Rico rolled his eyes and unhooked the velvet rope for the now jubilant blonde and her friends. “Guilt trip much?” he said in Rachel’s direction.
“Just keeping it real,” Rachel said with a smile. The optimistic eyes of the other expectant people in line now firmly on her, she walked east on Little Twelfth Street, then watched the bustle of Ninth Avenue while she enjoyed her smoke on the corner.
A blue Ford Taurus approached from Greenwich Street and pulled to the curb in front of her. The driver rolled down his window. “You know where a club called P.M. is?”
“Yeah, you just passed your turn.” Rachel pointed to Gansevoort Street.
“I get so turned around down here,” the man said.
Rachel could see why. Greenwich, Gansevoort, Little Twelfth (not the same as Twelfth), and Ninth Avenue all merged together at this humble intersection.
“No offense,” Rachel said, “but you don’t exactly look like a P.M. kind of guy.”
“I’m not. It’s a long story.”
“Sounds interesting.” Rachel liked hearing stories. It was one of the reasons she’d learned how to tend bar. Overheard conversations morphed into ideas that transformed into written words.
“Not really. Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
“Wow,” she said. “You’re really going to need better material if you’re going for P.M.”
“Look at me. I’m in a Ford Taurus, for God’s sake. I’m in no position to try a line. You really do look familiar.” He snapped his finger at the recognition. “You make an excellent margarita. Mesa Grill.”
“Mesa Grill,” she confirmed, rubbing her arms for warmth.
“That smoking ban’s harsh in winter. Here, hop in.” The man nodded toward the passenger seat.
“Do I look like the kind of girl who jumps into cars with strangers?”
The man shifted his weight to the left, pulled out a wallet with his right hand, and flipped it open. She took a close look at it.
“See? I’m legit. That long story behind my going to P.M.? I’m out here checking out the clubs on official duty. I’m dreading it. You’re freezing. The least I can do for a woman who made me such a memorable margarita is to let you finish your smoke in my warm car. Then we’ll both get on with our lives.”
She had a good half of a cigarette to go, and she was freezing.
When she got into the car, she nearly hit her head on the flipped-down sun visor.
“Here, let me get that for you.” When the man reached across the car with his left arm, she saw the blur of a piece of fabric in his hand, then immediately felt a wet towel pressed hard against her face. She felt her seat recline abruptly. As she lost consciousness, she wondered who would call her father. She wondered if she would ever get a chance to finish that scene she was working on-the one in which she had hoped he would find the secret meaning.
The man flicked Rachel’s cigarette out the window and pulled into traffic on Ninth Avenue.
PART IV / The Final Victim
CHAPTER 37
“MORNING, MANNY. Can I get a large coffee? No room. And a lemon Danish.”
“No room. You really think I need a reminder on that? Every morning of every day, you get a large coffee, no room. I got it now. We’re good for life, sweetheart.”
“You’re my kind of person to be good with, Manny.” Ellie didn’t mind that the older man behind the deli counter called her sweetheart instead of the official titles he used with the other cops. She’d realized a long time ago that the occasional harmless byproducts of tradition actually made it easier for men of a certain generation to accept her.
Her cell vibrated at her waist. According to the screen, it was another call from Peter, the second already this morning, and it was only eight o’clock.
She’d called him last night when she’d gotten home from St. Vincent’s. Just as Jess had predicted, Peter had an explanation for everything. He had only kept his profile on the First Date site because he thought it might come in handy while researching the book. He had only mentioned her to the Simon & Schuster editor as he was explaining why he was having second thoughts about the project.
An hour into the call, Ellie felt like she was on duty, interrogating a suspect who believed he could talk his way out of anything. She’d ended the conversation by telling him she needed a break. Peter had acquiesced, but he clearly had a different definition of the word. Just as she had earlier, she let the call go to voice mail. Once again, there was no beep alerting her to a new message.
Manny passed her a tall cup of coffee across the counter. “What’d you do to yourself there? Those boys at the precinct aren’t beating up on you, are they?”
She held up her hand, still wrapped in white gauze. “Shark bite. Can you believe it? Jumped right out of the Hudson River.”
“Ah, we got a smart aleck over here now. Get a load of you, a shark bite.”
“It was just a misunderstanding yesterday. I’m fine.”
“The bad guy got it worse?”
Manny had enough cops go through here to know the lingo.
“That goes without saying.”
“Well, if you’re gonna walk around with that humongous bandage on your hand, you need to work on your stories. The best tall tales are the ones you might actually believe are the truth.”
Ellie found herself thinking about Manny’s words during the two-block walk to the precinct. She thought about Chelsea Hart, Lucy Feeney, Robbie Harrington, and Alice Butler. She replayed Rogan’s argument that Chelsea was different: They were all pretty rough city chicks. Hard-knock-life, round-the-way girls, not wide-eyed college students from Indiana. She thought about the murder of Darrell Washington just one day after he’d used Jordan McLaughlin’s stolen credit card at the Union Square Circuit City.
By the time she was at her desk, retrieving her Danish from its greasy paper bag, she had decided that her jumbled thoughts at least warranted a phone call. She used the heel of her bandaged palm to flip through the pages of her notepad.
An electronic voice informed her that Jordan McLaughlin’s cell phone had been disconnected. She tried Stefanie Hyder’s number instead and got an answer.
“Hello?” It was barely seven o’clock in Indiana, but Stefanie sounded alert.
“It’s Detective Ellie Hatcher from the NYPD. How are you holding up?”
“It’s been pretty rough. You know what happened to us on Wednesday?”
“I heard. That must have been awful.”
“It’s not like it was anything compared to Chelsea, but the whole reason we’d gone to the museum was to read this poem she liked in front of the place she had thought was so magical when we went before-well, you know. And then to have it ruined like that… We didn’t get a good look at the guy. It’s like all either of us could see in that moment was the gun.”
“Did someone from the department notify you that they found Jordan’s stolen credit card at another crime scene?”
“Yeah, we got a call last night right after we landed. We were pretty freaked out by the whole thing.”
“It’s probably good that you were finally able to go home. I was actually calling to follow up on something you mentioned the other day. You said Chelsea had a way of making up stories about herself?”
Ellie could hear the smile in Stefanie’s voice. “That was a classic Chelsea move. She didn’t do it to be mean, but if someone really cheesy was hitting on her or something, she’d weave some crazy identity out of thin air.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever happened to strike her as funny. She told some guy at a diner our first morning in the city that we were there to audition for the Martha Graham Dance Company. By the time she was done talking, she had described some elaborate improv thing we were supposedly doing with bar stools. Other times, she’d say she was a stripper. When we were in high school, she’d tell people we were lesbian runaways.”