212: A Novel Part 33

The fabric protecting her hands, she hoisted herself through the window, landing in a crouch on the concrete of the garage floor. She immediately reached for the b.u.t.t of her Glock and twisted the gun free from her holster.

Holding her breath, she felt a bead of sweat form at her temple and creep slowly down her cheek, but she remained still, ready for Dillon to appear from the house to inspect the sound of the disruption.

Nothing.

The sound of the zippers on her ankle-length boots was deafening in the silence. She stepped out of them in her socks, remembering how she had removed these same boots at Sam Sparks's apartment on the night Robert Mancini was killed. She tiptoed to the interior door and reached for the k.n.o.b with her left hand, the Glock held firmly in the right. She turned the k.n.o.b and allowed herself to inhale as she felt the cylinder retract, grateful that Dillon, like most homeowners, had not bothered to lock the door between the garage and his house.

She pushed the door open slowly, inch by inch, and then stepped onto the slate tile floor of a mudroom. She saw two steps in front of her, leading to an empty kitchen. She pulled up a mental image of the exterior of the house: the picture window at the front porch probably led to a living room at the front of the house; the sliding gla.s.s doors in back must have been for a family room in the back. Given the size of the house's footprint, Dillon probably had three bedrooms upstairs. Subterraneous windows around the property indicated a bas.e.m.e.nt.

Dillon and Stacy could be anywhere.

She took one step up from the mudroom, preparing for the squeaks and creeks that might come with the transition from tile to hardwood. Silence. She took the second step with more confidence, swinging her Glock to the right at the turn from the kitchen into the living room. Still no sign of Dillon or Stacy.

She had reached a fork in the floor plan. To the right were the living room and a staircase leading from the front door to the second floor. Ahead of her, she saw the remainder of the kitchen, followed by a hallway to what she guessed was the family room.

She took three steps toward the front door when a sound stopped her frozen. Without context, she would have pictured an injured dog. A whimper. Desperation. Resignation. Stacy.

The noise was distant. She allowed herself to close her eyes. To close off all her senses as her mind replayed the sound. In front of her and to the left. And down. Beneath the floor. m.u.f.fled. In the bas.e.m.e.nt.

She turned to the left, stepping carefully past the kitchen. A well-appointed sunken family room-sectional sofa, upholstered ottoman, plasma television over a fireplace-sat unoccupied at the back of the house. Still further, down the hall past the family room, was a door-not fully closed, not open, ajar just an inch. She knew it would lead to the bas.e.m.e.nt.

She made her way down the hall until she stood just outside the cracked door. She heard voices.

"Just do it. Please, do it." A whimper. Desperation. Resignation. Stacy.

"May 27. Two-one-two Lafayette. I set it up. Miranda was supposed to be the girl, just Mancini's type. But it turns out she wasn't the girl hiding in the bathroom after all. She called you to cover."

"No."

"Stop lying. Miranda withstood a lot more than this, but in the end, she couldn't take anymore. She called you, Stacy Schecter, the 'honest and attractive brunette.' You were the one who was there."

"No."

"Admit you were there, and I'll do it."

"Fine, I was there."

"Then tell me what you heard. Tell me."

Silence. Then a whimper. "I don't know. I told you. It was Heather. The girl on the news. Tanya Abbott."

This time the sound wasn't a whimper, but a wail.

"I was in Afghanistan, Stacy. I learned these moves from watching men trained by Al Qaeda. Men who worked for the Taliban. Stop lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You are saying that name because you've seen the missing girl on the news. Tanya Abbott's picture has been plastered across the city all week."

"I swear. It was her."

Ellie pressed her back against the wall outside the door, trying to process the conversation. She'd been right. Dillon was trying to find the woman from the 212 that night. But he didn't know it was Tanya Abbott. He'd started with Katie Battle. Katie had led him to Stacy. And now he was convinced that Stacy was lying because, as far as the public knew, Tanya Abbott was the girl who'd gone missing after her roommate was stabbed.

Ellie reached into her pocket for the compact and then used her index finger to slowly widen the crack in the bas.e.m.e.nt door. She crouched toward the floor and slipped the mirror into the crack above the stairs, adjusting the mirror to view the activity in the bas.e.m.e.nt below.

The gla.s.s was tiny. Four inches at best. She made out isolated images, like the staccato flashes of a strobe light. She saw enough to know it was bad. Stacy on her side, her bent legs pulled behind her. Arms over her head. Her face against the concrete floor at Dillon's feet. Dillon bent over her contorted body. And the whimpers.

Ellie was startled by a sound behind her. Her instincts pulled her to the right one hundred and eighty degrees, her Glock held steady in front of her. The garage door through which she'd entered pushed farther open.

She stepped to her right toward a closed door farther down the hallway and smelled the familiar scent of laundry. She held the mirror in front of her to watch the garage entrance.

But where she expected to see Sam Sparks stood her lieutenant, Robin Tucker, her own Glock at the ready.

Ellie slowly peered around the corner and, when she caught Tucker's eye, raised her left index finger to her lips. Tucker nodded. Ellie watched as her lieutenant took one careful step after the next, making her way down the hall toward her. She pressed her back against the wall on the opposite side of the bas.e.m.e.nt door. She was still catching her breath, but the two of them now had Dillon's exit straddled.

Ellie glanced at her watch. Where was backup? And did she really want it after all? If they stormed the house now, Dillon might panic and take Stacy out immediately. Or they'd be looking at a hostage situation in which Dillon had nothing to lose and nothing to gain either.

The voices continued downstairs.

"I was in the NYPD, Stacy. And I still have sources. In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret: I have a near, dear friend in the department who absolutely adores me. Tells me everything I need to know. If Tanya Abbott were the girl I was interested in, I think she would've mentioned it. Think of another story, Stacy."

Ellie stole a glance at Tucker, who swallowed and blinked a couple of times before returning Ellie's gaze. Based on that very brief change in her expression, Ellie guessed that something inside her lieutenant had broken as she realized the truth about her role in Nick Dillon's life.

Her attention was pulled back to the bas.e.m.e.nt by more sounds-sobs followed by a thud and then a moan.

"You might not care about this, Stacy, but I mean it when I say, I take no pleasure in this. I'm not some rapist or s.a.d.i.s.t or s.e.x-crazed killer. All I want is information."

She heard Stacy's pained voice, but could not make out the words.

"I'm sorry. I don't believe you. How about I show you what I can do with a pair of pliers? I'm walking out to the garage, and when I get back, you're going to start telling me the truth."

In the reflection of the mirror, she saw Dillon turn toward the staircase and tuck his handgun into his waistband. Ellie jerked her arm out of view and pulled her body farther from the bas.e.m.e.nt door, waving two fingers at Tucker to indicate that she should reposition herself farther down the hallway. Tucker took two steps to her left and raised her eyebrows to signal she was ready.

She heard Dillon step onto the first stair. The stride of his feet against the steps continued unbroken. The bas.e.m.e.nt door began to open. Dillon stepped into the hallway.

"Freeze," she yelled. "Down on your knees. Hands up. Hands up."

She'd replay the next milliseconds in her mind's eye countless times. What had she seen? Had Dillon's hands reached for his weapon? Had they reached over his head as she'd commanded? Had they moved at all? The subtle movements of a man's body in less than a second's time, when he was surprised to see her, and when she feared for her safety, could never fully be reconstructed.

She knew with certainty, however, what happened a second after Dillon first spotted her outside the doorway. She heard the blast of gunfire-two shots-and saw Dillon fall to his knees, red stains blossoming at his stomach and on the collar of his light blue dress shirt. She saw him look up to her in confusion as he fell to the ground. And then she saw his eyes move from her to Robin Tucker, whose Glock was still raised, ready to fire again if necessary. Dillon's own weapon was at his waistband. Ellie bent over his limp and bleeding body and removed it to be safe.

She heard the faint sound of multiple sirens in the distance.

"He reached for his gun," Tucker said, reholstering her Glock. "Don't look at me like that, Hatcher. He reached. You saw it. Didn't you see it? Tell me you saw that. He would've killed us."

Then came the first of the many times Ellie would try to replay that partial second-that tiny gap of time between the opening of the bas.e.m.e.nt door and the sound of Tucker's shots. Maybe Dillon had reached for his waist and Tucker simply had a better view from her position. Or maybe he hadn't, but would have half a second later if Tucker hadn't fired. All Ellie knew was that she hadn't seen his hands move. She also knew that her beliefs about what she'd actually seen didn't really matter.

Dillon was a killer. She, Tucker, and Stacy were alive. Ellie was raised by a cop. She knew how this worked. As far as the official record was concerned, Dillon had reached for his weapon. Tucker would say so. So would Ellie. And, from the looks of the blood beginning to pool on the floor beneath him, Dillon wouldn't be around to give his side of the story.

Her lieutenant still seemed to be processing what she'd just done as Ellie stepped around Dillon's body. "I was outside," she said. "Down the street. Watching. I saw him come with her. I thought-I thought he was fooling around. And then the unis knocked and left. And then you showed up, ran off, and came back again. When I saw the broken window, I realized-Hatcher, what am I going to say?"

"He reached for his gun."

"But I was here. At his house. I was watching him."

Ellie was already taking the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs two at a time. She could tell from the approaching sounds of sirens that backup would be there soon. "You were coming over to surprise him. It's fine. Call dispatch," she yelled. "Have them send two ambulances."

Stacy let out a sob when she saw Ellie turn the corner toward her.

"Is he gone?"

Her words were strained as she struggled to control her breath. Her ankles and wrists were bound together at the small of her back in a complex tangle of black nylon rope. Ellie relieved some of the pressure from Stacy's limbs by supporting the weight of her bent legs in her own hands.

"We need a knife. Tucker, can you hear me? Find a knife."

Her lieutenant descended the stairs seconds later wielding a ten-inch chef's knife. Stacy's body stiffened at the sight.

"Shh," Ellie said, reaching for Tucker's extended hand. "It's okay now. He's dead."

She sawed at the rope, freeing Stacy's hands and feet. Stacy's weight dropped limp against the concrete, and she began to cry.

"Thank you," she wailed between sobs. "Oh, my G.o.d. Thank you."

Ellie crouched on the floor beside her, rubbing her shoulder as Stacy's breath started to return to normal. She heard Tucker's footsteps on the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs and then in the living room above her, followed by heavier footsteps and the sounds of police radios. The backup had finally arrived.

"The cavalry's here," Ellie said, tugging the hem of Stacy's dress over her bare thighs. "Let's get you put together."

She helped Stacy to her feet. She wobbled at first but managed the steps slowly as she held Ellie's hand for support. Just as she reached the final step, she turned to look at Ellie.

"I know what he did to Katie. She tried not to tell him who I was. She tried to protect me. I tried at first, but I just couldn't do it. I told him about Tanya. I told him she was the girl at that apartment that night."

Ellie gave her hand a squeeze. "You were strong, Stacy. And Tanya will be okay. He's gone now."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE.

9:15 P.M.

The Maybach slowed in front of the house. Sparks stepped from the driver's seat just as the EMTs were rolling Dillon's gurney out the front door. The change in his face from panic to absolute devastation told a story about his relationship with Nick Dillon-the secret that Dillon had killed to protect.

"Nick," he cried out. He did not need to see beneath the white sheet to understand the significance of the swarm of police cars and ambulances.

Ellie and Robin Tucker were standing guard over Stacy Schecter as she sat on a bench on the front porch, an EMT wrapping the lacerations on her wrists and monitoring her for signs of shock.

"I'll be all right," Stacy said, clearly sensing Ellie's hesitation to leave. Tucker placed a rea.s.suring hand on the woman's shoulder as Ellie made her way across the lawn.

By the time she reached Sparks, a uniform officer was holding him back from the cl.u.s.ter of emergency vehicles in the middle of the street. Sparks saw Ellie approaching and held her gaze.

"Please. Please tell me he's still alive."

Ellie shook her head, and he seemed to collapse against the uniform officer. The confused cop walked him back toward the Maybach, where he rested his weight on the front b.u.mper.

"No, oh G.o.d no." He placed his face in his hands. "It's my fault."

She stood and let him cry. And talk. He wasn't in custody. No Miranda warnings were required. And he was about to give them more of a confession than she could ever get through interrogation.

"I should've known. I should have said something. I didn't know. At first, when Robo was killed, I wondered. But I didn't know."

"He was blackmailing Dillon."

Sparks nodded. "It started when Nick was in Afghanistan. Robo found out about Nick-"

"That he was gay."

"It wasn't about that at first. It was Nick being stupid, shaking down some opium farmer he stumbled on during a security job in Nangahar Province. Robo and his people came through on patrol and found Nick where he wasn't supposed to be. Nick made up some b.s. story, but Robo figured out what was going on."

"You knew about this?"

"Of course not," he said, shaking his head. "Not until later. Nick would tell me old stories about cops ripping off dealers, but he always made it sound like he was talking about someone else. Robo made it clear to Nick that he expected a job when he was discharged. By the time that happened, I had convinced Nick to come back to New York. He wasn't happy about working for me, but it was supposed to be temporary, a way for him to bolster his corporate security credentials without being over in that h.e.l.lhole. Then he'd move on to another company."

"So he hired Mancini?"

Sparks's eyes remained glued on the ambulance as Dillon's body was wheeled into the back. "For a while, things were all right. But then Robo walked in on us once in Nick's office. It was just a kiss, but still, it was obvious what was going on. Next thing we knew, he was asking for a much better job-well, a non-job really-at an exorbitant salary. I wanted to pay it, but my accounting staff would have asked questions. And Nick, with those cop instincts, said it would never stop. Robo would just keep asking for more. And then May 27 happened."

"You had to know it was Nick."

"I think I was still in denial about the entire situation. When I got the call about a problem at the 212, I made a point to find Robo to deal with it. It's like I was trying not to be intimidated. To remind him who he worked for. I had no idea he was the emergency."

"But then we told you he'd been killed. The possibility must have crossed your mind."

He nodded. "That's probably why I came off as such a p.r.i.c.k that night. Part of me was happy that Robo was dead, but I was so angry, wondering whether Nick was somehow involved. So I asked him, of course. But he swore he had nothing to do with it. He told me how people get killed in these mistaken home invasions. He said it could've been a robbery attempt. And I'm sure I wanted those explanations to sound plausible. You don't want to think the person you love has it in him to do something like that. Then the next thing we know, you're asking about me and my enemies and my finances. I couldn't cooperate, but I knew it only made me look guilty."

"If we'd opened your books, we would have found the payments to Prestige Parties," Ellie said. "Eventually we would have asked the right question and figured out you were the one client of theirs who really was aboveboard."

"Lots of pretty girls to walk the red carpets with me. Nothing more, nothing less. And I truly didn't think I had any information that would help you, or I would have turned it over. I believed Nick. And then you showed up at the Four Seasons last night."

"We said something that made you realize there was more to it."

"You told me that Robo had been with a woman from the service the night he was killed. It was too big of a coincidence. Robo didn't know about the escort service, but Nick did. I realized that Nick had set him up."

Ellie remembered Genna Walsh's description of her brother and husband snickering about Robo's "sure thing." She imagined Dillon pretending to cede to Mancini's demands, throwing in all the corporate perks for good measure.