City Dark(33)

“Great,” Goodridge said, rubbing his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “Okay, so maybe she let him in and locked the door behind them. Then, after he greased her, he went out the back door. Just shut it behind him and jumped.”

“It’s possible,” Gallagher said. “Or maybe he climbed up. There’s all sorts of shit to climb up on back there. It wouldn’t be hard to get to that balcony. Who knows? Maybe she called him up, like Rapunzel or some shit.”

“You can’t even spell ‘Rapunzel.’”

“Whatever. I know the story. Look, it’s obvious that he knew her, right? Writin’ her name in fuckin’ nail polish, holy shit. Gotta be an old boyfriend or some shit. You’re right, though, this is weird. Those letters on the wall? What the fuck is that?”

“What about family?” Goodridge asked, ignoring the immediate question. “What do we know?”

“They’re in Paris,” Gallagher said, as if that were both weird and extra awful.

“Paris?”

“Vacation. That’s what the friend said, the girl who found her. One of the neighbors backs it up too. Fuckin’ A. So we gotta call someone over there to notify?”

“We’ll let the command decide that,” Goodridge said. He paused, his mind clicking back to something he remembered in conversation in the squad room. Those strange, seemingly nonsense letters painted on the wall—hadn’t there been some other fucked-up case that had come down earlier that month in which a woman’s neck had been broken in a similar manner? The head wrenched back? Something around Coney Island? His eyes lit up.

“That freak-show case in the Six-Oh a couple weeks ago—know what I’m talkin’ about?” Gallagher thought for a moment.

“Old lady on the beach, yeah.”

“Who caught that?”

“Ugh . . . shit, I know her. Six-Oh. She’s like . . . a little fireplug. Zochi something. I can find out.”

“Do that. And get her over here.”





CHAPTER 29


Sunday, July 30, 2017

Marine Basin Marina

Brooklyn

7:45 a.m.

Another dream of floating down a river in darkness. Water was lapping against the boat, except it wasn’t a boat—it was the family LTD. He was in the station wagon in the back seat, and Robbie was up front driving, but not really driving because neither of them was in control of the car. It just drifted along. It was hot. So hot. There was a sound that they were floating toward, a rushing, churning sound.

Joe woke up soaked in sweat and feeling like he’d passed out in a steam room. His breathing was labored, his mouth sticky and dry. He rubbed his eyes and felt the room tip slightly, then right itself. The confines were cramped. He was on his boat.

Jesus, how the hell did I end up here?

The interior of the cabin cruiser took shape around him. He was lying on the starboard bunk facing the rear sliding door and the stern. He swung his feet over to the cabin sole and stared pitifully at a group of empty bottles, clinking against each other as the boat rocked in the wakes of early departing fishing boats. He could hear men speaking in Spanish and a few local guys barking back and forth about what they were going to catch.

How long have I been here?

He was clad in only a frayed pair of cargo shorts. The shirt he’d been wearing was in his lap, sweaty and balled up. He shook it out, then did a double take and held it up with both hands. It wasn’t a shirt at all. It was a skimpy, mostly see-through black cover-up that Halle had left on the boat. She had worn it over a bathing suit most of the time, or thrown on after sex when they were down below the season before, the summer of 2016. He laid it aside and stood up, placing a steadying hand on the cabin top.

He was fishing a bottle of water out of the icebox when he saw Detective Hernandez and another cop he didn’t recognize pause on the dock. Joe always backed in, so the dock was just a step beyond the stern platform, where he kept a couple of rickety wooden chairs and a little table. He thought about tossing the cover-up forward into the V-berth up front, but he left it where it was for the time being. He fished around for his boat shoes.

“Detective Hernandez?” he asked, sliding the glass door open.

“Joe, we need to talk,” she said. Her face was grim, and the guy with her seemed jacked up. He kept his eyes glued to Joe, tracking his every movement.

“Let me grab a T-shirt,” he said. “I’ll be right out. Come aboard if you want; there’s some shade here.” Joe ducked back inside. Now he did stuff the cover-up into one of the drawers in the V-berth. He pulled on a white T-shirt. When he emerged, Hernandez had stepped aboard the boat and sat on one of the gunwales closest to the stern. The male detective stayed on the dock, his feet shoulder-width apart. He looked cautious, ready for anything.

“I’m sorry. I just woke up.” His eyes moved from Hernandez to the male detective and back. “Is everything okay?”

“We need to know where you were last night, Joe,” Hernandez said. “Holly Rossi was murdered.”

After a few moments, the male detective, named Gallagher, seemed to tire of the sunlight and stepped aboard. He rested his butt against the gunwale on the other side of the boat from Hernandez and folded his arms. His eyes mostly stayed on Joe but slid about to various things around the boat—the old five-gallon fish bucket, some coiled dock line.