“Sure puts a big hole in Miric’s statement that Starr never answered his door. Unless it was a twenty-minute knock.”
“Ask me, the only thing that got knocked was Matthew Starr,” said Raley. “This had to be when Pochenko gave him a boxing lesson.”
“That’s not our problem, guys,” said Heat. “According to this, our two Elvises left the building at 10:53 A.M., about two and a half hours before our victim was thrown off his balcony.” She tossed her pen onto the desktop in frustration. “So our two primes get cleared by the tape.”
“And they’ve lawyered up,” added Ochoa, looking at his BlackBerry. “They’re getting sprung now.”
From outside the security door, Heat stood with Roach and looked across the processing area as Miric and Pochenko collected their property. Of course Miric was the one who had the attorney on call, and when the lawyer caught Detective Heat’s eye, he didn’t like what he saw, so he got extra busy with paperwork.
“Guess I should cancel that search warrant for torn blue jeans at their apartments,” said Raley.
“No, don’t,” said Nikki. “I know what the time code says, but what’s the harm in checking? Details, gents. You’ll never regret being thorough.” And as Pochenko spotted her, she added, “In fact, add another item to Iron Man’s search warrant. A large ring.”
When Ochoa left to get the warrant processed, she gave an assignment to Raley. “I know it’s drudgery, but I want you to screen that lobby video again from the moment those jokers left until a half hour after Starr’s time of death. And do it in real time so we’re sure we don’t skip past them at high speed.”
Raley left to do his screening. Nikki stayed to watch Miric, his lawyer, and Pochenko head for the exit. The Russian lagged and split off from the other two, crossing to Heat. A uniform shadowed him so he stopped in a safe zone, a good yard away from her. He took his time looking at her head to toe, then said in a low whisper, “Relax. You’re gonna like it.” Then, with a shrug, “Or not.”
And then he left without looking back. Nikki waited until the exit door shut with Pochenko on the other side before she went back to work.
SIX
Nikki stepped into the rooftop bar of the Soho House and wondered what her friend had been thinking when she booked outdoor cocktails during a heat wave. Seven-thirty on a weeknight in summer was too light out to feel cool and too early for any action, especially on this stretch of Ninth Avenue. In the hipper-than-thou meatpacking district, seven-thirty was beyond outré. It was downright early bird.
Lauren Parry, who clearly wasn’t bothered by any of that, flagged her from her street-view table where the canopy ended and the pool area began. “Is this too hot?” she said when Nikki arrived.
“No, this is fine.” After they hugged, she added, “Who couldn’t stand to sweat off a few pounds?”
“Well, sorr-ee. I spend my day in the morgue,” said the medical examiner. “I grab all the warm I can get.”
They ordered cocktails. Nikki went for a Campari and soda, craving something dry, sparkling, and, most of all, cold. Her friend stuck with her usual, a bloody Mary. When it came, Nikki observed that it was an ironic favorite for a coroner. “Why don’t you break out, Lauren? This isn’t Sunday brunch. Get one of those sake-tinis or a sex on the beach.”
“Hey, you want to talk ironic drinks, that would be it. In my line of work, sex on the beach is usually what led to body under the pier.”
“To life,” said Nikki, and they both laughed.
Meeting her friend for a drink after work once a week was more than just cocktails and chill time. The two women had hit it off right away over Lauren’s first autopsy, when she started at the M.E.’s office three years ago, but their weekly after-work ritual was really fueled by their professional bond. Despite cultural differences—Lauren came out of the projects in St. Louis and Nikki grew up Manhattan middle-class—they connected on another level, as professional women navigating traditional male fields. Sure, Nikki enjoyed her occasional brew at the precinct- adjacent cop bar, but she was never about being one of the fellas, any more than she was about quilting bees or Goddess book clubs. She and Lauren clung to their camaraderie and the sense of safety they had crafted with each other, to have a time and place to share problems at work, largely political, and, yes, to decompress and let their hair down without having it be in a meat market or at a stitch and bitch.
Nikki asked, “Mind a little shop talk?”
“Hey, sister, on top of being cold all day, the people I hang out with don’t do much talking, so whatever the subject, bring it.”
Heat wanted to discuss Matthew Starr. She told Lauren she now understood how the victim got those torso bruises. She bullet-pointed her sessions with Miric and Pochenko, concluding by saying she had no doubt the bookie had his muscle man encourage the real estate developer to “prioritize” the repayment of his gambling debt. With experience talking, she added that, thanks to lawyers and stonewalling: Good luck making a case. What she wanted to know was if Lauren recalled any other marks that might be read as a separate event from the Russian’s work- over?
Lauren Parry was a marvel. She remembered every autopsy the way Tiger Woods could tell you every golf shot he made in every tournament—as well as his opponent’s. She said there were only two relevant indicators. First, a pair of uniquely shaped contusions on the deceased’s back, an exact match to the polished brass flip handles on the French doors leading to the balcony, probably where he was pushed outside with great force. Heat recalled Roach’s tour of the balcony crime scene and the powdered stone under the spot where the door handles had impacted the wall. And second, Starr had grip marks on both upper arms. The medical examiner air-demoed a thumb in each armpit, hands wrapped around the arms.
“My guess is it wasn’t much of a fight,” said Lauren. “Whoever did this picked up the victim, slammed him through those doors and then tossed him backwards to the street. I examined his legs and ankles closely and I’m certain Mr. Starr never even touched the railing when he went over.”
“No other chafing or cuts, no defensive wounds or marks?”
Lauren shook her head. “Although, there was one irregularity.”
“Out with it, girl, next to inconsistency, irregularity is the detective’s best friend.”
“I was detailing those punch bruises, you know the ones with the probable ring mark? And there was one that was an exact match for the others but no ring mark.”
“Maybe he took it off.”
“In the middle of a beating?”
Nikki took a long pull on her drink, feeling the carbonation bite her tongue as she stared through the Plexi barrier beside her at the avenue seven floors below. She didn’t know what Lauren’s information meant, but she got out her notebook and made a note: “One punch, no ring.”
They ordered some
Nikki’s cell phone vibed and she looked at the caller ID.
“What’s up, Detective,” Laura asked, “are you going to have to deploy or something? Maybe rappel down the face of the building and spring into some two-fisted action?”
“Rook” was all she said and held up the phone.
“Take it. I don’t mind.”
“It’s Rook,” she reiterated, as if it required no further explanation. Nikki let his call drop to voice mail.
“Forward him to my phone,” said Lauren, stirring her bloody Mary. “You could do worse than Jameson Rook. That man is doable.”
“Oh, sure, that’s just what I need. The ride-along isn’t bad enough without putting that in the mix.” When her phone pulsed to indicate voice mail, she pressed the button for a fetch and held the phone to her ear. “Huh. He says he’s come upon something big about the Matthew Starr case and needs me to see it…” She held up a staying palm
