“I found them.”
Notice he didn’t say, “What ID?”
“How’d you get them?” I asked.
His eyes darted around the table, then settled on a point over my right shoulder. It didn’t take an expert to know that whatever came out of his mouth next would be a lie.
“In a car.” He shrugged. “I guess it was wrong, but it was unlocked, and the stuff was right there on the floor.”
“So you decided to help yourself.” The disdain in my voice made it very clear what I thought of this horseshit story.
“Yeah,” he said with a defiant look. “I figured I could buy myself a free trip and have some fun.”
“Then why didn’t you take that flight to Paris? You bought the ticket, why not go?”
He shrugged. “Changed my mind. Decided I’d rather hang out here for a while.”
“So you wasted the money on a ticket to Paris because…?”
“Why not? Wasn’t my money.”
“So you didn’t know whose iPad it was when you took it?”
“No.”
“But you must’ve realized whose it was when you used it to book the flight to Paris.”
He shrugged again, nonchalant. “Not really. I didn’t care.”
We’d flown all this way just so this asshat could lie-badly-to our faces. “This is complete and total bullshit. You want to try again with something that resembles the truth?” There was no point pussyfooting around with this guy. He wasn’t intimidated, he wasn’t scared, and he wasn’t remorseful. And there was no way he was going to give us anything.
He favored me with a cold little smile. “Yeah. Here’s the truth: I want my lawyer.”
Abe gave the high sign and the two officers escorted him back out.
“What did he have on him when you arrested him?” I asked Abe.
“His cell, his wallet-with his own ID. We haven’t searched his suitcase yet.”
“Can you release his cell phone to us?” Bailey asked.
“Yeah. And we can hang on to him and keep the stolen property charge alive for a while if you like.”
“I like,” Bailey said. “Is he calling his lawyer now?”
“Should be.”
“Be nice to hang around and see who shows up, if you don’t mind.”
34
Abe sent a uniform out for subs while we waited. He got a meatball, I had a ham and Swiss, and Bailey had a pastrami. We’d just rolled up the paper wrappers into balls and taken turns trying to make baskets into the trash can in the corner when the sergeant came in to tell us that Jack Averly had decided he didn’t want to call anyone right now.
“Lucky break,” Bailey said. “Abe, can you keep him off the phone for a little while? If we’re right that he’s working with someone, it’d help if he couldn’t send up a flare.”
“I can try. But they do smuggle cell phones in here and I’d bet he’s waiting to make a friend in the tank who’ll let him use one.”
Bailey nodded. “Your jail phones are monitored?” Most were nowadays.
“Yeah.”
“Averly probably needs to call his buddy to hook him up with a lawyer,” Bailey said. “But if he uses your phone, we’ll know who he called.”
We thanked Abe for all his help and declined his offer of a ride to the airport.
“We’ve got to make a stop before we head back to L.A.,” Bailey explained.
We couldn’t put it off anymore. It was the fifth day since Brian’s body had been found-much longer than we’d intended-and we couldn’t push our luck any further. We had to notify Janice of his death. Bailey had called to tell her we’d be in Manhattan, and by coincidence, Janice had meetings in the city, so she’d be staying at the St. Regis Hotel, a swanky old-school place in midtown, near Central Park. Even if I hadn’t already known she was a bestselling author, the fact that she could afford those prices would have been a tip-off.
I hadn’t noticed the weather because we’d been inside ever since we landed. But now, as I stepped outside, I felt like I’d been smacked with a wet towel-a very hot, cloying wet towel. Unlike the arid heat in Los Angeles, summers in New York City are sticky, humid, and airless, and the odors emanating from the sewers can turn your stomach inside out. It’s why everyone runs up to the Hamptons, or Connecticut-anywhere to escape the misery. Within ten seconds, I was dripping with sweat and dying for a shower. Fortunately, we lucked out and got a cab quickly.
The doormen at the St. Regis have to wear full livery: top hat, jacket with epaulets, and gloves. In this heat, it must’ve been torturous. I took a photo so I could show Angel how easy he had it compared to these guys.
I hadn’t spoken to Janice since we’d found Brian’s body, but we did have one more contact after our first conversation. It was when she’d heard about Hayley’s death on the news. Although I hadn’t told her Hayley’s last name, she’d put two and two together-and she’d called to tell me in no uncertain terms that Brian couldn’t possibly have been responsible. At the time, I hadn’t known she was right. I told her that since Brian was the last one to be seen with Hayley, we had to consider him a possible suspect. If she heard from him, the smartest thing to do would be to get him to surrender. She promised she would. I promised I’d clear him if I could.
Now it occurred to me with bitter irony that I was about to keep my promise. Janice answered the door dressed in flowing black palazzo pants and a white tank. She looked to be in her forties at most, though I knew she was ten years older than that. Janice had the same slender build as Brian, but not his soft, rounded features. Her cheekbones were prominent and she had a slight hook to her nose. But her eyes were gentle, kindly. Janice ushered us in graciously and offered us something to drink. We thanked her but declined. The posh suite had a sitting room but, as is typical of so many hotels in the city, no view to speak of at all-unless you count the offices of the building across the street as a view. Given Manhattan rates, I figured the suite had to be setting her back at least a couple of grand a night.
Janice took a seat on the couch, and we sat across from her in the small French Provincial chairs. Given what she already knew about Hayley, it took her just one look at our faces to know what we’d come to tell her. Janice put her hands to her cheeks. “No, oh, no,” she said. “He’s not…please don’t tell me…”
“I’m so sorry, Janice,” I said. I told her what had happened to Brian as delicately as I could and concluded by saying, “We think Brian and Hayley were likely killed by the same person…or persons.”
Though I was sure she had considered the possibility that Brian had met the same fate as Hayley, reality and possibility were two different things. Janice dropped her head and put one hand to her chest as tears quietly rolled down her cheeks. After a few moments, she asked in a tremulous voice, “Do you have any idea who did this?”
“We believe there had to be more than one person involved,” Bailey said. “We’ve got one suspect in custody here in New York. We’re still working on finding the second suspect.”
Janice nodded and looked out the window behind us. “I didn’t really get to know my nephew well until his mother died. I took him in because there was no one else. I wasn’t sure it would work out. I’d always lived alone, so I worried, what on earth would I do with a teenage boy? But it was the best thing, by far, that I’ve ever done. He was charming, sweet, and so loving. With all the loss he’d suffered in his life, he was still one of the most cheerful, generous, kindhearted people I’d ever known. He changed my life. Even got me to watch television. Brian loved The Wire, and he made me a fan too. And I introduced him to classical music and museums.” She fell silent for a few moments, then continued as she stared out the window. “We had such fun. I remember taking him to see a modern art exhibit-he made me laugh so hard. ‘Aunt Janice,’ he said, ‘that’s not art. I could do that with a paint roller’…” For a moment, the happy memories made her smile. Then the harsh reality of the present took hold again and she bent her head as a fresh wave of tears poured from her eyes.