FaceOff (22 page)

“Just getting it now,” Lincoln told her, and grumbled, “Right, Mel? It seems to be taking forever.”

Mel Cooper, hunched over a computer monitor, didn’t respond. He shoved his glasses higher on his nose and said, “Interesting.”

“That’s not a useful term, Mel,” Lincoln snapped.

“I’m getting there. Lucas collected five different kinds of bronze from Verlaine’s. One is typical modern formula: eighty-eight percent copper and twelve percent tin. Then alpha bronze, with about four to five percent tin.

“Some other samples have a higher concentration of copper and zinc and some lead—that’s architectural bronze. Others are bismuth bronze—an alloy that’s got a lot of nickel, and traces of
bismuth. One sample surprised me—it had a Vickers hardness value of two hundred.”

“That’s the bronze used in swords,” Lucas said.

They all looked at him. “For the role-playing games I write. Helps to know about old-time weapons. Roman officers had bronze swords; foot soldiers had iron.”

Amelia asked, “You think he uses bronze as a weapon?”

Lucas shook his head. “No, I think what it means is that he gets his materials wherever he can find them. Probably from dozens of junkyards and construction sites.”

“I agree,” Lincoln said.

Cooper added, “And there’s triethanolamine, fluoroboric acid, and cadmium fluoroborate.”

“That’s flux—used in brazing and soldering,” Lincoln said absently.

“Okay, the big question: any associations, Mel?” Lucas asked.

In crime scene work, very few samples of evidence actually “matched,” meaning they were literally the same. DNA and fingerprints established true identity but little else did. However, samples of evidence from two scenes could be “associated,” meaning they were similar. If close enough, the jury could deduce that they came from the same source. Here, the team had to show that the shavings found in the first victims’ bodies could be closely associated with those Lucas had collected from Verlaine’s studio.

Cooper finally pushed back from the screen. He didn’t seem happy. “Like the concrete, the flux and welding rods are close to the trace from the earlier crime scenes.”

Lincoln’s face tightened into a frown. “But those are used by
anyone
brazing, welding, or working with bronze. I want to establish identity with the bronze scraps themselves.”

“Understood. But that’s more of a problem.” He explained that
four of the bronze samples at the first crime scene were completely different from any of the metal collected by Lucas. One sample Lucas had collected that night had the same composition as several fragments in the first scenes. The others were similar but had “some compositional differences.”

“
How
similar?” Lincoln snapped.

“I’d feel comfortable testifying that it was
possible
the scraps embedded in the victims came from Verlaine’s loft. But I couldn’t do better than that.”

The evidence
suggested
but didn’t prove that Verlaine was the killer.

“Same with his behavioral profile and his history of sex offenses,” Lily added. “The S&M. It’s
likely
he’s antisocial enough to kill. But that ain’t enough to swing the jury.”

That irritating little “beyond a reasonable doubt” requirement.

Lucas told the women about the mysterious door to the basement. “I’m betting there’s something incriminating down there, but without a warrant, we’re not getting in.”

Cooper now put the pictures of the necklaces up on the high-def TV. “Trophies, I’m betting,” Lucas said.

“Crosses mostly,” Lincoln observed. “Hell, that means there are seven or eight more victims out there. Nobody’s found the bodies yet.”

“Or,” Lucas said, “that those are for vics he’s got coming up?”

Lily said angrily, “We’ve gotta stop this fucker. I mean now!”

“Trophies,
some
evidence, a behavioral profile that’s in the ballpark,” Amelia summarized. “He’s gotta be the one, even if we can’t make a case just yet. But the good news is if he’s the one, nobody from the department is involved. Verlaine’s just some lone psycho.”

“Wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Lucas said. “There’s another possibility.”

Lincoln understood. “Could be that Narcotics Four has been
using
Verlaine to torture and kill the women to get leads they could use.”

“Exactly.”

Amelia scowled. “Sure. Verlaine’s been a bad boy. Maybe somebody from the drug detail’s been extorting him to get information from the women. That way the cops’ll keep their hands clean.”

Lily sighed. “I’ll take the hit on this one.”

They looked at her.

“We’ve got to tell Markowitz the news: A, we don’t have enough evidence to collar our favorite suspect. And B, his world-famous drug detail isn’t in the clear, either.” She looked over her teammates. “Unless, of course, somebody else’d rather have that little chat.”

They all smiled her way.

“WE’VE CAUGHT ANOTHER ONE, SIR.
Woman, twenties.”

It was eight thirty the next morning and COD Stan Markowitz was sipping his first coffee of the day, in one of the old-time containers, blue with Greek athletes on it. But hearing this news he lost all taste for java. And for the bagel sitting in front of him, too.

It took a fuck of a lot for him to sour on walnut cream cheese.

The chief of detectives snapped, “In
her
twenties? Or in
the
twenties?”

The young detective, a skinny Italian American, said, “She was twenty-nine. Latina. Found the body in a vacant lot in NoHo.” He was standing in the doorway, not in or out, as if Markowitz might decide to fling a stapler at him. It’d happened before.

“I don’t like the name NoHo. It’s not a real place. I can live with SoHo but even TriBeCa’s pushing it.”

The kid didn’t respond but there was really nothing to respond to.

“Crime Scene’s on it now,” he said.

Markowitz stroked his round belly through the striped white shirt the wife had laid out for him that morning. He wadded up the oozing bagel and pitched it emphatically into the wastebasket. It landed with a surprisingly loud thud; this was the first entry of the morning.

“TOD?”

“Examiner’s saying about midnight,” the detective said. “No specific leads yet. No wits. Same as the others: she was a user, crack and smack. Found in a lot known for drug activity.”

“He’s a psycho, that’s what he is. It has nothing to do with the drugs. Don’t get that rumor started.”

“Sure. Only—”

“Only what?”

A hesitation at this. “All right.”

Markowitz glanced down at a file on his desk.

RED HOOK OPERATION. CLASSIFIED.

The NYPD had top-secret files, too. Langley has nothing on us, he thought.

“That’s all,” Markowitz said. “I want the crime scene report before the ink’s dry. Got it?”

“Sure.” The young detective remained standing.

With a glare, the COD sent him scurrying.

His landline had started ringing. Six buttons, lighting up like Christmas trees.

One reporter, two reporters, three reporters, four.

He glanced at the empty doorway and sent a text, then hit the intercom switch.

“Yes, sir?”

“Hold all calls.”

“Yes, sir, except the—”

“I said hold—”

“The commissioner’s on two.”

Naturally.

“Stan. There’s
another
one?” The man didn’t have a brogue, but Markowitz often imagined that Commissioner of Police Patrick O’Brien sounded like he just came off the boat from the old country.

“Afraid so, Pat.”

“This is a nightmare. I’m getting calls from Gracie Mansion. I’m getting calls from Albany.” His voice lowered and delivered the most devastating news. “I’m getting calls from the
Daily News
and the
Times
. The
Huffington Post,
for heaven’s sake.”

One reporter, two reporters.

The commissioner continued, “The vics are
minorities,
Stan. The killings are bad for everyone.”

Especially them,
Markowitz thought.

Then finally the commish wasn’t wailing anymore, but asking a question. “What do you have, Stan?” A grave tone in his voice, then: “It’s pretty important that you have something. You hear me, Stan? I mean, really important.”

You
have something.

Not we. Not the department. Not the city.

Markowitz said quickly, “We’ve got a suspect.”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me?” But his voice was balmed with relief.

“It happened fast.”

“You’ve got him in custody?”

“No, but he’s more than a person of interest.”

The pause said that wasn’t what the commissioner wanted to hear. “Is he the perp or not?”

“Has to be. Just a few loose ends on the case before we can collar him.”

“Who is he?”

“Sculptor. Lives downtown. And the evidence is solid.”

“Listen, Stan,” the commissioner said, back to whining, “there is way too much flak hitting the fan.” Patrick O’Brien would rather butcher a figure of speech than utter an expletive. “Make it work.”

“Uhm, what, Pat?”

“Wouldn’t the citizens of New York love to read that we have a suspect?”

“Well, Pat, we
do
have a suspect. Just not enough for a warrant. Or an announcement in the press.”

“You said the evidence was solid. I heard you say that. The citizens of the city’d feel so much better knowing that we’re on top of it. It’d be great if they could read that by the time the
Times
online got updated in the next cycle.”

Which was about every half hour.

“And I’d feel better too, Stan.”

Despite the COD’s dozen-year track record, the commissioner could drop him to a low-level spot in public affairs in the time it took to microwave a Stouffer’s lasagna. “All right, Pat.”

After organizing his thoughts, Markowitz picked up his cell phone. Hit a number.

“Rothenburg.”

“I just heard, Detective. Another one.”

“That’s right, Stan. We’re at the scene. Amelia’s running it now. The vic was tortured first, just like the other ones.”

“I wanted to let you know you’re going to hear in the press that we have a suspect.”

After a dense pause, Lily said, “Who?”

“Well, the sculptor, Verlaine.”

“He’s
our
suspect, Stan. He’s not the press’s suspect. There’s a big difference. Verlaine’s not for public consumption at this point.”

“What does your gut tell you, Lily?”

“He’s an asshole, he’s a sadist. And he’s the doer.”

“What’s the percentage?”

“Percentage? Christ, I don’t know. How does ninety-six and three-tenths percent sound?”

The COD let the irrelevance pass.

“It’s going to put people at ease, Lily.”

Silence, presumably as she tried to process why they needed to put people at ease. “That’s not in my job description, Stan. My job is catching assholes and putting them in jail.”

He looked up. He noted a woman in a suit, standing in his outer office, waiting. She was the one he’d texted fifteen minutes ago.

Markowitz said, “And I’ve looked into your other theory.”

“What’s that?” she asked, an edge to her voice.

“What you told me last night. That somebody, maybe from Narcotics Four or someplace else in the department, was using Verlaine to kill the women. Don’t waste time pursuing that.”

“Why not?”

Now his voice was hard as a metal file. “Because, Detective, I was profiling perps when you were getting your knuckles rapped for mouthing off in class. Verlaine’s a single operator. His psych profile is as obvious as the front page of the
Post
. Now make the case against him. STAT.”

“What part are you missing, Stan? If you announce, he burns his fucking apartment down, there’s no evidence left, and the case goes to shit. He gets off . . . and goes on to kill somebody else.”

The thing about nut cutters is they sometimes cut any nuts in their path, not just the ones you want them to.

“Detective,” he snapped. “You’re going to hear on the news in a half hour that we have a suspect in the serial killing of those women. If that means you’ve gotta get your ass in gear and work faster and harder—then do it!”

Click.

He looked into the outer office and nodded. The stocky woman was in her forties, blond, and with a dry complexion and eyes that suggested she’d never laughed in her life. Her clothes were dowdy.

She looked around to make sure they were alone. Markowitz nodded at the door. Detective Candy Preston swung it shut.

He whispered, “We’ve got some problems.”

“I heard.” The woman was a nut cutter, too. But she had the most melodious voice. He could hear her reading stories to children.

“I need you to move forward with what we talked about.”

“Now? I thought we were taking things slow.”

“We don’t have the luxury of taking things slow.” The chief of detectives unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and handed her an envelope. It was thick but not as thick as you’d think. Fifty thousand dollars, in hundreds, really doesn’t take up a lot of space.