Harlan Coben - Fool Me Once

Maya felt relief course through her. She almost smiled. She should have insisted on putting Lily in a place like this months ago. Having a nanny left you dependent on one unsupervised person with few checks and balances. Here, there were witnesses and security cameras and socialization. It had to be safer, right?

“Maya?”

It was Kierce again. She closed the app and put the phone in her pocket. They both stepped inside. There were two other people in the room — a female DA assigned to the case and a male defense attorney. Maya tried to focus, but her mind was still swirling from the nanny cam and Isabella. The lingering effects of the pepper spray were still playing havoc with her lungs and nasal membranes. She sniffed like a coke addict.

“I wish to once again put my protest on the record,” the male defense attorney said. He had a ponytail halfway down his back. “This witness has admitted she never saw their faces.”

“So noted,” Kierce said. “And we agree.”

Ponytail spread his hands. “So what’s the point?”

Maya was wondering that too.

Kierce pulled the cord and the shade came up. Kierce leaned into a microphone and said, “Bring in the first group.”

Six people walked into the room. They all wore ski masks.

“This is silly,” Ponytail said.

Maya had not expected this.

“Mrs. Burkett,” Kierce said, speaking up as though he was being recorded, which, she figured, he probably was, “do you recognize anyone in this room?”

He looked at her and waited.

“Number four,” Maya said.

“This is bullshit,” Ponytail said.

“And how do you recognize number four?”

“‘Recognize’ might be too strong a word,” Maya said. “But he is the same build and same height as the man who shot my husband. He is also wearing the same clothes.”

“Several other men in there are wearing the exact same clothes,” Ponytail said. “How can you be sure?”

“Like I said, they’re the wrong build or height.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. Number two matches the closest, but he’s wearing blue sneakers. The man who shot my husband was wearing red.”

“But just to be clear,” Ponytail continued, “you can’t say for certain that number four is the man who shot your husband. You can say you recollect that he’s relatively the same size and build and is wearing similar clothing—”

“Not similar,” Maya interjected. “The same clothing.”

Ponytail tilted his head. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t possibly know that, Mrs. Burkett. There must be more than one set of red Cons out there, am I right? I mean, if I put four red Cons out there, are you going to be able to tell me for certain which ones the assailant was wearing that night?”

“No.”

“Thank you.”

“But the clothing isn’t ‘similar.’ It isn’t as though he’s wearing white Cons instead of red. Number four is wearing the exact same outfit as the shooter.”

“Which brings me to another point,” Ponytail said. “You don’t know for certain it’s the shooter, do you? That man in the ski mask could be wearing the same clothing and be the same size as the shooter. Isn’t that correct?”

Maya nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Thank you.”

Ponytail was done for now. Kierce leaned into the microphone. “You can leave. Send in the second group.”

Six more men came in wearing ski masks. Maya studied them. “It’s most likely number five.”

“Most likely?”

“Number two is wearing the same clothing and is nearly the same height and build. My recollection would be that it’s number five, but they are close enough that I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Thank you,” Kierce said. Again he leaned into the microphone. “That’s all, thank you.”

She followed Kierce out.

“What’s going on?”

“We picked up two suspects.”

“How did you find them?”

“Your description.”

“Can you show me?”

Kierce hesitated, but not for long. “Okay, come on.” He brought her to a table with a large-screen monitor, probably thirty inches, maybe more. They sat down. Kierce started typing. “We searched through all nearby CCTV cameras the night of the murder, looking for two men who fit your description. As you can imagine, it took some time. Anyway, there’s a condo building on Seventy-Fourth and Fifth Avenue. Take a look.”

The CCTV shot the two men from above.

“Is that them?”

“Yes,” Maya said. “Or do you want me to give the legalese about just matching the build and clothes?”

“No, this isn’t on the record. As you can see, they aren’t wearing ski masks. We wouldn’t think they would on the street. That would draw attention.”

“Still,” Maya said, “I don’t see how you got an ID from that angle.”

“I know. The camera is so damned high. It’s so annoying. I can’t tell you how many times we get this. The camera is set ridiculously high, and the perps just keep their chins tucked or wear a cap and we can’t see their faces. But anyway, once we had this, we knew that they were in the area. So we kept looking.”

“You spotted them again?”

Kierce nodded and started typing again. “Yep. At a Duane Reade half an hour later.”

He brought up the video. This one was in color. It was shot from the side of the cash register. The two guys’ faces were clear now. One was black. The other looked lighter-skinned, maybe Latino. They paid in cash.

“Cold,” Kierce said.

“What?”

“Look at the time stamp. This is fifteen minutes after they shot your husband. And here they are, maybe half a mile away, buying Red Bulls and Doritos.”

Maya just stared.

“Like I said, cold.”

She turned to him. “Or I got it wrong.”

“Not likely.” Kierce stopped the video, freezing the two men. Yes, men. They were young men, no question about it, but Maya had served with too many men that age to call them boys. “Take a look at this.”

He hit an arrow button on the keyboard. The camera zoomed in, blowing up the picture. Kierce focused in on the Latino. “That’s the other guy, right? The one who wasn’t the shooter?”

“Yes.”

“Notice anything?”

“Not really.”

He zoomed in closer now, with the camera focused squarely on the guy’s waist. “Look again.”

Maya nodded. “He’s packing.”

“Right. He’s carrying a gun. You can see the handle if you zoom close enough.”

“Not very subtle,” she said.

“Nope. Hey, I wonder how all your open-carry patriot buddies would react to these two guys strolling down their street strapped like that.”

“I doubt it’s a legally purchased gun,” Maya said.

“It’s not.”

“You found the gun?”

“You know it.” He sighed and stood. “Meet Emilio Rodrigo. Got an impressive rap sheet for a young punk. They both do. Mr. Rodrigo had the Beretta M9 on him when we arrested him. Illegally owned. He’ll serve time for it.”

He stopped.

Maya said, “I hear a ‘but.’”

“We got a warrant and searched both of their residences. That’s where we found the clothes you described and identified today.”

“Will that stick in court?”

“Doubtful. Like our ponytailed pal in there said: They’re red Cons. Lots of people own them. There was also no sign of ski masks, which I found odd. I mean, they kept the clothes. Why throw out the ski masks?”

“Don’t know.”

“They probably dumped them in a garbage can. You know. Right away. They shoot, they run, they rip off the masks, they dump them somewhere.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah, except we searched all the nearby garbage cans. Still, they could have found a place, maybe a sewer or something.” Kierce hesitated.