“I’ll bet Chester Ludlow was there in DC. He wasn’t in office, but a political dynasty like his, he might have been in a patronage job there.”
“He might have been, Rook, it’s a big city. But even if he were Holly’s father, what sense would it make for him to send us on her trail if it led back to him as a suspect?”
Rook paused. “OK, fine. It was just a theory. Glad we could, you know . . .”
“Dismiss it?”
“One less to worry about,” he said.
“You’re a big help, Rook. It hasn’t been the same here without you.” Her phone rang. It was Detective Ochoa. “What’s up, Oach?”
“Raley and I are over at the brownstone next door to Cassidy Towne’s, with the neighbor. Guy called the precinct to complain that her trash was in his private trash cans.” In the background, Nikki could hear the reedy voice of an elderly man speaking in a complaining tone.
“Is that the citizen I’m hearing?”
“Affirm. He’s sharing the joy with my partner.”
“And how did he discover it was her trash?”
“He monitors,” said Ochoa.
“One of those?”
“One of those.”
When Detective Ochoa finished his conversation with Heat, he joined Raley, who seized on his partner’s return to break away from the old man. “Excuse me, sir.”
“I’m not done,” the citizen said.
“Won’t be a moment.” When he was out of earshot, he said to Ochoa, “Man, you hear those wackos on talk radio and you wonder where they live. So which is it, are we hauling trash or waiting?”
“She wants us to hang until Forensics comes over. Mr. Galway probably contaminated the trash bags, but they’ll get a set of his prints for elimination and do their thing. Doubtful, but they may find something on or around the patio here.”
“Worth a shot,” agreed Raley.
“Did I hear you say you were going to fingerprint me?” Galway had inched over to them. His cheeks gleamed from a recent shave, and his pale blue eyes flashed decades of angry suspicion. “I’ve committed no crime.”
“Nobody says you did, sir,” said Raley.
“I don’t think I like your tone, young man. Has this country gotten so accustomed to wiping its hinder with the Constitution that now the police are free to go door-to-door gathering fingerprints from citizens without cause? What are you building, some kind of data bank?”
Raley had had enough and gestured to Ochoa that it was his turn. The other detective thought a moment and beckoned Galway closer. When the old man moved in, Ochoa said in a low voice, “Mr. Galway, your action as an involved citizen has provided the NYPD critical information in a major murder investigation, and we are very grateful.”
“Well, thank you, I— This trash of hers was just one offense. I’ve made numerous complaints.”
Ochoa had siphoned some steam out of him and he stayed with the approach. “Yes, sir, and this time it looks like your vigilance paid off. The clue to Ms. Towne’s killer may be right here on your patio.”
“She never recycled, either. I called 311 till I was blue in the face.” He tilted his head close enough so Ochoa could count the capillaries under his translucent skin. “Smut merchant like that is bound to be a scofflaw, too.”
“Well, Mr. Galway, you can continue your service by helping our crime lab technicians eliminate your fingerprints from others on these bags so we have no obstacles to finding the killer. You do want to continue to help us, don’t you?”
The old guy tugged at an earlobe. “And this won’t go into some black ops data bank?”
“You have my personal word.”
“Well, I can’t see the harm, then,” said Galway, who went up to the top of the stoop to share the news with his wife.
“Know what I’m calling you?” said Raley. “The nut whisperer.”