Dead Connection

investigation, but I kept an eye on it. That Ed Becker was the worst cop I ever saw – his partner too. They didn’t do shit. They worked their other cases just fine, but Tatiana – Chekova,” he said, catching himself, “she was just a dead cossack stripper to them. They never even worked the case.”

Hatcher clearly was not inclined to follow this line of conversation. “So here’s the big question now: If Tatiana was killed for cooperating with you, how does that fit with our other three murders?”

“If I knew, I’d tell you.”

“Come on now. If you knew, the FBI really would take the case.” She gave him a friendly smile, which he found himself returning. “So what else can you tell me about the people who might have had a grudge against Tatiana?”

“Two men were prosecuted based on the information Tatiana provided.” Dixon handed the detective a manila folder containing a Form 302, used by federal agents to summarize interviews. Clipped to the 302 was a booking photo. “I made two busts based on tips from Tatiana. One of them was a controlled buy for heroin out of a club she used to work. The guy’s name was Alex Federov. You don’t need to write that down, because Federov was killed in prison two months into his sentence.”

Hatcher’s curiosity was clearly piqued. “Any chance that was related to Tatiana’s murder?”

Dixon shook his head. “No. I checked on that. Turns out Federov took a shiv to the stomach in the yard – get this – for preempting an inmate who was ahead of him on the library waiting list for a Harry Potter book.”

“And so that leaves the second guy.” Hatcher unclipped the photograph from the 302 to take a closer look. “This is him?”

“Lev Grosha. He was sneaking credit card numbers out of a Brooklyn motel. He paid the clerk at the front desk to run the cards through a scanner. Massive fraud potential. With the U.S. Attorney’s Office leaning hard on him, we assumed he’d cooperate. It’s pretty much the only way to get a sentencing break these days.”

“And instead?”

“Grosha pled to all charges and took the full guideline term.”

“Where’s he serving his time?”

“MDC Brooklyn. He’s got a sick mom or something, so the Bureau of Prisons kept him local.” The Metropolitan Detention Center was just off the Gowanus Expressway near the bay.

“Can you put me on his visitor’s list?” Hatcher asked.

“No problem,” he said, making a note of it. “Do me a favor? If you find anything that leads straight to Stern, will you let me know? I don’t think he’s your doer, but something doesn’t add up with that one. My impression is he’s got way too much money based on what he’s bringing in.”

Given the illegal investigation tactics he’d used to keep an eye on Stern, Dixon was relieved when Hatcher didn’t press the question of how he’d formed his “impression.”

“Sure,” she promised. “And, hey, thanks for calling me. And for the sweets.”

Dixon rose from the table and pulled his coat on. He left the cafe satisfied with the way he’d controlled the message. He’d given the NYPD the information they needed, and his hands were clean. Hatcher seemed like a decent cop. Maybe she could carry the burden now, and he could finally put all of this behind him.

ELLIE WATCHED CHARLIE Dixon walk to a blue Impala down the street, then she pulled her cell phone from her waist, flipped it open, and pressed the camera button. Charlie Dixon popped up on the small screen, in color, his coffee cup held just below his chin. It wasn’t a bad photograph.

She left Lamarca with a small box of tiramisu wrapped in string, a surprise for Flann. Unfortunately, a very different kind of surprise awaited her. Just outside the precinct entrance, a mere eighty feet away, stood Peter Morse. She could not believe her luck. Millions of people had reckless evenings of casual sex with strangers. She did it one time – only once – and the guy wound up literally at her doorstep.

She ducked down a metal staircase leading to a basement laundry shop and stifled a scream when a rat scurried across her foot. She watched as Peter pulled open one of the precinct’s glass double doors. How long was she willing to stand here in the cold, with this stench, to avoid him? Until she saw him leave, she decided – no matter how long it took.

Her cell phone jingled at her waist. She flipped it open and recognized Flann’s number.

“Hello?” She whispered as if Peter could hear her from inside the walls of the precinct across the street.

“Are you almost done with the elusive G-man?”

“Yeah, I’m done. I’m just, um, yeah, I’m on my way back. What’s up?”

“Just get back here.”

“It might be a sec-”

“If this is about the apparently prescient reporter named Peter Morse, he’s standing right here and warned me you’d try to avoid him. Get back here please. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner he’ll leave.”

30

PETER MORSE FOLLOWED ELLIE’S SHEEPISH ENTRANCE WITH A pleased expression. Flann shot her eye daggers.

“I brought tiramisu,” she said, offering Flann the dainty bakery package. She offered Peter her hand, playing it cool. “Hi. I’m Ellie Hatcher. But it sounds like you already know that.”

“I know now.” Ellie couldn’t tell if he was angry, amused, or both. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told your partner that I really needed to talk to the two of you together.”

“I tried pushing him off on the Public Information Office,” Flann said, “but he insisted you’d want to hear this. The two of you know each other?”

“Oh yeah, we go way back,” Peter said. “Good times. Good times. So anyhoo, I got a phone call this morning from your killer.”

Ellie and Flann exchanged skeptical looks. Reporters contacted cops to suck up information, not to dole it out.

“It was probably just a prank,” Flann said. “Routine on high-profile cases.”

“That’s what I assumed too. It was at least a clever crank. He told me to go to the public library to find a letter he left there for me. Sound familiar?”

“That’s how William Summer delivered the first of the College Hill Strangler letters,” Ellie explained to Flann. “He hid a letter inside a book at the library, then gave a tip to a reporter.”

“I guess I play the role of the reporter.” Peter handed them a piece of paper sealed inside a plastic bag. “I watch CSI.”

Dear Mr. Morse, Congratulations. You found this letter. Now here is your reward. The letter continued with a detailed description of the killings, down to the shrill mews of Amy Davis’s cat while he strangled her and the tapestry pattern on the sofa where he found the pillow used to smother Megan Quinn. They were sinners and fornicators and temptresses, but that is not why I killed them. The police are covering up the real reason. They were liars, using deception to trigger lust in honest men. They used FirstDate, then took their Last Breath. “And behold! He cometh to execute judgement upon all, and to destroy the ungodly, and to convict all flesh of all the works which they have ungodly committed.” Three down and many more to go. Enoch.

“You probably recognize that last line about how many more,” Peter said, looking at Ellie.

Of course she recognized the reference. In 1982, the College Hill Strangler wrote a letter to police asking how many people he had to murder before he would get some media attention. In his postscript, he wrote, “five down and many more to go.”

“He’s fucking with me,” Ellie said. “He saw the news coverage mentioning my connection to William Summer, and now he’s intentionally fucking with me.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter Morse sounded like he actually meant it.

“You can’t run the story,” Flann said.

“What?” Peter exclaimed. “That’s not your call to make. I only came here to give you evidence and to see if you have any comment.”