“Can’t tell yet,” Bailey said. “But would you mind keeping this on the down low for now?”
“Not a bit.”
We thanked Pete for his help and he wished us luck. “And try to stay cool out there.”
There was no chance of that.
Bailey started the engine so we could get the air-conditioner running, and as I adjusted all the vents to face me, she pulled out her cell. “I’m going to see what we can find in this guy’s name. Car, cell phone, residence. See if it matches what we found in his file.”
“Great, but first…” I pulled out my personal cell phone and entered a number.
I waited while the phone rang. On the third ring, a voice answered. I put the phone on speaker.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, Jack,” I said, doing my best “bimbo babe” impression. “I been missing ya.”
I could hear a loudspeaker announcement in the background but couldn’t make out what it was saying.
“Who is this?” he asked, irritated and wary.
“Don’t you remember? We hooked up at the bar, in the hotel?”
“I don’t remember hooking up with anyone at any hotel, lady. You got the wrong number.”
The loudspeaker announcement sounded in the background again. Then he hung up. But that was okay, because this time I was able to make out the words. “Welcome to LaGuardia Airport…”
33
With the benefit of Jack’s true name and photo in hand, NYPD was able to hit the ground running. They grabbed our boy at the gate, just as he was about to board a flight to Aruba on a ticket he’d purchased in cash. Abe and Bailey had cooked up a charge of possession of stolen property to hold him until we could get there. It was, technically speaking, a legally supportable charge. We did have proof that he’d been in possession of Hayley’s iPad. Of course, that proof hinged on the word of a couple of sketchy kids, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I called the office to get Eric’s approval to fly out to New York while Bailey did the same on her end. I reminded Eric that since Bailey and I would be out there, the office wouldn’t have to pay for an NYPD officer to bring back the iPad. That helped to grease the wheels. Bailey took me home and waited while I packed. It didn’t take long. The occasion didn’t exactly call for strappy sandals and a cocktail dress. We stopped at Bailey’s place so she could pack, and within fifteen minutes we were back on the road and heading for the airport.
“You’ve got to admit, that was a pretty good move I made calling Averly’s cell,” I said.
“Yeah? And what if he’d been gay?”
“You saw this guy’s security photo. No way he’s gay. He had a cheapo haircut with no product in it, and he was wearing a baggy, washed-out T-shirt-”
“They’re not all perfect and gorgeous, Knight.”
“Aren’t we missing the point?”
“Which is?”
“It worked.”
Bailey pulled into the parking structure closest to the terminal. It was expensive, but we didn’t have time to shuttle in from one of the remote lots.
We both had carry-ons, but since I wasn’t allowed to keep my gun and Bailey was, I put my.38 Smith and Wesson in her suitcase. We had to fly coach, naturally, but we got lucky and had the whole row to ourselves-the virtue of taking a red-eye. I’d hoped to get some sleep on the flight, but I was too keyed up. I kept rolling through all the questions I planned to ask Jack Averly and all the possible answers he might give. I looked around, saw that the few nearby passengers were fast asleep, and whispered to Bailey, “What’s he going to say about how he got Hayley’s iPad? ‘Duh, I didn’t know it was hers’? ‘Some dude gave it to me’? ‘I found it on a picnic table’?”
Bailey’s eyes were closed. “Give it a rest, Knight. There’s no way to know what this clown’s going to say until he says it.”
“But seriously, Bailey, he can’t deny knowing whose iPad it is. He works at Russell’s studio for God’s sake. And regardless of how he got it, how come he didn’t return it? If he wasn’t trying to use her iPad to make it look like Brian was alive, then why not give it back?”
Bailey opened one eye. “If you don’t give it a rest I’m going to knock you out.”
“Fine. You get your beauty sleep, and I’ll do the thinking. As usual.”
Bailey pressed the call button for a flight attendant. When she appeared, Bailey said, “Would you mind getting her a Bloody Mary? On second thought, make it a double. No, a triple. And hold the tomato juice.”
I sipped my incredibly strong drink and continued to play out the interview in my head until the alcohol kicked in. I didn’t even realize I’d nodded off until Bailey shook me and said we were about to land.
It was nine a.m. when we got to New York, so we took a cab straight to the station where Jack Averly was being held. Detective Abe Furtoni was on hand to meet us. He was dressed in the shirt and blazer that’s standard detective wear, about six feet tall, solidly built, heavy eyebrows just shy of a unibrow, and an olive complexion with a bluish tint around the jaw that said a five o’clock shadow would show up around noon.
We shook hands and Bailey thanked and congratulated him.
“You’ve definitely had me running these past few days,” he said. “But anything I can do to help you put away the sack of shit who killed that little girl.”
He led us back to the lockup, where it was standing room only, with as many as four men crammed into each four-by-six-foot cell. There was a low hum of male voices and an occasional shout. “Gimme my damn phone call!” Or “I want my lawyer!” But I didn’t mind the noise as much as the smell. No matter where you go, all jails have it: that mix of sweat, grime, and urine, interlaced with the ammonia that vainly struggles to overcome it all.
“Do you have an interview room?” Bailey asked.
“We’ve got a room off the captain’s office. It’s actually a conference room, but if they’re not using it, we can have it. I’ll go check.”
We stepped back out and waited. I tried to spot Averly through the window in the door to the lockup, but it was so filmy it was practically opaque, so all I could see were blurry figures. Two minutes later Abe returned.
“It’s ours for the next half hour,” he said and gestured for us to follow him.
It was a very bare room with one long conference table and wooden chairs all around it. A few framed photographs of captains and other officers hung on the wall, some of which were so old they were black and white.
“Why don’t you sit over there?” Abe pointed to the far end of the room. “I’ve got a couple of officers bringing our boy out. They’ll be staying in here with him. I hope that’s okay.”
A few minutes later I heard the clink of chains, and then Averly shuffled into the room. With his hands cuffed to waist chains and his feet linked together by more chains, he was a one-man band. And he looked just like his security photo: wavy brown hair that reached almost to his collar, sharp, ferret-like features, and very thin chapped lips that he licked nervously as his eyes darted between me, Bailey, and Abe.
We introduced ourselves and told him we were investigating the kidnapping and murder of Hayley Antonovich. Abe again advised Averly of his rights and he again waived them.
He replied immediately, “I don’t know anything about any kidnapping or murder.”
That was way too fast. And he looked way too cool. Not good.
“How did you wind up with Hayley’s iPad and Brian’s ID?” I asked. I couldn’t be sure he’d had Brian’s driver’s license, but we knew he’d used one of Brian’s credit cards to buy the plane ticket to Paris, so I surmised that at one time he’d had the rest of Brian’s stuff too. Unfortunately, by the time NYPD grabbed him, he didn’t have anything of Brian’s on him. So I was basically bluffing. But if he didn’t correct me, I’d know I was right.