“I’ve been thinking about that,” Ellie said. “How well did you smooth things over with Stern after I left his office yesterday?”
“He stopped talking about siccing a lawsuit on us, but he’s probably not about to invite me over to meet the missus. Why?”
“Because even in his self-righteous indignation about customer privacy, he did offer to cooperate if we had a narrower request backed by a better reason.”
“And now all we need to know is if Tatiana was a FirstDate customer,” Flann said.
“How much more specific can we be, right? It’s certainly worth a phone call.”
“Nah. I better see him in person. He might check, find out she’s in his system, and then lie about it.”
“He struck you as that evil?”
“He’s the CEO of a corporation that’s about to go public. A few taps on his keyboard might just confirm that some bedbug out there is using his customers for urban hunting.”
“Enough said.” Confirmation of three victims linked to FirstDate, two of them killed by the same gun, would send Mark Stern’s stock values plummeting. “You know what I can’t figure is why the D.A. kicked Tatiana’s case.”
“Bad search?” Flann asked.
“That’s what I assumed, but it looks textbook. She said the TV arrived in the mail, and she just assumed it was a gift. Give me a break.”
“And the drugs?”
“She gave consent to search, then admitted the horse was hers. Looks like a slam dunk.”
Flann shrugged it off. “Maybe the prosecutor didn’t think it was worth the hassle. A gullible jury might’ve bought the story of a television miraculously arriving to a working girl’s doorstep. And the heroin was a first-time drug pop.”
“But enough quantity to trigger a hefty sentence.”
“You know how judges can be about so-called consent searches. Maybe the prosecutor didn’t want to push it.”
“Too bad for Tatiana. If she’d gotten some jail time, she might not have been in the Vibrations parking lot three months later.”
Ellie was interrupted by the chirp of her cell phone. She didn’t recognize the incoming number. “Let me get rid of this. Hello?”
“Hatcher, it’s Ed Becker. I hope you don’t mind me calling your cell. They didn’t have you on the roster at Homicide for some reason, so I played the old retiree card with some friends and got this number.”
“Not a problem, Ed. Thanks again for your time this morning.” Flann threw Ellie a curious look, and Ellie shrugged.
“I’ve been thinking more about the Chekova case, and I’m not feeling good right now about how I handled it. Looking back, I might’ve missed something on that one.”
“I’m sure you did what you could. We’re just taking a fresh look in light of the new killings. You never know what could break it, right?”
“You’re a real nice girl – woman, sorry – but I’m in a better state of mind now compared to back then. I’m pretty sure I did a piss-poor job. But, hey, I’m not calling so you’ll feel sorry for me or anything. I want to help.”
“Help how?”
Flann’s look moved from curiosity to anger. He shook his head quickly at Ellie. On the other end of the line, Becker laughed.
“Don’t worry. I know the last thing you and McIlroy need is me nipping at your heels. I was just thinking about our talk yesterday. I told you we eliminated the bachelor party at the outset. In retrospect, though, I can’t remember whether we really looked at them or not. We just went with our gut-”
“And the fact that they were spilling their guts on the side of the road?”
“Exactly,” Becker said with another laugh. “Not a bad judgment in the beginning, when you’re prioritizing. But when we didn’t have any other leads, we should have gone back and taken a closer look. After what happened with my partner, well, I don’t think I ever did. You might want to check them out after all.”
“All right, we’ll do that. Thanks for the call.”
“No problem. I mean it, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. Hell, I know I can’t be much help anymore, but it’s just eating at me. Promise me you’ll let me know if I missed something-”
“Stop assuming that. It’s just a new set of eyes is all. And of course I’ll call you if we get anywhere.”
Flann threw her another cross look.
“I’ll be here waiting. I’m just sitting up here in Westchester getting old.”
When Ellie flipped her phone shut, an obviously unhappy Flann pressed her for every detail.
“He can find out the results of our investigation when we publicly announce an arrest. We’re not about to partner up with Ed Becker.”
“Nobody’s talking about partnering up.”
“Sharing information, talking about the old days, whatever. I don’t care what he says, but that phone call’s about covering his ass. I’m not getting involved, and, trust me, you shouldn’t either.” Flann stood and started to pull his coat on.
“I don’t get it, Flann. What is it with you and Becker? He’s being a hell of a lot nicer than most retired detectives would be about someone working an old case, and you find something wrong with every step he makes.”
“That’s because with a guy like Ed Becker, nice always comes with a price. Now, I’m going down to FirstDate to see Stern. You coming?”
“No, after yesterday’s fireworks between me and Stern, you should go alone. Besides,” she said, looking at her watch, “we’re supposed to go see that computer guy. Just meet me at his office when you’re done with Stern.” Jason Upton, the former FirstDate programmer, had agreed to meet with her at two o’clock at his office.
Once Flann was gone, Ellie checked her FirstDate account. Eleven new messages, not including flirts. She had a message from Mr. Right. He was the one she thought of as dirty birdy, who’d used such subtle sexual innuendo with Amy Davis. He was nice enough to leave a phone number. She also had a message from Taylor, the one she’d mentally dubbed as stalker-guy. He was interested in meeting for a drink. Still no word from bachelor number three, Enoch.
She pulled up the message from Taylor, hit Reply, and typed, Taylor, How about a phone call first? Give me a number where I can call you?” Twenty seconds later, she received a message from Taylor with a telephone number, complete with the desperate comment that he had plenty of free minutes on his new CellularOne plan. That was the nice thing about stalkers. They were good about returning messages.
Then she found herself reading another message, this one from one of the “keepers” to whom Jess had sent a flirt on her behalf. Hey. It’s pretty funny they call hitting a little button on their Web page flirting . Doesn’t flirting usually involve lingering glances across a crowded room, a gentle graze of the forearm after a subtle joke, deliberately placed lips on a wine glass… Whoops, sorry, got a little carried away there. Wow, is it hot in here? Anyway, thanks for flirting with me. If you get a chance, tell me a little bit about yourself. How’s this for an ice-breaker? My name’s Peter. Hey, don’t laugh. My name really is Peter. Seriously.
The message was enough to make Ellie laugh – twice – so she clicked on Peter’s profile, amazed that she was even remotely curious about a man her brother had selected. She read the brief introduction he’d written about himself. It’s official. I’m a hypocrite. I shake my angry fist at the publishing industry that fails to recognize my manuscripts as the future classics of American fiction, and yet I have no idea what to say about myself in this little box. I have a salaried writing job by day but dream of making it to the walls of Chumley’s. I guess that makes me a writer manqué. I consider my self a non-British, much better-looking version of Nick Hornby, so prepare yourself for endless conversations involving randomly inserted allusions to culturally significant popular icons such as the Clash, the Simpsons, John Waters, so-bad-it’s-good reality TV, and on and on till the break of dawn. Sounds fun, right?