Sam had the day off from the case she wasn’t supposed to be working. Zielinski was coordinating with his tech people to get her set up in the Deep Freeze chat room. He promised they would come up with a plausible explanation for her apparent absence on the message boards before being invited onto the chat. Sam was happy to leave the creative backstories to the NYPD.
“How’d you like to do something with me today?” she asked Rosa over toast and jam, a welcome reprieve from the heavy breakfasts her aunt usually served. Predictably, the older woman had grumbled about not being allowed to properly feed people in her own house. Sam stood her ground.
“I’ll have to clear my schedule,” Rosa replied.
“Of course. I should have—”
“I’m teasing you, tesora. I have all the time in the world for you.” She gave Sam an appraising look. “No police work?”
“I’m all yours, Aunt Rosa.”
“Good. So, I wanna go by St. Joseph’s, look for myself, you know? You got some pull, right? In case we’re not supposed to go in. Then we can walk over to Ovelia for lunch. You eat Greek, right? Oh, and we need to stop first at the pet store on Broadway.”
Sam stifled a protest. She hadn’t considered a visit to a former crime scene as part of the day’s itinerary. Or a pet store, for that matter. Instead, she said, “It sounds fine, Rosa. I just have to call my boss in Maryland. That won’t take long.”
“We’re leaving at nine,” Rosa announced and mounted the stairs humming.
Sam refilled her coffee mug. She needed to call Tanner Reed to apologize for not reaching out yesterday. She could reassure him that while she was a little preoccupied, she had everything under control. With any luck, he wouldn’t be in, and she could leave a voice mail.
He answered on the first ring. “Lieutenant Tate, good morning.”
“Sheriff.” In the pause that followed, she cleared her throat. “I, um, thought I’d check in, see how things are going.”
“Since you left the department in Detective Gordy’s capable hands while you went on vacation”—he emphasized the word—“then you know we’re fine back home. It’s quiet, unlike what you’ve got going on in New York. Which is what, exactly?”
Sam gave him a thumbnail of the events of the past five days. She finished with assurances that she was no longer involved.
Tanner chuckled. “Sounds as if the NYPD has an issue with accepting outside help, even if they request it.”
“To be fair, sir, they seem more accommodating than certain other elements.”
“Ah, yes. The politicians, the press, and the public. That’s a lot of pressure to land on the department. And on you.” Tanner lowered his voice. “Sam, you don’t have to take the heat for the NYPD. I may be out of line, but I have the impression your visit to New York isn’t a casual one. Whatever it is you need to take care of should be your priority. You might also want to take some quality time for yourself away from police work. Okay?”
It occurred to Sam that Reed was a better investigator than she’d realized. Or maybe, like any veteran cop, he had solid instincts he trusted. He also cared about the people in his department.
“Thanks, Sheriff,” she said. “I’ll be smart.”
“I expect no less,” Tanner said and disconnected.
She stared at the phone, trying to decide if she felt better or worse. Her boss was nothing but supportive. Yet she had to wonder if she’d messed up again. Maybe it was time to move on. She’d worked to make a home for herself on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. She’d done the same during her three years in Pickett County, Tennessee, and her nine in Nashville before that. Yet she remained a visitor assigned to live among a group of people, ordered to assimilate as best as possible until she was moved by whatever impulse or event served as her overlord.
Dr. Putnam, her therapist, would call that a classic case of alienation, not that they’d spoken for two months. She wondered if her reticence to schedule a session was related to her strained relationship with Terry. He’d recommended Putnam. Or maybe Sam didn’t want to be reminded that she had a problem with connection, never mind commitment.
At least she’d driven herself to New York to visit the sister of her dead father, walk the old neighborhood, and seek out answers that might help bring some sort of resolution, or at least an end to the nightmares. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
She couldn’t answer that, so she ran upstairs to change into jeans and a sweater. She tied her hair back and put on her Ray-Bans. Not exactly incognito but less likely to attract attention.
On the way out of her room, she reached for a shelf in the closet to touch her gun box. As an active-duty officer, she was allowed to transport firearms across state lines. Nonetheless, she’d debated about bringing her service revolver. In the end, she felt better bringing it along than leaving it in her rental cottage.
Rosa came down the stairs dressed in plain black slacks, sensible shoes, and a red cardigan. She’d added a voluminous multicolored scarf that threatened to envelop her completely.
“Let’s go,” she said. “I want to be at the pet store right when it opens. Make sure you take your mask.”
The store in question was on Thirtieth Avenue. They walked down a street that had not quite returned to normal. Stores were open but many establishments requested or required masks. Pawsitively Purrfect, was one of those.
They pushed inside to a retail store with neatly arranged supplies appropriate to the care and feeding of dogs, cats, birds, and certain small rodents. What Sam didn’t see were any pets.
A balding middle-aged man with glasses set precariously on his head and a mask with feline and canine paw prints waved at Rosa as she entered.
“Hi, Vincent,” Rosa said. “This is my niece, Sam. To Sam she said, “Vincent owns the store and Melinda behind the counter is his daughter.”
“Sam, nice to meet you,” Vincent said with a grin. “Rosa, I’m sure you’re here to see your friend. Maybe you can get her to rouse herself today.”
“Come on, Vincent, she deserves to rest.”
Melinda left the counter and led the two women to a door in the far corner of the store which opened onto a supply room.
The “friend” turned out to be a hefty, golden-orange tabby with dark brown stripes and an M-shaped mark on her forehead. She was reclining in a large fleece-lined bed within a fenced-in section while five tiny and energetic kittens tumbled around her.
Rosa carefully stepped over the low wire fence and eased herself down to the floor. Melinda and Sam squatted on either side of her.
“The mama is Cinnamon,” Rosa explained. “Vincent found her after she’d gotten herself in trouble. He’s pretty attached to her, so odds are she’ll stay. The kittens will all need new homes in a couple of weeks, right?” She looked at Melinda, who scooped up a couple of the little ones and handed them out like gifts.
“Right,” the young woman responded. “We’re weaning them right now. At eight weeks, they’ll be ready for their forever homes.”
“Are you thinking of getting a kitten, Aunt Rosa?” Sam asked.
“Don’t be silly,” her aunt replied. She struggled to her feet, still holding a tiny animal, and missed the smile Sam directed at Melinda.
After surrendering the kittens, Sam and Rosa left the store and strolled down Broadway, their pace leisurely. It was another fine fall day, with temperatures promising to climb to seventy again. Rosa chatted away, and Sam was content to listen.
“Vincent’s store made it through the pandemic, mainly because everyone bought pets. Now everyone wants to get rid of their pets, and he’s thinking of getting into the rescue business. I told him it was a losing proposition. Stick with what you know. Like restaurants. You remember Sandford? Good basic food since the Depression. Your father loved that place. They’re still there. But Vaccaro’s Bakery on Steinway? Gone. Closed even before the virus showed up. Heard they’d relocated to Jersey.”
“Vaccaro’s, the Cake King of Queens,” Sam exclaimed. “I can’t believe I remembered that.”
“At least the churches have survived,” Rosa observed. “Guess people have to pray.”
They arrived at St. Joseph’s to discover, as Sam expected, nothing left to indicate a vicious crime had taken place just days earlier.
Rosa hid her disappointment with a shrug. “Might as well go in.”
“Hold on, Rosa. I wanted to ask you why my mother sometimes came here instead of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.”
“I think your mother needed to be alone with her sorrow,” Rosa said.
“I know she was unhappy. Was it her marriage? My father? Me and my brother?”
“Absolutely not. She adored you all.” Rosa searched her niece’s face. “You really don’t know.” She sighed, a deep exhale that contained decades of pain. Then she pointed to a bench across from the church. “Let’s sit down there. We can go inside St. Joe’s afterwards.”
She settled herself onto the seat and Sam joined her.
“I don’t know why they never told you,” Rosa continued. “Maybe your mother thought you were too young, and maybe your aunt thought you already knew.”
“Knew what?”
“You had another brother who died before you were born, cara. He would have been, let’s see, eight years older than you.”
Sam stared at her aunt, too stunned to comment.
“His name was Michael,” Rosa said. “Everyone called him Mickey. He had red hair, blue-green eyes, and freckles. One hundred percent looked like your mother and her side of the family. But his personality was all your dad. Strong-willed, charming, and prone to mischief. He arrived four years after Stefan and trust me, your parents were thrilled. They’d worried about providing their oldest with a sibling the whole time.”
“What happened to him?” Sam asked.
“He was run over by a delivery truck when he was five. Let himself out of the yard and popped into the street and boom! Died on the spot. It was an accident plain and simple, but your mother blamed herself. She mourned the boy for a long time. I mean, we all did. But for your mom, it was like the spirit drained out of her. Nothing could bring her all the way back. Until you were born.”
“But she kept coming here to grieve.”
Rosa patted Sam’s hand. “To pray, dear heart. To try to make sense of it all. It didn’t change how she felt about you.”
Sam didn’t reply.
“I’m gonna head in, light a candle for Johnny and your father. I’ll light one for Mickey as well. Do you want to come in?” She touched Sam’s shoulder. “Or maybe stay. I’ll be right back.”
Sam watched her aunt cross the street and enter the church. Rosa would say prayers for the dead while Sam would be left to consider how much she didn’t know about the two women who raised her.
She was alerted to a text from Ron.
It’s a go. We’ll set you up tomorrow.
[Transcript of deepfreeze-dfd chat 10/15/21, 12pm EDT]
@workingmom: Hey, everyone, thanks for making me this week’s moderator
@deepdiver: cheerleader, you mean
@workingmom: ha ha. Anyway, say hi to our newest DFD, @countyhunter
@renaissancewoman: welcome
@truthsleuth: welcome aboard
@puzzlemaven: clever name
@teacherpreacher: hey
@justicewarrior: Sorry, but where did you come from?
@seenitall: I don’t remember you from the message board
@notmydayjob: How did you cut to the front?
@deepdiver: Don’t DFDs have to log time on the message boards?
@workingmom: Take your hands off your keyboards, people. Let countyhunter answer
@countyhunter: I was on for two months under the name @scutwork. Someone else hacked the name.
@truthsleuth: Chaos ensued
@teacherpreacher: I think I remember @scutwork
@justicewarrior: So now you’re countyhunter
@notmydayjob: scutwork to countyhunter. A promotion?
@workingmom: It doesn’t matter. Glad to have you aboard
@countyhunter: Thanks. Lots of names to remember
@deepdiver: You’ll get to know us
@cloakndagger: for better and for worse
@notmydayjob: Everyone’s a comic
@workingmom: How’d you find us?
@countyhunter: Longtime podcast fan, first live chat
@workingmom: Don’t worry, we don’t judge
@notmydayjob: says you
@puzzlemaven: Chat is more personal
@teacherpreacher: more social
@renaissancewoman: more collaborative
@seenitall: DFDs are more focused on the work
@workingmom: We take our work seriously
@notmydayjob: absolutely
@countyhunter: got it
@deepdiver: Speaking of work, where are we on the Kyle Jordan case?
@puzzlemaven: Anyone know why they never questioned his kindergarten teacher?
@justicewarrior: They did, but only about Kyle’s whereabouts that day
@workingmom: Who thought of asking about the boy’s inhaler?
@deepdiver: That was @teacherpreacher. Nice work, by the way
@teacherpreacher: Thanks. The devil is in the details
@cloakndagger: always
@justicewarrior: Amen to that!
@seenitall: Let’s get back to the forensic evidence collected
@notmydayjob: again?
@seenitall: Excuse me if I respect the process
@renaissancewoman: as you should
@workingmom: We already looked at what Nassau County police collected off the victim
@teacherpreacher: which wasn’t very much
@notmydayjob: and didn’t match any markers in a national database
@seenitall: That’s because the wrong parameters were used
@puzzlemaven: Here we go
@countyhunter: What’s going on?
@deepdiver: You have to excuse @seenitall, who maybe could change their name to @knowitall
@seenitall: says the rank amateur
@puzzlemaven: Come on. We’re all amateurs on here
@teacherpreacher: Perhaps @seenitall has an expertise they can apply to the case
@notmydayjob: By all means, please share
@renaissancewoman: Let’s not tear each other down
@brains&beauty: Hello, we have more pressing issues to discuss
@workingmom: What do you mean?
@brains&beauty: Why are we talking about this cold case today?
@justicewarrior: That’s pretty much the point of what we do here
@brains&beauty: Normally, but we have a hot case to worry about
@truthsleuth: What are you talking about?
@notmydayjob: Bet she means the Dry Ice Killer
@justicewarrior: not our concern
@cloakndagger: I agree
@brains&beauty: What if the killer is targeting us?
@justicewarrior: Excuse me?
@seenitall: That’s an interesting premise
@renaissancewoman: You can’t be serious
@puzzlemaven: What are you talking about?
@notmydayjob: That’s all we need
@brains&beauty: Ask yourself: Why were Levy and Wright making the rounds of the talk shows after the latest murder?
@justicewarrior: They were looking for publicity?
@workingmom: They mentioned a visit from NYPD on the latest podcast
@justicewarrior: So what? They said they couldn’t offer much.
@brains&beauty: Not sure that’s true
@truthsleuth: Were the names of the victims released?
@workingmom: Yeah, they were. Hang on. Grant Paulson, Father Thomas Clemons, Stephanie Chen
@truthsleuth: Any details about them?
@workingmom: Bartender, priest, research librarian and something about where they worked. One in Manhattan, two in Queens
@truthsleuth: Nothing about their hobbies or interests?
@renaissancewoman: We’re really getting off topic
@justicewarrior: Where are you going with this?
@notmydayjob: I’d say we’re going off the rails
@truthsleuth: Why were three random people murdered in such a weird way?
@cloakndagger: Seems like an unpleasant way to die
@truthsleuth: Seems like a message
@seenitall: almost as if they weren’t random, you mean
@justicewarrior: shared hobbies or traits?
@workingmom: I’d say they were all cold-hearted, but a priest isn’t likely to be
@brains&beauty: You’re right. A priest is in the business of saving souls
@notmydayjob: We had a member named @soulsaver
@workingmom: You think that was the priest who got murdered?
@deepdiver: Shit!
@renaissancewoman: That can’t be right
@workingmom: @soulsaver isn’t on today
@justicewarrior: Maybe he, she, or they are sick
@seenitall: or sick of us
@puzzlemaven: Is @bythebook on today?
@cloakndagger: That’s the one who knows all the tricks and pitfalls of internet searching
@brains&beauty: almost like a research librarian
@truthsleuth: I knew it!
@brains&beauty: Now you’re starting to put it together
@workingmom: @bythebook isn’t on the chat. First time that I can remember
@teacherpreacher: Come on. There are plenty of book lovers and @soulsaver could be a therapist
@notmydayjob: or a cult leader
@renaissancewoman: I’m not sure we should be discussing this
@teacherpreacher: Fewer than half the DFDs chat regularly. It’s a major time suck. I’m often tempted to skip a day
@brains&beauty: But you don’t. And we all still post on the message board. I haven’t seen anything from @soulsaver or @bythebook over the last few days, have you?
@renaissancewoman: I don’t think we can jump to any conclusions
@workingmom: When’s the last time we heard from @actingcyclist?
@cloakndagger: Why?
@workingmom: I read the first victim, Grant Paulson, was an actor and cyclist
@deepdiver: shit @countyhunter: Hard to believe these three were picked out of thousands who listen to true crime podcasts
@puzzlemaven: no lack for imagination on this chat
@justicewarrior: I agree with @countyhunter.
@brains&beauty: You have ppl who like true crime. Some of them want to solve cold cases. A smaller group listens to Deep Freeze. BTW, the victims were killed with dry ice. Doesn’t anyone else see the connection?
@justicewarrior: coincidence
@truthsleuth: It feels like more than coincidence to me
@teacherpreacher: Why target us? Is it related to the Kyle Jordan case? Are we getting too close?
@brains&beauty: Maybe it’s something else
@puzzlemaven: What did any of us do to provoke a killer?
@notmydayjob: How hard is it to stir up a psycho?
@seenitall: You think this is a crazy person?
@deepdiver: You think it’s not?
@brains&beauty: The killings are methodical. They suggest a certain skill set
@seenitall: I agree with you
@truthsleuth: a certain mindset
@cloakndagger: Are we sure these victims were members of our chat?
@workingmom: We need to discuss with Tom and Tasha. They have access to our real emails, don’t they?
@notmydayjob: If they don’t, it’s pretty easy to get them
@renaissancewoman: It is?
@truthsleuth: It’s not that hard if you have the tech skills
@brains&beauty: And if you’re already online chatting with us
@deepdiver: shit!
@countyhunter: You think the killer is online right now?
@justicewarrior: That’s over the top
@renaissancewoman: What if it’s true?
@teacherpreacher: Sorry, folks, I’m out of here
@puzzlemaven: same here
@seenitall: You’re all signing off?
@notmydayjob: looks like it
@cloakndagger: We need a way to stay in touch
@brains&beauty: I’ll be in touch. I know several of you IRL
@truthsleuth: You do?
@workingmom: I’m closing down the chat for today. Check the message boards for more info.
[end transcript]
“Some of them think the killer is one of them. Most of them are ready to go dark.”
Two hours after the abruptly terminated chat between the Deep Freeze Detectives, Sam met with Zielinski, Lopez, Nichols, and Carlisle at the Gramercy Park Precinct, along with an IT specialist and computer forensic analyst named Jessica Holder.
“They’re afraid they’re being stalked,” Sam continued. “I tried to make it sound like nonsense, but what if it’s true?”
“Do you think the killer was part of the chat today?” Carlisle asked.
“Hard to say. We were over and out inside fifteen minutes.”
“We need a motive,” Lopez said. “I mean, beyond Sam’s initial assessment. The killer could be a thrill-seeker or power-tripper, sure. But what is it about these people and their true crime hobby that angers our villain? Is he or she tied to one of the cold cases Levy and Wright talk about on the show?”
“Some of the chat members brought that up,” Sam said. “The current unsolved case concerns a child named Kyle Jordan. He was abducted from his day school twenty years ago out on Long Island. His body was found three days later in a ditch not far from his house. The perpetrator was never caught. There were charges of sloppy detective work and fingers pointed at everyone from the kindergarten teacher to an out-of-favor uncle. Based on the little I know, no one has come close to naming the killer.”
“And the web detectives think they can solve it?” Nichols asked, her skepticism plain. “They may have an inflated sense of their abilities.”
“Or the killer does,” Sam replied. “Which might make said killer impatient with the process.”
“So, the response is to torture and kill the amateurs?” Carlisle asked. “Seems a little extreme. Why not trash them on social media?”
The others responded with uneasy laughter.
“Officer Holder is our tech expert,” Zielinski said. “Maybe she came up with some clues to further enlighten us. Officer Holder?”
The willowy young woman pushed her oversized frames up to the bridge of her nose and nodded enthusiastically, which promptly sent the glasses back down her nose.
“Detective Zielinski asked me to print out the real time transcript and make you copies, even though he knows I hate killing trees.” She handed out neatly bound packets to each of the team members. “This is a copy of the transcript from today, along with whatever information I could get on the participants. Not much in such a short time. I browbeat Ravi Patel into helping.”
“The Deep Freeze sound engineer is also the webmaster?” Carlisle asked.
“Yeah, and that’s part of the problem. A good admin will check the logs. An inattentive one might not. It’s easy to set up the logging, but not everyone follows through. I’m sure Ravi is terrific at producing the podcast, but the website shows more than a little neglect as far as security is concerned. I’ll bet they got an outside consultant to set up the message boards and chat rooms.”
“That explains how someone might get the names of the other participants in the chat,” Lopez said. “Ravi wouldn’t notice a data breach if he wasn’t checking.”
“We ought to check out the web designers,” Zielinski suggested.
“I did that first thing,” Holder replied. “The company is totally legit, no obvious issues, plenty of clients. They aren’t responsible for maintenance and there’s no evidence they’ve been back inside.”
She looked down at her iPad, and the glasses slid farther. “Here’s what I have. Six of the people on today’s chat made some effort to hide their IP addresses. The most common way to do that is to use a VPN address and the TOR browser. You don’t get a hundred percent protection, but it’s pretty good for the average civilian. A couple of people logged in from public computers in coffee shops or hotels. Someone named cloakndagger is operating behind a firewall as thick as anything I’ve ever run into.”
“So, of the eleven people on the chat today—” Sam began.
“You mean fifteen.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Eleven people participated,” Holder said. “Four more logged on but never commented. The chat software doesn’t list the participants. That’s an odd glitch, easily fixed,” she added.
“The front end is opaque, but the back end is leaky,” Zielinski said.
Holder beamed. “Exactly.”
“If it’s that easy to get the names . . .” Nichols began.
“Then Levy and Wright were holding out on us,” Carlisle finished.
Holder circulated copies of two more pages. “These are people I’ve identified already. The list includes Lieutenant Tate, who is @countyhunter and @crimejourno, a.k.a. Tom Levy, who was lurking. Three more who stayed quiet may have been shy, but they were easy to discover. You’ll notice almost everyone used a personal email to log on. I don’t know what they do for a living yet or how they spend their Sundays, but I can get that.”
The next page began with another category labeled as “not yet identified.” Holder had listed five screen names: brains&beauty, seenitall, puzzlemaven, cloakndagger, and notmydayjob.
“All of these people commented,” Sam noted. “They must be secure about the steps they’ve taken to hide their identities.”
“They haven’t met me,” Holder said with a straight face.
“Why do I get the feeling the names you’ve already traced are the least likely to be the killer’s?” Carlisle groused.
“We still have plenty of potential suspects to work on,” Lopez remarked.
“Unless the killer isn’t masquerading as a Deep Freeze Detective,” Nichols said.
The others groaned.
“Let’s stick to what we have to work with,” Zielinski said. “We can begin with the five people who’ve been less than forthcoming about their identities. They may have something to hide; they may not. I’m concerned that these last two murders are so close together. So is the assistant chief of detectives, by the way. She wants to meet with me tomorrow, along with someone from the mayor’s office.”
He turned to Holder. “I’d tell you to take all the time you need, Officer Holder, but we have a busy killer and a city on edge.”
“What’s next?” Sam asked.
“As soon as we have information on the suspects, we’ll begin to interview them. Sam, we have a behavioral analyst we use. Maybe you can work with her to come up with a profile on our killer.”
“Sure. Whatever you need.” She caught a glimpse of Nichols wearing her usual glower.
“The rest of you may or may not be called in this weekend. For sure we’ll hit the ground running Monday morning. So, clean up the rest of your caseloads as much as possible.”
Sam took the train back to her aunt’s house. She felt discouraged by the turn of events. First, she’d failed to keep herself from becoming too invested in this case. Then she’d drawn undue attention to herself. Finally, her foray onto the chat room had produced very little. Three people had died over a period of ten days, two while she was in town, one while she was supposed to be helping. One of her team members was not happy with her.
Worst of all, she was now relegated to desk work.
The ever-present roar of traffic on the Grand Central Parkway greeted Sam as she exited at Astoria Boulevard. The wind pushed her back a step, as did the pungent mix of spiced food and exhaust fumes that filled her nose. Damp air from low-hanging clouds surrounded her.
City gloom was different than country gloom. She’d lived through plenty of gray days with help from a warm comforter. What she missed was the absolute silence that had been a regular feature of her life since leaving Nashville five years and two jobs ago. Here among throngs of people, it was possible to feel not just solitary but abandoned.
On the other hand, when had she not felt that way? She was in her mid-thirties, and she couldn’t find the balance between lonely and alone. She hated the first and required the second.
Her eye, ever trained for an anomaly, went to a figure across the street. Average height, on the slender side, probably male, but the black hoodie made it difficult to tell. A mask and sunglasses worked as a disguise and had the advantage of being ordinary these days.
Whoever it was had ridden the train with her, standing several feet away in the crowded car before exiting at the same stop. Still, she wouldn’t have noticed anyone in the crush of commuters except the person carried no visible accessories, no briefcase, pocketbook, backpack, or gym bag. Not even a phone, at least not one that had made an appearance. That was unusual.
Her gut tightened. The instinct, she’d learned, was more than a feeling. Her subconscious was hard at work, synthesizing her experience and her training to help her react appropriately to the situation. In this case, to warn her.
She deliberated whether to walk eight blocks out of the way to lose herself and her tail in Astoria Park. She decided to stick to the streets, crowded despite the inclement weather, with an assortment of people coming to and from work.
For the next half hour, she made her way around Astoria, alternately looking into shop windows and moving with purpose. The figure stayed behind her, adjusting speed, sometimes stopping to browse but always keeping pace.
At one point, Sam went into a bodega and bought a few items. When she emerged, she saw the black hood reflected in the window of the spice shop directly opposite.
As she continued to dodge her pursuer, Sam considered various scenarios. She could turn around and confront him. She had a badge, though her weapon was back at Rosa’s. Just as well, considering the number of people out and about. She could call 9-1-1, but by the time help arrived whoever was following her would be long gone. She could try to engineer a reverse tail, become the hunter instead of the hunted. It might unnerve her stalker.
She had no intention of leading him to her aunt’s house.
The fading daylight made the person in black difficult to see. Lengthening shadows provided cover. She had to make a move.
She found herself on Broadway and spotted the awning for Pawsitively Purrfect. Open until six, which meant Vincent and Melinda were probably getting ready to close. She ducked into the store. Vincent came over to greet her, broom in hand.
“I need a back way out,” Sam said.
Vincent didn’t ask questions, just pointed to the supply room. “There’s a door to Thirty-Second Avenue and a lot of ways to cut through the neighborhood once you exit,” he said.
“Thanks.” Sam rested her hand on his arm. “Close early.”
He gave her a thumbs up. “Will do. Stay safe.”
Sam made a beeline for the supply room. Cinnamon, the matriarch of the feline family, looked up, her gold eyes searching. Sam nodded. Maybe the cat was acting as her spirit animal. She’d take all the help she could get.
She pulled her cap out of her bag, tucked her hair underneath, and hit the street. She cut her way through tightly packed buildings, zigzagging in a northwest direction until she reached her aunt’s block. She stood back from the light that came from the lobby of a newly rehabbed apartment building and watched the street for another fifteen minutes before she slunk into Rosa’s place.
Her aunt had left the hall light switched on. She’d mentioned dinner with friends, which meant she was out. Sam picked up a flashlight from the side table and headed upstairs to get her weapon. Then she crept through the house, checking in closets and under furniture. Only when she’d closed every curtain and lowered every shade did she turn on more lights.
In the kitchen with her gun and her phone on the table and a glass of Chianti in her hand, Sam reviewed the events of the last hour. She’d been followed. The who didn’t matter as much as the why. Maybe the killer was targeting her, but it didn’t make sense. Why her and not a regular member of the DFDs? For that matter, why not follow Danny Carlisle or Ron Zielinski or Margarite Lopez? To figure that out, she’d need a motive. The team had yet to come up with a solid theory as to why the killer was after fans of the true crime podcast. Or at least a theory that made logical or intuitive sense to Sam.
What if the mystery figure’s appearance was unrelated to this case? What if this afternoon’s incident was tied to what happened at her brother’s wedding all those years ago? Who knew why Sam was really in New York? Who might have a problem with her efforts to resolve her doubts or answer questions about what happened decades earlier?
She should call Terry, Sam reasoned. He would be calm, reassuring, and supportive. All the things that would be good for her. All the things she needed right now.
Instead, she picked up her phone and called Danny Carlisle.
He pulled up twelve minutes later. Sam heard the meaty growl of a motorcycle from the kitchen. She jumped up and ran to the front window to see Carlisle climb off his bike, stick a NYPD sign on the handlebars, and bound up the stairs with two helmets.
She opened the door and waved him inside. She expected him to be dressed in leather, but he wore the same jeans and blazer combination with the same pin.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “You made great time. I’m sure everyone in the neighborhood heard you arrive. Is that a Harley?”
“I’m close by, I’m not known for subtlety, and yes, it’s a 2015 XG750. Are you all right? Should I do a sweep of the house or the block?” He put a hand lightly on her arm, concern in his eyes.
Sam felt her anxiety ebb, replaced by a more powerful current she hoped she could ignore.
“I’m fine, Danny. And you don’t need to search the area. I lost my tail back on Thirtieth Avenue. I did check the house and walked the perimeter when I got here.”
“If you’re sure.” He followed her into the kitchen, saw the gun and the glass of wine, still half full. “Where’s your aunt?”
“Out to dinner. I just got a text from her. Her party of four turned into a group of twelve. They’re having a wonderful time and have made arrangements for escorts home.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure what that means, but it’s oddly comforting.”
“Speaking of dinner, I hope that’s not yours.” Carlisle pointed to the wine.
“Well, I’d prefer something more substantive.”
“Good. I know a place.”
“Let me change.” In response to his skeptical reaction, she added, “I’ll dress cycle-appropriate. Help yourself to some wine. Drink fast, though. I’ll be done in a flash.” She snatched up her gun. “I assume at least one of us is armed?”
He grinned. “You assume correctly.”
Sam took the stairs two at a time. She disarmed her weapon and locked it away, threw water on her face, pulled a brush through her hair, and swiped on mascara and lip gloss. Black denim jeans were good for any occasion, she assumed, so she left them on and replaced her blouse with a dark green cashmere turtleneck sweater. At the bottom of the stairs, she grabbed her leather jacket out of the closet.
Carlisle was at the window, wine in hand. He turned around with a wide smile. “When you said you didn’t need much time, I didn’t realize just how fast . . .” He stopped talking.
Sam put a hand to her hair. “What? Do I have tissue paper stuck somewhere?”
Carlisle shook his head as if to break a spell. “You’re perfect, Tate. Bring a mask and proof of vaccine. Let’s go.”
During the short ride, Sam felt her anxiety drain away. Something about the wind in her face, the smell of his jacket, the sense of adventure, the security presented by his broad back. She didn’t want to think too hard about any of it; she just wanted to stay where she was for as long as she could.
Unfortunately, the ten-block ride was over before she knew it. They pulled up to a rustic-looking restaurant with twinkling lights and an awning that advertised artisanal food as well as brick-oven pizza. An animated crowd blocked the entryway and spilled over onto the sidewalk.
“I don’t suppose you made reservations on the off chance you’d need to take a distressed colleague to dinner,” she said.
“I know the owner,” he said. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The jolt that ran through her at that simple gesture stopped her from replying or even reacting.
She yanked up her mask and allowed herself to be pulled through the crowd.
“Danny!” The bartender cried out before they reached the entrance. “Get in here. Does Tony know you’re coming? Oops, I guess he does.”
“Amico! Come va?” The booming voice belonged to a broad-chested man with pale eyes and salt and pepper hair who enveloped Carlisle in a bear hug, then stepped back, still holding Carlisle’s arm. “Hah,” he said. “You’re still wearing it.”
“Always. Can you squeeze us in, Tony?”
“Of course,” the man replied. “For you and your friend.” He grinned and squeezed her hand.
“I’m Sam. Your place is lovely, and it smells delicious.”
“Wait until you taste the food. And the wine! Come.”
He seated them at a small table in the back, complete with a melting candle in the center. The lighting was lower and softer, the location out of the way of the energetic servers and ebullient diners who filled the restaurant.
Sam pulled off her mask. She leaned in and whispered, “We’re starring in The Lady and the Tramp.”
Carlisle chuckled. “Tony’s may be long on atmosphere, but the food does not play second fiddle, trust me. We’ll do more than spaghetti.”
The waiter appeared almost immediately to present a bottle to the table. “Compliments of Chef Tony,” he told them. “I’ll just uncork it and let it breathe. Oh, and you won’t need menus, either.”
When he left, Sam allowed her face to register surprise. “Wow. What did you do to deserve a 2010 Brunello from San Filippo Le Lucere?”
“You know your wines?”
“Only the ones I can’t afford. I tasted this a decade ago at a fancy dinner. It’s only gotten better and more unaffordable with age. Seriously, how do you know Tony?
“I saved his son. He gifted me this pin.” He pointed to his lapel. “It’s an Italian horn, which is supposed to protect against evil. Tony being Tony, this one is eighteen carat gold. I had to clear it with my superiors, since they disapprove of officers who accept gifts. Fortunately, they made an exception when Tony showed up to insist.”
“Does it work?”
He laughed. “I’m still here.”
A few minutes later, the waiter returned with glasses and the uncorked bottle. The heady aroma reached Sam even before she lifted the glass to inhale.
“Cheers,” Carlisle said. They toasted and sipped. Sam sighed, transported by the superb wine.
“Thank you for this,” she said. “I’m not sure why I got spooked this afternoon. It’s not the first time I’ve been followed.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She described her encounter with and evasion of the mystery man. A small plate appeared in front of each of them and they paused to enjoy salmon tartare.
“Do you think it had to do with this case?” Carlisle asked. “I don’t know why the killer would follow you in particular, but nothing much about this case makes sense.” He tapped his forehead. “Unless you have another case that followed you here. Do you?”
He was, Sam admitted, an incredibly handsome man, and his attention was complete and unwavering. She decided food would address the fluttering in her stomach. And more wine. Especially if she was going to respond to his question.
“My family members were the victims of a crime years ago.” She spoke as if she were reading from an old file. “They caught the perpetrator. Case closed.”
She gulped, fighting against panic. She’d never talked about her past with anyone except her shrink and Terry. And now a good-looking colleague who was nevertheless a stranger.
“But it’s not closed for you,” Carlisle said, his voice gentle.
She didn’t reply.
“Sam.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I won’t ask you any questions you don’t want to answer. We can change the subject and talk about me. Which, believe it or not, is not my favorite subject, no matter what people tell you.”
His remarks had the desired effect. She made a sound between a snort and a giggle, and her mood lightened. She thought about moving her hand. It seemed perfectly content to rest under his larger one. The waiter reappeared to refill their empty glasses and her hand returned to her side of the table.
“More facts,” Carlisle continued. “Born forty-one years ago in Riverhead on Long Island. Mom is a retired schoolteacher. Dad owned a bar, which he sold for a tidy sum and a promise that he could get his first drink on the house. Two uncles and an older brother are cops out on the Island. My younger sister lives in the city, is married with two kids, and is a high-powered tech entrepreneur with a patient husband. Carlisle may sound English, but Dad is second-generation Irish, and Mom comes from a large Italian family.”
“Sounds like my family!” The words popped out before Sam had a chance to catch them.
A bemused smile crossed his face. “I wouldn’t have guessed by your name.” He put up a hand. “What else? I graduated from City College, spent a year in Iraq with the National Guard. The less said about that, the better. Then a little time in Europe. I came back, passed through the academy, joined the force, and here I am.”
“You didn’t get on the bureaucratic fast-track, I gather?”
He laughed. “I’ve gotten flack about that from nearly everyone about pushing myself up the ladder. Right now, I’m happy where I am. On the other hand, I’m not getting any younger.”
Fortified by wine, Sam asked her next question. “Wife? Kids? Significant other?” Her list of questions earned her a guffaw.
“All right, then. Let’s get to it. Engaged twice and married once. Both women were terrific, and I didn’t deserve either of them. I cheated on my fiancée and stayed true to my wife, but she was never gonna believe me. No kids, although she remarried pretty quickly and has twins.” He shrugged. “Now I live in Long Island City in a swanky apartment I snagged under a rent-controlled loophole. Close enough to work. Also close enough to my family that we can get together for special occasions, but not so close that they drop in unannounced.”
“Sounds ideal,” Sam said. She meant to tease him, but the words came out sounding wistful.
“You’d think so. Anyway,” he picked up his wine glass and toasted, “let’s hear about you.”
“Here are the salads,” Sam announced with relief.
Carlisle grinned. “And the waiter, since we’ve apparently finished the first bottle.”
He approved the second offering, a flavorful red from Puglia. While they sampled the arugula with shaved parmesan and limoncello dressing, Sam tried to figure out what she could talk about now that she’d hinted at a family tragedy. Maybe she could pretend it hadn’t come up.
She chose to talk about her life post-university. Plenty there to keep him entertained.
“That’s a pretty interesting life you’ve led,” Carlisle said when she’d paused. “UCLA to country singer to Army lieutenant. Sounds like my early adulthood. I mean, the trying things out part. Where was romance in all this? You must have some stories to tell.”
“Um, not so much. I was engaged, but my fiancé was killed in a car crash right after I entered the academy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a while ago. After that, I let a long time go by. I thought I had something going with someone else, a colleague. We moved closer to each other, but it was still long-distance. His work and my work and COVID . . . I can’t tell if it’s survived or not.”
“Distance is hard on relationships.”
“It doesn’t help that I’m something of a moving target, both physically and emotionally,” she admitted.
He reached for her hand. “Maybe you’ve been trying to get to something. Or away from something. Memories of your fiancé or Afghanistan, or something to do with what happened to your family.”
Sam pulled back. “It’s not that easy—”
“Sam, if I overstepped—”
“It’s fine. It’s just . . .” She took a deep breath and let it out. “You might not believe it, but I wasn’t always Sam Tate.”
“Tell me more. I mean, if you want to.”
“Here it is.” She gripped her wine glass. “I was born Sophia Russo of Queens, New York. I had a much older brother and, I just discovered, another one who died before I was born. When I was nine, I went to my big brother Stefan’s wedding. Actually, I was part of the wedding party as a maiden of honor. Happiest day of my life.” She stopped.
“And then?” Carlisle asked in a gentle tone.
“Then a crazy man who’d been stalking the bride, Nicole, showed up with a gun and shot a lot of people before he was stopped. The best man and I were the only survivors in the wedding party. My father died trying to save me. My mother was hit in the head trying to save him. She suffered a traumatic brain injury and has been in a care facility in Delaware for years. She doesn’t speak or remember.”
Carlisle opened his mouth, but she put up a hand.
“There’s more. I went to live in Delaware with my aunt and uncle, left them for college at eighteen, and returned just once a year to see my aunt and visit with my mother. I changed my name. I tried to put it all behind me. Then, several years ago, I started having nightmares about a second gunman at the wedding. I went to see a therapist in Nashville. She was shot to death three months later. My aunt got cancer and I moved east from Tennessee to be near the mother who doesn’t know me. Oh, and this gunman I thought I saw at the wedding may still present a danger to me.”
Carlisle stared at her. His mouth worked, as if it were trying to form the right words.
“That’s a lot for you to handle by yourself, Sam Tate.”
“I’m not by myself. I have some support.”
“You need an army of supporters,” he declared. “What about family?”
“My Aunt Rosa is my father’s older sister. I’m learning things from her. No one left on my mother’s side, except her cousin Karen. We only met once, at my aunt’s funeral. I need to talk with her.”
He leaned forward, started to reach for her hand, thought the better of it, and grabbed his wine glass instead. “Is that why you spoke with Andy Mills? Because he was on the force back in ninety-four? Because you need him to help you investigate?”
“It’s not a formal investigation. I just want to pick his brain, find out what he remembers, try to see what I remember or what I may have missed.”
“You’re not an amateur, Sam. But this sounds incredibly dangerous.”
Sam twirled her glass. She wanted to answer without appearing defensive. “There’s no immediate threat, Danny. Yes, I may or may not be poking around in an old case, but nothing I discover after all this time will have any impact on anyone except me.”
And maybe a certain powerful senator, she thought.
“And what if your new stalker is the Dry Ice Killer?” Carlisle asked.
“What happened today felt more performative.,” she replied. “For show. To scare me. Maybe you’ll all get your own personal stalkers in the next few days.”
Carlisle smiled. “True. Or maybe we’ll find out he was just trying to get close to the beautiful woman he saw on the N train.”
“Says you,” Sam replied.
Carlisle clapped his hands. “Now that sounds like a girl from Queens.”
The rest of the evening passed quickly, aided by delicious food buttressed by copious amounts of wine. Tony kept dessert light, biscotti and an Amarone for each of them. Sam barely kept from groaning as she sat back.
“I am so uncomfortable and yet so satisfied,” she commented.
“Then the evening was a success,” Carlisle said as he came around to pull out her chair.
He parked at the end of Rosa’s block. “This way, I get to walk the girl home,” he said. He held her hand as they strolled down the street, their silence easy. Sam could have been floating for all she knew. For that matter, she could have been sixteen.
At the front step, under the light Rosa had left on, they stood close to each other.
“I’m usually pretty good with my impulse control,” Carlisle remarked.
“But?”
“But not tonight.”
He put a hand to her cheek and bent his face to hers. His kiss was soft, the urgency underneath unmistakable. Sam leaned into the warmth and stopped thinking.
Ten seconds later, they eased apart.
“Thank you for one of the most unexpected and enjoyable nights I’ve had in some time,” he said. He kissed her again, lightly, and trotted down the stairs. At the bottom, he turned and waved.
What just happened? Sam asked herself. They were colleagues. He might be involved with Margarite Lopez. She hadn’t worked out her relationship with Terry. She didn’t live here.
He hadn’t said anything about a next time. It was just a kiss.
Was it?
She tiptoed into the house and checked her messages. She had two texts. One was from Terry.
She texted back:
Just getting home. Tomorrow?
The second text caught her off guard. Karen Halloran, the Boston cousin to her mother and aunt, was coming to New York Sunday and looking forward to seeing her cousin’s daughter.
Will wonders never cease? Sam thought.
She asked for details and offered to meet Karen at the train station. Then she took two Tylenols and went to bed to dream of princes with dark hair, dragons with jewels for eyes, and a castle filled with dry ice.
Tasha Wright checked her watch. Then she checked her phone against her watch. Twelve minutes late. Not an optimal way to begin a meeting.
For good measure, she glanced at the digital clock on the wall of the studio. Everything matched: 9:12 or 21:12, according to the wall clock. For some reason, Tom preferred military time. Ravi found it amusing; she found it annoying. Tom won out, of course. He always did. When it came to professional opportunities. When it came to ratings or his ability to attract female listeners, which was tied to something called a “likeability” factor, according to their new marketing team. Even his messed up personal life, for which he bore some responsibility, seemed to be straightening out. He’d reconciled with his grown daughter. They were having dinner tonight.
Yes, he’d suffered a horrible misfortune. Losing his young son took a terrible toll on him and on his family. He processed his pain by becoming an activist who pushed for everything from safer school release programs to harsher prison sentences for stalkers. Good for him.
His wife handled her grief differently. She found a therapist, joined something called a sorrow circle, and read every book on losing a child she could get her hands on. She turned inward, he turned outward, their young daughter suffered, and so did their marriage. Textbook example of a grieving family torn apart.
Yet he parlayed that tragedy into a successful career as a victims’ advocate, a knowledgeable journalist, a civilian “expert” on the emotional costs of cold cases, a popular guest on the talk-show circuit, not to mention cable and internet shows, and finally, a well-regarded author with a best-selling book and another under contract.
Which left her where, exactly? Cohosting a podcast, although she felt like an add-on or an afterthought compared to her more well-known colleague. Dismissed as a burned-out ex-cop despite a more than decent run. Subjected to both scrutiny and constant challenge by the know-it-all web sleuths, none of whom had ever put their lives in danger.
She’d spent the afternoon in the studio with Tom so they could record a “special edition” podcast assuring their listeners that none of them were in danger (a patent lie) and all of them could help (a gross exaggeration).
Not that she expected they’d lose their fan base (well, except through murder). The notoriety from the show’s apparent link to the Dry Ice Killer caused a spike in the number of listeners. Activity on the message boards dropped, although a few hardy souls used it to speculate as to which cold case had the killer riled up. The chat was suspended, but Tasha suspected some of them were talking to each other. All of it was temporary, a blip on the way to more success.
And who knows? Maybe one of those DFDs had a knack for actual detective work or a surefire means of prying the truth out of someone. Maybe whoever was meeting Tasha tonight had something substantial to offer, something that made it worth her while to spend a Saturday night at her workplace instead of with someone funny and charming. Like that lawyer she dated last year or the brooding detective who came by the other day. Even his name sounded like a character on a TV drama. Detective Dan Carlisle.
She knew nothing about him, except that he was easily ten years younger and probably a player, with looks like that. Or a loner married to his work. Or actually married, with a flawless wife and two flawless kids he couldn’t wait to get home to. Exactly what the lawyer claimed he wanted when he broke up with her. Well, that and a chance to sleep with a woman who carried a gun.
She was feeling sorry for herself, and that wouldn’t do. She needed to figure out who was targeting the most active fans and why.
Many of the Deep Freeze Detectives had taken steps to protect themselves with their safeguarded servers and VPNs. Their efforts were largely futile. She had friends on the force and access to some of the brightest minds and the most advanced technology in the world. She was a retired detective, for God’s sake. She’d made it her business to gather at least basic information on all of them from day one. She even discovered the identity of @cloakndagger, although when she got to the end of her search, she chose to leave well enough alone. That was a hornet’s nest she didn’t need to poke.
Tom didn’t realize how much data she’d collected. After the detectives visited and especially after the third death and the media coverage, he suggested she sit down with Ravi and help him work up a list. Yeah, right. Ravi was a competent sound engineer, but what he understood about the inner workings of the internet could fit on the head of a pin. He didn’t even set up a web log until she reminded him. He never monitored it. She did, though.
She asked Tom about warning the Deep Freeze Detectives privately. He insisted that suspending the chat was all they needed to do. He didn’t want to frighten anyone unnecessarily. They argued about it this afternoon. Again, he won.
Most of the chat members and the people who commented on the message boards were sincere types looking for a way to indulge a fantasy or blow off steam. Their interest made her money and gave her something of a purpose. They didn’t deserve to be in harm’s way, threatened by some crazy person with an ax to grind. She felt a duty to protect them. It was why she became a cop in the first place. Protect and serve.
Tasha couldn’t lie to herself: The idea of becoming involved in an ongoing investigation thrilled her. She felt alive, energized. She wanted to nail the person who committed these gruesome murders. Because he, she, or they might be a fan of her show. Because it was the right thing to do. And because she had been a terrific homicide detective and a better than average cold case detective. Because she could use the validation.
Her tea was cold. She reached into her bag and brought out the silver flask her ex had given her for their third anniversary. She couldn’t believe they made it that far; they certainly didn’t make it much past that point. She never knew what to make of the gift. Was it meant as a loving gesture or an insult? A nod to the stress of their marriage or a fond farewell? Then again, he might have given her a silver baby rattle, as her clueless parents did even after she told them she was forever barren.
It’s all in the past, she reminded herself, pouring rum into her cup. Just like the attack that nearly took her life and her career. Everyone told her how lucky she was: to be alive, to be allowed to transfer to a “safer” squad, to stay on the job. She wasn’t lucky; she was smart and hardworking and resilient. Who else would come back from an attack like that and keep working another eight years? Some of the men, but then they’d let their emotional wounds fester and put everyone else in danger.
She took matters into her own hands. She saw a shrink. She went to a vocal coach. She stayed out as long as was required and came back by politely insisting she wanted to work. She proved a boon to the Cold Case Squad.
The podcast began as a way to increase her profile. Now it also earned her an income, what with sponsorships and endorsements. Combine that with her pension, and she had nearly enough to start her own elite private investigation firm. Something that catered to a select clientele. Maybe she’d finish her master’s degree and become a visiting professor, teaching the finer points of detective work to eager undergrads. Maybe she’d write her own best seller. She just had to make her damaged voice cooperate a little while longer.
Tom didn’t seem to understand how capable she was, but one of the chat room regulars obviously did. Which is why the self-styled web sleuth approached her. Not Tom, not the hunky homicide detective or the sour-looking one, not even Sam Tate, the serial killer-hunting sheriff who was recently outed by the press. Tasha Wright, a twenty-seven-year veteran of the NYPD with the battle scars to prove it, was taking this meeting.
The tipster had claimed to have information on the killer and on that person’s interest in the show’s fans. Maybe, maybe not. The evening could turn out to be a bust. Tasha didn’t think this wanna-be detective was someone inclined to waste anyone’s time, but who knew? Nor was she worried. Still, better safe than sorry.
She reached into her purse and patted her Glock. Locked and loaded. She’d keep it tucked away for now. No reason to give her visitor a heart attack.
The buzzer sounded at 9:15. Tasha grinned despite herself. She was ready to go to work.
Sam spent her Saturday nursing a headache and checking obsessively for a text like some lovestruck teenager until her aunt sent her grocery shopping. A long phone call with Terry made her feel momentarily better, then guilty.
She drank as much water as possible, ran until her lungs burned, and took a hot shower. Late in the day, Carlisle sent a short text:
On the Island with family. Last night was amazing. Can lightning strike twice?
Her mood improved. She was still on a high note when she got to Penn Station’s Moynihan Train Hall Sunday morning and spotted her mother’s cousin. Karen Halloran carried herself with confidence. Her round face was attractively framed by a honey-streaked bob. She was stylishly dressed in suede boots, black pants, and a long sapphire-blue jacket that picked up the color of her eyes and perfectly matched her mask.
Karen hugged her. “I’m so glad to see you.”
“Same here. You look like a million bucks.”
“There’s certainly more of me to love,” Karen replied with a laugh, “which thankfully suits my husband. Besides”—she threw out her arms— “it’s New York. Everyone is expected to be gorgeous. Speaking of which . . .”
“Please don’t tell me I look tired.”
“I was going to say, lovely. Good thing you stand out in a crowd.
Sam grabbed her cousin’s rollaway and pointed to the exit. “I called an Uber, which is a form of blasphemy in the city,” she explained, “but at least we won’t need to stand in line for a cab.” She looked at her phone and matched the information to a black Kia waiting in front of the station.
“The Sherry Netherland, please,” Karen announced to the driver. “Fifty-Ninth and Fifth Avenue.”
“Rosa invited you to dinner,” Sam told her. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about that.”
“I’m fine with it. I just don’t plan to sleep on her couch. Anyway, she contacted me. She doesn’t beat around the bush, your aunt. She mentioned that you have questions, and I might have answers. Smart woman.” Karen smiled.
The Sherry Netherland, with its ornate lobby and high-end stores and eateries, epitomizes an old-fashioned luxury reminiscent of an earlier time. Sam imagined men in fedoras escorting slinky women with cigarette holders. She certainly felt underdressed in pants and a jacket. In addition, something tugged at her brain, something she couldn’t place.
“You were here once with your mother,” Karen said. “You might have been six.”
“I can’t remember, but I’m glad you told me. It feels familiar.”
Karen checked in and was escorted with her luggage to an upper floor and a spacious room with a view of Central Park.
“Very nice,” Sam said.
“I wanted to treat myself. Do you have time for a cup of coffee before you go back to working the case you’re pretending not to work?” She patted Sam’s arm. “Don’t look so surprised. I keep up.”
They headed one block over to Café d’Avignon, located at the site of the former Plaza Hotel, now upscale apartments. For every Sherry Netherland that survived, another half dozen landmarks had fallen victim to the changing economy, changing tastes, or a worldwide plague.
The cousins chatted easily over coffee. Just as Sam started to relax into the conversation, she sensed a change. Karen sat back, looking determined.
“Uh-oh, down to business,” Sam remarked.
“Your Aunt Rosa said you wanted to reconnect, learn more about the family. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why now? I may now be your mother’s closest living relative, but you and I have spoken just once since your aunt’s funeral. What’s changed?”
“Karen, I—”
“That sounded like an accusation, Sam, and I didn’t mean it like that.” Karen shook her head. “You’ve had a lot to sort out over the years. I’m happy you’re at the point where you can come to your Aunt Rosa or to me with your questions.”
“You’re certainly entitled to question the timing, Karen. A couple of years ago, I started having flashbacks. I thought it was work-related, but what I saw in dreams or in my mind tied in with my spotty memories of the wedding. I started seeing a therapist to help me sort through everything. Then with Gillian’s death and my move on top of all that . . .”
Karen reached across the table and took Sam’s hand. “I guessed you were struggling, dear heart. I just didn’t understand how much. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just learned I had another brother.”
“That must have been a shock.”
“It explains my mother’s sadness.”
“Not all of it, Sam. Colleen missed her side of the family.”
“Then why didn’t they visit?” Sam demanded. “Why didn’t we see them?”
“That’s what I’m here to explain.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s start with a bit of history. Are you familiar with the Winter Hill Gang?”
“Irish mobsters out of Boston?”
“Sommerville. And they were Irish and Italian, which was unusual. They reached the pinnacle back in the seventies. Seemed to own a piece of everything. They were pretty much finished by the time the new century rolled around.”
“Okay.” Sam tried to imagine where the story was headed.
“My father, George, your mother’s uncle, worked for the Winter Hill gang. He was the money guy, as far as I know. Money laundering, fixing the books, whatever else mob accounts did.”
Sam knew her mouth was hanging open. “My God, Karen. Did your mother know?”
“I believe she did, although she never admitted it. I didn’t find out until Dad told me after he was released from prison. That side trip was Whitey Bulger’s doing, by the way.”
“The mobster who secretly worked as an FBI informant.”
“That’s the one. He ratted out plenty of his subordinates. Then he was killed in jail. Karma.”
“Oh, Karen, that must have been so hard for you and your mother.”
“I was out of the house by the early seventies and happy to be free of whatever was going on between my parents.”
“I’m sure your mother hated being forced—”
“Mother wasn’t forced into anything.” Karen’s tone turned sharp. “She liked the lifestyle that came with mob money. Maybe she could fool herself into thinking the men who gathered in her living room were contractors or investors or people who needed their taxes done instead of thieves and murderers. Maybe she could pretend these thugs could make her safe. No, my mother had other reasons for despising my father.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Dad cheated on Mom with his brother’s wife, your grandmother Peg. He never publicly acknowledged the product of that union, a son who was half-brother to me and also to your mom and aunt.”
Karen might as well have tossed her into a fast-moving current. She felt caught in the churn, unable to get her bearings or make her brain work.
“Your father . . .” Sam stopped.
“Was a pariah in every sense of the word.”
Sam gripped the edges of the table for stability. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before now?”
“It’s not exactly material for a Zoom call, dear, unless we’re meeting with someone to discuss a screenplay for Netflix.”
Sam began to laugh; she couldn’t help it. Karen joined in. Soon they were whooping it up to the consternation of the other customers. They managed to quiet themselves only because the waitress looked as if she would happily throw them out on the street.
Karen gulped to stop a final burst of laughter. “Oh, my, that felt good.”
“It does sound like a bad film plot,” Sam replied. “But with real-world consequences.”
“The consequences had everything to do with who my father worked for, Sam. Adultery is generally a family secret, even when a man is cheating with his brother’s wife. Perhaps people suspected when Peg got pregnant, or when she claimed she’d had a stillbirth. She stayed with your grandfather and my mother stayed with George. I doubt your father’s side of the family had any idea. But the mob connection, well, that rubbed your father the wrong way.”
“Aunt Rosa says my dad was under near constant pressure to deal with gangsters,” Sam said. “He barely kept the Russo clan out of the action. When my cousin Johnny got hooked by connected loan sharks, Dad and Rosa paid off the debts. Then my uncle Jimmy beat Johnny within an inch of his life.”
Karen sighed. “Your father was a proud man.”
“So, you found out after George left prison . . .”
“2005 or thereabouts”
“And you told Gillian. She could have told me. I was old enough to know the truth.” Sam squeezed her eyes against the hot tears that formed. She sounded petulant. She didn’t care; she felt cross and worse, shut out.
“You were also old enough to run away from it, Sam,” Karen said gently.
Sam dropped her eyes to her lap. “I did a lot of that.” She swallowed. “Whatever happened to the illegitimate child?” she asked.
Karen’s lips were set in a grim line. “This is where it gets murky. My foolish father, instead of letting Peg contact an adoption agency, told someone in his other family and they arranged a trade.”
“A what?” Sam realized she’d raised her voice. “Explain, please,” she said more quietly.
“The baby was given to a couple in Providence, Rhode Island, with close ties to the Patriarca family. They were and still are a formidable East Coast mob family with far more power than the Winter Hill Gang ever had. Some agreement was arranged, the terms of which I can’t guess. My father claims the family that took in the infant were solid, respectable types who simply wanted a child in their lives.”
“A child who would grow up to join the family business.”
“I have no idea. Never met him, never went looking for him after George let me know the kid might have support from some bad people. I don’t know what he looked like or what they called him. My dad and Peg referred to him as Baby Quinn. Sam, what is it? Drink some water. You look light-headed.”
Sam finished her water while Karen waved over the waitress to request more.
“A man who called himself Quinn was spotted in the old neighborhood before the wedding, Karen. My FBI partner located an eyewitness who remembers seeing the same man at the wedding, wearing a brown suit and holding a gun. Same thing I recalled.”
“On your block?” Karen exclaimed. “Then at the wedding? Why?”
“I can’t say for certain,” Sam admitted. “Look.” She pulled out an image of Sean Parker she’d printed from his website and handed it across the table.
“Who is this?” Karen asked.
“Sean Parker, our new senator from Maryland. He originally hails from Queens, New York. At least according to his official bio. Does he look familiar?”
The older woman stared at the picture, then looked up. “He has your eyes. Or you have his. That is unusual. It doesn’t mean he’s my half-brother or your uncle.”
“I think he might be.”
Karen pressed her fingers into her forehead. After a half a minute, she dropped her hands.
“If I’m following, you believe my father’s illegitimate child, raised in Providence, Rhode Island, as Sean Parker by people with ties to an East Coast mob, was seen in the neighborhood where his half-sister lived. This same man appeared at her son’s wedding with a gun. Are you suggesting the shooting was a hit job? Or that Quinn was there to kill your family?”
“Again, I don’t know. Maybe crazy Arthur Randolph was a diversion or a lucky break or . . .” Sam stuttered, searching for a way to transfer the unshakable beliefs to her cousin.
Karen pointed at the picture lying faceup on the table. “This man could be Quinn, Sam. He could be your uncle. The resemblance is uncanny. He may even have been in your neighborhood or at the wedding. Maybe he was carrying a gun. But now, more than twenty-five years later, this man has been elected to the US Senate. So, tell me: What do you want or expect?”
“I want to find out if he was at the wedding. I want answers about what he did or what he saw and whether he is still involved in my life now and why? Because someone is, Karen. Someone tied to those events. Of that I am convinced. Someone who opened the sealed records of my testimony as a child.”
“What could Parker possibly hope to gain? What is his endgame?”
“I don’t know, Karen,” Sam said. “But I suspect I might be part of it.”
Karen saw herself off Monday morning, which gave Sam time to get in a run and a yoga routine. She’d been asked to meet at Zielinski’s precinct, though she wasn’t sure why. Did Carlisle report her stalking before she had a chance? Was there another victim she didn’t know about? A breakthrough? Was she even working the case, other than to sit in on chats and report back?
Terry texted, no doubt a response to the long email she’d sent last night concerning the revelations her cousin brought with her from Boston. She punched in his number.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
“The usual,” she replied. “As I recall, my newly acquired dead brother did battle with my newly acquired living half-uncle while my mother and I watched.”
“Sounds like quite the bonding experience.”
“You know, my memories of my mother are mixed, Terry. She was always kind, always gentle. She could be fun, too. She’d sing and recite little poems. She read to me. I remember hearing her laugh. But she also carried a great sadness with her. Now I understand.”
“It’s a hard burden to bear.”
“God, my childhood sounds like a soap opera, what with gangsters, ghosts, and enough family secrets to fill a vault.” Sam finished her coffee and went to get more.
“Doesn’t sound like your dad’s side of the family was part of all that.”
“I don’t think my mother was either, at least not the criminal part.” Sam chewed her lip. “My dad kept her away from her family for the most part. I hope he didn’t blame her for one or two rogue relatives. Or that she resented him for taking such a hard line.”
“Maybe that’s something you can discuss with Rosa.”
“Maybe. After I make sure she’s not the Dry Ice Killer’s next target.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
Sam sighed. “I’m joking. Sort of.”
“I don’t need to tell you to take care, do I?”
“I will, Terry. I absolutely promise.”
“Okay. I gotta run.” He went quiet a couple of seconds. “Sam, call anytime. About anything.”
“I will.”
Another small silence. Then: “I love you.”
She waited too long. “I—” she began, but he’d already hung up.
At least the commute was relatively smooth, putting Sam inside the 13th Precinct building at 8:30 a.m. Zielinski greeted her as she exited the elevator. He pointed to the conference room, where she saw bagels, cream cheese, butter, and a hot pot she figured was coffee.
“What’s all this?” she asked, dropping her nylon shoulder bag onto the nearest chair.
“We feed our own,” he said. “Which means you, temporarily. You’re officially a consultant to the NYPD, retroactive to last Tuesday. The offer even includes a nice little stipend. The agreement goes week to week. Everyone understands you have a job as a senior officer with another police force in another state.” He held out a two-page document, his grin uneasy.
Sam didn’t take it. Something about his discomfort made her hesitate. She folded her arms across her chest. “Thanks for going to bat for me, Ron,” she said. “I appreciate it. But last week, I was a distraction. Now I’m not?”
“Maybe someone upstairs got smart.”
“What does that mean? Who is the someone? Because if they’re looking for a symbol or a scapegoat, I’m not interested in either role.”
“It’s not like that,” Zielinski protested. “The brass got caught out last week. Then cooler heads prevailed.”
“Along with an influential someone.”
“So what? It’s a good idea as far as I’m concerned.” He reached out again; this time, she accepted the papers and scanned them.
“This says I’ll be a special consultant to the task force investigating homicides by the so-called Dry Ice Killer, working under the supervision of the assistant chief of detectives.”
“That’s just a formality. You, me, and Carlisle are still the primary investigators. Lopez and Nichols will provide support as needed and if they’re not pulled away. We’ll be adding other investigators from other bureaus, also as needed, and a couple of tech and forensic specialists.”
“Lopez and Nichols aren’t going to like this.”
“They’ll understand it’s just bureaucracy. Won’t even go into effect until next week. Maybe we’ll catch the bad guy by then.”
Sam couldn’t pinpoint her hesitation. She enjoyed working this case. It was only for another week or so. She’d get paid.
She held the papers to her chest. “I’m sure it’s fine. I just want to take a minute to read this more carefully.”
“Go ahead. I think you’ll find it’s straightforward. I want to get everything on the table at the meeting.”
Sam read the document twice more. “Okay,” she told Ron as she scribbled her signature. “This will work.”
“Work for what?” Carlisle asked, sauntering into the room. “Come on, now. It isn’t nice to keep secrets.”
He made a beeline for the food, favoring Sam with a smile. She felt her stomach flutter. She covered it with a giggle, as if he’d shared a terrifically funny joke with her.
Lopez entered next, dressed in all black. Nichols followed, again in a suit, a subtle herringbone that still managed to look like a uniform.
“Assuming you can eat and meet at the same time,” Zielinski said, “let’s get started. First, I want to see what Officer Holder has for us. Welcome.”
Holder brought a welcome energy into the room. She wore her hair down, which emphasized her relative youth. The large eyeglass frames, which she obviously hadn’t tightened since the last meeting, still threatened to slip off.
“Hi, everyone. I did more digging over the weekend. First, I expanded the list of Deep Freeze Detectives to include everyone who was on the last three chats. That added another eight names, including our three victims. I think we can safely say these are the active members. Based on the content, these chats seem more social than work focused. Then again, it’s a hobby, not a job. There are a few impatient types that keep trying to hold the group to the topic at hand, meaning discussion about the Kyle Jordan case. Even so, the group has come up with little of substance.”
“Unsurprising,” Sam said. “I didn’t see much on the message boards beyond wild speculation.”
Holder nodded. “At least now we have the names behind the email addresses for nearly everyone, along with physical locations, occupations and such.”
“Nearly everybody?” Carlisle asked.
“I ran into a wall with those five I mentioned on Friday. Or, in the case of cloakndagger, into a tank. I received a ‘cease and desist’ warning from the office of Director of National Intelligence.”
“You spooked a spook,” Carlisle cracked to uneasy laughter around the table.
“Let’s leave that name aside for now,” Zielinski suggested. “What about the others?”
“The trails to the other four—puzzlemaven, seenitall, notmydayjob and brains&beauty—all end at the digital equivalent of a postal box. The three big digital post offices are actually managed by one company. We’d need warrants to go further, although . . .” she looked at Zielinski before continuing. “I know someone who works there who owes me a favor. Maybe I can get in the back door the old-fashioned way.”
She caught Zielinski’s frown. “Not by hacking, sir, by asking.”
“Do that, then,” Zielinski asked. “As far as the rest of the research, will you want help?”
“Could make things go faster,” Holder admitted.
Sam raised her hand. “Count me in.”
“Me, too,” Lopez added.
“If needed,” Carlisle volunteered.
Nichols took her time. “However it works out,” she finally added.
“We’ll get right back to you, Jessica,” Zielinski said, which was her signal to leave.
“We ought to be looking to see if any of our chat room members have a tie to the judicial system,” Lopez suggested.
You mean as cops, criminals, judges, lawyers, that kind of thing?” Carlisle asked.
“More like regular citizens who were victims and went to the system for help.”
“Where are you going with this, Margarite?” Zielinski asked.
“The easiest thing to imagine is that our person is also Kyle Jordan’s killer. It could also be someone who hates what’s happened with the case.”
Carlisle barked a laugh. “You can add a couple of cops to the suspect pool. Not all of us think inexperienced amateurs should be working even cold cases.”
“Then why would a killer target them, when the pros can’t even catch him or her?”
“Good point, Margarite,” Zielinski said.
“Which brings me to a larger point,” Lopez went on. “The Kyle Jordan case got a lot of attention from law enforcement, from private groups, from the media and the true crime hobbyists.”
“True,” Carlisle said. “Cute kid, suburban kid, white kid, wealthy, influential parents. A made-for-media story.”
“Right. Kids disappear or die all the time. Their cases don’t capture the public’s imagination like this one did. Justice isn’t always served. If you were one of those parents, how would you feel?”
“You think the killer could be a parent?” Carlisle asked.
“Or a friend or relative of a victim who fell through the cracks.”
“Why not start by punishing the podcast hosts and creators?” Sam asked. “They’re the ones who seem to be profiting from their choices as to which cases get aired.”
“Maybe he’s working his way up,” Carlisle said.
Nichols looked up from her notebook. “Wasn’t Tom Levy’s kid snatched off the street right around 9/11?” she asked. “Maybe he believed the slow response harmed the chances of finding his son or his killer. Last month was the twentieth anniversary of the attacks and his son’s disappearance. Maybe he was triggered. It’s possible he’s not a victim in this instance but a perpetrator.”
“I don’t buy it,” Carlisle countered. “No one would fault any responders during a crisis, least of all a crime reporter.”
“Don’t forget, he also got a lot of attention for his son’s case,” Lopez added. “He’s not the one with a beef.”
“Okay,” Nichols said. She bit her lip, dropped her eyes to her notepad, and white-knuckled her pen. No one noticed except Sam.
“I like your angle, Margarite,” Zielinski was saying. “Our killer could be someone close to a victim whose case has gone cold.”
“We have to consider that our killer has help,” Sam added.
“What kind of help?” Nichols asked.
“Maybe they’re not pushing dry ice down anyone’s throat. Maybe they’re buying it. Or procuring other supplies, or helping the killer choose the victims or even finding other ways to cover for the killer. Misdirects, red herrings.”
“So maybe the helpful associate is on the chat,” Carlisle mused.
“Worth pursuing,” Zielinski said. “Margarite, do you mind working with Jessica this morning to vet the names? It’ll speed up the information collecting so we can get on with speaking to everyone.”
“You got it.”
“I’ll join you,” Sam volunteered. She and Lopez fist bumped.
“I’ll take a run at our friendly podcasters this time around, just to make sure they’re not holding out. Danny, since you’ve already met them, why don’t you join me?”
“Sure.”
“I can join you.” Nichols stood.
“Detective, do you mind working with Tate and Lopez on the identification? That’s the critical part of the work this morning.”
“Right,” Nichols replied.
Sam thought of a pot simmering over a low flame.
Zielinski made a show of clearing his throat. “Ah, there’s another matter we need to discuss. It concerns recommendations from the assistant chief’s office as to how she wants us to proceed with the investigation.” He repeated what he’d told Sam, then asked for questions. There were none.
“So, everybody is clear?” Zielinski asked.
“Sure,” Carlisle said. “We do what we do. Sam gets a stipend. The higher ups decide if they like how we’re doing. After which we keep doing our thing or not. Meanwhile, Sam goes or maybe she stays, and Lopez and Nichols work on something with less oversight.”
“Danny . . .”
“It is what it is, Ron.”
“Looks like you’re with us, Chloe,” Lopez said. “I’ll see if I can hold on to this room for another couple hours and bring Holder back in.” She walked out without so much as a glance at the two men.
Carlisle’s telephone pantomime—call me or I’ll call you?—temporarily lifted Sam’s spirits, until she glanced at Nichols. The young woman was glaring at her with such venom that Sam stood up and walked out of the room.
It was only nine thirty in the morning and already it felt like a very long day.
Lopez met Sam outside the conference room. “I noticed you throwing me sympathy looks while Zielinski was telling us the big news,” she said. “Sam, this sort of shit happens all the time. I can’t speak for Nichols, but I’m fine with letting everyone try to stop an attention-seeking serial killer while I work on the regular old homicides.”
“Oh, I can speak for Nichols. She hates me.”
Lopez chuckled. “The girl has issues, that’s for sure.”
“What kind of issues?” Sam asked.
Lopez waved her hands. “Let’s not even go there. I’d much rather get the inside scoop on how you went from PR pariah to flavor of the week.”
“Ron led me to believe someone intervened on my behalf.”
“Oh-ho, help from above. Any idea who?”
Sam thought she might, but the notion was so disturbing she kept bouncing away from it. “I’m not sure,” she said instead.
“Well, someone is high enough up there to flip the story from scandal to brilliant tactical move. That’s a good thing.” She laughed lightly, then switched to a stage whisper. “Ever wonder who outed you to the media in the first place?”
Sam glanced into the now-empty conference room. “I have my suspicions.”
Lopez followed her gaze. “Doesn’t matter now.” She brightened. “On an unrelated topic, what’s with you and the other more charming Queens detective? And don’t say ‘nothing’ or ask what I mean. I got eyes, chica.”
Sam’s face flooded with color. “Margarite, it isn’t . . . I mean, I don’t know what it is or if it’s anything. Probably just some silly flirtation. I’m not here long. And I would never get between anything that might be going on between you and Danny—”
Lopez roared with laughter.
“Sam, Sam,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’m gay. Not part-time, sort of, sometimes, recently, or if it suits me. Sappho from the get-go. Fully committed to the identity and, if you must know, one special person.”
Sam fumbled for the right words. “Of course. I mean, sure. You don’t need to—”
Lopez was grinning. “Hey, you’re not the first person who’s picked up on the love/hate connection between Danny and me. We have a long and sometimes difficult relationship. Partly because he occasionally conforms to every male stereotype ever, partly because I can be an asshole. Mostly because we love each other. Brother and sister, good friends, call it what you will. But it’s not about sex or romance or attraction.”
She grew serious. “I will say this. I’ve seen more than one colleague throw herself onto the rocks for him. Don’t get me wrong: He’s a good guy, and a loyal friend. But he doesn’t know what he wants in the heart department. That can create hard feelings and I don’t want to see that happen here. You seem to have your head solidly attached to your shoulders. Please tell me I’m not wrong.”
Sam wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive posture she immediately recognized for what it was. She dropped them to her sides. “He’s overflowing with charm,” she admitted. “He deploys it so effortlessly he may not even be aware of how potent it is. Which only adds to his charm.”
“And he’s hot,” Lopez added.
Sam snorted. “He really is,” she agreed. “I guess, between COVID-related isolation and my many unresolved issues, I’ve become a little conflicted about what I want. Which, if I had a head on my shoulders, would be the one guy who’s been willing and able to take on all of my baggage and still find a way to . . . to . . .”
“To love you.” Lopez gave her an appraising stare. “You’re talking about the FBI guy, aren’t you? The one who helped you back in Tennessee. Ron mentioned him one time. Not sure how much he knew, except he seems to be an even better detective than I give him credit for being.”
She looked at Sam, her caramel eyes warm. “Maybe I’m not the best relationship expert. Scratch that; I’m definitely not. But I know about need and desire and what feels good in the moment versus what’s good in the long haul. Lust is like a drug. Love is like a hot meal. Both of them make you feel good, but only one of them is good for you.”
She clapped Sam on the shoulder. “End of lecture. How about we go poke our noses into someone else’s business for a while?”
“I’ve divided the names among the four of us,” Holder told the group. “Your job is to find out more about the names on your list: what they do for work, what you can learn about their personal lives, where they live, where they hang out in real life and especially on social media. Use Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, TikTok, YouTube, any of the conspiracy sites, if need be. History is important. I can help with records searches.”
“What is countyhunter’s backstory?” Sam asked. “I assume you created one.”
“That was the fun part,” Holder replied. “Your everyday name is Becky Rainey. You work as an assistant in the Nassau County Clerk’s Office. You have a moderately active Facebook account, a rarely used Instagram account, and a composite image that fits your Boomer persona.”
“Ouch.” Sam laughed. “I sound harmless enough. Let’s see who else we have.”
The diversity represented by the chat group surprised Sam. She’d read that true crime appealed to a broad spectrum of people; she just hadn’t realized how broad.
They’d already determined cloakndagger worked for a national intelligence agency. Sam wasn’t sure that disqualified the person from consideration as a serial killer. Perhaps someone within the NYPD was working back channels for more information. She could put in a call to Terry, see if he had contacts he could tap.
The rest of the list proved to be easy to work. They stuck mainly to public records, from online white pages to social media accounts. Some of the names led to predictable results. Teacherpreacher was a high school teacher and part-time church deacon. Wknddad was a divorced father of two with a sales job that kept him on the road most of the time.
“That might explain the divorce,” Lopez observed.
“Some of these screen names are probably a little on the nose,” Lopez said. “Anyone want to bet semperfi is a retired or active Marine?”
“Guess what deepdiver does for a living?” Nichols asked.
“Someone who works underground,” Sam suggested. “A miner. A subway operator. A spelunker. Definitely someone with a fondness for profanity and smart-ass comments.”
“Good guesses except you’re still giving him too much credit for finesse,” Nichols replied. “Our guy is literally a scuba-diving instructor out on Montauk named Jeff Radner.”
“You got any pictures we can ogle?” Sam asked, prompting giggles.
“You can always check out his Instagram profile,” Lopez said. “Hey, I’ve got the bio for renaissancewoman. She’s a twentysomething named Ellen Keeley, who self-describes as a writer/performer/poet/philosopher/yoga instructor/painter/trapeze artist. Her list of jobs is almost as long: property manager, office assistant, sales associate, telephone marketer, and kindergarten teaching assistant.”
“Following the dream,” Sam said.
“Yeah, but which one?” Holder asked.
They were occasionally stumped. Truthsleuth turned
out to be a physicist and justicewarrior was neither a soldier nor a cop soldier but a court stenographer and mother of five named Esther Torres. Strongcoffee and dedicateddetective were a cab driver and a retired nonprofit executive, respectively.
“Workingmom, Regina Young, has a school-aged son,” Nichols interjected. “She lives in the Bronx and works as a dental technician.”
“Interesting skill set,” Holder noted.
“I’d flag her,” Nichols said.
“I’m not seeing anyone with a police record,” Lopez observed. “Or any victims of assault. You?”
“Not so far,” Holder replied.
“Check the surname Young,” Nichols insisted. “I have a feeling.”
Holder's fingers moved over the keys. “Damn,” she said “The name Cecily Young popped up. Also known as CeCe. Snatched in the Bronx about twelve years ago. She was sixteen. Someone saw her get pushed into a black van. No plates. Never seen again. Wait, I have a picture.” She brought up the image of a slender girl with large liquid brown eyes and high cheekbones.
“She’s a stunner,” Sam said. “Sex trafficking?”
“Or payback if she or her boyfriend ran with the wrong people,” Nichols replied. “Does Regina Young have a sister or a daughter?”
“Two brothers and one sister, all alive, only the son,” Holder said, squinting at the screen. “Young is her maiden name. Maybe she had a teenaged cousin?
“Did the case receive a lot of attention?” Lopez asked. “Doesn’t look like it,” Holder replied. “A couple of days in the news, some sort of anniversary event that stopped after a couple of years.”
“There you go. Revenge on the dilettante detectives.” Nichols sounded triumphant.
“Anything is possible,” Sam said.
“And here we are,” Holder announced. “A text from my friend that leads to a secure email that requires a password and then leads to another encrypted message. All very hush-hush, but that’s why users pay the big bucks.”
Sam watched as the technical analyst typed so quickly it was impossible to make out the individual keystrokes. “I imagine these digital services are expensive,” she noted.
“Hiding in plain sight always comes with a price,” Holder said. Another minute or so passed.
“Got it. Names and addresses for our holdouts.” She rubbed the back of her neck and leaned in. “First, we have puzzlemaven, who lives in New Jersey. Married with kids, all of them apparently alive and well. Weird name, though. Branch Loane, with an e.”
“Let me guess,” Lopez offered. “He’s a bank manager.”
“Says here he’s an author.”
“Yes, he is,” Sam clapped her hands with delight. “That name is an anagram. Look carefully.”
Holder got it first. “Whoa. The mystery writer? I’ve read some of his stuff.”
“Okay, I’ll play.” Lopez stared at the name. “Hot damn, I see it now.” She high fived Sam and Holder. “This guy is famous. What’s he doing in a chat room for fake detectives?”
“Looking for source material,” Sam replied. “Some of his characters are amateur detectives.
“Can we assume our well-known author is not the Dry Ice Killer?” Holder asked.
“Let’s not assume anything,” Nichols said. “We should add him to the suspect list.”
“Or we could wait for his next book,” Lopez said, which earned her a round of guffaws.
“Next, we have seenitall, one Alex Kostakis. He’s thirty-six, never married, lives with his invalid mother Helena. That can’t be a good sign.”
“Let’s not think in stereotypes,” Nichols warned. “He’s not necessarily a closet psychopath living in his mom’s basement. He might be saving up for a house or temporarily strapped for cash. This is an expensive city.”
Lopez looked over Holder’s shoulder and whistled. “He’s in an awfully nice basement. This address is in Forest Hills Park.”
“Does he have a legitimate job?” Sam asked.
Holder nodded. “He’s been gainfully employed as a physician assistant in Mount Sinai’s cardiac units for eleven years. I think the hospital PAs make good money, so he’s not hurting.”
“Maybe he’s helping out his sick mother,” Lopez said. “Guy could be a saint.”
“We can follow up with him,” Sam said. “Who’s left?”
“Notmydayjob, a.k.a. Kevin Turner, actually has a pretty impressive day job. He’s handling program and product development for a private tech company in Maryland with serious government contracts.”
Nichols, who had been quietly sipping her coffee, perked up. “Program and product development?” she queried. “That’s a broad category. Anything more specific?”
“Nope. He could be developing anything from self-operating electric tanks to 3D rockets to AI soldiers. Maybe it’s related to security.”
“He could certainly manage to identify a handful of people on a chat room,” Lopez said. “Not that it makes him a killer.”
“No connection to any crime that I can see,” Holder remarked. “He may work from home. Or his parents’ home. They live in a pretty upscale part of the city.”
“Now that sounds like a suspect,” Nichols said. “We should add him to our list.”
“How about brains&beauty?” Sam asked.
“Right, I was just getting to that one,” Holder said. “Here we go. Teresa Albon. Listed as an entrepreneur, whatever that means.” She rolled her eyes. “Last known address was San Francisco; last listed job was in the tech sector. I’m missing a lot of information, like a birthdate or birthplace. Or an image. I’ll dig a little more.”
Lopez stood and stretched. “We’ve got several people of interest, including Tom Levy and maybe even the government spy,” she said. “Not bad for a morning’s work. We should hunt them down before . . .”
“Before another body drops?” Holder chirped.
“I was going to say, before the hunting party disbands.”
Sam looked up from her phone. “I might have one appointment already,” she said. “Brains&beauty wants to meet with countyhunter.”
“When?” Nichols demanded.
“Not sure. Time and place to be determined.”
“How’d this Teresa person figure out who you were?” Holder asked.
“How did she get your number?” Lopez wanted to know.
Sam looked down at the cryptic text, then back at her colleagues. “How did I go from hunter to prey?”
No one had an answer.
Sam declined Lopez’s invitation to lunch. She wanted to get back to her aunt’s and take some time before her coffee ‘date’ with Andy Mills.
She didn’t mention that she also had an evening meeting scheduled with brains&beauty, a.k.a. Teresa Albon, at a storage facility back in Industry City.
Sam couldn’t know if the meeting was a trap, a prank, or a previously traumatized woman being cautious. Lopez, if she were told, would insist on going. Worse, she’d be duty bound to report to Zielinski, who would then tell the Queens detectives. Sam would be forced to show up accompanied by a small entourage of armed officers. Not the best way to approach a potential source.
Her aunt was delighted to see her. They chatted briefly over homemade risotto before Rosa left for her doctor’s appointment. Sam offered to drive her, but the older woman scoffed at the idea.
“We’ve both got very busy days, dear heart. We’ll connect tonight.”
Mills called Sam soon after. “Here’s an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we meet at Antun’s? I can pick you up if you don’t have a vehicle.”
“How did you figure it out?”
“It’s not rocket science, Lieutenant Tate. You were in the news just last week, right after I met you. So, not an NYPD detective. And to be honest, one case in Queens Village dominated the others back when I was at the 105. Right around the time I made detective. A mass shooting at Antun’s during a wedding. Fourteen dead or injured. Just two survivors in the wedding party, one a young girl who gave testimony and then left New York with relatives. The girl grew into a woman, maybe one who decided to change her name and then become a law officer.”
Sam didn’t reply.
“I don’t know the last time you were back in New York,” Mills continued. “I’m gonna guess you’ve never been back to Antun’s. Why you need to revisit this tragedy now I can’t imagine. You can tell me or not. I want to help you, though. I’ll see what I can pull together and what I can remember. We can meet at the venue or, if you prefer, we can stick with our original plan to meet at the coffee shop close to the precinct. Your call.”
“Let’s meet at the site,” she said before she could change her mind. “I’ll drive. Half an hour.”
“I’ll let them know we’re coming by.”
Sam pulled her Hyundai out of the lot a few blocks from her aunt’s house and plugged in the address. The ride, mostly along Grand Central Parkway, took her through the center of the borough to the section known as Queens Village.
She pulled into the wedding venue’s parking lot at 2:45, unsure what she would remember after all this time. The white clapboard building looked smaller than she expected, the inside less grand. Still, it retained its rococo charm, at least as far as the main lobby was concerned. White wainscotting separated the warm peach wallpaper from the periwinkle fleur-de-lis carpeting anchored by a calligraphy-style A. Fresh flowers adorned the space; a massive crystal chandelier hung overhead.
Andy Mills stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the exterior patios. He held a bulky folder in one hand. Next to him a thirtysomething woman with an anxious air tugged at her brunette hair. “Looks like we’re headed out back,” he said. “Sam, meet Gina Falasco, assistant manager. She’ll be our chaperone. Ms. Falasco, this is Sam Tate.”
Sam noticed he didn’t use her title, probably so Falasco wouldn’t be overwhelmed by a police presence.
“I just want to make sure we can address all your concerns,” the woman said. She twisted the ring on her finger and forced a smile.
Mills gave a reassuring smile. “Not to worry, Ms. Falasco. This visit doesn’t reflect on Antun’s in the slightest. Think of it as a, ah, memory prompt.”
“I was afraid it had to do with some sort of crime.”
Sam and Mills exchanged glances. “I’m trying to remember a face from a long time ago, Ms. Falasco,” she said. “From when I was a child. Detective Sergeant Mills is taking me to a few old places to see if something comes back to me.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Falasco said, clearly relieved. “If you’ll follow me, then. I wasn’t sure which of our outdoor areas you wanted to see. Detective Sergeant Mills mentioned the larger one, Montauk Gardens. It’s set up for our last outdoor wedding of the season next weekend.”
Sam followed her outside, prepared for a jolt. She’d steeled herself to visualize bodies on the makeshift dais at the front of the pathway or hear gunfire and terrified screams.
At first, nothing. She stood at the back of a slatted wood path between rows of white folding chairs that led to the covered section in front of a fieldstone wall. The gardens were dormant, the surrounding walls not as high as she remembered. The neighboring red brick building with the water tower was clearly visible, as were a mishmash of overhead wires. The neighborhood seemed to be forcing its way into the scene.
But what bothered her now must have been all but invisible to the nine-year-old girl in a pink dress made just for her, wearing her grandmother’s necklace and almost-grown-up shoes, a girl who’d been honored with the designation “maiden of honor” at her brother’s wedding.
The memories began to assert themselves: the guests in their dress-up clothes, the flowers, the large wedding party on the custom platform up front Nicole had specially ordered, two sets of parents in the front row, everyone beaming except for the wild-eyed man in the blue suit near the front and the man with the sunglasses wearing brown and watching from the last row . . .
She swayed just as Mills caught her elbow. “You okay, Sam?” he asked, keeping his voice low. “You need some water or something?” Gina Falasco hovered over his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Sam answered. “But I would love a glass of water, Ms. Falasco, if you don’t mind.”
The woman scurried away. As soon as she’d passed through the doors, Sam turned to Mills.
“Let’s see what you have.”
He considered her for a second, then opened the folder. “The critical items here are the reports and the diagram. There are some black and white photos, but we don’t have to—”
“I want to see it all, Andy.”
“Okay, but I gotta ask. Assuming you’d have access through your law enforcement connections to everything I brought in this folder, why haven’t you already looked at all this? And why do you need me?”
“I never looked because I hadn’t put everything together. I wasn’t even allowing myself to think about that day until a couple of years ago. As to the second, you were there.”
Mills looked uncomfortable. “Only in a response role,” he said. “And it was a long time ago. If you want imperfect recollections, you can ask the wedding guests. Friends of your brother, friends of the family. Relatives.”
“I can’t ask any of them. They're either very old or . . . I don’t even know who’s still alive.” She gulped hard. “I want a cop’s-eye view, Andy. An objective breakdown of the crime scene.”
Mills considered her statement. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “Let’s start with the report and the diagram. And maybe you’ll tell me what you’re really after.”
They spent twenty minutes walking the small space. Gina Falasco appeared with the water and left again. Sam sat in the back row, where she’d seen the man in the brown suit.
“Were any casings found back here?
“Nope,” Mills reported.
Sam was momentarily disoriented. Then she realized that a professional killer could get off a shot and pocket a casing, especially during an assault.
“Why?” Mills demanded. “You think there was a second shooter?”
“There was a second man with a gun,” Sam replied. “At least, we located a second eyewitness who confirms seeing a man in the back with a weapon. What neither of us can recall is if he used it.”
She moved to the outside chair of the second row on the right, where Arthur Randolph once stood and screamed about love as he tried to destroy as many people as possible.
“How many shell casings were recovered up here?” she asked.
Mills consulted the report. “It says here forty-five.”
“Which means he got off forty-five shots and two magazine changes in, what, a minute?”
“That sounds about average for an inexperienced gunman who may have practiced some beforehand. Also, if you’re talking effective shooting, two-thirds of his shots went wild, which is also within the realm of possibility.”
Sam mimed raising and siting a gun. “Were most of his shots directed at the wedding party on the platform?”
Mills nodded. “It appears that way. He was aiming for the bride and her ‘happy friends,’ according to his statement. Forensics pulled several bullets out of the pillars. One of them ricocheted off the stone wall and hit a groomsman in the back, killing him instantly.” He looked pained. “One witness recalled that Randolph eventually swung the gun around. We know several of the guests on the ground were also injured or killed.”
An image of her mother appeared to Sam. She pushed it away. “How was he brought down?”
“A couple of guys rushed him while he was reloading. Twice. The first time, one of them fell, and that allowed Randolph to get off a second round.”
“Right.” Sam had one more place to stand and she dreaded moving into position. She walked to the front between the two white pillars and looked out.
“And this is where I was found,” she stated. “Lying under my father’s body.”
“Um, no.” Mills flipped through the notes. “Police were there within five minutes. No cell phones back then, but someone inside Antun’s got through via the land line pretty quickly, all things considered. It was chaos, as you can imagine. The chairs toward the front were all knocked over. Police found you sitting in the back with a couple of older women. Family or friends, maybe. You were in shock.”
“I was sitting in the back?” Sam asked. “Can I take a look?”
The notes were handwritten. Clearly no one had gotten around to entering everything into a computer. At least the paper was encased in a plastic sleeve. She scanned the names the interviewing officer had jotted down. No Rosa.
“I’m not sure who these people are. Family or friends on my side or maybe Nicole’s.” She looked up. “Where did they find my father’s body?”
“Where you’re standing,” Mills said. “Shot in the back. Which means he probably came from up the steps to the dais.”
“That makes sense. He fell on top of me. I remember the weight of him.” She looked around. The shot that killed her father could have come from the end of the second row or from the back.
She reached to Mills. “Let me see the photos.”
Mills handed the folder to her. “ME’s office had one of the first digital cameras ever. The pictures are pretty good.”
They were. Sam felt her gorge rise. She breathed deeply and sent her grief to the corner of her mind. She saw a woman crumpled on the ground who might have been her mother. The dais looked like a massacre, more bodies than she could count, including her brother and her father . . .
“My dad is lying on his back, Andy.”
“What? Let me see that.” He stood behind her.
“He fell face down on top of me,” Sam said. “Someone must have rolled him over to get me out.”
“You were pulled to safety,” Mills observed. “Maybe staff, or one of the male guests?”
She tried to bring up the painful scene. One minute, she was lying under her dead father, her head turned away from his lifeless eyes. The next minute, she was being pulled out from underneath by a pair of strong arms. Someone was telling her she was safe, a voice she didn’t recognize. A man whose brown suit was stained with blood.
Sam left Detective Sergeant Mills and headed into heavy traffic she scarcely noticed. She followed the GPS directions with a part of her mind and let the rest analyze what she’d just learned. Or what she hadn’t learned.
Shell casings pointed to a shooter to the right of the podium and a couple of rows back had gotten off most, if not all the shots. Arthur Randolph. The report confirmed forty-five shots, fourteen of which hit a target. One-third seemed like a high percentage for an inexperienced shooter. Randolph had engaged in recreational shooting as a boy, so he wasn’t a complete novice.
Both she and the best man had seen the man in the brown suit, and both had seen the gun. Who brings a gun to a wedding? An assassin or maybe a bodyguard. Would her father have hired someone to protect the guests? If so, the guy had failed. He got his gun out, but he didn’t manage to stop the shooting.
She suddenly needed to talk with Terry. She punched in his number and held her breath. When he answered on the second ring, she could feel the tension in the back of her neck ease.
“Hey, Tate, you caught me between the supervisor me and the student me.”
“Guess that means I get plain old you. How’s your day been?”
“The usual. Saving civilization by day, studying my ass off at night. We’ve got a serial killer running around Wyoming, of all places. Some new players are taking the place of the drug runners we shut down in Florida last year. One of my field agents quit. On the other hand, I got an A on an important paper.”
“Way to bury the story,” she exclaimed. “Congratulations.”
“It all helps,” he said. “So, how’s it going for you? Where are you, by the way? In a car?”
“Yes. It’s been a long day.”
“Do you have time to tell me?”
“Given the volume of traffic on 495, I do. Bright and early, I walked into Manhattan South, where Ron Zielinski immediately offered me a consulting contract. Part-time, one week at a time, stipend.”
“That’s great,” Terry replied. “Wait, isn’t it?”
“Depends on whether you believe someone can go from liability to asset in the space of a few days.”
“I’ve seen it happen,” Terry said. “Did you accept?”
“I did.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing. Your work is acknowledged, you have a degree of protection as an NYPD adjunct, and you can shorten your vacation by a couple of days if it’s not working out. You could check with Tanner, although I assume what you do with your own time is your business. Definitely forget about the role of politics in all this.”
“Pretty much what Lopez said.”
“I like her. What else?”
“I worked online alongside a smart young tech officer and a couple of detectives, one who likes me and one who doesn’t, to gather info on our chat room participants.”
Terry grunted. “First of all, hard to believe anyone doesn’t like you. Second, I won’t ask you how you got information on anonymous people chatting on a website.”
“Same way your agency does,” she retorted.
He guffawed. “Got me there. Did you get any good leads?”
“More like persons of interest.”
“Sounds productive. None of that should put you on 495 during rush hour, though.”
Of course he’d more than caught up. Terry was the best investigator she knew.
“I’m on my way back from meeting an almost retired detective at Antun’s. He was able to bring along a lot of information and photos and such about the wedding shooting.”
“My God, Sam. That must have been hard.”
“It was confusing,” she admitted. “I didn’t learn much that was new. Nothing that confirms a second gunman. Doesn’t mean someone wasn’t there with a gun. Two of us remember that much. If so, why didn’t he shoot? Unless he did, and then he scooped up all the casings. None of which sheds much light on the person who apparently lifted me out from under my father’s body, either while Randolph was shooting or soon after. Because I seem to remember a brown suit.”
“Are you thinking that your second gunman was not a bad guy but a good guy?”
“I don’t know anymore, Terry. If I don’t remember being taken off that platform, I can’t be certain about anything else, can I?”
“Sam . . .”
“Maybe the problem is I have too much Quinn on the brain. Or should I say, Sean Parker.”
“Speaking of which—”
His offhanded tone was at odds with the Terry Sloan she knew.
“Uh-oh.” She forced a lightness into her voice she didn’t feel. “Should I pull over?”
“Senator Sean Parker called me.”
“He what?” Her mind scrambled to find a plausible explanation. “Oh, you mean someone from his office called. Or someone attached to the committee he sits on, Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs.”
“Nope. The man himself.”
“What did he want?” Her whole body was headed into a clench.
“Relax, Sam. He simply wanted to discuss your, what did he call it, ‘professional trajectory.’ I think he meant your career path.”
“Why you? Why now?”
“Why not? He is the senator from Maryland, and you have been in the news. Odds are, he’s familiar with your work in Talbot County and most recently with the NYPD. Maybe he has another job in mind for you. Sam? You still there?”
“I wonder if he was the influential someone who changed NYPD minds about me,” she said slowly.
“You think Parker stepped in to make sure you stayed on the case?” Terry sounded incredulous. “Why would he do that?”
“To keep me occupied. To stop me from looking into my past.”
Silence.
“You don’t agree.” Disappointment covered her like a blanket.
“Let’s lay it out, Tate. We can connect the man who appeared in your old neighborhood to the man who showed up at your brother’s wedding. The best man says the brown-suited guy he saw called himself Quinn. Is it the same Quinn as your mother’s half-brother? Maybe. Is that person Sean Parker? I don’t know.”
“The eyes—”
“Are green like yours. Only two percent of the world’s population has green eyes but that’s still a hundred and fifty-six million people.”
She had to laugh. “How do you know that?”
“I looked it up to use in a discussion with you.” He paused. “Sam, here’s an idea. Once you finish with your crime-solving vacation, take a few extra days to go meet with the senator. He’s been calling around about you; I’m sure he’ll give you the time. Find out what he wants. That may give you some insight as to who he is. Sometimes direct is best.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She hung up, turning over the conversation in her mind.
The ride back took longer than expected. Sam arrived back at the small house at 5 p.m. to a note from Rosa about an early dinner with friends and leftovers in the refrigerator. The woman certainly had a full social calendar. Or was she keeping herself busy in order not to burden her busy niece?
The very notion filled Sam with remorse. Why couldn’t she stop chasing ghosts, not to mention serial killers, and spend more time with the relative she’d waited too long to visit?
She poured herself a generous glass of wine and immediately poured it back into the bottle. She didn’t need alcohol or even food; she needed a nap. Just twenty minutes, she promised herself. Then she lay down and fell asleep for over an hour.