Codella stared at the faces around the conference room table. McGowan had assigned her a team, but he’d hardly given her the best members of the squad. The only other homicide detective in the room was Paul Novotny, a bald, angular cop who had announced he would retire at the end of April. He spent most of his time these days surfing between Expedia and Travelocity looking for hotel and airfare deals for the big trip to Prague he planned to take with his wife. The other five faces consisted of Matthew Swain, a brand-new detective with no homicide experience, and four uniformed officers who would run the background checks under Novotny’s supervision. She hadn’t brought Muñoz into the meeting. McGowan, who was leaning in the doorway, would have called her on that. Muñoz would just have to be her secret weapon.
She held up yesterday’s New York Times, Daily News, and Post. “Lucy Merchant’s obit is in the Times. Read it if you haven’t already. The Post and Daily News will give you the lowdown on Park Manor. I’ll leave these on the table. You should know who the victim is. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill drug deal gone bad. We’re investigating the death of a Broadway legend who was given a drug overdose.”
Swain, the young detective, was taking notes—a good sign. Novotny was blowing his nose, and the three male uniformed cops looked more interested in their coffee cups than anything she was saying. The only other female cop in the room, Jane Young, had her eyes on McGowan.
“Come on,” said Codella. “Has anybody in here even seen a Broadway show lately?”
“Lion King with my daughter, seven years ago,” said one of the uniforms as if Codella had actually wanted an answer.
“Wife took me to Beautiful for our anniversary. Carole King. It wasn’t bad,” said another cop.
“All right, all right. You may or may not give a shit about Broadway legends, but believe me, plenty of people in this town loved Lucy Merchant. A candlelight vigil in Times Square last night drew more than three thousand people, and when they find out she didn’t die a nice, natural death in her sleep, they’re not going to like it.”
Codella paused until Jane Young—who McGowan had been spending a lot of time “mentoring” lately—stopped looking at McGowan and focused on her. “Listen up, everyone, because I only intend to say this once: Memorize the faces around the table. This is your team. If you mention details about the case to anyone not at this table—I don’t care how insignificant those details seem to you—you’re violating my direct order and I’ll make sure you never work a homicide with me again. You got that?” She glanced at McGowan. If she ever had another homicide case, she thought. She saw heads nod. “Okay, so let’s start with a little background.”
Codella told them about Lucy Merchant’s early onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis. “She moved to Park Manor eighteen months ago. She lived in a special dementia care unit called the Nostalgia Neighborhood.”
Novotny slapped the table. “That sounds like the place for my father-in-law.”
“Yeah, but you can’t afford it, Novotny,” she said. “None of us can afford it. We couldn’t even afford a closet there with our combined salaries.”
Novotny shrugged. Codella continued, “You’ll be vetting the entire staff at Park Manor along with the residents and their families. Lucy Merchant’s primary caregiver was a young man named Brandon Johnson. The care coordinator of the Nostalgia Neighborhood is a woman named Baiba Lielkaja. Lucy Merchant’s Nostalgia neighbors are a who’s who of New York business, culture, and society names. The families of these residents come and go from the facility. You’re going to look into them, too. You’re searching for any past or present connections between them and Lucy Merchant, anything at all that might suggest a motive for murder.”
McGowan cleared his throat. Don’t forget I’m here. Don’t forget I’m watching you, he reminded her. He still didn’t buy her murder theory even after Gambarin’s autopsy results. He wanted her to be wrong as much as she wanted to be right. “Lucy Merchant’s husband is Thomas A. Merchant,” she continued. “Chairman of BNA—that’s Bank of New Amsterdam for anyone who still keeps his cash in a mattress.”
Matt Swain, the young detective, laughed. At least someone in the room had a sense of humor.
“The freezer’s a lot safer than the mattress,” said a cop named Fenton.
“Merchant’s been all over the financial pages lately because a Senate banking subcommittee made him testify about his obscenely high compensation,” Codella continued. “He doesn’t like the idea of us digging into his wife’s death. No surprise there. And he certainly won’t like it if his name turns up in the papers. In fact, he’ll go for our throats.” Her throat, she meant. “That’s why you’re not going to pound the pavement and talk to just anyone.” She and Muñoz would do that, she thought. “You’re going to discreetly research him and all the other people on the list using our databases. You are not to contact them. Let me say that again: do not contact anyone directly. I hope that’s perfectly clear. Nobody plays the Lone Ranger. You got that?” The last thing she wanted was some glory-seeking detective-wannabe fucking up the case. Again she waited for heads to nod.
“Detective Novotny will make your individual assignments at the end of this meeting. Work fast. I need you to get through these names by tomorrow—yes, it’ll be a late night—and if in the course of your research you come across anything that seems remotely important, share it with Detective Novotny. He’ll decide whether or not to pass it up to me right away. That’s all. Now let’s get to work.”