Dozens more calls about the dead woman had come in overnight and it took me until eleven to track them down, but none of them led anywhere. After I finished up with that I went through the list of bookstore employees that I was given, but none of them saw anything, at least that’s what they were telling me. Bambi called once to tell me I was an asshole and that she was at that moment enjoying a five-hundred-dollar breakfast and I could go fuck myself for not being there with her. Before I could say a word she hung up on me. I thought about heading back to the hotel but I wasn’t up to the icy welcome that she would’ve had waiting for me, and at the time I still had more leads to look into. Later that morning the ME’s office called to tell me they were able to identify the make and model of the knife that was used. It probably would be of little help in tracking down the killer since according to the woman I was talking to it was a popular brand with probably thousands sold over the Internet, and more sold at stores and pawnshops, but when we found our guy and he still had the knife on him it would help with a conviction. I called Phillips to give him the information. He didn’t seem too optimistic about it.
I took my lunch break at noon and visited Rich Grissini at St. Vincent’s, bringing him an Italian sausage hero slathered in onions and peppers from his favorite takeout place, guessing that at this point he’d be sick of hospital food and badly in need of some unhealthy grease in his system. He looked in pretty rough shape lying in bed in his hospital gown, both eyes blackened as if he’d been in a brawl, his skin tinged a sickly yellow and sagging loosely around his jowls. He peered at me through thin slits, the whites of his eyes bloody. He tried to grin but it was a feeble attempt.
“Hey, look who the cat dragged in,” he said in a thin voice, his lips moving about as much as a bad ventriloquist’s. “You ain’t lookin’ so hot. Whatsa matter, you didn’t sleep so good last night?”
“How could I, worried about you?”
That got a weak chuckle out of him. I pulled a white plastic hospital chair up next to his bed and unwrapped his sandwich. He licked his lips and asked whether it was from Toscone’s.
“What do you think?”
“Fuck, I can’t eat it, Stan,” he croaked, disappointment settling over his features. “I can’t eat nothin’. They got me under the knife at seven. My right hip’s fractured in three places and they’re going to try to repair it. I’m just hoping I don’t need an artificial one, not at my age. You eat the sandwich. It would break my heart for a Toscone sausage hero to go to waste.”
My stomach was making noise again. It had been almost five hours since that bagel and cream cheese, and that had been all I’d eaten that day. I took a halfhearted bite out of the hero and chewed it slowly. Rich was six feet and two hundred and ten pounds, but I couldn’t believe how shrunken he looked lying there. I couldn’t believe how much older he looked either. Christ, he was only five years older than me, but right then you’d never have been able to guess that.
“It hurts pretty bad, huh?” I asked.
He shook his head from side to side an inch or so. “They got me so pumped up with morphine that it ain’t so bad. My head hurts more than anything. Fucking concussion. Anyone call in the sumabitch who hit me?”
“Not since I checked. You don’t remember make and model, huh?”
“I never even saw the sumabitch coming. Damn bastard nailed me out of nowhere.” He shifted his eyes away from me for a moment. “Last I remember I was chasin’ some purse snatcher across Seventh when bam, lights out. Then I woke up here.”
We both knew he was lying. Even if I didn’t know him well enough to know what that hard smirk twisting up his lips meant, I’d been partnered with him long enough to know that his favorite pastry shop was on the same block on Seventh where he had been hit. At that time of day he would’ve been heading over there for a cannoli and an espresso.
“Sorry I couldn’t cover for you,” he said, his smirk fading and his mouth dropping loosely open. His eyes shifted back to me. “Phillips chase you down yesterday?”
I nodded and went over the Chambers Street shooting, giving him everything I had.
“Sounds like the first of many until you catch the ass-hole,” Rich said. “Fuck, though, at least you got a witness. What do you think happened? Perp shoot at him and miss?”
“Hell if I know. We only found three shell casings at the scene, which is how many bullets the victim took. I guess it’s possible he picked up one of the casings to try to keep us from knowing there was another shot fired, but everyone I talked to only heard three shots.”
His eyes glazed as he thought about that. “Whole thing sounds so savage,” he said. “Cutting off her fingers … ripping earrings off her ears … blowing her face off … I don’t know …” His voice trailed off. Then his eyes focused back on me, a glum smile showing. “Stan, you should put in for another partner. Even if my surgery goes well, I’m going to be bedridden for months, and I don’t think I’m going to be coming back. Right now I’m thinking about putting in for disability and calling it a career.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll talk about this again after you’re on your feet again, okay?”
He shrugged and seemed to sink deeper into his bed. “I’m kind of tired, Stan. But before you go at least finish that sandwich. Let me get some pleasure from it.”
I was hungry so I ate the rest of the sausage hero. I told him I’d check up on him later, and I was three steps out of St. Vincent’s when Phillips called. He had an ID for the dead woman. Her name was Gail Laurent. She was fifty-two, had a home address in Princeton, New Jersey, and was widowed. Her husband had worked as a financial analyst in one of the Twin Towers and died on 9-11 with three thousand other New Yorkers. A daughter of Laurent’s, also from Jersey, became concerned when she couldn’t get a hold of her mother this morning and contacted the Princeton police, who were on the ball enough to check Laurent’s driver’s license against the drawing we had put out. Phillips told me the daughter was on her way to the precinct, and it would be best if I got my ass back there pronto, although he didn’t say it quite that politely.
Rachel Laurent physically resembled her mother. Petite, with a slender athletic build, and blond hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. Her facial features were similar enough to the drawing to leave no doubt that she was related to the victim. Under normal circumstances she would’ve been very attractive, but as I talked to her she was a wreck, her eyes puffy and her skin blotchy and raw.
She thought her mother had gone to Manhattan for a day of shopping. She claimed her mother had no enemies and that there was no reason anyone would want to hurt her, and also that her mother had not dated since her father died. She was adamant that her mother was not romantically involved with anyone—that she was close with her mother and would’ve known if she was. That morning they were supposed to meet for breakfast, and she knew something was wrong when her mother didn’t show and she couldn’t reach her by cell phone.
I had her give me her mother’s cell phone number and tried to get a description of the jewelry her mother might’ve been wearing. Earlier I had put in a call for a social worker. When she showed up, I had her accompany us while I brought Rachel to the morgue to identify her mother’s body. She didn’t take it well when she saw the body. I watched helplessly as she broke down, wishing there was something I could do other than promise I’d find the person who had done this, but that was all I could do. I don’t think she heard me. She was sobbing too hard.
At four o’clock I was back in Tribeca looking for my witness. I started on Chambers Street and worked my way toward City Hall, showing photos from the videotape to every market, drugstore, coffee shop, and restaurant that I came across. It was at a small grocery store on Murray Street when I found someone who recognized the guy in the photo. The cashier—a girl in her early twenties with piercings all over her face, tattoos wrapping around her neck, and long black hair that reached halfway down her back—told me with a sly smile that the man in the photo was Lisa’s boyfriend. She pointed out a small woman in her mid-twenties working behind the sandwich counter.
“What do you mean her boyfriend?” I asked.
“Well, not really,” she said, her smile stretching a bit over her private joke. “He comes in like every week and just like stands and gawks at Lisa. And she’s the only one he lets wait on him. I tried talking to him once and he like couldn’t look at me. Why, what did Mr. Freakazoid do?”
“Mr. Freakazoid? Is that his name?”
She rolled her eyes at me as if I was dense. “That’s just my nickname for him. So like come on, what did he do?”
“Nothing. I need to talk to him is all.”
I left the cashier to talk to Lisa. At first glance she wasn’t much to look at: a short, square body and an equally square-shaped face, as well as reddish-brown hair that was thinning badly and a dead-fish paleness to her complexion. But she had soft eyes, and as soon as she noticed me approaching she showed one of the nicest smiles I had ever seen. Seeing that smile instantly lifted my mood and even made me feel a little weak in the knees. I could see the attraction then. I identified myself, handed her one of the photos, and asked if she knew the man in it.
“That’s Zachary,” she said in a soft voice that matched her smile. Her forehead wrinkled as a perplexed look formed over her face. “He usually comes here every Wednesday night, but he didn’t come in yesterday. Is everything okay?”
“I hope so. I need to talk to him. We believe he witnessed a crime. Do you know his last name?”
Her perplexed look intensified.
“It’s funny,” she said. “Zachary’s been coming here every Wednesday night for over three years. I know he told me his last name once, but I only think of him as Zachary …”
“Maybe he used a credit card?”
She shook her head. All at once the skin smoothed out across her forehead and her smile flashed back on. “Lynch, that’s his last name. I’m sure of it. Lynch.”
“Any idea where he lives?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.” Her smile faded and a sadness showed in her eyes. “I don’t know much about him except that when he comes here he would like to talk more with me than he does, but I also know I’d make him too uncomfortable if I pressed him. I was worried when he didn’t show up last night and I almost called the police, but I was hoping he would show up tonight. Thursdays are usually my night off. Would you please call me when you find Zachary? I would like to know that he’s okay. I would ask you to have him call me but I know the idea of that would terrify him.”
“Sure.”
She wrote down a number on a slip of paper and handed it to me. The smile she gave me damn near broke my heart. She asked if I could be gentle in my dealings with Zachary, that he had a delicate soul. I found myself unable to refuse her and promised that I would within reason. Yeah, I could see the attraction, and it was pretty clear it went both ways.
I called my precinct and waited while they looked up Zachary Lynch’s address. There was only one listed in Manhattan and it was a Tribeca address a few blocks from Chambers Street. Lynch must’ve been on his way to see Lisa when he stumbled upon Gail Laurent’s murder.
It was already past six and my stomach was rumbling again. I picked up a couple of slices of cheese pizza and ate them as I walked what I hoped would be the same path Zachary Lynch would take if he was out again walking to the grocery store. I didn’t want to miss him if he was.