Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(23)

She said, “I have a lot of things I’m interested in too. Tall cops from New York are right at the top of my list.”

I pulled my hand from her grip and off the table. I didn’t want there to be any confusion about why I was here. I concentrated on pulling my notepad and a pen out of my jacket pocket. Then I said, “Did Emily ever say anything about Robert Steinberg?”

“A little. He’s another wild one.”

“Is that what Emily said?”

“No. She didn’t speak about the justice. She could really keep secrets. But I’ve known Steinberg for years. I knew him when he was a regular at Jeffrey Epstein parties. He didn’t slow down much once he got married.”

“You know Justice Steinberg’s wife?”

“Of course. Everyone knows Rhea. She’s just a slip of a woman with big, fake boobies and a pretty face. That’s all some people need. I like a little danger as well. Maybe if she didn’t think she was some kind of artist she could focus more energy on her husband.”

I didn’t really see this interview going anywhere toward establishing who might have had a motive to kill Emily.

Mrs. Minshew said, “You know how some people say they don’t like to gossip?”

I nodded.

“I’m not one of them. I can imagine what people say about me, married to a roly-poly old man. They probably say a hair weave would improve his looks. I don’t really care. But I get a kick out of hearing comments about everyone else. Would you like to hear some juicy gossip?”

“I would.”

She gave a smile that was both dazzling and terrifying. “One of the women associated with the Steinbergs was found dead in Baltimore almost two years ago.”

“When you say found dead…”

“Murdered. Strangled in her car. It was all over the news for about five days.”

Now I made use of my pen. “Do you know the victim’s name?”

Ellen Minshew snapped her fingers. “It was a foreign-sounding name. I saw her photo in the Post. She was lovely. I think she was a fitness trainer.” Then she snapped her fingers again and said, “Luna. Her last name was Luna. And she was found in her car somewhere in Baltimore.”

Finally I had a real lead.





Chapter 29



I spent two minutes on my phone verifying the information Ellen Minshew had given me about the homicide in Baltimore. News articles from twenty-one months ago corroborated her recollection that Michelle Luna was a fitness trainer. Luna’s photo looked like a professional model’s. Brown hair in a ponytail, dark eyes, and an engaging smile. She radiated health. As I did when I read about any victim of a homicide, I said a little prayer for her and her parents. The families of homicide victims are quickly forgotten, but their pain lasts a lifetime.

I wasted no time in getting on an interstate headed northeast to Baltimore. I called the Baltimore Police Department’s homicide unit and spoke to a Detective Stephanie Holly, who met me in the lobby of the department’s headquarters. I was surprised at her wholesome, midwestern appearance. I tried to hide it with a cordial greeting.

The detective saw right through it. She smiled. It was an amazing smile. “I know, you never would’ve guessed I was a homicide detective.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not my typical image of a tough Baltimore cop.”

“I’m older than I look.”

A passing uniform sergeant chuckled and said, “She’s taller than she looks too.”

I tried not to laugh, but I could tell this was a common line of jokes. Detective Holly was probably five foot one and couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds. Though she wore her hair short in a practical style favored by cops and nurses everywhere, she could almost pass for a University of Maryland student. I noticed scars on the knuckles of her right hand. She had punched a few people over the years. I bet she was tough.

I followed her one flight up a rear, wooden staircase, our footsteps sending echoes up the stairwell. Detective Holly looked over her shoulder and said, “I checked you out through the blue hotline. You’ve had some pretty decent cases with the NYPD. My friend Chuck, who works at One Police Plaza, says you’re a legend in the department.”

The blue hotline is a back-channel way for cops to check one another out. Everyone knows someone at a major department. From there it’s just a game of six degrees of separation. New York and Baltimore are both on the East Coast. Both right along I-95. And both cities have active underworlds that no one wants to talk about. At least no one other than the cops.

I caught some interaction between Detective Holly and the other detectives on her squad. I was impressed.

A tall, younger black detective, trying to pull off a porkpie hat, stepped right in front of her desk and looked me up and down. He said to Detective Holly, “Why’d you bring your pops into the office today?”

“Because your dad was still getting his toenails done.”

When another detective tried to grab a file off her desk, Detective Holly cut her eyes to him and simply said, “If that file is not back on my desk by the time I sign out this afternoon, you’re going to have to pee sitting down for the next six months.”

I didn’t know what that meant and it scared me. I’m sure if I understood the inside joke, I’d be even more terrified.