a fixture in the Manhattan legal system for decades. He had a list of friends, acquaintances, and connections so large that it dwarfed those of the most powerful political figures. I waited in the cemetery parking lot, making note of who arrived. After a while, there were so many cars that they had to be diverted to a nearby parking field.
A Bentley convertible rolled up beside me. The driver’s window lowered and a man with an aristocratic countenance beckoned me to approach. “Yes?”
“I need room for my car,” he said flatly.
I pointed to the long line of cars crawling toward the overflow lot. “There seems to be room over there.”
“I don’t wait in lines,” he said informing me of his entitlement. I shrugged, a tough shit kind of shrug. “Do you know who I am?” he huffed.
A woman was walking by. I got her attention. “This gentleman doesn’t seem to know who he is. You think he might have amnesia?”
Mr. Importance gnashed his teeth. “Screw you.”
I pulled my badge and grinned. “ Yeah , there’s a line for that too.” He glared at me and then was gone as the tinted-glass window went up. The Bentley sped away and stopped in a no-parking zone. Big surprise.
A Range Rover was one of the last cars to arrive—not one of the moderately expensive minis, but a full-size SUV, the kind used by big-game hunters to track prey across the Serengeti and by yuppies to impress their neighbors—a good seventy-five grand, even on fire sale. The driver was Steve Farrell. “Any place to park?” he asked.
I pointed to Mr. Grouchy Pants’ Bentley. “You can block him in. He’s not going anywhere.” Farrell parked where instructed. I walked over to his Range Rover just as he slipped an overcoat over his suit. “I like your car. It says that you’re rough and ready to spend your cash without shame. When did the DA’s office start paying so well?”
He had a smug smile on his face as he said, “You know better than that, Chalice—my position pays peanuts. I’ve always driven a Range Rovers. It’s a tradition.”
“Nice! That’s a much better tradition than poverty. I’m a Zipcar girl myself.”
“I like rugged cars.”
“Still, it’s not a Kia.”
“We have money,” he said. “I already told you that.”
“Of course. I remember—someone bought the farm, but in a good way. Besides, I have no issue with trust-fund men.”
Farrell grinned. “Did you get here early?”
“Early? I’ll say. Vampires were just returning to their coffins.”
He rolled his eyes. “So who showed up? Anyone qualify for your rogues gallery?”
“Quinlan’s here—nothing speaks quite as well as an acquitted murderer who pays respect to his recently deceased attorney. Every judge in Manhattan is here, as well as several people whose feet do not appear to touch the ground.”
Farrell chuckled. “It is Connecticut after all: the home of old money.”
I looked toward the gravesite. “I think they’re about to start.” Farrell and I joined the ceremony. Cronan Hartley’s casket was set atop his final resting place. I thought back to Saturday morning in Central Park and the moment when our phones went off at the same time—my call was from Sonellio and Farrell’s was from his boss, both telling us that Hartley had been murdered. He had been found in his car just beyond the gates of his estate. The postman spotted the car while making his delivery the next morning—he saw Hartley’s head slacked against the lambskin headrest and the driver’s window smeared with blood. The security camera recorded Hartley’s entrance onto the grounds. It had been angled to view the car as it entered and got a great shot of the front of the car and Hartley. Hartley’s killer was hidden from view, most likely pressed against the rear floorboard of the expansive sedan. The digital time recording stamped Hartley’s entry at 9:58 p.m. and recorded it on the system hard drive, which was stored in the house. The system
A Bentley convertible rolled up beside me. The driver’s window lowered and a man with an aristocratic countenance beckoned me to approach. “Yes?”
“I need room for my car,” he said flatly.
I pointed to the long line of cars crawling toward the overflow lot. “There seems to be room over there.”
“I don’t wait in lines,” he said informing me of his entitlement. I shrugged, a tough shit kind of shrug. “Do you know who I am?” he huffed.
A woman was walking by. I got her attention. “This gentleman doesn’t seem to know who he is. You think he might have amnesia?”
Mr. Importance gnashed his teeth. “Screw you.”
I pulled my badge and grinned. “ Yeah , there’s a line for that too.” He glared at me and then was gone as the tinted-glass window went up. The Bentley sped away and stopped in a no-parking zone. Big surprise.
A Range Rover was one of the last cars to arrive—not one of the moderately expensive minis, but a full-size SUV, the kind used by big-game hunters to track prey across the Serengeti and by yuppies to impress their neighbors—a good seventy-five grand, even on fire sale. The driver was Steve Farrell. “Any place to park?” he asked.
I pointed to Mr. Grouchy Pants’ Bentley. “You can block him in. He’s not going anywhere.” Farrell parked where instructed. I walked over to his Range Rover just as he slipped an overcoat over his suit. “I like your car. It says that you’re rough and ready to spend your cash without shame. When did the DA’s office start paying so well?”
He had a smug smile on his face as he said, “You know better than that, Chalice—my position pays peanuts. I’ve always driven a Range Rovers. It’s a tradition.”
“Nice! That’s a much better tradition than poverty. I’m a Zipcar girl myself.”
“I like rugged cars.”
“Still, it’s not a Kia.”
“We have money,” he said. “I already told you that.”
“Of course. I remember—someone bought the farm, but in a good way. Besides, I have no issue with trust-fund men.”
Farrell grinned. “Did you get here early?”
“Early? I’ll say. Vampires were just returning to their coffins.”
He rolled his eyes. “So who showed up? Anyone qualify for your rogues gallery?”
“Quinlan’s here—nothing speaks quite as well as an acquitted murderer who pays respect to his recently deceased attorney. Every judge in Manhattan is here, as well as several people whose feet do not appear to touch the ground.”
Farrell chuckled. “It is Connecticut after all: the home of old money.”
I looked toward the gravesite. “I think they’re about to start.” Farrell and I joined the ceremony. Cronan Hartley’s casket was set atop his final resting place. I thought back to Saturday morning in Central Park and the moment when our phones went off at the same time—my call was from Sonellio and Farrell’s was from his boss, both telling us that Hartley had been murdered. He had been found in his car just beyond the gates of his estate. The postman spotted the car while making his delivery the next morning—he saw Hartley’s head slacked against the lambskin headrest and the driver’s window smeared with blood. The security camera recorded Hartley’s entrance onto the grounds. It had been angled to view the car as it entered and got a great shot of the front of the car and Hartley. Hartley’s killer was hidden from view, most likely pressed against the rear floorboard of the expansive sedan. The digital time recording stamped Hartley’s entry at 9:58 p.m. and recorded it on the system hard drive, which was stored in the house. The system
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