Читать книгу The Man Behind The Badge - Dawn Stewardson - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

Monday, October 4, 8:36 a.m.

FOR THE TENTH TIME in the past half hour, Celeste picked up the card Travis Quinn had given her and checked the number of his cell phone.

Not that she needed to. By this point, she’d looked at it often enough that she had it memorized. Yet she wasn’t sure she should call him this early. Or even at all.

Normally, she wasn’t indecisive. But she’d had another sleepless night—lying awake unable to stop thinking about Steve and her mother. And it had left her so wrung out that she just couldn’t stop vacillating.

Part of her brain was telling her not to impose on the man. Besides which, she hated the sense that there was no one she could turn to except a virtual stranger. On the other hand, none of her friends would have the answers to her questions.

Bryce would. Or if he didn’t, he could get them.

She forced away those thoughts. Her estranged husband was the last person on earth she’d ask for help. Which really left only one option.

Telling herself she’d make the call brief, she reached for the cordless and pressed in Travis Quinn’s number.

“Quinn,” he answered on the second ring.

After taking a deep breath, she said, “Detective Quinn, it’s Celeste Langley. I hope this isn’t too early to bother you, but—”

“You’re not bothering me and it isn’t too early. What can I do for you?”

There was concern in his deep voice. It made her feel a little less anxious.

“Well, I didn’t think of it while you were here last night, but...I should be doing something about Steve’s death and I’m not sure what.” Oh, man, she was sounding like an imbecile.

“There are the funeral arrangements to look after,” she continued. “And I’ll call the other relatives. But what about his friends?

“I met the ones who came to the service for our mother, and if I had his address book, I’m sure I’d recognize at least some of their names.”

“You don’t have to worry about contacting them. Detective Ballantyne and I will look after it. We have to talk to his friends, anyway—see what they know that might help. But can you recall even one of the names?”

“Yes. Gary Cooper. It stuck in my mind because of the movie star.”

“Good. We’ll start with him and he can tell us who else we should talk to. We’ll inform your brother’s regular patients, as well.”

“And he was seeing a woman. You’ll be sure to contact her?”

There was a momentary pause before Travis Quinn said, “What’s her name?”

“Jill Flores. She was at my mother’s service, too. I should have mentioned her last night when you said you thought Steve had had a female visitor. But my mind just wasn’t working right.”

“No, of course not. You were in shock.”

“I...yes, I guess. But...even if you call the others, don’t you think I should talk to Jill?”

“No, you shouldn’t do anything. Really. Leave it all to us.”

She heard the quiet sound of pages being turned, then Travis Quinn, said, “Yes, she’s in his book. We’ll get to her today. As for the funeral, you could make some tentative arrangements if you feel up to it. But until the autopsy’s been done...”

The autopsy. Her stomach felt queasy. “When will that be?” she made herself ask.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. Not for at least a few days, maybe even a week or so. Things are always backed up.”

She closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop her from imagining Steve’s body lying inside a drawer in a cold, impersonal morgue.

“Ms. Langley?” Travis Quinn said when the silence lengthened. “Was there anything else you wanted to ask about?”

If there had been, the questions had entirely escaped from her head, so she said, “No, that was all.”

“Well, as I mentioned last night, we’ll be talking to you again. But if there’s anything else in the meantime, don’t hesitate.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

As she clicked off, Snoops turned from watching the sparrows outside and fixed her with a green-eyed stare.

“He seems very nice,” she told him.

* * *

THE ICE MAN started the file printing, then let his thoughts drift back to last night’s conversation.

“Hello. I got your number from Giovanni,” the caller had said. “I was looking for...an exterminator. He told me you’re one of the best.”

“I’m the best.” He smiled, liking that he’d had the chance to use that line again. It was a good one.

“Ah, I see,” his caller had continued. “And he said you aren’t too expensive.”

“Depends on how tough the job is.”

“It shouldn’t be hard.”

“Well, you tell me who and I’ll check things out. Call me again. Let’s say tomorrow night. If you like my price we’ll get together.”

“Good. But there’s one other thing. You couldn’t do it just any time at all. I’d have to let you know when.”

“You talking exactly when?”

“No, there’d be a couple of days’ time frame. I just don’t know which days yet.”

“Okay, not a problem.”

“Fine. Then you want to check out a woman named Celeste Langley. She lives on West Seventy-fourth.”

Celeste Langley. The Ice Man silently repeated the name he’d already grown familiar with, then glanced at the computer screen—thinking that modern technology was making his job easier all the time.

Used to be, he’d sometimes spend days just learning what he needed to know about a target. Now he could find out a lot of it on the internet.

Of course, that meant getting into the right databases. Ones with detailed information about people. And most of them were supposedly restricted. But if you knew what you were doing, privacy was a thing of the past.

He reached for the page his printer was spitting out and skimmed the facts again.

Celeste Langley. Thirty. Born and raised right here in Manhattan. Both parents dead. Separated from her husband. No car. Lived alone and worked out of her apartment.

That was going to bump his price up some.

A job was easier when the target had a regular pattern. Went out to work same time each morning and came home same time each night. Then you could just pick a place along the route.

Someone who worked at home, though... That might mean having to waste her in her apartment, and he didn’t much like inside jobs.

Oh, he did them now and then, but more could go wrong. So maybe he should have a look at her place before he decided on his price.

He glanced at the address again. West Seventy-fourth.

It would be one of those old brownstones. Three stories. Not many apartments in the building. No doorman.

After thinking things over, he decided it shouldn’t present much of a problem. So he wouldn’t bother checking it out just yet. He didn’t like to put too much work into something until he had the money in his pocket.

* * *

IT WAS A FEW MINUTES past four-thirty when Travis and Hank arrived at the NYPD crime labs for their meeting with Saban Mustac—head of the crime-scene team assigned to Dr. Steve Parker’s place.

The techs had finished up early this morning, then he and Hank had done their own search through the apartment.

After that, they’d interviewed some of Parker’s neighbors. They’d also seen Gary Cooper and gotten a list of Parker’s other friends.

Overall, they had a lot to go on now, which had Travis feeling far better about the case.

Most victims know their killers. That was rule number one in Homicide. And since Parker had let his murderer in, the rule undoubtedly applied. So after they finished with Saban, they’d get back to interviewing people. Starting with Jill Flores.

By this point, their team had established that none of the other residents in Parker’s building had had a blond female visitor on Saturday evening. Which left little doubt that their mystery woman had been there to see him. And if Flores fit the description...

Travis glanced at Hank as they stepped onto an elevator, thinking back to Celeste Langley’s call. When he’d told Hank about it, the first thing he’d asked was what Jill Flores looked like. And Travis had been really embarrassed at having to admit he didn’t know.

He should never have forgotten to ask something so basic. And he found the reason he had very unsettling. Because the reason was Celeste Langley.

The instant he’d heard her voice his brain had gone fuzzy around the edges—something he couldn’t recall ever happening with any other woman, let alone one on a suspect list.

The elevator reached six and stopped. As they started down the hall, he began wondering, yet again, whether Hank seriously figured Celeste could be their killer.

Tempted as he was to ask, he didn’t. One round of Hank’s “You like her” routine had been enough.

He hated it when his partner picked up on something faster than he did, which was exactly what had happened in this situation. He’d realized that even before Celeste had called.

After all, if he’d actually merely felt sorry for her last night, he’d hardly have woken up with her on his mind this morning.

When they reached Saban’s cubbyhole of an office, the man was on the phone. He waved them in and cut his call short, then flipped open a folder, muttering, “Let’s see, what have I got for you so far?”

Once he’d glanced at the notes, he focused on them.

“Okay, we lasered the vic for prints and fibers but came up empty. The door handles were nothing but smudges. There were a couple of prints other than Parker’s in the kitchen, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. My read is that the shooter came in, did his thing and left. Didn’t stay a second longer than he had to.

“We bagged a fair amount of trace evidence from the apartment—including a few hairs that obviously weren’t the vic’s. Plus, there’s everything we vacuumed up. I’ve sent it all for analysis, so now it’s a question of waiting to see what the lab boys make of it.”

“What color are those hairs?” Hank asked.

“Blond.”

“How long?”

Saban glanced at his notes again. “Four to five inches.”

“Longer than your average male’s,” Hank said.

“Uh-huh. And the angles said the perp wasn’t real tall. So maybe the he was a she. You’ve got a female suspect?”

“Two possibles.”

Two. Then Hank did seriously think Celeste might have done it.

Travis checked his watch, telling himself that could well change when they talked to Jill Flores. Hey, maybe they’d really luck out. Maybe, when they told her why they’d come to see her, she’d admit she was their killer.

Of course, that was way too much to realistically hope for. But he and Hank were so overdue for a gimme of a case that you never knew.

* * *

CELESTE SPOONED OUT Snoops’s dinner, then stood gazing into the open fridge, trying to decide what she’d make for herself.

She really had no appetite, but—

Her phone began to ring, delaying the need for a decision. When she picked up, Bryce’s voice greeted her.

She swallowed hard. She had no appetite for talking to him, either.

“Celeste, Nancy called to tell me about Steve. And I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, guiltily thinking she should have called him herself. But when Aunt Nancy had offered to do it, she’d gratefully accepted.

She didn’t like phoning Bryce at his office, because since they’d separated, his assistant always managed to make her feel as if she’d picked the worst possible moment.

And she liked calling him at home even less. The few times she’d had to—for one reason or another—his live-in girlfriend had answered.

“You’ve been having a bad time of it lately,” he said.

“It hasn’t been the greatest, but I’m coping.”

“Good. You know...I hadn’t talked to Steve since your mother’s service. And, of course, we were never close. But...something really strange happened on Saturday evening.”

When Bryce paused, she gave him the “Oh?” he was waiting for.

“Donna’s in a play, so she was at the theater,” he continued. “And I was home alone, catching up on some work. And...I got this feeling I just couldn’t shake. One of those vague feelings that something’s wrong, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” Bryce was prone to vague feelings about all sorts of things.

“And something certainly was wrong.”

She realized he expected a comment about his being psychic, but she simply wasn’t in the mood to humor him any further.

“So,” he continued when she said nothing, “you’ll let me know when the service will be?”

“Bryce, you don’t have to come.”

“I feel I should. Unless it would upset you to see me.”

“No, it wouldn’t upset me, but—”

“Good. Then let me know. And if there’s anything I can do in the meantime...”

“Thanks, but I don’t think there will be. I made most of the arrangements today, so it’s just a question of how soon the...”

“Autopsy?” he said.

“Yes,” she murmured, certain she’d never hear that word again without thinking of Steve.

* * *

AS THEY NEARED Jill Flores’s door, Travis suggested that Hank do the talking.

It was easier to concentrate on reactions and body language when you didn’t have to think about the questions you were asking. And if Flores turned out to be blond, he didn’t want to miss a thing.

Hank knocked. A few seconds later, a woman inside the apartment said, “Yes?”

“Ms. Flores? Police detectives.” Hank held his ID up to the peephole.

The door opened—and Travis wondered if they would be lucky this time around.

She was closer to forty than thirty. But their witness had only seen the back of the woman in the hall. And Flores was “stylish,” with short blond hair that was a shade or two darker than Celeste’s.

“May we come in and talk to you?” Hank asked.

“What about?”

“It would be better if we came inside,” he said.

The woman was clearly uneasy, but most people were when a couple of detectives appeared at the door. After another look at Hank’s ID, she led them into the living room.

“We’re here about Steve Parker,” Hank began after they sat down. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he was murdered on Saturday evening.”

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Her eyes grew misty as Hank elaborated. When he was done, she murmured, “That’s so awful. Sometimes I wonder why people live in this city.”

After giving her a minute, he took his notebook from his pocket and said, “I’m afraid we have to ask you some questions.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“How long had you been seeing Dr. Parker?”

She hesitated briefly. “You aren’t under the impression that I’ve seen him recently, are you?”

“We’re only aware that you dated him.”

“Yes, I did. But it was from early June until about a month ago. Then we decided things just weren’t working out.”

“I see. And have you had contact with him since?”

“No. We...well, we didn’t see any sense in pretending we were going to remain friends when we wouldn’t. So the end was the end.”

Hank nodded. “What about enemies? Do you know if he had any?”

“If he did, he didn’t tell me about them.”

“And when the two of you called it quits? Did that have anything to do with another woman?”

“No, it was...basically, we’d just come to realize that we didn’t have much in common.”

“And what about another woman since? Were you aware that he was seeing anyone?”

Flores hesitated again before saying, “No. As I told you, there’s been no contact. Not even a phone call.”

“Well, the reason I asked is that we believe he had a female visitor on Saturday evening. Would you have any idea who it could have been? Did he have any women friends who might have just dropped by or—”

“You think a woman killed him?”

“We’d simply like to question his visitor. So, as I said, if you have any idea...”

“I don’t. I’d like to help you, but I really don’t.”

Hank nodded. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but just for the record, where were you on Saturday evening?”

“I was with a friend,” she said slowly. “A female friend. She came over around seven, we had dinner here, then watched an old video. The English Patient. We’re both Ralph Fiennes fans. And it’s a long movie, so she didn’t leave until after midnight. Do you want more details?”

“No, but I need your friend’s name and number. Again, it’s only for the record.”

“Her name is Rhonda Stirling. And her number is 555-1623.”

Hank jotted that down, then closed his notebook and thanked Flores for her time.

Travis added his own thanks, gave her his card and asked her to call if she thought of anything that might help them.

“Anything at all,” he added before she closed the door.

“What do you think?” he said as he and Hank started down the hall.

“Same as you. Our wit put the blonde in the hall around ten. M.E.’s estimated time of death is between nine and midnight. Flores was watching her video the entire time.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Do you think she was lying?”

Hank shrugged. “Always a possibility.”

“I’ve got a feeling that either she was or there’s something she held back. And she knew Rhonda Stirling’s number without looking it up. Which probably means they’re pretty good friends.”

“You’re saying good enough that Rhonda might give her a phony alibi?”

“It wouldn’t be a first.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll check it out. But at this point Flores is a whole lot lower on my list than Parker’s sister.”

Travis frowned. He and Hank rarely had different gut reactions to people, and he’d be a whole lot happier if they’d read Celeste Langley the same way. As in, innocent.

They reached the elevators and silently waited—until Hank caught his gaze and said, “I was right last night, wasn’t I. Something about that woman got to you.”

He shook his head. “I told you, I just felt sorry for her.”

Hank eyed him, clearly not buying that. But when he spoke again he simply said, “Good. ’Cuz I’d hate you to start feeling anything more, then discover she’s our perp.”

* * *

A LITTLE BEFORE TEN, Travis and Hank called it a night and started uptown, heading for Manhattan North Homicide so Hank could pick up his truck and get home to Jersey.

He had a house on a couple of acres, not far from Madison. It was a bit of a commute, but he’d bought there because his ex-wife had wanted to live in the “country.” They weren’t there long, though, before Jane left him. Like so many cops’ wives, she just hadn’t been able to take the night work and impossible hours.

They made marriage a risky proposition for a cop, and one Travis intended to continue avoiding—despite his mother’s hints that thirty-three was more than old enough to be settling down.

Turning his thoughts back to their newest case, he began mentally reviewing the evening.

They’d made six stops after leaving Jill Flores and had caught five more people at home. Three of Parker’s friends and two of his long-term patients.

All had professed shock at hearing he’d been murdered. Each had seemed sincerely upset. None had told them anything helpful.

Of course he’d given them all his card, so there was a chance that one of them would think of something useful and get back to him. Or maybe a detail neither he nor Hank had picked up on immediately would fall into place later.

That often happened. One person you questioned said something that eventually came together with what another one told you.

Adding up bits and pieces was how you usually solved homicide cases.

He turned onto East 119th, and as they neared the parking garage, he asked Hank, “What do you want to do in the morning?”

“Sleep in.”

Travis grinned. “I can live with that. How about I see you here at ten?”

“I could probably manage nine-thirty. That would let us talk to a few more people on our Parker list, then spend the afternoon playing catch-up.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Despite the pictures Hollywood painted, big-city homicide detectives didn’t have the luxury of devoting all their time to a single case. He and Hank routinely had more of them on the go than they could reasonably juggle.

They reached the garage and his partner climbed out, then turned to give Travis a tired wave. As he disappeared into the garage, Travis started back downtown.

One of the good things about both living and working in Manhattan was you were never very far from where you were going. Which meant that in mere minutes, barring a traffic crunch, he’d be home.

Just as he was debating whether the first thing he’d have when he got there was a hot shower or a cold beer, his phone rang.

Hoping it wasn’t someone calling about a fresh homicide, he dug the phone from his pocket and answered it.

“Detective Quinn, it’s Celeste Langley again.”

Instantly, he felt the edges of his brain growing fuzzy.

“I’m so sorry to phone this late, but—”

“Don’t worry about it. I barely finished working,” he said, thinking she sounded upset. “In fact, I’m still on my way home.”

“That’s a very long day.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“I...Detective, I just had a call from a man who told me he was one of Steve’s patients.”

Travis felt an icy numbness at the base of his spine, the sensation he always felt when he knew he was hearing something not good.

“He said that you and Detective Ballantyne had been to see him, and—”

“What was his name?”

“Evan Reese.”

Definitely not good. Reese had been seeing Steve Parker five days a week for the past three years, but he was clearly a long way from being cured of whatever his problem was.

Not that Travis figured he was any expert in the field of psychiatry, but it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to recognize a mentally unbalanced person. And his read on Reese was that the man might be dangerous.

“We talked to him a couple of hours ago,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Why did he phone you?”

“He said he wanted to offer his condolences. But...well, the thing is, the conversation got weird enough to make me nervous.”

Weird. Crap. They were well beyond not good.

“Even so, I wouldn’t be calling except that I simply couldn’t figure out why you’d tell him about me, let alone give him my number. So I decided that if I bothered you for just long enough to get an explanation, I’d sleep a lot better.”

“Ms. Langley...did he say we gave him your number? Or are you only assuming—”

“No. He said you happened to mention Steve had a sister, and that when he told you he’d like to offer me his sympathies you gave him the number.”

“Well, he lied.”

“You mean about your giving him my number? Or do you mean you didn’t even mention me?”

“Not a word.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

Her tone told him he’d just upped her anxiety level.

“Then how did he even know I existed?” she asked.

“Your brother must have talked about you.”

“No, that can’t be it.”

“He wouldn’t have had to say much.”

“But he wouldn’t have said anything. I wasn’t an important part of Steve’s life. I don’t imagine he ever talked about me to anyone, and he’d definitely never have said a word about his personal life to his patients.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. It would have been inappropriate, and one thing I do know about Steve is that he was very professional.”

Okay, if it wasn’t Parker who’d told Reese...

Travis tried to think of another possibility but came up empty—probably because his mind was so closely focused on the fact that since Reese had Celeste Langley’s number he likely had her address, as well.

That thought reminded him he’d forgotten to ask an obvious question, so he said, “Regardless of how Reese knew about you, is your number listed? Could he have gotten it from Information?”

“Uh-uh. It’s unlisted.”

“Then I think we’d better talk some more about this face-to-face. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“No, wait. Coming here at this time of night would be crazy. I can—”

“Five minutes,” he repeated. “Ten, max. And...” He hesitated.

What would happen if Reese showed up at her place?

He considered the question for a couple of seconds, then decided that when she’d been so cautious about letting him and Hank in last night, she’d never open her door to a stranger. Especially not one like Reese.

And that meant there was no point in warning her not to. It would only make her more upset.

“And what?” she said.

“Nothing. Nothing that can’t wait till I get there.”