Bone Thief (9 page)

Clarissa's blood pooled on a fast-moving gurney, then trickled onto the mosaic tile, trailing a line of crimson through the winding corridors of the ER.

In a matter of minutes, the gurney was rushed into Trauma One, where the young girl's comatose body was injected, probed, and connected to a cluster of instruments that flashed vital data on amber screens.

“Suction!” ordered Doctor Stephen Astin, a stethoscope to the victim's chest. “We've got pulmonary blockage.”

As a nurse intubated the patient, pink froth filled the plastic tube, draining pieces of lung into the metallic sink.

“Hypotension!” hollered Astin. “Give me two units of O-negative, and a mixture of Ringers and dextran. Now! And get her scanned for correct type.”

A bluish hue receded from Clarissa's face as the suction cleared the pulmonary alveolus. Intravenous infusion pumps were dragged in to inject fresh serum into the girl's arteries.

“Anyone know who she is?” asked Astin.

“Clarissa Parsons,” the lead nurse replied.

“Any relation to the DA?”

“She's his daughter.”

“I'll be damned,” said Doctor Colm Pierce as he entered the room holding a collection of X-rays.

When Driscoll arrived at Police Headquarters, he was immediately surrounded by a swarm of newspaper reporters and television newscasters. Microphones were jammed within inches of his face, while TV cameras captured his every movement. The reporters asked question after question.

“Lieutenant, are you any closer to finding the killer that's murdering our city's female citizenry?”

“Is it true Miss Stockard was pregnant?”

“Do you have any news at all that you can share with the public that might make them feel less fearful?”

Driscoll's gaze fell upon Jessie Reynolds, one of New York's more considerate newscasters. She had been following the crime beat for years. When he spoke, his comments were directed at her. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Department has a team of thirty dedicated detectives assigned to the case. I assure you that every effort is being made to capture the madman that has declared war on New York City.”

“What about Miss Stockard?” a voice cried out. “Is it true she was going to have a baby?”

“I can't answer that question. The Medical Examiner's office has not yet finalized its findings.”

Driscoll's cell phone rang. He fought his way through the crowd of news-hungry reporters and stepped inside the lobby of One Police Plaza.

“Driscoll here.”

“Lieutenant, it's Liz. We've got an address for you on the Stockard woman. She lived at 128 East Ninety-fourth Street. An apartment house turned condo on the Upper East Side. She was the only authorized shopper on her Saks charge card, and we have the list of purchases for the last year. Nothing really stands out except for a bottle of men's cologne she purchased two months ago. Everything else is routine.”

“Liz, I want you and Luigi to go to her residence and give it a thorough search. See if it leads us anywhere. Question the super. I need to know who her acquaintances were and if she was romantically involved. Before you leave the building, slide a tip card under each of her neighbor's doors.”

“You got it.”

When Driscoll pocketed his cellular, he thought about the volley of questions that were just directed at him. What business was it of theirs whether Miss Stockard was pregnant or not? That particular question offended him. It served only to feed the frenzied news-mongers.
How despicable and crass humans could be
, he thought as he headed for the bay of elevators that would take him upstairs to the Command Center.

As Driscoll rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, his cellular rang again. This time it was Larry Pearsol, the Medical Examiner. He let Driscoll know that he had run the DNA from the Stockard fetus against the known sex offenders list, but he had gotten a no-hit.

Luck wasn't with him today, Driscoll thought. Maybe it would be tomorrow.

Driscoll was behind the wheel of his Chevy heading for 128 East Ninety-fourth Street, Amelia Stockard's residence. Detectives Butler and Vittaggio had run into a snag. The building manager had refused to let the two detectives search the deceased woman's condo without a proper warrant.

Liz Butler had been in contact with Andrea Gerhard, an assistant district attorney. Since it was unknown where the Stockard woman was killed, Ms. Gerhard had agreed to write a crime scene warrant for the Stockard condominium, on the premise that dead people have no expectation of privacy. Thomlinson had already sent an officer downtown to pick up the warrant and have it signed by Judge Creedey. By the time Driscoll reached the East Ninety-fourth Street complex, the signed warrant, its truthfulness attested to by the affiant, was in the hands of Detective Butler. But when he pulled up in front of the six-story building, Butler and Vittaggio were standing outside.

“What are you two doing out here?” he asked. “You've got the warrant, right?”

“Yeah, we got the warrant. But we thought it best to wait for you,” said Detective Vittaggio.

“How come?”

“This ain't no south Jamaica crack house, Lieutenant. It's a multimillion-dollar complex. The lobby looks like something out of
Architectural Digest
.”

Driscoll nodded. He understood their apprehension. The last thing they needed was some Park Avenue lawyer accusing them of stealing a dead woman's Rembrandt.

“Well, I'm here,” said Driscoll. “Let's go.”

 

The sign on the door read
BUILDING MANAGER
.
A fancy name for a super
, thought Driscoll. After a knock, the door opened, and there stood Jonas McPartland.

“Back again?” he asked.

“I'm Lieutenant Driscoll. You've already met Detectives Butler and Vittaggio. We now have a warrant to search apartment 4E.”

“Oh my! You guys are quick. I'll still have to check with the Board's attorneys.”

McPartland was not what Driscoll expected. He was impeccably dressed in a Brooks Brothers three-piece suit. He was short, with close-cropped hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He seemed rather effeminate to Driscoll, a far cry from some Moe with a rag sticking out of his back pocket pushing a janitor's bucket.

“Mr. McPartland, we are here as a courtesy to you. The warrant is signed by a judge, and we will enforce it with or without your Board's OK.”

“Of course, Lieutenant, of course. We always try to cooperate with the authorities. I just wanted to check with my superiors. We don't usually have this type of disturbance in the building. It's very unsettling.”

“I understand, Mr. McPartland. It would be helpful now if you would provide us with a key. It will save us from breaking down the door.”

“Oh, please don't do that. What would the residents think? Just give me a minute.” The little man scurried away and reappeared a few seconds later, holding a set of keys.

“Lead on, Mr. McPartland.”

When they reached the apartment, McPartland opened the door and then turned to walk away. Driscoll said, “No, you stay. You're going to witness the search. This way there can be no accusations later that something is missing.”

“As you wish. I'm here to help.”

The apartment was bigger than Driscoll's house. It was immaculate. Everything was in its place, giving the appearance that no one lived there.

“Did Ms. Stockard live alone?” Driscoll asked McPartland.

“Why, yes, yes she did. She did have a woman who cooked and cleaned, but she went home after dinner every night.”

“I'll need any information you have on that woman.”

“Of course.”

“Lieutenant, take a look in here.” It was Liz, calling from the master bedroom.

“What have you got?” Driscoll asked, stepping inside the room.

“Men's cologne. It's about three-quarters full. I'll bet my pension it's the credit-card purchase from Saks. Strange, though, there's no other sign of a man anywhere. No clothes in the closet. No razor or toothbrush in the bathroom. Even the toilet seat is down.”

And that's why you need a woman to search a woman's residence
, thought Driscoll.

“Lieutenant.” It was Detective Vittaggio.

Driscoll followed the voice to the den. Vittaggio was standing behind a regal-looking oak desk.

“I found a cell phone bill, but I can't find the phone. I called Cingular, and the number is still active. I dialed it from my own cell phone. It rang twice, and then a man's voice answered. I didn't answer back. I hung up. Somebody's using her phone.”

Driscoll felt a sudden surge of adrenaline course through his body. “Mr. McPartland, you lock the door, and don't let anyone in unless I say it's OK. Liz, call the local precinct. Have them send a uniform up here to stand on the door. Luigi, call Cedric and have a couple of people sent over to interview Mr. McPartland here and to run down the cleaning lady. We've got to get to TARU to trace that cell phone. Come on, make your calls, and then let's move.”

Driscoll punched in Margaret's cell phone number as he drove, but got only her voice mail. Where the hell could she be? He dialed his office, and Cedric Thomlinson came on the line.

“Cedric, you got any idea where Margaret is?”

“Not a clue. I'll beep her and have her get back to you.”

“Fine. You do that. And if anyone else needs me, I'm heading for the batcave.”

“The batcave” was a police euphemism for the TARU Command Center. To get to it, you needed to find the nondescript driveway that led to the underground stronghold. That was where all the heavy-duty electronic toys were housed. Even in the NYPD, few people knew of its existence, and even fewer knew where it was.

Butler and Vittaggio were standing three-quarters of the way down the block when Driscoll made the turn onto Lefferts Boulevard.
Well,
he thought,
at least somebody knows where it is.
His money was on Butler. He parked the Chevy and walked over to the pair of detectives. Butler spoke first.

“I called Danny O'Brien and gave him Stockard's Cingular cell phone number. He's inside working it up for us now.”

“That's good, let's go talk to him.”

Security was tight. They had to pass through several locked doors to gain access. When they finally made it to the TARU Command Center's office, Danny O'Brien was waiting for them.

“Lieutenant, Luigi, Liz. How is everyone?”

“We're good, Danny, we're good. How far along are you?” asked Driscoll.

“I got a friend over at Cingular. She's given me a list of the outgoing calls, but she's gonna need paper from us somewhere along the line. We'll need a judge-ordered subpoena to triangulate.”

Driscoll nodded in agreement.

“My friend is checking cell sites for us as we speak. We should know where he's been making the calls from in a few minutes. But remember, I promised her paper. She's risking her job for us right now.”

“Liz, call that DA friend of yours and see what she can do.”

“Will do.” Liz Butler stepped away to make the call.

“So what's our best bet, Danny?” asked Driscoll.

“If he's using the phone, we can locate the general area through the cell sites. Once we're in his ballpark, we can use the triangulater to pinpoint exactly where he is. I've got one set up in the van. It's ready to go once we get the subpoena.”

“Good. How long is this gonna take?”

“All depends. First we have to find out what cell sites he hit the last time he used the phone.”

Liz walked back to where Driscoll was standing. “I spoke to Andrea Gerhard. Her boss wants her to come over here so she can write the subpoena and fax it to him.”

“No way. We don't need some assistant DA snooping around. It'll only stall the investigation.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but without a subpoena we're breaking the law,” said O'Brien.

“OK. I guess we have no choice.” Driscoll nodded to Liz Butler, who stepped aside to place a second call to the DA's office.

Driscoll's cell phone rang. It was Margaret. Driscoll got right to the point.

“How fast can you get to the batcave?”

“Ten minutes.”

“OK. Ten minutes it is.”

A smile creased O'Brien's face. “We've located him. He just called a cab company in Easthampton. Gerhard better get here fast.”

Assistant DA Andrea Gerhard held out her hand and smiled. “Nice to see you again, Lieutenant.”

Driscoll was taken by surprise. He had no recollection of ever meeting the woman. She was thirtyish, with blond curly hair and sparkling blue eyes. She wore a smart black business suit, with a long jacket that pulled in at the waist and flared out at the hips.
Sharp dresser
, he thought.

“I can see by your expression that you don't remember me. We met at the District Attorney's Homicide Conference about a year ago.”

“Why, Ms. Gerhard, of course I remember you,” he lied. “There's no way I could forget a pretty face such as yours.” He found himself flirting, but then was interrupted by Danny O'Brien.

“Lieutenant, the subpoena?”

“Andrea. May I call you Andrea?”

She nodded.

“I'm not sure how much of this Liz discussed with you by phone, but what we need is a judge-ordered subpoena to triangulate, to track cell sites and trace outgoing calls from a missing cell phone.”

“Is it missing, or stolen?”

“At this point, we don't really know for sure. All we do know is that the phone belonged to a homicide victim, and that someone is still using it.”

“That's good enough for me. I'll call Judge Fulton. He used to be a prosecutor in our office. I'm sure I can convince him to sign off on it. I'll need one of your detectives to act as the affiant and swear to the subpoena's veracity.”

“Absolutely. Liz, you're to assist Ms. Gerhard.”

“Now if you'll guide me to a desk and a telephone…”

“Danny, OK to use this as an outgoing line?” Driscoll was holding a receiver to what appeared to be a simple telephone, but since he was inside the batcave, he thought it best to ask.

“Of course,” said O'Brien.

Driscoll handed the receiver to Gerhard.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” There was that smile again.

Driscoll turned his attention back to Danny O'Brien. “What's the last read you have on him?”

“Same as before. Easthampton.”

“OK. I want to know the minute it changes.”

Margaret walked through the last of the security doors and joined Driscoll.

“What do we have, John?”

Driscoll quickly explained the situation.

“What do you need me to do?

“Get on the horn to Cedric. Have him start putting together a roster and get a tactical plan going. I want everyone held until I say go. We'll need all the teams in the field on this one, and I want everybody packed and ready to move when I give the order.”

“I'll get right on it.”

“He's moving,” O'Brien shouted. “He just hit cell sites in Westhampton, Speonk, and Mastic.”

“He's headed back toward the city,” said Driscoll.

“He must be in a car,” Vittaggio added.

“Judge Fulton just approved the warrant. You're good to go,” said Gerhard. “Now all I need to do is fax the details to my boss.”

O'Brien pointed to the fax machine.

Margaret poked Liz. “Who's that?” she said.

“Assistant DA. She's writing the warrant for us.”

Margaret eyed the pretty blonde. Why was she sensing competition?

“Lieutenant, we should be moving,” said Liz Butler.

“My next order of business. Liz, you and Luigi take the Southern State Parkway. Margaret and I will take the Long Island Expressway. Danny, get somebody to drive that van, with you and the triangulater following me.”

O'Brien had his ear to the phone. “He's passed Patchogue, Sayville, and Oakdale already.”

“Traffic must be light.”

“Islip and Bayshore,” shouted O'Brien.

“He's not in a car,” said Driscoll. “He's on the Long Island Railroad. Those are railroad stops.”

Driscoll caught Margaret's eye. “Cedric has extra manpower set up if you need it,” she said.

“That's good news. Now call the Long Island Railroad police. We have to stop that train before it hits Jamaica. If he makes it there, we'll never find him. What's the last stop before Jamaica?”

“Lynbrook,” someone hollered.

“Margaret I don't care what you have to tell them, but have that train stopped at Lynbrook.”

“Liz, Luigi, go. Meet me at the Lynbrook station. Danny, get to the van and get ready to move. You're to keep me informed by phone.”

Driscoll turned to leave with Margaret.

“Wait,” said Andrea Gerhard. “Here's my card. Call me and let me know what happens. I have to go and file the warrant now, but you can call me anytime. My home number's on the back.”

Driscoll took the card and thanked her. His eyes followed her as she walked away. As he turned back, he caught Margaret's glare.
Men!
was her thought.
You shouldn't ever trust them
. Why did she feel so vulnerable? So violated?

“When your mind is back on the business of catching the bad guy, you'll be happy to know that I got through to the Long Island Railroad police. They'll hold the train at Lynbrook until we get there. I also gave Cedric the heads up. He's sending over a team.”

“That's good news. Let's go. I'll drive.”

They drove in stony silence for a good five minutes. Driscoll made the left from Darcy Street and headed onto the interchange that would take them to the Grand Central Parkway. He hit the flashing lights and eased into the left lane.

“Margaret, call the Chief of D's and put us out of the city,” he said, breaking their silence.

“Yes sir, Lieutenant, anything you say.”

“All right, Margaret, what's the attitude for?” He knew full well what was wrong, but decided to let her air it out.

“There's nothing wrong. I'll make the call right now.”

“C'mon, let's not let personalities get in the way of this.”

“Personalities!” she exploded. “‘You can call me anytime. My home number's on the back,'” she said, mimicking Andrea Gerhard's voice. “The bitch! She doesn't even belong in a police facility, and she has you kissing her ass.”

“I was not kissing her ass. We needed her to write the warrant. Without it, we had nothing. Sometimes you have to play ball.”

“She wanted you to play ball, all right.” Margaret folded her arms and stared out the passenger-side window.

“Margaret, if that upset you, I'm sorry.” He reached over and touched her shoulder. She gave him a side-long glance and brushed his hand away. Silence returned as Driscoll gave her a moment or two to cool down.

Margaret finally spoke. “I don't think you should let the Chief of D's know we're out of the city. If you do, Santangelo will want to know why. Are you ready to let him in on this?”

“You're right. He'll just screw things up. We'd be better off running silent until we know exactly what we have.”

They were moving onto the Southern State Parkway from the Cross Island when the car phone rang.

“Lieutenant, it's Liz. The railroad cops have the train stopped at Lynbrook. I had the conductor make an announcement that there was trouble on the track ahead, and that it should be cleared in a few minutes. What do you want us to do?”

“Stand by, Liz, we're only a few minutes out. Hold everybody till I get there.”

“There's a railroad police captain here. He wants to know what's going on.”

“Tell him you don't know, and that your boss is on his way and will explain things when he gets there.”

“OK, Lieutenant. I'll hold him off as long as I can. Cedric's reinforcements are here, and Danny just pulled up in the van.”

“That's good. I'm just passing Exit 14 on the Southern State. We're five minutes out.” Driscoll hung up and pulled off the parkway onto Franklin Avenue, heading south. He made his way to the Long Island Railroad parking lot on Sunrise Highway, where he killed the lights and pulled up beside the TARU van. Margaret and he then got out of the cruiser and climbed the stairs to the platform.

Liz and Luigi were talking to a team of Long Island Railroad uniforms when Driscoll approached.

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Driscoll, my boss,” said Liz. “Lieutenant, this is Captain Warner of the LIRR police.”

“What's this all about?” asked Warner.

Driscoll motioned for the captain to walk away so that they could talk privately.

“Cap, we think we may have a homicide suspect on the train. We're not sure what he looks like, and I think the uniforms might scare him away. He's got our victim's cell phone, so what I planned on doing was put my people in every car, dial the number, and see whose phone rings. He has no idea that we know about the phone, so he has no reason not to answer it.”

Warner was silent a minute, twisting his walrus-like mustache with his right hand. “OK, that sounds like it'll work. I'll keep my men on the perimeter in case anything goes wrong. Try not to kill anybody on my train, will ya?” Warner did an about-face and headed toward his men. Driscoll looked skyward and thanked God there were still some reasonable men left in other police departments.

The Lieutenant then gathered his people around him and assigned each team one of the four cars. He was about to tell Margaret to dial the number when Danny O'Brien appeared with what looked to be a satellite antenna with two prongs sticking out of its middle. On his head, he wore a pair of headphones.

“Lieutenant, I'm triangulating him now. He's on the phone.” O'Brien passed the first two cars and stopped at the third.

“He's in here. In here!” O'Brien said, desperately trying to keep his voice down.

Liz Butler and Luigi Vittaggio took the front door, and Driscoll and Margaret, the back. On Driscoll's signal the conductor opened the doors, and all four detectives entered the car. There in the middle of the car sat an unkempt-looking white male with his feet on the seat in front of him, talking on a cell phone. O'Brien pointed excitedly.

Butler and Vittaggio approached from the front, and Driscoll and Margaret closed in from behind. Liz Butler stood before him and said, “Hi.” As he looked up, Vittagio stuck his gun in the man's ear, and Driscoll grabbed both of his arms.

“Police,” they all screamed at once.

Driscoll and Butler got the man's hands behind his back and cuffed him. Margaret took the phone and pressed the button that displayed the phone's cell number.

“Bingo!” she said. “We got him.”

“Wait! Wait!” The man protested. “It's OK. It's my girlfriend's phone.”

“Get him out of here,” said Driscoll, staring down an assembly of alarmed passengers. “Liz put him in my car and sit with him. Margaret, grab his stuff and meet me at the car.”

Margaret picked up the bag next to the once-occupied seat and walked out of the car.

“We're gonna search your belongings,” said Driscoll.

“OK, OK. Whatever.”

Driscoll found Warner at the end of the platform and walked over to him. “Thanks, Cap. I appreciate all your help.”

“Like hell you do. You appreciate me staying out of your way. I wasn't born a Captain, Lieutenant. I was a detective in our Robbery Squad for many years before I climbed the ranks.”

Driscoll reached out and shook his hand. “Well then, thanks for understanding.”

“No problem. Nothing worse than having someone poke his nose in where it doesn't belong.”

Driscoll smiled at Warner, then turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving the captain to clean up whatever mess the NYPD had created.