MIRANDA’S TALE of woe is neither unusual nor unique. A wild-child and only-child born late in life to Jonathan and Stella Walker, out of control since puberty. Well-to-do, doted on by her father, clashed with her overbearing mother. At twenty-two marries Marcus Livingstone, seven years her senior, handsome and bright, educated and ambitious, just starting out but on his way to building a successful practice as a psychotherapist. Children follow soon after—boy Joshua and girl Madeleine—born three years after that. As time passes, Miranda becomes increasingly partial to red wine-soaked-luncheons with friends. The children spend much of their time either in child-care or neglected at home. Miranda is known to party-hard on a Saturday night, drive while intoxicated and, during a police stop, is found to have a small quantity of cocaine. For Marcus, this conduct breaches the marital bond irreparably.
Miranda is declared an unfit mother by the court and ordered into rehab. Divorce, estrangement, and abandonment by a family who can’t fix her follows. Miranda is reduced to supervised visits with the children twice monthly and only on weekends when Marcus can be present.
Miranda flees to Manhattan to pickle her brain in alcohol and drugs because it’s easier, if not easy. Eventually, she is discovered by Gabby and I sitting upright, bound by duct tape to a slat-back wood chair in a sad apartment smelling strongly of urine and alcohol with a set of nylon pantyhose wrapped around her neck.
“We lost Miranda years ago,” says Mrs. Walker. Indeed, there are no photos of the victim on the mantelpiece. “I’ve shed my tears already so forgive me if I don’t openly grieve. Under the circumstances, it’s difficult to feel anything. I don’t know how this helps your investigation into her death. We haven’t spoken to Miranda or seen her in—what would you say, Johnny? Five years, six years, more?” Mr. Walker nods. “And when we did, it was only for her to ask us for money to buy drugs.”
Mrs. Walker wags her head as if it’s a national disgrace.
I say, “We’ll need to speak with her ex-husband. A name and address will do. Anyone here with who she remained in contact?”
Mrs. Walker replies. With a derisive snort, she says, “Miranda was abandoned by her so-called friends a long time ago, including the girls who behaved as badly as she. Most behave badly, still. Too much money, too many bad marriages, not enough good sense. I have no idea who she kept in touch with here, or who she considered a friend when she got to New York. One or two girls might have asked after her, but that was ages ago. I don’t recall.”
“One or both of you will need to appear downtown in the morning for formal identification. I’m sorry, but it’s something that needs to be done.”
After more than an hour of indifference sitting by his wife on the sofa, Jonathan Walker brightens. He says, “Are you saying it might not be Miranda after all?”
“No, sir,” Gabby interjects. “It’s a formality. We’ve identified your daughter as the victim. There’s no reason for you to hold out false hope.” Just as quickly, Walker fades. “We can arrange for a car if you like.”
As if fearing the prospect of a trip into Manhattan in the piss-stained rear seat of a patrol car reeking of vomit, Mrs. Walker says, “No, we’ll make our own way.”
We supply them with the details and are gone.
On the drive back, Gabby says, “Thoughts?”
The dark flies past like a closed door either side of the roadway. The headlights reflect back the hatched center-line. I maintain my focus on the road. With difficulty.
“Eliminate family, friends, and acquaintances, to start. You know as well as I do how these things go. No matter how it looks, murder is mostly personal. It could be random. Serial killer? Unlikely. Serial killers are rare, Gabby. It’s a luxury we shouldn’t hope for.”
A serial killer investigation is the Holy Grail of policing: book deals, movies, and a Netflix Original.
“You don’t buy The Chatterbox narrative?”
“Every word.”
“So why take time to investigate the family?” Slouched in the passenger seat one foot up on the dash, Gabby looks half asleep.
“We don’t cut corners.”
Knowingly, Gabby nods. After my shootout weeks ago in Central Park, though cleared from wrongdoing, I’m under the microscope from the press and the NYPD brass.
After a minute, Gabby says, “You want I should take the ex?”
“Sure, why not? Exclude him as quickly as possible and move on. I’ll learn where Miranda worked, follow up with friends, call a few of the prom-queens with who she sowed her wild oats. Let’s see if we can track her movements and her whereabouts over the weekend from Saturday morning through to Sunday night. A forty-eight-hour window, unless the postmortem says otherwise. Maybe we hit the jackpot with the video surveillance, a perp smiling into the lens.”
“Lattimer and Danilenko?”
I groan, fearing a jurisdictional pissing match. “Tomorrow, first thing.”
We turn quiet, mesmerized by the rhythmic slap of rubber on the road. Thirty seconds later, Gabby snores, fast asleep.