All Day and a Night (33 page)

“Stay out of sight. Be ready to block the exit when you hear my word.”

She pulled the Crown Vic onto a side street and began walking.

L
inda’s driver jerked at the sound of Ellie’s knuckles against the glass. He tried fumbling with the window control, but the glass didn’t budge with the engine off. She held a finger to her lips, flashed a badge, and signaled toward the door handle. When she heard the lock release, she cracked the door.

“Remember me?”

He nodded.

“Good. Your passenger probably didn’t tell you your tail was the NYPD. You’ve got her cell phone number?”

Another nod.

“Excellent. You need to tell her that the manager of this place is giving you a hard time about having a fancy limo in his parking lot. You’re scaring all the customers who think you’re cops here on a drug bust. Tell her you’re leaving unless she comes down and works something out with the front desk. You got all that?”

Another nod.

“And if you say one extra word, I’ll have your livery license, and you’ll be hooked up for hindering prosecution. Got it?”

“Absolutely. And, Detective, the warning wasn’t necessary. I’ve seen every single episode of
Law and Order
. And I was in the high school drama club. Trust me: I got this.”

S
he had just finished strapping on her Kevlar vest in the passenger seat of Rogan’s BMW when Linda Moreland hit the motel staircase. “Don’t—LEAVE!” Linda admonished her driver as she passed her hired car.

As soon as Linda entered the motel’s lobby, Ellie gave the order into her radio. “Go!”

Rogan rocketed his sedan across the street into the motel parking lot. The SORT bus followed. Ellie and Rogan were out first, headed for the stairs, followed by eight men in helmets and full body armor. Ellie heard the squeal of car brakes as the marked vehicles formed a wall around the parking lot, as planned. No one was leaving through the front.

She and Rogan took either side of the door marked 219. The first SORT officer behind them held a shield marked
POLICE
. The second held a black steel battering ram. Ellie knew it was called The Stinger. Forty pounds, two and a half feet long, capable of shattering a brick wall. She gave the thumbs-up. The third SORT officer took hold of the rear handle of The Stinger, ready to assist the swing.

The door gave way on the second ram.

“Police!” Ellie yelled as soon as the door sprang open. “Anthony Amaro!”

He was running toward the back of the small motel room. Rogan was right behind him. As Ellie followed, she knocked over a paper bag on the floor between the foot of the bed and a dresser, then dodged two open dresser drawers.

“Closet,” she yelled. She could see Amaro reaching for a bifold door in the right back corner of the room. Rogan grabbed one of Amaro’s arms and swung him away from his intended target. Ellie jumped behind Amaro to take hold of his other arm. They shoved him face down on the bed, his shoulder jammed into an open Domino’s pizza box. Rogan jabbed his right knee into Amaro’s lower back as he forced his hands into cuffs. She felt Amaro wince as Rogan tightened the cuffs.

To the sound of Rogan reading Amaro his Miranda rights, Ellie checked the back closet that had been so important. No clothes on the bent wire hangers inside. She stepped backwards to view the shelf above the clothes rod. She reached up with a pen and pulled out a double-action revolver by its trigger guard.

As Rogan led Amaro from the motel room, the suspect turned in Ellie’s direction and smiled. “You, the blonde. You can come to my mansion and swim in my pool when this is all over. Until then, I know my rights. I’m not speaking without my lawyers.”

Rogan should have kneed him harder.

R
ogan was guiding Amaro’s head into the back of one of the marked cars when they heard banging from inside the front window of the motel lobby. A uniformed officer stood next to Linda Moreland, shaking his head. Another uniform posted just outside the lobby’s entrance explained. “She hasn’t been taking orders so well.” These were the two officers who had been tasked with making sure that Linda didn’t interfere once she saw law enforcement swarming the motel.

Once Amaro was secured, Ellie gave a “come here” curl of her fingers, indicating it was safe to release the hound.

Linda’s voice sounded like an air horn on crack. “Did you follow me? Did you have my driver call—? This is unacceptable. After you assured me—I’ll have your badges.”

Ellie stepped so close to Moreland that she felt her Kevlar vest brush against the woman’s gut. “He had a gun. He was going for it. Did you know about the weapon?”

The attorney’s eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. It was the typical response of someone who never expected her loud mouth to trigger a physical response.

“I saw the paper bag. The open dresser drawers. You warned him we were coming, even when you knew we had a warrant. That’s hindering. Turn around.”

“Hatcher.”

She heard Rogan’s voice behind her. Moreland’s eyes darted to him for help.

“TURN AROUND!” she commanded.

“Ellie, don’t do it. We came for Amaro, and we got him.”

Moreland began to turn slowly. As if from instinct, she placed her hands behind her. Ellie could almost taste the satisfaction of throwing her in the backseat with Amaro. But then she pictured the scene, a few hours from now, after some judge made a knee-jerk decision that criminal defense attorneys were somehow exempt from the law.

Ellie released her grip from the cuffs she so desperately wanted to lock around Moreland’s wrists, then leaned in to whisper in the attorney’s ear. “That call from your driver was a gift. If we’d left you in there, you’d be a hostage. Your pal would’ve killed you.”

She hopped into the front passenger seat of the transport vehicle, leaving Linda Moreland standing awkwardly in the parking lot, unsure whether she was allowed to move. As they pulled onto the street, she waved to Linda’s driver, who had been watching the action from across the street.

At least someone had done the right thing.

W
ith Joseph Flaherty dead and Anthony Amaro in custody, Ellie felt like Rip van Winkle crossed with the Energizer Bunny, both cranked up and exhausted. The two other people in the Utica Police Department’s conference room appeared to be at each end of the wakefulness spectrum: Rogan, slumped in the chair next to her, his eyes bloodshot and puffy; Mike Siebecker, the local prosecutor, rocking back and forth on his toes, his gaze bouncing between the two detectives and the face projected on the screen.

The face on the screen belonged to Max. “Glad you two are safe.” He looked almost as fatigued as Rogan. Behind him, Ellie recognized the lower-left-hand corner of the photograph she’d taken in front of the Springs General Store. She pictured him adjusting his laptop in their living room, getting the angle just so to capture that small detail.

Damn, she wanted to go home. She also wanted ten minutes alone in a cell with Anthony Amaro. A confession, even to one charge, and then she could go home in happiness.

Focus
.

Rogan had been bringing Max up to speed on the scene at the motel. “He invoked the second we had hands on him.”

“No surprise,” Max said on the webcam. “I’m sure Linda Moreland had him rehearsing the phrase over and over again.
I want my lawyer. I want my lawyer
.”

“You guys are the prosecutors,” Rogan said, “but we know the case is tough.”

Next to her, still rocking nervously, Siebecker said, “I think the technical term is
disaster
.”

Normally, Ellie’s internal monologue would conjure up more creative synonyms for their predicament, most of them profane, but instead, she was replaying Max’s impersonation of Amaro rehearsing his request for counsel.
I want my lawyer
. But those weren’t the words Amaro had used, and she knew the difference was significant.

As she searched for the point she wanted to make, the others talked through the difficulty with the evidence. They were in yet another variant of the same fundamental quagmire they’d been in since the beginning. From one perspective, they had a clear case against Amaro: his ties to Utica’s prostitution scene, the foster records showing his predilection for the types of injuries inflicted on the victims, a careless statement to a cellmate, the evidence tying him to Deborah Garner. Then you rotate the clear crystal and look at it under another light, and glimmers of color obscured the view: Buck Majors was a flawed interrogator, Deborah Garner’s prostitution partner was a bad witness, someone else’s DNA was under Donna Blank’s fingernails, and the extent of Joseph Flaherty’s crimes was still unknown. Not to mention, they still had Carrie Blank in the hospital, her assailant unidentified.

“Basically, we have eight women victimized,” Ellie said, thinking out loud. “The original Utica five, then Deborah Garner downstate, then Helen Brunswick this year, and Carrie Blank attacked in her home. And we’re pretty damn sure that Anthony Amaro and Joseph Flaherty, collectively, are responsible for all of it.”

Yet as she spoke the words, she pictured Anthony Amaro face down on that sagging motel bed, Rogan’s right knee in the small of his back. She remembered the flash in his dark eyes as he said he’d see her in the swimming pool of his mansion.
Until then, I know my rights. I’m not speaking without my lawyers
.

Not his lawyer. His
lawyers
, plural. Did he misspeak, or did he not know that Carrie Blank had quit? Ellie’s theory that Amaro was the one who attacked Carrie rested on a motive based on Carrie’s resignation from his legal team.

“But you know that’s not how it works,” Max was saying. “By the time we go to trial—sorry, Oneida County crimes means an Oneida County trial. By the time
Mike
goes to trial, he needs a coherent theory of the case that explains the precise roles that each person played in the entire series of events. The problem is, we have what appears at first glance to be seven murders with the same MO, therefore one serial killer. But we’re now saying that Joseph Flaherty killed Brunswick. Once you pull one card away, the entire house can fall.”

“So now what?” Rogan asked. Between the two of them, it seemed like they’d asked that question a hundred times this week.

“Your job was to give a fresh look on the conviction of Anthony Amaro for the murder of Deborah Garner,” Max said. He scrubbed his face with his hands. He delivered the rest of the news in a flat tone, his best attempt to show he knew this ending was unsatisfying. “That conviction has been set aside. You were simultaneously asked to investigate the murder of Helen Brunswick. That case has been cleared with evidence against Joseph Flaherty, now deceased.”

Rogan actually started laughing as he rose from his seat. They were being pulled from the investigation.

“What happened to the
we
?” Ellie asked. “Two counties, working together. One case.”

“Trust me,” Siebecker said. “If I could keep you on, I would. But your ADA’s right; your parts of the case are closed. We’ll keep working it from here. And we’ll see what happens. It is what it is.”

And with that, Siebecker left the conference room.

It is what it is
.

Rogan was on his feet, waiting for her to follow, but she just stared at the computer screen. She could tell from her reflection that she looked angry.

Max ran his fingers through his tousled hair, then returned her gaze with pleading eyes. “Come on home, Ellie.”

“You’re really going to leave Siebecker on his own to deal with Amaro?”

“I thought you came around on them,” he said. “You said Sullivan was a good cop.”

“Yeah, and he’s on leave until he gets cleared for the Joseph Flaherty shooting.”

“You’re totally wired right now. Things will look different in a few days.”

For all she knew, he was right, but she was still balancing the exhaustion and the adrenaline. She knew that once she disconnected this Internet conference, absolute fatigue would take over. She wanted to make sure she’d said and done everything possible before they walked away.

No words came out of her mouth, but she felt like something was missing.

T
he display on Rogan’s dash read “10:02 PM” as they pulled into the hotel parking lot. “Call it,” Rogan said. “Leave tonight or save the drive for morning?”

They hadn’t spoken since leaving the police station. The silence wouldn’t have been unusual for them. They were both dog tired, and they’d worked together long enough to share downtime in comfort. But Ellie’s thoughts had been on Max, picturing him on their sofa, with the nice, pretty photographs hanging behind him. She pictured him disconnecting from the video conference and brushing his teeth. In a few minutes, he would climb into bed and send her a final text message to say goodnight. Then he would sleep.

He was at peace with this decision, no matter how it played out. And that made him fundamentally different from her.

She started to answer Rogan’s question and then saw the fatigue in her partner’s face.

“You don’t look like you’re up for a three-hour drive.”

“No, I’m really not.”

“I know you’re not sleeping well at the hotel, though. You want me to drive?”

“Excuse me, but I haven’t lost my mind yet. Besides, I think I could sleep through one of your brother’s eardrum-piercing performances right now. You okay with rolling in the morning?”

“Sure,” she said, trying not to sound too relieved.

E
llie recognized the lanky male figure entering the hotel lobby ahead of them. His perfectly erect posture was an odd match to the brown paper bag in his left hand, grease stains starting to appear on its bottom edges. Thomas, the legal assistant. It dawned on Ellie that no one had ever bothered to tell her Thomas’s last name.

He did a double take as they followed him into the lobby. Then a triple.

He was what one might describe as wary.