Spectrum (The Karen Vail Series) (14 page)

21

>MANHATTAN SOUTH HOMICIDE SQUAD

230 East 21st Street

Tuesday, November 5, 1996

Vail returned to the homicide squad in time to see Thorne outside, ready to get into his car.

“You’re late,” he said. “I told you to be back here at 2:00.”

Vail twisted her wrist and consulted her watch. “It’s 2:03.”

“Like I said. You’re late. Now get in the goddamn car.”

Protch’s admonition was suddenly echoing in her mind:
Be careful.
She pulled open the door and slid into the seat.

“Where were you?”

“None of your business.”

“Bullshit. You’re on the clock, and I’m a senior officer, so you will answer my question. You’re supposed to be working this case. Did you type up that report?”

“I did.”

He turned over the engine and pulled away from the curb. “Then where were you?”

“Meeting with Detective Proschetta, out of the—”

“I know who he is. Why were you meeting him?”

“I was working the case.”

Thorne laughed. “You’re working the case? You’re a pissant beat cop. What the hell do you know about working a case?”

Vail squirmed in her seat. “I did a temporary assignment with homicide when I got out of the academy.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert now.”

“Of course not. I’m following my gut instinct, looking at things logically. I’m trying to understand why the killer is doing what he’s doing.”

“
Understand
him.” He glanced over at her. It was not a look of confidence. “Really?”

“Yeah. I figure that if I can get a handle on the victims, understand who the victims were as people, I might be able to get a bead on why he killed each of them. It might even tell us something about who he is.” She saw he was not buying her explanation. “Look, I’m just doing what we talked about. Looking for a connection between the two victims.”

“I was talking about a hard connection. An acquaintance, a known associate, a forensic common to both crime scenes. Not some touchy-feely bullshit about ‘understanding’ the vic and killer.” He shook his head. “Is this the kind of crap they’re teaching at the academy these days?”

She turned away, looked out the window. “I didn’t learn that at the academy. It’s just something … that makes sense to me.”

He turned at the next block and glanced over at Vail. “Let me give you some advice. Not that you’re asking for it or anything. But stick to procedure and the stuff they teach you. That’s the way you’re gonna make detective. You talk about some fairy tale new age shit, they’re gonna laugh you off the force. Forget about getting your shield.”

Vail clenched her jaw.

“Listen to me. The job ain’t to think outside the box. The job is to follow established procedure, to do things the way they teach you. That’s the only thing the NYPD’s organizational structure understands.” He turned the corner and accelerated. “I’m serious about that. The department’s a bureaucratic mess. They don’t want advanced thinkers. They want cops who’ll follow protocol.” He glanced back at her. “I know you don’t like me. You don’t have to. But I’m giving you some good advice here. Clear?”

I’ll verify that with Russo or Protch, but for now I’ll accept it.
“Clear.”

“You don’t have to believe me. But lemme give you an example. Buddy of mine retired a couple of years ago. Had a degree in mathematics, predictive logic. He developed this method where he could apply his mathematical formulas, his methodology, to his cases. He studied every home invasion perp who’d been caught in the city. From that, he developed a predictive model using a dozen points of commonality in those cases. And he solved every one of ’em.”

“Very impressive, to say the least.”

“It was impressive. But I’m the only person who knew about it, and only then because he got loose with the tongue while we were … while we were out drinking one night. Being an alcoholic, I hold my liquor better than some, and he was going on and on about this method he used to solve his cases. And after a while, I thought, man, there’s something to what he’s saying. Come morning, I guess he realized he might’ve run his mouth off. I said, ‘Yeah, you told me all about it.’ He just about begged me to keep my mouth shut. I never told anyone about it till just now. Because he woulda been kicked so far off the force he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.”

“Sounds backward to me.”
And stupid.

“Just telling you the way it is.”

Vail looked at him. “I appreciate that.”

“Russo likes you, that much is obvious. You didn’t need me to tell you that. Let’s just say he’d kill me if I did anything to fuck up your career.”

She thought again of Protch’s analogy of shit on the shoe.

I hope Thorne’s familiar with that concept.

22

>626 11th AVENUE at 46th STREET

Manhattan

Tuesday, November 5, 1996

Vail and Thorne arrived at the apartment of a man who had called the Manhattan South homicide squad claiming to have information about the Dominic Crinelli murder.

But the witness was not home when they arrived. Thorne left his card and a note asking for a phone call.

From there they paid a visit to the ME, where Finkelstein apologized for lacking groundbreaking information.

“No surprises,” he told them. “What you saw at the crime scene was what you get.”

They returned to the squad and Thorne reviewed Vail’s report. He sat back in his creaky metal chair and nodded. “Nice job. I see why Russo’s so high on you.”

“Assuming I drop the new age shit.”

“Assuming that, yeah.” He twisted his wrist and checked his watch. “We’ll review that file Russo gave you, then we’ll knock off. You gonna be around in case that witness calls about Crinelli?”

“I’m meeting my husband for dinner.”

“Hopefully the guy won’t call till morning, but I’m never so lucky. Where you going?”

“Landmark Tavern. Know it?”

“Good choice. Nice presentations. Chicken Rollatini’s my favorite.”

She looked at him.

“What, you don’t think I know good food?”

Vail grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t think so, no.”

“A lot you don’t know about me, Vail.”

VAIL ARRIVED AT THE Landmark Tavern early. While standing out front waiting for Deacon, she lit a cigarette.
What am I doing? Start thinking like a mother, Karen.
She tossed it to the ground and killed it with her shoe, then used the pay phone on the corner to touch base with Russo.

“Is there any way to check if there were other victims with that kind of writing on their necks?”

“I’ll poke around,” he said. “See what I can find. You mean in the city?”

“I was thinking nationally. Just because this killer’s here in New York right now doesn’t mean he didn’t kill in Montana, or Georgia, or Arizona.”

“I don’t think there’s anything that c— Wait a minute. There was a memo … some kind of database that’s going to be made accessible to the department. Vie-something. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Hey, another question. Off topic.” She repeated what Thorne told her about the bureaucratic approach of the NYPD and how they did not want outside the box thinkers.

“He was being straight with you. But I don’t want you to listen to him. Keep thinking creatively, it suits you well. If we always do the same thing, we don’t find new approaches and better ways of clearing cases. But the brass don’t think that way. They’re stuck in policies and procedures. There’s some value in that, but it can also hold us back. We don’t see important clues. But Timmy’s right about it hurting you, so keep that thinking to yourself—or only share it with people you trust.”

Vail caught sight of Deacon and motioned to him to wait.

“How are things going with you and Thorne?”

“We’re good, actually. We’ve come to an understanding, I guess. This may sound crazy, but I think he’s trying to mentor me. In his own way.”

“He’s a good cop, Karen. I wouldn’t have set you up with him if he wasn’t. That said, he’s found his share of trouble with the drinking, and it’s put a cloud over everything he does.”

“Protch said he’s an asshole and that I should be careful.”

“I can’t disagree. But his piss-poor attitude comes from the alcohol and other personal problems. I’ve known him a really long time, before all that shit hit. He was my first partner. Take what you can from him—but most important, help him solve that case.”

VAIL JOINED DEACON inside the three story restaurant, which featured high, decorative ceilings and hand-tiled flooring.

“How’d you find this place?” Vail asked, craning her neck to take in the decor.

“Buddy at work recommended it,” Deacon said. “Said they’ve been around since like 1886.”

“That’s right,” the man behind them said. “Follow me.” Menus in hand, he led the way into the main dining area. “We started out as an Irish waterfront saloon on the banks of the Hudson. We’re still one of the oldest continually operating establishments in the city.”

They were seated in the main dining room opposite the large bar, which featured the most elaborate wood carving on the facing of its counter that Vail had ever seen.

After studying the menu for a few moments, Vail closed it and said, “I was thinking of the Chicken Rollatini, but I’m going with the Long Island duck breast. You?”

“Steak.”

The waiter was upon them immediately and introduced himself as Warren. He took their order and said, “Anything to drink with that?”

“What wine would you recommend?”

“A Napa Valley red, probably Charles Krug Cabernet. It’s the oldest winery in the region. Are you familiar with Napa?”

“It’s in California,” Vail said. “That’s about all I know.”

“You must go someday,” Warren said with flair. “They’ve been making exceptional wine there for over a hundred years, but up until twenty years ago they were considered vastly inferior to French wines.”

“What happened twenty years ago?” Vail asked.

“Blind taste test,” Deacon said. “Napa Valley wines beat French wines, put them on the map. Beautiful country.”

“That’s right,” Warren said.

Vail cocked her head. “And how do you know this?”

Deacon chuckled. “Right before we met, my company sent me there for a leadership training conference. Lucked out, actually. The guy who was supposed to go got sick and they sent me in his place. We’ll have to go someday. Get a bed and breakfast, kick back, do a mud bath—”

Warren cleared his throat. “Would you like the Cab, then, sir?”

“The Cab’s fine. Just a glass for me.”

“And you, miss?”

“Would love to. But I’m gonna pass.”

Warren collected the menus and walked off.

“I’ve done some thinking about names,” Deacon said.

“Really. Male or female?”

“Joseph or Jonathan if it’s a boy, Rose or Lily if it’s a girl. What do you think?”

Vail lifted her brow.
Giving it a name makes it more real. Am I really going to have a child? Me, a mother?

“C’mon, just give me your first impression. Don’t overthink it. You have a tendency to do that.”

“What, me? Overthink things?”

They laughed.

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I can’t help but think what my life would be like if I hadn’t gone for pizza the night we met.”

“Or me. Then again, not a whole lot of places to eat in Rosedale. The odds were kind of stacked in our favor.”

Their food arrived a few minutes after Deacon’s wine, and they made it through dinner without interruption. But just after Warren brought the dessert menus and made his recommendations, Vail’s pager beeped. She checked the display.

“So much for chocolate cake. Gotta go meet that witness.” She rose from her seat, tossed her napkin on the chair, and took a few steps toward the front of the restaurant. Out the front window she could see Thorne’s car.

Vail scampered back to the table and gave Deacon a kiss. “Jonathan,” she said. “Or Lily.”

He grinned. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you back at home. Hopefully not too late.”

VAIL CLIMBED INTO the vehicle and pulled the door shut.

“How was dinner?” Thorne asked as he swung out into traffic.

“We’ll go back, for sure. You heard from the witness?”

“He called the office half an hour ago. I wanted to give you enough time to eat, so I told him we’d meet him at nine.” He turned onto the West Side Highway and accelerated. “I put together a backgrounder on the guy.” He lifted a manila folder from between the seats and handed it to Vail.

What’d he do, work through dinner?
“Didn’t you eat?”

“At my desk. I wanted to make sure we knew who we were dealing with, just in case he called.”

Vail admired his dedication. As she opened the file and started to read, a call came over the radio.

“Anonymous caller reporting a panel van possibly containing fertilizer explosive. New York plate 4-0-9-Nancy-Sierra-Tango last seen headed east on 9th at 5-2 Street.”

Vail snatched a look at a passing street sign. “That’s us.”

“Guess a truck bomb takes priority over a murder witness.” Thorne hung a right on 52nd and drove along De Witt Clinton Park. The large field lights were on, meaning a game was in progress.

Vail turned on the siren and lights as Thorne swung around slower moving cars, fighting the end-of-rush-hour congestion.

“Seatbelt,” Thorne shouted at her.

Shit, how could I forget that?
She fastened it around her torso, placing a hand on her pregnant belly. She couldn’t feel anything there yet, but she knew a lot was going on under the hood.

Thorne veered around a woman who jumped back onto the sidewalk as he passed. He continued on to Ninth Avenue and hung a right, then navigated around cars and taxis that stood in their way.

“Anything?” he yelled.

“No vans,” Vail said, sitting forward in her seat and peering out the windshield. This area of the city had fewer skyscrapers but a larger number of high-rise apartment buildings than midtown.

“Wait, got it!” Vail pointed ahead with her right hand as she reached for the radio with her left.

“Plate?”

“Only got the numbers. But that’s definitely it.”

“Suspect spotted,” Vail told Central over the din of the siren, “headed east on 9th, turning right on 43rd.”

Thorne accelerated and swerved onto 43rd, remaining several car lengths back.

“Stop and search?” Vail asked.

“More like just ‘stop.’ We’ll call in EOD, have them search. We’re not gonna be yanking a door open on a van stuffed with goddamn bombs.”

The van sped up as it neared the West Side Highway. It took the turn fast, two tires nearly leaving the pavement.

“If you’ve got no reason to run, you pull over when a cop car’s behind you,” Vail said. “Right?”

“Right. Now update our position. On 43rd, in pursuit. Suspect turned east onto West Side Highway.”

Vail did as instructed.

“We got the light,” Thorne said as he accelerated.

As they swung left onto the wide avenue, tires squealing, a sedan ran the red and broadsided Vail’s car, striking the driver’s door and forcing them perpendicular to the roadway.

Their vehicle flipped side over side, then came to rest on all four wheels.

Vail was the first to open her eyes.
Did I black out?
She tried to move, forgetting she was still strapped in. Feeling blindly for the release button, she found it and freed herself.

“Thorne,” she said weakly. “Tim!”

He did not answer. She climbed across the center console and groped for the seatbelt, then unbuckled him. Got a pulse. Still alive. She felt around his torso, checking for blood and broken bones, and hit something hard in his jacket.

Vail patted it down and rooted out a stainless steel flask. As she pulled off the cap, she heard liquid sloshing around inside—and smelled alcohol.
If anyone finds this, they’ll automatically assume he was driving drunk.
That would become the story, even if it weren’t true. Given his history, he would be disgraced, if not fired.

Vail shoved it into her own pocket, then got out of the car. A man was running toward her.

“You okay?”

Vail was unsteady, nearly falling over as she tried to stand erect on her own, without holding on to the car.

“Call an ambulance,” she said.

Another man yelled, “I got it,” and sprinted off down the block, no doubt in search of a pay phone.

She went around to the driver’s door, but it was too badly damaged to open, so she returned to the passenger’s seat and again took a look at Thorne.

“Tim, you there? Answer me.” She gently slapped his face, but he was nonresponsive. Two fingers against the carotid, again checking his pulse.

This time, however, it was not present. She grabbed his wrist, felt—same result.

Shit.

She grabbed his shirt and pulled, dragging him across the console and passenger seat, onto the sidewalk.

“Help me get him into your car,” she said to the man who was still standing outside the vehicle.

“My car?”

“Now! His heart’s stopped. No time to wait for the ambulance.” They lifted him by his armpits and legs, and sloppily set him into the backseat of the man’s Lexus. It was large and roomy, with soft leather.

As he drove away from the curb, Vail started CPR. While doing compressions, she said, “Closest hospital. You know where it is?”

“Straight shot down 45th. Only a few minutes away.”

“Faster the better.” As they passed under a streetlight, Vail saw a nasty head wound overlying the left portion of Thorne’s face. “C’mon, Tim, stay with me. We’re almost there.”

A minute later, the man was maneuvering the Lexus into the emergency bay. He came around and pulled open the back door while yelling something at someone nearby. Vail turned to see two medics running toward her wheeling a stretcher between them.

“Broadside MVA,” she said as they transferred Thorne to the gurney. “Heart stopped about four or five minutes ago, I started CPR and trans-ported.”

A nurse came running out of the hospital with a small briefcase-size device in her hand. She popped it open and pulled out two hand paddles.

“Charging. Clear!”

The other two medics removed their hands and stepped back. “Clear.”

The nurse pressed the paddles to Thorne’s chest and zapped him. His torso rose.

“Sinus rhythm. Get him inside.”

“You a friend?” the medic asked, apparently realizing that since Thorne was black and Vail was Caucasian, she was likely not next of kin.

“Yeah, his—partner. We’re cops.”

As the man backed into the hospital, he said, “C’mon in, get yourself looked at.”

I’m fine. Thorne’s the one who needs to be treated.

“I think I’m okay.” But as the dark glass doors slid closed, Vail caught her reflection—and saw that her face was covered with blood.

Her hands found her abdomen.

And then she ran into the ER.