Deadly Enterprise Page 6

  “Talk about what?” she coyly replied, smiling even bigger and bouncing slightly up and down on her toes.

  “You obviously have something to tell me, Doctor. Whatever it is, I’m going to suggest that you do it here, before we go out, so that we can enjoy our dinner without the distraction.”

  “Great,” Michelle said, turning on a heel and heading back toward her desk, with Mike trailing behind. He settled into the dull government-issue guest chair and looked across the desk, admiring Michelle’s intensity as she gathered up a file, opened the manila folder, positioned it exactly in the center of her immaculate desktop, and then looked up, ready to launch into her report. Mike just smiled and waited.

  “I did some digging into the dead woman from the river, Christine Barker. Now that we know who she is, I found some references to her on Facebook. Her page hasn’t been updated in a while, but she has a sister named Steph who still lives in their home town of Port Angeles. Steph’s Facebook page has a lot of information about Christine.

  “Both Steph and Christine had to deal with their brother, Alex, who was four years older. Alex had spiraled into drug addiction. When Christine was just in ninth grade, Alex graduated and moved out of the house. He was arrested, moved back home, moved out again, was arrested again, went into rehab, then fell out, went back to his ‘drug house,’ and generally made the rest of the family crazy. He went from pot to meth to heroin, and then overdosed. Steph and Christine both dealt with depression. They eventually climbed out of the dark place and seemed to be getting things back together. Then, their father died from cancer, leaving just their mother, who didn’t handle all the pressure well. Steph feels really guilty that she didn’t do more to help Alex, and hadn’t talked to Christine in months.”

  Mike leaned toward the end of the desk, cocked his head to the side and said, “You got all that from her public Facebook page?”

  Michelle grimaced slightly before sheepishly responding. “Well, she contacted me, but after that she sent me a friend request on Facebook and then I could see the private stuff on her page.” The doctor looked up at Mike with pleading eyes.

  Mike took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding. “So, you contacted a person who may be a fact witness in the case and friended her on Facebook so that you could access her information.”

  “No, No. She reached out to me.”

  “How did that happen?” Mike asked, trying to maintain a calm tone of voice.

  “She said she read the article in The Times about Christine’s death. There was a mention about me doing the autopsy and questioning the cause of death, and she looked me up.”

  “And you figured that you would start snooping into her life?”

  “No!” Michelle said defensively. “The point is that I found out a bunch of information that could help the investigation.”

  Mike looked at Michelle’s face, which was begging for some approval. “That’s pretty good police work, Doctor McNeill.”

  Michelle’s face lit up with a combination of pride and relief. “Thanks. I’m hoping this will help us. Steph posted that she doesn’t believe Christine could have died from a heroin overdose. She says that Christine never did heroin because of Alex. That’s consistent with my suspicions about the lack of other needle marks and the general physiology of the body.”

  Mike held up his hands, palms out toward Michelle. “I believe you that the lack of needle tracks is suggestive, but we can’t jump to conclusions. The relatives of the victim never think they could have committed suicide or taken the drugs. That’s a common response. It doesn’t really prove anything. And you said that this sister hadn’t had any communication with Christine in a while, so things could have changed.”

  Michelle’s smile transformed into a momentary pout. “I guess you’re right. But it’s still consistent with my autopsy report.”

  “Have you prepared a summary report of your findings?”

  “No, not yet, but I could do that easily.” Michelle brightened noticeably.

  “Good. Please do that and then I’ll send it to Jason. You never know when it might come in handy. Now, how do you feel about Mexican food for dinner?”

  “Well, Mike, before we go, there’s another thing.”

  “Oh?”

  “I did a review of my own files looking for other young girls who died under similar circumstances. I found three cases in the last year where we had girls under age twenty-five who died from apparent heroin overdoses. Yvonne Calderone, age 20, was found in an alley in Brooklyn. Dawn Schneider, age 18, was found on a bench near Citi Field in Queens. Heidi Henniger, age 21, was picked up by an ambulance in Brooklyn and died in the hospital. In all three cases, the autopsies noted the absence of repetitive needle marks but the cause of death was listed as an overdose of heroin.”

  “Did you do the autopsies yourself?”

  “One I did. The other two were while I was out after the – the incident in Queens, so they were done by different doctors. I don’t know why I didn’t flag the absence of multiple needle marks that time.”

  Mike was silent for several moments. “Do you have any reason to think that these other girls are related to Christine Barker’s death?”

  “Not really,” Michelle said, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Only the similarity in ages and the absence of track marks.”

  “It’s not much,” Mike observed, “but it is suggestive and worth doing some follow-up on.”

  “I’ll keep digging.”

  “Fine. It can’t hurt, and with Sully not really wanting Jason and his new partner to spend time on Ms. Barker, we may be the only ones digging. Now, shall we?” Mike held out his arm and Michelle closed her folder, placed it carefully back in its file drawer, and grabbed her purse.

  Chapter 10 – A Day in the Life

  THE TALL MAN WITH THE GRAYING DARK HAIR sat at his desk inside the Ninety-fourth precinct house. He was reading a report prepared by one of the members of his team on the activities of people believed to be operating as part of the Gallata crime organization, who were under surveillance. The man was in charge of the task force, which was in turn part of the Vice unit. The report detailed the various suspicious and possibly criminal enterprises in which their targets were engaged, and explained how the most recent observations and accompanying investigatory work were moving their project forward. It also explained why more time was needed before any significant arrests could be expected. It was a masterpiece of bureaucratic water-treading, which would satisfy the district commander and ultimately Commissioner Ward, and would keep his group of officers fully authorized to continue their work without any special scrutiny. This was just the way he liked it.

  For someone who worked Vice, the man dressed like a Wall Street banker. He always had a clean and well-pressed suit, a crisply laundered shirt with French cuffs, and black wingtips polished to a high shine. He was solidly built, although as he reached his late 50s there were more soft spots than there used to be. Everyone said he looked “distinguished.” If he put on a tuxedo, he could easily pass as a butler for a wealthy estate.

  After nearly thirty years on the force, everyone in the precinct expected him to retire as soon as he reached his next work anniversary. His wife of many years had died of cancer five years before, leaving him alone. He had two children, who both lived on the West Coast, and while he was well-regarded by the other cops due to his years of experience and professional manners, there were few in the department who would actually call him a friend. In fact, since his wife died, he had become more and more withdrawn and aloof towards his superiors and the precinct’s officers. He also started keeping a bottle of Jamison’s in his bottom desk drawer. Nobody paid it much attention, since they figured that the old man would be gone soon. Everyone assumed, by the way he dressed and carried himself, that he would have a job lined up working security for a white-shoe law firm or some multi-national corporation. He had earned the privilege.

  At 4:58 p.m., he sealed an inter-offi
ce mailing envelope containing the report, dropped it into the outgoing mail basket, retrieved his overcoat and hat from a wooden coat rack near the door, and departed the building for the day. The detectives, who routinely worked until past six, rolled their eyes and secretly longed to have the seniority to leave every day at precisely five o’clock.

  Seventeen minutes later, the man emerged from the subway at Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn and walked along the bustling sidewalk outside the Barclays Center, turning onto a side street and then circling the block before abruptly stopping and entering an old building with an unmarked doorway. A sign nearby identified the place as the Alexander Hamilton Hotel, but you had to look hard to find the sign. Once inside, a man behind a plexiglass security window buzzed the door so that he could walk through. He continued down a dimly lit hallway to the second doorway on the left, where he used a security key card to unlock the door.

  After carefully hanging his coat and hat in the closet, along with his suit jacket, he sat down at a wooden desk. He opened the lower left drawer and extracted a cell phone, a ledger book, a pad of paper, and a pen.

  After arranging his materials, he pressed a speed-dial button on the phone and waited for an answer.

  “Good afternoon, Eddie. Is everything calm today?”

  “Sure,” came the raspy voice from the other end of the phone. “Very normal. I may have a new girl coming in.”

  “Very good. I assume you have done your usual background checks?”

  “Yeah. She’s prime material. Already established in the neighborhood. I sprung her from lockup a few days ago and she made contact.”

  “Do I need to meet her?”

  “Not yet, I think. Let’s let her settle in for a week or so first.”

  “Fine. Let me know. In the meantime, you can send down the afternoon’s receipts.”

  “On it, boss. And I’m sending you a special treat today.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see. I’ll come by later tonight.”

  An hour later, there was a knock at the door. The man removed an ear bud from his right ear, annoyed to miss the climax of the aria, and answered the knock. Before him stood a young woman with long copper hair. She was holding a small box wrapped in brown paper. The box, he knew, carried cash collected by the members of his team who were supplying the local drug distribution operations. The girl, it seemed, was Eddie’s special treat.

  “I’m Candy,” the redhead purred, batting her lashes. “I’m here to deliver.”

  The man pursed his lips. “Thank you, Candy.” He took the box from her outstretched hand, nodded, then closed the door. He carried the package to the desk, re-inserted his ear bud, and returned to his work and his opera.

  Chapter 11 – Assignment Priorities

  Tuesday, Feb. 19

  ON TUESDAY MORNING at 8:45 a.m., Jason stood on the steps outside the precinct house, bracing himself against the cold wind whistling down 94th Street. He was eating the last few bites of a bagel, being careful not to drip any cream cheese on his London Fog overcoat. He waved at Ray, who was climbing up toward the door. “I’m going to be so happy when they let us bring our bagels into the station again,” he said with a wry smile.

  “Amen to that,” Ray agreed.

  “Did you see the email from the medical examiner?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t read it all yet,” Ray replied casually. “It didn’t seem really important.”

  “Here’s a tip for you,” Jason said sternly, “take everything from Doctor McNeill seriously.” With that, he popped the last morsel of his bagel into his mouth and reached for the door handle. Ten minutes later, they were both in a conference room, pouring over a file that had been sent from Central Booking and a group of emails, including the one from Doctor McNeill. Captain Sullivan had given them permission to clear out the case file, but told them he wanted them back on the Rosario murder before noon.

  “We have an arrest recorded on November 25,” Ray said as he drew a solid line across the center of a sheet of paper and wrote the date down on the left-hand edge.

  “If only we had someone to make a list on the whiteboard for us,” Jason mused.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. What’s the next date we have in her record?”

  Ray flipped through the papers in a file folder, then said, “She was picked up in midtown on December 8 for shoplifting. Processed and sent on her way with a desk summons. Then arrested again on December 21, this time in Brooklyn for drunk and disorderly and assaulting a police officer. Got another desk summons. Then brought in for theft and drug possession on January 5 and released again. Looks like on the last one she was referred to drug rehab.”

  “Did she show for her first desk ticket?”

  “No,” Ray said quickly, noting the red stamp on the record. “She is – well was – listed as a fugitive with an outstanding arrest warrant.”

  “Sure. Her and five thousand others with petty theft and minor drug arrests. Great. That’s not going to help us much.” Jason got up and paced around the room. “When was her next record?”

  “That’s it,” Ray replied. “End of file. Since then, she managed to avoid any arrests. The next contact was when the EMTs fished her out of the river.”

  “OK, how about the three other girls the M.E. identified? What do we know about them?”

  “Not much. We have the summary from the M.E., but that’s it. There’s basic intake information on the computer record, but no details and no PDFs of the notes or other documents. Not that surprising. The cases are pretty recent and not high priority, and there’s a long backlog in data entry. We’ll have to retrieve the physical files to get anything more on them.”

  “Fine,” Jason said. “Send a request for the physical files and we’ll see what’s in them.”

  Ray shuffled the papers in front of him and placed them back into the folder, along with the timeline he had been scratching out on his pad. “Dickson, what’s the deal with you and Captain Sullivan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, he treats you like you’re a twenty-year veteran. He never busts you down like he does everybody else, including me. It’s like he’s afraid to offend you, even when you give him shit. How did you become the Golden Boy?”

  “I’m no Golden Boy, believe me. You never saw how Stoneman treated me.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have been here when The Ass of Stone was working with you, now, would I?”

  “Careful, McMillan,” Jason said sternly, “that’s my partner you’re talking about.”

  “I thought I was your partner?”

  “You are, for now, but remember who’s the professor and who’s the student. Stoneman has forgotten more than you’ll ever know about being a detective.”

  “I thought you just said he treated you badly?”

  “He treated me exactly the way I deserved to be treated. Maybe Sully doesn’t want to say the wrong thing to his one Black detective, but Mike never pulled any punches. So, don’t say anything about Culo de Piedra while he’s in rehab from being stabbed and slashed by a serial killer. Got that?”

  “Sure. I got it,” Ray replied sheepishly. “Geez – I thought you didn’t like the guy.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “That’s what some of the other guys say.”

  “What guys?” Jason said sharply.

  “I don’t know. You know how it is, you hear things around. C’mon, I’m not gonna call out any of the other guys around here. That can’t be a surprise to you, can it?”

  “I guess not,” Jason conceded. “But don’t let me hear you perpetuating that rumor. It’s not true. Got it?”

  “Fine. Got it. Sure. Should we get back to the bodega murder?” Ray got up from the conference table and walked toward the door. “Maybe we can make some progress there, since we have some actual leads.”

  “Yeah. It’s always helpful to have real leads,” Jason said as he followed Ray out of the room.
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br />   Chapter 12 – High Hopes

  Wednesday, Feb. 20

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, when Mike arrived for his rehab session, he saw Darren in the gym locker room. The two detectives agreed to meet up after Mike’s session and Darren’s workout were over. When Mike went back to the locker room to change, Darren was sitting on a bench looking like he had recently showered. The room was otherwise empty.

  “How’s the shoulder?” Darren asked.

  Mike raised his arm as far as he could manage, which was somewhere between sixty-five and seventy degrees, according to Terry. All Mike knew for sure was that he could not yet get his arm all the way up to vertical. “Eh, it’s getting there.” He carefully pulled off his workout t-shirt, then turned back to Darren. “I’d really like to come say hi to Marie and the kids.”

  “Sure. Anytime.”

  “Really. I’m serious,” Mike said. “I want to find a date, soon, when I can come over. I want Marie to make me her chicken parmesan. It’s been too long.”

  Darren smiled. “I miss having you around, Mike.”

  “Yeah, well don’t get all weepy on me, you weak lug.” Mike opened up his locker so he could start changing.

  “The kids have asked what happened to Uncle Mike.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told ‘em that when Daddy goes back to work, they’ll get to see Uncle Mike again.”

  “Is that gonna happen?” Mike asked.

  “Sure. It could happen. I’m still on leave.”

  “Yeah, but what do the doctors say? Is there a real chance for you to get back into shape to return to active duty?”

  “I could come back right now,” Darren said defiantly.

  “On one leg?”

  “You’ve got only one arm. What’s the difference?”