It was after two-thirty in the morning when the next call came in from Astarita. Maggie and McCabe had just gotten back to Bobby’s apartment and were sitting in the small office space that was temporarily theirs. Too anxious about Zoe to sleep and too tired from what had seemed like an endless twenty-four hours to do much else, they both sat silently leafing through the first day of notes and e-mails from the task force. As they read, McCabe was sipping from a glass of Macallan 12 single malt that had started at about three fingers but was now down to less than a pinkie. For her part, Maggie was chugging her second Brooklyn Lager straight from the bottle.
Just as McCabe was considering the wisdom of pouring another three fingers, the sounds of Ellington’s “Take the A Train” emerged from his pocket. Caller ID indicated it was Astarita.
“What’s up now? More from the homeless guy?”
“Looks like we got the son of a bitch. And it ain’t who we thought we were looking for.”
McCabe snapped to attention. He felt his pulse rate instantly shoot higher and, though he couldn’t feel it, he suspected his blood pressure was no doubt following suit. He pressed the speaker icon on the phone so Maggie could listen in. “Where? How? When?”
“Central Park. Like I said, about an hour ago. A horse cop found a guy named Ziegler dragging Marzena Wolski toward the North Woods in a body bag.”
“What about Zoe?”
“Not yet.”
“Did he tell you where she was?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what?”
“Just slow down and let me give you the short version. Like I said, around one-thirty a.m., this mounted cop named Donaldson comes across a guy dragging what appeared to be a heavy body bag through the park. Guy claimed he’d tripped over the bag in the dark and was dragging it out of the way so no one else would hurt themselves.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Definitely not kidding. Turns out the bag contained the very dead body of Marzena Wolski. She’d been strangled to death exactly like Jacobs and Wingfield before her.”
“But Donaldson didn’t actually see him killing her?”
“No.”
“So the guy wasn’t literally caught in the act.”
“Like they say, close, very close, but no cigar. Still, it obviously constitutes pretty compelling evidence that he’s our guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Corey Ziegler.”
“Does he fit the description we’ve got on the guy who took Zoe?”
“Nope. Once again, close but no cigar. Right size. Wrong complexion, blondish hair, not dark. Ramon Morales was still at the precinct when Donaldson made the collar. He called me and Diane first and I told him to wake up Mooney and his girlfriend and have them come back in to have a closer look. They both swear he’s not the same guy who was hassling them in the theater so it looks like that direction’s pretty definitely a dead end. Mr. A12’s not our killer.”
“What about the homeless guy? Jamil Harris?”
“He says he’s not sure. Says Ziegler could be the guy. But he’s not exactly the most reliable witness in the world.”
McCabe’s mind was racing. The guy they’d seen in the videos had that stupid bush hat covering his head so maybe he really was blond. Lighting and focus on the video sucked, so McCabe figured that was possible. On the other hand, what if this guy Ziegler really had tripped on the damned bag and was telling the truth about dragging it out of the way. Sounded weird, but weirder things had happened.
He let that swirl around in his mind for a while and then said to Art, “I still want the DNA reads from that wad of chewing gum. I’m not a hundred percent convinced.”
“No problem. It’s already in the works. I’ll text you a photo of Ziegler.”
“Press pick up on it yet?”
“Not yet. They’re aware a body’s been found and a suspect has been detained. Hard to hide once Donaldson called in the arrest. But they don’t know for sure who the body belonged to. Even if they’re assuming it’s Wolski, they can’t go to press without official confirmation. Also they don’t know who we have in custody. They’re probably assuming it’s their Star-Struck Strangler, but again they can’t go public till we confirm it. And for the time being all our people have been ordered to admit to nothing and keep their mouths shut.”
“Tell me about Ziegler.”
“So far he’s not saying a word. Business card in his wallet says he’s an attorney for a company called the Caswell Agency. It’s a talent agency that according to their Web site represented not just Wolski but also Wingfield.”
“But not Jacobs?”
“No.”
“I’ve heard of Caswell,” said McCabe. “It’s one of the biggest in the business. Guy named Alan Petras, who I went to film school with, used to be an agent there. For all I know he still is.”
“Petras? Yeah, he’s still there. I looked it up. Petras runs the New York office.”
“Interesting.”
“Very. Why don’t you get in touch with your old schoolmate, Mr. Petras, and see what he can tell you about Ziegler?”
“You said Ziegler’s not talking?”
“Not a peep.”
“Ask for a lawyer?”
“Not yet. But according to his business card, he is a lawyer, so maybe he thinks he’s covered.”
“Jerk. Doesn’t he know what Abe Lincoln said? Any lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client.”
“Yeah, I know. And in this case an arrogant fool. Morales and Capriati have been working him over for nearly an hour. They’re still at it. Refuses to answer a single question. Just sits there with a smug look on his face smiling at them.”
“What’s he got to smile about?”
“Beats me. But so far not a peep out of him. At the moment, he’s sitting all by himself in our small interview room. Just looking around and occasionally glancing up at our not so hidden camera.”
“How much should I let Petras know?”
“Charlie Pryor wants to schedule a televised press conference tomorrow morning at noon, so Ziegler’s arrest will go public then. Plus the fact that we suspect him of Jacobs’s and Wingfield’s deaths and Zoe’s abduction as well as the murder of Wolski. So the short answer is use your own judgment.”
McCabe broke the connection with Astarita. He’d occasionally touched base with Alan Petras over the years and knew his cell number. He tapped it in.
“Jesus Christ, Michael McCabe! I assume this is my old friend Mike McCabe from NYU who later became the famous and fearless Detective McCabe?”
“One and the same. Sorry to call in the middle of the night.”
“Well into the morning actually, but you lucked out and didn’t wake us up. Zev and I just got back from a late party and we’re sitting here having a nightcap. How’re you doing, old friend?”
“At the moment not so great. I need some information and I was hoping you could help me. I understand you’re still working with Caswell?”
“Yeah, full partner now. Agent to the stars. Or at least a couple of their New York stars. Company’s bigger in L.A. than here but we’re still number one on what my compadres in Century City like to call the Least Coast.”
McCabe had heard the term before. Hollywood slang. The Best Coast versus the Least Coast.
“Anyway, let me know what’s going on with you. Last time I heard from you, you were off in Maine playing cops and robbers up there in the woods.”
“At the moment I’m back in New York. On temporary assignment with the NYPD. You know a guy who works for Caswell named Corey Ziegler?”
“Sure, I know I know everybody in the New York office. Only about fifty of us there.”
“Tell me about Ziegler.”
Petras paused. His voice lost the smartass tone. “Before I start gossiping to a cop about one of my employees, maybe you’d better give me a hint what’s going on first. Aside from anything else I need to know if the agency has reason to worry.”
It was pretty obvious McCabe was going to have to level with Petras if he was going get any useful information. It didn’t really much matter since Pryor would be holding that news conference later in the morning. “You still living in the city?” asked McCabe.
“C’mon, Mikey, where would you expect somebody like me to live? Scarsdale? Of course I’m in the city. West 56th Street.”
“Can we talk there?”
“Sure. If you don’t mind my husband listening in. But Zev can be pretty discreet.”
“What number on 56th?”
“Four twenty-six. Between Ninth and Tenth. North end of the old Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood.”
“Okay. My partner, Margaret Savage, and I will grab a cab and be there in ten minutes.”
Alan Petras’s apartment was a drop-dead-modern two-bedroom on the top floor of an older refurbished building. The apartment was super-cool with curvy opaque glass walls and high-style glass and steel furniture. More interestingly, the walls were covered with dozens of abstract paintings all signed by a single artist. Z. Rosenberg. McCabe spent more than a minute studying the work. His years living with his ex-girlfriend Kyra, who was a painter and printmaker, had given him more than a passing interest in modern art.
“Like them?”
“I do. It’s very strong work. Who’s the artist?”
“All Zev’s,” said Petras. “Last name’s Rosenberg. His work’s pretty hot right now. Got a big show at the Abitole Gallery in Chelsea coming up in April. He’d probably give you a special price on one if you buy now.”
“Like what?” McCabe asked, more out of curiosity than genuine interest. No way he could even think about buying expensive art on a Portland cop’s salary. Not even on two Portland cops’ salaries.
“You’d have to ask him. But probably between forty and fifty.”
“I’m guessing you don’t mean forty and fifty dollars.”
Alan smiled. “I don’t.”
“Is Zev here?”
“In our bedroom. When I told him you two were coming, he decided to beat a hasty retreat and hit the sack. We’ll have all the privacy we need. Sit down. Let me get you some wine and we’ll talk.”
“No wine for me, thanks,” said Maggie.
“Mike?”
“Maybe coffee? We’ve got a long morning ahead of us.”
“No problem. Two coffees and one wine.” A minute later he returned from the open-plan kitchen carrying two mugs, set them down and went back and got a glass of red. “Okay,” he asked when he was settled. “What’s going on with Corey Ziegler?”
“Marzena Wolski wouldn’t happen to be his client, would she?” asked Maggie.
“No. She is, or I’m afraid you’re going to tell me that was would be more accurate, my client. Have you found Marzena?”
“Yes.”
Petras took a deep breath. “Is she okay?”
“No.” Maggie admitted.
“Dead?”
“Sorry to say.”
“Oh Christ. That makes two.”
“Two?”
“Ronda Wingfield was our client as well. Not mine personally but one of our other agents.”
“Did the police talk to you when either or both of them first disappeared?” asked McCabe.
“Yes. A couple of detectives showed up at the office. I have their cards somewhere. Ronda’s agent and I talked to them for about twenty minutes when she went missing but we really couldn’t be much help. The same two showed up again when Marzena disappeared. For my part, I hadn’t spoken to Marzena for a couple of weeks prior to that. Basically I didn’t know anything useful to them so they thanked me and left. Ziegler’s name never came up. Why are you asking about him now?”
“He’s under arrest on suspicion of murdering Wolski, said McCabe. “A cop discovered him dragging her body through the woods on the north end of Central Park.”
Petras let out what could only be described as a moan. “I am so sorry about all this. Marzena could be difficult to work with. Between us girls, she was a self-centered pain in the ass, but she didn’t deserve to end up like that. Nobody does.”
“Could Ziegler have met her while she was visiting the agency?” asked Maggie.
“Of course. Richard isn’t an agent but it’s a small office. He works . . . or should I say worked for us for about nine months now.”
“Doing what?”
“He’s an attorney. Writes up contracts. Negotiates talent payments and commissions. Handles all the disagreements between our clients and whoever wants to hire them. Was good at his job but he was always a gawker. Sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“What do you mean?” asked Maggie.
“Well, he was always managing to be hanging around when talent . . . especially attractive female talent . . . was in the office. To the point where it was frankly embarrassing. I had to tell him to go back to his cube more than once. Even though he was good at his job, I was thinking of letting him go.”
“You said Wolski met him?”
“Yeah. The last time she came in, he walked up and introduced himself. Started telling her how much he admires her, how terrific she is in Malicious. That’s the TV show she’s one of the major characters in. He’s done the same thing with a couple of our other clients. Richard’s what we in the biz call a starfucker.”
“What do you mean by starfucker?” asked Maggie.
“It’s a term for people who obsessively want to hang around with, want to see or be seen with, celebrities. The bigger the celebrity, the bigger the urge. They get turned on by proximity. They think the stardust rubs off on them. I’ve got a feeling that’s one of the reasons Ziegler took the job here. He could make a lot more money with a law firm.”
“Do you suppose Wolski would have remembered meeting him if he approached her, say on a dark street?” asked McCabe.
Petras shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. She certainly would if he mentioned meeting her at Caswell.”
“How about Sarah Jacobs or Zoe McCabe. Are they Caswell clients?”
“No, just Wingfield and Wolski. I’d heard of Jacobs. I go to the ballet a lot and she was on her way up to being a principal dancer. And I actually met her just to say hello at a benefit party at MOMA the night she went missing. But Zoe McCabe is totally unknown to me. Never met her or heard of her until she was mentioned on the news today. Is the name a coincidence or are you two related?”
“She’s my niece,” said McCabe.
“Oh Christ, Michael, I’m so sorry. Is that why you’re working on this?”
McCabe nodded. “The NYPD allowed me back to help out. They think I’m good at this kind of thing.”
“Anything else you can tell us about Ziegler?” said Maggie. “Like how he got along with the other people in the office?”
“Not well. Corey projects an arrogance most people don’t like. He has an oversized ego. Everything he did was great, terrific, fabulous. Never could admit to doing anything wrong. If there were ever any problems with residual payments or talent contracts he’d always act like it was somebody else’s fault, never his. He’s been with the agency less than a year but like I said, even before you told me about Wolski, I was getting ready to fire him.”
“What’s somebody like Ziegler earn?” Maggie inquired.
“Not much for a lawyer. A hundred K. Plus a ten percent bonus at Christmas, which he won’t get because he won’t be working for us at Christmas. He was making more than that at his last job with one of the big law firms. He claims he quit but I suspect he was let go.”
“You know the name of the firm?”
Alan Petras closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Oh Christ, yes. What the hell was it? Hadley . . . Hadley . . . Hadley and Bradshaw. That’s it. Located downtown somewhere.”
McCabe rose. “Okay. I think that’s all for now. Forensic folks are going to want to go over his cube at your office so please don’t let anybody touch anything.”
“Kind of tricky since it’s all open plan,” said Petras, before smiling broadly. “I suppose I could just hang crime scene tape over the opening. Got any extra?”
It was that last remark that reminded McCabe of what he’d never really liked about Alan Petras back in their student days at NYU. Son of a bitch had to make a joke out of everything. Even the brutal murders of at least three women. But McCabe didn’t respond except to say, “Your call. But seriously, keep everybody out.”
“I will.”
“Thank you for your help, Alan. Here’s my card. Please give me a call if you think of anything else that might be pertinent,” said McCabe.
“And here’s mine. It lists my personal number at the office. And I do hope everything goes well with your niece. Please let me know. And if everything turns out all right, maybe we can grab lunch and catch up on pleasanter things before you head back to the hinterlands.”
McCabe offered his hand. “Thank you, Alan. I will.”