Alafair Burke: Angel's Tip

“NO ONE TOLD ME it was prom night.”

John Shannon set his roast beef sandwich on his napkin and used the back of his hand to wipe a smear of mustard from the corner of his mouth. Given Rogan’s usual appearance, his black suit and gray silk tie would never have drawn Shannon’s attention. But Ellie’s wardrobe change in the locker room was apparently another story.

Thanks to their squad neighbor, all eyes in the room were on her. Shannon’s partner let out a wolf whistle. Someone else asked if she was already trying on outfits for this year’s Medal Day Ceremony, a reference to the broad speculation that she would be receiving the Police Combat Cross for her role in what the media were now calling the Manhattan Barber case. Apparently the press didn’t see the irony in retaining the sensationalist nickname originally conjured by George Kittrie for his own byline.

Ellie looked down at her black wool A-line dress and slingback pumps, and touched the fringe of her new, very short hairdo. The fact that this stood out as a special effort had her rethinking her everyday attire.

Dan Eckels emerged from his office and placed his hands on his hips. “Quiet down out here. So Hatcher cleans up all right. Leave the woman alone.”

She sucked in her cheeks and faked a model’s awkward pose, and a few more detectives broke into laughter. It had been four days since she killed George Kittrie, and she’d noticed the ongoing efforts to make her smile. It was too soon to know whether the new thaw in the ice was a sign that she had passed some kind of litmus test with the squad, or just a temporary warm front.

“Great. See what happens when I try to stick up for you? You’re encouraging these assclowns.”

She looked at her lieutenant for some kind of confirmation of the rumor she’d heard the previous night at Plug Uglies. Apparently questions regarding the whereabouts of Eckels’s gun when he was abducted had led to some kind of investigation into his extracurricular activities. If the rumors were true, Eckels seemed surprisingly untroubled. Perhaps surviving his night with Kittrie had given him a new perspective on life. Or maybe the rumors were just rumors.

“I believe the two of you have somewhere to be?” Eckels asked pointedly.

“Oh, they need to be somewhere all right,” Shannon said. “‘Going to the chapel, and we’re gonna get married.’”

Ellie held her palms against her ears until Rogan handed her her coat. They could still hear the squad’s off-tune singing when they hit the staircase.

ROGAN PARKED half a block away from their destination on Bleecker Street.

“This was really generous of you, J. J.”

“Stop thanking me.”

They made their way inside and were directed to a room off the main entrance hall. Powder blue velvet curtains hung from ceiling to floor. Mauve upholstered chairs were lined up neatly in four rows. About a third of the seats were already occupied.

Ellie recognized a bulky man in the front row. Detective Hank Dodge gave her a nod of acknowledgment, and she returned the gesture.

At the front of the room, a blowup of Rachel Peck’s author photo, the one that never had the chance to grace the back of a book jacket, rested on an easel next to a simple wreath of pastel roses and a closed casket.

Ellie had phoned Rachel’s father three days earlier, pleading with him to claim his daughter’s body so she would not be buried in a cardboard box on Hart Island, where prison inmates stacked the coffins five high. By the time Ellie hung up on the man, she’d called him several names she was pretty sure weren’t supposed to be directed at a man of God.

She would never have asked Rogan to pay for a funeral, but he had caught her side of the conversation. An hour after she hung up on the Reverend Elijah Peck, Rogan had already set a time and a place. All she had to do was notify Rachel’s friend Gina.

Ellie felt a lump in her throat when she saw a familiar face in the back of the room. Her brother had even worn a sports coat for the occasion.

“Where’d you get this?” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve.

“Don’t ask, at least not without Miranda warnings.”

As they took three seats in the back row, Jess and Rogan muttered their hellos in the whispery tones that came automatically in these settings.

“You are such a softie,” she said, giving her brother’s shoulder a little squeeze.

“It’s no big deal.”

She had told him that morning that she was worried no one would show up at the funeral home. As she looked around the room, she realized her concerns had been misplaced. Rachel may not have had a family, but she had been a woman with friends.

One of those friends took her place now at a lectern beside Rachel’s photograph. She introduced herself as Gina DaCosta. She told the guests that she didn’t know what she was supposed to say at her best friend’s funeral. The nice man who ran the home had suggested a few prayers that would be appropriate, but they all knew that Rachel would come back and haunt her ass for allowing any such thing. So instead she talked about Rachel’s generosity. Her talent. The night she’d given herself a concussion trying to leapfrog a parking meter on Jones Street. She invited others to share their memories as well. No sad talk allowed, she warned.

Ellie recognized the latecomer slipping quietly into the room. Finding a seat, he spotted her in the back and gave her a sad smile. She raised a hand for a quick wave. She had known he was the kind of man who would be here today.

As people took their turns at the front of the room, she clasped her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and silently delivered her own testimonial: I had three days to save Rachel after I found Chelsea on Monday morning. It wasn’t enough. I wasted thirty-six hours going through the motions while I had three cold cases in my backpack telling me something was wrong. Thirty-six hours would have made the difference. I had three days, and I failed. I second-guessed my own instincts. I wasn’t confident enough. Next time, I won’t hesitate. Next time, I will picture Rachel and Chelsea, and I’ll be better.

When Ellie opened her eyes, she felt her guilt begin to wash away. She felt at peace. She felt like she belonged here, in this room, at that moment. She felt normal.

Tonight, after Jess left for work, and from the solitude of her living room, she would do one last thing before turning the page on the case. She would call Bill Harrington and thank him for phoning the tip line. She would thank him for listening to Robbie.

I’ve often heard it said that writers conjure up plots by starting with an initial observation and then asking themselves over and over again: What if?

On February 25, 2006, New York City graduate student Imette St. Guillen was barhopping in SoHo with a girlfriend. The friend called it quits, but St. Guillen stayed behind for one last drink. Her nearly unrecognizable body was found the next day. Five months later, eighteen-year-old Jennifer Moore was drinking in a Chelsea nightclub with a girlfriend when city authorities towed her car. Denied access to her vehicle at the impound lot, she wandered off alone along the West Side Highway. Her body was discovered in a New Jersey trashbin. In the fall of 2007, reports were filed by two separate women who claimed that they had been kidnapped and then raped after leaving the Box, one of Manhattan’s hottest nightclubs, on their own.

I began to ask myself, What if Ellie Hatcher caught cases like these and saw a connection where no one else did?

The inspiration for Angel’s Tip lies in none of the above-mentioned cases, and yet in all of them. For many of us-especially women-that alcohol-fueled argument at two in the morning is familiar. Someone wants to go home. Someone wants to stay behind for one last drink. I have been both of those women, and I have been lucky. But I know from the cases I saw as a prosecutor, and from the string of tragic cases reported in New York City, that sometimes the luck runs out. Angel’s Tip is fiction, but the danger that made me ask What if? is real and universal.