ACROSS THE ROOM, Tony Giardano sits at his desk scanning files. I don’t see Gabby, and I don’t see Mel.
As a last act of defiance, I check messages at my desk.
8:42 a.m. from Gabby: “Where are you, partner? Sleeping-in? I have two witnesses who claim to have seen a man matching Livingstone’s description speak with Kelly Plett on the street the night she died. He may have been an acquaintance, he may have been a john, he might also have been her AA sponsor. According to the girls, Kelly was attending meetings regularly at AA, just like Miranda, but for her it was to pick up men, not to get sober. AA: maybe it’s the link. I’ve spoken with Mel. Manhattan is a long way from Queens, but the coincidence can’t be ignored. I’m meeting her downtown for coffee at eleven to compare notes. Should be back to the shop by noon.
8:33 a.m. from Mel: “Morning, boss; tried to reach you earlier but you weren’t picking up. So far, three members from Miranda’s AA group are willing to identify a man matching Marcus Livingstone’s description as a man they saw speaking with Miranda outside meetings in the weeks leading up to her death. I’ve just spoken with Gabby. Looks like this is It. We’re meeting to compare notes. See you soon.”
10:04 a.m. from pathologist Cassandra Agarwal at the Medical Examiner’s office: “Cassandra Agarwal, Detective Fortune, Medical Examiners office. Please ring me back when you get this. The results of the toxicology and tissue samples analysis for Livingstone and Plett are in. Interesting, if not odd. Please ring me back when you get this, thanks.”
11:16 a.m. from Detective Monty Alderson, Manhattan South: “Fortune, Alderson here, Manhattan South. Call me, stat. Got something you’ll want to see.”
I debate which call to return first. Against Livingstone’s death, it all seems irrelevant and a colossal waste of time. Since I’m sitting on my hands anyway and the alternative is a game of Angry Birds on my laptop at home, I phone Agarwal first.
She asks after the progress of the investigation. It’s complicated, I say, which is an understatement.
“Preliminary tox and tissue results are in.”
“Why don’t you email me the report.”
“Don’t you want the highlights?”
If only to be polite, I say, “Of course.”
Sensing reluctance, she says, “Have you made an arrest?”
Despite myself, I chuckle. “Not exactly. Like I say, it’s complicated.”
Agarwal starts by telling me no tissue was retrieved from beneath either Miranda or Kelly’s fingernails, supporting her initial hypothesis neither struggled with their attacker. Also, there was no sign of sexual interference or assault.
I’m only half listening. “Small mercies, right?”
“It’s odd.”
“Odd? Odd, how so?”
“Kelly Plett had a blood alcohol level of point one-six-two, and a significant trace of cocaine in her system. She would have been near comatose when she died. It wasn’t a one-off, either. She suffered from advanced liver disease. Tissue samples suggest she was a long-time drug abuser.”
“We know this about Kelly, Doctor. How is it relevant, or odd?”
“What’s odd is Miranda Livingstone. Miranda returned negative for both alcohol and other drugs, except for one.”
Here, I interrupt. “Sorry, Doctor. When we arrived on-scene, it smelled like a distillery. Victim had visible track lines, a packet of heroin stashed in the fridge-freezer. You telling me she was clean?”
“She was clean.”
The crime scene was staged. Which explains why we found no photos of the children. Had Miranda truly wanted to reconcile, likely she would have had photos of the kids. We assumed her death was opportunistic, random, like the others. We were wrong.
“Except for one,” I repeat back to Agarwal. “What drug did Miranda ingest that Kelly did not?”
“Rohypnol.”
“Drug of choice?”
“Rohypnol is a date-rape drug, Detective. It knocks you out. Assault victims rarely ingest it by choice.”
“To make her compliant,” I say. Not a question.
“Yes. And you should know, Livingstone was clean not only on the night she died, but for at least the final forty-eight hours of her life. We bagged two drinking glasses at the crime scene. None tested positive for alcohol or Rohypnol.”
“So,” I say, thinking aloud. “Miranda was not stupid-drunk when she returned to the apartment. She’d already been drugged into submission.”
“Or getting there.”
Which confirms Miranda was not a random act of violence, after all; she was an intended target. A killing planned in advance, abetted by a monster—or two..
And who would want Miranda dead? Marcus Livingstone. Now also, dead, hoist on his own petard.
Thanking the doctor, I disconnect. I digest the implications, not least of which what else have we missed.
Tony wanders over to my desk.
Raising a hand in warning, I say, “Now is not a good time, Tony.”
“But—”
“You’ll know soon enough.”
“But—”
“Not now.”
Tony gives me the finger and returns to scanning files.