Alafair Burke: Dead Connection

Then a strange thing happened. She fell in love – not with a man, but with New York City. Young people, living beyond their means in cramped apartments, walking to the corner deli for takeout – tiny specks moving intently, carving out their own patterns among the chaos. Life in the city was exciting and unpredictable, exactly the opposite of the endless enclaves of ranch homes she’d known as a child. She was turned down for every paralegal job she applied for, but she learned not to care. Waiting tables paid more anyway, at least on the good nights.

Then a stranger thing happened. As is inevitable in any relationship, Ellie started to notice the darker side of the city she loved. Beneath the tall buildings, upscale boutiques, and bright lights lived signs of a seedier and more harsh New York. A woman with fading bruises, pausing discreetly at the garbage can outside of the bakery, eyeing the half-eaten croissant lying just under that discarded cigarette butt. A homeless man tucking himself more tightly beneath urine-soaked cardboard boxes, hoping to avoid a roust to the shelters that would not permit his one and only possession – the matted beagle snuggled into the crook of his knees. Too many men waiting at the Port Authority for the young girls who arrive from faraway towns with big dreams but nowhere to sleep.

Ellie tried to look away – to ignore the signs like everyone else. But as she strived for blissful ignorance, the problems only grew more glaring. She realized that only one job would allow her to love this city the way she wanted to: She could be the person who stopped to help instead of looking away. It took three years of part-time classes at John Jay, but she finally became a cop. Then after four years of hard work, she made detective. One serious boyfriend had come and gone along the way, but she still had New York. And she still had her job.

Now that job was taking her to the Thirteenth Precinct, home of the Manhattan South Homicide Task Force, a boxy six-story building on East Twenty-first Street between Second and Third avenues. At the front desk she asked one of a handful of uniformed officers for Flann McIlroy, and he escorted her to the task force offices on the third floor.

“Fourth desk back, on the right,” the officer instructed, pointing across a room crammed with desks, shelves of notebooks, and men. The male-to-female ratio among the detectives here was even higher than what she was used to at Midtown North.

Walking the gauntlet. That’s how it felt. Eyes intentionally followed Ellie and her half-filled brown cardboard box. The eyes’ owners exchanged knowing smiles. Each whisper grew bolder than the last. That must be McIl-Mulder’s Date Bait . Another said something about Scully being a blond. And having a box. A big box.

Ellie pretended not to hear their remarks or notice their lingering glances. In a way, she appreciated them – or at least what they represented. Offensive jokes, lewd gestures, and the open resentment of outsiders often defined the working atmosphere of cops – at least for those who were not yet a part of it. But the veneer served an important purpose. Reinforced daily in small ways such as these, it protected the bonds that lay beneath the thin but often impenetrable cover.

On this specific occasion, the jabs were aimed at her, and she understood why. She’d suffer through until the comments had served their purpose – a purpose that would ultimately benefit her, once these men came to realize, as others had before, that Ellie was no creampuff.

At the fourth desk back on the right sat a man Ellie thought she recognized from various departmental press conferences. He didn’t fit Ellie’s stereotype of a pseudocelebrity law enforcement stud. The NYPD had bred its fair share, and they usually fell into one of two molds – the good-looking buff Italian, or the good-looking buff Irishman. Different coloring, distinguishable jawlines, but the looks were always off the charts. Flann McIlroy, by contrast, resembled an older version of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. He was not unattractive, but he had the look of a child star, decades later – in his forties, but forever destined to resemble a fourteen-year-old redhead with a gap in his teeth.

“Are you Detective McIlroy?”

“Does Keith Richards pick coconuts?” McIlroy’s eyes remained on the report he was reading.

“I think the surgeons might’ve removed that impulse while they were fixing the rest of his brain.”

“Ah, very nice. A woman who keeps up with her pop culture.” McIlroy rose from his chair and offered a thick hand. “You must be Ellie Hatcher.”

Ellie shifted her cardboard box for a handshake, and McIlroy quickly relieved her of the parcel, setting it on his desk. In a framed photograph that he pushed aside, Ellie recognized the men on either side of Flann McIlroy as Rudy Giuliani and Bill Bratton.

“That’s me,” Ellie said, “reporting to duty. Thank you for bringing me over.”

“You make an excellent first impression. Most of my colleagues don’t get my rhetorical questions.”

“Aging rock stars, I get. Throw out any allusions to French literature, and we might have some problems.”

“You must be wondering why you’re here.” McIlroy had a gleam in his eye.

“I go where I’m told,” Ellie said matter-of-factly.

“I got permission from the assistant chief to work a single case exclusively.”

Ellie did her best to conceal her surprise. Lieutenant Jenkins said McIlroy had suck with the brass, but the assistant chief was extremely brassy – he ran the entire Manhattan detective borough.

“My lieutenant’s not particularly happy about it, so the freedom may not last. He’s already threatened to pull the plug tomorrow if it doesn’t go anywhere, but he’s mindful of the politics. If nothing breaks – the case, you, me – we all turn back to pumpkins. So let’s just say you better not unpack this box quite yet.”

“Not a problem. Desks are overrated anyway.” Ellie tried to sound like she was taking it all in stride.

“Unless you’ve got a hearing problem, you probably noticed some comments as you walked in.”

McIlroy hadn’t bothered to lower his voice. Nearby detectives shifted their eyes back to their work.

“No hearing problem, sir,” Ellie said.

“And none of this ‘sir’ stuff. Call me Flann.”

“And call me Ellie. Or my friends just call me Date Bait.” She threw a look to the younger detective at the next desk, and he laughed aloud and smiled. One down, the rest of the room to go , Ellie thought.

“Let’s talk while we drive,” Flann said. “I want you to see something.”

“FRIDAY NIGHT, AROUND three in the morning, two men found a woman’s body in an alley off of Avenue C.” McIlroy flipped down the sun visor on the department-issued Crown Vic as he hung a left onto Third Avenue, followed by another quick left onto Twentieth Street to take them to the far East Side. “The girl’s name was Amy Davis. She lived in the adjacent building. We’ve already determined she was walking home from a date when the bad guy grabbed her. Strangled.”

He pushed a manila folder across the seat toward Ellie. She opened it and removed an eight-by-ten photograph. Amy Davis lay on a metal slab. A white sheet was pulled up to her shoulders, but the rest of the picture told the story. Her face was scarlet. Dark contusions discolored her neck and throat, her eyes protruded from their sockets, and her swollen tongue peeked out from encrusted lips. Ellie could tell from the many marks between Amy’s jaw and clavicle that the killer had used his hands. She had definitely struggled.

“How do you know the date didn’t walk her home and do all of this himself?”

“We called his cell right after we found this in the vic’s coat pocket.” McIlroy handed Ellie two sheets of folded white paper from his own jacket. “That’s a photocopy, obviously.”