* * *
Erin checked Ridgeway’s phone out of Evidence and took it to the tech guys. These cops could break the encryption drug lords used to lock their bank accounts; a Manhattan dentist presented no obstacle at all. Their method, however, was a little disturbing.
“He’s got a biometric access,” the techie told her. “We need his password, or we just need his index finger.”
“Can it still be attached to the body?”
He shrugged. “If you insist.”
“I’m not bringing you a severed finger.”
“Aw, man,” he said. “I never get to do anything fun.”
So Erin took the phone down to the morgue, and fifteen seconds later, she had her access. The first thing she looked at was text messages. She didn’t find anything, which suggested Ridgeway had deleted his texts. Back to tech support she went.
Retrieving the deleted files was almost as quick as unlocking the phone. While they were at it, they disabled the security and did a full data dump.
“This what you’re looking for, Detective?” the techie asked. He pointed to his computer monitor, where a sequence of flirty texts from a number labeled “Vivian” marched down the screen. They were interspersed with several to and from “Amber.”
“Looks like it,” Erin said, impressed and disgusted at the way the dentist had been simultaneously juggling two girlfriends’ conversations. Some of the texts overlapped by mere minutes. “I’ll need everything off the phone.”
“Sure thing,” the other officer said. “I’ll send you the package in a few.”
“Thanks.” Erin took down Vivian’s number and went back upstairs. Webb was still talking with the Feds, or more accurately, he was waiting on hold. She dialed Vivian’s number from her desk phone.
“Hello?” a female voice answered. She sounded cautious, and Erin didn’t blame her. An unsolicited call from an unidentified number was most likely unwelcome.
“Hello, Vivian?” Erin guessed.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“My name’s Detective O’Reilly, ma’am. I’m with the New York Police Department. I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Vivian retorted. Then she laughed. “Hold on, you’re Monica, aren’t you. Yeah, okay, good one. You got me. I believed you for a second.”
“No, ma’am, this isn’t a joke,” Erin said. “What’s your last name, please?”
“Hold on,” Vivian said. “You’re a cop, and you’re calling me, but you don’t know my name? How’d you get this number, anyway?”
“Norman Ridgeway,” Erin said.
“Norman?” Vivian sounded surprised, then annoyed. “Geez, for real? He put the cops on me? What a jackass. And there I thought he was an okay guy. Look, it was his idea. I told him it was stupid.”
Erin sat forward. “What’d he do?” she asked.
“I didn’t even know it was illegal,” Vivian said. “But maybe it is. If it is, it was his idea, like I said.”
“Vivian,” Erin said, leaning forward and speaking more urgently. “If you’re mixed up in something, I can help you. But I need you to tell me what’s going on.”
“The restaurant,” she said. “On Valentine’s Day. We jumped the line.”
“What restaurant?”
“Le Bernardin. On West 51st. Norm said we didn’t need a reservation, we’d just wait for a name to be called that wasn’t answered in the first ten seconds. Then he pretended to be the guy, and got us a table.”
Erin sat back again in her chair, deflated. “He stole a guy’s dinner reservation? That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Well, yeah,” Vivian said. “But it’s not like he took something for real. I mean, we paid for the meal. Why’s a detective going after us for that, anyway? Don’t you have, y’know, crimes to solve? Like, drug dealers or murderers or something?”
Maybe both, Erin thought. “I need to talk to you about Norman,” she said. “What’s your full name, please, ma’am?”
The other woman sighed audibly. “Vivian Berkley.”
“Can you come in to the station?”
Vivian sighed again. “Do I have to?”
“It’d be a big help,” Erin said. “But we can come to you if you’d rather.”
“Okay,” Vivian said, sounding like a pouty teenager agreeing to an unreasonable request. “Where are you?”
“Precinct 8,” Erin said, giving the address. “When can you be here?”
Unexpectedly, Vivian giggled. “I’ll tell Mom I’m helping with an important police investigation. She’ll be pissed, but she can’t say anything about it. I guess I can get there in an hour.”
“Ms. Berkley, how old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
Jesus, Erin thought. Norman Ridgeway had been a real piece of work. “I’ll see you in an hour,” she said. “Tell the sergeant at the front desk that you need to see Detective O’Reilly.”
Webb was still on hold. He glanced at Erin as she hung up. “You got another suspect for us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“She’s nineteen. I don’t see a teenage girl doing something like this. She sounded like she was practically in high school.”
“Really?” Webb was unimpressed. “A teenage girl doesn’t have the heart for revenge? Where’d you go to high school? She’s on the list.”
Erin sighed. “Yeah, she’s on the list.”
Chapter 5
Vic joined the other two detectives while they waited for Vivian to show up. The big Russian cracked his knuckles and smiled, leaning back in his chair.
“You’re in a good mood,” Erin said. “What’d you get out of Nicoletti?”
“Nothing much,” he said. “I got a couple of his buyers. I’ll kick it over to SNEU.”
Erin knew all about the Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit. They were the notorious cowboys of the NYPD, running plainclothes operations against low-level drug dealers. She’d toyed with the idea of joining them, back when she was new on the force. Her dad had advised her not to.
“They’re too close to the street,” he’d said. “All that cash, all those drugs, just lying around. Working plainclothes, doing buy-and-bust, getting too chummy with dealers and CIs. It’s just a baby
