CHAPTER FIFTEEN
D-Day had been Earl Wagner, her husband.
And the woman who’d returned the room key had actually been Matilde herself, on their way out after the two committed that first murder together.
When it came to the available forensics, police had snapped a dozen grainy photographs and made a notation that they’d taken a gym bag into evidence, which corresponded with Phyllis’s dubious claim that Barbara had been going to her job at the Kitten Klub with a bag of costumes, but there was nothing to indicate CSU had collected fibers, DNA, not even fingerprints.
NHI—no human involved.
“This is Detective Everett Larkin with the—”
“I know who you are, detective,” Roz from the office of the Property Clerk interrupted. Her unperturbed, slow, and gravelly voice was arguably even worse over the phone. “What do you want?”
“To schedule a property pick up,” Larkin answered, barely managing to not tack on an, Obviously .
“What’s the case number?”
Larkin read aloud the string of numbers from the Jane Doe file before Roz put him on hold. With the receiver still pressed to his ear, Larkin leaned back in his desk chair, crossed his legs, and continued reading the homicide report.
If he’d been underwhelmed by the evidence retrieved from the scene, the ME’s report had been enough to bring Larkin’s blood to a boiling point.
The medical examiner had noted that Barbara came in with bruising around her neck—enough to suggest a homicide—as well as the needle tracks of a “habitual user.” There’d been no accompanying documentation of an autopsy having been performed, however, despite Barbara’s condition clearly falling within the OCME’s responsibility to investigate deaths of an unusual or suspicious manner.
And if that goddamn doctor had done his job in 1982, he’d have realized Barbara wasn’t a user at all, but had instead been administered a lethal dose of digoxin, perhaps while she’d been held down—while Earl was crushing her windpipe.
Had such a finding been properly documented, perhaps it’d have provided Detective Noonan with more clues and more administrative support to get further in his investigation than he ever did.
Matilde and Earl Wagner might never have had an opportunity to kill a second time.
Mia Ramos could have grown up.
And Alfred Niederman never would have gotten a taste for dead children.
Could have.
Would have.
Should have .
“Stupid sonofabitch,” Larkin murmured.
“I’m still here, detective,” Roz croaked, and Larkin startled at the unexpected response.
“I thought I was on hold.”
Roz harrumphed.
Larkin added, “I wasn’t referring to you.”
“Your request is in-progress.”
“Thank—”
“You can pick up after three and before five.”
“What. No, that won’t work. I need it now.”
Roz drawled, “Do you think you’ve been my only call today?”
“Of course not,” Larkin answered. “But as a first grade with triple the average closure rate, I do feel my request shouldn’t languish in the first come, first served queue.”
“How very humble of you, detective.”
“I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t care if you’re here in five and call me pretty,” Roz said, and somehow, a voice that sounded as if she gargled sharp rocks every morning came off as utterly flippant. “You can pick up after—”
As far as Hail Marys went, this was worse than when Larkin told Dr. Baxter he had eyes like the moon and Doyle had overheard that face-planting attempt at flirtation, not least of all because Larkin was openly gay and Roz—in fact, he didn’t even know her real name—was a woman of nearly sixty who he’d compared to a slug monster from a Pixar movie, but desperation made a dedicated man do funny things, and he blurted out, “You’re very pretty. ”
There was a prolonged pause, then Roz sighed, said, “Your evidence will be available after three,” and hung up.
Larkin set the receiver down. Under his breath, he said, “I will never understand how Ira does it.”
He added a reminder to his phone before returning to the content of Barbara’s homicide.
Detective Noonan claimed to have tried questioning women who’d been working Forty-Third Street the night of the murder.
He’d been armed with a Polaroid snapshot of Esther on her deathbed, asking if anyone could identify the victim, but all he’d gotten from walking the beat were cold shoulders and zipped lips.
The lack of cooperation from sex workers wasn’t at all surprising to Larkin.
To demonstrate an association with Barbara—a woman who’d been soliciting sex—would have meant they’d face possible arrest for prostitution as well.
Women on the street were exceptionally vulnerable and profoundly mistreated, be it by their pimp, johns, or the system, and staying quiet meant staying alive.
Larkin didn’t blame them one bit.
He did blame Noonan, though.
Because while the man had patrolled the street Hotel Cavalier once stood on, at the end of the block was the Kitten Klub, where Barbara had worked, where Earl would have watched her perform, and Noonan never thought to pop his head in and ask questions.
He’d been right there .
This murder could have been solved before the sun had risen the morning of October 3.
But instead, Barbara had been restless for thirty-eight agonizing years.
Noonan had, at least, thought to jot down basic descriptions of the sex workers he’d spoken with.
Most didn’t come with names, since they didn’t offer and he didn’t seem to know any of the women, but there were two he must have been acquainted with through past arrests, because he’d not only recorded their names, but he’d attached their current, as of 1982, rap sheets to the report as well.
Sharon King, twenty-nine at the time of Noonan’s report, had been deceased since 1991 of a drug overdose, according to Larkin’s research. Bridget Cohen, however, then twenty-three, was still alive and living uptown in Washington Heights.
His desk phone rang.
Larkin glanced at it before leaning forward to check the ID—he wouldn’t answer if it was Roz. He accepted the call when he saw it was the downstairs front desk. “Detective Larkin.”
Officer Cruz, one of the star players of the department’s softball team, said, “I have a Detective Val Hackett from Brooklyn here to see you.”
Larkin turned in his chair before standing and looking over the banister to the ground floor.
Sure enough, Hackett stood near the entrance, soaking up Precinct 19 as if he were a sponge, like his own station house wasn’t the same organized chaos of both uniformed and plain-clothed officers moving every which way, overlaid with the competing stinks of industrial cleaner, toner, and coffee, and sounds of half a dozen conversations being interrupted by ringing telephones.
That’s when Hackett looked up, spotted Larkin, and waved enthusiastically.
Into the phone, Larkin said, “I see that.”
“Do you want me to send him up?”
“God, no.”
Cruz snorted.
“I’ll be right down.” Larkin hung up, put away Barbara’s file, and grabbed his suit coat. He drew his arms through the sleeves on his way downstairs.
Hackett met him halfway across the floor with an eager, “Good afternoon, Larkin.”
“Why’re you here.”
“Straight to the point—got it.” Hackett retrieved a folded warrant from his inner pocket and held it up like a treasure map.
“Your lieutenant called last night and said to keep you involved with the Brooklyn murders, since they relate to a case you’re working?
So, anyway, I got warrants for Joe Sinclair’s place of employment and his home.
He was a reporter for Out in NYC . Do you read it? ”
“It’s not in my usual rotation, no,” Larkin said dryly.
“Well, I stopped by their office this morning. His boss confirmed that Joe mostly worked from home, so he didn’t keep anything at work.” Hackett tucked the warrant back into his pocket. “I thought you might want to join me at his apartment, though. Psychology of place and all that.”
“I don’t know how he plays into our case, into a relationship with the sender, but he does .”
“I would, actually.”
“I’m on my way there now. The manager from the landlord’s office is supposed to meet me.”
Larkin checked his watch: 1:12 p.m.
“Is this not a good time?” Hackett asked, his voice tinged with disappointment.
Larkin sighed a little. “No, it’s fine. I have one hour and forty-eight minutes before an evidence pick up is ready downtown.”
Hackett was beaming—all sunshine and roses—as they stepped out of the precinct. “Joe’s place is on East Sixty-Second. It’s only a few blocks, if you fancy a stroll.”
“I just had my suit dry-cleaned,” Larkin answered, discreetly noting none of the surrounding vehicles were a blue Honda Civic, and he wasn’t sure if that gave him more anxiety than not.
Hackett was motioning to a black-and-white parked two spaces away on their left. “I borrowed a cruiser to come into the city. I will warn you, though… it smells a little like Friday night upchuck.”
March 10, 2011, Larkin had turned his overheads on, sounded the siren, and deftly wove through late-night traffic in the Grand Central area to catch up with an erratic driver.
He followed the Toyota Prius as it had swerved left onto East Forty-Second and cruised down the uptown bus lane before narrowly missing a lamppost, jumping the sidewalk, and then crashing into one of the massive sidewalk pots that, in the summer, would be full of flowers.
Larkin and his then-partner had gotten out of their vehicle, approached the Prius driver as he stumbled out from behind the wheel of his totaled car, and who then promptly projectile vomited all over the front of Larkin’s uniform.
The only difference was that it had been a Thursday night.