“One more thing,” I said, stepping back into the elevator with the Metro-North guard. “Our killer was in this elevator shaft, so you’d better hurry up with that list of key-holders you’re looking for.”
“How can you tell?” Mike asked, doubling back to study whatever I was looking at. “He didn’t drop anything. There’s nothing on the floor.”
“Where’s the best place to look for prints in an elevator?” I asked.
There was the clear outline of a fingerprint on the call button of the old cab, right on top of the letter D, which would have taken the man down. We didn’t need powder to bring its detail into focus. It was patent-obvious to the human eye-not latent.
“My bet is that it will match the profile of the man who cut himself in the suite at the Waldorf Towers.”
Mike was trying to push me aside so that he could see the smudge himself. “What if anyone else pushed the same button after that? Impossible to get a clean lift.”
“No one can get in this elevator,” the guard said. But I wasn’t listening to him.
“This one’s in blood, Mike. Get someone from the squad over here to lift it ASAP. It’s a fingerprint highlighted in the blood of the man who killed Corinne Thatcher, and it’s giving us his escape route.”
THIRTY-ONE
The three of us practically raced back to Grand Central in the afternoon heat, moving south on Park Avenue, caught in the early exit of many professionals also heading to the terminal for their weekend getaways.
Rocco Correlli was waiting for us in the stationmaster’s office. We took over Don Ledger’s desk after learning that he was resting comfortably at New York University Hospital and would be released after twenty-four hours of observation.
“I need you in the next room, Alex.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“The Tsarlev girl’s roommate just got in. We need you to calm her down and get the story.”
“Of course. Was Ryan able to reach Corinne’s parents and brother?”
“Yeah, but so far there’s no obvious connection. Not by age or neighborhood or school or job. Total disconnect.”
“That only fits if he’s picked them at random, Rocco,” I said, “and there’s way too much overkill for that to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rapists rape. Over and over again when they get good at it. They don’t usually kill unless it’s a grudge against a particular vic they know, or the woman resists the attack, the guy goes nuts and ups the force.”
“No resistance from a woman like Thatcher, who’s been drugged.”
“Not to mention a master plan with three murders perfectly orchestrated.”
“Three, so far.” Correlli was constantly popping candy in his mouth in place of sucking on a cigarette inside the terminal offices.
“Tell your guys to keep working with Ryan Blackmer. They’ve got to drill down a few levels to find the common denominator. Feed him whatever they get so he stays on top of it,” I said. “Where’s the roommate?”
“C’mon,” he said, walking me out to an even smaller office a few doors down.
He knocked and opened the door. A sullen-looking young woman was sitting at a small table with her head on her crossed arms as though napping. She lifted her head when I stepped inside.
“Hi, I’m Alex Cooper. Thanks for coming into the city on such short notice.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m an assistant district attorney. I work on sexual-assault cases with the police. And on homicides.”
“Like SVU?”
“What?”
“Like the TV show. The Special Victims one.”
“Yes, except this is real.”
“Way cool. I love that show.”
“I’m so very sorry about your friend. About Lydia.”
She rubbed both eyes with her fists and yawned at me. I thought she’d been crying, but she was only tired. I didn’t know why the lieutenant thought she needed calming down. She didn’t seem the least bit agitated. “We weren’t really close or anything, but thanks.”
“What’s your name?” I pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat down.
“Jean. Jean Jansen.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“Do you mind if I ask you some questions about Lydia?”
“Sure. But I don’t know that much.”
“Do you go to the same college as Lydia?”
“Yeah. Westchester Community. It’s a two-year school.”
“Where are you from?”
“My family lives outside of New Haven now, but I grew up in Yonkers, so I wanted to come back here to go to school.”
“You have a lot of friends from this area?”
“Sure.”
She was slightly overweight, with pudgy arms extending from the T-shirt she was wearing that proclaimed her love for the Kings of Leon.
“You shared an apartment with Lydia, is that right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So you must have been somewhat friendly.”
“Friendly, yeah. But not like good friends. My roommate from first semester didn’t come back to school, so we got together on Craigslist ’cause I needed someone to split the rent.”
“I see.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
Jean Jansen was picking the remains of an iridescent blue polish off her nails. “Like what do you want to know?”
“You understand that Lydia is dead.”
“Yeah.”
“Murdered,” I said, hoping to get the girl’s attention, even though she’d heard the story on the news. “Her throat was slit, Jean, from ear to ear.”
She never took her eyes off her stubby fingers. “Gross.”
“That’s all you have to say about it?”
“I mean, I’ll go to the funeral. It’s just totally gross she died like that.”
“We’re trying to find out why someone would want to kill Lydia,” I said. “So if my questions spark any sort of answer that might help us-no matter how crazy it seems to you-just tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Okay.”
“The police found Lydia’s student ID, but there were no other papers with it. Nothing that tells us any more about her.”
Jean was silent.
“Well?”
The girl looked at me. “Well, what? Was that supposed to be a question?”
Score one for the Sullen Teens team. I wanted to light a fire under her, but it didn’t seem likely I could ignite it.
“When did Lydia move in with you?”
“It was February. A couple of weeks after the second semester began.”
“Did you share a bedroom?”
“No. The place is small, but we each have our own room.”
“Did she have a computer?”
“The cops already searched the place. Tore her room apart looking for stuff,” Jean said. “Lydia had a laptop, but it isn’t there. Neither is her phone. She took them with her when she went.”
“Went? Went where?”
Jean Jansen shrugged. “To get herself killed, I guess.”
I sat straight up, surprised by the young woman’s nonchalance.
“You think that’s what Lydia did? Get herself killed?” I asked, spacing those last three words and barking them out, for emphasis.
“I mean, I don’t really know. I don’t want to be here, Ms. Cooper,” she said, showing emotion for the first time. Unfortunately, it was about herself. “My boyfriend is already so pissed off that I called the hotline.”
“Why? What you did has helped us enormously. It’s going to prove a huge benefit to Lydia’s family.” I’d save the boyfriend’s problem for a later question.
Jean looked at me quizzically. “Oh, really? Where’s her family?”
“We know she’s a foreign student. We were hoping you could tell us about them. About where Lydia is from.”
“All I know is what she told me, and we didn’t talk that much. I know she’s from Russia.”
“That’s a good start. Do you know what part of Russia?”
Jean flaked off a good-sized piece of nail polish, which landed on the floor next to my sneaker. “I can’t remember that, if I ever knew.”