Let the Devil Sleep by John Verdon Page A

surprisingly crowded. Result is I’ve got one holding pen full of mopes and another one full of crack whores, plus a mountain of evidence bags that I need to finish processing. So let’s get to it. What exactly is the NYPD’s interest in Kim Corazon?”
    “Sorry … maybe I didn’t make my position clear enough on the phone. I’m NYPD, retired. Got out two and half years ago.”
    “
Retired?
No, I kinda missed that. So you’re what? A private investigator?”
    “More like a friend of the family. Kim’s mother is a journalist, writes a lot of stuff about cops. We crossed paths while I was still on the job.”
    “So how well do you know Kim?”
    “Not well. I’m just trying to help her out with a journalism project, something about unsolved murders, but we ran into a bit of a complication today.”
    “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here. Maybe you could be a little more specific?”
    “The young lady has a stalker in her life, not a very nice one.”
    “That so?”
    “You didn’t know?”
    Schiff’s gaze darkened. “I’m getting lost. Why are we having this conversation?”
    “Good question. Would you be surprised if I told you that right now in Kim Corazon’s apartment there’s fresh evidence of an unauthorized entry and some very freaky vandalism, with a clear intent to intimidate?”
    “Surprised? I can’t say that I would be. We’ve been up and down that road with Ms. Corazon quite a few times.”
    “And?”
    “Lot of potholes.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    Schiff picked some wax out of his ear and flicked it on the floor. “She tell you who she thinks is responsible?”
    “Her ex-boyfriend, Robby Meese.”
    “You ever talk to Meese?”
    “No. How about you?”
    “Yeah, I talked to him.” He checked his cell phone again. “Look, I can give you exactly three minutes. Professional courtesy. By the way, you got any ID on you?”
    Gurney showed him his PBA card and his driver’s license.
    “Okay, Mr. NYPD, quick summary, off the record. Basically, Meese’s story sounds as good as hers. Each one of them claims the other one is angry, unstable, reacting badly to their breakup. She says he got into her apartment three or four times. Bunch of silly crap—loosened doorknobs, moved things, hid things, took the knives, put back the knives—”
    Gurney interrupted. “You mean, put a knife on her bathroom floor along with a drop of blood. I wouldn’t call that ‘putting back the knives.’ I don’t see how you could ignore—”
    “Whoa! Nobody ignored anything. The initial stuff, doorknobs, crap like that—that was all responded to by uniformed patrol. Did we run out and dust the loose knobs for fingerprints? We’d have to be nuts to do that. We live in a real city here with real problems. But procedures were followed. I’ve got the incident reports in the case file. The later blood complaint was referred to us by patrol. My partner and I took a look, samples to the lab, knife to fingerprints, et cetera. Turned out the only fingerprints on the knife were Ms. Corazon’s. Tiny drop of blood on the floor was beef blood. You know? Like steak.”
    “You questioned Meese?”
    “Of course we questioned Meese.”
    “And?”
    “He isn’t admitting to anything, and there’s zero evidence of his involvement. He’s sticking to his story that Corazon’s a vindictive bitch who’s trying to get him in trouble.”
    “So what’s the current theory here?” asked Gurney incredulously. “That Kim is crazy enough to be doing this stuff herself? So she can blame her ex-boyfriend for it?”
    Schiff’s stare seemed to communicate a willingness to believe exactly that. Then he shrugged. “Or some third party is doing it, forreasons yet to be discovered.” He glanced at his cell phone for the third time. “Got to go. Time flies when you’re having fun.” He started moving toward the open interrogation-room door.
    “How come no cameras?” asked Gurney.
    “Say again?”
    “The