AFTER STOPPING at my apartment for a quick shave, shower, and a change of clothes, Gabby and I make our way in a commandeered patrol car to Midtown North Precinct. Gabby is at the wheel.
Eyes on the road, she says, “There’s more to the conversation with the pathologist that you’re not telling me.”
Dopey from lack of sleep, I say, “There is?”
“You and I both know in a homicide investigation, everything is unpleasant. So, what, precisely, to the doctor would be so unpleasant a prospect?”
I grin. “That? I think the doc asked me out on a date.”
“Invited you on a date?”
“Well, not exactly. Said I had her card, knew where to find her.”
“Did she see you on the news?” Just to be cruel, she adds, “You didn’t look your best, Dex.”
“We met for the first time at the Livingstone PM. Doctor Cassandra Agarwal,” I say with emphasis, just to be cruel, back.
“Is she cute?”
“As a button.”
Gabby feigns a gag, and says, “Be careful, partner. It’s a honey-trap, a setup for a sexual harassment suit.”
“And here I thought you were jealous.”
Foot mashed down on the accelerator, Gabby increases her speed to clear a red light.
✽ ✽ ✽
First thing we do when returning downtown is send out for coffee. To balance the blood sugar, we take nourishment from a box of Krispy Kreme donuts open on a table, scarfing down two each. The squad-room is buzzing like a Vietnamese sweatshop. Melissa greets us as excited as if she’s just won the New York State Lottery. Tony looks like an undertaker. An hour later, O’Neill arrives to motivate the troops: Long hours! No stone left unturned! No fuck-ups! We owe it to the victims! To their families! To the good people of New York!
Shit like that.
He announces Inspector Thomas Upton as the new Senior Officer-in-Charge of The Chatterbox Investigation.
“No reflection on the work done by you folks, here”—meaning, more specifically, Gabby and I—“but this is now a Major Case Investigation.”
Gabby and I are now just members—albeit, me the most prominent owing to my special connection to The Chatterbox himself—of a vast and sophisticated operation that will eat up police resources at a rate of a-hundred-dollars-a-minute. The case of The Chatterbox Killer is no longer about individual victims but a matter of public safety and security. The Governor and the State Police will be tracking our progress closely. If we stumble and fall, they will swoop in and seize control.
The Chief of Police, Police Commissioner, and the Mayor have been looped-in, making the investigation political. The national media is already on to it, giving the State and local tourist board fits. The FBI is on standby to offer both manpower and resources, an invitation that can be extended only directly by a local force and, when made, is always done so reluctantly.
But this is all beyond my pay-grade. After reviewing the Mancinelli and Manischewitz files a third time, I make a call to Detective Borough Queens.
After waiting five minutes on hold, I’m pissed that I’m told to call back.
Refusing to accept it as an excuse, I demand to speak to the Precinct CO. Another two minutes, I’m transferred through to a whiskey-hoarse voice who answers: “Fortune?”
“Lattimer? Danilenko?”
“Neither. Lieutenant Angelo Esposito. I’ve been watching the news. You guys are in the shit over there.”
(The header in the morning edition of the New York Post reads: WHAT ARE COPS NOT TELLING YOU?, the sub-header, How Many Will Die Before Cops Admit They Have No Clue(s)? We are eviscerated on the morning news by Florida Germaine.)
“Sir, I need to speak with either Terry Lattimer or Robert Danilenko on an open-case investigation they worked into the death of Maria Mancinelli and Dorothy Manischewitz. Neither is returning my calls.”
“Yup, yup, I know all that.”
“If they’re not in, I’d be much obliged if you can track them down for me.”
A brief pause. “Mount St. Mary Cemetery, Booth Memorial Avenue, Flushing New York.”
“Pardon me, sir?”
“Terry Lattimer. It’s where you’ll find him. Took himself off the grid with a bullet to the brainpan two years ago. Used his own service revolver.”
“Jesus. Why’d he do that?”
“Who knows? He was on paid leave and in therapy at the time. I guess the shrink did a crummy job.”
I pause to regroup. Meanwhile, across from me, Gabby stares as if I’ve grown horns. To Esposito, I say, “Much as I’d like to commiserate, sir, I’m up against it over here. Can I speak to his partner, Bobby Danilenko?”
“The Uke retired shortly after Lattimer killed himself.”
“Retired? Coincidence?”
“Look, Detective, I’ve been here less than a year. Far as I been told, the investigation was above-board and by-the-book. Nothing hinky, no hint of wrong-doing, no incompetence or hanky-panky. And my bride tells me I still look twenty-five just so she can believe she still looks twenty-two.
“Lattimer? I don’t think his suicide was related but, in this world, who can say? After what happened to his partner, maybe The Uke figures it’s a good time to cash in his chips. But, again, in this world, who can say?”
“Is anyone actively working the investigation now?”
“No, it remains open. I’ve yet to assign a team with no plan to do so anytime soon. Listen, Detective, between you and me? This Precinct was a septic tank when I transferred in. I’m still trying to shovel out from under a steaming pile of shit. The Manischewitz and Mancinelli file was not the only investigation here to go sideways. As far as I know, you have as good a handle on the case as anyone. If you want it, have at it. I’ll clear it with Jimmy or whoever the hell is in charge over there now.”
“Sure, but I need details, sir, details I can get only by speaking with an original investigating officer. Trust me on this. Where can I find The Uke?”
“Well, he won’t thank me for it, but I did anticipate your request.” Esposito gives me a mobile phone number and an address.