Casey looked a lot happier when he was doing handstands in Union Square Park. Now he was hunched over in a plastic chair in the lobby of Promises, his head burrowed in his crossed forearms, flanked on each side by large men dressed in matching black suits. Ellie could tell from his trembling shoulders that he was crying.
He jerked up at the sound of the door opening.
“What is going on here?” Ellie asked.
One of the men in black rose to his feet. He had to be at least six-four.
“Miss Heinz came with us of her own accord. She consented to a search of her property.”
Ms. Ri was storming down the hallway toward them. “Thank goodness. Real police. I was just about to call you. These people arrested Casey. I told them to get out, but Casey told me to let them in his room. I still tried to stop them, but back they went.”
“Is that true, Casey? Did you tell Ms. Ri that you wanted these people to go into your room?”
He nodded but still hadn’t spoken a word.
“Look at these people,” Ms. Ri said, waving an angry hand in no particular direction. “They obviously forced him.”
From the grass stains on Casey’s clothing and marks on his face, Ellie already had her suspicions.
“If these men have done something—”
The standing security officer cut her off. “Which side are you on, lady? Nobody forced anybody to do anything.”
Rogan was already making his way past the lobby toward the hallway adjoining the tenant rooms. When they got to the third room on the right they found two more men in suits, one young and enormous—an identical triplet to the two towers in the lobby—the other equally handsome, but with light-gray hair and a regular human-sized body.
The older man beat them to the punch with introductions. “Earl Gundley, Detectives.” The firm, confident handshake matched the man.
“We would have appreciated a call,” Rogan said.
He gave them a smooth smile. She could imagine why he would be successful as hired corporate security. “I would have said the same thing when I was on the job.”
“Casey Heinz looks terrified,” Ellie said. “What did your guys do to him to get him to let you in here?”
“Him?” He shared an amused look with his younger colleague. “Times, they sure do change, but I can be progressive, too. We didn’t do anything to him I didn’t do on the job. And even if the kinder, gentler NYPD has a new pretty please with a cherry on top consent policy I don’t know about, here’s the beauty of being strictly private. No government action means no constitutional violation, which means no motion to suppress. Whole lot faster than a search warrant.”
“Except now we’re here,” Ellie said. “So there’s your government action. We need you and your monochromatic giants to leave. We’ll be retaining custody of Casey Heinz, and we’ll determine whether to search further and with the proper legal authority.”
“Nothing more to search.” Gundley pointed to a cardboard box filled with evidence bags identical to the NYPD’s. “You’ll see they’re all properly marked. Chain of custody begins now. You’ll be particularly interested in this one here, I suspect.”
She noticed he plucked two bags from the box. He handed her one, holding the other against his suit jacket.
Inside the bag was a single key attached to a dangling silver unicorn. Gundley looked very pleased with himself as he extended the second bag. “Not entirely certain about these, but I’m pretty darn sure they don’t belong to him.”
The second bag contained a pair of black lace bikini panties, the tiny La Perla tag visible at the waistband. Ellie had seen a neatly folded stack of identical pairs inside Julia Whitmire’s dresser.
Ellie followed Gundley to the lobby. She wanted to make sure he and his hired help were out of here before she and Rogan decided what to do next.
Casey’s eyes moved directly to the evidence bags in her right hand. A glimpse of recognition crossed his face.
“Am I under arrest? Because I want to talk to a lawyer.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
As they unhooked Casey Heinz’s handcuffs to place him in the holding cell, Ellie heard a voice call out to them. “Detectives? Hello? Rogan? Hatcher?”
Ellie recognized the PAA who worked part-time at the reception desk. He had strawberry-blond hair and a gap in his teeth. The guys in the squad called him Doogie, and she had forgotten the kid’s real name too many months ago to ask now. For tonight, he was the lucky guy who got to deliver the news: “Your lieutenant said to see her ASAP.”
As if they needed another reminder of the mounting political and media pressure, they arrived at Tucker’s office to find that she’d already called in the riding ADA. Max rose when they entered, choosing to lean against Tucker’s office window as they took the two guest chairs. Max at least made eye contact with her, but the usual crooked smile was still absent.
Rogan brought them up to speed on the last few hours. As it turned out, Promises had a signed agreement with each client making clear that individual residents had no expectations of privacy. After convincing Ms. Ri to allow them to “double-check” what the private investigators had already done, Ellie got her to agree to a search. CSU was looking for physical evidence, but they had left with nothing other than the items Gundley’s team had inventoried. Casey had invoked, so an interrogation was a no-go. He was in a holding cell downstairs. Of most obvious relevance were the missing key to the Whitmire townhouse and a pair of Julia’s underwear.
“Casey could always say Gundley planted it,” Ellie said. “One look at that guy and I can tell he makes Mark Fuhrman look like the ACLU’s dream cop.”
“We’ve got no proof of that,” Tucker said. “I made a few calls. Gundley had a good reputation.”
“Are you seriously telling me that every detective who retires with a good reputation is beyond placing a thumb on the scale, especially if his access to Bill Whitmire’s wallet is at stake?”
“Except you saw that look on Casey’s face,” Rogan said. “He knew exactly what you were holding.”
“Unfortunately, we’ve got to make a decision, campers.” Ellie felt a moment of melancholy, knowing that Max had picked up the term from her. “If we cut Casey loose, he’ll disappear. If we charge him, we can’t mess around.”
They all knew this wasn’t how things were supposed to unfold. Sometimes they hit that sweet spot in an investigation—that moment when they knew it would happen. A piece of evidence falls into place that makes you sure there will be a prosecution and that you’ll be able to give the district attorney what he needs to make the case.
There was still so much they didn’t know about Julia Whitmire. Why had the wild child recently calmed down? Had she started seeing someone? If so, who, and why hadn’t she told Ramona? Because it was Casey? And why had she been threatening her best friend’s mother?
Gathering the answers to all those questions would take time. And time was something they no longer had. They could only hold Casey for twenty-four hours without a probable-cause hearing.
“There’s no way we can build this thing up to PC for murder in a day,” Rogan said.
Max drummed his fingertips on the wall behind him. “Here’s what we do. We’ve got the key to the Whitmire house, the panties, and the previous statement from Casey, making it sound like he barely knew Julia. We put all that together, and I can get a burglary charge past a judge: unauthorized use of the key, the taking of the underwear—we’ll be fine.”
Rogan was nodding in agreement. “That might at least keep the press off our backs.” Unlike murder, a burglary charge wouldn’t trigger a closer read of the blotter by reporters.