AT THE APARTMENT, Tony says, “You live like a frat-boy, Fortune. On your salary, you should be ashamed.”
Tony is right. The apartment is small, the furniture hardly new. But it’s neat, comfortable, far from the crime-blighted poverty-stricken neighborhoods of Brooklyn’s east side, and offers me a sense of permanency I never had growing up.
Tony splays himself on a cushioned armchair, legs and arms outstretched, looking like a Maharajah. Gabby and I sit side-by-side on the sofa. Melissa has arranged cushions and sits cross-leg on the floor in the lotus position.
They arrive with two large from Mike Daddy’s Pizza on 7th Ave: one veg, one heart-attack-lover’s-delight with double cheese, pepperoni, bacon, and hot Italian sausage stacked an inch-high on a wafer-thin New York style crust. Only the best for my team, I have twenty-four from the Coney Island Brewing Company cooling in the fridge.
We’re into our second beer, talking shop as we eat. No one applauds the arrival of Tommy Upton to oversee the investigation. We’re too indoctrinated to openly badmouth the Chief of Ds to each other. Gabby worries over our Loo’s ragged appearance. Tony says, “Jimmy will outlive us all.”
Melissa’s parents wanted her to be a schoolteacher, she confesses, and were appalled at her choice of the NYPD. “They’re proud that I made Detective but worry. ‘It’s not like I’m riding in a patrol car, is it?’ I say. But they don’t listen. I tell them, ‘Besides, the pay is better.’”
She might resemble a Hobbit, but I sense a level of ambition in Melissa Johns that may one day have me reporting to her.
The pizza is gone, and we’re into our third beer each when Tony says, “Kelly Plett was a waste of oxygen. Earned a living fucking for money.”
Mel frowns, disapproving.
“Don’t make faces, Mel,” Gabby says. “For once I agree with Tony. I’m as go-girl as the next woman, but Kelly was a piece of work. She once gave her two-year-old daughter a bath in scalding-hot water.The poor kid suffered third-degree burns to her legs, buttocks, and privates. The youngest son was admitted to emergency suffering multiple contusions and fractures, for which Kelly was blamed. By the time the children were finally removed from her custody, the oldest boy was suffering from malnutrition; six years old and he weighed only thirty-three pounds. She was the worst kind of addict—heroin and crack cocaine. The husband is not well-off but seems a decent enough sort. He’s remarried and living in Staten Island. When he learned Kelly was dead, all he could say was, Thank you, Lord.”
“He alibis-out,” says Tony. “It’s not the ex.”
“Where does that leave you?”
“Kelly is a whore and a tweaker.” I can’t argue the facts with him. “Very few friends aside from her compadres working the nearest street-corner. Next-of-kin notified, douche-bags one-and-all. Didn’t stay in touch with Kelly, don’t much care that she’s passed-on or what became of her kids.”
“No online footprint that we know of,” says Gabby. “And, according to CSU, the mobile phone doesn’t tell us much either. Everything we’ve learned so far says random act of violence; the killing is not personal.”
“Okay,” I say. “We have two victims with booze, drugs, and sex with strangers in common. It makes them easy pickings to a hook-up with a bad attitude, or a sociopath with an ax to grind.” No one disagrees. “So, the choice of Kelly is random, the killer unknown to our victim.”
No one objects.
Standing, I remove my bottle of precious Jameson Irish whiskey from a side-table. I retrieve four tumblers from the kitchen. From the freezer, I add a single cube of ice to each. Returning to the living room, I pour a generous measure for everyone.
Returning to the sofa, I raise my tumbler. “Cheers.” We touch glasses. “But the killing of Kelly is not random.”
“You just said it was,” argues Tony.
Gabby says, “Livingstone lived in Manhattan, Plett miles away in the Bronx. They didn’t share the same friends, such as they are. Livingstone came from a family of prosperity, Plett from a family gaming social assistance. Plett did time at Albion Correctional, Livingstone a short stint at Taconic Correctional. They weren’t friends on Facebook, didn’t follow each other on Instagram. How are they connected? Not a challenge, Dex, just saying.”
As if to clear my mind, I drag a hand over my eyes. “In the case of Miranda, we have just one suspect with an incentive to kill: the ex. Maybe the ex in collusion with the mother, the father, or both.”
“It doesn’t explain why Kelly Plett needs to die,” says Tony. “Where’s the motive?”
“You saying Marcus does Plett to deflect from the real target, who is Miranda?” says Gabby.
“No,” Tony says. “Because it doesn’t explain a connection to Manischewitz and Mancinelli; the tats, or the MO.”
“You’re looking at the forest for the trees, again, boss,” says Mel.
At this, I explode, shooting from the sofa like a Jack-in-the-box. “Goddammit! Give me time to think, will you? It would help if the three of you do some thinking with me.”
Shocked into silence, no one says a word. I drain my tumbler. The whiskey burns going down.
“Steady-on, Hoss,” Tony says after a minute.
“Sorry,” says Mel.
Plopping myself back down, I shiver like a dog shaking off water. “No, Mel, no need. It’s on me, I’m out of line. I owe you an apology. I owe you all an apology.”
Gabby says, “Coffee?”
In the kitchen, Gabby and Melissa brew a pot. They chat in low tones. It’s not paranoid to imagine they talk about me. Tony fiddles with his iPhone. After five minutes, they return with steaming mugs on a tray and milk and sugar on the side. Tony adds a finger of Jameson to his own mug, passes the bottle around.
Coffee fortified, I say, “Listen, I’m frustrated, I’m pissed-off, I’m sleep-deprived. Five women dead, and we’re left trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. It’s no matter Kelly Plett is a waste of oxygen who abused her children. Or Miranda Livingstone did time at Taconic. So far as we know, Annie Taylor was a decent, hard-working young woman who hurt no one. It’s not our job to judge. Our job is to take down the motherfucker responsible. With one hand tied behind our back, McGowan hasn’t made it easy. Rant over.”
Gabby says, “Okay, Dex. I’ll bite. Let’s say, for argument sake, Marcus Livingstone is the perp in both cases. Miranda is about to royally screw-up his perfect little life. But, as he says to us, he can tie her up in court for eternity, she’ll never see the children again let alone gain custody. Why kill her if he can do all this? Why go to the trouble, why take the risk? And why double-down by killing Plett?”
“Miranda has kryptonite for leverage,” Tony says, snapping his fingers. “Because if not, he buys her off, or ties her up in court for years, like he says.”
“If she has it,” I say, “what does it look like?”
“He’s gay,” Mel says. “Or he has a gay lover.”
“No way,” says Gabby. “Nowhere near enough to cost him custody of his children to a mother like Miranda. These days, no one cares one way or the other.”
“He’s doing drugs, dealing drugs?” says Mel taking a second swing.
“Could be,” I say. “But Livingstone is a therapist, not a psychiatrist or a physician. He doesn’t have the authority to prescribe medication. Still, it’s worth looking into.”
“So how does Miranda burn his house down?” Tony says.
Realization dawning like daybreak, I say, “One way. Miranda knows Livingstone has killed before and she has the evidence to prove it.”
“Why would she keep this to herself?” Mel says. “After all these years. She has children, for God’s sake, living under his roof.”
“Exactly,” I say. “She’s frightened for the kids. Livingstone is an unpredictable sociopath. He threatens the children to shut her up.”
“Are you suggesting Miranda had evidence to show Livingstone killed both Manischewitz and Mancinelli?” Gabby says.
“Why not? Maybe Marcus keeps trophies stashed beneath the mattress? Could be the leverage Miranda has to regain custody of the kids and why, after all these years, she’s back in the picture.”
Gabby is unconvinced. “Don’t get horny for Livingstone, Dex. Think it through. How can Miranda possibly know this about her ex-husband who she hasn’t seen in years? Obviously, he didn’t confess it to her.”
“One way or the other it all comes back to Manischewitz and Mancinelli, Gabby. It’s there; we just need to find it.”
For the next hour, we test my theory against the available evidence; it is not without bullet-size holes. No evidence to convince a jury to convict, let alone a District Attorney to indict. But for now, it’s as solid a working hypothesis as we have.
Without realizing the time, we’ve all become a little drunk. “It’s well past late. You all should find a way home. We can put it to Jimmy and Upton in the morning.”
“I’ll stay,” Gabby says. “We have two vehicles to return.”
Tony grins like a stray dog.
Standing, he says to Mel, “C’mon, Munchkin, vamoose. Let’s give the lovebirds some quality time alone.”
They share an Uber home to Queens, where Mel lives with her parents and Tony with his wife of twenty-five years.
After Tony and Melissa are gone, Gabby says, “You sure you don’t mind the company?”
Memories of our night in the cabin roil my mind. Despite my better judgment, I say, “Sure, stay.”
“I’ll take the sofa.”
“No, you won’t. I’ll throw fresh sheets on the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”
Gabby kicks off her shoes. “You want to talk about it?”
I know what she means. “Not really. I apologized, so let it go.”
“You’re still on the meds.” Not a question.
“You gnawing on that bone again, Gabby?”
Gabby stiffens. “I’m your partner. If not for yourself, think about me.”
Stepping forward, I take her by the shoulders. “You know I’ve got your back.”
Gabby shrugs me off. “I need to use the toilet.”
I pop two Zantac and two painkillers while Gabby is in the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, I’m on the sofa listening to her deep-breathing in the bedroom. I drift off thinking about Marcus Livingstone. Not once through the night do I make a move to join Gabby on the bed in the next room.