I didn’t say anything.
“I don’t mean any disrespect to law enforcement,” Macy continued. “On the bright side, no one’s trying to kill me these days.”
“It’s still early.” This guy wasn’t taking the hint. I cleared my throat and said, “Look, despite whatever impression you got, I really am swamped. Just tell me what it is you’re hoping I can do for you.”
Macy pulled a Moleskine notebook and a blue Montblanc pen from a leather satchel and brushed aside some papers from the corner of my desk to create a writing area. Then he looked up at me and said, “All I need is for you to bring me up to speed on the case.”
“You mean our active homicide investigation?”
“You know exactly which case I’m talking about. Now give me the details.”
I assessed the man. He was in pretty good shape, with only a little bit of a belly. I idly wondered if he’d be a handful if I punched him in the face. Instead, I tried to be mature. I simply said, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of time. I have more important things on my plate.”
The mayor’s aide straightened in his chair. “Nothing is more important than keeping the mayor informed. This newest murder on Staten Island marks a turn in the case.”
I almost wanted to share my doubts about the scene on Staten Island. How I didn’t think it was connected to the other homicides. But I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Macy was undaunted. He said, “Jesus Christ, we can’t let this go on much longer. There was a shooting in Brooklyn. A woman was spooked by the murders, accidentally shot her brother coming in late. She said she thought he was the killer coming to attack her. Things are spinning out of control.”
I said, “Will the young man live?”
“Probably. You know how these Brooklyn Italians are. Through evolution they’re virtually immune to gunfire.”
Prick.
He had the nerve to open his mouth again. “That’s why you need to wrap up this case and put cuffs on this mope.”
I knew he was intentionally using police slang to remind me he had once been a cop, even if it was only for five minutes. I said, “We’re on it. That’s the best I can tell you.”
Macy said, “Maybe you’re the wrong cop to be leading this investigation.”
“Maybe the mayor has the wrong lackey asking questions.” That one got a good flash of red across Macy’s face.
Instead, he quickly stood up from my desk, glared at me, and said, “I’ll be back.” Then he turned on his heel and started to march out of the office.
I called after him, “Bring pizza. I’m starving.”
Chapter 29
Daniel Ott had followed the young librarian home from the Subway sandwich shop to her apartment in a run-down, five-story walk-up in the diverse neighborhood of East Harlem.
Overnight, he had made a simple plan.
Now he sat on the steps across the street from the librarian’s building. He was dressed in a gray shirt with the name tag MITCH over the left side of his chest. He’d snagged the uniform from an unattended delivery van in Midtown. No one paid any attention to him at all.
It was early evening. From his vantage point, the street was fairly quiet. The local foot traffic seemed to have rerouted to a block party about two blocks away.
Ott was happy to sit quietly and watch the street, planning his first-ever elimination of a witness. He would forgo the rituals he loved so much. This would not be a big spectacle.
As soon as Ott saw the librarian, his loose end, walking by herself on the other side of the street, he stood up slowly and stretched. He slipped a surgical glove over each hand. He forced himself to casually walk across the empty street.
Once he reached the sidewalk, he turned and headed for the librarian. She was walking slowly, looking in her bag. Probably trying to find her keys. The opportunity was lining up nicely for Ott.
He quickly glanced around in every direction. There were kids playing on some steps a few buildings down. A woman facing away from where he was walking pushed a stroller across the street. This looked like a good window for him to act.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out his Gerber folding knife. He flicked it open with his thumb and looked up at the librarian.
Ott timed his strike perfectly. Just as he passed her, he raised his right hand and made a single, simple slash across the young woman’s throat. Smooth and fast. In that instant, he caught her expression of total shock as the blade cut through the flesh and sinew of her lovely throat. She didn’t make a sound.
The librarian just tumbled to the sidewalk next to the building’s stairs.
Ott took a moment to make sure no one had noticed the flurry of violent action. Then he arranged the woman’s body so that in the evening light it looked like she was sitting on the stoop, resting. The ruse might buy him a few more minutes to get out of the area.
Just as he straightened up, taking a moment to admire his handiwork, the door to the apartment building opened. Ott snapped his head in that direction and found himself staring at a young man with a nose stud and long black hair that hung across his face.
The man looked at the librarian and said, “Yara, what’s going on?”
Ott watched as the man noticed the librarian’s blood dripping down her chest onto the steps. He saw the man’s face register his understanding that the librarian had been violently attacked, and that her assailant—Ott—was still standing there, facing him. The young man took a sudden leap over the railing onto the ground, about seven feet below.
Ott was on him in a flash. As the young man started to run, Ott grabbed the back of his T-shirt, swinging the knife wildly and slashing him in the arm and back.
Then the man’s shirt ripped. He shot forward but lost his balance and slid onto the sidewalk.
This time, Ott didn’t risk another wild slash with his knife. He aimed the point as he swung his arm and caught the man in the side. He felt the blade slip between ribs. He pulled it out with his right hand and spun the man with his left. Just as they were face-to-face, Ott plunged the knife into the man’s solar plexus.
Ott left it there for a moment, then twisted and pushed the man at the same time, dropping him next to the apartment steps.
Gasping for air after the heavy physical activity, he sucked in a lungful and scanned the area. No one was raising any alarms.
He started walking quickly away from the scene in the opposite direction of the block party. He slipped the surgical gloves off his hands and into a plastic bag that he tucked into the pocket of his uniform.
As Ott picked up his pace, he couldn’t get a handle on the wild swing of his emotions. He felt vulnerable as he continued walking, but after about ten minutes, he began to feel safe. Most of all, he felt relief that a loose end was now tied up, but not the thrill he usually experienced when he had time to spend with his victims.
As he waited to catch a subway train downtown, he reviewed the events of the evening. Circumstances had forced him into eliminating one loose end, and then another one—his first male victim. There had been no time to perform his rituals. The young man and the librarian were the only two victims whose eyes he had not stabbed, and whose blood largely remained in their dead bodies. But he couldn’t stop to think about this significant break from his patterns—and what response it might evoke in Detective Michael Bennett and the NYPD.