“I talked to Eckels about that-”

“You called Eckels already?”

“He called me for an update. I couldn’t exactly hide the fact that one of his detectives had been stabbed.”

“I prefer the word cut.” It didn’t sound nearly so dire that way.

“Eckels pointed out that Symanski could have found the earring at the club.”

“And you believe that?”

“It’s possible. Let’s say Myers takes Chelsea into the alley for a little action after he finds her outside by the cab. He gets rough-we know he has it in him because of his past incident at Cornell. When he realizes she’s dead, he tries to make it look like some crazy killer got to her. He throws her into his car, chops off her hair, slices her all over, and dumps the body under the Williamsburg Bridge.”

“And, again, the earring?”

“He notices when he chops off all that long hair that one of her earrings is missing. If someone finds that earring at Pulse, it’s a link between the vic and the club, which would lead us to him. So he dumps the second earring.”

“And when Symanski finds the original at the club, he somehow realizes it belonged to Chelsea Hart and starts telling people the killer took something from her body? I don’t buy it.”

“Look, I’m just talking out loud. No conclusions. That’s what investigations are for. We’re going to tear up that house looking for more evidence, that’s for sure. And once Symanski’s got his lawyer, maybe we can get a sit-down with him.”

“Yeah, right.”

Ellie’s cell phone rang at her hip. It was Jess. She let it go to voice mail, but it rang a second time and then a third. She struggled to get the phone open with her left hand.

“What’s up, Jess? I’ve kind of got my hands full here.”

She waved her bandaged hand at Rogan and smiled.

“I need to talk to you, El. Can you come home?”

“No. I’m working. I can’t just leave. Bad guys? Evildoers? You know, the whole I’m-a-police-officer thing?”

“Seriously, I really need to talk to you.”

“Where are you?”

“At home. The apartment.”

“I’ll call you later.”

“Ellie-”

She hung up, knowing her brother would forgive her within seconds. They’d done far ruder things to each other but had never found a sin that couldn’t be cured with a joke or a drink.

“If your brother needs you, you should go.”

“It can wait.”

Rogan placed his hands on his hips and sighed. “I hate this as much as you do, but you need to take a break. Eckels-”

“You’re fucking kidding me? He’s sending me home?”

“He doesn’t want you questioning Symanski or being part of the search, at least for now.”

“Because of what happened in the alley? He thinks I did something wrong?”

Rogan shook his head. “You may prefer the word ‘cut,’ but you’ve still got twelve stitches because of this asshole. It makes sense for you not to be in the middle of the investigation minutes after something like that. Plus he got a call about that mugging of Chelsea Hart’s friends yesterday. He wants you to follow up.”

He ripped a page from his notebook and handed her an address.

It sounded rational enough, but she could tell from Rogan’s expression that there was more to the explanation. She had been hoping for even a modicum of progress with her lieutenant, but his opinion of her seemed to be falling by the hour. And he apparently thought she was the kind of cop who would coerce a confession out of someone just to prove she was right.

“Just let me finish going through the house. You can stay with me and watch my every move.”

Rogan looked down at the street. “Please don’t put me in this situation.”

Ellie realized she didn’t have any good choices. “Can I take the car?”

“Of course.”

“Promise me you won’t let Eckels brush this off. Look for anything and everything, okay? And don’t forget about the other girls. Symanski could be our guy. The timing is right.”

Rogan pressed his lips together.

“It’s like you said, J. J. We’re partners. Any decision you make, it’s for both of us.”

He placed one hand on her shoulder. “I’ll look for anything and everything. I promise.”

CHAPTER 34

TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY Madison-Street, not Avenue-was also known as the LaGuardia Houses, a nine-building brick cluster of high-rise housing projects erected in the 1950s when the Lower East Side was still dominated by squatters and hardworking immigrants. Now, if developers had their way, they’d evict the 2,600 residents, knock down the projects, and fill the space with more luxury condos.

Ellie ignored the suspicious eyes that followed her as she made her way from the Crown Vic, through the rundown courtyard, into House 6. She took the elevator to the eleventh floor. The moment the doors pinged open, she was welcomed by a giant X of crime tape across a door at the end of the hall.

She ducked beneath the tape and flashed her shield to the uniform officer at the door. He nodded toward the back of the living room.

One man in a suit stood out among the crowd of uniforms and technicians in the apartment. He was telling a woman with a camera to make sure she got plenty of photographs of dark burgundy splatter across the television screen and the wall behind it.

“Ellie Hatcher,” she said by way of introduction, struggling to hold up her badge with her left hand. “I was told you had news for me about a robbery?”

“Ken Garcia,” he said, offering his hand, then quickly rethinking the gesture upon seeing Ellie’s bandages. “Your lou said someone might be coming by. Didn’t seem necessary to me.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re not just here about a mugging.”

“Nope. Our RP’s an eight-year-old girl upstairs. Called nine-one-one by herself over shots fired.” When schools taught children how to dial 911, they probably weren’t envisioning them becoming the reporting party to a homicide. “You just missed the body. Twenty-two-year-old black male named Darrell Washington. While the first responders were waiting for the homicide team, they found two brand-new handheld GPS devices purchased yesterday from the Union Square Circuit City.”

“That kind of loot out in the open and the shooter leaves it behind?”

“Hell, no. Stupid uniforms were snooping around where they didn’t belong. The bag was in the refrigerator. Guess Washington was hiding them. Who knows. Anyway, the sales receipt was still in the bag. The charges came back to Jordan McLaughlin’s credit card. Your lieutenant had a flag in the system for the Thirteenth to be notified on any developments, and I guess this counts as a development.”

“Any indication Washington’s murder was related to the mugging?”

Garcia shook his head. “Word so far-from the residents willing to speak to us-is that Washington was an outsider. A little too on his own. A little too quick to talk to cops. It could be a retaliation thing. Or we might be looking at a home invasion where the bad guy got his apartments mixed up. Narcotics has been monitoring some dealing going on next door. One thing’s for certain: whoever did it was a lousy shot-two bullets in Washington, but three in the living room wall. No dummy, though. Left the murder weapon on the floor. No serial number. No prints.”

“Did you find the credit card?”

“Nah. Washington probably used it once and ditched it. I told all this to your lou about an hour ago so he wouldn’t need to send a body over. No offense, but you must be in some kind of doghouse.”

Ellie took a quick walk through the apartment, just to make it look like there was a purpose to her being there. But she knew that Eckels had sent her here just to pull her away from Symanski’s house.

There was nothing left for her to do but go home.

JESS WAS WAITING at the apartment door for her with an open bottle of Rolling Rock. He helped her shrug her coat off around her bandaged hand.