Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

Driscoll reached out and shook his hand. “Well then, thanks for understanding.”

“No problem. Nothing worse than having someone poke his nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

Driscoll smiled at Warner, then turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving the captain to clean up whatever mess the NYPD had created.

As Driscoll walked back to his car, he was torn as to what to do. If he called Santangelo, that meant press, and nothing but interference from the top. If he didn’t call, it would probably be the end of his career. As he reached for the door handle to the Chevy, in which Liz Butler and the suspect were seated, he decided he would rather go out a winner than to have that glory seeker foul things up and perhaps ruin the case.

He opened the cruiser’s door, and Liz Butler stepped out of the car.

“I don’t think he’s our guy.”

Driscoll had learned over the years that Butler’s instincts were good, and he took her opinions seriously. “Why not?”

“He just doesn’t feel right. He keeps insisting that it’s his girlfriend’s phone, and that all we have to do is call her. I don’t think he even knows she’s dead.”

Driscoll could feel his prior exhilaration slipping away.

Margaret walked over to them. “He’s got a bag full of Ecstasy, some dirty clothes, and two cans of beer in that sack,” she said.

“Ecstasy?” said Driscoll.

“Yeah. You know, the clubgoers’ sex drug. All the rage among the metrosexuals.”

Driscoll scowled. “Liz, you and Luigi meet me back at the house. Margaret, you drive.”

Driscoll knew that one of the best detective tricks was simply the employment of a long drive back to the squad room. People, even people in handcuffs, naturally wanted to talk during a long excursion. It always seemed more like a conversation than an interrogation.

As the car pulled onto Sunrise Highway, Driscoll spoke. “What’s your name, son?”

“McGowan, Officer. Mike McGowan. Please call Amelia. It’s her phone. I know I shouldn’t have taken it, but I didn’t think she’d call the cops on me. I only meant to borrow it. I was gonna bring it back.”

“Why do you think she called us, Mike?”

“We had a fight. I wanted to go to the Hamptons for this major party, and she wouldn’t go with me. I got mad and took the phone. I needed it to, you know, to keep in touch. I didn’t think she’d flip out like this on me.”

Driscoll could tell that Butler was right. This guy was no killer. He didn’t have the hatred inside him to do what had been done to Amelia Stockard.

“What’s with the pills, Mike?”

McGowan swallowed hard. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. They’re Ecstasy. I went to the Hamptons to score them. Amelia and I use them. They make you feel like you’re flyin’ while you’re standing still. I had a chance to grab a hundred, and I did. That’s why I needed the phone. You know, to make the connection. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. I’m very, very sorry.” McGowan began to cry.

Margaret looked at Driscoll and shook her head. They both knew that Mike McGowan was no killer, and that their nightmare was far from over.

Driscoll reached for his cell phone and dialed the Command Center’s number. Cedric Thomlinson came on the line. “Hey, Lieutenant. What’s going on? Liz and Luigi just walked in, and they’re not talking. We get him?”

“Nope. False alarm. Any press around?”

“A swarm of them. As usual, they’re camped outside.”

“OK. Here’s what I want you to do. Get a couple of guys into one of the cars with the tinted windows. Have them pull up to the front door and put on a show. Have one of them sit in the backseat with his hands behind his back. When the press rush over to the car, I’ll drive up to the rear door. Have Liz and Luigi meet me there. Call me on the cell when you’re ready.”

“You got it.”

Margaret and Driscoll sat in silence, waiting for Cedric’s call. Driscoll thought back to what an older detective had once told him. Never get too high or too low on the job. Stay on an even keel. That way it can never get to you.

The phone jingled. It was Thomlinson. “It’s all set up,” he said.

“Showtime, Cedric! Hit it.”

The plan worked to perfection, and Butler and Vittaggio hustled the still-weeping Mike McGowan up the back stairs and into the Command Center.

Driscoll and Margaret walked into the Lieutenant’s office and looked wearily at each other. “Thought we had him,” she said.

“So did I.”

“Now what?”

“Have Butler and Vittaggio take his statement. Take a couple of Polaroids of him, and have two guys drive out to the Hamptons and check out his alibi. If it checks out, have somebody useless around here process his arrest for the pills.”

“Who’s gonna break the news to him about Ms. Stockard?”

“Damn it! I forgot about that. Well, wait till his alibi checks out, and then have Liz do it. Tell her to be gentle.” Driscoll headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home. I need to recharge. We just took our best shot out there, and we crashed and burned. I need to think, I need to sleep, and I need to get the hell away from here. What about you?”

“I’ll stick around and see that McGowan gets processed.”

“OK, thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being there. See you tomorrow.”

With Margaret’s eyes on him, Driscoll walked down the hallway and disappeared through the Command Center’s door, leaving the case and his task force behind him.

Driscoll pulled into the precinct parking lot the next day just before the sun came up. He had slept well the night before, and he felt invigorated. The disappointment he had experienced the day before had passed. He parked the cruiser, walked in through the back door, waved hello to the Sergeant on the desk, and bounded up the back staircase. He put the key in the lock and pulled the door open. It was just past six o’clock, and the Command Center was empty. It was a time he enjoyed. He surveyed the room and relaxed. All was quiet. Two hours from now the room would be humming with activity, and bedlam would be the order of the day. He cleaned out the coffeepot and carefully poured cool tap water into it. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee soon filled the air and added to the pleasure of his solitude.

He walked over to the sign-in log and saw a note that Margaret had left him. He signed in at 0600 hours and picked up her note. The coffee was ready. He filled a cup, sat down at his desk, and began to read. There was something sensual about her handwriting, and he caught himself thinking about more than policework. He allowed himself the indulgence of picturing her making love to him, and the fantasy engulfed him. She was quite a woman. He took another sip of coffee and turned his attention to the note:

John,

McFeely and Johnson interviewed McPartland and the Stockard woman’s cleaning lady. They struck out with both, adding nothing further to the investigation other than the fact that the Stockard woman was discreet. Mike McGowan’s alibi checked out. I sent Dyer and Romanelli out to East Hampton, and at least a dozen people put McGowan there for the last few days. Seems he was a fixture at several beach bars and social events. I had Santos take the collar and book him on the drug possession. Liz broke the news about the Stockard woman, and he took it pretty hard. He didn’t know she was pregnant. Apparently, they had met at a club in Manhattan and hit it off. He introduced her to Ecstasy, and they became lovers. Funny thing about the men’s cologne. McGowan says that Stockard was so paranoid about being busted that she bought the cologne because she had read somewhere that the smell of cologne confused drug-sniffing dogs. Whenever they went out, she would wrap the pills in a cologne-soaked handkerchief and stuff it inside her purse.