And apparently that fact wasn’t lost on the almost entirely male squad of homicide detectives at the Thirteenth Precinct. Nor had it escaped their attention that Ellie wasn’t half bad herself. Ellie had already overheard another detective referring to them by a team nickname: Hotchick and Tubbs. She assumed that with time they’d conjure up something more clever, but the general theme had been established.
“Barely six a.m., Hatcher. You know this shit should have been someone else’s call-out.”
“You’re telling me that if you were first at a scene, you’d wait for someone else to catch the case?”
She couldn’t tell whether Rogan was satisfied with her response or was simply moving on to the business at hand, but he made a beeline to the construction site. A crime scene analyst was still cordoning off the area with yellow police tape.
Rogan winced at the sight of the body. “I guess someone meant business. Where are we?”
“No official word from the ME, but based on the swelling in her face and eyes, my guess is she died from the strangling.”
Rogan nodded his agreement and shone a flashlight across the body. “And the cuts were just for fun. Most of them look postmortem.” Without a beating heart to move the body’s blood, stab wounds inflicted after death were dry and bloodless. The hatch marks in the victim’s skin had the telltale look of sliced Styrofoam. “Have you found ID yet?”
“We found a purse, probably tossed over the fence, but no wallet, and no ID.”
“What about her hair?”
“Nothing yet. He either chopped it off before he brought her here, or carried it off with him-maybe kept it as a souvenir.”
Rogan was still taking in the full visual of the body. “Too healthy for a working girl. No track marks. Fresh pedicure. Matching lingerie.”
Ellie had made the same observations.
“How old, do you think? You know that’s not my strong suit,” Rogan said with a small smile. When he’d first met Ellie last week, he had volunteered that she looked a mere twenty years old, but then added that he could never tell with white people.
“Early twenties, tops. She could even be a teenager.”
Rogan clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“We pulled a cell phone from behind the body,” Ellie said. “It must have fallen out when the guy dumped her, before he tossed her purse.”
“So start dialing all her contacts. Let’s find out who this girl is.”
“Easier said than done. There’s something wrong with the screen. The display kept cutting in and out when I was turning off the alarm. Now I can’t get any image at all. Nothing but black lines.”
Rogan took a look at the broken phone. “The same thing happened to me when I dropped my Motorola at the gym. That thing’s shot.”
“I did, however, find this in her purse.” Ellie held up a ziplock bag containing a white plastic card not much larger than a business card.
He smiled, registering the significance of the bag’s contents. “Now that narrows it down. You plan on staying in your sweaty clothes all day?”
As if on command, a marked car pulled up next to Rogan’s Crown Vic. Officer Capra stepped out, carrying a familiar blue backpack. She hoped Jess had remembered to pack her shield, Glock, and the necessary undergarments.
“I’m ready when you are.”
THE WHITE PLASTIC CARD was a hotel key emblazoned with a blue capital H surrounded by a curly Q.
“We got three Hiltons in Manhattan,” Rogan said. “Times Square, Rockefeller Center, and the Financial District. Try your luck.”
Ellie was wriggling out of her running clothes in the footwell of the backseat, trying not to think about the various forms of mucus that had been hurled and smeared against the upholstery since the car’s last disinfection.
“Girls that age don’t stay near Wall Street.”
“Unless they’re hookers,” Rogan interjected.
“And we don’t think she was. So between the other two, I’ll go with Times Square. Who doesn’t love Times Square these days?”
By the time Rogan pulled up to the giant copper clock outside the hotel’s Forty-second Street entrance, Ellie had just finished snapping on her holster. As she stepped from the backseat, she waved off a uniformed valet. Rogan flashed his shield as he followed behind her. “We’ll be quick, man. Thanks.”
To their surprise, the hotel lobby was on the twenty-first floor. They bypassed whatever businesses occupied the tower’s bottom half with an express ride in the Art Deco elevator. At the front desk, they cut to the head of a long line of guests who were presumably waiting to check out.
The woman who greeted them had pale skin, red hair knotted into a bun, and glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. “How may I help you?”
Rogan produced the hotel key and explained in a hushed voice what they needed and why.
“Oh, my.” The clerk lowered her voice as well. “Unfortunately, that key isn’t ours.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.” She produced a white card that looked identical to the one they’d found in the victim’s purse, but with the addition of the words Times Square below the corporate logo. “This here’s one of our keys. People like the Times Square thing, you know. And we’re considered ‘boutique style.’ People like that, too. You should try our hotel at Rockefeller Center. They’ve got over two thousand rooms.”
“And the one in the Financial District?” Ellie asked.
“Five hundred and sixty-five.”
“So, if you’re playing your odds-”
“Our Rockefeller Center location is on Fifty-third Street and Sixth Avenue.”
As the two detectives rode the elevator back to the ground floor, Ellie watched as Rogan checked out his freshly shaven scalp in the mirror. She snuck a look at herself, then quickly thought better of it. She knew from experience that messy strands of her shoulder-length blond hair would be flipped in every direction, thanks to dried sweat and the ponytail holder she’d worn during her run. At some point she’d try to find a hairbrush and at least wash her face.
“How come between the two of us we didn’t figure out to hit the monster-sized hotel first?” Ellie asked, keeping her eyes on the elevator’s digital display as it counted down each passing floor.
“I guess the first twenty floors are misleading. Makes it look larger than it really is.”
“That’s what she said.” Ellie hadn’t meant to slip into a Michael Scott impersonation in front of her new partner, but the response to his comment had been automatic.
So was Rogan’s. He laughed. It was a good laugh. Loud. From the gut. “Careful, Hatcher. If word gets out you’ve got a sense of humor, the guys at the house will really be chasing after you, and I won’t be able to protect you. That is, assuming you ever get around to taking a shower.”
THE MONDAY-MORNING TRAFFIC was already starting to pour from the Lincoln Tunnel into Midtown. Rogan hit the wigwag flashers on the headlights of the Crown Vic and made it to the circular driveway at the Sixth Avenue entrance of the Hilton in four minutes flat. Leaving the car pulled up behind a large Trailways bus, he badged the valet as they headed for the lobby, working their way through a large group of teenagers wearing John Marshall High School band T-shirts and dragging backpacks and instrument cases. Most of them were using cell phones to snap their final photographs of Manhattan as they milled around, waiting to board the jumbo bus.
Ellie knew they’d found the right place when she spotted two girls huddled next to the bell stand on the opposite side of the lobby. She couldn’t make out their words, but she could tell from the pitch of their raised voices that the girls were distressed. They appeared to be arguing, but then one of the girls burst into tears, and her friend placed an arm around her shoulder. A bellhop in a red uniform and captain’s hat stared at the girls awkwardly, clearly wishing to extract himself from the situation.