Through the glass, they watched as Adrienne walked Detective Howard through the lengthy story of her blog, the book deal, the harassing comments, the box delivered to her apartment, and now Grisco’s arrival to her home this evening.
“And you filed a police report when?”
“After the box showed up at my apartment. Until then, I figured words were only words and the police wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
“And you have no idea who this James Grisco is? Or why he’d be wanting to hurt you?”
“No, I’ve never heard of him.”
Howard rapped her knuckles against the tabletop. “All right. I know you’re tired. Let’s see about getting you out of here pretty soon.”
When Howard emerged from the interrogation room, she seemed surprised to see them standing there. “You guys are still around?”
“Of course,” Ellie said. “We know tonight’s shooting is yours, but we think it could be related to our case in Manhattan.”
“The teenaged girl.”
“Correct.” They had given Howard an abbreviated version of the facts, but could tell she was having a hard time tracking all the moving pieces.
“Well, I’m about to call the riding ADA, but I think we’re about set here.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want, Detectives? I’ve got an upstanding citizen with a legal gun defending herself against a convicted killer whose fingerprints—as you told me—were found all over a box full of maggots left at her primary residence, and who now drives all the way out here to break into her other home while she’s alone. I mentioned the knife by his body, right? Just next to his right hand.”
“We think Grisco may have been sent here by Adrienne’s husband, George Langston.”
“I know. You already told me that, Detective. Here’s how I look at it. You’ve been dealing with this crowd for, what? A week? And all that business with the drug research and the online stalking and the girl in the bathtub all happened in Manhattan. As far as I know, James Grisco came out here one time only and got himself killed over it. I’m pretty damn sure I know exactly how and why that came to be. We’ll run the prints on the knife. Have our ballistics and blood experts look over the shooting for anything fishy. But until I learn different, I am treating Mrs. Langston in there like an innocent citizen. In fact, some might say she’s a hero. There may very well be more to the story, but unless you’re telling me that James Grisco’s death wasn’t justified, I’ll consider it to be your story and not mine.”
“But—”
Ellie felt Rogan’s arm on her bicep.
“Looks like your partner’s getting my drift, Detective Hatcher. Some of my colleagues would be trying to fight you for jurisdiction. They might’ve asked you to leave hours ago. What I’m telling you is that you’re now free to answer any remaining questions you have about what may have happened back in the city. I’m not in your way.”
They were interrupted by the sounds of a panicked voice beyond the interrogation rooms.
“My wife. Where’s my wife? Adrienne Langston? I need to see her. Adrienne? Adrienne? Is she okay?”
Detective Howard walked toward the sound of the voice. “Are you Mr. Langston? All right, sir. It’s okay. I’ve got your wife right back here. I think it’s about time we sent her home.”
As she led him to the interrogation room and opened the door, George Langston did not appear to notice their presence. He ran to his wife, fell to his knees, and wrapped his arms around her.
Howard let out a loud sigh. “Like I said, the rest is pretty much up to you, but if you want my two cents: that’s not the face of a man who sent James Grisco out here to kill his wife. He looks even more scared than his wife did fifteen minutes after she killed a man.”
The couple seemed oblivious to the three of them watching their reunion through the window. George’s sideways hug around his still-seated wife was awkward, but he managed to rock her like a baby anyway. It was Adrienne who finally pulled away, wiping tears from her husband’s face.
The first thing Adrienne said to him was, “Where’s Ramona?”
“I told her there was an emergency at work. I knew you’d want to be the one to explain this to her.” He held her tightly again.
If George Langston was faking concern for his wife, he was a hell of an actor.
“Careful on the drive back,” Howard said. “Nothing but drunks on the road this time of night.”
Ellie looked at her watch. It was nearly three in the morning, and they still had a long drive back to the city.
“And I’ve got a present for you before you leave. We found a 2004 Malibu on the street outside the Langstons’ house, registered to Grisco at the same address as his driver’s license. Looks like it’s a relative’s place. Nothing of interest in the vehicle, but we did find directions to the Langstons’ address. Follow those backwards, and you’ll probably find out where he was staying.”
“You’re not going to check it out?”
Howard looked at Rogan. “Will you please explain to her I’m doing you two a favor?”
Rogan gave her an exhausted smile. “Trust me. She appreciates it.”
“All right now. You let me know if you hear anything I need to care about. Otherwise, I’ll tell you when our ADA clears this bad boy. As it stands, I’m willing to bet a paycheck on it.”
The sun was coming up by the time Ellie made it back to her own bedroom. She had hoped to find Max waiting for her there. Instead, she fell asleep alone, telling herself she might have to get used to the solitude.
Chapter Fifty-One
She was still yawning at eleven o’clock the next morning.
“Damn it, Rogan. I’m telling you, I’m about to burst. I don’t have any choice. I’m doing it.”
“That is disgusting. You are officially a disgusting person.”
“God, you are such a germaphobe. I’ll wash my hands when I’m done.”
“Don’t be counting on any soap in there. Or you know it’s going to be all funked up.”
Ellie hovered over James Grisco’s toilet. The bathroom, like the rest of the apartment, was filthy. She tried not to think about the yellow streaks beneath her feet.
Rogan was right. The only soap was in the mildewed shower stall, and she had no interest in touching soap that had been rubbed on the body that had occupied this space. She found a bottle of dish soap in the kitchen, then rubbed her hands on her pants to dry them.
“Told you it’d be nasty,” Rogan said.
“You and your Starbucks.” That’s the last time she’d suck down a Venti Americano before heading to an ex-con’s crash pad. Regular deli coffee in a normal-size cup was just fine for her.
They’d found the apartment just as Detective Howard had suggested, working backwards from the handwritten directions to the Hamptons that Grisco had left in his car. That had landed them on Ninety-first Avenue in Jamaica, Queens. She took the north side of the block; Rogan took the south. The fourth door she’d knocked on belonged to a sweet old man who had no idea the new tenant living above his garage was a convicted killer.
The landlord could use a lesson in property management, because he confirmed that Grisco had rented the filthy prefurnished apartment only six days earlier. He also confirmed that Grisco lived alone. Now that the sole tenant was dead, so were his expectations of privacy, which meant they didn’t need a warrant.
As it turned out, there was very little to search. The single room was no bigger than four hundred square feet. No computer. No television. Just a few items of clothing in a rickety dresser, undoubtedly unpacked from the empty duffel bag in the closet. Milk, cereal, and two frozen dinners in the kitchen.