SHE FOUND ROGAN on his cell phone at his gray metal desk.
There were at least eight different varieties of desks among the twenty that were scattered throughout the squad room. From the looks of things, someone with a borderline case of obsessive-compulsive disorder had at some point attempted to pair them into matching sets for partners. Eight variations. Twenty desks. The math did not work. She took a seat at her own wood-veneer setup.
Rogan lowered his voice to a whisper and swung his chair away from her. She heard him mutter something about “three thousand.” She wondered if the call had something to do with his wardrobe. Maybe the price of a new suit. Or maybe a bet to help pay for the next one.
To avoid any appearance of eavesdropping, she picked up her phone to make a call of her own.
“Peter Morse.”
“Hey there.”
“Hey, yourself. I’m glad you called. I was worried maybe you met some other guy last night when I wasn’t on watch.”
“Nah, maybe back in my old skanky days. I kicked it at home alone last night.” Ellie had only known Peter Morse for two months, and she’d been in Kansas for half of that time. But since she’d been home, they’d spent more nights together than apart. “Did you get a lot of work done?”
Peter was a crime beat reporter at the Daily Post by day, aspiring author by night. After spending all weekend together, Ellie had insisted that they have two nights on their own so he could have some time to write.
“Oh, tons. Forty pages, at least. A book contract is just around the corner, complete with an all-expenses-paid tour and a straight shot to the top of the best-seller list.” Peter tended to understate just how important his writing was to him, and sarcasm often proved handy on that front.
“If you’re really on a roll, maybe we should take tomorrow night off, too.”
“Don’t even joke. I was sort of hoping I could come over tonight.”
“Nope. Two nights. Those are the rules.”
“Damn you and your stinking rules.”
“You were the one who told me it always takes you a day to get up to speed after a long break.”
“Damn me and my big mouth.”
“Tonight you’ll be in the zone,” Ellie said.
The grumble on the other end of the line suggested he had doubts. “And tomorrow?”
“And tomorrow, we’ll make up for lost time.”
“Now I like the sound of that.”
Rogan flipped his phone shut at the desk across from her.
“Hey, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Promise?”
“I always mean what I say,” she said before hanging up.
“Sorry about that,” Rogan said, holding up his cell. “With you dragging my ass out of bed so early this morning, I didn’t get a chance to take care of some personal business.”
“No need to explain.”
“So, turns out our girls from Indiana are a little tougher than you’d think. I told them we found a body this morning. Said you and I both saw her. That she resembles the picture they showed us of their friend.”
“You didn’t tell them the rest, did you?”
Rogan shook his head. “I made it clear there still needs to be an official ID, but they know we’re pretty confident this is Chelsea. For a couple of kids, they’re handling it all right. A whole lot of crying, of course, but I persuaded them to give me their phones until we’ve had a chance to call the family.” He opened his desk drawer to reveal two cell phones.
“And we’ve got a sketch artist on the way?”
“Done,” he said. “It sounds like they got a decent enough look at the shaggy-haired guy that we might have a shot with him. On the one they called Jake, their descriptions are so vague, it might be a lost cause. Anyway, that’s for the doodler to figure out. We can have a victim’s advocate get them back into the Hilton once they’re done here.”
“So what’s next?”
“I call the parents. You call CSU and the ME. See if they’re ready for us.” Breaking the news of a daughter’s death compared to checking on the status of the crime scene unit and medical examiner’s office? Definitely not equal billing. The call to Indiana was something she had signed on for when she took responsibility for the girl she’d found during her run.
To a cop, it was one call at the beginning of yet another case. One call to deliver the news before the real investigative work started. But to the people at the other end of the line, that one phone call would mark the indelible moment that changed everything they thought they knew to be true. One minute, they’re living their lives-worried about the costs of remodeling the kitchen, trying to lose a few pounds before the upcoming reunion, wondering what to eat for dinner. The next, the phone rings, and nothing else matters.
Ellie’s father used to say that was the worst part of the job-the knowledge that good people would forever remember your voice, your words, that one phone call, as the moment that changed everything. Ellie wasn’t looking forward to making her first call to a family, but she knew she had to do it eventually.
“Not exactly a fair trade,” she said.
“That first call to a family is enough to rework your brain for the next twenty-four hours. I’d rather make the call than be stuck with a brain-dead partner all day.”
Rogan was offering to carry the load for her on this one. He had been a detective in NYPD’s homicide squad for a little more than eight years. That was a little more than eight years longer than Ellie. With some amount of guilt, she gratefully accepted.
HER CALLS TOOK less than three minutes. CSU would be ready for an initial briefing from the crime scene in an hour. The ME needed two.
Rogan was still on the phone. He had his head down, eyes closed-right hand on the handset, the other massaging his left temple. It was as if he were picturing himself outside this room, away from New York City, standing on a front porch with two parents in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Ellie could almost imagine Rogan looking Mr. and Mrs. Hart in the eye and breaking the news: Your daughter was supposed to take a cab back to the hotel, but she never arrived.
The image gave her an idea. She opened Internet Explorer on her computer, Googled the New York City Taxi and Limousine Commission, and dialed the telephone number listed on the commission’s Web site.
For decades, drivers of New York City’s taxis had maintained their trip sheets by hand, using pen and paper to log the location and amount of each fare. Trying to track down a cab driver on the basis of paper trip sheets was like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack of thirteen thousand yellow cabs.
The tide in the sea of paper had shifted just last year, however, when the city’s new high-tech requirements for all medallioned cars had gone into effect. Although a few drivers remained at war with the commission over the expensive technology, a critical mass of taxis was now equipped with computers that not only accepted credit card payments but also used GPS technology to automate the ancient trip sheet practices. Obtaining a list of the cabdrivers within a one-block radius of Pulse around the time of last call would have once been impossible; now it was just a matter of a few keystrokes on a computer.