“We really need to speak with you.”

“Must I go inside? Why can we not speak out here?”

Ellie didn’t see the harm in getting the quick version of the driver’s story now, to avoid what she could foresee was going to be a headache-inducing conversation about the lack of adequate parking, the ineptitude of municipal employees, and the financial burdens of cabdrivers. She hopped into the passenger seat, and Kadhim hit his emergency blinker. At least it wasn’t the meter.

“You said you recognize this girl?”

She pulled an eight-by-ten printout of Chelsea Hart from a manila folder.

“Yes, that is right,” he said, tapping the photograph for emphasis. “I stopped Sunday night for her. She hailed me down, I think it was at Fifteenth and Ninth Avenue.”

“Where did you take her?” If Chelsea had left Pulse and headed to another club by herself, she would have an even tougher time linking Jake Myers to the murder.

“I did not take her. She stopped my cab, but I did not drive her.”

Ellie waited for Kadhim to explain, but he did not. “Did she change her mind?”

“No. See, there is a bit of a problem here. I want to help. That is why I called when I saw the picture. I did not have to call, you know.”

“What are you trying to say, Mr. Kadhim?”

“The Taxi and Limousine Commission. They are crazy. They have these rules, and they think nothing of shutting us down.”

“Mr. Khadim, I assure you, I am not trying to jam you up about some taxicab regulation. I just need you to tell me everything you can remember about this girl. Her name was Chelsea Hart. She was from Indiana. Her parents flew here yesterday to identify her body. I’d like to have something to tell them, sir.”

“You do not report to the commission?”

Ellie shook her head and waited for him to speak.

“She got inside the cab and told me to take her to the Hilton at Rockefeller Center. Before driving away, I checked to be sure she could pay me in cash. She could not. She asked me if I could take her Visa card instead.”

“But aren’t you all upgraded? The GPS, automation, credit cards.” The cabdrivers had gone on strike twice to try to prevent the change, but ultimately the commission had prevailed. Ellie peered over the partition into the backseat and saw the required equipment in Kadhim’s taxi.

“The credit card processing is broken,” Kadhim explained. “I told that to the young lady, but she said she had spent all of her cash. It happens a lot in that part of town at that time of night.”

“What time was it?” Ellie asked.

“It was not quite closing time, I remember. It was probably three thirty.”

An hour after Stefanie and Jordan left. Thirty minutes later than Jake Myers’s faltering estimate of when Chelsea had supposedly walked out alone.

“So what happened when she said she couldn’t pay cash?”

“I told her I would not drive her.”

Ellie now understood why Khadim had been nervous. She remembered from the taxi strike that the drivers were especially upset about a rule that required them to pull their cabs out of service if their credit card machines malfunctioned.

“Then what?”

“That is when the man offered to give her the money she needed.”

“Wait a second. There was a man with her?”

“She was alone. At first. But then when we were talking about how she was to pay her fare, a man came and knocked on the window. He…he propositioned her, if you understand.”

“Yes, okay, I think I know what you mean by that,” Ellie said, nodding even though she was having trouble picturing the scenario. “A man came up out of nowhere and knocked on your taxi window and offered to pay her for sexual favors?”

“No. It was not like that. She was talking to me, but then when the tapping began at the window, she lowered the glass and spoke to the man. I do not recall all of it, but it was along the lines of persuading her to stay with him, wherever she had been prior to coming outside. She told him she needed to go to her hotel-that she had an early flight in the morning-but that now she didn’t have any money, and I would not take her credit card. I remember that: she said, ‘And now this guy won’t take my fucking credit card.’ Not angry, but as if she were trying to be humorous. They both seemed intoxicated.”

“And what did the man say?”

“That is when he propositioned her. He said something like, I can give you the money. But then when she reached out of the window, he said she would have to earn it. I did not want them in my cab any more after that. Not every driver allows Taxicab Confessions in the back of their car, you know. I was about to order her to get out, but then she left on her own with the man. They were laughing, like it was a game.”

“Do any of these men look familiar?”

Ellie handed Kadhim four photographs. Kadhim flipped through them quickly and apathetically, past Nick Warden, Tony Russo, and Jaime Rodriguez-until he landed on the final picture. Jake Myers. “This man,” he said, handing the photograph to her. “This is the man she left with.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am positive. He was wearing a thin black tie, and his clothing was too tight. Pardon my French, but he looked like an asshole.”

That description alone left no doubt in her mind that the person Kadhim had seen with Chelsea Hart had been Jake Myers. But it was the two calls J. J. Rogan had placed while Ellie was wrapping up her conversation with Kadhim that persuaded her they had their man.

One call was to Mariah Florkoski at the crime scene unit. The fingerprint on the top button of Chelsea Hart’s blouse was an eight-point match to a latent print pulled from the glass of water Ellie had so generously offered to Jake Myers last night. And she’d found seminal fluid in the stain on the same shirt.

The other call was to the medical examiner. The rape kit was back. The oral swab was also positive for seminal fluid.

Now all they needed was a DNA sample.

CHAPTER 19

ONE HUNDRED CENTRE STREET not only famously houses many of the city’s criminal courts, but is also home to most of Manhattan’s five hundred assistant district attorneys. Rogan and Ellie checked in with a receptionist on the fifteenth floor and were directed to the office of ADA Max Donovan in the Homicide Investigation Unit.

Ellie already knew that the professional lives of ADAs were not glamorous. She had met with enough of them to know that the spacious, mahogany-highlighted offices, complete with brass lamps, antique scales, and matching volumes of leather-bound books, were the stuff of fictional lawyers on television. Most prosecutors worked long hours out of cubbyhole-sized cubes of clutter, all for a paycheck that wasn’t enough to cover both Manhattan rent and law school student loans.

Still, she would have thought that an attorney who’d been in the office long enough to earn a slot trying murder cases would warrant digs better than these. An ornately framed diploma from Columbia Law School stood out alongside Max Donovan’s metal desk, ratty chairs, and dented file cabinet. Apparently any luxuries to be found in the office were enjoyed even further up the food chain.

Donovan was tall, with broad shoulders and dark curly hair. If he felt any self-consciousness about his humble surroundings, he didn’t show it. He rose from his desk to welcome them with hearty handshakes, and then gestured for them to have a seat themselves. Ellie noticed the lawyer watching her as she crossed her legs in the charcoal-colored pencil skirt she’d chosen that morning. She also noticed a subtle smell that reminded her of white truffles.

“So I’ve already received a call this morning from Mr. Warden’s lawyer, looking for a deal.”

“So a night in jail did work wonders,” Rogan said, smiling.

“I assume you two don’t care about the drug charges on Warden. We’re just looking for cooperation in the event he’s covering for Jake Myers.”