Angel's Tip (20 page)

LEON SYMANSKI LIVED
on the first floor of a split-level duplex in Queens. Ellie and Rogan had been watching the house for twenty minutes.

“I swear,” Ellie said, “every time I’m in Astoria, I think of Archie Bunker. My father freaking
loved
that show. He’d watch the repeats at night, even though he’d seen them all five times. I’m sure it never dawned on him his daughter would be pulling a stakeout in the neighborhood where it was shot.”

“See, in our house, we loved the Jeffersons. That’s what I think about when you say Archie Bunker—that Mr. Jefferson had to be damn happy to get the hell out of Archie Bunker cracker town.
‘Well we’re moving on up, to the East Side.’
”

“I never knew the words to either of those songs. I thought the first line of that song Archie and Edith sang was,
‘Boil the weakling millipede.’
” Ellie wouldn’t normally burden another human being with her horrible singing voice, but she figured there had to be an exception for botched television theme song lyrics. “And I thought the Jeffersons went
‘to a beat up apartment in the sky-y-y.’
”

“Now that’s just racist.”

“Oh, and in the bridge—”

“The
Jeffersons
theme song had a bridge?”

“My brother’s a musician. I thought it was,
‘Key lime pie in the kitchen, Bees don’t buzz on the grill.’
”

“That is so damn sad.”

“What do you want? I was five years old. Oh, check it out,” Ellie said, tapping on the dash. “We’ve got something.”

Behind a screen entrance, a walnut door with a small stained glass window opened toward the interior. They couldn’t see inside the house. Seconds later, the screen door opened, and a woman with long, light brown hair emerged in a bright orange peacoat. She held the screen, continuing her conversation with whoever was inside, and then finally let it shut behind her when she turned to walk away.

They had the same reaction.

“She’s pretty young, right?” Rogan asked.

“Yeah, even with your self-proclaimed inability for cross-racial age identifications, yes, she’s young. Really young. My guess is early twenties, maybe even younger.”

“And really pregnant?”

“It’s hard to tell for sure under the coat, but, yeah, I thought the same thing.”

“Should we stop her?”

“No legal basis for it,” Ellie said. “She’s not in distress. And we run the risk that she makes a scene and tips off Symanski.”

They watched as the woman made her way down the street, turned the corner at Thirty-first Street, and took the stairs up to the elevated N train.

“Should we go have a talk with the man inside?” Ellie asked.

“Ready when you are.”

A MAN IN A PLAID FLANNEL
house robe answered the door. It took him thirteen seconds after Ellie knocked. Long enough that she and
Rogan exchanged a look and placed hands on their service weapons. Not so long that they unholstered.

She recognized Leon Symanski from his booking photo, even though the picture had been as old as the woman who’d left his house moments earlier. The man in front of her was less heavy and had thinning gray hair and whiskers on his chin. He had wrinkles, and his face was beginning to sag. But he also had the same broad nose and hooded eyes as the man who was arrested for sexual misconduct twenty years earlier.

“Leon Symanski?” she asked.

“That’s right.”

“We’re detectives from the NYPD. Mind if we have a word with you?”

“What is this about?”

“It’s cold out here, sir. You think we could come on in?”

Symanski opened the screen door and stepped aside. The living room was small with a red brick fireplace and worn furniture. Ellie noticed two small framed photographs on the mantel, but could not make out the images from this distance.

“You work at a club called Pulse?”

Symanski nodded. “Did something else happen there?”

“No, sir. It’s about the murder we’ve been investigating. A customer named Chelsea Hart.”

He nodded again.

“You’ve apparently been talking about it,” Rogan said.

“Of course. One of the regulars in our club kills another customer? Everyone has been talking about it.”

“But only you seem to know more about the case than some late-night club janitor should know.”

“I don’t know anything. Just what others have been saying.”

“The problem,” Ellie said, “is that one of the others tells us that you’ve had some things to say about the case that aren’t in the public domain. Obviously we’ve got to look into an allegation like that.”

“An allegation? Against me? I don’t know anything.” Symanski seemed very interested in the threadbare carpet beneath his feet.

“Is it true that you told a coworker that Chelsea Hart’s killer took a souvenir?”

“Like a New York City tchotchke?”

“No, I think you know what I mean, Mr. Symanski. A souvenir. Did you tell one of your coworkers that whoever killed Chelsea Hart took something from her? Because that’s our understanding of the words you used: that the killer ‘took something’ from her. What did he take?”

Symanski laughed nervously and scratched his balding head. “Is this a riddle or something? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not hard. Let’s start with this: Did you say anything like that to anyone?”

Rogan was already giving Ellie an I-told-you-so look. He was apparently writing off Rodriguez as a liar and preparing to collect on his bet.

“No. I didn’t—I don’t even talk about the case, really. Everyone else does. I listen.”

“So if someone came to us and told us that they heard you say those words, you’d tell me they were lying?”

“Yes.” His eyes fell again to the floor. “Or, I don’t know, maybe they didn’t hear me right.”

“And if I tell you I have a recording of you saying that?” Ellie asked. She pulled the digital recorder she kept on hand for witness interviews from her purse. “You know how many of those new high-tech gadgets have things like microphones in them.”

“Maybe. Maybe I said it. I don’t know. I may have repeated something I heard from someone else.”

“Tell us who you heard it from, Leon, and we’re out of here. We’ll go talk to them instead. We’ll confirm that they were the ones who told you, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“I don’t remember. I don’t even know the names of most of the people who work there. They all look the same.”

“What did he take from her?” Ellie asked again. “Tell us what he took.”

She watched Symanski closely. She knew Rogan was doing the same, because they were the same kind of cop. They trusted their instincts. They believed that a suspect’s reaction under pressure could tell a good cop—in the gut, where it mattered—more than even the most damning piece of physical evidence.

And because they were the same kind of cop, she knew Rogan was seeing the same thing in Symanski that she saw. The slow swallow. The darting eyes. It was more than nervousness. It was an awakening, a realization. They were watching the man come to an understanding about his new reality.

He had a problem. And he knew that they knew.

“Let me propose a suggestion,” Ellie said. “Why don’t you let us take a quick look around the house, make sure we don’t see anything that might have belonged to Chelsea Hart. That’ll put our minds at ease, I think, and we can go back to the DA and assure him we did what we were asked. Is that all right with you?”

“If you go through my house?”

“Just to take a look around.”
Taking a look around
sounded so much less intrusive than
searching
. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“No. No, I don’t have any problems with the police.”

“All right. Can we ask you to stay put right here while we do that? We can trust you not to run off, right?” She smiled at the ridiculousness of the thought.

“No, I’m not running anywhere.”

“And you’re here alone?”

“Yes. I live alone. My wife died many years ago.”

“What about the woman who just left here? She doesn’t live here?”

For the first time since they’d walked into the house, Ellie saw something dark cross Symanski’s face. “No. I live alone.”

“So who was she?” Rogan asked. “The girl who left?”

“No one. You said you were going to look around and then leave me alone.”

“And we’re going to do just that,” Ellie said. It was better to let the subject drop for now before Symanski revoked his consent to search. “You just sit tight here for a second.”

The house was small, just the living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the kitchen. It was clean and uncluttered.

They started in the smaller of the two bedrooms. It was even cleaner and less cluttered than the rest of the house, apparently unused. The room’s only contents were a nightstand, dresser, and double bed with baby pink sheets and a darker pink quilt.

Ellie opened a small drawer in the nightstand. “Empty, unless you count a couple of rubber bands and an old Chapstick.”

“Same with the dresser,” Rogan said.

She walked to the closet and opened it. It contained nothing but empty hangers and a few items of women’s clothing.

“His wife’s?” Rogan asked.

“Depends what he meant when he said she died a long time ago. These look pretty new to me.”

“Right, because you’ve got your finger on the pulse of fashion.”

“Mean,” Ellie said.

They made their way to the master bedroom, with its own separate bath. Ellie opened the medicine cabinet. Heavy-duty psychotropic drugs might have been a tipoff, but instead, she found a razor, shaving cream, deodorant, aspirin, cough syrup, and all the other usual stuff. The only pills she found were some vitamin B supplements and two prescriptions she had never heard of. She was jotting down the names in her notebook when Rogan called to her from the bedroom.

“You better get out here.”

It took her a moment to recognize the object dangling from the pencil Rogan was holding out toward her in the master bedroom. It was a red beaded chandelier earring.

Beyond the bedroom, she heard a door slam.

“God damn it. He’s running.”

And for the first time since she’d found Chelsea Hart, so was Ellie.

ELLIE COULD HEAR
Rogan yelling behind her, using all the major cuss words, but she wasn’t thinking about her partner. She was focused on the back of Leon Symanski’s head, bouncing on top of his plaid flannel robe, hauling ass a full block ahead of her. He apparently had found the time to pull on a pair of running shoes before slipping out the front door.

She didn’t have to process the words coming out of Rogan’s mouth to know why he was screaming at her. They had stopped by for a knock-and-talk. They weren’t wearing vests. They didn’t have backup. And they hadn’t searched either Symanski or his living room for a weapon.

Rogan was telling her it wasn’t worth it. They would set up a periphery. They’d bring out the dogs. They would find him within blocks.

But, at that moment—as she felt the rubber soles of her Paul Green boots slamming against the concrete of the street, the force of the impact shooting up through her knees and quads—all she could think about were the faces of four young women who had nothing in common in life but were perhaps all tied together in death by the man
in front of her. She had let his frail appearance and meek mannerisms fool her. They had left a killer sitting alone in his living room.

She pumped her arms harder at her sides as she picked up her pace. No way was a gaunt, gray-haired janitor in a bathrobe going to outrun her.

Symanski took a right on Thirty-first Street, then a quick left into the Astoria Boulevard subway station, taking the steps two at a time. He pushed his way through a crowd of commuters heading down the stairs, throwing two of them to the ground.

Ellie held out her shield, yelling, “Get down! Get down!” She had to assume Symanski had a gun. He could open fire on the platform.

Terrified bystanders fell to all fours. Others slammed their bodies flat against walls and railings. Ellie dodged and weaved around them, surprised at Symanski’s speed.

Inside the station, she came to a stop. She could feel her heart pounding like fists against her breastbone. No Symanski.

Separate sets of turnstiles stood on each side of her for the east and west sides of the tracks. He could have taken either one. This was the end of the N/R line. There were no northbound tracks. Nowhere to go on the east side of the platform.

She placed her right hand on the butt of her Glock. Twist, then up, she pulled the gun from her holster. She was about to hop the southbound turnstiles when she heard screams from a stairway behind her, on the opposite side of the station.

She followed the sounds of panic, sprinting down the stairs so quickly that she nearly tumbled from the momentum of her own weight. She hit street level and was wondering if she’d lost him when she saw a flash of Symanski’s robe move into an alley past a four-story brick apartment building on the other side of Thirty-first Street.

She ran after him, drawing horn blasts from oncoming traffic. When she reached the alley’s entrance, she pressed her back against the wall of the apartment complex, feeling her fingers wrapped firmly around the Glock, thumbs pressed together near the safety.

She needed to know if the alley cut through or was a dead end. Were there fire escapes that Symanski could reach from the ground? Businesses with unlocked back doors? She had no idea if she could even spare the seconds she was using to think through all of the unknowns. And where in the hell was Rogan and the backup?

She peeked her head around the corner—once quickly, then a more cautious look, two full seconds.

In two seconds, this is what she learned: no gunshots. That was good for the obvious reason, but it might also mean Symanski was gone. Two Dumpsters on opposite sides of the alley. A black Ford Explorer on the left. No accessible fire escapes. No signs of loading or unloading, so any back doors to businesses were probably locked. No visible exits, but the chain link fence at the end of the alley was easily scalable.

And no sign of Symanski.

Where was Rogan?

Ellie took a deep breath and swung her body around the corner.

“You’re trapped, Symanski.” A false statement if he’d already jumped the fence, but true if he could hear her. She heard nothing but the hum of traffic on the BQE and a Poland Spring water bottle rolling on the concrete with the wind.

She crouched low and jogged to the Dumpster on the right, squatting against the end of it for cover. In her mind, she created a blueprint of the alley and pictured Symanski’s available hiding places. Not behind the high-riding SUV. His legs would be visible. Inside, perhaps, but everyone in New York locked their cars. That left four spots: on the north side of each of the two Dumpsters, or inside the two recessed doorways on the ground floor of the apartment building to the east.

She mapped out her route.

Still squatting, she made her way like a crab around the side of the Dumpster, then sprang into an Isosceles shooting stance. Nothing but two black garbage bags.

She stepped sideways to her right, to the first doorway. It was clear. She checked the door. Locked.

From the safety of the doorway, she surveyed the alley again. Two spots remaining: the Dumpster or the last doorway. They were almost directly across from each other on opposite sides of the alley. There was no way to check them sequentially and still be covered.

Fifty-fifty odds.

She stretched farther, struggling to see inside the next doorway. Nothing but darkness.

If it were her, she would choose the Dumpster. It was deeper, invulnerable to angles. Behind a barrier of that size, her adversary would not have to expose himself to get to her. And a Dumpster wouldn’t block her in. She could still bolt around her adversary. In the doorway, it was close combat. No escape.

She would definitely pick the Dumpster. Better than fifty-fifty. Where the hell was Rogan?

Crouching low again, she ran to the second Dumpster. She turned the corner, keeping a tight stance. It was clear.

She immediately rotated clockwise to get a look inside the final doorway. Also clear.

Damn it. She felt her shoulders drop as the stress fell from her deltoids. She reholstered the Glock. Her mistake had been pausing at the alley’s entrance. Symanski had used the opportunity to jump the fence. She unclipped her cell phone from her waist to call Rogan.

She had flipped the phone open and was scrolling for Rogan’s number when she saw a blur moving next to her. She turned toward it.

Symanski had pushed open the metal lid of the Dumpster with his left hand and was reaching toward her with his right. She caught only a quick glimpse of the blade of his knife before her Glock tumbled to the ground and she felt a searing pain on the back of her right hand.

She saw blood.

Two steps, and she scooped up her Glock. She spun toward Symanski, who was pulling himself out of the Dumpster. Even with her cut
hand, she had a shot. Symanski stumbled and fell to the ground. He knelt before her, knife in hand.

“Drop it, Symanski.”

“Just kill me. Shoot me.”

Ellie felt her finger against the trigger. Only five pounds of pressure. That’s all it would take to put this guy down.
Not like this, not with him on his knees like this. Only if he takes another swipe at me.

“Drop the knife.”

“I did it. I strangled her, and I cut her up, and I took her earring. I don’t want to die in prison. Kill me.”

She heard sirens approaching and saw the knife in Symanski’s hand begin to shake. She took a quick step toward him with her left foot, preparing to land a right heel against his knife hand in a push kick.

But as she lifted her leg, Symanski lunged at her and grabbed her ankle with his left hand while he raised his knife with his right. The weight of his body carried both of them to the ground. She saw Rogan in her periphery, running down the alley toward them, but there wasn’t time.

There wasn’t time to wait. There wasn’t time to think. In a millisecond, her instincts processed the only information that mattered. Symanski was on top of her. He had a knife. She’d lost control over her service weapon once already. If it happened again, she was dead. There wouldn’t be time to reach for the backup gun inside her boot.

Ellie was bracing herself for the kickback of the Glock when she felt Symanski’s body weight leaving hers. She heard a crash as Rogan threw Symanski against the Dumpster, once, then twice, then a third time—all in seconds—before Symanski’s body went limp and he dropped the knife.

“What about the others?” Ellie screamed. “How many other girls did you kill?”

But Symanski wasn’t answering. Rogan checked to make sure he was breathing. “He’s out.”

“He did it, Rogan. He gave it up. He killed Chelsea Hart.”

Rogan looked at her with a furrowed brow, then dropped his gaze to the concrete beneath his feet and shook his head.

And then Ellie understood. What Rogan had seen was a man on his knees in an empty alley at gunpoint. What the hell kind of confession was that?