212

invasion.

But the bathroom wasn’t completely untouched. A single cabinet door was ajar; its former contents—a stack of towels—had spilled to the tile floor.

Ellie tapped the open cabinet in the photograph. “That’s where she was. That’s where she was hiding.”

“Tanya Abbott was hiding in the bathroom.”

“Yep. She heard the shots—or maybe an argument preceding the shots—and tucked herself into the back of that cabinet behind the towels. She heard it all. And when the shooter was gone, she crawled out, leaving the cabinet open and the towels on the floor behind her. The shooter never realized she was there. Not until Max posted this photograph in Paul Bandon’s courtroom.”

“Where Sam Sparks saw it,” Rogan said.

“Where Sparks saw it and realized whoever he hired to do the job left a witness behind. Whatever Tanya overheard could lead back to him.”

“So now Tanya’s on the run to get away from Sam Sparks. Or whoever’s killing people on Sparks’s behalf.”

“They came after Tanya at her apartment, and Megan was caught in the crossfire. And then when Tanya saw the news about Katie Battle’s murder, she realized she was being hunted and took off.”

Ellie interrupted her own train of thought as she realized the flaw in this latest thread of speculation. “But wait. The timing’s backward. If Sparks was covering his tracks, he would have started with Katie. She was the one who was supposed to be at the 212 with Mancini. Torturing Katie for answers would have led him to Stacy, who would have eventually led him to Tanya.”

“But Tanya was attacked first, not Katie. And Stacy’s just fine.”

“Damn it.” Ellie flopped into the chair next to the table, still holding the photograph of the bathroom cabinet. “She was there, Rogan. I can feel it. Tanya Abbott was hiding inside that bathroom. And the fact that Sam Sparks saw this picture in Bandon’s courtroom has something to do with all these bodies.”

“If Tanya Abbott’s our victim and not our bad guy, how do you explain the posts on Campus Juice?”

She looked up to the ceiling as if the answers might be found there. “I don’t know,” she finally said.

“Don’t tell me,” Rogan said. “We’re missing something.”

“We’re missing something. But if even part of what I’m thinking is right, then Stacy Schecter is a link in the chain. We have to warn her. Now.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

3:10 P.M.

Stacy’s music was cranked to ear-numbing decibel levels again. This time she was listening to Patti Smith’s cover of the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter.” Ellie had to hand it to the girl, she had excellent taste—just the kind of woman she wished her brother would date, minus the occasional penchant for prostitution.

She knocked on the door to no avail, and then quickly shifted to a pound.

Inside, Patti was howling. “Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away.” Ellie tried to ignore the irony and thumped harder on the door with the butt of her fist. “Stacy, it’s Detective Hatcher from the NYPD. I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

Ellie felt eyes on her and turned to see a pair of tired, pale blue ones staring through a crack in the door of Apartment 2C just as the music’s volume dropped. “It’s about time you people came out here. It’s constant. At all hours. And the most horrendous noise.”

“Mind your own business, you old—” Stacy halted in the doorway when she spotted Ellie. “Jesus Christ, I gave you an entire night already. I’m totally in the zone. Just let me do my work in peace.”

“You really want to talk about your work out here in the hallway?” Ellie asked.

Stacy stepped aside to make room for Ellie to pass and then closed the door behind her.

“I know, I know. Sex for money, bad. Law-abiding life of goodness, good. The NYPD has done its soul-saving for the week. Message sent.”

“I’m not here to lecture you, Stacy.”

“Could’ve fooled me the other day. And I notice you’re here alone. Did your partner realize you were wasting your breath?”

“My partner’s finishing some reports the DA’s office needed in our case against Prestige Parties. We made arrests this morning.”

Stacy looked genuinely surprised. And impressed. “You two didn’t waste any time, did you?”

“And we kept your name out of it, just like we promised. You went into the affidavits as a confidential informant. We found another girl who was willing to go on record. Together, it was enough. We’ve got the head of the company cooperating already. Still no sign of Tanya, though, and still a lot of theories about who might have killed Miranda.”

“You mean Katie.”

“I do, but you knew her as Miranda.”

Stacy wiped a smear of yellow paint from her thumb onto her smock. “Can’t really know someone if you don’t know their name.”

“I’ve got a couple of follow-up questions, if you can spare the time.”

“Yeah, sure. I needed a break anyway.” She gestured to her bed and then perched herself on the corner.

Ellie removed two photographs from her purse. One was a snapshot she had pulled from the Web archives of the New York Post’s Page Six column. It showed Sam Sparks braving the rain to enter the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the annual Costume Institute benefit. He posed for the camera on the red carpet beside event organizer and Vogue magazine editor Anna Wintour while a drenched Nick Dillon held a black umbrella over their dry heads.

The second photograph was Judge Paul Bandon’s official head shot from the New York State Unified Court System’s Web site, complete with black robe, an American flag in the background, and a gavel in Bandon’s right hand. According to the bio beneath the picture, Bandon had served as a career prosecutor inside the Department of Justice until he’d moved to New York as special counsel to one of the country’s most elite law firms and then on to his current spot on the bench. It was indeed the perfect resume for a federal judicial appointment. And all of it would be ruined if his relationship with Tanya Abbott were revealed.

“Have you seen either of these men before?”

Stacy took the printouts from her outstretched hands. She reviewed them carefully before handing them back. “No, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sure?” Ellie said.

“Positive. I mean, yeah, the one—Sam Sparks—obviously I’ve seen him before in the paper and stuff. But never in person. What does he have to do with any of this?”

“We don’t know. Maybe nothing. Did Miranda ever mention he was a Prestige Parties customer?”

Stacy stifled a chuckle. “Really? That’s awesome.”

“I kept your name out of our case, Stacy. You need to keep the fact that I asked you about these men to yourself.”

She waved away Ellie’s concerns. “No, it’s just funny is all. I mean, the tabloids are always hinting he swings for the other team, and turns out he’s a big old horndog. Hey, maybe now that you’ve brought Prestige Parties down, he’s in the market for a new girl.” She mimicked a Mae West primp.

Ellie rose to leave. “Not a good idea. I said I wasn’t here to lecture you, but I did come here with a warning. These guys are poster children for rich, educated, highly distinguished men, and here I am flashing their photographs as part of a homicide investigation, Stacy. You’ve got to watch out for yourself.”

“Always have, always will.” The hardened tone was back.

“I mean it. If you see Sam Sparks or Tanya Abbott, you have got to steer clear of them.”