Twenty minutes later a taxi deposited the two Portland detectives in front of the Seventh Precinct. They entered the three-story redbrick building, introduced themselves to a different desk sergeant and headed upstairs to the detective squad where Astarita was waiting along with Ramon Morales and Diane Capriati. McCabe suspected both detectives were likely pissed that a couple of interlopers from Maine were about to get the next shot at the so-called Star-Struck Strangler. McCabe didn’t blame them. He would have been pissed too. It was the kind of case that, if you were the one who got the confession, could make your career.
The five of them all squeezed around a monitor in the small conference room. Maggie and McCabe studied the man on the screen. Corey Ziegler was sitting still, his hands folded in front of him on the wooden table. Occasionally he’d glance up at the camera, which was semi-hidden above and to the right of the door. Even seated he appeared to be a big guy. About the size the three witnesses had described. But he had a bland face with fair skin and dirty blond hair. Not the intensity and dark brown hair all their witnesses had mentioned.
“Sarah Slade’s certain this isn’t the guy from the theater?” asked Maggie. Slade had probably gotten the closest and best look and she had probably suffered less directly the emotional threat Mooney had been put through.
“Yup. Both she and Mooney say they’re certain. They say Ziegler’s got a totally different face. A different presence.”
“And Ziegler still hasn’t lawyered up?” asked McCabe.
“No. Not yet. Which surprises me,” said Capriati. “The guy’s a lawyer himself. He ought to know better.”
“So he’s just been sitting there the whole time saying nothing?”
“Pretty much,” said Art. “He seems to have taken his right to remain silent literally. Diane and Ramon worked him over pretty good for over an hour. Refused to say a word. Won’t even admit he’s Corey Ziegler.”
“You think he’s debating whether or not to confess?” asked McCabe, thinking about all the famous serial killers who’d just been itching to confess everything. Let the world know what cool and dangerous dudes they were. “Whether he wants to brag about it?”
“That’s the feeling I get,” said Capriati. “He just hasn’t made up his mind yet. Once he decides we’ve really got the goods on him I think he’s gonna let loose.”
“We have any estimate yet for the time of Wolski’s death?” McCabe asked Astarita.
“Jonah Eisenberg’s best guess is that she was strangled not all that long before Donaldson found her. Certainly tonight. Probably around seven or eight p.m.”
“Okay, so let’s suppose he gets Zoe. Secures her back in his hidey-hole. And then he kills Wolski. Once she’s dead he stuffs her in the body bag and then drives her up to the north end of the park and drags her in. I assume you checked Ziegler’s apartment? Maybe that’s where he’s keeping Zoe,” said McCabe.
“We checked. If he has a hidey-hole it’s not his apartment. Renee Walker and Will Fenton searched the place. A one-bedroom on West 12th. Practically under the south end of the High Line. No Zoe. No other young captives there. No signs there ever have been any. Crime scene unit is going over the place now to see if they can pick up any traces of Wolski or either of the two earlier victims. Computer folks are trying to figure out if Ziegler owns another apartment or house somewhere.”
“I wonder if he made Zoe watch Wolski’s murder,” said Maggie. “Sort of a warning of how she might end up if she didn’t do what she was told.”
McCabe felt a sudden rush of rage at the thought and nearly snapped at Maggie. He pushed against the feeling, knowing that if he let himself explode there was a good chance he might just charge into the interview room and try to beat the truth out of Ziegler right then and there. Maggie sensed what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She slipped her hand down and squeezed his, a silent signal to keep his cool. He took her lead and did a little deep breathing. Then he asked what seemed like an innocuous question. “Has he just been sitting there like that the whole time?”
“Yup.”
“I think he just may be enjoying his moment as the star,” said Maggie, thinking back to Alan Petras’s description of the guy. “Maybe that’s what he’s wanted all along when he decided to start killing young actresses. To be the center of attention. The star of the show. And now he’s here he doesn’t want some other lawyer stepping in and ruining his moment in the sun.”
Astarita shrugged. “Maybe so.”
“Weird if you ask me,” said Morales.
“Serial killers are weird by definition,” said Maggie. “What else do we know about him?”
“Not much,” said Astarita. “No criminal record. Not much presence on the Internet. Just that he graduated in ’04 from Hofstra with a degree in political science and then went to Fordham Law. Passed the bar first time around and then went to work for a white-shoe kind of firm called Hadley and Bradshaw. Specialized in entertainment law. Left there and went to Caswell earlier this year.”
“Anything else?” asked Maggie.
“Yeah. He’s got Facebook and LinkedIn pages but they’re fairly inactive. When he does post something it’s usually something about himself. Who he knows. Who he’s met. How cool he is. How smart. How well connected. Posted one selfie of him posing with Wolski. Captioned it Me with my good friend, the star of Malicious, Marzena Wolski. Don’t know how he got that.”
“Probably just walked up while she was in the office at Caswell and asked,” said McCabe. “Actors like to accommodate fans when it’s not a hassle. It all fits with what Petras said about him. An oversized ego. Always sounding off about how much smarter he is than anyone else. The way Alan described Ziegler, he’s clearly a narcissist.”
“And narcissism,” Astarita added, “is well up there on Hare’s list of psychopathic tendencies.”
“Ziegler got a wife? Or a girlfriend?” asked Maggie. “Or maybe a boyfriend?”
“What do you think?” said Capriati.
“I think not.”
“You think right.”
“Anything else we can use?” Maggie asked.
“Nothing other than he was caught in the act of dragging a body bag containing the mortal remains of Marzena Wolski into the woods. Insisted he had nothing to do with killing her. Totally ridiculous.”
“Totally,” said McCabe. “Especially considering that he bragged online about knowing her.”
As far as McCabe was concerned, the fact that Ziegler had met Wolski eliminated any possibility that he wasn’t the killer, the guy the press had dubbed the Star-Struck Strangler. But unless they could get him to confess to the crimes, just dragging Wolski’s body might not be enough to convict. It was compelling evidence, certainly strong enough to convict most guys. But McCabe knew there were no sure things in any murder trial. Just look at the bullshit the jury bought in the O.J. case. If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit, Johnny Cochran told them. And acquit they did. With this guy McCabe wanted certainty, and certainty would come only with a confession. Which meant they had to get him to talk. And in the process tell them where in hell he was keeping Zoe. God willing, she was still alive.
“You still with us, McCabe?” asked Astarita.
“Sorry, Art. Lost in thought for a minute. What were you saying?”
“Just that it would seem working as a lawyer for a talent agency must bring in pretty good money.”
“How do you figure?” asked Maggie.
“Ziegler’s condo is over in the far West Village. Under the High Line. A very cool and very expensive neighborhood.”
“Not like it was when I lived in the city,” said McCabe. “Back then it was just south of the old meat-packing district. It was where all the hookers hung out. Both gay and straight.”
“Times have changed, McCabe. One-bedrooms around there now sell for a million plus.”
“Crazy. Also interesting. According to Petras, Ziegler didn’t make enough to afford anything like that. Not even close. Only a hundred thou a year. Plus a small bonus.”
“Maybe he inherited money,” said Diane Capriati.
“Maybe,” said Maggie. “Or maybe he took a lower-paying job, one that he considered beneath him, after deciding he wanted to meet some famous and beautiful actresses and dancers he could rape and kill.”
“Maybe so,” said McCabe. “But Sarah Jacobs wasn’t a Caswell client. Neither is Zoe.”
Astarita let that sink in. “Has anyone tracked down who Zoe’s agent was?”
“Yes. Ramon and I have,” said Capriati. “Woman named Gloria Byrd. She’s the head of a small three-person firm called the Byrd Agency. We talked to her by phone. She’s certainly well aware of Caswell. Says it’s one of the biggest, if not the biggest agency in the city. But as far as she knows Zoe has never had any contact with them. She insists Zoe would have told her if she was considering a change. Said, as far as she knows, Zoe was happy with Byrd as her agent and with what Byrd was doing to promote her career.”
McCabe stared at the screen. Studied the smirk on Ziegler’s face. “So if Zoe never visited Caswell, and if Ziegler’s not the dude who was fixated on watching Zoe play Desdemona twelve times in a row, why did he target her? How would he even know who she is? Petras called Ziegler a starfucker but Zoe wasn’t any kind of a star. At least not yet. So why her? Why pick her out?”
A thought occurred to McCabe and he took out his cell and hit Alan Petras’s number again. It rang three times before a grumpy voice answered. “Jesus Christ, McCabe. This time you have woken me up and I don’t sleep so well. Whatever it is, it better be good.”
“Sorry, Alan. Just one question. Any chance Randall Carter was a Caswell client?”
“I only wish. Carter’s handled by a firm in L.A. I’d poach him in a minute if I could.”
“Thanks Alan. Sorry to have bothered you. Sleep well.”
“Fuck you.” Petras broke the connection.
Ramon Morales was talking when McCabe turned back to the team. “Zoe McCabe’s a damned good-looking woman,” he said. “Maybe Ziegler just came across her at someplace like the Laughing Toad and followed her home. Or maybe he saw her in Othello and just wasn’t as obvious about his interest as the guy in A12.”
Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then Maggie said, “Okay. He must have crossed paths with Zoe somewhere. And he must be keeping her somewhere. God willing, she’s still alive. Would you guys mind if I took a crack at him? I’d like to try playing on his ego. See if he’s got an irresistible urge to brag about what he’s done and damn the consequences. Help him realize if he continues saying nothing, he loses his chance at stardom.”
“Might work,” said Diane Capriati with a shrug. “He’s been sitting there for a while with nobody talking to him. I’d guess he’s craving attention now.”
“Worth a try,” said Astarita.
Maggie gave Ziegler ten more minutes of stewing time while she thought about what approach she might take. Finally, she got up and headed toward the small interview room.