Dead Connection (16 page)

“I shouldn’t have started running my old mouth. It’s nothing like that. He’s a good guy. He just sees the world different, that’s all. His loyalty to the job is about doing the job itself. He follows all the rules, dots all the i’s, crosses off the t’s. It’s not about the brotherhood. See what an old man I sound like? His way’s the way of the future. And he won’t have any problems with a smart one like you. You probably even went to college, didn’t you?”

“John Jay.”

“How about that. A graduate degree even?”

“No, just a bachelor’s. I started toward a master’s in forensic psychology — even thought of going the FBI route for a while.”

“You didn’t want to be a G-man? Or I guess you’d be a G-woman, huh?”

“Whatever. No, I just was too eager to get into the real world. Studying crime out of books in a classroom never seemed to work for me. I figured the best thing I could do for my instincts was to get out on the street as soon as I could.”

Then, for reasons she didn’t understand, she told Ed about Jerry Hatcher, his role in the College Hill Strangler case, and her unresolved questions about his death. And when she was finally finished, he told her he was sorry her family had to go through that. It was the only response she needed.

“I bet your old man would be proud of you, Hatcher. You’re just a kid and already made detective. Working homicides, even.”

“Well, not really.” She told him about Flann’s special request for her assistance, and he let out a whistle.

“Who knew Flann had that kind of muscle with the honchos. Ever wonder why he asked for you?”

She recalled the partial explanation Flann gave her on the ride back from Becker’s home, but she kept it to herself.

“And he knows about that whole thing with your father. All the attention you got from the news?”

“I think so.”

Becker didn’t speak until they emerged from the Midtown Tunnel. “Flann McIlroy never was one to shy away from the media.”

22

IT TURNED OUT THAT BIG-BONED MEGAN QUINN WASN’T AS
popular with the boys on FirstDate as Amy Davis had been. If Megan never left the house, he couldn’t kill her outside late at night. So he made adjustments.

Getting into the building didn’t prove to be much of a challenge. Megan lived in an enormous generic rental building on the far, far east side of the Upper East Side, in the yuppy slum of Yorkville. Unlike the white-gloved doormen in the ritzier apartments near the park, the staff at these places were strictly for show and a false sense of security. He showed up shortly after seven thirty. Evening rush hour. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his head.

“Delivery for 32M. It comes with a song, so I have to see her in person.” He made sure to hold the flowers in front of his face. The doorman was on the phone with one resident and handing a package to another.

“Yeah, okay. Go on up.”

He rode the crowded elevator with his face turned from the camera in the upper corner. He pushed the button for the thirty-second floor with his knuckle. A woman stepped off with him. He waited until she entered her apartment, then knocked on the door of 32M.

IT HAD ONLY been two nights since Jess began his latest sojourn on her sofa, but Ellie was struck by the silence and emptiness in her apartment. She flipped on the television just for the sound of it, and then settled onto the couch with her laptop and logged onto FirstDate.

More new messages and even more flirts. She had a lame two-sentence profile, but a decent if grainy picture. Maybe she’d unwittingly tapped into precisely what men valued. She scanned the list of messages. Only one user name caught her eye, and it had nothing to do with the case. Unpublished, the writer manqué whom she’d e-mailed earlier. She clicked on the message.

Ally, You sound fun. I’d like to know more about you, but I don’t like e-mail. (I know. Stupid way to try to meet someone if you don’t like e-mail.) This may sound forward, but do you want to go for a drink tonight? I promise you can take one look at me and walk out if you like. I won’t take it personally. In fact, I’ve gotten used to it. Peter
. He left a phone number.

Ellie started to delete the message, then stopped herself. Jess was out. She was alone. Her brain needed a break from the case. If she stayed here, she’d only surf the Web and feel like a loser. She clicked on the photograph posted with Unpublished’s profile. Peter had dark brown tousled hair and intense green eyes, and he posed with a panting golden retriever. A caption beneath the picture read, “Sorry, but this isn’t my dog.”

She made a deal with herself, thought it through one more time, and then picked up the phone and dialed.

“Peter?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Hey, it’s Ally. Um, from FirstDate. I got your e-mail. Is it too late to take you up on that drink offer?”

“No, perfect timing. I’m just leaving work. Where do you want to go?”

“How about I come to you?” She didn’t need someone like Taylor Gottman cruising her neighborhood later, trying to track her down.

“There’s a place by me called Delta Grill.” He gave her an address, but Ellie told him she knew the place. “You don’t mind coming to Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Nope. I love it over there,” Ellie said.

“Very good. That scares a lot of people off.”

“I think that’s why you’re supposed to call it Clinton.” The neighborhood used to be Manhattan’s ghetto for the roughneck lower middle class, but like the rest of the borough, had experienced what the real estate brokers called a “transition.” Along with a slew of new high-class residents who couldn’t quite swing their dream pad on the other side of Lincoln Center, the neighborhood had also inherited a new, safer-sounding name.

“We renters call it Hell’s Kitchen. How long do you need to get here?”

Ellie considered that day’s choice of work clothes — a red turtleneck sweater, gray pencil skirt, and knee-high black leather boots — and decided she was good to go. “Is half an hour too soon?”

“Perfect. I’ll be the guy in the purple velvet jacket with a vicious case of acne.”

“Okay. I’ll be in my motorcycle leathers. If you still can’t spot me, I’m wearing the
pink
chain today that drapes from my nose to my ear.”

“You like Hell’s Kitchen. You can leave for a drink on a second’s notice. And you’re not afraid to call a man out when he’s being stupid. You got it going on, Ally.”

MEGAN QUINN WAS alone in her apartment when the doorman buzzed.
Ten, nine, eight, seven
…She scissored her legs in the air and mimicked the breathing patterns of the lithe instructor on the Pilates DVD.
Six, five, four, three
…The phone buzzed again.
Two, one
.

She took a deep breath and folded her knees into her abdomen. Then she hit the pause button on the remote control, wiped a bead of sweat from her temple, and pushed herself up from the blue mat unrolled on the living room floor. She ran to the intercom. “Hello?”

“Delivery.”

“I didn’t order anything, Lewis.”

“He said 32M.”

“N, Lewis. He probably said N, as in Not M. As in Never for Megan, always for the neighbor.” The guys across the hallway ordered in dinner every night, usually from multiple establishments. And half of those nights, the doormen called to tell her about it by mistake.

“Not food this time. Flowers.”

“Well, it’s definitely not for me then.”

“Sorry.”

“Not a problem.”

Megan hung up the phone and looked in the mirror that hung beside it on the wall. She pressed her round cheeks with her palms, squishing the fat around her lips and nose. She tried to pinpoint when this had happened, and how long it would take to lose. She had been thin once. She had been confident. She sucked in her cheeks and held up the skin of her wrinkled forehead and for a moment looked like the girl who had waved from the homecoming float in Colorado while her date sang a comedic version of “Mandy,” substituting in “Oh, Megan.” Now she was so ashamed of how she looked that she was actually afraid of meeting any man who could possibly be
the one
. He might reject her as too heavy, and then she would have missed her chance.

She looked away from the mirror, reminding herself that her days of feeling bad about herself were numbered. She had joined Weight Watchers. She was doing Pilates. She looked and felt better every day. She even forced herself to go shopping during her lunch break to buy some transition clothes now that her fat ones were too loose. Baby steps. Three months from now, she’d reach her goal weight and treat herself to an entirely new wardrobe.

As she settled back down onto her exercise mat, there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” she yelled.

“Delivery.”

The delivery men didn’t speak English any better than Lewis, she thought as she climbed back up to her feet. She squinted against the peephole and saw a bouquet of flowers blocking the profile of a brown-haired delivery man.

“They’re not for me. 32F, maybe.” That’s where the long-haired skank with the chihuahua, pierced tongue, and all the boyfriends lived.

“Megan, they’re for you. It’s me. Greg. From FirstDate. I told you that if you wouldn’t go out with me, I’d show up at your door one day with flowers.”

It wasn’t actually the man at the door who had written that promise to Megan, but a very nice man named Greg London, who had been exchanging e-mails with Megan for a good solid week now on FirstDate. Lots of chemistry. Plenty of witty banter. Greg was one of the few men interested in meeting Megan in person, but Megan was mortified at the thought of meeting a trim stranger who described his perfect match as slender. Megan had been putting him off, racing to shed a few more pounds before the big introduction.

And now Greg had made good on his promise to surprise her one day with flowers. She did a panicked check in the mirror, then decided that sweat became her. She looked happy and healthy, and, screw it, she was finally going to meet Greg.

“How on earth did you find me?”

THE MAN STANDING outside 32M pictured the round face pressed against the peephole. Flowers and brown hair. That’s all she’d see.
How on earth did you find me
? He heard locks turning in the door, and then Megan smiled and welcomed him and his cheap bouquet of flowers inside.

Megan did not live long enough to learn the answer to her eager question. Just as she closed the door and locked it behind her, the man who called himself Enoch realized that Megan looked a lot like one of his foster mothers. He was still thinking about the absurdity of that when he grabbed her.

PART THREE

ENOCH

23

THE DELTA GRILL HAS A LOUISIANA THEME, COMPLETE WITH
wood-planked floors, New Orleans bar signs, and live zydeco music. Ellie made her way past the band in the bar, searching for a face that matched the picture posted on FirstDate by Unpublished. They spotted each other simultaneously.

Peter stood up from a small table in the back to shake her hand. “I hope you don’t mind sitting here. I figured we could hear better.”

“No, it’s good. So I’ve taken one look at you. Is this the part where most of the girls run away?” Ellie asked.

“Yeah, but that was before someone told me about that whole using-soap-while-you-shower thing. I’m better now, I think.”

Ellie took a seat.

“Does this mean you’re staying?”

“Stop it,” Ellie said. “Yes, of course I’m staying.”

“Admit it. You’re relieved.”

Ellie kept a serious face for all of two seconds before she broke. She was in fact relieved. Peter was even better looking in person: small-framed, but not too small, and he had a cute smile that turned up more on one side than the other.

“I was a little nervous,” she admitted. “I’ve never gone out with someone from FirstDate before.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Ellie insisted she was telling the truth, but Peter waved her off. “I’m just kidding. This is my first time too. I just signed up a few weeks ago and wasn’t real happy with the kinds of responses I was finding out there.”

“
Looking for a partner in crime? I just loved
The Da Vinci Code \?”

“Exactly. What is up with that? Anyway, you actually got my ridiculous sense of humor, so I figured I had to persuade you to meet me at least once before I canceled my membership.”

A waitress came by and asked what she could get them to drink. She plugged the hurricanes as the house specialty.

“A hurricane it is, then,” Ellie said.

“Make it two.”

The waitress was back in a flash with a dangerously tasty concoction of sugar and alcohol.

“So who’s the Golden?” Ellie asked.

Peter’s expression was momentarily confused, then he smiled. “Ah, the very attractive canine in my online photo. He would belong to my sister, Erica. She’s good people, and her dog Boggle’s the closest thing I have to a nephew.”

“And what about your great American novel? The adventures of a dog named Boggle?”

“No, although I can see the commercial potential there,” he said with a squint of mock concentration. “It’s actually about the trials and tribulations of a thirty-five-year-old reporter who lives in Hell’s Kitchen. He writes his columns. He struggles to publish a book. He tries like hell to find a woman who gets him. Pretty darn original, huh?”

“Don’t knock it. Your female counterparts have spawned several bestsellers writing about being single in the city. You might introduce a whole new genre: Call it dick-lit.”

Ellie usually had a better filter between her brain and her mouth, at least with strangers, but Peter seemed to appreciate the comment.

“Are the two of you ordering dinner?” The waitress was back. Ellie and Peter exchanged looks across the table, and then laughed.

“Nah, that wasn’t awkward at all, was it? Um, just give us a second,” Peter said.

The invitation had been for drinks, but every dater — even Ellie — knew that was just a ruse. If all goes well, drinks evolve into dinner.

“I tell you what.” Ellie took two napkins from the tabletop and grabbed two pens from her purse. “We each write down either dinner or drinks. We’ll stay only if it’s mutual. No pressure.”

They scribbled notes on their respective napkins, then showed their cards.
Dinner
, Ellie had written. Peter’s napkin read,
Dinner! For the love of God, just one dinner
! He called the waitress back and asked for two menus.

THREE HURRICANES, ONE crab cake, and an oyster po-boy later, Ellie was stuffed and red in the face from the laughter and the booze. Based on the crooked smile on Peter’s face, she thought he was having a good time too. But it was nearing midnight, and Peter caught her looking at her watch.

“It’s late, huh?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Ellie felt a twinge of regret about the deal she’d struck with herself at the apartment. She’d learned over time that it was better to set boundaries for herself and then stick with them. When she quit smoking, for example, it had been cold turkey. And before she allowed herself to pick up the phone to accept Peter’s drink invitation, she had vowed it would be a one-time occasion.

She was tempted to break her own self-imposed contract, but knew she would not. She hadn’t set this rule for herself arbitrarily. She wasn’t ready for a new relationship, and this one in particular would be off to a bad start from the beginning. She’d lied to him online and then compounded it all night as she rattled on about her work as a paralegal for a real estate attorney. He didn’t even know her
name
.

Even worse, between all the banter, she’d learned that Peter not only was a reporter, but a crime reporter. He was Peter Morse, the name she’d seen splashed across the byline of crime stories in the
Daily Post
, a newspaper that sold papers by out-sensationalizing, out-tabloidizing, and out-scandalizing all of the other local rags. She couldn’t even begin to explain why she’d been misleading him all night without tipping him off to the FirstDate investigation.

She told herself not to be disappointed.

“Can I walk you wherever you’re going?” Peter asked.

“No, let’s be unconventional. I’ll walk you home.”

“Oh, you
are
butch.”

The truth was, Clinton — né Hell’s Kitchen — could still be a sketchy neighborhood. Peter was tipsy himself, and, despite the gender difference, Ellie was pretty confident that she had the better defensive skills. Plus she wanted a few more minutes with him before she said good-bye.

They walked side by side until they reached a storefront on West Forty-fourth. Peter stopped in front of the graffiti-laden metal gate that shielded the store entrance. “This is it.”

Ellie gave him a skeptical look. “Is this like when you told me you’d be wearing a purple velvet jacket?”

“Nope. It’s one of the last places in the hood zoned for mixed use — live and work. I took the top from some guy who sold tourist tchotchkes downstairs. He got busted two months ago for selling counterfeit goods. They’re trying to give me the boot, but I’ve got a lawyer working on it.” He gave her a name, wondering if she knew him from her paralegal work. The question only made her feel bad.

“It’s hard, losing a good place in the city.”

“A home, I wouldn’t have a problem with. But this is like a second office. It’s only a few blocks from the paper, and I can come here and have a beer and write in peace. I can even file copy from my home computer. I think it’s part of the paper’s goal to phase out our desk space entirely so they don’t have to pay the overhead.”

Peter mistook Ellie’s sad expression for boredom.

“Sorry. I’m rambling. And you, madam, probably have to get home. Thank you very much for the walk. You’re quite chivalrous. You sure you’re all right? Let me at least hail you a cab.”

“No, I’ll be fine. I can walk from here.” She said it, but her feet weren’t moving anywhere.

He took a step closer to her and wrapped her sagging scarf around her shoulders. Then he placed the softest, most gentle, perfect kiss on her lips. “Can I see you again?”

“Um — no, you can’t.”

Peter made a face that said,
There you go again
, until he realized she wasn’t smiling. “I’m sorry. Did I misunderstand — ?” He looked back toward the restaurant as if to make sure he hadn’t imagined the entire evening.

“I know this sounds really crazy. But I shouldn’t have gone out with you. I shouldn’t have even e-mailed you. It’s too complicated to explain, but I just can’t ever see you again.”

“Well, if you really mean that, obviously I’ll respect that. Is there anything I can do that might make you reconsider? Anything legal, I mean? Not kidnapping. That would be bad, of course.”

Ellie gave him a sad smile, wishing he’d be less likeable. “Trust me. I’m saving you a lot of trouble.”

“If it makes any difference, I’m incredibly disappointed — pathetically, really. I’m going to go upstairs and wallow. Like seriously wallow. Ice cream, sweatpants, Lifetime television, the works.”

Ellie smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

As she walked away, she heard him entering a combination into the electric keypad near a narrow door adjacent to the graffiti-covered gate. She turned around to face him again.

“So, that whole thing I just said about not being able to see you again?”

“I think I remember that,” Peter said, nodding.

“There’s no reason our one night has to be over yet. I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for Lifetime myself.”

He walked her upstairs to the apartment he called his second office. There was no ice cream, no television, and definitely no sweatpants. Ellie closed her eyes and enjoyed the night for what it was, trying to convince herself that one anonymous night with a stranger was exactly what she needed. And every time he gently whispered
Ally
, she pretended it was close enough.