I was about to press the matter when my pager beeped.
MICHAEL SHIN IS a thin, wiry man, with excellent instincts and a conscientious work ethic. He had just finished the autopsy when Lee and I entered.
“Such a beautiful child.” Shin stripped off his gloves and dropped them into a bin. “Come on, I’ll buy you coffee and give you a rundown.”
We followed him down the corridor to the staff kitchen.
“Three stab wounds to the chest,” Shin said. “A thin, flat instrument. Smooth-edged. The tip broke off in one wound. And the wounds match the tears in the clothing. I also found traces of condom use, foreign pubic hairs, and epidermal cells.”
“Rape?” I asked.
“There was no tearing or bruising. I’d say it wasn’t the first time.”
“A boyfriend? The father?” Lee suggested.
“Get a DNA sample and we’ll see.”
We paused at the kitchen entrance.
“She’d eaten about three hours earlier – pasta with meat sauce – and she must’ve had a snack soon after. Looks like brownies.”
Shin took three cups from a cabinet and poured coffee. Someone had made a fresh pot.
“There’s milk and sugar.” He pointed to the stocked countertop. “Feel free.”
Lee and I took our coffee black.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“She’d been drinking.”
“Beer?” Lee asked.
“No, wine.”
Lee frowned. “A fifteen-year-old who drank wine?”
“Maybe it was there because wine is used to make the sauce,” I said.
Shin shook his head. “Her stomach contained more than could be explained by that. And it wasn’t just any merlot,” he added, “but a rather fine one.”
We checked back with the hoteclass="underline" room service did indeed serve pasta with meat sauce but no brownies. We asked the manager to check the records. Who had ordered the Pasta Bolognese?
THE NEXT DAY, we went to see Snow. The apartment had been sealed, and Snow had slept overnight in a men’s shelter. He was rumpled, unshaven, and wearing the same clothes. He reeked of whiskey but was steady on his feet. He waved us in. Bates came along.
“We need a DNA sample,” I explained. “Just to keep our records straight.”
He cooperated. Bates took a mouth swab and packed it away. The moment Bates left, Lee asked Snow whether Chrissie had a boyfriend.
“What does it matter?” Snow went behind the open kitchen counter and returned with three glasses and a bottle of vodka. “Have a drink with me, won’t you? Help me toast my little girl.”
“We’d love to,” Lee said, “but that’s not our way.”
“What is?”
“To find out what happened.”
Snow gave a grunt. “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you.”
Lee glanced at me. We were thinking the same thing: This jack is going to confess. It was written all over him – the need to spill.
“Two days ago, when she was alive, I told her she might as well be dead. That life was shitty and she should go before she realized it.” Snow poured himself a double shot and tossed it back. He stared at his empty glass. “I’m ashamed,” he said. “I’ve ruined everything.” He looked up, his bloodshot eyes leaking tears. “And now, all I can manage to do is get drunk.”
I’ll admit it: I felt a moment of disappointment.
“Help us,” Lee said. “Tell us, did she have a boyfriend?”
“Yes, that was your question, wasn’t it? No. To my knowledge, no. Why?”
“Did she drink or use drugs – of any kind?” I asked.
“Why? Did you find out something?”
“We’re just trying to form a picture,” Lee said.
“No. She didn’t use drugs. Didn’t drink. She was a good girl, a normal kid – with normal dreams.”
“Like what?” Lee asked.
Snow gave a whisper of a smile. “She wanted to be a doctor, work with kids… but drugs? That wasn’t one of her problems.”
“What was?” I asked.
“Her mother… and her stepfather: she hated them.”
CHRISSIE’S MOTHER HAD a Park Avenue address that looked as expensive as it sounded: doormen in gold braid, marbled entryway, massive floral arrangements, thickly carpeted corridors – the whole nine yards.
“Wonder what happened to make Chrissie give all this up,” Lee murmured.
“Whatever it was, it must’ve been pretty bad.”
Rich wood paneling, beautiful antiques, Chinese watercolors, Tiffany lamps, and gilded mirrors. The apartment fit in too – as did the mistress of the house.
Angela Snow was the proper lady in Chanel, with her heavy eighteen-karat-gold charm bracelet, her legs crossed at the ankles, and every hair in place. She jabbed out her cigarette in a heavy crystal ashtray.
“I should’ve known better than to send her to him. I should’ve known he wouldn’t take care of her. When can I have her back?”
“Soon,” Lee said.
“The fall… did it mess up her face?”
She couldn’t be serious. It was the shock talking.
“Mrs. Snow – ” Lee began.
“O’Donnell,” she corrected. “I’m now Mrs. O’Donnell, Mrs. John O’Donnell.”
“As in Assemblyman O’Donnell?”
“Yes,” she said with pride. “So I do hope you’ll show discretion. No one’s connected John with this mess so far. We would like it to stay that way.”
Maybe it wasn’t shock. Maybe she was that cold.
“Mrs. O’Donnell,” Lee said, “did Chrissie have a boyfriend? An older man, perhaps?” Wine. Expensive hotel. We were thinking an established man with money.
“I wouldn’t know. She and I had no contact after she moved out.”
“And why did she leave?” I asked.
She lifted her chin. “Chrissie felt sorry for her father. He was coming out of prison. She didn’t want him to be alone.”
“We’ve heard that she didn’t get along with your husband,” I said.
“He told you that, didn’t he?”
“Is it true?” Lee asked.
She hesitated. “Chrissie was difficult. She… said things.”
“What kinds of things?” I asked.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
“Mrs. O’Don – ”
“I won’t repeat those lies. Not now, not ever.”
Inside my head, I could hear a young girl pleading. Mama, can I talk to you? Talk to you right now?
“We’d like to speak with your husband,” Lee was saying.
“He can’t help you. He doesn’t know anything.”
Mama, can I talk to you? He hurt me – hurt me real bad – and I can’t stand the pain.
“How long have you two been married?” I asked.
“Five years.”
“We need to talk to him,” Lee said.
Another chin lift. “Well, you can’t. He’s in Albany. He won’t be back for a couple of days.”
“Have him call us when he’s in.” Lee gave her his card.
THE HOTEL MANAGER had phoned in the names of guests who’d ordered the Pasta Bolognese that Saturday and the time they’d ordered it. The list had nineteen names. One of them was “Jake” O’Donnell.
“Coincidence?”
Lee’s smile was grim. “What do you think?”
I picked up the phone and dialed the Park Avenue number. “Mrs. O’Donnell? Detective Stone here. Have you spoken to your husband yet?”
“I told you – ”
“I strongly suggest you get him on the phone… now.”
“Detec – ”
“Let me put it like this: it’s better you call than me.”
A worried silence.
“All right. He’ll be back by tomorrow evening. I’ll make sure of it.”
“You do that.”
OUR SHIFT OVER, we stopped at McKinley’s bar on 17th Street. Lee ordered whiskey and soda. I usually did too, but that night I took it straight. Lee noticed.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He played with his stirrer. “It’s always lousy when it involves a kid.”