Lisa Unger - Die For You

“Thanks, Dr. Phil.” He knew she was right. He was a dog with a bone; he just couldn’t stop worrying it, looking for that last bit of marrow.

Apparently satisfied that she’d made her point, she went back to business. “I put the information we had on Marcus Raine-date of birth, Social Security number-into NCIC and Vi-CAP. I’m waiting to see what comes back.”

“The wife seems convinced that he’s a victim in this. She’s seriously rattled by that phone call, thinks it was him screaming.”

“What do we believe?” she asked, really just thinking aloud.

“Could go either way. We need to dig deeper.”

THEY PULLED UP to Isabel Raine’s building and parked in the half-circle drive. The doorman was expecting them, gave them a key and told them to take the elevator to the ninth floor. Crowe was a little surprised by the lack of questions, but the doorman was as stoic and grim-faced as a gargoyle, his silver hair slicked back so perfectly it looked shellacked. He apparently had his orders from Isabel Raine and wasn’t interested in anything further. Crowe could see he was an old-school New York City doorman, served the tenants of the building, kept his mouth shut except for niceties, and collected his big Christmas tips.

“When was the last time you saw Marcus Raine?” Crowe asked him, after writing down his name, telephone number, and address. Charlie Shane lived up in Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood in Manhattan, almost the Bronx.

“Yesterday morning, just after nine,” Shane answered immediately. “He was heading off to work, I assumed. His departure was only notable because it was later than usual. Generally, he’s gone by seven. Mrs. Raine works from home and comes and goes during the day unpredictably.” Something about the way he leaned on that last word told Grady that, in Shane’s world, unpredictability was not a good thing.

Crowe was about to ask about Shane’s schedule but the doorman anticipated the question. “I work Monday through Saturday, from six A.M. to six P.M., sometimes later. I’ve worked in this building for twenty-five years.”

Grady looked at his watch. “Working late tonight?” he asked. It was going on seven o’clock.

“The night-shift doorman, Timothy Teaford, hasn’t arrived,” said Shane. “I can’t leave until he does.”

“He call?”

“No.”

“Unusual behavior?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Can I get the name and address of this guy?”

“There are two other part-time doormen who take the evening shifts and rotate the Sunday shifts. But naturally, they don’t have the same relationship with the tenants and the building that I do.”

“Of course not,” Crowe said gravely. “I’ll still need their names and contact information.”

“Of course, sir.”

Crowe saw Breslow looking around at the lobby that opened into a courtyard with a tall stone fountain turned off for the winter. She had the class not to gawk or comment, but he could tell she was impressed. He’d seen plenty of lobbies like this one-the high ceilings, the marble floors, the large pieces of art, the plush furniture. He was Bay Ridge born and raised, working class to the bone, but had attended Regis High School in Manhattan. Regis had competitive admissions, tuition free to those who got in, so the socioeconomic structure was more diverse than at other area prep schools. But plenty of his friends and classmates were the children of the very wealthy, were now the very wealthy themselves-doctors, lawyers, writers, newscasters. He could be living like they were. But Grady had always wanted to be a cop like his father.

After Regis, he attended New York University, though he’d been accepted at Princeton, Georgetown, and Cornell. He just didn’t understand spending all that money. Even with the partial scholarships he’d been offered at those schools, the tuition seemed staggering. His parents would have helped, but it would have left nothing for his sisters. NYU gave him a free ride. He joined the NYPD as soon as he graduated.

He had the sense that his family was disappointed. They’d expected something more. His father was the least pleased of all. “All that hard work you put in,” he lamented. “You could have gone to public, skipped college altogether, if all you wanted out of your life was to chase skells.” Like most blue-collar guys, his father had a strict and simple formula for determining success: income minus effort. Police work was hard and dangerous and you’d never get rich as an honest cop. It was bad math. You ended up giving more than you got. But the Jesuits didn’t measure success that way; neither did Grady.

Because of his education, because of a year doing the most dangerous work on a South Bronx buy-and-bust detail, and because of one flashy arrest, he got his gold shield fast. Five years on the job and he was a homicide detective. Too fast for some of the guys with more years on. Because of this, Grady wasn’t as popular as his old man had been. “Fuck them,” his dad advised. “They’re crabs in a barrel, people like that.”

After Shane gave them the names and contact information of the other doormen, Grady and Breslow took the elevator up to the ninth floor and walked down the long hallway over plush carpet.

“I think we’re in the wrong line of work,” Jez said, running a finger along the wall.

“No doubt about it,” Grady answered, just to be sociable. He appreciated nice things-good clothes, upscale restaurants-but he was unimpressed by opulence. He knocked heavily on the door, modulated his voice to be deeper than it normally was.

“NYPD. Open up, please.” He knocked again hard for emphasis.

They waited a full thirty seconds, knocked one more time, then Grady unlocked the door and pushed it open. He could see from where they stood that a vase lay shattered in the entrance hallway.

They moved to either side of the door, drew their weapons, and stepped carefully inside. They went through the apartment, room by room, checking closets, making sure the place was empty. When they were sure it was, they holstered their weapons. Jesamyn called for uniforms and a crime-scene team.

The stunning duplex with its hardwood floors and high ceilings, gleaming gourmet kitchen, second-floor master bedroom suite, had been trashed. Furniture was slashed, drapes shredded, shelves dumped, pictures shattered. Grady could see that two computer CPUs-one in the upstairs office off the bedroom and the other at a desk in the kitchen downstairs-were gone, monitors left with cords cut, just like at Razor Tech. A file cabinet hidden inside a closet stood completely empty, drawers gaping like mouths. In the master bathroom, someone had dumped a bottle of red nail polish over a framed black-and-white photo of Isabel Raine walking on the beach with a big dog and two kids. The polish was not quite dry.

Back downstairs, Grady surveyed the living room. Somehow the damage inflicted seemed angry, frenetic. A row of family photos had been swept from a shelf and stomped upon, cushions had been slashed, bleeding white stuffing. A chinz couch had been scribbled on with indelible marker. It seemed a lot more personal than the damage done in the office space.

As Grady stepped further into the room, he heard glass crunching beneath his feet. He looked down to see a ruined photograph of Isabel and Marcus Raine. She had her arms wrapped around his neck, her head thrown back in laughter, while Marcus stared directly at the camera, his eyes serious, his smile just a slight turning up of the corners of his mouth. The frame had been stomped on, the glass directly over Isabel Raine’s face was smashed. But Marcus Raine’s face, somehow, was untouched.

Jesamyn came to stand beside him. “Wow,” she said, looking around the wreckage. “Someone’s angry.”