Never Tell (15 page)

Chapter Thirty

E
llie and Rogan found Katherine Whitmire in the den on the second floor. Like the sitting room downstairs, this space was filled with stuffy, hard-edged furniture and ornate rugs. It had neither a television nor a bed, making it useless as far as Ellie was concerned.

Katherine immediately rose from her chair as Ellie and Rogan approached. Down the hall, they spotted her husband, Bill, on his BlackBerry in the kitchen. It struck Ellie as a strange moment for the two of them to be apart. If the appearance in their home of two teenagers claiming to know the identity of their daughter’s killer was not enough to bring the pair together, Ellie wondered whether the two were ever in the same room.

They all convened in the kitchen. “Have you put out a warrant for this Casey Heinz girl?”

She did not have the time to explain to a record producer the process that was required for obtaining an arrest warrant.

“We’re going to check out Heinz right now,” Rogan said. She noticed that her partner omitted the fact that they’d already spoken to Casey the previous night. “I’d suggest that you hold off on giving those two scroungers down there any money for now.”

“But Bill told them—”

Rogan shook his head. “Trust me. You give those kids ten grand, and they’ll be in Seattle by tomorrow night. Slip them a couple hundred bucks and tell them it’ll take time to pull the rest together? They’re not going anywhere.”

Bill Whitmire was pacing back and forth in the aisle between his kitchen island and cabinets. “Can’t you arrest them to make certain we don’t lose them?”

Ellie shook her head. “They haven’t done anything illegal.”

“They waited until a reward was announced to tell anyone they knew about a murderer!”

“I’m afraid the law doesn’t require people to come forward with knowledge about illegal activity, Mr. Whitmire.”

“But that’s ridicu—”

“Otherwise, you’d be required to call the police every time someone lit a joint in your recording studio. You see?”

“It’s not the same—”

“I’m just explaining why we can’t take these two into custody.”

“Aren’t they runaways?”

“Vonda is of age, and Brandon claims to be legally emancipated, in which case he’s also considered an adult.”

“But what about, what’s it called? Material witnesses, or something?”

“That’s only if they’re uncooperative. Like my partner, I’m quite sure they’ll stay exactly where we need to find them unless you suddenly give them enough money to leave.” She was getting sick of fielding Bill Whitmire’s legal questions. This wasn’t a citizen training academy. “We’ve had some other leads in the case as well. We need to ask you about your daughter’s relationship with Adrienne Langston.”

Bill Whitmire’s expression was completely blank. It was his wife who spoke up. “You know who she is, Bill. Ramona’s stepmother. You mention how
youthful
and
natural
she is every time you see her.” Her voice became slightly less bitter when she returned her attention to Ellie. “Julia was very fond of Adrienne. Always saying what a wonderful mother she was. The underlying message wasn’t lost on me,” she added sadly.

Now that Bill understood the question, he was not about to wait for answers. “This is ridiculous. You should be looking for Casey Heinz.”

“And we will, soon enough,” Ellie said. “But we’ll be better prepared to question any suspect if we fully explore all the other information available to us.” She had just gotten to a description of Adrienne’s blog when Katherine interrupted.

“So Adrienne’s big writing deal is just a blog?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“A couple of weeks ago, Lanie Marks told me Adrienne had some big book deal. Lanie works at
New York
magazine. She heard that Adrienne had sold a memoir to the editor in chief at Waterton Press. Everyone assumed it would be one of these Upper East Side tell-alls. The only question was whether Adrienne would be naming names. Shows what gossip will get you. By the time some pathetic blog hits the whispers of Madison Avenue, it’s become a healthy six-figure book deal.”

Ellie wondered whether there was any hope for the woman. Whoever she was two days ago, Katherine was now a person who took pleasure in the fact that a woman she’d known for the better part of a decade—a woman who had come from humble means and had loved a stepchild as her own, a woman who had treated
Katherine’s
daughter as her own—had written as a mere blogger, not as a soon-to-be-published author. This woman was being eaten away, not just by grief, but by jealousy now as well.

She quickly summarized the evidence they had to show that Julia’s laptop was used to post one of several threats on the blog. “Did Julia have any reason to dislike her friend’s mother?”

Bill was sighing impatiently, but his wife simply shook her head. “That just doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard her say anything bad about Adrienne.”

“What about keys to this townhouse? To your knowledge, did Julia have extra keys she gave to friends?”

Another blank stare from Bill Whitmire. He obviously had no idea what his daughter’s day-to-day life had entailed.

Katherine, however, walked to a narrow drawer next to the refrigerator, pulled out a red leather keychain, and continued to rummage through the drawer’s contents. “A copy is missing. We keep two here. The other’s got a—um—what is it called? A unicorn. It’s on a silver unicorn keychain. I know it was here last Thanksgiving because I gave it to Billy’s girlfriend for the weekend, but now it’s gone. Why?” Katherine’s tone was panicked. “Did someone take keys to our home? Do I need to change the locks?”

Ellie used her best stay-calm voice. “We don’t know that for certain, but, yes, according to these two sources, your daughter may have shared a key to your townhouse with a friend of hers and Ramona’s.”

“One of the homeless kids?” Bill yelled. “Jesus Christ. That is
just
like Julia.”

Katherine’s moxie briefly reemerged as she shot her husband a sharp look that immediately quieted his outburst. “Like I told you,” she said calmly, “our daughter was overly generous. I will call a locksmith, to be safe. And I assure you that my husband and I will continue to provide any information you require, but now will you
please
go find this Casey Heinz person?”

I
n the car, Ellie and Rogan compared notes about their separate interviews with Brandon and Vonda.

Their stories lined up perfectly. The location. The time. What Casey was wearing. The words he’d used. His explanation spilling out so quickly they could barely follow. An argument with Julia, somehow related to Ramona.
I snapped
, he’d said.
It just happened.
More tears.
I wish I could take it back.

“They’re definitely singing the same tune,” Rogan said.

“It’s a little
too
in sync for me. They both happened to remember exactly what Casey was wearing? And that he was doing handstands near the dog run?”

“Sounds like that’s what Casey wears and does every day, based on what we saw. Not really surprising they’d remember it.”

“And the same exact phrases?” she said. “Verbatim?”

“Hate to say this, Hatcher, but isn’t that what defense attorneys argue all the time after the two of us testify to identical details?”

“We’re not two homeless kids trying to get reward money from a famous record producer.”

“We’ve had worse witnesses. Remember Otis Jones?”

Of course Ellie remembered. They’d built an entire murder case around the word of a convicted drug dealer who boasted on the stand about spending the first part of the day in question smoking a blunt while “being bathed” by three crackheads who served as his “harem.” Cops didn’t get to pick their witnesses.

“Yeah, but we believed Otis Jones because his testimony matched what we knew about the murder. Brandon and Vonda? The only thing their statements match are each other’s statements. There’s no insider detail.”

“Maybe that’s because Casey stopped talking before any of the insider detail got out. Isn’t that possible?”

“I guess.”

“Damn, Hatcher. Those two are lowlifes, but if Casey slept with that girl, had a key to her place, and didn’t tell us? We’ve got to be looking at the kid, right?”

“Obviously.”

“So, I’ll say it once again: you best open your damn mind.”

Chapter Thirty-One

E
llie had seen more than a few homeless shelters. During her years on patrol, she tried to avoid the dispatch calls to shelters the way most cops tried to avoid the domestic beefs. They were dirty, desperate places filled with broken, desperate people. It was as if the physical buildings had somehow absorbed their occupants’ collective regrets and hopelessness.

But the Promises Center for Young Adults was not that kind of place. With a new, clean brick façade and a glassed-in atrium at the entrance, the structure felt more like a community center than a homeless shelter—except the receptionist at the front desk had a bright-pink mohawk and a silver chain draping from her right nostril to her ear.

There had been no sign of Casey Heinz at Washington Square Park. Ramona’s cell phone had gone directly to voice mail. That made Promises the next step in the search for their only person of interest in the death of Julia Whitmire. The pink mohawk woman hadn’t seen Casey that day but assured them she’d locate the center’s director for them right away.

Two minutes later, a woman with jet-black, blade-straight hair and flawless alabaster skin greeted them. There was an old-fashioned formality to her tailored suit and black stockings, but she opened her arms and flashed a warm smile, as if she’d known them for years. “Detectives, my name is Chung Mei Ri. Welcome to Promises. I understand you are looking for Casey?”

Rogan took the lead on introductions, and then gave the woman an edited explanation for their visit. “We believe Casey has some information relevant to a case we’re investigating.”

Her smile grew even wider. “Casey is a wonderful person. If he has any information that would assist you, I have no doubt that he will be more than forthcoming. He is smart, too. He’ll be one of our success stories. Of that I have no doubt.”

“I’ve seen a lot of shelters, Ms. Ri,” Ellie said. “I didn’t know there were many successes.”

“That’s how Promises is different. There are shelters for mothers and their very young children. And there are the adult shelters, which are filled with grown men—usually who are addicted to one thing or another, or mentally ill, or who have given up on life, or vice versa. Promises is for young adults who are still getting started in life, but with rougher beginnings than others. We like to think of ourselves as a kind of belated Head Start. We’re leveling the playing field a little bit so these kids can find their legs and make a decent life for themselves.”

“And what was Casey’s rough beginning?” Ellie asked.

The woman’s eyes dropped, but the smile never faltered. “I think it’s for Casey to choose whom to share confidences with.”

“We know he’s transgender, if that’s what you mean.”

“The preferred terminology is transgender
person
, but very close, Detective. And do you not believe that’s reason enough for needing a new beginning?”

“What about Brandon Sykes and Vonda Smith? Are they also finding the new beginnings they need?”

A worried look crossed Ms. Ri’s open face.

“I don’t hear you predicting further success stories for your center, Ms. Ri.”

“Please. Come with me.”

They followed her through the shelter, passing a workout room and then a series of small rooms with bunk beds. They ended their journey in a tiny office with just enough space for a desk and two chairs.

“I apologize for the pinch. When we built this center, I thought it best to devote the maximum amount of square footage to the residents.”

“You’ve been here since the beginning?” Rogan asked.

“Yes. We’ve been open for three years. I was previously the director of Operation Nightwatch.” Ellie recognized the name of one of the transient shelters in midtown where people checked in night by night with no promise of a long-term bed. “I saw what happened to our younger clients. They were weaker. More naïve. They had the greatest likelihood of making another kind of life, but they just fell through the cracks. Did you know that half of all runaways have been physically abused at home? That a third will attempt suicide? These are kids who still have a chance in life—without the chronic mental illness and addiction you see in older populations. That’s why at Promises we only accept clients aged sixteen to twenty-four.”

Ellie shook her head. “There shouldn’t be a large enough homeless population in that age group to keep you in business.”

“Here’s another statistic for you: a third of America’s homeless are children. At any given time we have a waiting list with more than fifty names.”

Ellie thought about all the medicated kids up at Casden. They had no idea how lucky they were. “You brought us back here when we asked about Brandon Sykes and Vonda Smith.”

“I do not like to say negative things about the young people we are trying to help.”

“But?”

She placed a hand over her heart. “I have a special place here for Casey. If those two have anything to do with the reasons you are contacting him—well, I worry.”

“We got the impression they were all friends.”

“Casey tries to be a friend to everyone he meets. Not everyone is as accepting of him as he sometimes so desperately wants to believe. Now, Brandon—I do believe that Brandon has been good to Casey at times. Mostly Casey gets along with the girls here. But the boys? It’s a problem. I have to give him his own room because of the gender issues. Brandon, however, has been different. He sticks up for Casey with the males.”

“And yet?”

“This is Brandon’s third and final chance here. We’ve had to ask him to leave twice previously for evidence of drug usage.”

“What drug?”

“Heroin. We don’t call the police on our clients, but we do have zero tolerance. We found a small quantity the first time, which we flushed down the toilet. Two months ago, it was a needle. We let him back in about a month ago, but let’s just say, I have reason to worry.”

“What about Vonda?” Ellie asked.

“Vonda I can’t take back again, I’m afraid.” She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s not the girl’s fault. But her presence here was completely counterproductive to our mission.”

“How so?”

“She is—there’s no other way to put it—she is toxic. She is like a poison that taints everything around her. One of the girls—Lisa—she had completed her applications to CUNY. We had loan and grant forms filled out. She was really going to do it. She was going to start college. The first in her family ever to do it. And then Vonda comes along and—like they say—she pissed all over it.” The word sounded odd coming from this woman’s dignified voice. “She tells Lisa she’s
too pretty
to go to college. That she’d be wasting her most valuable years in a classroom when she could be meeting men. That’s what it’s always about with Vonda.”

“Forgive me for saying this, Ms. Ri, but Vonda didn’t look like a girl who gave much thought to whether men would find her attractive.”

“You mean she is ugly.”

Ellie shrugged.

“And that’s precisely why she would try to destroy Lisa’s ambitions. Because Lisa is a beautiful girl. And Vonda is not, but would like to be. And if someone else is healthy, she will try to get them to eat junk. And if someone else is about to start a new job, she will keep them out so late the night before that they oversleep and get fired. Rather than try to pull herself up, she tries to drag everyone else down. When I meet two detectives looking for Casey, and telling me it has something to do with Vonda—well, it makes me very worried. Is Casey in trouble?”

“We didn’t mean to alarm you,” Rogan said. “Just a few quick follow-up questions for the kid. Give us a call when he gets in?”

W
hen Rogan and Ellie returned to the squad room, Detective John Shannon looked up from his desk with the smile of a fat kid who’d just snuck a cookie without getting caught.

“What’s up, Shannon?” Ellie asked. “Krispy Kreme having a two-for-one sale?” Her words would be harsh if said to anyone else, but with Shannon, full-on hate speech was friendly banter.

“More like two for one in the dog house. As in, the two of you.”

“What the hell?”

“Go ask the Lou. She came out about ten minutes ago, totally
en fuego.
Either the two of you fucked up good or she ran out of tampons.”

Robin Tucker called out from her office. “Did I hear Hatcher?”

She started talking before they’d even crossed the threshold of her office.

“Where were you two?”

Rogan pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Working Whitmire.” He checked the screen of his cell phone. “We didn’t get any calls from the house.”

“Shit. I was giving it five more minutes. I was hoping you were pulling a major break in the case out of your asses.”

Ellie wanted to make a joke about giving new meaning to “crack”-ing the case, but figured the comedic timing was off.

“Tell me you at least know who some homeless kid named Casey Heinz is and how he-she fits into this investigation?”

“He prefers
he
,” Ellie said. “We talked to him last night. Now we’ve got two kids pointing fingers at him. Questionable reliability, but still, we’ll track him down.”

“And do you happen to know who Earl Gundley is?”

“He’s the private dick Bill Whitmire hired.”

“Based on what Mr. Whitmire tells me,” Tucker said, “this Gundley guy worked the job for twenty-two years, solved a gazillion murder cases, and, while we’re at it, he might’ve been the one to pull the trigger on bin Laden, the way I heard it.”

“The family also offered a huge reward without talking to us first,” Rogan said. “We’re pretty sure that’s why these homeless kids are yapping some story about Casey.”

“Yapping a story, huh? Well, maybe this Earl Gundley is Mister Super Detective of the Century after all. Because supposedly he has Casey Heinz in his custody and is currently searching his room at a homeless shelter. I suggest the two of you catch up.”