“Even though it could have been suicide?”
“They want it closed.”
I studied Quinn’s set jaw. “I get a feeling there’s a but coming...”
“The details on this one started me thinking about a cold case from last Thanksgiving. Another attractive young woman, about the same age, living alone, died the same way. Cora Arnold had far less money and fewer connections than the Billington girl, so she didn’t make front-page news.”
“She overdosed?”
Quinn nodded. “Died Thanksgiving evening last year. Except the Arnold girl didn’t have a domestic, so the body wasn’t found until that Sunday night when she failed to show up for her sister’s birthday party.”
“You think there are similarities in the cases?”
“Not just the timing—both dying on Thanksgiving night. But both died from ingesting the same prescription drug, an opioid narcotic, one that neither of them had been prescribed.”
“No other pills in the apartment?”
“No. The girls were drinkers and known to be promiscuous. They both had a male guest sometime that day.”
“Sex?”
“They had sex. They drank. And he ate junk food.”
“Junk food?”
“Both girls were very slender and had hardly any food in their apartments. No junk food in the cupboards or fridge. Yet there were empty bags of potato chips, pretzels, Doritos—but none of that food was found in either of the girls’ stomachs.”
“You have semen, I take it?” I paused. “That came out wrong. What I meant was—”
Quinn smiled. “I know what you meant. DNA isn’t the problem. Finding the match is. These young women had a lot of people in and out of their lives—friends, relatives, strangers. Fingerprints were taken, but nothing matched perps with previous records. No matches on known boyfriends.”
“Given her level of society and the social-circle issue with the bigwig offspring, I take it interviews are a touchy potato. How aggressively can you question friends and family?”
“What do you think?”
“Your bosses want the case closed. That’s what I think.”
Quinn took a long, sullen sip of coffee. “I think this girl was a victim, Clare, not a suicide, and not an accidental death. I think there’s a guy out there who’s partying with dangerous drugs. He may not have meant to kill these girls, but he did, and he’s at least guilty of manslaughter. He must know about this latest death, given the headlines, but he hasn’t stepped forward. And I don’t think he will. He drugged both girls—even if they took the stuff willingly, he left them unconscious without a second thought. And I think he’ll do the same thing again.”
“Then you have to find him, Mike. No matter what your bosses say.”
“I know.”
“What did your superiors say when you told them all this?”
Quinn’s frown deepened. “Circumstantial similarities. It doesn’t help my theory that both girls had a history of using drugs recreationally—although rarely.”
“Didn’t the domestic worker see anyone come into the apartment?”
“The domestic’s a young, single woman—a live-in. She was given the day off, which she spent with her sister’s family in Queens. She returned around eight that night. That’s when she found her employer.”
I sipped my own coffee, considering the facts. “What did the victim do that day?”
“We know that Billie went to a party that morning on the Upper West Side—a large apartment that had a view of the Thanksgiving Day parade.”
“That kind of parade-watching party is pretty common in the city,” I said. “What did the people at the party tell you?”
“Billie talked to almost everyone there. She watched the parade and left the party alone. She entered her building alone. The doorman never announced anyone for her, and the lobby security camera confirms the doorman’s story. There’s a service entrance to the building, no camera on it, but it’s securely locked from the inside and there’s no sign of a break-in.”
“The man must have lived in Billie’s building, then, right?”
“That’s what we think; even though Billie had no history of sleeping with anyone in her building, it could have been a solitary sexual fling. We’re still working on getting DNA samples from the male residents—including the married men. It’s a touchy legal issue. Most have lawyers who are fighting it. This is a tough one, Cosi.”
I sipped more coffee, then drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Wouldn’t the DNA help your theory? If the Billington and Arnold girls had sex with the same man—even if you can’t ID the guy yet—wouldn’t that prove the pattern you’re arguing?”
“Yes, it would, and I’m trying to get that test done.”
“Maybe there are more victims, too. Did you think of that? Cases with those same things in common? And if you find those, you might find other things in common—like the killer.”
Quinn gave me a half smile. “Logical next step, Detective. And, yes, Sully and I thought of that.” Sully was short for Sergeant Finbar Sullivan, Quinn’s right-hand man on the OD Squad.
“He and I are going to work that angle this week, quietly, along with our regular caseload. We’re going to review the cold-case interviews with Cora Arnold’s friends and family; look for anything in Cora’s life that might intersect with the facts we’ve gathered about the male residents of Billie’s building. I wanted you to know because it’s going to mean some late nights and early mornings. It’s important you understand...”
“I get it, Mike. You’re warning me that you won’t be around much.”
“I want to help with Alf, Clare—”
“I know you do, but I can handle it. I can. How hard can it be to ask James Young a few questions, judge his reactions?”
Quinn studied me. “You need to have a partner watching your back.”
“I know. That’s why I took Esther with me last night to the courtyard.”
“But she left you.”
“That was my call.”
“Well, do me a favor, sweetheart; bring backup and keep it there, okay?”
“Okay. I will. Don’t worry.”
“Can’t promise that.” He smiled. “In the meantime, I’ll see what I can dig up for you on Franco.”
“Thanks. I mean it.”
He shrugged. “’Tis the season for favors. And you did tell me what you wanted for Christmas.” We both smiled at that.
“Speaking of Christmas,” I said, “we haven’t discussed plans for the holiday. Do you have time scheduled with your kids? I was thinking we could take them ice skating in Bryant Park, see the tree at Rock Center. There’s always frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity, and Macy’s windows are really nice this year. Is Molly too old for Santaland? Joy loved doing that until she was almost eleven.”
“Whoa—slow down.” Quinn shifted in his chair. “The kids won’t be around, Clare. My wife’s taking them to Florida. Her boyfriend’s family’s down there and she wants them to meet the kids—
“Ex-wife,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“You called her your wife.”
“I did?” Quinn frowned. “Habit, I guess. Anyway, since they’ll be gone for two weeks, I also agreed to be available for coverage over Christmas and New Year’s—favors owed, you know? The guys who have families know I’m divorced now, so I agreed.”
“Oh. You really are going to be off the map.”
“It’s no big deal, is it? I mean, you’ve been pretty excited about Joy coming back from Paris for the holidays. You warned me you were going to spend some serious girl time together, right?”
I nodded, smiling at the thought of seeing my daughter again, catching up with all the exciting things she was learning and tasting and cooking in France. “You’re right. I’ve really missed her.”
“I know you have, sweetheart. So look at the bright side: You’ll be so busy visiting with her, I doubt you’ll miss me much.”
My heart sank a little at that. Of course I would miss him, especially at this time of year. But I didn’t say so. I mean, I didn’t want to lay on the guilt. I understood about the demands of his job (it was one of the things that broke up his marriage), and it seemed to me what he needed most now was reassurance that overtime wasn’t going to hurt our relationship.