Perry? Let Rodriguez come with me, talk to a few people, do some drawings. If nothing pans out we haven’t lost anything.”
Denton decided to let her have her new toy, but didn’t feel like saying it yet. He was enjoying the fact that he had the power, that he could make her wait.
“Rodriguez has been around the PD for seven years, assisted on hundreds of homicides, rapes, and robberies—more than most cops ever get to work.”
“Making drawings, Russo.”
“And that’s all I want him to do. But I want him with me on the street to do it. Jesus, Perry, are you going to make me beg?”
Denton almost said yes, but he was getting tired of the game and had bigger things to worry about. “Okay, if you want this guy so bad.” He took a few steps closer and aimed a finger at her. “But anything fucks up, Russo, I’m holding you responsible. It’ll be your ass on the line, remember that.”
11
T erri Russo had called. She wanted me on the case. Just like that.
My grandmother would not agree that the call had come out of nowhere. She believed that everything happened for a reason. She would say that the spirit of the dead had brought Russo to me; that I had been beckoned by someone’s ori.
I looked around, a bit sorry it had beckoned me here of all places, to the morgue.
The smell of formaldehyde was leeching through my mask, the Vicks VapoRub smeared on my nostrils not quite doing the job. If I’m smelling death, am I also breathing it in? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that.
The coroner, a tired-looking guy with streaks of blood and viscera across his smock, said, “Vic never knew what hit him. Bullet went straight into the medulla oblongata and came out the other side.”
Russo was beside me. “Thought it would be good for you to see the real thing to compare it to the drawing,” she said.
I looked at the victim, a Latino man between thirty-five and forty. She handed me a bagged drawing.
“Can you confirm this was made by the same guy?”
“It looks it, but I’d like to see the others along with it to be sure.”
“Right,” she said. “I’ve got copies of everything in my office.”
I looked from the drawing to the corpse. “It’s a decent likeness, which means the unsub stalked him, earmarked him for death. But why?”
“Well, that’s the big question,” said Russo.
“Any witnesses?”
“Not that we know of. But I’d like you to talk to all the people who last saw any of the vics, or had contact with them. Maybe they saw something and didn’t realize it.”
“And you want me to draw a sketch from their descriptions, that it?”
“You think you can?”
“I can try.”
I could see Terri smile even behind her mask. She checked her watch. “I’ve got a meeting, but you can start with this vic’s wife.” She handed me an address and phone number.
“The guy’s hardly cold.”
“That’s why I want you to speak to her now—while everything is still fresh in her mind.”
T he woman who opened the door was probably in her mid-thirties, but at the moment it was hard to tell, her face strained and pale, eyes red-rimmed.
I showed her my temporary shield. She sighed deeply and let me in. She lived only a few blocks south of Julio and Jess, Eighty-sixth and Park, primo Manhattan real estate.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I’d like to help.”
She looked up at me, incredulous. “And how are you going to do that?”
“By finding the man who did this.”
She led me into an art-filled living room, Warhol Brillo Box on the floor, cool minimal Robert Mangold painting on one wall, Catherine Murphy landscape, Chuck Close portrait on another. An eclectic, expensive mix.
“Amazing art collection,” I said.
“That was Roberto’s realm, but I enjoyed it.” She managed a slight smile. “He started collecting in the eighties, after the Wall Street boom.”
“He was a trader?”
“Oh, no,” she said, as if insulted. “He
Denton decided to let her have her new toy, but didn’t feel like saying it yet. He was enjoying the fact that he had the power, that he could make her wait.
“Rodriguez has been around the PD for seven years, assisted on hundreds of homicides, rapes, and robberies—more than most cops ever get to work.”
“Making drawings, Russo.”
“And that’s all I want him to do. But I want him with me on the street to do it. Jesus, Perry, are you going to make me beg?”
Denton almost said yes, but he was getting tired of the game and had bigger things to worry about. “Okay, if you want this guy so bad.” He took a few steps closer and aimed a finger at her. “But anything fucks up, Russo, I’m holding you responsible. It’ll be your ass on the line, remember that.”
11
T erri Russo had called. She wanted me on the case. Just like that.
My grandmother would not agree that the call had come out of nowhere. She believed that everything happened for a reason. She would say that the spirit of the dead had brought Russo to me; that I had been beckoned by someone’s ori.
I looked around, a bit sorry it had beckoned me here of all places, to the morgue.
The smell of formaldehyde was leeching through my mask, the Vicks VapoRub smeared on my nostrils not quite doing the job. If I’m smelling death, am I also breathing it in? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to that.
The coroner, a tired-looking guy with streaks of blood and viscera across his smock, said, “Vic never knew what hit him. Bullet went straight into the medulla oblongata and came out the other side.”
Russo was beside me. “Thought it would be good for you to see the real thing to compare it to the drawing,” she said.
I looked at the victim, a Latino man between thirty-five and forty. She handed me a bagged drawing.
“Can you confirm this was made by the same guy?”
“It looks it, but I’d like to see the others along with it to be sure.”
“Right,” she said. “I’ve got copies of everything in my office.”
I looked from the drawing to the corpse. “It’s a decent likeness, which means the unsub stalked him, earmarked him for death. But why?”
“Well, that’s the big question,” said Russo.
“Any witnesses?”
“Not that we know of. But I’d like you to talk to all the people who last saw any of the vics, or had contact with them. Maybe they saw something and didn’t realize it.”
“And you want me to draw a sketch from their descriptions, that it?”
“You think you can?”
“I can try.”
I could see Terri smile even behind her mask. She checked her watch. “I’ve got a meeting, but you can start with this vic’s wife.” She handed me an address and phone number.
“The guy’s hardly cold.”
“That’s why I want you to speak to her now—while everything is still fresh in her mind.”
T he woman who opened the door was probably in her mid-thirties, but at the moment it was hard to tell, her face strained and pale, eyes red-rimmed.
I showed her my temporary shield. She sighed deeply and let me in. She lived only a few blocks south of Julio and Jess, Eighty-sixth and Park, primo Manhattan real estate.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. “I’d like to help.”
She looked up at me, incredulous. “And how are you going to do that?”
“By finding the man who did this.”
She led me into an art-filled living room, Warhol Brillo Box on the floor, cool minimal Robert Mangold painting on one wall, Catherine Murphy landscape, Chuck Close portrait on another. An eclectic, expensive mix.
“Amazing art collection,” I said.
“That was Roberto’s realm, but I enjoyed it.” She managed a slight smile. “He started collecting in the eighties, after the Wall Street boom.”
“He was a trader?”
“Oh, no,” she said, as if insulted. “He
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