Then there were the usual crackpots: three-count them, three-psychics offering their abilities to communicate with the dead; a woman whose schnauzer got sick early the previous morning, certainly a sign that he shared a karmic connection with Chelsea Hart; and some crank call from a guy who wanted to know if the girl had any cute midwestern friends heading to the city for the funeral.
No false confessions yet, but there was still time.
One entry tucked in among the rest caught her attention. “Bill Harrington. Daughter (Roberta, aka Robbie) murdered 8 years ago. Similar. Flann McIlroy thought there were others.” At the end of the notation was a ten-digit phone number. Ellie recognized the Long Island area code.
She found herself staring at two words: Flann McIlroy.
Detective Flann McIlroy had been famous-infamous, many would say-for his creative theories about investigations, creative enough to earn him the nickname “McIlMulder” within the department, an allusion to the agent who chased space aliens on the television show The X-Files. Ellie’s own experience with him had been far too brief, but she had come to trust him as both a man and a cop. If Flann had spoken to a murder victim’s father about his suspicions of a broader pattern, then Bill Harrington at least deserved a return phone call.
She wrote down the name “Roberta Harrington” and walked the slip of paper down to the records department. She was still trying to learn the names of the Thirteenth Precinct staff, something that had paid off in her previous assignments. A clerk who introduced herself as Shawnda promised she would order the old police reports from the Central Records Division immediately. Ellie thanked her for her time and made a point of repeating her first name.
Rogan was just hanging up his telephone when Ellie returned to her desk. “Something better shake soon, because the lawyers want us at the courthouse in two hours.”
TAHIR KADHIM WAS DARK, slight, and reluctant to leave his taxicab in front of a fire hydrant on East Twenty-first Street.
“It’s the only spot on the street, Mr. Kadhim,” Ellie said. “I’ll leave a permit on the dash.”
“Some meter maid will not believe that a taxicab is with the police. If the city tows my car, that is my entire day, not to mention the record I get on my medallion number.”
“We really need to speak with you.”
“Must I go inside? Why can we not speak out here?”
Ellie didn’t see the harm in getting the quick version of the driver’s story now, to avoid what she could foresee was going to be a headache-inducing conversation about the lack of adequate parking, the ineptitude of municipal employees, and the financial burdens of cabdrivers. She hopped into the passenger seat, and Kadhim hit his emergency blinker. At least it wasn’t the meter.
“You said you recognize this girl?”
She pulled an eight-by-ten printout of Chelsea Hart from a manila folder.
“Yes, that is right,” he said, tapping the photograph for emphasis. “I stopped Sunday night for her. She hailed me down, I think it was at Fifteenth and Ninth Avenue.”
“Where did you take her?” If Chelsea had left Pulse and headed to another club by herself, she would have an even tougher time linking Jake Myers to the murder.
“I did not take her. She stopped my cab, but I did not drive her.”
Ellie waited for Kadhim to explain, but he did not. “Did she change her mind?”
“No. See, there is a bit of a problem here. I want to help. That is why I called when I saw the picture. I did not have to call, you know.”
“What are you trying to say, Mr. Kadhim?”
“The Taxi and Limousine Commission. They are crazy. They have these rules, and they think nothing of shutting us down.”
“Mr. Khadim, I assure you, I am not trying to jam you up about some taxicab regulation. I just need you to tell me everything you can remember about this girl. Her name was Chelsea Hart. She was from Indiana. Her parents flew here yesterday to identify her body. I’d like to have something to tell them, sir.”
“You do not report to the commission?”
Ellie shook her head and waited for him to speak.
“She got inside the cab and told me to take her to the Hilton at Rockefeller Center. Before driving away, I checked to be sure she could pay me in cash. She could not. She asked me if I could take her Visa card instead.”
“But aren’t you all upgraded? The GPS, automation, credit cards.” The cabdrivers had gone on strike twice to try to prevent the change, but ultimately the commission had prevailed. Ellie peered over the partition into the backseat and saw the required equipment in Kadhim’s taxi.
“The credit card processing is broken,” Kadhim explained. “I told that to the young lady, but she said she had spent all of her cash. It happens a lot in that part of town at that time of night.”
“What time was it?” Ellie asked.
“It was not quite closing time, I remember. It was probably three thirty.”
An hour after Stefanie and Jordan left. Thirty minutes later than Jake Myers’s faltering estimate of when Chelsea had supposedly walked out alone.
“So what happened when she said she couldn’t pay cash?”
“I told her I would not drive her.”
Ellie now understood why Khadim had been nervous. She remembered from the taxi strike that the drivers were especially upset about a rule that required them to pull their cabs out of service if their credit card machines malfunctioned.
“Then what?”
“That is when the man offered to give her the money she needed.”
“Wait a second. There was a man with her?”
“She was alone. At first. But then when we were talking about how she was to pay her fare, a man came and knocked on the window. He…he propositioned her, if you understand.”
“Yes, okay, I think I know what you mean by that,” Ellie said, nodding even though she was having trouble picturing the scenario. “A man came up out of nowhere and knocked on your taxi window and offered to pay her for sexual favors?”
“No. It was not like that. She was talking to me, but then when the tapping began at the window, she lowered the glass and spoke to the man. I do not recall all of it, but it was along the lines of persuading her to stay with him, wherever she had been prior to coming outside. She told him she needed to go to her hotel-that she had an early flight in the morning-but that now she didn’t have any money, and I would not take her credit card. I remember that: she said, ‘And now this guy won’t take my fucking credit card.’ Not angry, but as if she were trying to be humorous. They both seemed intoxicated.”
“And what did the man say?”
“That is when he propositioned her. He said something like, I can give you the money. But then when she reached out of the window, he said she would have to earn it. I did not want them in my cab any more after that. Not every driver allows Taxicab Confessions in the back of their car, you know. I was about to order her to get out, but then she left on her own with the man. They were laughing, like it was a game.”