she received a red, faux-crocodile notebook from her seventh-grade English teacher, her journal pages would no longer remain private.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
H elen Brunswick had been murdered in Park Slope, considered by some to be the paradise of New York City. Its name deriving from sprawling Prospect Park, the neighborhood drew to Brooklyn upper-middle-class families who might previously have opted for Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
The 78th Precinct that serviced Park Slope was on Sixth Avenue, just off of Flatbush, a couple blocks south of Atlantic. This was considered Prospect Heights, not Park Slope. There was a time, just a few years ago, when that geographic third of a mile represented a far larger cultural gap. When Ellie thought of Park Slope, she immediately conjured a stereotype of well-to-do mommies pushing strollers between natural-food co-ops, book clubs, and baby-and-me yoga classes. Prospect Heights, by contrast, was known for an eclectic mix of ages, incomes, and races. But now, thanks to an influx of big money from the Barclays Center and Atlantic Yards development project, younger, richer, whiter people were pouring into the area.
Even the precinct house looked the part. A nice, neat, five-story cube of stone and brick, the building seemed more like a public library or historic boutique hotel than a police precinct.
Ellie paused as she reached for the front door’s handle. “We’re sure we don’t have a friend who can help smooth over the introduction?”
“Sorry.”
They’d been on the receiving end of what was about to happen. Feds took over a local angle. Once it had been the state police. The worst was when cases were reassigned to another team based on nothing more than budgetary considerations. Whatever the reason, they both knew what it was like to be pulled from a case. And they both knew it was hard not to blame whoever was taking over, no matter what the circumstances. But here they were, about to take away a high-profile case because some obscure unit in the district attorney’s office had said so.
They told the civilian aide at the front desk they were there to see Detective Tommy Santos. Ellie had asked around about him before heading out to Brooklyn. He was a fifteen-year veteran. Supposedly hardworking, the older of the two partners. The smarter, as well. Straight arrow. Married. Kids. Church. He had promised to be available to meet with them.
Before the assistant was out of his chair to show them the way, they heard a loud voice from the squad room. “I got ’em, Roxie. They’re getting the luxury treatment. I got a room booked and everything. Champagne on the nightstand.”
So that’s how this was going to go.
But when Santos greeted them, he seemed utterly sincere. “You two here to steal the front page from us, huh?” Once again, it was the kind of sentence that could easily be construed as snide, but the visual cues told a different story. Santos approached them with outstretched arms, then offered each of them a vigorous handshake. Even his eyes smiled. If not for the bumps in a nose that Ellie guessed had been broken at least twice, she wouldn’t have imagined a confrontational side to the man.
The reserved room turned out to be an interrogation room down the hall. No champagne in sight.
“Sorry Mike couldn’t make it.” Michael Hayes was Santos’s partner. “He’s interviewing a witness in federal custody down at MDC, but I can tell you everything you need to get started.” Ellie had spent more than enough time dealing with the bureaucracy of the Metropolitan Detention Center to understand why they weren’t waiting for Hayes.
“We appreciate the cooperation,” Rogan offered. “We all know how it feels to have a case reassigned midstream.”
“No kidding, midstream. Like pissing into a urinal and realizing it’s the queen’s china. Got to cut it off quick, you know. Sorry, no offense.”
“None taken,” Ellie said.
“This won’t even take long.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
H elen Brunswick had been murdered in Park Slope, considered by some to be the paradise of New York City. Its name deriving from sprawling Prospect Park, the neighborhood drew to Brooklyn upper-middle-class families who might previously have opted for Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
The 78th Precinct that serviced Park Slope was on Sixth Avenue, just off of Flatbush, a couple blocks south of Atlantic. This was considered Prospect Heights, not Park Slope. There was a time, just a few years ago, when that geographic third of a mile represented a far larger cultural gap. When Ellie thought of Park Slope, she immediately conjured a stereotype of well-to-do mommies pushing strollers between natural-food co-ops, book clubs, and baby-and-me yoga classes. Prospect Heights, by contrast, was known for an eclectic mix of ages, incomes, and races. But now, thanks to an influx of big money from the Barclays Center and Atlantic Yards development project, younger, richer, whiter people were pouring into the area.
Even the precinct house looked the part. A nice, neat, five-story cube of stone and brick, the building seemed more like a public library or historic boutique hotel than a police precinct.
Ellie paused as she reached for the front door’s handle. “We’re sure we don’t have a friend who can help smooth over the introduction?”
“Sorry.”
They’d been on the receiving end of what was about to happen. Feds took over a local angle. Once it had been the state police. The worst was when cases were reassigned to another team based on nothing more than budgetary considerations. Whatever the reason, they both knew what it was like to be pulled from a case. And they both knew it was hard not to blame whoever was taking over, no matter what the circumstances. But here they were, about to take away a high-profile case because some obscure unit in the district attorney’s office had said so.
They told the civilian aide at the front desk they were there to see Detective Tommy Santos. Ellie had asked around about him before heading out to Brooklyn. He was a fifteen-year veteran. Supposedly hardworking, the older of the two partners. The smarter, as well. Straight arrow. Married. Kids. Church. He had promised to be available to meet with them.
Before the assistant was out of his chair to show them the way, they heard a loud voice from the squad room. “I got ’em, Roxie. They’re getting the luxury treatment. I got a room booked and everything. Champagne on the nightstand.”
So that’s how this was going to go.
But when Santos greeted them, he seemed utterly sincere. “You two here to steal the front page from us, huh?” Once again, it was the kind of sentence that could easily be construed as snide, but the visual cues told a different story. Santos approached them with outstretched arms, then offered each of them a vigorous handshake. Even his eyes smiled. If not for the bumps in a nose that Ellie guessed had been broken at least twice, she wouldn’t have imagined a confrontational side to the man.
The reserved room turned out to be an interrogation room down the hall. No champagne in sight.
“Sorry Mike couldn’t make it.” Michael Hayes was Santos’s partner. “He’s interviewing a witness in federal custody down at MDC, but I can tell you everything you need to get started.” Ellie had spent more than enough time dealing with the bureaucracy of the Metropolitan Detention Center to understand why they weren’t waiting for Hayes.
“We appreciate the cooperation,” Rogan offered. “We all know how it feels to have a case reassigned midstream.”
“No kidding, midstream. Like pissing into a urinal and realizing it’s the queen’s china. Got to cut it off quick, you know. Sorry, no offense.”
“None taken,” Ellie said.
“This won’t even take long.
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