Monroe, surely you didn’t need an anonymous letter to tell you this? It’s in my file. Under O for O’Malley. Any time you wanted you could have found this information. And by the way, I’ve already dealt with the Suffolk County Internal Affairs on this issue in great detail. Four years ago.”

  “Yes, yes, I found this information. I have your records in front of me. Is this why you left the Suffolk County Police Department?”

  “This is not why I left the Suffolk County Police Department. I didn’t leave. I transferred to NYPD.”

  “You must understand—”

  “Who are you talking to, Ms. Monroe?”

  She coughed, turning red. “Detective O’Malley, excuse me. You must understand that accusations of any kind are taken very seriously by our department and will be given weight and merit.”

  “Is the letter accusing me of having lunch with Nathan Sinclair at a diner? I’m guilty as charged.”

  “It’s only significant because that was the last time anyone saw him alive. He was found by his gardener weeks later, the TV still on. He was long dead. It was summer, his body was gravely decomposed.”

  Spencer stared straight at Liz Monroe who stared straight back at him. “Perhaps you should speak to the gardener.”

  “Yes, thank you, detective. Why did you meet with Mr. Sinclair? Was it a police visit or a personal visit?”

  “It was a…” Spencer hesitated. “I guess both.”

  “Were you on duty?”

  “I was not.”

  “And you were no longer the investigating officer on that case, having taken yourself off it by resigning?”

  “There was no case anymore. There had been a conviction. The case was closed.”

  “So really your seeing Nathan Sinclair was more in a personal capacity, wouldn’t you say?”

  Perhaps Spencer did not answer in the first breath. “I suppose so.”

  “That part is not in your file, detective,” said Liz Monroe, and this time she looked up from her notes.

  “You’re obviously a thorough investigator, Ms. Monroe.”

  “Thank you. Did you suspect that Mr. Sinclair was involved in the murder you had been investigating at Dartmouth College?”

  “Not at all. I simply had questions that had not been answered.”

  “And what questions were those?”

  “We discussed several topics. Music. Cars. We commiserated with each other about our wives both lost in car accidents.”

  Without a nod of sympathy, Monroe said, “You didn’t seek him out just to talk to him about music and wives, detective.”

  “As I said, I wanted to catch up. Idle chitchat.”

  “You were friendly then?”

  “Glancingly friendly.”

  “What did you do after you left him?”

  “I drove to Hanover, New Hampshire.”

  “Why?”

  “For the same reason I sought Nathan Sinclair out. To catch up with old friends.”

  “But you didn’t see anyone when you got to Hanover. At least that’s what it says in your case notes.”

  “That’s right. By the time I got there it was well after working hours and there was no one around. My old partner was on vacation. I walked around, and then drove down to Brattleboro mall down in Vermont. I had some dinner and bought a carryon bag, as I was thinking of visiting my sister in California. The receipt for that purchase is in the case file.”

  “Receipt’s in here. Paid for in cash. But where’s the bag, detective?”

  “Long gone, Ms. Monroe. The handle ripped after much use and I had to throw it out. Is the bag of much interest to you?”

  “Of some interest, yes. As in, why you would buy it, just then. Did the Suffolk IA ask to see the bag?”

  “No, they did not.”

  “You do much traveling, then? I see here from your employment record that in the last seven years at SCPD and NYPD, you’ve taken your twenty-seven vacation days a year in dribs and drabs, not a single time, not once in any extended chunk.”

  “And your point?”

  “After this frequently-used bag purchase, what did you do?”

  “I drove home. As you know the ride is long, five hours, that time of night. I was tired. I drove carefully. I stopped several times. I must have gotten back around two in the morning. I was living in an apartment above my brother’s garage at the time, and they heard me open the garage door; they said it was around two. It should all be in the file, Ms. Monroe.”

  The woman fell quiet looking into her notes. “It is, it is. You know it is our responsibility to look into any misconduct by our officers who are sworn to uphold the law.”

  “I know. You’re doing your job admirably. I upheld the law. And moreover, I was not an officer of the NYPD during that time. I was an officer of the Suffolk County Police Department, off duty, and they already investigated this matter and resolved it to their satisfaction.”

  “Any misconduct?”

  “No,” said Spencer.

  “Nathan Sinclair was shot once by a Saturday night special .22 directly into his femoral artery, and bled to death.”

  “So I understand.”

  “The police, upon coming to the scene of the crime, discovered that the TV was on mute.” She paused. “As if Nathan Sinclair muted the TV because he wanted to talk to his assailant, plead for his life perhaps.”

  Spencer said nothing, since a response was not requested of him.

  She continued. “The gun was never found. The bullet from the gun had been removed. Scooped out of his thigh by a gloved hand leaving no fingerprints.”

  Spencer felt something was required of him here. “I carried a Magnum in those days.”

  “Did you confiscate the specials during drug busts?”

  “I have confiscated them from time to time, yes.”

  “There were boot-prints near him in his blood.”

  “I can’t recall, were they police-issue boot-prints?”

  “Um—no. But you weren’t having lunch with him as an officer of the law, detective.”

  “The witness who saw us at a diner having lunch and so helpfully wrote to you, did he remember if I was wearing boots? It was summertime, it’s a kind of a thing that might stick out.”

  “There is no mention of the boots, no.”

  Spencer tightened and relaxed his fists on the cherry wood table in full view of Ms. Monroe.

  “What size shoe do you wear, Detective O’Malley?”

  “Size eleven. Me and seventy percent of the men in the United States.”

  “The boots were size twelve.”

  “Really?” Spencer tried to keep his voice even, but perhaps he inflected too archly into the mid
dle of that really.

  There was a pause. “You knew that already, didn’t you?”

  “Questioned thoroughly on this issue, Ms. Monroe.”

  “So you have no idea who killed him?”

  “I have no idea who killed him.”

  “His killer has not been brought to justice. So justice needs to be brought to his killer.”

  Spencer shrugged. “I suppose.”

  Liz Monroe lifted her serious eyes at Spencer. “Detective O’Malley, do you feel that bringing murderers to justice is not something we should waste our time on, or is it just Nathan Sinclair’s murderer that you feel we shouldn’t be spending our time on?”

  “Oh, is IA responsible for murder investigations now?”

  “No, but IA is responsible for you.”

  Outside, Spencer, leaned against the wall for a moment to get his bearings. And then he slowly walked down three flights, resisting the impulse to hold on to the railing.

  28

  The Soup Kitchen

  The First Presbyterian Shelter for the Homeless occupied the basement of an old church. Instead of bingo and church socials for newly divorced Protestants, the downstairs hall was used for alms—seventy beds, and a dining room. Spencer finally managed to get there on Friday at dawn. He had nearly lost his will to pursue the McFadden case. The fight had gone out of him, but that didn’t stop him from taking Harkman by his shirtfront when he came upon him in the empty hallway. Spencer brought him hard against the wall, and stifling an urge to hit him, said, “You’re such a fucking bastard. You better watch your back, Chris Harkman, because no one else will be watching it.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Harkman said. “Get away from me.”

  Spencer stepped back.

  “I told you, it wasn’t me. I told you that, why can’t you believe me? But you know what, O’Malley, we all get what’s coming to us. We all get exactly what we deserve, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do, Harkman,” said Spencer, walking away and pointing an angry finger at the man’s face, “and be careful that you don’t get exactly what you deserve. What a sorry day that’ll be for you.”