PETER DE JONGE

SHADOWS

STILL

REMAIN

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the USA by HarperCollinsPublishers, New York, NY, 2009

Copyright © Peter de Jonge 2009

Peter de Jonge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847560568

Ebook Edition © 2009

Version: 2018-06-25

For my father, with affection and respect

…dusk do sprawl.

—JOHN BERRYMAN

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Publisher

1

At 9:37 on Thanksgiving eve, nineteen-year-old Francesca Pena steps from the cramped vestibule of a crappy little apartment building in the East Fifties and hurries north. Model thin and shielded from the cold by only a vintage Adidas warm-up jacket, she leans into the icy wind that seems to hurl cars downtown and squints at the dreary commerce. This stretch of Second has never amounted to much. Tonight, with everyone on the way to families or bracing for their arrival, it’s essentially shut down. The only exceptions are a candy store franchise that just changed hands and an Irish pub with an advertised happy hour that runs from ten in the morning to seven at night.

Pena turns west at Fifty-second and with long athletic strides traverses another cheerless block. She passes six-story walk-ups, a basement dry cleaner, another cheerless pub, and the headquarters for the Salvation Army. As always, she winces at the gap-toothed sign with its missing A’s in S L V TION. An NYU sophomore on a track and cross-country scholarship, she has run through all kinds of neighborhoods, good and bad, but none as unsettling as this shabby bit of midtown fringe, where every endeavor feels dwarfed and mocked by the value of the real estate beneath it. As an antidote to the creepiness as much as the cold, Pena slips a chocolate malt ball into her mouth and picks up her already brisk pace. From Third on, the start of Midtown proper, there are no more random tenements or one-off businesses. There are only franchises and banks and office towers, and as Pena hurries through the emptied-out block, her bloodred jacket and short glistening black hair are the only colors. Thanks to the hotels, Lexington, at least, is well lit, and on the far corner is the glowing entrance to the subway. When the signal turns, Pena bounds across the street and down the greasy steps, and after an expertly timed swipe of her Metrocard, pushes through the turnstile like a finish line. She barely has time to throw away her used-up card before a southbound 6 train fills the station, and when she climbs up onto Bleecker, she’s so glad to be downtown, the air feels ten degrees warmer and for the first time in what seems like hours, she is aware of the night sky. Seeing that she has fifteen minutes to spare, she makes a quick detour to Tower Records, where she grabs the latest No Doubt CD for Moreal and the latest Britney for Consuela, and after enduring a withering eye roll from the pierced cashier, heads south again.

A topless Kate Moss, still freezing her tits off at thirty-one, presides over the intersection of Houston and Lafayette. Pena, very nearly as alluring, crosses under her, setting off flashbulb smiles from the cabbies lined up at the BP station. Safely across, she turns east on Prince. She passes the side of a building plastered with posters for sports drinks, bands, and video games, then hugs the high brick wall that borders the cemetery from Mulberry to Mott.

Compared with midtown, Nolita is barely reduced by the holiday exodus. Cars and pedestrians snake through the clogged streets, smokers huddle outside the bars, and as always there’s a crowd waiting to get into Café Habana. East of Elizabeth, however, the street goes black. On Bowery, the restaurant wholesalers are battened down as if for a storm. Cold, and anxious for her walk to be over, Pena turns east onto Rivington. Half a block later, at the end of a short tight alley, she spots her destination: the four-month-old restaurant/bar called Freemans.

2

Freemans, styled like a ramshackle hunting lodge, is packed to the fake rafters, but Pena’s friends have staked out prime real estate at the corner of the bar. Like Pena, Uma Chestnut, Mehta Singh and Erin Case are NYU undergrads. Standing side by side, they are so photogenic and multihued, that if you cropped out the three-thousand-dollar designer bags and serious jewelry, they could be showcasing their racial diversity for a college catalog. In a sense they are.

Pena’s arrival sets off a high-pitched eruption of girly glee. When it subsides, Chestnut, who believes with some justification that she reigns over everything below Fourteenth Street, sets off a second by announcing “Cocktails!” Singh, who is taller, curvier and darker than Pena and possesses an equally electric smile, asks for a Sidecar, and the porcelain-skinned Case, whose pink cable-knit sweater is somewhat misleading, a Beefeater Martini—dirty. “Dirty indeed,” says Chestnut, whisking an intentionally greasy bang off her forehead. “And how about you, Francesca?”

“A Malibu and Seven,” says Pena. “You can take the girl out of the barrio, but you can’t take the barrio out of the girl.”

“Why would anyone want to,” says Singh.

The girls present their fake IDs, and Chestnut places the orders, including her own signature Lower Manhattan. When all the cocktails have been mixed, signed for and delivered, Case carefully raises her tiny infinity pool of gin and vermouth. “To Thanksgiving,” she says. “Everyone’s favorite excuse for a five-day bender.”

“And to all your relatives who got seasick on the Mayflower,” adds Pena. This sets off enough laughter that cocktails have to be steadied before they can be sipped again.

Time flies. Particularly when you’re young and beautiful and getting wasted. For four hours, the four pals don’t stop cracking each other up, and while occasionally a brave boy dares to breach the perimeter, they mostly flirt with each other. And although Chestnut’s father just had a retrospective at MOMA and Singh’s is the largest commercial landlord in New Delhi and Case was raised like a hothouse flower in eighteen rooms on Park Avenue, it’s Pena, the scholarship girl from western Massachusetts, who is the undisputed star of the group. It is her approval and messy snorts of laughter the others vie for.

Chestnut, Singh and Case have elaborate Thanksgiving dinners to wake up for the next morning. By 2:30 a.m., they’re inclined to call it a night. But not the long-distance runner Pena, who by way of explanation nods discreetly toward an older guy at the end of the bar.

“Tell me you’re joking,” says Singh. “He looks like rough trade.”

“Doesn’t he, though?”

“You’re coming with us if we have to drag you out,” says Case.

But Pena crosses her arms and shakes her head like a stubborn toddler, and after a final flurry of hugs and kisses, Chestnut, Singh, and Case have no choice but to abandon her. As soon as they’re out the door, Pena’s posture stiffens. In the tiny bathroom near the kitchen, she splashes her face with cold water, and when she returns to the bar, so-called rough trade has strategically relocated to the neighboring stool.

“I’ve been watching you all night,” he says. “Am I finally going to get a chance to talk to you?”

“Not tonight.”

“Any reason?” asks the deflated suitor. But he does it so softly and with such diminished confidence that Pena, who had already turned to the bartender and ordered a Jack and Coke, pretends not to hear him as she takes the drink to a small table in the far corner. As the last customers trickle out, she sits with her back to the bar and nurses her drink for almost an hour. Finally, as a busboy gathers bottles and glasses from the empty tables, she pushes out of her seat and navigates the short alley to Rivington and the half block east to Chrystie.

At 3:30 a.m at the end of 2005, the corner of Rivington and Chrystie was still among the darkest and least trafficked on the Lower East Side. At 3:30 Thanksgiving morning, it might as well be the dark side of the moon. Pena knows there’s no point even trying to hail a cab until she walks the two long freezing blocks to Houston. After three queasy steps, she realizes she is about to pay the price for mixing all those ridiculous cocktails, and crouches between two parked cars.

“You OK?” asks a voice behind her.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she snarls, and retches some more.

3

Detective Darlene O’Hara licks the cranberry sauce off her thumb and savors the penultimate bite of her homemade turkey sandwich. She is enjoying her modest feast in the empty second-floor detective room of Manhattan’s Seventh Precinct, overlooking a windswept corridor of the Lower East Side where so much unsightly city infrastructure—including a highway, bridge ramps, dozens of housing projects and this squat brick station house—has been shoved against the East River. The Seven is the second-smallest precinct in the city, covering just over half a square mile, and the curiously exact address of the station is 19½ Pitt Street, but there’s nothing half-assed about the institutional bleakness in which O’Hara has chosen to spend a solitary Thanksgiving.

O’Hara, who is thirty-four, with wavy red hair, raw, translucent Irish skin, that even in late November is sprinkled with freckles, provides the only color in the room. She sits at a beige metal desk facing a wall of beige metal file cabinets. The light is fluorescent and the linoleum floor filthy, and behind her, facing a TV that gets three channels badly, is a lunch table littered with the Chinese food tins and pizza boxes that couldn’t fit in the overflowing wastebasket. The windows are filthy too, darkening an already grimy view of the Bernard Baruch projects across the street, but the layer of dirt doesn’t seem to keep out the cold.

O’Hara isn’t the slightest bit put out by her surroundings or solitude. In fact, she welcomes the rare quiet. It’s like getting paid to think, she thinks, and besides, she isn’t altogether lacking in company. In the chair next to her, curled up in the deep indentation excavated by her partner’s ample Armenian ass, is her fourteen-pound terrier mutt Bruno, his peaceful canine slumber punctuated by snorts and sighs and the occasional rogue fart.

In addition to the overtime, O’Hara is working the shift for the distraction. Two p.m. in New York makes it 11:00 a.m. on the West Coast. In a couple of hours, Axl, her eighteen-year-old son and University of Washington freshman, will be heading to the Seattle suburb of Bellevue for his first visit to his girlfriend’s parents, and O’Hara pictures Axl, sprawled in his ratty chair in his ratty bathrobe, girding himself for five hours of hell (the father is a shrink, the mother a dermatologist) with black coffee and Metallica. As far as she can tell, a fondness for heavy metal is about the only attribute her son has acquired from her, not including of course his red hair and ridiculous name. In most significant ways, Axl takes after O’Hara’s mother, Eileen. This is probably a good thing and, once you’ve done the math, not surprising, since his grandmother is the person who essentially raised him. You don’t survive having a kid your junior year of high school without a great deal of help, and as O’Hara polishes off her sandwich she makes a point of silently expressing the thankfulness appropriate to both her circumstances and the holiday. Still, the thought of Axl spending Thanksgiving at a dining room table in a real house with a real family makes O’Hara feel like crap.

The first two-thirds of O’Hara’s shift go as quietly as expected. She reads the Post and News and half the Times. At 3:15, she gets a call from Paul Morelli, the desk sergeant on duty. A rookie patrolman, named Chamberlain, just brought in a Marwan Overton, nineteen, on a sexual assault. Should he bring him upstairs?

“It’s Thanksgiving, for Chrissakes,” says O’Hara. “It’s supposed to be a PG holiday—turkey, a bad football game, family.”

“Well, who do you think filed the complaint?”

“Martha Stewart.”

“Close,” says Morelli. “Althea Overton, who in addition to being a junkie, prostitute and a thief, is also the suspect’s mom.”

“Well, OK then.”

Minutes later, Chamberlain escorts the handcuffed Overton into the detective room. After O’Hara takes the suspect from him, Chamberlain lingers awkwardly by the door, like someone at the end of a date hoping to be invited in.

“I heard you actually volunteered to work the shift,” he says. “I couldn’t believe it.”

Although O’Hara wears no makeup, rubber-soled shoes, and cuts her own hair, and obscures her generous curves under loose-fitting pantsuits and button-down shirts, she’s not fooling anyone. Half the guys in the Seven have a crush on her and the young ones like Chamberlain, tend to get goofy and tongue-tied when they talk to her.

“Hopefully, you’ll get out on time at least,” says Chamberlain. “Thanks,” says O’Hara. “I’ll take it from here.”

O’Hara walks Overton to the far end of the room and puts him in the holding cell, where he slouches disinterestedly on the corner of the metal cot. Faithful to the fashion, everything Overton wears is three sizes too big, but in his case it only serves to exaggerate how small and slight he is. Overton, who could pass for fourteen, is barely taller than the five-foot-three O’Hara, and after looking at his tiny hands and sad hooded eyes, O’Hara guesses that along with everything else, Overton was a crack baby.

Not that any of this matters to Bruno. Since Overton was brought in, Bruno has practically been doing summersaults, and after Overton tells O’Hara that he’s OK with dogs, Bruno races into his cell and greets him like his last pal on Earth, which, not to take anything from Marwan, is how Bruno greets everyone. Detectives look for the bad in people, the incriminating detail, the contradiction, the lie. Bruno is only interested in the sweetness and never fails to find it. Overton is so disarmed, you’d think letting Bruno into his cell was calculated, and probably it was, because twenty minutes later, when O’Hara brings him out of the cell, Overton waves away his right to an attorney without a second thought.

“So Marwan,” says O’Hara, “you going to tell me what happened?”

“I was having Thanksgiving at my grandmom’s.”

“You live with her?”

“In Jacob Riis House,” he says, referring to the eighteen-building project where she and her partner, Serge Krekorian, get half their collars. “It was nice until my mom arrived and started begging for money.”

“What happened then?”

“I knew she was just going to use, so I said no,” says Overton, looking down at Bruno and scratching him behind the ear.

“OK?”

“She pulls me into my room and puts her hand inside my jeans, says she’ll take care of me for ten dollars. I was feeling so sorry for myself, I let her. After, when I told her I wasn’t going to give her any money and never wanted to see her again, she runs outside and calls for a cop.”

Imagination-wise, thinks O’Hara, the city never lets you down. Practically every day, it comes up with another fresh, fucked-up twist. And although few of the surprises are happy, O’Hara is usually more fascinated than repelled, and almost always grateful for the front-row seat.

His Thanksgiving tale over, Marwan looks up from Bruno to O’Hara and offers a heartbreaking sliver of a smile. Everything about him looks too small and young, but his eyes are ancient.

4

The next evening O’Hara and Krekorian stand outside Samuel Gompers House, two blocks up Pitt Street from the station, just north of the ramp to the Williamsburg Bridge. In the sixties, when the neighborhood was undesirable enough for city officials to get away with it, they threw up eight thousand units of public housing between Pitt and the East River, and when they all go condo and their tenants get relocated like Indians to reservations, O’Hara and Krekorian will have to find somewhere else to make their overtime. In the meantime, they’re paying a visit to apartment 21EEE, following up on a domestic abuse, the crime that keeps on giving. Since they’d prefer to arrive unnannounced, they’re freezing their asses off waiting for someone to step in or out through the locked door.

Shielding herself from the worst of the wind, O’Hara turns her back on the door and looks across Pitt Street. Facing the projects and their captive populace of thousands are a nasty little Chinese restaurant, a Western Union that cashes child-support payments and a liquor store named Liquor Store, with more bulletproof glass than the Popemobile.

“I haven’t even told you about my latest Thanksgiving fiasco,” says Krekorian, who is built like a fire hydrant, the swarthy skin on his face pulled tight across prominent cheekbones like a pit bull’s. After four years as partners, O’Hara and Krekorian are deeply familiar with the toxic ruts of each other’s dysfunctional lives. She knows that Krekorian only dates black women with two or three kids, and he knows that O’Hara hardly dates anyone and the two indulge each other by acting as if their emotional cowardice is primarily due to the stress and fucked-up schedules of police work.

By now, O’Hara is well aware of how little regard Krekorian’s family has for his unlucrative line of work. To her own family, O’Hara’s becoming a cop and promptly earning her gold shield is viewed as a minor miracle, particularly after the untimely arrival of Axl. To Krekorian’s parents, who squandered over one hundred thousand dollars to send him to Colgate, where he was the backup point guard on the basketball team for three years, it’s a profound disappointment, bordering on disgrace. At family gatherings his younger brother, an investment banker, loves to underline this fact by talking ad nauseam about all the money he’s raking in.

“What you say this time, K.?” asks O’Hara.

“Not a word, Dar.”

“Wow. I think you had what Dr. Phil calls a moment of clarity.”

“He went on and on about his bonus and stock options and being fully vested, and I just let him.”

“Like water off a duck’s back.”

“Exactly. Not a peep. I just sat there with my mouth shut and waited until it was just me and him in the den.”

“And then?”

“I hit him.”

“Maybe I spoke too soon,” says O’Hara, staring at her shoes, trying not to laugh.

“If he’s going to make me feel bad, I’m going to make him feel bad.”

“Exactly.”

Finally, an elderly Gompers resident ventures forth into the great outdoors, and the two detectives slip in behind him. The elevator is open on the ground floor, and as the doors close in front of them, Krekorian flares his enormous nostrils to draw his partner’s attention to the puddle of cat piss in the corner. O’Hara knocks on 21EEE and announces herself and Krekorian as police.

Dolores Kearns, who came to the precinct and filed a complaint on her boyfriend the day before, takes about a week to come to the door. Kearns wears nothing but a bathrobe, and her ample breasts spill out of it. “It took you ten minutes to put that outfit together?” asks O’Hara, but Kearns is no more put out by the arrival of NYPD than Chinese food.

“I was taking a nap,” she says, music seeping out from behind her.

“With Al Green playing?”

“I haven’t seen Artis since that one incident,” she says.

“That one little incident,” says O’Hara, “where he slapped you around and held a knife to your throat.”

“Like I said, I haven’t seen him.”

“But if you do, you’d call us, right?”

“No question.”

When their shift ends, Krekorian parks their black piece of crap Impala in front of the precinct house and heads to his own piece of crap Montero in the lot. O’Hara runs inside to use the bathroom before her forty-minute ride home. Slumped in one of the filthy plastic chairs just inside the door is a brown-haired white kid in a gray hooded sweatshirt about the same age and loose-limbed build as Axl, and when she gets back down the stairs she can’t help looking at him again. Like Axl, he looks like the kind of shy kid who could sit there all night, before getting up and saying anything to the desk sergeant.

“How long you been here?” asks O’Hara.

“An hour. I need to report a missing person.”

“Who?” says O’Hara.

“Francesca Pena. She’s nineteen, a sophomore at NYU, five foot nine, short black hair, about one hundred eighteen pounds.”

As O’Hara looks down at him in his chair, the kid takes out a well-thumbed snapshot of a very pretty teenage girl with long jet-black hair and bottomless brown eyes. “That’s before she cut it,” he says, touching the picture. “When she smiles, she’s got a beautiful gap between her teeth.”

“She your girlfriend?” asks O’Hara, looking wistfully over the kid’s shoulder at the door.

“Not anymore. Just friends. That’s why I wasn’t that worried when she didn’t come home Wednesday night. We’re not a couple anymore. That’s cool. But we had planned to spend Thanksgiving together and I knew she was looking forward to it. Now it’s Friday, and she still doesn’t answer her phone.”

“You roommates?”

“No, I’m visiting. From Westfield, Mass. Francesca’s from Westfield too.”

A handsome kid, thinks O’Hara, but with that fatal transparent sincerity that drives girls away in droves. Wednesday night, Pena probably hooked up with someone sarcastic and cutting and didn’t have the heart to tell him she was blowing him off for their Thanksgiving dinner. It’s amazing how many girls disappear at the start of weekends and reappear Sunday night. But O’Hara brings him upstairs to the detective room anyway. Partly, it’s because he’s not Dolores Kearns, and she can’t imagine him two days from now looking through her like a pane of glass. Mostly it’s because she misses Axl.

Without taking off her coat, she sits him down by her desk, turns on her computer and takes down his information. Name: David McLain. Age: nineteen. Address: 85 Windsor Court, Westfield, Massachusetts. Since he arrived in the city, he’s been staying with Pena at 78 Orchard Street, 5B. He gives her the numbers for his cell and Pena’s.

“How long you been visiting?” asks O’Hara.

“Three weeks. I’ve been working as a barback a couple nights a week at a place on First and Fifth called Three of Cups.”

“Don’t you want to go to college yourself?” she asks, not sure why she’s talking to the kid like a guidance counselor.

“Maybe. I had a pretty good chance for a soccer scholarship till I let my grades slip.”

With his forlorn expression and downtrodden posture, McLain looks almost as pathetic as Axl after he got dumped by his first real girlfriend sophomore year. People outgrow each other. Sad as hell, but it happens, and for six months, Axl walked around just like this kid, with his head so far up his ass that eventually O’Hara had no choice but to stage an intervention. On a Friday afternoon, the last day before summer vacation, she picked him up at school and just started driving. Chugging Big Gulps and talking, they drove twenty-six hours before they stopped in their first motel. Five days later, they walked up to a guardrail and stared with their mouths hanging open at the Grand Canyon. Looking at McLain, she doesn’t know whether to hug him or kick him in the ass.

“Is staying this long OK with Francesca? She didn’t give you a deadline?”

“Not yet. I help out. I buy groceries. I clean up.”

“Where’d you sleep?”

“On the floor in my sleeping bag.”

He’s as loyal as Bruno, thinks O’Hara. But who knows? Maybe he got kicked one too many times.

“When was the last time you saw Francesca?”

“About eight-thirty Wednesday night. She was meeting friends for dinner. Then they were going to have drinks at some new trendy place. Don’t know which one.”

“You know the names of her friends?”

“No. Never met them. I’m pretty sure she’s ashamed of me. One is the daughter of a famous artist.”

“So what did you do after she left?”

“Shopped for our dinner.”

“Where’d you buy the stuff?”

“A twenty-four-hour supermarket on Avenue A around Fourth Street.”

“What time you get there?”

“About one a.m., maybe a little later. I think I got the last turkey in NYC. Then I got up at seven the next morning and started cooking.”

“Who taught you to cook, your mom?”

“You kidding me? My grandmother.”

You walked right into that one, thinks O’Hara, and for a second feels as bad as she did about Axl’s suburban Thanksgiving.

“Keep the receipt for the groceries?”

“Why would I do that?”

5

Saturday, O’Hara and Krekorian focus their crime-solving talents on a pocketbook, net contents seventeen dollars, snatched the night before at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Delancey. When they get there, the manager has the whole caper cued up on video, and it plays like something out of Oliver Twist. The victim, African American, approximately thirty-five, sits at a table enjoying her coffee and the latest Patterson, when the five-foot, two-hundred-pound Astrid Canozares waddles through the door, a stroller in front and two hyperactive kids in tow. While the kids distract the mark, Canozares tosses the woman’s pocketbook into the stroller, then mother, kids and infant, suddenly no longer hungry, exit the premises. O’Hara and Krekorian know the stroller is empty and the kids on loan because they’ve arrested Canozares three times in the last six months.

“The hardest-working obese kleptomaniac on the Lower East Side,” says Krekorian.

“Hands down,” says O’Hara.

Even though they know where Canozares lives, and the family that supplies the prop and extras, it takes all evening to track her down and another four hours to run her through the system. O’Hara and Krekorian share the collar, and because it’s her turn, O’Hara gets the overtime, which is the only real point of the exercise, turning seventeen stolen dollars into an extra $176 on O’Hara’s next pay stub. It’s a long slow night, and O’Hara spends much of it thinking about David McLain and Francesca Pena, more worried about the lost boy than the missing girl.

Sunday, her shift starts at four, and in the dismal early dusk, the short thick precinct house, with its slits for windows, looks medieval. O’Hara tells herself she won’t take the girl’s disappearance seriously until the end of the day, but when she calls McLain and finds he still hasn’t heard from Pena, she takes out her coffee-stained list of hospitals and ERs and starts making calls: Beth Israel and St. Vincent’s in the Village, NYU, Cabrini and Lenox Hill, St. Luke’s Roosevelt near Columbia, Mount Sinai in East Harlem and Columbia Presbyterian in Washington Heights. Pena hasn’t turned up at any of them or in Hoboken or Jersey City, and near the end of their shift, she and Krekorian drive up to NYU to have a talk with Campus Security.

All O’Hara has to offer is that Pena spent the night with several classmates, one of whom may be the daughter of a famous artist, and Peter Coy, the new kid at Campus Security they got working the holiday weekend, can’t do anything with that. O’Hara asks him to call Larry Elkin. Elkin is a former detective from the Seven, who retired from NYPD the day after he clocked his twenty years. A month later he took a cushy security job at NYU. Now, still in his forties, Elkin collects one and a half salaries, and when he retires again, will do it on two pensions. If he has a kid smart enough to get in, he might even get a break on tuition.

Elkin knows the friend, not Pena. “Uma Chestnut,” he says when Coy hands her the phone. “Daughter of Seymour Chestnut. You may not give a rat’s ass about contemporary sculpture, O’Hara, but NYU does, particularly when they go for fifteen mil a pop. First day of the semester, we get a list of every student whose parents’ net worth is north of fifty million dollars. Someone says boo to Junior or Little Princess, we come running with our Tasers and mace. The amazing thing, Dar, is how fucking many of them there are, thirty, forty, in every class.”

Elkin tells Coy where to find the contact numbers, and O’Hara leaves messages for Chestnut on answering machines at three addresses. While they wait for her to call back, she and Krekorian eat a couple slices in the front seat of the Impala and watch shaggy-haired college kids get dropped off by their parents after their first long weekend home.

“You look like them ten years ago, K.?”

“I don’t know what I look like now.”

“It’s called denial.”

What O’Hara looks for and can’t find in the faces of the students is fear, not only the physical alertness that animates young faces in the projects but a fear of the future. These kids don’t seem to have ever doubted that there’s a spot waiting for them somewhere in the world. That alone makes them so different from herself at a similar age, she could be staring into a diorama at the Museum of Natural History.

When Chestnut calls back an hour and a half later, they’re back at the precinct house, their shift nearly over. She tells O’Hara that she, Pena and two other students, Erin Case and Mehta Singh, spent Wednesday night at a place off Rivington called Freemans. The three friends left at about 2:30 a.m., but Francesca, who was interested in a guy, decided to stay. “Can you describe him?” asks O’Hara. “Not well—he was at the other end of the room and the place was packed—but I can tell you that none of us liked him. He was older, close to fifty, and looked a little rough around the edges. Mehta and Erin practically begged her to leave.”

O’Hara and Krekorian drive to Rivington, double-park and walk down a short alley formed by the backs of several small tenements, and although the buildings themselves look real enough, the density of gritty urban signifiers (graffiti, fire escapes, etc.) is suspiciously high, and all are spotlighted. At the unmarked entrance, they push through a thick velvet curtain into a restaurant/bar art directed like the set of a nineteenth-century period play. Oil-stained mirrors, blurry battle scenes and portraits of soldiers, their gilded frames chipped and warped, hang from wainscoted walls. Displayed among them are the mounted heads of bucks and moose and a large white swan with collapsed wings that appears to have just been shot out of the sky. The place is too far from Washington Square to be an NYU hangout, and the crowd is older. Like a lot of the people roaming the Seven at night, they are enjoying that languorous ever-expanding limbo between college and employment. At midnight on Sunday, the place is packed. Krekorian clears a path to the bar and gets the attention of the ponytailed bartender. He only works weekends but retreats into the open kitchen and returns with a very nervous Hispanic busboy, who was on that night. Because O’Hara assumes the kid is working illegally, she doesn’t ask his name, just shows him the freshman Facebook picture of Pena they got from Coy.

The busboy recognizes her immediately. He points at a table at the other end of the room. “She sat over there. It was late. I was already cleaning up.”

“Was a guy with her?”

“No.”

“You sure? We heard she hooked up.”

“She sat alone for a long time. She was the last person to leave.”

“Was she drunk?”

“I don’t think so. She looked serious.”

When O’Hara gets back to the car, she makes the two calls she has been dreading for different reasons all evening. The first is to Pena’s parents in Westfield, Massachusetts. The second is to her useless sergeant, Mike Callahan.

6

Thumbing the photograph of Pena in her coat pocket, O’Hara follows Bruno’s jaunty ass down the steep porch steps and doesn’t correct him when he tugs hard to the right. For nearly five years, ending in her late twenties, O’Hara lived with a fireman in Long Beach in Nassau County, and even though he was kind of a mess and his lips spent more time attached to his bong than her, O’Hara adored him and counted herself happy. At least until the morning she got a call from his other girlfriend, also NYPD, who informed O’Hara that she was about to have his kid. A week later, determined to escape the incestuous grip of Long Beach, with its bars for firemen and bars for cops and bars for both, she rented the top floor of a white clapboard house on 252nd Street in Riverdale, just west of the Henry Hudson Parkway. On days off, she treats Bruno to a longer and more interesting walk, and when Bruno realizes it’s one of his lucky days, the sawed-off mongrel pulls like a rottweiler, steam snorting from his nubby black nose.

Bruno drags his owner past a 1960s-era high-rise, then slows to investigate the rusty fence that surrounds some cracked tennis courts. High on the list of things that kill O’Hara about her dog is the power of his convictions. No matter how many times he’s checked out a certain stump or tire or fence, he never phones it in. Every stop and sniff adds to his storehouse of canine knowledge. Every piss sends a message, and every time he scrambles out of the house and into the world it matters a lot, at least to Bruno.

The two skirt the neglected grounds of a once grand Tudor mansion, and rounding the corner, O’Hara catches her first glimpse of the Hudson. As always, she’s delighted that’s she’s seeing it not from a public lookout on the Palisades Parkway but through a small break in the trees on a quiet street half a mile from her home. Still preoccupied by her cruelly inconclusive conversation with Pena’s parents the night before—the father, who answered the phone, could barely get a word out, while the steelier mom clung blindly to what little hope remained—O’Hara follows her dog to the river. She lets Bruno root among the cold, damp weeds a hundred feet from the water before she pulls him out and turns him back toward home. As they climb the steep hill, the burn in her thighs reminds O’Hara she hasn’t been to the gym in a week.

At home, O’Hara saws three slices off a stale baguette and puts on coffee and music. Ten minutes later, when she steps out of the shower, her hair is clean and all the pieces of modest domestic life are in order: coffee aroma wafts out from the kitchen, Bruno sleeps on his side in a circle of sun, and Heart’s Ann Wilson sings “Crazy on You”. When O’Hara moved in with the fireman, every bit of decor, not to mention his collection of piss-poor CDs, was all grandfathered in, and any input on her part was highly discouraged. That’s why, despite the fact that she was almost thirty when she signed the lease, this is the first place that feels entirely her own. The purchase and placement of every stick of furniture, from the overstuffed whorehouse couch (a flea market on Columbus Avenue) to the small kitchen table (a Riverdale yard sale) to the brass floor lamps (IKEA in Elizabeth) represent an unfettered decision of one and give her inordinate pleasure. The same goes for the photographs, including the pictures in the small foyer of her parents and grandmother and Bruno. Her favorite, hanging just above the couch, is of her and Axl, in the midst of their epic road trip. It was taken at six in the morning in front of a motel in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Above them the sky is just lightening, and the fifteen-year-old Axl looks so beautiful and nakedly adolescent it almost feels wrong to look at him. As Axl and Pena and Pena’s panicked parents clamor for different parts of her attention, Krekorian calls.

“Dar,” he says. “You caught something big.”

“Do I need to get tested?”

“Give me a call after you’ve seen the papers. I think we need to go in.”

When O’Hara gets off the phone and fans her Monday papers out across the table, the same photo of Pena she has in her pocket stares back from all three. O’Hara is surprised the press jumped on the case so quickly. Being Puerto Rican and working-class is usually enough to keep anyone from getting much ink. But as O’Hara reads the stories, she realizes that Pena, with her wealthy friends and NYU scholarship, has the prospects of a well-off white or Asian kid. Plus, she’s beautiful and light-skinned, and comes with an irresistible backstory

The Post and News are interested in the potential tragedy as a cautionary tale. A teenage girl stays alone at a bar in the hope of getting laid. Therefore, she has to be punished. The Times concentrates on the poignancy of Pena’s unlikely journey that began long before she got to NYU. Its story on the front page of the Metro section, above the fold, recounts how Pena grew up on public assistance in a notorious Chicago ghetto, lost her drug-addicted father to AIDS when she was eleven and got into enough trouble in her early teens to do two months in juvenile lockup. Desperate to escape the gravity of the inner city, mother and daughter rolled the dice and moved to New England. In Westfield, the mother was remarried, to a local carpenter and small-time contractor, Dominic Coppalano, and took his name, while Francesca kept the Pena of her late father. The terrified man on the phone last night was Pena’s stepfather.

In the depressed former mill town of Westfield, Massachusetts, Pena rewrote her destiny, or at least tried to. She became a competitive runner and a motivated student, won a scholarship to a prep school and two years later a full ride at NYU. According to a quote from the Assistant Provost and Director of Admissions, Pena had made so much progress as a student-athlete, the school was planning to propose her as a candidate for a Rhodes scholarship.

O’Hara has read enough of these stories to know they’re written to a curve. When catastrophe lurks, a pretty girl becomes a breathtaking beauty and a B student a future world leader. But it’s the particulars of Pena’s story that get O’Hara’s attention. O’Hara also lost her father at eleven, and although getting pregnant didn’t get her sent to juvenile detention, the special school for fuckups on East Tenth Street wasn’t much better. And then there’s the oddly parallel cross-country trips, Pena’s mother grabbing her daughter and heading east, not long before O’Hara and Axl headed west. And weren’t both mothers attempting about the same thing: to distract their impressionable kids with a change of scenery?

O’Hara should have known Callahan would call reporters, but it never occurred to her that they would bite so enthusiastically. Now that they’ve decided Pena can sell papers, it’s become the kind of case that can launch a career. But not for long. If Pena’s disappearance is upgraded to a homicide, she and Krekorian will only get to work it for seventy-two hours. Then it will be turned over to Homicide South, and for O’Hara and Krekorian, it’s back to burglaries and domestic disputes, Astrid with her stroller and fake kids and Dolores in her bathrobe.

7

Krekorian lives twenty miles up the Palisades in the Rockland County town of New City, or as he likes to call it, Jew City. He picks up O’Hara on his way in, and they get to Freemans at 2:30 p.m., several hours before it’s due to open. Although O’Hara finds the place a lot easier to take empty, the daylight isn’t kind to the decor and reveals how little money was spent to achieve its faux-antique effects. The oil-stained mirrors and dusty paintings that at night suggested the lodgings and funky heirlooms of a hard-partying disinherited count look like sidewalk trash during the day, and the animal heads on the walls look like roadkill.

“Two things you can’t avoid, Dar,” says Krekorian, nodding at a glassy-eyed elk.

“Death and taxidermy.”

“I guess someone forgot to tell Wesley Snipes.”

They sit at the bar and sip their coffee, while in the open kitchen a line chef sautées onions and a busboy pulls oversized plates from a dishwasher. Over the next hour, the waitresses and other kitchen staff trickle in, the employees getting prettier and whiter the closer they get to the customers. The maître d’ arrives, sporting a natty tweed blazer a couple of sizes too small, and soon after the weekday bartender, Billy Conway “She was too pretty not to remember,” says Conway, who actually looks like a bartender, with the thick shoulders and forearms of an ex-jock. “She and her friends had a couple spots at the bar. After they left, she moved to a table and stuck it out by herself to the bitter end.”

“When was that?” asks O’Hara.

“About three-thirty Because of Thanksgiving, we closed a little early.”

“She leave alone?”

“Yeah.”

“No one followed her out?”

“There was no one left to follow her. She was the last one here.”

“She talk to anyone beside her friends?” asks Krekorian.

“Right after her friends left, a guy came over and tried to chat her up, but got cut off at the knees.”

“You ever see him here before?”

“First time. About five feet ten, bad skin, long hair, at least fifty One of those ugly Euro guys some girls can’t get enough of.”

“Little old for this place, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but we get a couple trawlers just like him every night. Polanskis we call them.”

“Speaking of age,” says O’Hara, “all four of those girls were under twenty-one.”

“They had IDs; I looked at them myself.”

“You should have looked harder. Polanski, how’d he take getting shot down?”

“Quite well. I don’t think he was going to leave the country. Besides she did it so fast, it was like laser surgery. If I wasn’t right in front of them pulling a draft, I wouldn’t have noticed. He finished his drink, put down a generous tip and left. Paid cash, or I’d look for the receipt. Then she took her Jack and Coke and sat down at that table.”

“You remember every drink you pour four days later?” asks O’Hara.

“The reason I remember is because she and her friends had been ordering one labor intensive cocktail after another, stuff that’s a pain in the ass to make. As soon as they left, she switched to something simple. I was relieved. The other reason I remember is because it confirmed something I already thought, which is that she didn’t fit in with her friends. They seemed like brats. She didn’t.”

“Anything else stand out about the night?”

“How about a beautiful girl, the night before Thanksgiving, closing down a place alone. Isn’t that weird enough? And it wasn’t like she was drinking herself blotto. It was more like she had nowhere to go.”

O’Hara takes Conway’s cell number, and she and Krekorian walk back down the alley, where on second viewing even the graffiti looks bogus. Despite being filthy, the piece-of-crap Impala is a welcome sight, probably because it’s the only place in the Seven where they feel entirely comfortable. Krekorian starts the car and cranks the heat, and they sit in silence, giving each other the space to think. A soft rain has begun to fall, and at 4:30 Rivington is already deep in shadows, the last bit of light falling out of the sky like a boxer taking a dive.

“Something’s off,” says Krekorian. “Pena tells her girlfriends she wants to stay and check out this hot prospect. Then, the minute he comes over, she shoots him down.”

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, K, but a girl can change her mind at any time. Maybe Polanski looked even older up close. Maybe he had a creepy voice. Or worst of all, maybe he smelled bad.”

“According to Conway, she didn’t let him get three words out. At three a.m. people aren’t that fussy.”

“They are if they look like Pena.”

“Then why didn’t she leave? Why’d she stay and order another drink?”

Slushy rain slobbers all over the roof, and O’Hara tracks a fat brown droplet down the windshield. In front of them on the curb, a tall Nordic girl wearing a purple and white NYU windbreaker, maybe a member of Pena’s track team, steps up to a light pole and tapes a picture of Pena over the sticker for a band called the Revolutionary Army of California. When the student moves on, Pena’s brown eyes stare down at them from the pole. O’Hara thinks of that mangy elk head on the wall.

“I say we have another talk with your buddy McLain,” says Krekorian.

8

They decide to leave the car where it’s parked and walk to Pena’s Orchard Street apartment, O’Hara glancing at her Casio so she can time the trip and see how long it might have taken McLain to get back and forth from Freemans. At 5:03, the sun’s gone and few lights have been turned on to replace it, and when they reach Chrystie, the steel skeleton of a condo in progress called the Atelier looms behind them. To the east, all is black, as if the night had taken the old neighborhood by surprise.

They cross dark, skinny Rivington Park between a rubber-coated jungle gym and an overgrown garden, the damp air smelling of night and greasy egg rolls. Then two more dark blocks to Allen, past a Chinese nursing home and a boarded-up synagogue whose windows are shaped like the tablets Moses, the first cop, brought down from the mountain. The synagogue can’t be more than a hundred years old, but here, where a century is as good as a millennium, it’s an ancient ruin. On Orchard, lights have been strung overhead to announce the start of the Christmas shopping season. As O’Hara and Krekorian take it south, the Indian owners in the doorways whisper “very good price” and draw their attention to the racks of seventy-nine-dollar leather coats lined up on the curb. Even ten years ago this neighborhood was filled with bargains, its small narrow stores so stuffed with inexpensive merchandise it poured out onto the streets. These two blocks of Orchard between Rivington and Delancey are all that’s left, an anomaly in a neighborhood whose only purpose is to provide a backdrop of authenticity for fake dive bars, pricey restaurants and whitewashed boutiques.

Seventy-eight Orchard is halfway between Broome and Grand, on the east side of the block. Less then eight minutes after leaving their car, they step into a vestibule papered with Chinese menus and hike the old tiled staircase, the marble so worn it looks like soft dough.

The door to apartment 5B is unlocked and slightly ajar. When they knock and step inside, McLain looks up at them from a tiny couch. He has a paper cup in his hand, half a bottle of Jack between his hightops, and the room reeks of pot. The rich bouquet reminds O’Hara of the fireman, and although in weaker moments she still feels pangs for the treacherous stoner, she also misses the pot. For some unfair reason, the NYPD routinely tests for marijuana and the FDNY almost never does, so maybe she and the fireman were doomed from the beginning.

“Throwing yourself a party?” asks Krekorian.

“No,” says McLain. “Just getting wasted.”

“How long you been at it?”

“What day is it?”

“Monday, Chief.”

“A while.”

“Is there a bed in this place?”

“I’m sitting on it.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“I don’t.”

“When you did?”

McLain nods at the purple sleeping bag on the floor.

“Your old girlfriend slept on the couch, and you slept beside her on the floor? That sounds like fun. And you did that for almost a month?”

“It’s her place. She didn’t have to let me stay at all.”

“She ever bring home guys?”

“Twice.”

“She make you watch?”

“She called from the street. I took a walk.”

“An eight-hour walk?”

“Went down to Battery Park and watched the sun come up. I recommend it. It clears the head.”

“Ever occur to you that your old girlfriend was trying to tell you something? Rub your nose in it so bad, you’d take the hint and leave on your own?”

“It’s possible. But I don’t think so. She was looking forward to spending Thanksgiving together as much as me.”

“So that was the fantasy? You roast a nice turkey, and she realizes what a mistake she’s been making.”

“Basically.”

On the way up the stairs, the two agreed that Krekorian would ask the questions and O’Hara would look around, but McLain’s responses are so guileless, Krekorian can’t get any traction, and the place is so small and sparsely furnished, there’s very little for O’Hara to look at. Against the wall behind McLain is a small table with two chairs, a dresser and a column of textbooks, but except for the iPod dock on the table and a small pile of wadded-up bills on the dresser, there’s not a single personal effect. It looks like Pena moved in over the weekend, not four months ago. More troubling to O’Hara, however, is the fact that there’s no trace of McLain’s Thanksgiving feast.

“David,” asks O’Hara, “you ate the turkey yourself?”

“Too depressing. I threw it out.”

“How about the pots and pans?”

“I washed them.”

“David, I need a list of everything you bought that night at the grocery store.”

McLain slowly stands, toppling his bottle of Jack with his right sneaker, and at the same time that he reaches under the cushion of the couch and pulls out a scrunched-up menu like those all over the vestibule, he catches and rights the bottle with his left sneaker. This feat of stoned and drunken athleticism impresses even Krekorian, a former hard-partying college point guard. The menu is from Empire Szechuan on Delancey, and running down the right side is McLain’s twenty-one-item list in small precise green letters.

“Keep it,” says McLain.

“You remember the total?”

“$119.57,” says McLain, refilling his Dixie cup.

“Got a pretty good memory,” says O’Hara.

McLain gives O’Hara permission to look into the barely filled closets and drawers, but they are no more revealing than the blank walls and furniture tops. The only thing of interest, at least to Krekorian, is a Nike sneaker box that Krekorian pulls out from under the couch. When he brings it to O’Hara in the bathroom, he dramatically opens the lid on two vibrators, a dildo and other novelty items.

“What’s the big deal?” says O’Hara. “A girl’s got to have her toys. If something were to happen to me, I’d appreciate it if you’d go to my place and throw out the box under my bed.”

O’Hara has no idea why she said that. She doesn’t have a dildo under her bed or anywhere else, but Krekorian’s junior-high leering, just like the tone of some of the newspaper stories, ticks her off and provokes a knee-jerk protective response. Those stories seem particularly unfair now that it looks like the only reason Pena was stalling at the bar was that she didn’t have the heart to face her puppy dog old boyfriend. Even after they leave McLain and hump down the stairs, O’Hara stays on Krekorian’s case about it. “The way you showed me that box was classic. It’s like you’re fourteen.”

“That’s not fair, Dar. I was just surprised Nike made a butt plug is all. Who do you think they’re going to get to endorse it?”

“Callahan,” says O’Hara. “This is Sergeant Callahan from NYPD, and I’m here to tell you about a remarkable new product that changed my life.”

Outside, the lights have come on and the slushy rain has turned to light snow, and in the soft light the profiles of the narrow streets, with their tenements and synagogues, can’t look much different than they did a hundred years ago. A large pack of NYU students have walked down from the campus and poured into the neighborhood to pass out pictures of their missing classmate, and in their straightforward parkas and hiking boots, they resemble missionaries.

O’Hara and Krekorian walk back through Rivington Park. This time O’Hara notices the crude sculptures rearing up in the weeds like downtown scarecrows, and when they get back to the Impala, O’Hara sees that Freemans has spawned a retail outlet, located at the mouth of the alley, called Freemans Sporting Club. The window is dressed with the same kind of old-timey props as the bar, and in the corner a sign reads, TAILORED CLOTHING, BARBERSHOP AND SUTLERY.

What the fuck, thinks O’Hara. A condo called the Atelier. A store that sells sutlery. O’Hara has worked in the precinct for five years, but take away the projects on the perimeter and she could be in a foreign country.

9

Three hours later, just before midnight, O’Hara and Krekorian watch through the falling snow as hundreds of NYU students and faculty crowd under the redbrick overhang in front of Bobst Library. While more students stream in from all directions, those in front, closest to the glass doors, grab a lit candle off a long table and file into the southest corner of Washington Square. The column moves silently past the leafless trees and white-limned statue of Garibaldi, and when a thousand candlelit faces surround the recessed circle at the center of the stone plaza, O’Hara and Krekorian leave their car to stand at the rear of the crowd.

Unlike the Lower East Side, Washington Square doesn’t seem foreign to O’Hara at all. As high school freshmen, O’Hara and her best friend Leslie Meehan would often skip school and catch a train into big bad Manhattan. A sizable chunk of those happy truant days was idled away in this very park, drinking Bud out of paper bags and making out with older boys with sideburns and brave smiles. The first time she let a boy slip a hand between her legs was in the grass at the edge of the square, although when she thought back on it, it was probably she who took his hand and guided it there. Sex is the one realm in which she felt at ease from the very beginning, maybe because with your clothes off, differences in class and income and education seemed less important and the playing field almost level. O’Hara isn’t so naive anymore. She realizes now that death is the only leveler, and although some of these kids will undoubtedly get laid post vigil, it’s the prospect of death, not sex, that’s brought them into the park tonight.

At the center of the circle are five stone mounds often commandeered by tattooed jugglers, fire eaters and street comedians. When the crowd settles, some twenty students separate themselves from the pack, divide into groups of three and four, and climb onto the elevated platforms. Then a female student, small and blond, wearing a camel hair coat, steps out from the crowd to face them. When she throws her arms into the air, twenty voices rise into the snow-filled night, and as O’Hara follows them upward, she looks north over the scaled-down Arc de Triomphe and elegant town houses just north of the park to the office towers of Midtown, where these same kids will soon be fighting hand to hand, cubicle to cubicle. In the middle of the dirge, which O’Hara is pretty sure is in Latin, her cell goes off.

“Darlene,” says George Loomis, another detective in the Seven, “some skell in East River Park just stumbled on a body by the tennis courts. Me and Navarro are on our way over, but thought you’d want to know. The description sounds a lot like your girl.”

10

Krekorian does a U-turn on LaGuardia, and with his siren pushing aside the sparse traffic, runs reds across town. Just short of the river, he takes the access road under the FDR Drive into the park and turns toward the pulsing lights in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge. East River Park is a narrow strip of public recreational space squeezed between the highway and the river that no one at tonight’s vigil is likely to have set foot in, not because it’s a wretched place, but because the highway cuts it off from the city. During the day, families from the projects take the walkways that cross over the highway into the park, but at night, it’s a no-man’s-land. If you’re looking for a spot to dump a body, you could do a lot worse.

Krekorian drives south past the soccer fields and the baseball diamonds, and pulls in behind the squad car parked between the tennis courts and an overgrown bathroom. Whitewashed by a couple of inches of fresh snow, the park looks as good as it ever will, but the snow can’t do much for the FDR over their shoulder or the black undercarriage of the bridge or the warehouses that form the Williamsburg skyline across the river. On the other side of the squad car, blocked in by a van from Crime Scene, is a piece of crap Impala as filthy as theirs, and standing beside it are Steve Navarro, George Loomis and Russ Dineen.

Navarro and Loomis, who wear dark wool topcoats pulled off the same oversize discount rack, are fellow Seventh Precinct detectives who work the shift opposite O’Hara and Krekorian, and because this part of the park, the approximate latitude of Delancey Street, falls in the Seven, they got the call. The third, much smaller man, an unlit Camel bobbing precariously from the corner of his mouth, and wearing a leather jacket with a Grim Reaper patch sewn on the shoulder, is a medical legal inspector named Russ Dineen. Over the summer O’Hara and MLI Dineen worked on the suicide of a young female Indian intern. Before anyone bothered to pick up the phone, the body had been facedown in a tub for days, and thanks to Dineen, the straightforward but unforgettable phrase “Indian people soup” was added to O’Hara’s lexicon.

Crime Scene has taped off a large rectangle around the bathroom, using the tennis court fence for one side. O’Hara wants nothing more than to duck under the yellow tape and see for herself if it’s Pena, but etiquette requires that she first exchange pleasantries with the men who got here before her.

“Pretty horrendous,” says Loomis, an even-keeled big guy not prone to exaggeration. “How long she been here, Russ?” asks O’Hara.

“It’s been cold,” says Dineen, and having squeezed whatever distraction he can from an unlit cigarette, finally cups his hands around it and fires it up. “Decomp is nothing like the summer, Dar. Based on color, smell, maggot activity and everything else, I’d say less than a week, but not much.”

“That works,” says Krekorian. “Pena hasn’t been seen since early Thursday morning.”

O’Hara takes out a copy of the picture on lampposts and doors all over the LES. “She look like this?”

“This girl doesn’t look like anything, Dar,” says Navarro.

“Whoever killed her had some fun first,” says Dineen. “Rape probably. Torture definitely. She’s carved up like a totem pole.”

“Who found her?”

Navarro nods at the backseat of the squad car, where a man in rags is having a heated conversation with himself. “The plumbing in the bathroom hasn’t worked for years, but sometimes the skells go in to get out of the weather.”

“He goes by Pythagoras,” says Loomis. “Last known address, the planet Nebulon. We’d talk to him but didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Fellas, I got to take a look,” says O’Hara. “Me and K. been working this all day.”

Whatever excitement O’Hara feels at the prospect of catching her first homicide turns into something stronger and murkier as she and Krekorian stoop under the yellow tape and inch into the bathroom. The body of a naked girl, encased in a pair of clear plastic shower curtains, lies on its side under the urinals. The two techs from Crime Scene, who stare at them unpleasantly from where they are stringing lights, wear masks, but the smell—equal parts excrement, decomposition and brand-new plastic—is not as foul as O’Hara had braced for. Much worse is the way the victim’s final anguish is sealed and shrink-wrapped in bloodstained plastic. Her terribly constricted body is trapped exactly as the murderer left her, with her wrists bound behind her back and her legs bent slightly backward, tied at the ankles, her mouth sealed with tape, and her eyes wide open, as if still disbelieving what is being done to her. O’Hara feels as if she’s watching the crime itself, not the result.

As O’Hara strains to take in the corpse in near darkness, the generator surges and the bathroom is flooded with light. Once her eyes adjust, she notices the missing tips from several toes chewed off by rats and at the other open end of the plastic tube, the missing tufts of short black hair. She now sees what Dineen meant by the totem pole. Livid circles cover the front of the victim’s body from ankles to shoulder blades. Before the lights went on, O’Hara thought they were bruises, the product of a terrible beating. Now she sees that they are gouges, some an inch deep. And although, as Navarro said, the victim has been far too brutalized to resemble a snapshot taken in better times, and in the harsh light her skin is ghostly pale, the victim’s height, weight, age and eye color all fit the description of the missing girl. O’Hara has no doubt she is looking at the body of Francesca Pena.

Technicians work the crime scene for hours, taking countless measurements and photographs. A team from Forensics dusts the bathroom door for prints, and an hour later a second team unscrews the door from its hinges and carts the whole thing away. O’Hara, Krekorian, Loomis and Navarro spend much of the night in the Real Time Crime Van. This recent addition to the NYPD motor pool is filled with hundreds of thousands of dollars of nearly useless customized electronics and computers, but at least the coffeemaker works. At 3:15 a.m. Navarro snorts derisively at the sight of a Jeep Wagoneer pulling up to the crime scene, and the four detectives try not to laugh as their sergeant, Mike Callahan, walks toward the van in cowboy boots and a brand-new leather bomber jacket.

“What are you two doing here?” he asks O’Hara and Krekorian, although the question would be better asked of him. “Busman’s holiday?”

“O’Hara caught this as a missing person on Friday,” says Krekorian defensively. “We’ve been working it as a potential homicide since Sunday.”

“I guess you saw how the papers are running with it, so you know it’s big.”

Callahan, who made sergeant by scoring well on a test rather than distinguishing himself on the streets and augments his income by selling cop memorabilia out of his basement over the Internet, is the kind of house mouse no working detective has much use for, and O’Hara keeps her eyes moving in the hope it will make her disdain harder to read. She needn’t have worried, because her sergeant’s attention has already shifted to the black official-looking SUV that just drove up, and when Deputy Police Commissioner Mark Van de Meer steps out, the sergeant is gone without a word, ditching his detectives like four losers at a cocktail party.

“So long, Sarge,” says Loomis under his breath. “It’s been real.”

Just before 4:00 a.m. TV vans from five networks pull up to the scene together. They’ve obviously received the same call from downtown, because five minutes later, the police commissioner arrives to do a thirty-second remote. O’Hara knows for certain the case is top priority when a third banged-up Impala arrives and Detective Patrick Lowry extricates himself from the passenger seat. Six foot five and nearly four hundred pounds, Lowry resides ambiguously in that gray area between fat and big, playing it either way as the situation dictates, and his eyesight has deteriorated so badly in the last ten years, he can’t drive. And while both his epic size and his myopia have stoked the legend, as well as the fact that he was drafted out of Hofstra by the Philadelphia Eagles, there’s no denying his résumé. Lowry made it to Homicide by twenty-eight and made grade at thirty, and every major homicide in Manhattan in the last twenty years has crossed his desk. Without saying a word to anyone, Lowry, with the help of his partner-chauffeur Frank Grimes, somehow gets himself under the yellow tape and disappears into the bathroom.

11

Across the river, a milky dawn puddles up over Brooklyn and Queens as Dineen and his ghouls load Pena into a van, and a grubby phalanx of Impalas follows it out of the park. Twenty minutes later, at the office of the medical examiner, O’Hara and Krekorian jockey for sight lines with Lowry and Grimes and two other homicide detectives. In front of them on a steel gurney, Pena, still bound and encased in plastic, lies on her side, exactly as she has since Thanksgiving morning. When O’Hara arrived she saw for the first time that the back of the victim is also covered with gouges.

Conducting the survey of Pena’s multiple wounds is a tall skinny thirty-two-year-old ME, Sam Lebowitz. As he circles the gurney, trailed by a forensic photographer, he jots notes on a long yellow pad, then reads them aloud to the detectives. “Lacerations and trauma on the back and top of the skull,” he says, points at them with his pen, then backs up out of the photographer’s viewfinder. “The skull does not appear to be fractured.” Not to disturb a nearby colleague, who is performing an unattended autopsy of a middle-aged black man, Lebowitz makes his observations in a quiet conversational voice.

“There is extensive evidence of torture…The victim has been repeatedly and systematically gouged, cut and burned, front and back, from ankles to shoulders…blunt trauma around vagina, anus and inner thighs suggests rape…or multiple rapes.”

After Pena has been examined and photographed on both sides in the condition in which she was found, Lebowitz, using long thin surgical scissors, cuts away the bloody shower curtains. When he peels the silver packing tape off her lips and removes the panties that had been stuffed into her mouth, O’Hara can see the gap between Pena’s two front teeth that McLain couldn’t stop himself from pointing out in his wallet snapshot that first night in the station house. Finally Lebowitz severs the plastic ties that bind Pena’s wrists and ankles. It’s about time, thinks O’Hara. But by now rigor mortis constricts her body instead, and untethering her limbs does nothing to release them.

“The shower curtains are an inexpensive common style and brand-new,” says Lebowitz. “I’m not holding out much hope for them.” He slips the four sections of shower curtain, along with the ties, tape and panties, into a large plastic evidence bag and returns to Pena for a second, less obstructed, tour.

“Closer examination of the head shows trauma was induced by a single blow from a small hard round object and confirms the lack of skull fracture. If the assailant intended to torture the victim, the limited damage of the blow may have been intentional…the body is covered front and back with approximately sixty gouges made with a crude serrated blade…gouges range widely in size, shape and depth…body has also been repeatedly burned with a cigarette lighter and sliced with a second knife, although the number of slicing cuts and burns is significantly smaller than the gouges…the gouging alone would have taken several hours and caused considerable loss of blood, but not necessarily a fatal one, and although the victim has been subjected to overwhelming homicidal violence, there is no clear single cause of death…The lividity, or bruising, suggests the victim did not bleed to death…I think she was tortured until her heart stopped.”

O’Hara likes the sound of the city in Lebowitz’s shy voice and appreciates the way his mind and body work in sync—his cautious understated observations matched by the precise movements of his long fingers and hands. And unlike the ME at O’Hara’s only other autopsy, it’s not a performance. Lebowitz doesn’t seem to be playing himself in an episode of CSI.

“There are abrasions and bruising to the victim’s right wrist and abrasions to the fingertips and heel of the left hand. They could indicate the victim was dragged by her feet over pavement or other abrasive surface.”

Having completed a second pass of the body, Lebowitz takes out a rape kit and does bucol swabs of Pena’s vagina, anus and mouth, again noting the evidence of trauma to all three. He notices something caught in Pena’s teeth and examines it with a magnifying glass. “Chocolate,” he says, and scrapes it into another plastic envelope.

Lebowitz then takes a steel comb from the rape kit and runs it through Pena’s pubic hair, which strikes O’Hara as longer and fuller than the current fashion. Lebowitz packs the comb in another plastic bag, then scrapes and cuts Pena’s fingernails, hoping that like the pubic hair and packing tape, they may have snared some small part of her attacker. Having packed them away too, he points out the evidence of tearing in Pena’s anus and vagina and the bruising in her throat.

To some degree, all this is preamble. The autopsy itself, which consists of the surgical removal and weighing of Pena’s brain, heart, liver and other organs, is yet to begin. When Lebowitz makes a long incision just below the hairline on Pena’s forehead and with a brisk tug peels back her scalp, all six detectives, from O’Hara to the most hardened homicide guys, have seen enough and head for the exit.

In the waiting area outside, a shattered couple occupy one corner. Although they are nothing like what she pictured, O’Hara knows they must be Pena’s parents. Both are in their late thirties. The mother is tall and blond and looks eastern European, the stepfather compact and swarthy. His thick workingman’s hands lie palm-up at his sides. Only O’Hara stops. She introduces herself as the detective who spoke to them on the phone a couple of nights before.

“I have a son about the same age,” she says, “but I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I promise you, we’re going to find the person who did this.”

Neither parent says a word.

12

From the ME’s office, Lowry and Grimes proceed directly to the Seven, where Lowry commandeers the table in Callahan’s office and calls in O’Hara and Krekorian.

“I hear you two have been on this for a couple days,” he says. “What you got for me?”

“I’ll let O’Hara tell you,” says Krekorian. “She caught it as a missing person Friday night.”

“I don’t give a fuck who caught it. I just need what you got. If anything.”

Lovely to meet you too, thinks O’Hara as she flips open her notebook. O’Hara had been under the impression that for seventy-two hours the case belonged to her and Krekorian, but clearly that’s not how it works when the media get this involved and a homicide gets jumped to the front of the line.

“The victim was last seen at three-thirty Thanksgiving morning,” says O’Hara, reading from her notes, “walking alone out of a bar on Rivington between Bowery and Chrystie. A place called Freemans.”

“They got bars on that godforsaken block now?” asks Lowry

“Three,” says O’Hara, “unless they opened another this morning. Not to mention a store that sells something called ‘sutlery’.”

“Military provisions,” says Lowry. “Sutlery are military provisions. Who has her leaving that bar?”

“The bartender, Billy Conway,” says O’Hara, pissed off at herself for bringing up sutlery and doubly pissed off that Lowry knew what it was. “Conway poured Pena and her girls trendy cocktails for four hours. At two-thirty, her friends pack it in, and Pena, who apparently was interested in a guy, stays. The hookup, as far as we know, doesn’t happen, but she stays for another hour and essentially closes the place alone.”

“So at three-thirty, our victim staggers alone onto the darkest block in lower Manhattan? Brilliant.”

“Except for the staggering part. Conway says she wasn’t visibly drunk.”

“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”

“So does a busboy we spoke to. Conway says that after her friends left, she switched from the fancy cocktails to a Jack and Coke and nursed it for an hour.”

“Is that how you sober up, Red, with Jack and Coke?”

“I’ve done dumber things,” says O’Hara, and feels a tap on her right foot from Krekorian, who is getting increasingly worried about the competitive edge to O’Hara’s responses. The nudge takes O’Hara back six months to a night she and Krekorian spent at a beautiful old bar on East Eighteenth Street. The place is called Old Town, but because of the stained glass in the windows, the high ceilings and the cool wooden booths that feel like pews, they’ve renamed it the Church of the Holy Spirits. In the spring they often repaired there after night shifts, particularly lousy ones. On one of those nights, the foul residue from the shift led to round after round, and after three or four Jamesons too many, Krekorian directly violated their unwritten rule not to tell each other anything about themselves they didn’t want to hear. “The problem with you, Dar,” he said, “is you got a chip on your shoulder the size of an Armenian girl’s ass.” Krekorian wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t know. The attitude to which he referred had been there as long as her memory of herself, taking root when she was three or four at the latest, and had only gotten bigger over time. Nevertheless she was stunned, because to some degree everything else about her personality had been shaped in an effort to conceal it.

“Me too,” says Lowry, “but I weigh three hundred and sixty, on a good day, and not even my mother thinks I’m cute.”

That would explain it, thinks O’Hara, and Lowry flashes such a hard look, she wonders if she said it out loud.

“Anything else?” asks Lowry, still staring hard.

“After her friends leave, a guy or maybe the guy comes over and tries to chat her up, and according to Conway, she gently shoots him down. Again according to Conway, there’s no drama, and the guy leaves an hour before she does, unfortunately after paying in cash.”

“How about the ex-boyfriend who reported Pena missing?”

“David McLain,” says O’Hara, “I don’t think so.”

“Oh really,” says Lowry. O’Hara is not sure if she hears more sarcasm or condescension. Condescension, probably.

“Torturing someone for hours, then walking into the station and filing a report seems like a stretch for a nineteen-year-old slacker from Westfield, Mass., who’d been in the city three weeks. Me and Krekorian talked to him again last night before Pena was found. The kid’s a mess, but he’s not going anywhere. If he killed her, I don’t think he’d stick around.”

“That’s all you got for me in two days?”

O’Hara makes a show of slowly thumbing through her notes one more time, and although they contain several more items worth mentioning, including Conway’s observation about the unlikelihood of a beauty like Pena closing a bar alone, and K.’s related question about why she would stay even after blowing off the guy, O’Hara elects not to share them, telling herself a certified legend like Lowry would have picked up on such obvious irregularities himself.

“That’s it,” says O’Hara, closing her notebook.

“Then I need two things,” says Lowry. “Her so-called friends in the precinct and the phone records for her last forty-eight hours.”

An hour later, while O’Hara is still waiting on return calls from Chestnut and company, Krekorian brings over a printout from T-Mobile, and O’Hara can tell by the way he drops it on her desk, he thinks there’s something in it.

“Between Wednesday night and yesterday afternoon, Pena got eleven calls—two from her mother, four from her father, and five from McLain.”

“It’s her stepfather,” says O’Hara.

“Stepfather,” says Krekorian, “whatever. The last incoming call she picked up was at eight-thirty p.m. Wednesday night from Chestnut,” he says. “That checks with what you got from McLain about Pena meeting her friends at eight-thirty In total, she got seven calls her last two days—two from McLain, two from Chestnut, one each from Case, Singh and her parents. Over the same period, there are five outgoing calls—one each to Chestnut, Singh, and Case and two to McLain.”

“In other words,” says O’Hara, “no calls to or from anyone we don’t already know about.”

“Yeah, but only making five calls in two days? For a nineteen-year-old girl? That’s got to be a record.”

“You read the stories, K. Practice, studying, volunteer work. Pena had a lot on her plate.”

A little after four, Chestnut, Singh and Case arrive together, each chaperoned by a middle-aged male attorney. O’Hara clears the lunch table of debris, pulls up a couple extra chairs and is in the midst of thanking the debutantes for coming, when Lowry steps up to the table with his own chair and cuts her off.

“Was Pena having trouble with anyone?” he asks. “A student, a teacher?”

“No” says Chestnut, “everyone adored Francesca.”

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