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  Without a doubt, this was not an ideal witness. An unstable former prostitute and drug addict, dodging bills under a made-up name and taking her marching orders straight from Christ. If this ever came to trial, she would have close to zero credibility testifying against a ranking police officer. Particularly one who was as well regarded as the one she described. But there was also no doubt in Lourdes’s mind that almost every single word of this account was true.

  “Thank you.” Magdalena turned to Lourdes.

  “For what?”

  “For giving me a way to get all this off my chest. I’ve been carrying this for a long time. I feel better now. I knew you’d understand, since you have enough faith to bring a child into this fallen world.”

  “So does that mean you’ll testify for us at a trial if we get this guy?” Lourdes asked.

  “You help me get my family out of this place, we’ll talk,” said Magdalena. “Maybe the Lord sent you to help me start the process. If He can move mountains, maybe He can move us out of this damn trailer park.”

  22

  APRIL

  1995

  Things were different since their last meeting, five and a half years before. For one thing, she was calling herself Leslie Jesperson now, instead of Martinez, as if she’d gotten a divorce and gone back to her maiden name. For another, Joey was ready for her. He was a captain now and in the conference room with his union lawyer to help defend him. Somehow, with a new governor in office, she’d managed to revive this witch-hunt with the state investigations commission, getting enough of a budget to afford a JVC camcorder to videotape these interviews at a conference room in Albany and a young staff lawyer who had hair like Slick Willie Clinton to sit in and take notes.

  “Before we get started, I’d like to make a statement.” Joey looked at the camera, making sure that the recording light was on. “I’m here voluntarily…”

  “Actually, you received a subpoena from this commission,” the Slick Willie–type butted in.

  “I’m here on my day off to answer questions,” Joey pressed on. “But I just want to put on the record that I believe this interview is a farce and the result of a vendetta being pursued by Investigator Leslie Martinez or Jesperson, or whatever she calls herself these days. And that I believe she alters evidence as easily as she alters her name to suit her purposes.”

  “Your objection is noted,” said Leslie, who now had close-cropped hair that she was allowing to go silver in a way that both intrigued and disgusted Joey. “Captain Tolliver, you have been a police officer since 1981. Is that correct?”

  Joey looked at Brendan, representing him for the union. “Can I answer that?”

  “This is not a formal proceeding.” Leslie pulled on the lapels of her blazer. “We’re just gathering information. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”

  Brendan nodded. “Yes, I believe that’s correct,” Joey said. “I have fourteen years on the job so far. Should I list my awards and commendations as well?”

  “That’s not necessary either.” Leslie opened a thick file on the table. “And in your early years on the job, did you sometimes patrol the local highways?”

  “Yes, that was part of my assigned duties.”

  “Would you have been on that duty the night of September 13, 1982?”

  “You have my file, Ms. Martinez-Jesperson. I assume that date is correct.”

  “Actually, we’ve only been given partial records.” She looked at her counsel and then at the camera. “There’s been a conspicuous lack of cooperation from your department and the DA’s office. We’re hoping that will change now. My question has to do with the case of a Stephanie Lapidus. You’re familiar with it. Aren’t you?”

  Joey leaned sideways in his chair, not liking how it creaked beneath him. He was getting too settled and heavy the last few years. He needed to start moving around more, to keep himself lean and alert.

  “Yes, of course, I remember the Lapidus case,” he said. “It was in the newspapers. I believe a drug dealer named Trevor Knightsbridge is still in prison for killing her.”

  “You did not testify at the trial, did you?” Leslie licked a finger and turned a page in the file.

  “There would have been no reason.” Joey shrugged. “I wasn’t involved.”

  “You say that, yet there are officers who recall seeing you at the crime scene where Ms. Lapidus’s car was found,” Leslie said.

  “We’re talking about thirteen years ago,” Brendan started to object.

  “Never mind, I’ll take this.” Joey screwed up his mouth knowingly. “It’s the same thing over and over. They’re trying to pin the tail on the donkey again. They’ve got these so-called eyewitnesses who saw me somewhere supposedly doing something, but absolutely no proof. We’ve been here before.”

  “Are you aware that some of these witnesses were police officers?” she said.

  “Was one of them a former detective William Rattigan?” Joey feigned a yawn. “I think we all know Billy the Kid resigned in disgrace years ago because of his mishandling of evidence in a number of cases. His struggles with alcohol are well documented. I wouldn’t take much that he says too seriously.”

  He could see where this was going. Leslie had obviously stroked some horny old legislator’s thigh in the state capitol and gotten herself some new funding for this ludicrous adventure. And she was trying to enlist bitter Billy Rattigan, who’d been involved in the Angela Spinelli case as well and was somehow still alive, as a soldier in her campaign.

  “Actually, I was going to ask you about an officer named Amy Nelson, who was listed as one of the officers securing the Lapidus crime scene,” Leslie said.

  “Rest her soul, poor girl.” Joey shook his head. “I hardly knew her.”

  “Yet we have an affidavit from a former clerk at the police department who recalls you looking at her personnel record, shortly after the first time I spoke to you.”

  Leslie removed two stapled pages from the file and slid them across the table.

  Joey gave them a cursory glance and passed them to his lawyer. “I don’t recall this clerk and I don’t recall making any such request.”

  So this was the new information she was using to come at him. A black retired clerk named Jessica Wallace had been recruited as a witness against him. He’d never paid her much mind before, but he would now. If she didn’t have a DWI or an arrest for passing a bad check that could be used against her, somebody in her family would have a problem that could be leveraged.

  “You’re aware that there was information in Officer Nelson’s record about her having diabetes,” Leslie Jesperson said, with a growing flush on her normally sallow cheeks. “Aren’t you?”

  “I don’t recall looking at the file.” Joey made himself still and looked her in the eye. “And I certainly didn’t monitor Officer Nelson’s health concerns.”

  “You were aware she was left-handed, though. Weren’t you?”

  “I can barely picture Officer Nelson.” He shrugged again. “Where are you going with this?”

  “I’m just noting for the record that previously there was no reason to question the circumstances of Ms. Nelson’s death several years ago, since the fatal insulin injection went into the correct arm.”

  Joey kept his expression blank. What’d she want him to do? Smile because she was complimenting him for being halfway intelligent about getting rid of a problem?

  “Is there a question here?” Brendan asked.

  “Yes.” Leslie nodded, playing to the camera. “Can Captain Tolliver account for his whereabouts on the night Ms. Nelson died?”

  So here it was. What they’d been waiting for. The hook in the water. The bait barely concealing the sharp edge. Joey glanced at Brendan, who took the manila envelope out of his briefcase and slid it across the table.

  “You’re talking about Halloween night almost six years ago,” Joey said. “Please open that envelope and look at what’s inside.”

  Leslie undid the clasp and took ou
t the pictures. Four Mutant Ninja Turtles in yellowing Polaroids. Dumb-ass Charlie Maslow and Tommy Danziger both had their masks on, but Joey and Kenny Makris had kept theirs off.

  “There’s lots of witnesses from the Boys and Girls Club in Port Jefferson who’ll back us up on the time and date.” Joey shrugged, not needing to be unduly smug. “We’re there every other year. Maybe you should have checked that out before you called us up here, Ms. Jesperson. By the way, does that state commission compensate me for the cost of gas?”

  “Here’s what I know,” she said, trying to hold herself steady as she put the pictures back in the envelope and passed them to the staff attorney. “The revival of this commission isn’t about holding just one person accountable. It’s about looking at an entire system that’s allowed corruption to flourish. Those who decide to cooperate sooner rather than later can expect to be treated more leniently.”

  “Is that a threat?” Joey looked at his lawyer, comfortable enough to allow himself a smile. “Because I don’t see how you have much to back it up.”

  “This isn’t over, Captain,” Leslie Jesperson said. “Someone once said the arc of history is long but it bends toward justice.”

  “Then they must have had their head up their ass.” Joey stood up and signaled for Brendan to do the same. “Come on, counselor. We’ve got a long drive back to the Island.”

  23

  SEPTEMBER

  2017

  Lourdes slipped into the back of the darkened ballroom just as Joseph Tolliver was beginning his speech to the American Police Chiefs Association at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Almost immediately, a group of white-haired men began trying to wave her over to their table, assuming she was a waitress who could refill their glasses.

  She ignored them and rested an elbow on a bar counter, as Tolliver stood ramrod straight at a podium some fifty yards away, sounding as if he was running for higher office. His voice was deep and commanding as he moved deftly between true blue oratory and seemingly off-the-cuff remarks about the challenges facing twenty-first-century policing.

  He spoke about illegal immigration and the opioid epidemic. He spoke about stifling political correctness. He spoke about the “Ferguson Effect” and how omnipresent video cameras wielded by so-called social justice warriors inhibited his officers from doing their jobs. Then he spoke about duty and dedication and answering the call to public service.

  He received a thunderous ovation afterward and accepted handshakes all around before Lourdes tailed him into the bar downstairs, waiting patiently as he glad-handed his fellow chiefs and handed out business cards. She nursed a club soda for a few minutes and then sidled up to him as he went to the bar to ask for menus since the waitresses were overwhelmed.

  “Nice speech,” she said. “I’ve been thinking some of the same things myself.”

  He turned and looked down. He actually wasn’t that much taller than her, but he carried himself like someone who’d displace a lot of water when he jumped in a pond. He snapped his fingers.

  “Detective Robles, NYPD.” She helped him. “I came by your office with Detective Borrelli last week, to talk about those Sunrise Highway murders.”

  “Riiight.” His eyes got small as his index and middle fingers pressed together. “Didn’t my records guy get back to you?”

  “We’re still waiting.”

  “Sorry about that.” He pulled out an iPhone. “Let me set a reminder to give Charlie Maslow a zetz tomorrow.”

  “That would be great. Because, you know, we’ve called your office like six times since we saw you and sent three long emails.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that as well.” His mustache pulled back into a smile and his eyes danced past her to see if the chiefs he’d left at the table were watching. “Things have been kind of crazy at HQ, preparing for this speech and working on the budget numbers for next quarter. You don’t have to worry about this stuff when you’re a working detective. A piece of advice? Don’t try to do what I did and move up the ladder. You’ll miss real police work.”

  “I don’t think that’s ever going to be an issue.” She laughed, to maintain the illusion that this was just a friendly conversation. “No one’s ever said I’m administrative material.”

  “So what brings you to our little gathering, detective?” He was still smiling, but there was unmistakable tension gathering in his jaw. “The event is supposed to be invitation only.”

  “Like I said, we hadn’t heard back from your office and when I saw you were speaking in town, I figured I’d stop by.”

  “And how’s the investigation going?” he asked. “I heard you stopped to see the DA.”

  “Oh, you know.” She kept her voice light, just floating above the cocktail chatter. “We’re following the steps, tracing the circles. Developing a sense of direction.”

  “And where’s that leading you?” he asked, giving special attention to the lower part of the menu.

  “Into some tricky areas, which is why I wanted to speak to you directly.” She put a fist on the counter, where she was sure he could see it. “A few things are becoming clear. One is that there may be a few more murders than we first realized and two is that they may go farther back than we initially realized.”

  “Really?” He sounded only moderately disturbed, like she’d just offered a ridiculous sports prediction. “How far back?”

  “At least twenty-five, twenty-six years. To the Cheri Weiss case. Maybe even earlier. Angela Spinelli. Stephanie Lapidus…”

  “Wow, that’s what I call reaching.” Tolliver shook his head. “You’re going deep, aren’t you? Sure you’re not just looking for connections between things that aren’t connected?”

  “It’s possible.” She shrugged. “But it’s also possible that there are connections other people have overlooked.”

  “Like what?”

  She leaned over and kept her voice down. “Look, I don’t want to start pointing fingers. But we can’t ignore the pattern in the things we’ve been hearing. About violent cops and prostitutes.”

  “Officers from my department?” He splayed a hand against his chest, as if offended.

  “It could be. We have to look into every possibility.”

  “So what are you asking me for?”

  “It would help to get a look at some of your Internal Affairs reports.”

  “For what possible purpose?”

  “To see if you had officers accused of abusing escorts in the past.”

  He looked back at the other chiefs waiting for him to come back to the table with the menus. One tapped his wrist, as if to say, Time is money.

  “You’re seriously talking about things that happened in the eighties and nineties?” Tolliver inhaled.

  “We are.”

  He shut both eyes and gave her a quick little headshake, like this conversation was using up all his powers of patience and forbearance. “And exactly who is giving you all this information?”

  After their little encounter at the DA’s office, she’d decided not to say any more about looking into the state investigation report from ’89. Gallagher, the state cop, was supposed to be reaching out to get ahold of this Leslie Martinez, the lead investigator who’d been driving it.

  “We’re at a sensitive stage of the case,” Lourdes said. “We don’t want to endanger anyone by putting their names out there before we’re sure we can protect them.”

  “But you have no problem coming here, asking me to violate my officers’ right to privacy by opening up their personnel records? You know that there’s a state law that protects them. And you.”

  His elbow brushed her side. Hard to tell if he’d done it deliberately as he waved back at his fellow chiefs, to let them know he hadn’t forgotten them.

  “Chief, we’re talking about seven murders and counting so far,” she pointed out. “Puts a different light on it, don’t you think?”

  “Jesus, Robles. You’re talking about a department of almost three thousand officers and fil
es going back thirty, thirty-five years. Can you narrow the field a little? What are these allegedly upstanding citizens in the prostitution field telling you?”

  “An officer called J has been mentioned. He’d just become a lieutenant in the early nineties. And he was apparently well liked and well respected within and outside of the department.”

  “Hey, my name starts with a J and I was a lieutenant in the nineties.” He laughed. “Does that mean I need to hire a lawyer? Seriously, Robles. What is it that this guy is supposed to have done?”

  She opened her mouth to answer but a wave of noise crashed down on her. It suddenly felt like the music had been turned up and the conversation had gotten more raucous around them. A waitress threw herself against the counter and began sliding empty glasses at the bartender with undisguised aggression. Someone dropped a crumpled cocktail napkin with a lipstick stain on the other side of her. It felt like the world conspiring to distract her, but she had studied her own reactions enough to know that something else was going on. This was her personal warning system.

  “He attacked a woman at a party near where Cheri Weiss was found,” she said carefully. “And he did it in a manner consistent with how our Rockaway victim was found.”

  Nothing about his face or body language had changed. He was still regarding her with friendly interest, not leaning in too close or back too far, keeping a respectful distance while still listening. It was more something inside her that was different. An urge to draw together her knees and cover her chest. A sense that she was no longer just talking to a colleague, but being minutely observed and sized up through a microscope.

  “‘A woman at a party’? ‘A manner consistent’?” He affected a look of earnest concern. “Could you be a little more vague? What the hell are we talking about, Robles? Some whore got choked out?”

  “I never said anything about choking.” Lourdes looked at him more closely.