“And we will, soon enough,” Ellie said. “But we’ll be better prepared to question any suspect if we fully explore all the other information available to us.” She had just gotten to a description of Adrienne’s blog when Katherine interrupted.
“So Adrienne’s big writing deal is just a blog?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“A couple of weeks ago, Lanie Marks told me Adrienne had some big book deal. Lanie works at New York magazine. She heard that Adrienne had sold a memoir to the editor in chief at Waterton Press. Everyone assumed it would be one of these Upper East Side tell-alls. The only question was whether Adrienne would be naming names. Shows what gossip will get you. By the time some pathetic blog hits the whispers of Madison Avenue, it’s become a healthy six-figure book deal.”
Ellie wondered whether there was any hope for the woman. Whoever she was two days ago, Katherine was now a person who took pleasure in the fact that a woman she’d known for the better part of a decade—a woman who had come from humble means and had loved a stepchild as her own, a woman who had treated Katherine’s daughter as her own—had written as a mere blogger, not as a soon-to-be-published author. This woman was being eaten away, not just by grief, but by jealousy now as well.
She quickly summarized the evidence they had to show that Julia’s laptop was used to post one of several threats on the blog. “Did Julia have any reason to dislike her friend’s mother?”
Bill was sighing impatiently, but his wife simply shook her head. “That just doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard her say anything bad about Adrienne.”
“What about keys to this townhouse? To your knowledge, did Julia have extra keys she gave to friends?”
Another blank stare from Bill Whitmire. He obviously had no idea what his daughter’s day-to-day life had entailed.
Katherine, however, walked to a narrow drawer next to the refrigerator, pulled out a red leather keychain, and continued to rummage through the drawer’s contents. “A copy is missing. We keep two here. The other’s got a—um—what is it called? A unicorn. It’s on a silver unicorn keychain. I know it was here last Thanksgiving because I gave it to Billy’s girlfriend for the weekend, but now it’s gone. Why?” Katherine’s tone was panicked. “Did someone take keys to our home? Do I need to change the locks?”
Ellie used her best stay-calm voice. “We don’t know that for certain, but, yes, according to these two sources, your daughter may have shared a key to your townhouse with a friend of hers and Ramona’s.”
“One of the homeless kids?” Bill yelled. “Jesus Christ. That is just like Julia.”
Katherine’s moxie briefly reemerged as she shot her husband a sharp look that immediately quieted his outburst. “Like I told you,” she said calmly, “our daughter was overly generous. I will call a locksmith, to be safe. And I assure you that my husband and I will continue to provide any information you require, but now will you please go find this Casey Heinz person?”
In the car, Ellie and Rogan compared notes about their separate interviews with Brandon and Vonda.
Their stories lined up perfectly. The location. The time. What Casey was wearing. The words he’d used. His explanation spilling out so quickly they could barely follow. An argument with Julia, somehow related to Ramona. I snapped, he’d said. It just happened. More tears. I wish I could take it back.
“They’re definitely singing the same tune,” Rogan said.
“It’s a little too in sync for me. They both happened to remember exactly what Casey was wearing? And that he was doing handstands near the dog run?”
“Sounds like that’s what Casey wears and does every day, based on what we saw. Not really surprising they’d remember it.”
“And the same exact phrases?” she said. “Verbatim?”
“Hate to say this, Hatcher, but isn’t that what defense attorneys argue all the time after the two of us testify to identical details?”
“We’re not two homeless kids trying to get reward money from a famous record producer.”
“We’ve had worse witnesses. Remember Otis Jones?”
Of course Ellie remembered. They’d built an entire murder case around the word of a convicted drug dealer who boasted on the stand about spending the first part of the day in question smoking a blunt while “being bathed” by three crackheads who served as his “harem.” Cops didn’t get to pick their witnesses.
“Yeah, but we believed Otis Jones because his testimony matched what we knew about the murder. Brandon and Vonda? The only thing their statements match are each other’s statements. There’s no insider detail.”
“Maybe that’s because Casey stopped talking before any of the insider detail got out. Isn’t that possible?”
“I guess.”
“Damn, Hatcher. Those two are lowlifes, but if Casey slept with that girl, had a key to her place, and didn’t tell us? We’ve got to be looking at the kid, right?”
“Obviously.”
“So, I’ll say it once again: you best open your damn mind.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Ellie had seen more than a few homeless shelters. During her years on patrol, she tried to avoid the dispatch calls to shelters the way most cops tried to avoid the domestic beefs. They were dirty, desperate places filled with broken, desperate people. It was as if the physical buildings had somehow absorbed their occupants’ collective regrets and hopelessness.
But the Promises Center for Young Adults was not that kind of place. With a new, clean brick façade and a glassed-in atrium at the entrance, the structure felt more like a community center than a homeless shelter—except the receptionist at the front desk had a bright-pink mohawk and a silver chain draping from her right nostril to her ear.
There had been no sign of Casey Heinz at Washington Square Park. Ramona’s cell phone had gone directly to voice mail. That made Promises the next step in the search for their only person of interest in the death of Julia Whitmire. The pink mohawk woman hadn’t seen Casey that day but assured them she’d locate the center’s director for them right away.
Two minutes later, a woman with jet-black, blade-straight hair and flawless alabaster skin greeted them. There was an old-fashioned formality to her tailored suit and black stockings, but she opened her arms and flashed a warm smile, as if she’d known them for years. “Detectives, my name is Chung Mei Ri. Welcome to Promises. I understand you are looking for Casey?”
Rogan took the lead on introductions, and then gave the woman an edited explanation for their visit. “We believe Casey has some information relevant to a case we’re investigating.”
Her smile grew even wider. “Casey is a wonderful person. If he has any information that would assist you, I have no doubt that he will be more than forthcoming. He is smart, too. He’ll be one of our success stories. Of that I have no doubt.”
“I’ve seen a lot of shelters, Ms. Ri,” Ellie said. “I didn’t know there were many successes.”
“That’s how Promises is different. There are shelters for mothers and their very young children. And there are the adult shelters, which are filled with grown men—usually who are addicted to one thing or another, or mentally ill, or who have given up on life, or vice versa. Promises is for young adults who are still getting started in life, but with rougher beginnings than others. We like to think of ourselves as a kind of belated Head Start. We’re leveling the playing field a little bit so these kids can find their legs and make a decent life for themselves.”