“For just her?” He meant Terri Bridges.
“All the same e-mail provider, but different usernames. For whatever reason. And her boyfriend’s got one. I’m getting out of a taxi now.”
Marino heard her driver say something, and then Berger did, and then the taxi door shut and he could hear her better.
“One second,” he said. “Let me get to my car.”
His unmarked dark blue Impala was parked just ahead.
“Where are you and what are you doing?” she said.
“Long story. Morales mention anything to you about a case in Baltimore and one in Greenwich, Connecticut?”
“I think I just made the point that I haven’t talked to him.”
He unlocked his driver’s door and climbed in. He started the engine and opened the glove box, looking for a pen and something to write on.
“I’ll e-mail some stuff to you, think I can do it from my BlackBerry,” he said. “And Benton should get it.”
Silence.
“If that’s all right with you, I’ll e-mail what I’ve got to him, too.”
“Of course,” she said.
“You don’t mind me saying it, nobody’s talking to each other. An example of what I mean? You got any idea if the cops looked upstairs in Terri’s building last night? Like maybe checked the roof access and the ladder in the utility closet?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Nothing in the report. No photographs,” Marino said.
“That’s interesting.”
“The roof would have been an easy way to get in and out, and nobody sees you. There’s a fire-escape ladder on the west side of the brownstone—like I said, nobody sees you.”
“Morales should know the answer to that.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure the subject will come up. And one other thing. We need Oscar’s DNA run through CODIS right away. Because of Baltimore and Greenwich. Have you gotten my e-mails?”
“Should already be in the works. I’ve asked for answers tonight. Yes, I’ve gotten your e-mails,” Berger said. “Nice of Morales not to bother alerting me about two other possible cases.”
“Meaning Oscar’s in CODIS or will be soon,” Marino said. “I’m sure Morales was going to get around to it.”
“I’m sure,” Berger said.
“I’ll leave word about the DNA with the investigator in Baltimore I hooked up with,” Marino said. “Not that I’m holding my breath we’re going to get a hit with Oscar on those other two cases. I don’t know. Something’s not right about it. Doesn’t work for me thinking he did those. And his girlfriend.”
Marino always knew when Berger took somebody seriously. She didn’t interrupt or change the topic of conversation. He kept talking because she kept listening, both of them careful about being too specific, since he was on a cell phone.
“These other two cases I’ve sent you info on?” Marino said. “The part I left out is what I was just told over the phone. They got junk DNA. A mixture of other people’s DNA.”
“Like we did in this one here?” Berger asked.
“I don’t want to go into all this now for security reasons,” Marino said. “But if you could maybe get a message to Benton. I know he’s here. I know he’s in the city. Morales says he is and that they’re going to the morgue later. We can all keep hoping we don’t bump into each other. I’m just going ahead and saying it. No point in running around the fat-ass elephant in the room.”
“They’re not at the morgue yet. Dr. Lester’s been delayed.”
“That’s the only kind of laid she’s ever been,” Marino said.
Berger laughed.
“I’d say within the hour everyone will be there,” she said, and her tone was entirely different.
As if she found him interesting and amusing, and maybe didn’t hate him.
“Benton and Kay,” she added.
She was letting Marino know, and in doing so, it was her way of saying she wasn’t his enemy. No, it was better than that. She was telling him she might just trust and respect him.
“But it would be helpful if all of us got together,” he said. “Have a case discussion. I asked the investigator from Baltimore to come. She should be here in the morning. She can be here whenever we want.”
“That’s fine,” Berger said. “What I want right now is for you to get me the passwords and account histories associated with the usernames I’m about to give you. I’ve already faxed a letter instructing the provider to put a freeze on the accounts so they stay active. And one other thing. If anybody else calls for this info, they don’t get it. You make that clear to whoever you talk to. I don’t care if it’s the White House, the passwords aren’t to be given to anybody else. I’m on my cell.”
She must be referring to Oscar Bane. Marino couldn’t imagine who else would know what Terri’s and Oscar’s usernames and e-mail providers were, and without them, one couldn’t get the passwords. The car’s interior light was off, and he left it off. An old habit. He used his flashlight to write down the usernames and other information she gave him.
Marino said, “Is Oscar still on the ward?”
“Obviously, that’s one concern.” She didn’t sound as all-business as she usually did.
She sounded almost friendly, and maybe curious, as if she’d never given Marino much thought, and now she was.
“I don’t think for much longer,” she added. “And there are some other developments. I’ll be at a forensic computer group called Connextions, which I have a feeling you’re familiar with. Here’s the number.”
She gave it to him.
“I’ll try to grab the phone before Lucy does,” Berger said.
Chapter 16
Jet Ranger was almost deaf and quite lame, and was seriously compromised in the potty department. Lucy’s elderly bulldog was not a native New Yorker.
His dislike of concrete and asphalt posed a serious problem in a city where soulless people were known to sprinkle red pepper in sparse patches of dirt or grass that might surround an occasional tree. The first time Jet Ranger got a snootful when sniffing for just the right spot, Lucy figured out correctly that the shop nearest the puny maple was to blame, and handled the matter swiftly and without reprimand or explanation.
She’d walked in early the next morning, flung twenty ounces of crushed red pepper all over the shop, and in case the dumbstruck owner missed the point, dumped a generous dose in the urine-stinking back room on her way out the back door. Anonymously, she reported Save My Sole shoe repair to PETA.
She walked her slow, arthritic bulldog a good half-hour before success, and as a result was late. When she reached her building, a Baggie of poop in hand, Berger was silhouetted in the waving gaslight of lanterns against old brick and iron railings, waiting by the three steps that led up to Lucy’s heavy oak front door.
“They make colorful ones in the little dispensaries,” Berger’s shadowy face said as it looked at the Baggie. “Ones that aren’t transparent.”
Lucy dropped Jet Ranger’s job well done into a trash barrel. She said, “Hope you haven’t been waiting long. He’s not a city boy. Must have had a real grass yard with a white picket fence in an earlier life. His name’s Jet Ranger, as in the first helicopter I ever owned. Jet Ranger, meet Jaime. He doesn’t know any tricks, like shaking hands or high-fives or hovering. He’s pretty simple, aren’t you, boy?”