CHAPTER SIX
New York City
Suzanne was ten minutes late to the restaurant and Joe DeLucca was already there—with two cold bottles of beer in front of him.
She grabbed the full beer. “Thanks.”
“I knew you’d come.”
“Maybe I’m a figment of your imagination.”
“I ordered our pizza.”
“I became a vegetarian.”
Joe laughed, thin lines framing his eyes. A familiar flutter spread through her body. Suzanne didn’t want any of the old feelings. She didn’t want to remember how much she’d once cared.
She stared at him. “How’s Stephanie?”
He scowled. “Don’t.”
“Same old, same old.” She drank a long swallow of beer. “Okay, sorry. Ex-wife is off the table. But this”—she gestured between them—“is work only, Joe, nothing more.”
“Seeing someone?”
“More or less.” Less right now. For the past year, she’d hooked up with her best friend and sometime lover Mac whenever she wanted company. Mac was safe, trustworthy, and wanted nothing more from their relationship than she did. But as time passed they’d become better friends and less lovers. Which was also fine with Suzanne. She was too busy to stress over the whole he loves me, he loves me not thing. She got over it a long time ago.
Joe didn’t blink. “You’re lying.”
“Any news from the M.E.?” Keep it business, Suz.
“Autopsy’s in the morning. One visible stab wound, narrow weapon—like an ice pick.”
“Like an ice pick or actually an ice pick?”
“Impatient, as always. We’ll know more in the morning. You can observe if you want.”
“Nope.” She had no time to hang around the morgue, and depending on who was running the case, it could take hours. “Security cams?”
“The only useful tape showed Weber in her car, alone, entering the parking lot.”
“Killer was on foot?”
“Possibly. We have the tape of everyone driving in, but it’ll take days to go through all the faces, and unless we get some info to narrow the parameters that’s not my focus. However, I have a couple rookies going through everyone who left the stadium thirty minutes prior to time of death. Because the game was close, not many people left early.”
“Good idea.” She paused. “I don’t think the killer was at the game.”
“Based on?”
“If you’re right and she was killed by someone she knew, someone she planned on meeting at the stadium, why would he buy a ticket?”
“Maybe it’s someone who was there with others and slipped out to kill her, goes back in, and sits with friends. Alibi.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I must be more devious than you.”
“Sometimes.” She sipped her beer. “Did you print the car?”
He stared at her.
“Of course you did. Sorry.”
“So far, nothing. Just Weber, her sister, and Weber’s research assistant. Crime techs are looking for trace in the vehicle. Talked to the sister—they lived in a town house on the Upper East Side, inherited from their deceased parents. Bridget Weber, forty-three, divorced. Ex-husband some schmuck who works for the governor in Albany. Sister is an interior designer. Seemed upset, but she does get half of her sister’s estate.”
“Sizable?”
“The town house has right of survivorship, so that’s free and clear. My techs are going through financials; she’s probably looking at a quarter mil when all’s said and done.”
“Life insurance?”
“Small policy—both sisters had a hundred thou, sister said to cover any expenses related to their demise.”
“Other half of the estate?”
“Donation to her alma mater, Columbia University. Which brings me to the assistant, a grad student at Columbia who’s worked for the deceased only a few months. Seems she gets a new grad student for every project, becomes part of their thesis or some such thing. I talked to the faculty advisor and he’s hooking me up with her new assistant tomorrow.” Joe grinned. “Want to join me?”
“I have another two dozen calls to make, and I hate the phone.”
“It’ll be fun. Old times.”
They’d met on a case five years ago when Suzanne was first assigned to the Violent Crimes and Major Offenders squad in New York City. They worked well together. Played well together, too.
She didn’t smile. “Not old times.”
The pizza arrived, authentic Italian according to Joe. Suzanne didn’t care—it was simply the best pizza in Brooklyn. They ordered two more beers.
“So was I the only one working today?” Joe said between bites.
“I spoke to half the people from the files you sent over—focusing on those she’s interviewing for the Cinderella Strangler case. So far she seems to be in research mode—I have the file with me so I can go through it tonight and try to figure out what her strategy was. She called our civilian consultant from the case, but Lucy said she told Weber she had no comment on the case.”
“Lucy who?”
“Kincaid. She’s a recruit going through the Academy. Her involvement wasn’t made public, but someone told Weber, someone who had enough information to make me think it’s one of mine, or one of yours.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“Kincaid?” Suzanne snorted. “No. And she wouldn’t talk without clearing it through proper channels, just like I would have had to do. But she doesn’t want the book written, wouldn’t talk to any reporter.”
“She doesn’t want the book written, but she’s not a suspect? What am I missing?”
“I told you, she’s at Quantico. And I know her. She didn’t do it, but to make you happy I’ll verify her alibi.”
“Appreciate it.” Joe finished off his first slice and grabbed a second.
“I dug deeper into Weber’s files and went back to her first book about the Rachel McMahon kidnapping and murder, out of Newark. Fifteen-year-old case.”
“That was before my time—I was still at SUNY.”
“And I was still in Louisiana. But I knew one of the agents assigned to the case, so thought I’d start at the beginning. SSA Presidio, out of Quantico. He’s a profiler and is coming up to help.”
“Profiler?” Joe shook his head. He’d never been one to listen to shrinks. “I forgot to mention, the ring the victim wore is worth over fifteen thou. It’s looking more and more like a robbery.”
“You said it didn’t feel like a robbery.” Suzanne grabbed her second slice before Joe ate the whole pie.
“You’re right—but with a ring worth that much, I have to follow the angle. Besides, I don’t like profilers. Good detective work solves more cases than shrinks.”
Suzanne used to agree with Joe, but after working with Lucy Kincaid she’d somewhat changed her opinion. She saw value in understanding the psychology of criminals.
“I’ll let you know what he says. You might even get to meet him.”
“You think maybe someone Weber wrote about was pissed off enough to whack her?”
“Anything’s possible at this point. Any threats?”
“Nothing the sister or faculty advisor knew about. I’ll ask the assistant tomorrow.”
“We’ll ask the assistant.”
Joe grinned. “It’s good to work with you again, Suzi.”
She glared at him. “That’s ‘Agent Madeaux’ to you, bud.” She glanced at her vibrating phone.
Rogan.
“Boyfriend?” Joe asked.
She rolled her eyes and answered. “I thought you might call. How’ve you been?”
“No complaints. Lucy told me about Weber. I just did a little checking on her. Crime reporter for ten years, then switched gears to write true crime books and special features for magazines. People, Time, US News, others. What happened?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation, Rogan. I can’t talk about it.”
“You called Lucy.”
“She’s one of us now.”
“Her supervisor isn’t letting her get involved. We need to know how her name landed in the reporter’s file. I don’t have to explain to you why.”
He didn’t. Suzanne knew about Lucy’s background, and she understood why Lucy would be concerned if she thought Rosemary Weber had information about her past.
“Fair enough. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
“Why was she killed?”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
“I just finished a case, if you need my help—”
Suzanne laughed. “The FBI is working with NYPD on this; why would we need you?”
In mock insult, he said, “Because I’m the best.”
She snickered. “Later.” She hung up.
“That was interesting,” Joe said.
“I’m sure you’ll be meeting him in the next few days.”
“Who was it?”
“Sean Rogan, P.I. out of D.C.”
“And he’s in New York?”
“He will be.”