Gerrard seemed to think that was a good exit line, because he chose that moment to walk toward the door. Then he stopped and turned around. "Washburne was a member, Mac. Do right by him."
"That was always my intention," Mac said tightly. "Is there anything in my history that suggests I'd do otherwise?"
"Six months ago, I'd have said no, but now? Now you're going around threatening the chief of detectives. That's a special kind of stupid, Mac. I don't want you to screw up, but if you do, you will pay for it. Oh, and one more thing-you said you were getting the hang of playing politics, but politics is like poker. You don't show your hand till all the betting's in."
"The betting was in, Inspector," Mac said angrily. "You and Sinclair were railroading me."
"How do you know? The investigation wasn't over yet. How did you know you wouldn't get the same get-out-of-jail-free card the DA gave you?"
Not buying the notion for a second, Mac said, "Was that likely to happen?"
Gerrard smiled. "Oh, I could tell you, Mac-but that would be doing you a favor. I'm not inclined to do favors for detectives who blackmail me. So I'll just let you stew on that one and remind you that I know what you have in your hand now."
Then Gerrard finally left.
Mac turned his chair around and stared out the window. He looked at the cars moving slowly down Broadway. It was a long drop from Mac's office to the street.
Even longer than the drop Dobson took.
Unbidden, his mind turned back to Dobson's smirk as he jumped off the roof, preferring death to another prison term. He'd already tried to kill himself once rather than go to jail, a fact that Gerrard himself had covered up.
Mac was going to have to live with that smirk for the rest of his life.
Gerrard was right about one thing-Mac wasn't all that great at playing politics. He preferred the simplicity of the lab: you found out what happened through evidence, through facts. Politics was all about obfuscation.
He'd been lucky with the dirt he had on Gerrard. Mac had no faith that a politically motivated witch hunt would find him anything other than guilty, no matter what mind games Gerrard was playing now.
Shaking his head, he turned back toward his desk. Gerrard didn't matter. Sure, he'd be taking up residence in his rectum, as he so indelicately put it, but he'd been living there ever since Gerrard's promotion when the inspector decided to throw his weight around during the UN translator case. Gerrard being an irritant was already a given part of the equation, so Mac wasn't going to concern himself.
His job was to solve the variables.
Getting up from his desk, he called ahead to the copter pad, requesting a lift to Staten Island.
16
LINDSAY WOULD MUCH PREFER that Stella had done this.
Angell had called Stella, asking someone from the crime lab to meet her at the Rosengaus apartment on West 247th Street, a bit farther into Riverdale than Belluso's. But since Stella had her meeting with Cabrera, she fobbed it off on Lindsay, who was not looking forward to navigating through the steep hills and twisty-turny roads that characterized Riverdale.
Sure enough, after getting off the Henry Hudson Parkway (even with its toll-Stella's exact instructions: "Screw the E-Z Pass memo, just get where you need to go") at 246th Street, she made several wrong turns. The numbering of the streets up here didn't seem to make any sense; they twisted every which way, and not for the first time, she found herself missing the straight, perpendicular roads of Bozeman.
Eventually, she found the place. It was a three-story house with a two-car garage of a type she'd seen often in the outer boroughs. Perpendicular to the garage was a screen door that led to a ground-floor apartment. Said door was set under a staircase that led to a porch overhanging the garage, where there were another two doors. One would lead to the second-floor apartment, with the other leading to another staircase that took you to the third floor.
Two cars were parked in front of the garage, preventing Lindsay from pulling in there. Instead, she found a parking spot halfway down the block and across the street, between two driveways, so she didn't have to parallel park. She'd never acquired the parallel parking skill-it was the only part of the driving test she'd failed back home-and she rarely had need to practice it. The only time she drove was on official business, and most of the time, she could park wherever she wanted.
She supposed she could have parked in the driveway, but that seemed like an abuse of privilege, somehow. If she put her NYPD ID on the dashboard, she wouldn't be hassled; it still felt wrong to Lindsay. If Danny were here, he'd probably tease her about her bumpkin ways, but there was more to it than that. After what Mac went through with Sinclair, Lindsay felt that even the perception of wrongdoing would hurt the crime lab right now, and any kind of bad press would just get in the way of the work. Even though she'd been with the crime lab for over a year, she was still the rookie, and she wasn't about to be the one to get Mac in trouble.
The address Stella had given her was for apartment three. After retrieving her case from the trunk, she crossed the street and walked up the outside staircase of the house, her shoes clacking on the stone steps. Assuming that the leftmost door was the one for upstairs, she rang that bell. Moments later, she heard the muffled sound of feet coming down a flight of stairs, then the creak of the door opening.
An older woman who was dressed up in a silk blouse and slacks, her face elegantly painted with makeup, opened the door. Lindsay instantly saw the family resemblance between her and Dina Rosengaus.
Holding up her badge, she identified herself.
"Come in, please," the woman said.
Lindsay followed her up the wooden stairs through a door that led to a hallway that continued straight ahead, with a doorway leading to a dining room on the right.
Seated there was an overweight man with a large nose, wearing only a white undershirt and shorts; Dina Rosengaus, whose cheeks were wet and puffy with crying; and Angell.
In the center of the dining room table, on a white tablecloth, was a gold chain.
Angell said, "Look what we found. Nobody's touched it since Dina came out-we were waiting for you."
Wasting no time, Lindsay pulled a latex glove out of her back pocket-she always kept several there-and placed her case on the dining room table. Clacking it open, she pulled out a small evidence envelope, labeled it with a red Sharpie, and then put the glove on with a rubberized snap. Picking up the chain, she took a quick look at it. It was actually rather a nice necklace. She had already been told back at Belluso's yesterday that it was eighteen-karat gold, and so she handled it gingerly, as higher-karat gold was softer and more malleable. It was eighteen inches long, a standard length of braided rope chain, a beautiful butter-gold color typical of Italian eighteen-karat work, with a lobster-claw clasp. At a glance, at least, the clasp seemed to match the abrasion on the back of Maria's neck.
Peering more closely at it, she saw a tiny bit of discoloration on one of the links. Praying that it was dried blood, she dropped the necklace into the envelope and sealed it.
The older man said something in Russian. Dina muttered something back.
Angell said, "So, Dina, you want to explain why you have Maria's necklace?"
"I didn't kill her," Dina said, her voice breaking. "I just-" She swallowed. "Jeanie was calling 911. While she talked to them, I reached down and-and I took necklace."
"Why?" Lindsay was horrified.
"I-I never like Maria much. I know that is not right, but is true." Dina's English grammar was worse than usual, Lindsay noted, which was a normal sign of stress. "She was always talking about how wonderful her boyfriend was. I have not had boyfriend since coming to this country. When I did have boyfriend, Sasha was never able to buy me anything as nice as this. And the necklace-always the necklace. Never did Maria pass up opportunity to remind us that Bobby got her necklace."