“What’s that smell?” Flann looked up from his reading. “That’s something you’re
“Nutella. A little bit nutty, a little bit of chocolate. It’s culinary perfection.”
“Smells like something you’d scoop from the bottom of a pigpen. Not to mention it’s barely ten in the morning.”
Ellie helped herself to another scoop and smiled. “You’ve looked at the murder book on Caroline Hunter, right?”
“Yeah. Not much there. Her purse was stolen, so it looked like a robbery gone bad. No neighborhood witnesses. The trail ran cold – fast.”
He looked up at Ellie, apparently waiting for her to come up with the right question. He’d also seen the crime lab reports on Chekova.
“What about the gunshots?” she asked.
“Two of them. Back of the head.”
“Close range?”
“Ballistics’ best guess was two to three feet.”
Just like Tatiana Chekova. Same gun. Same shots. Same number of bullets. Chekova was killed nine months and ten days before Caroline Hunter. Twenty-one months and ten days before Amy Davis. No reason to suspect a FirstDate connection. No reason to dismiss it either. The original investigators had no cause to look for it. Even if they had, they might not have bothered. A Russian heroin addict, living in Bensonhurst, stripping in Manhattan.
“I was hoping to avoid this,” Flann said, “but I think we need to talk to one of the investigating detectives on the Chekova case.”
“Afraid of a turf battle?”
“There’s no turf to fight over. Barney Tendall is dead – shot, off-duty, when he tried to stop a robbery. Ed Becker took retirement two months later. I guess Becker talked to Tendall on the phone a couple of hours before it all happened and couldn’t get past it – like he was supposed to stop his partner from grabbing a beer.”
Becker. Twice Flann had spoken the name now, and twice it had rung a distant and annoying bell in the back of her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to remember but couldn’t pull the connection forward. She wrote it off as a common name she must’ve run across in the newspaper.
“Becker’s sour on the job?” she asked.
Flann paused before answering. “God no. Ed Becker loved being a cop. He just wasn’t very good at it if you ask me. And we’re about to point that out to him by asking the questions we can’t answer from these notes.”
Ellie sensed a discomfort in McIlroy that went beyond having to ask a retired cop about a cold case. The man was definitely elusive with his thoughts.
“Is there any more to it than that?”
“We worked out of the same precinct a long, long time ago. Let’s just say that when it comes to Ed Becker, I’d prefer that you do most of the talking.”
13
ED BECKER LIVED IN A MODEST BRICK TUDOR IN SCARSDALE, just north of the Bronx in Westchester. Despite the proximity, Westchester was nothing like the Bronx, and upscale Scarsdale was one of the least Bronxlike of its enclaves.
Ellie had called ahead, and Becker met them at his front door before they knocked. He was a big man – tall, thick, substantial, with a barrel chest. His skin was ruddy, his hair a light gold only just beginning to thin. He greeted them with a friendly smile.
It wasn’t just Ed Becker’s smile that was friendly. It was the hearty way he clasped Flann’s shoulder, the enthusiastic shake he gave to Ellie’s hand, and the boisterous manner in which he waved them into his living room. It was the small things that Ellie noticed, like Becker’s metal sign reading Retirement Parking Only, which hung over an overstuffed reclining chair.
“Nice sign,” Ellie said.
Becker’s smile grew wider. “Yeah. Some of the boys got a little carried away with what you might call the novelty gifts when I left the job. That was about the only one that was appropriate for public display. From the looks of you, you’ve got quite a lot of years left with a shield before you’ll be having a party.”
“Oh, every day’s a party when you’re part of the NYPD.”
Becker chuckled. “I like that. Every day’s a party. I like this one, McIlroy. Keep her around.”
“We plan on it.”
Based on Flann’s comments, Ellie had expected Ed Becker to be an ogre. Now that she’d met the man in person, she wondered whether Flann the infamous loner perhaps had the same suspicious response toward all cops.
“So what brings you up to Westchester?”
Becker directed his question toward Flann, but Ellie answered. “We’re looking into a possible connection between the deaths of two women in Manhattan, Caroline Hunter and Amy Davis. They were killed exactly one year apart, both after dates they had arranged online.”
“That Internet dating is big stuff. My son met someone a couple of years ago. They’re getting married this spring. Oh, speaking of which, Mac, how’s that daughter of yours?”
The friendly question did nothing to change the scowl Flann had worn since stepping into Ed Becker’s home. “She’s good, Ed. Thanks for asking.”
“Anyway, Internet dating. I’ll admit, I’ve been tempted to try it myself. Read all about it, in fact. An old geezer like me, though-”
“You’d be surprised,” Ellie said.
“I’m sure I would. Maybe not in a good way though, you know what I mean? Wake up one morning and your pee burns and your pet bunny’s been boiled. But I suspect you didn’t drive all the way up here to kick-start an old guy’s love life.”
“No sir. It’s about an old case of yours. We just discovered that the gun that killed one of our victims was also used to shoot Tatiana Chekova. You worked that one, right?”
“Chekova, huh?”
“Russian woman, found in the parking lot of a strip club.”
“Right. Vibrations. Some name, huh? We never cleared that one. We got names off the credit cards in the club, but no one jumped out at us. Definitely wasn’t anyone in the bachelor party that found her. Two of those guys were puking their guts out on the West Side Highway.”
Ellie saw the frustration on McIlroy’s face.
“Um, I pulled the file this morning,” she said gently. “It didn’t contain a list of names from the club. Or at least I didn’t see it.”
Becker looked puzzled. “It should have been there. Records ain’t always the best about holding cold cases. Anyway, it didn’t get us anywhere. With her background, we assumed it was a trick gone bad.”
“The M.E. found no signs of sexual activity.”
“I remember. Her coat was open though, and the shots came from behind. Close range, right?”
“Yeah.”
“See, I can remember a thing or two.” He tapped his temple for emphasis. “Barney’s theory – Barney was my partner. He figured the guy might’ve been groping her from behind, started to get going, and then something went wrong. She wasn’t ready yet, or he couldn’t get it – he couldn’t complete the act.”
“Not a crazy theory.”
“Not a crazy theory. But I never quite bought it. The manager said the vic didn’t want to dance. She only did an occasional lap dance when she was desperate for a few extra bucks. And her vice pops were old. My theory was she was trying to get out of the life.”
“By working at a strip club?” That was like going on a diet by taking a job at Baskin-Robbins.
“You know, staying just at the edge of it, but not wanting to pull tricks anymore. She walked to the parking lot
