blue-collar values, but, thanks to a grandmother who married well late in life, he could live beyond a cop’s salary.
“Look, you mind if we talk about this in a slightly less depressing environment?”
Ellie led the way out of the holding floor onto the street, and Rogan didn’t stop her. By the time they reached the fleet car that Rogan had parked on Centre Street, she was ready to talk.
“So we took a look at Sparks and cleared him.”
Rogan glanced back at the building from which they had just exited. “Pretty sure I was the one saying that back there a couple of minutes ago.”
“Keys.” She held up her right hand for the catch. In the six-plus months they’d been partners in the homicide task force of the Manhattan South Detective Borough, Ellie was usually happy to leave the driving to Rogan, but after the last twenty-four hours, she wanted control over her own movements. Rogan obliged, tossing the keys across the hood.
“We’ve had this case four months now,” she said, turning over the ignition as Rogan climbed into the passenger’s seat. “We checked out the obvious angles first: sex and money.”
A guy gets filled with bullets after leaving his semen inside a knotted condom on the nightstand, and the first theory is sex. But when it came to sex, everyone who knew Robert Mancini said he was uncomplicated. Thirty years old. Unmarried since a starter marriage to a high school sweetheart had ended eight years earlier. No children. If he had a girlfriend—and he didn’t at the time of his death—he was with that woman, and that woman only. If he didn’t have a girlfriend, he hooked up and made it clear that hooking up was all he was interested in. Apparently there was no shortage of women willing to play by those ground rules.
Unfortunately, they’d been unable to locate the woman who played the game that particular night. The 212’s overnight doorman had no memory of either her or Mancini, and had since been fired for routinely leaving his post to play video games with the teenage son of a tenant. Without a video recorder, the building’s monitoring system was useless, and Mancini’s phone records and e-mail messages had also led nowhere.
Then there was money. But again, with money, the picture seemed equally uncomplicated. Mancini had been working at Sparks Industries for almost a year before his death. Prior to that, he’d served in the U.S. Army, where he met a private contract worker named Nick Dillon in Afghanistan. When Dillon hung up the Middle Eastern travel and became the head of the corporate security division of Sparks Industries, he offered Mancini a job back home, which Mancini accepted as soon as his military commitment was up. His salary was in the low one hundreds, a figure that Rogan and Ellie had confirmed as the going rate for a decent corporate security gig.
He owned a two-bedroom condo in Hoboken, only two and a half miles from the childhood home where his sister’s family still lived. He was up to date on a moderate mortgage. He had no unusual debts, no irregularities in his bank records.
“Sex and money didn’t get us shit,” Rogan said. “And when sex and money and gambling didn’t get us shit, we took a close look at Sam Sparks and cleared him. I think that’s now the third time we’ve agreed on that.”
But the notes Ellie had scribbled during the motion hearing were asking them to revisit that determination. And Rogan wanted to know why.
As she drove up Centre Street, Ellie hit the wigwag lights on the dash to cut through the standstill traffic that was blocking the intersection at Canal through Chinatown.
“We looked at Sparks before he decided to stonewall us. Now that we know just how much he wants to be
“Holy crap, Hatcher. Rogan told us you got into some shit at the courthouse, but we didn’t think he meant literally.”
John Shannon was a portly detective with light blond hair and ruddy skin. He sat directly behind Ellie in the squad room and had a bottle-a-week Old Spice habit.
“I got two hours of sleep on a mattress thinner than the layer of fat around your neck, Shannon; haven’t eaten since I bit into the mystery meat burger they handed me for dinner; and spent the last twenty-four hours in city-issued underwear approximating the consistency of eighty-grit sandpaper—”
“And she’s still better looking than anyone you ever dated, Shannon,” Rogan interjected.
“I’m just saying, cut me some frickin’ slack.”
Rogan draped his suit jacket on the back of his chair. As he took a seat at the gray metal desk that faced Ellie’s, he threw Shannon a look that sent the detective’s attention back to his own work.
“Just because the man’s stonewalling us doesn’t mean he’s our guy.” Rogan reached for a tin of Altoids on his desk and popped a mint in his mouth. “Rich assholes shit on us all the time. They usually aren’t murderers. You don’t think this has something to do with Bandon throwing you in the clink?”
She gave him her middle finger and her friendliest smile. “Did I say anything about investigating Bandon? I’m talking about Sparks. All we wanted was a closer look at his financials. Just a way to check on his enemies. Why go to court over something like that?”
“Donovan said going into it that we were probably going to lose. We didn’t have PC.”
She opened her top desk drawer and removed a jar of Nutella. She’d long ago given up offering any to Rogan. “So?” she asked. “Most innocent people cooperate with us even when we don’t have squat.”
“Like I said, not the assholes.”
“No, but even the jerks usually have a reason. I was sitting in the courtroom watching Guerrero bill four hundred dollars an hour to fight us. Sparks even showed up personally, and his time’s got to be worth way more than Guerrero’s. Why?”
Ellie’s father had always told her that the key to good police work was to scrutinize people’s motives. “Find the motive,” he used to say, “and the motive will lead you to the man.”
She understood why the innocent citizens of Bushwick didn’t cooperate when some Trinitarios took out another banger. In a neighborhood run by gangs, a conversation with the police could be followed by a knock on the door in the middle of the night by a machete-wielding messenger. She even understood when some corporate bureaucrat wouldn’t open the company records without a warrant. Regular people had jobs to protect.
But Sparks wasn’t a regular person. He was the boss. He was a billionaire. This was his call, and he’d made the wrong one.
Rogan leaned his weight back in his chair and rested his palms on top of his closely shaved scalp. “Sparks showed up personally, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Shit,” he said, letting his weight bring his chair back to the floor. He pointed a finger at her across the desk. “You know I never liked Sparks for it.”
From the very beginning, Rogan had firmly believed that a man as savvy as Sam Sparks wouldn’t eliminate a threat inside an apartment he owned. She, however, had believed it was just the kind of reverse psychology that someone as arrogant as Sparks would employ.
“J. J., you know as well as I do how quickly we eliminated him as a suspect. All that mattered to us was the time line, the call records, and the personal assistant.” The same assistant was in charge of both Sparks’s personal calendar and the schedule for the 212. According to her, Mancini hadn’t asked to use the apartment until 2:30 on the day of the murder, and she had never mentioned it to Sparks. She insisted that Sparks could not have known that Mancini would be at the apartment that night.
And because they had scratched Sparks from the list of possible suspects, they had never scratched beneath the surface of Sparks’s public persona to unearth whatever secrets Mancini could have stumbled on.
“You win,” Rogan said. “We look at Sparks again.”
Ellie smiled as she took another bite of Nutella.
“You go tell the Lou, though. She was on the warpath yesterday.”
“At me or Bandon?”
“A little of both. A lot of both, actually. She’ll want to know you’re back.”
“Yeah, okay.”
She started toward her lieutenant’s office, but then turned again to face Rogan. “Do me a favor?”
“Burn those clothes you’re wearing?”
“Track down that guy we talked to in May at Narcotics. Tell him to expect us at about”—she looked at her watch and calculated the time she’d need for another stop—“five o’clock.”
