Fool Me Once(23)

Six more men came in wearing ski masks. Maya studied them. “It’s most likely number five.”

“Most likely?”

“Number two is wearing the same clothing and is nearly the same height and build. My recollection would be that it’s number five, but they are close enough that I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Thank you,” Kierce said. Again he leaned into the microphone. “That’s all, thank you.”

She followed Kierce out.

“What’s going on?”

“We picked up two suspects.”

“How did you find them?”

“Your description.”

“Can you show me?”

Kierce hesitated, but not for long. “Okay, come on.” He brought her to a table with a large-screen monitor, probably thirty inches, maybe more. They sat down. Kierce started typing. “We searched through all nearby CCTV cameras the night of the murder, looking for two men who fit your description. As you can imagine, it took some time. Anyway, there’s a condo building on Seventy-Fourth and Fifth Avenue. Take a look.”

The CCTV shot the two men from above.

“Is that them?”

“Yes,” Maya said. “Or do you want me to give the legalese about just matching the build and clothes?”

“No, this isn’t on the record. As you can see, they aren’t wearing ski masks. We wouldn’t think they would on the street. That would draw attention.”

“Still,” Maya said, “I don’t see how you got an ID from that angle.”

“I know. The camera is so damned high. It’s so annoying. I can’t tell you how many times we get this. The camera is set ridiculously high, and the perps just keep their chins tucked or wear a cap and we can’t see their faces. But anyway, once we had this, we knew that they were in the area. So we kept looking.”

“You spotted them again?”

Kierce nodded and started typing again. “Yep. At a Duane Reade half an hour later.”

He brought up the video. This one was in color. It was shot from the side of the cash register. The two guys’ faces were clear now. One was black. The other looked lighter-skinned, maybe Latino. They paid in cash.

“Cold,” Kierce said.

“What?”

“Look at the time stamp. This is fifteen minutes after they shot your husband. And here they are, maybe half a mile away, buying Red Bulls and Doritos.”

Maya just stared.

“Like I said, cold.”

She turned to him. “Or I got it wrong.”

“Not likely.” Kierce stopped the video, freezing the two men. Yes, men. They were young men, no question about it, but Maya had served with too many men that age to call them boys. “Take a look at this.”

He hit an arrow button on the keyboard. The camera zoomed in, blowing up the picture. Kierce focused in on the Latino. “That’s the other guy, right? The one who wasn’t the shooter?”

“Yes.”

“Notice anything?”

“Not really.”

He zoomed in closer now, with the camera focused squarely on the guy’s waist. “Look again.”

Maya nodded. “He’s packing.”

“Right. He’s carrying a gun. You can see the handle if you zoom close enough.”

“Not very subtle,” she said.

“Nope. Hey, I wonder how all your open-carry patriot buddies would react to these two guys strolling down their street strapped like that.”

“I doubt it’s a legally purchased gun,” Maya said.

“It’s not.”

“You found the gun?”

“You know it.” He sighed and stood. “Meet Emilio Rodrigo. Got an impressive rap sheet for a young punk. They both do. Mr. Rodrigo had the Beretta M9 on him when we arrested him. Illegally owned. He’ll serve time for it.”

He stopped.

Maya said, “I hear a ‘but.’”

“We got a warrant and searched both of their residences. That’s where we found the clothes you described and identified today.”

“Will that stick in court?”

“Doubtful. Like our ponytailed pal in there said: They’re red Cons. Lots of people own them. There was also no sign of ski masks, which I found odd. I mean, they kept the clothes. Why throw out the ski masks?”

“Don’t know.”

“They probably dumped them in a garbage can. You know. Right away. They shoot, they run, they rip off the masks, they dump them somewhere.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah, except we searched all the nearby garbage cans. Still, they could have found a place, maybe a sewer or something.” Kierce hesitated.

“What?”

“Thing is, we located the Beretta, like I said. But we didn’t find the murder weapon. The thirty-eight.”

Maya sat back. “I’d be surprised if they kept it, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“Punks like these guys don’t always dump the gun. They should. But they don’t. It has value. So they reuse it. Or they sell it to a buddy. Whatever.”

“But this was a pretty big case, right? High profile, lots of media?”