Angel's Tip (29 page)

“FUCK. MY EYES, MY EYES.
Someone please hand me a spear so I might gouge out my eyes. Cover yourselves, people.”

Ellie sprung from what felt like the deepest sleep of her lifetime. She saw light creeping through the living room blinds and her brother standing at her apartment entrance, keys in hand and grin on face.

“Shit.
Shit.
What time is it?”

“Five forty-five.”

“Damn it. Ninety minutes. I was only going to wait ninety minutes.”

Max Donovan was coming to on the living room floor next to her. He grabbed a corner of the fleece throw Ellie was clutching to her chest, then settled for a blue pillow instead.

“Shit, we fell asleep,” he said.

“Master of the fucking obvious.”

“My brother, Jess,” Ellie said by way of explanation, scrambling to her feet and wrapping herself in the throw.

“Hey.” Max offered Jess his free hand. “Max Donovan. Uh, sorry about the circumstances.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t return the gesture. I really don’t need to think about where that hand’s been at six in the morning.”

“Jesus, Jess.”

Jess dropped a newspaper on the coffee table. “I thought you’d want to see this. Hot off the presses.”

It was a copy of the
Daily Post.
A glamor shot of Rachel Peck occupied the entire front page.

With no further pleasantries, Max was simultaneously pulling on his pants and pushing buttons on his cell phone.

“Why the fuck haven’t you called me?…You’ve just been sitting there?…Nothing?…Damn it…. No, don’t leave. You stay there until we tell you to leave.”

Ellie had pulled on a blue terry-cloth robe by the time Donovan hung up.

“He never got home. Eckels is in the wind.” He was struggling to get his arms into the sleeves of yesterday’s shirt. “We need to get a warrant. I need to call Knight.”

He was fumbling with the buttons of his cell again when Ellie caught sight of the newspaper headline blaring above Rachel Peck’s photograph: “The Barber of Manhattan: A Serial Killer Strikes Again?” On the bottom of the page in smaller print: “Creep Collects Hair as Souvenirs.”

“That Peter sure does work for a class act,” Jess said.

Ellie found herself reading the words again. Then a third time. Then she picked up the paper and rifled through the pages until she found the cover story.

The nagging feeling that she’d had in her gut before she’d fallen asleep was returning. That feeling that they’d been missing something. The facts unstacked into a jumble of individual blocks, floating in random rotations in her mind—flipping, rearranging, and then settling back down into a new and entirely different pattern.

And then the tumblers clicked. Same victims. Same pattern. Same facts. Different man.

“Stop. Hang up, Max. It’s not Eckels. Hang up.”

She was already hitting a button on her own phone. It rang three times before she got an answer.

“Peter, I need you to tell me about George Kittrie.”

THEY WERE INSIDE
Kittrie’s apartment within an hour. Three minutes to make the call to the Twenty-third Precinct to post officers outside the building. Fifteen minutes in the cab on the way to the Upper East Side, while Donovan persuaded Judge Capers to authorize a telephonic no-knock warrant. Five minutes to track down the super and his master keys. Another two minutes to figure out that Kittrie had installed an unauthorized security lock that the super could not bypass. Eighteen minutes to call in the old-fashioned battering ram.

Now Ellie, Donovan, and four backup officers were inside the apartment, and Rogan was on the way. She led a protective sweep through the apartment. As she’d expected, it was unoccupied.

“Damn it. He got to Eckels. I just know it. I should have figured this out yesterday. We could’ve stopped him.”

There was no legitimate way that Kittrie could know about the common link between the murders. When she had called him about the three cold cases, she had kept the fact about the hair to herself. And the killer had been so careful to hide his MO that Ellie herself had been unsure of the connection, even after speaking to Robbie’s father and Alice’s sister. Only after seeing Rachel Peck with her own eyes was she certain.

She’d thought through all of the possible leaks, but there were none. Rogan was solid. And even if Knight or Donovan might have been the type to talk, there hadn’t been time. Kittrie had sent Peter to get a quote from her before she told either of them about the cold cases.

She had assumed that Capra had been the source for the story about Chelsea Hart’s hair, but in fact there had been no leak at all.
Kittrie had even covered his tracks by getting the information slightly wrong—asking her whether Chelsea’s head was
shaved.
And there had been no contact with Flann McIlroy three years earlier. She had assumed that Peter was lying when he said Kittrie had a quick trigger on running the presses, but it had been Kittrie who lied about his contacts with Flann.

George Kittrie knew that a killer was collecting his victims’ hair because he had committed the murders.

When she had met Kittrie with Peter at Plug Uglies, he had looked familiar. Kittrie played it smart, convincing her she could have seen him at the bar during one of his investigative happy hours. But now she knew where she’d spotted him before. He had been caught in the background of the photograph Jordan McLaughlin had given her of the three girls at the Little Italy restaurant.

They had an APB out on Kittrie’s 2004 Ford Taurus and an emergency service unit on its way to his East Hampton cottage. In the meantime, there was nothing to do but begin a search of the apartment.

She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started with the desk. She found what she was looking for in the file drawer, inside a folder labeled “Medical Records.” She couldn’t make out the terminology on the stack of papers from Sloan Kettering, but she didn’t need an M.D. to understand that repeated references to glioblastoma multi-forme in the cerebral hemisphere were not good.

Those rumors Peter had heard about his boss’s condition were true: George Kittrie had an inoperable brain tumor.

“When we found out about Symanski’s mesothelioma, we were talking about the desperate things people do when they know they’re dying. Symanski wanted to go out a hero. Kittrie wants to take others with him. Or maybe he wants to get caught. If this thing goes to trial, we might even hear some expert argue that it was the brain tumor causing his violent tendencies all along.”

“And why is he so focused on you?” Donovan asked.

“I’ve gotten a lot of media attention, and that’s probably important to him. It could have been those things I said in the
Dateline
interview about William Summer being a loser. A man like Kittrie could empathize with someone like Summer. Both share the same desires. Both men stopped acting on those desires for long periods of time, which is probably seen by them as a sign of power and control. Summer was just given a life sentence, and now Kittrie finds himself at the end of his life. I can see how his desire to kill again could get transferred onto me.”

She scanned the wide array of titles shelved above Kittrie’s desk. Mostly nonfiction: civil war histories, biographies of the robber barons, a few contemporary memoirs. She spotted three consecutive copies of the same book,
9/11: Scoundrels and Profiteers
, by George Kittrie, and pulled one from the shelf. Kittrie smiled at her from a black-and-white photograph on the inside cover. She checked the copyright date. Five years ago.

When she replaced the volume on the shelf, a thick black-leather-bound book caught her eye among the colorful dust jackets. She opened it to find a collection of feature articles authored by George Kittrie, arranged in chronological order. She noticed that the prominence of the stories increased after the publication of his book.

“It could have been the book deal that made him stop after Alice Butler,” she said. “William Summer stopped because he got a promotion at his job. Maybe being a published author gave Kittrie the satisfaction he needed to gain control over his urges. Until I set him off, of course.”

“Hey,” Donovan said. “This is
not
your fault. He knows he’s dying. He would have killed those girls anyway.”

Ellie nodded, even though she was not convinced. “He must have had this bound after he got his diagnosis. The articles go all the way up to a few month ago,” she said, flipping through the pages. She was about to replace the tome on the shelf when she backtracked a few pages. “Unbelievable. Take a look at this.”

Donovan peered over her shoulder.

“This article from last April is about gangs in the city projects.” The story was accompanied by a large photograph of a man’s back, covered with gang tattoos, as well as smaller photographs depicting life in the projects. “And that picture right there,” Ellie said, pointing to one of the smaller images, “was taken outside the LaGuardia Houses. Kittrie knew Darrell Washington.”

ROGAN CHARGED THROUGH
Kittrie’s front door like a racehorse out of the gate.

“I’m on the phone with Pier 76 impound.” He covered the mouthpiece of his cell phone. “Kittrie’s Taurus got towed two hours ago for blocking a hydrant. He had a city parking permit on the dash that didn’t match the registration.”

“It has to belong to Eckels,” Ellie said.

Rogan removed his hand from the mouthpiece. “Where was the car?…Thirty-eighth and Madison?”

“That’s half a block from my apartment,” Ellie said as Rogan flipped his phone shut. “He must have taken Eckels on the street when he came to see me, which hopefully means Eckels is still alive. We’re going to find them at Kittrie’s cottage.”

“We’ve got ESU officers on the way with a truck and tactical weapons,” Donovan said. “They’re almost to the end of the LIE. They will take him down.”

“That’s still an hour away from East Hampton, and we’re another hour behind them. If we have any chance to save Eckels, Kittrie is going to want to see me there. I need to be there.”

Rogan was dialing again. “We can be in a chopper in fifteen minutes.”

IN HER BRIEF TIME
as Rogan’s partner, Ellie had never felt a sophistication gap between them. That all changed, however, when they pulled up to the helipad at Thirtieth Street and the West Side Highway.

She wasn’t even sure whether it would have ever dawned on her to request a department helicopter, but the idea certainly hadn’t come to her as quickly and as effortlessly as it had for Rogan. He had immediately called the borough commander, who approved the request and gave the necessary orders. Given her partner’s familiarity with the process at the Westside heliport, Ellie got the impression that Rogan had prior experience with helicopter travel, and she wondered if perhaps her partner hadn’t seriously understated the extent of his outside money.

Rogan badged the officer waiting for them at the gate. “We’re heading out to East Hampton.”

“The Bell 412 just arrived from Floyd Bennett Field.”

“The ten-million-dollar beast, all for us?”

“Nine-point-eight,” the officer corrected. “They weren’t sure how big of a team you’d have. The 412 holds the crew plus seven men. Excuse me, ma’am, seven people.”

Rogan pulled the car to the edge of the concrete, and they scurried across the pad. Rogan helped hoist Ellie into the cabin, and then climbed in himself. He reached behind him to give Donovan a hand.

“You sure you want to come? This isn’t part of your job description.”

“I’m going,” he said, joining Ellie on a bench seat running the length of the chopper. Rogan began distributing Kevlar vests that had already been piled into the back for their use, while Ellie unwrapped the gauze from her hand.

Wasting no time on introductions, the pilot asked if they were going to the East Hampton Airport.

“Suffolk County police will be waiting for us,” Rogan confirmed. “We’ve got what? A forty-minute ride?”

The helicopter’s entire body shook from the power building in the four-blade rotor.

“More like thirty in this bad boy,” the pilot said. “Whatever you’ve got planned out there, I’d start getting yourself ready for it.”

GEORGE KITTRIE’S COTTAGE
was on a narrow strip of road called Gerard Drive, surrounded on both sides by water—Accabonac Harbor to the west, and Gardiner’s Bay to the east. By the time their Suffolk County cruiser pulled onto Gerard Drive, the road was lined with police vehicles—a black NYPD Emergency Service truck, three other Suffolk County patrol cars, two ambulances, and four cars that were probably the entirety of the East Hampton Police Department’s fleet.

They had decided on the way to the helipad that there was no point in trying to conduct a stealth takedown of Kittrie. Eckels hadn’t reported to work, and neither had Kittrie. He would know they were coming for him. A massive show of their presence was warranted.

Rogan pointed to the ESU truck at the side of the road, and the Suffolk County officer pulled his cruiser behind it. Rogan was out of
the car first and homed in on a man dressed in all-black tactical gear. “J. J. Rogan. My partner, Ellie Hatcher.
AD
A Max Donovan.”

“Jim Foreman,” the officer said with a nod.

“How are we doing on evacuation?”

“I’ve got officers knocking on doors at every house along this inlet. We’ve got about fifty percent of them confirmed clear.”

“And the others?” Ellie asked.

“The local PD says this road’s popular for vacation houses. They could be empty. On the other hand, they tell me nine a.m.’s considered pretty early around here.”

“So we don’t know how much exposure we have,” Rogan said.

“My men know to make as much noise as necessary.”

The houses on the water were packed closely together. The last thing they needed was to have neighbors hurt in a shootout or for Kittrie to take the battle onto someone else’s property.

“You ready?” Rogan asked.

“Ready to do what?” Ellie said. “If we storm the house, he kills Eckels.”

“I’ll tell him later that you cared.”

“If there’s a later,” she said. “I say we call Kittrie. He obviously knows we’re here.”

Her cell buzzed at her waist. She checked the screen. “That fucker. He’s calling from Eckels’s phone.” She flipped her phone open. “We’re here.”

“I noticed.” Kittrie’s tone was breezy, almost singsongy in its inflection, as if he were a kindergarten teacher feigning artificial patience with an antsy child. “And I assume you know this isn’t your lieutenant.”

“Send out Eckels, or we’ll have twenty police officers storming that little shed of yours within two minutes.”

“Nice try, Detective, but if you’re anywhere near as good as I think you are, then you know that death threats won’t go too far with me. I can’t say the same about Lieutenant Eckels. I think that means I get
to set the rules. Since you like the sound of two minutes so much, let’s say you have exactly two minutes to come to my front door. Alone. Unarmed.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Two minutes, Detective. And get rid of the vest. If they take a shot at me, they need to know they might kill you instead.”

The line went dead.

He had known about the vest. He was watching them. She pulled off her Kevlar and threw it to the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing, Hatcher?”

“This is what he wants. Me at the front door in two minutes. No weapons. No vest. Otherwise, he’ll kill Eckels.”

“No way,” Donovan said.

“You don’t get to have an opinion on this.”

“He’s bluffing,” Rogan said. “Shit. We should have brought a fucking hostage negotiator.”

“I don’t need a negotiator. We know enough about this guy to know he’s got nothing to lose.”

“Except his leverage. If he kills Eckels, this is over.”

“And if he doesn’t kill Eckels, it’s over because we’ll know he’s a bluffer. I’m going in.”

Officer Foreman interrupted. “I can’t let you go in there, Detective, as much as you want to. You don’t even know he’ll let his hostage go. His hostage could be dead by now.”

“‘His hostage’ is one of us, and he’s our lieutenant.”

Foreman tried to block her way. She dodged him. Rogan grabbed her arm, but she pulled it away. “Damn it, J. J. If either of you tries to fucking stop me one more time, I am going to physically hurt you.”

She ducked behind the ESU van, and Rogan followed her. “Give me your weapon,” she said, holding out her right hand.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Just give me your Glock.”

He unholstered his gun and handed it to her. “You can’t do this.”

“I
have
to do this. Don’t you see that?
I
did this.
I
found Chelsea Hart. Those were
my
initials carved into Rachel Peck’s forehead with a knife.
I
was the one who had all the information we needed—his cancer, the timing of that book, the knowledge he had about the cases, his fucking
picture
, for Christ’s sake, before I went and cropped it into the ether. It should be me in there, and I swear to God, I am not going to let you stop me.”

As she spoke, she ejected the magazine and let it fall to the ground, then slid out the chambered round and tossed it aside as well.

“He will kill you.”

“He’ll kill Eckels faster. Me, he wants to brainfuck first. Take any shot you get.” She tucked Rogan’s unloaded weapon in her waistband beneath her coat. “Do you hear me?”

Donovan was next to her now with his hand on her elbow, but Rogan pulled him away. “We’re going to get you out of there, Hatcher. You’re not alone in there, you understand?”

She swallowed and nodded, hoping that he was right, and stepped out from behind the van. She rushed toward the house, stopping in the middle of Kittrie’s yard to unholster her own service weapon and toss it onto the grass.