“I’m sorry. You did what?”
Dixon had figured this would look bad if it ever came out, but saying it aloud now he realized just how ridiculous it sounded – how desperate he had been back then to close the door on the investigation. He reminded himself of Mayfield’s warning: Control the message.
“We’ve got a full plate these days, trying to stay ahead on terror cases. That takes time away from solving crimes after the fact. Our entire case stats – white collar, fraud, even drugs – are down. I wasn’t going to work this FirstDate thing much longer, so I rolled the dice. I tried to bluff him.”
“And it didn’t work.”
“Three days later, Tatiana was killed.”
Finally, he used his informant’s name. Not Chekova, not the girl, not the C.I. acronym for a confidential informant. Tatiana. Tatiana was killed. Just as Dixon tried to read Hatcher’s face to see if she’d noticed, Hatcher reached for the cell phone on her belt and flipped it open.
“Sorry,” she said, pushing a couple of buttons on it. “It’s set to vibrate-”
“You can take it if you need to.”
She returned the phone to her waistband, shrugging it off. “If you thought a federal informant was murdered for her cooperation, why didn’t the FBI take over the homicide investigation?”
Again, Dixon thought, more questions about his motivations.
“If we couldn’t put together probable cause for a conspiracy involving FirstDate, how could we show that she got killed as part of it? We decided it was best to leave the investigation to the NYPD.”
“And now two years later, McIlroy and I are working on it.”
“You’re clearly better than those other lazy sacks. How didn’t anyone make a gun match earlier?”
“The case fell through the cracks. One of the detectives, Barney Tendall, was shot off-duty. His partner sort of fell apart after that.”
“Huh-uh. I know you guys like to defend your own, but I don’t think so. We might not have taken over the investigation, but I kept an eye on it. That Ed Becker was the worst cop I ever saw – his partner too. They didn’t do shit. They worked their other cases just fine, but Tatiana – Chekova,” he said, catching himself, “she was just a dead cossack stripper to them. They never even worked the case.”
Hatcher clearly was not inclined to follow this line of conversation. “So here’s the big question now: If Tatiana was killed for cooperating with you, how does that fit with our other three murders?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“Come on now. If you knew, the FBI really would take the case.” She gave him a friendly smile, which he found himself returning. “So what else can you tell me about the people who might have had a grudge against Tatiana?”
“Two men were prosecuted based on the information Tatiana provided.” Dixon handed the detective a manila folder containing a Form 302, used by federal agents to summarize interviews. Clipped to the 302 was a booking photo. “I made two busts based on tips from Tatiana. One of them was a controlled buy for heroin out of a club she used to work. The guy’s name was Alex Federov. You don’t need to write that down, because Federov was killed in prison two months into his sentence.”
Hatcher’s curiosity was clearly piqued. “Any chance that was related to Tatiana’s murder?”
Dixon shook his head. “No. I checked on that. Turns out Federov took a shiv to the stomach in the yard – get this – for preempting an inmate who was ahead of him on the library waiting list for a Harry Potter book.”
“And so that leaves the second guy.” Hatcher unclipped the photograph from the 302 to take a closer look. “This is him?”
“Lev Grosha. He was sneaking credit card numbers out of a Brooklyn motel. He paid the clerk at the front desk to run the cards through a scanner. Massive fraud potential. With the U.S. Attorney’s Office leaning hard on him, we assumed he’d cooperate. It’s pretty much the only way to get a sentencing break these days.”
“And instead?”
“Grosha pled to all charges and took the full guideline term.”
“Where’s he serving his time?”
“MDC Brooklyn. He’s got a sick mom or something, so the Bureau of Prisons kept him local.” The Metropolitan Detention Center was just off the Gowanus Expressway near the bay.
“Can you put me on his visitor’s list?” Hatcher asked.
“No problem,” he said, making a note of it. “Do me a favor? If you find anything that leads straight to Stern, will you let me know? I don’t think he’s your doer, but something doesn’t add up with that one. My impression is he’s got way too much money based on what he’s bringing in.”
Given the illegal investigation tactics he’d used to keep an eye on Stern, Dixon was relieved when Hatcher didn’t press the question of how he’d formed his “impression.”
“Sure,” she promised. “And, hey, thanks for calling me. And for the sweets.”
Dixon rose from the table and pulled his coat on. He left the café satisfied with the way he’d controlled the message. He’d given the NYPD the information they needed, and his hands were clean. Hatcher seemed like a decent cop. Maybe she could carry the burden now, and he could finally put all of this behind him.
ELLIE WATCHED CHARLIE Dixon walk to a blue Impala down the street, then she pulled her cell phone from her waist, flipped it open, and pressed the camera button. Charlie Dixon popped up on the small screen, in color, his coffee cup held just below his chin. It wasn’t a bad photograph.
She left Lamarca with a small box of tiramisu wrapped in string, a surprise for Flann. Unfortunately, a very different kind of surprise awaited her. Just outside the precinct entrance, a mere eighty feet away, stood Peter Morse. She could not believe her luck. Millions of people had reckless evenings of casual sex with strangers. She did it one time – only once – and the guy wound up literally at her doorstep.
She ducked down a metal staircase leading to a basement laundry shop and stifled a scream when a rat scurried across her foot. She watched as Peter pulled open one of the precinct’s glass double doors. How long was she willing to stand here in the cold, with this stench, to avoid him? Until she saw him leave, she decided – no matter how long it took.
Her cell phone jingled at her waist. She flipped it open and recognized Flann’s number.
“Hello?” She whispered as if Peter could hear her from inside the walls of the precinct across the street.
“Are you almost done with the elusive G-man?”
“Yeah, I’m done. I’m just, um, yeah, I’m on my way back. What’s up?”
“Just get back here.”
“It might be a sec-”
“If this is about the apparently prescient reporter named Peter Morse, he’s standing right here and warned me you’d try to avoid him. Get back here please. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner he’ll leave.”
30
PETER MORSE FOLLOWED ELLIE’S SHEEPISH ENTRANCE WITH A pleased expression. Flann shot her eye daggers.
“I brought tiramisu,” she said, offering Flann the dainty bakery package. She offered Peter her hand, playing it cool. “Hi. I’m Ellie Hatcher. But it sounds like you already know that.”
“I know now.” Ellie couldn’t tell if he was angry, amused, or both. “I hope you don’t mind, but I told your partner that I really needed to talk to the two of you together.”
“I tried pushing him off on the Public Information Office,” Flann said, “but he insisted you’d want to hear this. The two of you know each other?”