“No…way. As in future federal judge Paul Bandon?”
Max turned on his side next to her and whispered a curious “What?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Yep. And it’s not just one call. There’s a lot of them, back and forth between the two, like almost once a
“Hell, no.”
Ellie was already pulling on a pair of pants by the time Rogan said good-bye.
Judge Paul Bandon lived in what New Yorkers called a white-glove building on the Upper East Side. White- glove buildings not only have doormen, but doormen in white gloves who hail the cabs, carry the groceries, walk the dogs, and perform whatever other menial tasks are beneath their privileged tenants. This particular white-glove building was prewar, with marble floors and gold-leaf mirrors in the elevators. The woman who came to Bandon’s door, with her navy blue tailored sweater jacket and perfectly set, shoulder-length blond bob, looked like she was born to live in such a building.
“May I help you?” she asked. Even through the crack in the door, Ellie recognized the woman from the photograph Bandon kept on his bench in court.
“We’re with the New York Police Department, ma’am. We’re here to speak with Judge Bandon?”
“If you have a warrant or something for my husband to review on a Saturday, I would assume that could be taken care of by one of the weekend on-call judges. Isn’t that usually how it’s done?”
“This isn’t about a warrant, ma’am. Is your husband home?”
“Is everything all right?” she asked, alarm now registering in her voice. “I knew his handling a criminal docket could lead to something like this.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Rogan said.
“Laura? Where are you?” a man’s voice called from inside the apartment. “Are you even listening to me? I thought we were having a conversation, and you just walk away. Oh—”
The judge’s voice trailed off as he realized someone was at the door. The woman widened the crack in the door for them to step inside. “Paul, these detectives are here to see you. I’m Laura, by the way. Laura Bandon.”
Next to her stood Judge Bandon in a light blue oxford shirt, khaki pants, and shearling slippers. He hadn’t gotten to the leather belt in his hands. And he apparently wasn’t going to get around to proper introductions. “Well, gosh. Detectives Rogan and Hatcher. This is, well, certainly a surprise, seeing you at my home like this, unannounced.”
Along with the smile, he maintained a tone that was country-club pleasant, but the content of the words could not be ignored.
“It was urgent, Your Honor.”
“But not so urgent that you could have raised it yesterday morning when you spent a good two hours in my chambers? Or was this a matter that you wanted to speak to me about, Detective Hatcher?”
Ellie returned the pleasant smile. “It’s a subject my partner and I both feel is important. And it only arose early this morning, so yesterday wasn’t an option.”
“And what exactly
“We found your—”
Ellie was ready to forge ahead, but Rogan cut her off. “Perhaps we could speak to you in private, Your Honor.”
“Well,” his wife said, clasping her manicured hands at her waist, “I can certainly recognize when it’s time for me to take my leave. I was going down to the corner anyway to pick up some milk. Paul, we can continue our conversation when you’re finished with this…
They waited for Laura Bandon to pull a tan windbreaker from the front closet and make her way out the front door.
“You may as well have a seat,” Bandon said, leading the way into a museumlike living room adorned with Persian rugs and Chippendale-inspired furnishings. Ellie perched herself lightly atop an upholstered ladder-back chair. Rogan looked more comfortable as he crossed his legs on a velvet-adorned settee next to her.
“So what precisely brings you here this morning, Detectives? I thought just yesterday we had squared away everything we needed on this Sparks matter, but I have to say, your coming to my home outside of business hours has me thinking about his charges in a different light. There is a line, I believe, between thorough policing and harassment.”
Rogan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “With all due respect, Your Honor, you haven’t given us an opportunity to explain why we’re here. Any comparison of this to harassment seems…premature.”
Rogan’s tone was pitch-perfect, yet Ellie found herself troubled by a nagging feeling of guilt. She wondered if the judge had a point. So his name turned up in a missing prostitute’s cell phone records. That single fact made the likely scenario apparent. He wouldn’t be the first married man of prominence who partook of the sex trade. Coming here would at best confirm their clear impressions. But it wouldn’t get them any closer to finding Tanya Abbott or figuring out what role she played in the murders of Megan Gunther or Katie Battle.
Had they jumped too quickly at the tantalizing appeal of confronting this man with his sins? Maybe, but now that they were here, there was no turning back. They had to lock it down.
“What can you tell us about your relationship with Tanya Abbott?” she asked.
“Pardon me?”
“I think you heard the question, Judge.”
“I very well did. And I don’t appreciate the obvious insinuation.”
“If the insinuation is inaccurate, feel free to correct us. You do know a woman named Tanya Abbott, don’t you? She also uses the name Heather Bradley.”
“I believe you said you were going to explain why exactly you’ve come here. All I am hearing from you, Detectives, are questions, but no explanation as to why you are asking them, either of me or at my home at this early hour on a Saturday morning.”
She gave him a small smile. He was smart. The people they were used to interrogating would immediately lock themselves into a lie. “Never heard of her,” they’d say without pausing.
But Bandon was too good for that. Lies to a police officer create presumptions of guilt. Lies could lead to cover-up allegations against a judge who might otherwise manage to survive what some would wave away as just another sex-scandal. So rather than lie, Bandon was using his power and authority to try to intimidate them.
She handed him a printout of Abbott’s Maryland driver’s license. “Have a look. Perhaps you know her by another name, Your Honor. But we’re confident that you know her.”
He glanced at the photo for only a second before returning it to Ellie as if it burned his hand. He focused his gaze instead toward the inner depths of the apartment, down the hallway of what Ellie recognized as a classic six. Before the days of her rent-stabilized pad, during the brief shack-up with the investment banker, Ellie enjoyed the spaciousness of an Upper East Side apartment with almost precisely this same layout. With Mrs. Bandon safely outside the apartment on her way to the corner market, she wondered who might remain to jeopardize the seeming privacy of the living room.
“Fine, I know her.”
“In what respect?”
“I suspect you already know, and for purposes of today’s conversation only, I won’t try to correct your assumptions. I won’t be affirmatively confirming anything else without consulting a lawyer first.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Again, I don’t think that’s something I want to go on record with before speaking to counsel.”
“We know she called you on Thursday afternoon. She called you a lot.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, but I don’t believe it’s illegal to have telephone conversations.”
“Uh, Dad. Um, am I interrupting?”
A tall teenager with floppy blond hair stood in the hallway, looking at his father with a concerned look. He avoided Ellie’s gaze, but she got a good look at him. The boy’s face had matured and thinned since the high school graduation picture in Bandon’s courtroom, but he was the same kid.
“Sorry, Alex. We didn’t mean to disturb you. Go back to your studies.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. Just the realities of the job. Warrant applications don’t always wait for the judge to show up at
