Nancy Grace - The Eleventh Victim

Climbing up on the kitchen stool, she removed the sharp-pronged lifter from the mosaic ceiling fixture where it spent the night.

The sweatshirt was several sizes too large and hung loosely on her, leaving plenty of room. Wrapping it gingerly in a bath towel, she gently turned the deadly tines away from her stomach as she slipped the weapon into the pouch in front of her sweatshirt. Taking one last look around the apartment, she left, locking the door behind her.

It was 6:38 a.m.

The elevator descended from the floor just above her. When the doors slid open, there stood a man in running attire like herself, but with a golden retriever attached to a leash. He stood in the far corner. Not recognizing him, she almost backed off the elevator, but realizing that would seem unusual and, more important, memorable, if asked by police, she stepped on as normal. She kept her eyes down, focused on the dog.

The security cam in the upper corner bored into her.

She shifted to the corner and glanced over. He was staring straight into her face.

“Out for a run?” he asked.

Red flag. He was engaging in unsolicited conversation. Her antennae shot up immediately. A normal New Yorker would never do that.

She nodded politely.

“Me too,” he responded, trying to engage her in conversation.

The guy was standing there stiffly, just like a cop would. And his shoes. He said he was going running, but his shoes were tennis shoes, not running shoes. His jacket was extremely lightweight, not for outdoor winter running. Were those slacks under his running pants? She couldn’t tell… This was bad.

The bell dinged. Lobby. She was out like a shot, as fast as she could walk without breaking into a full-blown sprint right there across the lobby floor.

It was empty but for the doorman, who called out after her, “Have a good run, Hailey!” Ricky blurted it out after her just as she darted past him and his morning newspaper.

Great…if the elevator guy hadn’t been sure before, now he definitely knew it was her.

She might have one thing on him though…she could run.

She didn’t bother to answer, just blew out the door. The cool air off the East River hit her and she ran north for all she was worth.

Cutting the corner against a red light, she glanced back over her left shoulder. She heard wild yelping and saw the elevator guy, fifty feet behind her now, trying to jog, but his retriever had tangled immediately in a knot of other leashes-a dog walker coming his way with an even dozen dogs, all shapes and sizes.

One block north, she looked back: no sign of him.

It was 6:43 a.m.

She cut left, heading west up the incline. She heard barking in the distance behind her…at just the right spot, she darted left into a parking garage and circled back south toward her own apartment, cutting through alleys and garages until she made it back just two doors from her own building’s entrance. She headed north, and in the distance, she could see him…the elevator guy. He looked to be getting farther and farther away with every step.

She had four city blocks on him and turned left, heading west crosstown. Two more blocks and two more avenues, and she was right where she wanted to be.

Ducking into the Century Diner, she immediately saw that there was a wait. She made her way politely through the crowd made up of the early business crew, all of them headed to offices around the city. In an hour, they’d be replaced by the more laid-back bunch: designers, sales, elderly retirees still on work schedules. Then would come the leisure brunch crowd, followed by moms with their babies in strollers.

Not a single suited male looked up from the business sections. They barely noticed her graze past.

She walked straight to the single bathroom positioned just across a narrow hallway from the diner’s kitchen. The kitchen was a madhouse, already in the throes of a hot, sweaty, frenzied morning rush.

The tiny bathroom was empty. She locked the door at the knob and with a latch, and looked at her little plastic Casio.

It was 6:53 a.m.

The bathroom was hot, overly heated by its next-door neighbor, the kitchen. Putting the lid down on the commode, she stepped on top and reached up to remove one of the perforated ceiling blocks above her. Staring up, she realized there was no way to hoist herself up. She placed the square back into position and looked around the tiny bathroom. There had to be a way. This was her only plan…if she could just get up there…

Only one other choice. She stepped up off the commode and over onto the sink, a full foot higher up. Standing on its two outer edges, she reached up again, lifting away a second block.

Pay dirt.

Using all her upper body strength, she pulled herself up on the two-by-four over the door beside the sink. Her foot kicked loudly against the door when she used it instinctively for leverage and she froze, waiting for a reaction from the other side.

Not a sound.

She hoisted herself through the opening and gently placed the square back where it belonged. She was in the pitch dark now and began to crawl through the dark, clammy ceiling space. It was musty and filthy, obviously undisturbed for years, if not decades.

Peering down through tiny holes in the ceiling squares as she crawled, she could see there was no one in the tiny hall waiting for the bathroom…yet. But she’d have to hurry.

She kept moving forward. She only had about fifteen more feet to go. She could see through the tiny specked holes in the ceiling squares that now she was over the kitchen. But the kitchen wasn’t good enough.

She needed the sinks…deep, steel industrial sinks, by this time, inches deep in gray soapy water and dirty dishes.

Pressing her eye to a hole in the ceiling tile, she spotted it on the far wall.

On her stomach, she army-crawled across the filth, making her way over and looking down through another tiny hole, just in time to see a short, thin busboy dump a stack of gooey egg dishes into the sink. She was right. The sink was half-full of dishes covered in water, iced with liquid soap bubbles.

Her right hand was outstretched above her. The Casio glowed in the dark.

It was 7:03 a.m.

Hailey lay there on her stomach, barely breathing. She slid the square over just a few inches, and then reached down with her right hand and gently, gently, pulled the lifter, sharp tongs facing away, out from under her shirt. Unwrapping the towel, she held the lifter by its base, the towel still wrapped around the handle.

Careful…fingerprints.

She watched as the busboy stood there running more hot water into the soapy goo. When it reached almost to the top, he wrenched the hot water off and turned away. In that split second, Hailey moved the ceiling square six inches further to the right and dropped the lifter directly into the sink, eight feet below.

It hit the top plate underwater and slid left to the bottom of the sink.

Instantly moving the square back into place and almost afraid to look, she forced herself to peer through another pinpoint speck hole. To her amazement, nothing had changed. The kitchen continued on and the busboy returned almost immediately with another load of plates for the sink

Still on her stomach, Hailey turned back on the night-glow feature of her watch.

It was 7:10 a.m.

Backtracking, she crawled as fast as she could toward the bathroom, just in time to hear the first of a stiletto of sharp knocks on the bathroom door.

Moving the bathroom ceiling square, she lowered herself to the sink, returned the square, hit the floor, and opened the door.

Would the elevator man be there with a pair of handcuffs?

She looked straight into the prunish face of a Wall Streeter, who brushed by her without a word, as if somehow she had insulted him by just being there.