Stalked (24 page)

“I don't know anything about a murder, but neither does Franks!”

“How do you know what Franks knows?” Joe asked.

“He's been in Jersey with his daughter all week. Just came back yesterday. His oldest had a baby boy. First grandson and all that. Ask him, because he saw nothing.”

“And you did?”

Bartz hesitated, trying to think up something to tell them to get him closer to the fictitious reward. Joe nodded at Suzanne, and she left the room, watching through the one-way mirror.

“Look,” Joe said conversationally to the suspect, “you have a ring that was last seen on a dead woman. You hocked it. Now you're telling me you found it at Citi Field.”

“Right. Because I did.”

“I believe you.”

Bartz looked relieved.

“What day?”

Bartz thought about it.

“It's not a hard question, Jimmy.”

“Tuesday?”

“Morning or night.”

“Night?”

“Why are you asking me? Either you found it Tuesday night or you didn't.”

“I did.”

Then Joe hit him with the facts. “The woman was killed at Citi Field. In the parking lot. On Tuesday night. And I'm going to book you for murder.”

“You can't!”

“I'm a homicide detective. It's what I do.”

“But—but—”

Suzanne came in and handed Joe a file. It was blank, but Joe smiled. He didn't say anything.

“Special circumstances,” Suzanne said. “We'll take the prosecution, since we can try him for the death penalty.”

“You got it,” Joe said. “I love this new task force, Agent Madeaux. Especially since New York no longer has a death sentence.”

Bartz was shaking.

“I didn't kill anyone. I didn't. I swear to the Almighty God, I swear on my grandmother's grave, I didn't kill anyone, ever in my life.”

Joe stared at him. “How did you get this ring?” He slapped the ring, in an evidence bag, on the table.

Bartz stared at it. He seemed to weigh what he should say.

“You just told me you found it Tuesday night in the parking lot at Citi Field. The victim was murdered at Citi Field on Tuesday night. Every jury will agree you just confessed.”

Suzanne nodded. “I already ran it up to the U.S. Attorney's Office. They say we have enough.”

“No!” Bartz looked trapped. “I—I didn't find it.”

“You didn't find the ring.” Joe's flat voice told Bartz he didn't believe him.

“I—I—I got it from a guy.”

“Does this guy have a name?”

Bartz shook his head. “Just a guy. Said he broke up with his girlfriend and was going to toss the ring. He gave it to me instead.”

“Don't fuck with me, Jimmy,” Joe said. “This ring”—he held it up—“is worth over fifteen
thousand
dollars. No one just handed it to you!”

Suzanne didn't think Bartz could have grown even more pale. He was downright ghostly. “Fi-fi-fifteen?”

“And a guy gave it to
you.
”

“I—I was hustling on my corner, selling pictures, ask Kramer, I sell pictures outside the subway across from Citi Field.”

“When?” Joe asked.

“Yesterday morning.”

Suzanne said, “The Mets are on the road.”

“But there was an event. A charity game, retired players or something. I was there at eleven; game started at noon. I swear to God.”

There was a ring of truth, but Suzanne was withholding judgment. This guy was a piece of work.

“An-and it was slow, this guy comes up and asks if I want to buy this ring. Said his girlfriend broke up with him at the game on Tuesday, and he was going to toss the ring, but decided to sell it. See, I sometimes buy things—”

“You knew him?”

“No, I swear, never seen him before.”

“What did he look like?” Suzanne asked.

“Baseball cap. White guy.”

“A white guy in a baseball cap. That's the best you can do?”

Bartz shrugged.

“What was he wearing?” Suzanne prompted.

“Jeans. T-shirt.”

“Anything on the T-shirt?”

“It was plain. White.”

“Tattoos?”

Bartz shrugged.

“Height? Weight? Fat? Thin? Did he have wings?” Joe was getting irritated.

“Um, he was taller than me.”

“Everyone in New York is taller than you, Jimmy.”

“Um, six feet? A little less? More? I was sitting down. I don't know!”

“And you bought the ring from him?”

“No, I thought it was hot.”

“He was selling stolen jewelry.”

“Yes. No! I didn't
know,
I just thought, you know?” Bartz was wringing his hands, the cuffs jangling. “I said I didn't have the money to buy it, and he said keep it. Said he couldn't look at it without thinking about his girlfriend.”

“And you didn't find this suspicious?”

“You'd be surprised what people give me. It's the God's honest truth, ask Kramer; he knows when I'm bullshitting. I swear, he gave it to me.” He paused. “Is there a reward? Because I found the ring and all?”

Joe and Suzanne stepped out without answering his question.

“What a ridiculous story,” Suzanne said.

“He's telling the truth.”

“Damn, I thought so, too. I just hoped that I was wrong.”

Joe said, “The killer reads the article, worries that we're going to start looking at other motives and that he might be under the gun, but he's smart enough not to hock the ring himself. Gives it to a street vendor knowing there's a better than good chance the guy will pawn it.”

“He's got to know we'll track the guy,” Suzanne said.

“You heard Jimmy. He can't even ID the guy.”

“You should get a sketch artist in here anyway.”

Joe concurred. “I'm also going to check and see if there's a security camera that caught Bartz yesterday at that subway station. We might get lucky. And I know Kramer; I'll see what he says about this guy.” Joe shook his head. “I don't see Bartz as the killer.”

“And that's why his story has a ring of truth. Shit, we're back where we started.”

“No, we have an advantage. Your friend Tony played the killer, and the killer did exactly what we wanted—pawned the ring. He just used a middleman.”

Suzanne stared at Bartz through the window, but she was thinking about the guy in the cap. Smart, but he'd have to know Bartz's story would never hold water. “Do we pressure him or let him think he deceived us?”

Joe said, “Give the killer a little breathing room? Announce that we're interrogating a suspect?”

“Except that the killer would know Bartz's story is pathetic. He can't possibly know that Bartz won't be able to ID him.”

“Let's see what we can learn from the sketch artist and security cameras. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

*   *   *

Sean was driving toward Bridget Weber's house on the Upper East Side when Lucy's cell phone rang; she was surprised to hear Noah Armstrong on the other end.

“Hello, Noah.”

“Lucy, there's been an accident.”

Flashes of friends and family, bloody and dying, flew through her head. “Who?” Her voice cracked.

“Hans. He's in critical condition at Prince William Hospital. I can't talk on the phone, but I need you back at Quantico now.”

“What happened?”

“I'll explain when you get here. Don't discuss this with anyone except Sean. Let me talk to Rogan.”

Lucy handed the phone to Sean. He listened for a long minute. Lucy watched his face but couldn't read his expression. “Got it,” Sean said, and hung up. He handed Lucy back her phone. “Noah wants me to put you on a plane ASAP.”

“Put me on a plane?”

“Commercial. He's made a reservation for you; it leaves in an hour. He asked me and Patrick to stay here and follow through.”

“What happened to Hans?”

“He didn't say—he was vague. He said, ‘Follow up on the assignment Hans gave you.' My guess, it wasn't an accident.”

First Tony, now Hans. “It's all connected to what happened to Rosemary Weber.”

Sean maneuvered through New York traffic like a native and merged onto a freeway.

“It all connects here in New York,” Sean said. “I'm going to call Suzanne and find out where she is, fill her in on the news about Hans, and have her or her cop friend pull the files on Theissen.”

“Be careful,” Lucy said.

Sean took her hand. “You, too, princess.”

*   *   *

“What's going on?” Suzanne demanded when she met Sean in front of the Webers' narrow three-story town house on the Upper East Side. “You're thirty minutes late, and you tell me to
wait
? Sunday is usually the only day off I get, and yet I was up at the butt crack of dawn to interview a suspect, then ordered to rush over here, only to be kept
waiting
by a friggin' P.I.?”

Sean smiled and handed her coffee. “Black and sweet, right?”

She grabbed the coffee but didn't return his smile. “Where's Lucy?”

“Headed back to Quantico.”

“Why?”

“It has to stay between you and me. Can't even tell your boyfriend.”

“DeLucca isn't my boyfriend.”

Sean coughed a laugh. “I was speaking metaphorically, but good to know.”

She glared at him from under the brim of her Mets hat, all fire.

“Hans Vigo had an accident yesterday. He's in critical condition. Lucy was called back in, and my guess is that it wasn't really an accident.”

“Why are you still here?”

“Hans asked me to find Peter McMahon. That's what I'm doing.”

“Back up—is this the Peter McMahon whose sister was murdered when he was a kid? The case Tony was so curious about?”

“Four people involved in his sister's investigation are dead under mysterious circumstances.”

Her brow furrowed. “Four people? Who?”

Sean ticked them off on his fingers. “Weber, Bob Stokes, Dominic Theissen, and Tony Presidio.” He explained the suspicious circumstances of Stokes's and Theissen's deaths and how they might not have been accidents, or natural.

“McMahon has been completely off the grid for the last six years,” Sean said. “No death certificate, no Social Security number in use, nothing. FBI is going through their channels; I'm going through mine. I traced him to college at SU; then he seemed to just vanish.”

“There has to be something else.”

“Agent Presidio's personal file on the McMahon investigation disappeared from his office the day he died. Something is going on, maybe it has nothing to do with Peter McMahon, but it's not easy to go completely off the grid.”

“So you're thinking he's targeting cops who worked his sister's case because
why
?”

“I don't think anything at this point,” Sean said. “I'm just going to find him.”

“And you think Bridget Weber knows something she didn't tell me?” Suzanne sounded skeptical.

“I think Rosemary Weber has a lot of files and information on the McMahon investigation that may shed light on these deaths.”

“So you don't think her murder has anything to do with the Cinderella Strangler case?”

“We're not going to know until the feds are done with their forensic investigation.” Sean walked up the steps to the front door. “Hopefully, there'll be enough answers here to give us a clear direction.”

Bridget Weber was five years younger than her sister, but judging by Rosemary's author photo on her book, they had looked very much alike—blond hair, blue eyes, and deep dimples.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice,” Suzanne said.

Bridget tried to smile but didn't quite make it. “Do you have information about Rosie's murder?”

“We're pursuing every possible lead,” Suzanne said. “We just have a few questions. Did your sister discuss her books or what she was working on with you?”

“Sometimes. But I travel a lot for work, and when she's in the middle of a project she's very focused, doesn't talk to anyone but her research assistant, if that.”

Sean said, “Did you talk about her current project?”

“The Cinderella Strangler? A little—she was excited about it. She said it had all the hallmarks of a bestseller.” Bridget paused, then said, a bit sheepishly, “Rosie's first book was a big hit. None of her other books did as well as
Sex, Lies, and Family Secrets.
She was always looking for what she called a big, juicy story, and she thought this new one fit.”

“Did she say why?” Sean asked.

“Not specifically, but anyone could see that the case was alluring. Underground sex parties, drugs, prostitution—the backdrop was more interesting than the crimes themselves.”

Sean was grateful Lucy wasn't here. To Lucy, it was always the victims who mattered, not the trappings, and she would take issue with the sister's description.

Suzanne said, “When we were going over her calendar and notes, we noticed she had scheduled a meeting with a reporter, Rob Banker. Do you know him?”

“Yes, he was one of Rosie's closest friends.”

“She canceled the meeting because she had a lead to follow. Did she tell you anything about it?”

Bridget shook her head. “I didn't see her before she left. I was out at dinner. I invited her to join me, but she thinks my friends are boring.” She smiled sadly. “She did mention she had a meeting, but I didn't ask any details.”

Sean said, “She dedicated her first book to a Newark police officer, Bob Stokes. Do you know him?”

Bridget straightened in surprise. “Actually, I do. He was one of the officers she'd known when she was a reporter in Jersey. They were friendly. But she hadn't talked to him in years until he came up here for the funeral of Dom Theissen. Dom was a friend of Rosie's. They talked a lot. I thought there might be something romantic between them, but she never said anything. I know his accident hit her really hard.” Bridget began to look irritated. “I told all of this to the other FBI agent who came by.”