Get Lost Page 7

  The door buzzer made no sound. I looked around. The hallway was quiet, clean, and brightly lit. Another buzz and then a knock. The apartment door swung open, wide enough for me to peer inside.

  “Siobhan?” I took a cautious step forward. “Anybody home?”

  Once through the door, I edged to my left, toward the front of the residence and the room Siobhan had described as Tommy’s office. The drawers of the desk against the window had been pulled out. Three of them lay scattered on the floor. The fourth sat upside down on the desktop.

  A small office safe stood open against the far wall. No signs of forced entry, so whoever opened it knew the combination. I knelt in front and peered inside. Empty.

  I stood and retraced my steps to the entry hallway, then crept into the living room. An overturned table rested on its side. Papers and books were scattered about the room. A stand-up lamp had smashed on the floor. I stepped over it.

  My shoe stubbed against a silk pillow on the carpet in front of a couch. A few inches away, a dark red pool the size of my fist stained the rug. A spotted, rust-colored trail wound across the room and disappeared down the main hall.

  I held my breath and stepped back over the lamp, listening for any sound coming from the rest of the apartment. Nothing. I wiped sweat from my forehead and leaned back against the door. It slammed shut. I rested my weight against the knob and listened again. A bus pulled into the stop in front of the building. Its doors opened, then closed. It drove on. Faint sounds from a television or radio filtered down through the ceiling.

  One careful step at a time, I tracked the path of blood to the kitchen. A bowl of Cheerios sat on a small dinette table. A spoon had fallen to the floor. Next to it, two feet stuck out from behind the counter, heels up. A light blue slipper half clung to the left foot.

  Siobhan lay facedown. I touched her neck for a pulse. Her body felt warm, but there was no doubt about it. She and Tommy were together again.

  The red hair of her youth was mostly gray. I didn’t turn her over. I wanted to remember her the way she looked in a long-ago, happier time. I rose and walked back to the living room.

  Footsteps clattered from the hallway and a man’s voice shouted. I looked for another way out of the apartment. The front door exploded with cops. The one in front swiveled a gun straight at my face.

  “Freeze.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They hustled me to 114th Precinct headquarters on Astoria Boulevard before I could catch my breath. My words of protest went unheard.

  I stood in front of a sergeant’s desk, wrists shackled behind my back. He took down my name, address, and social security number. A muscular guard patted me down. They removed the cuffs so I could empty my pockets and sign a receipt. Luckily, I’d left my new cellphone under that morning’s Daily News on the front seat of my rental car.

  “Mr. McKenna, you’re being held for interrogation.” The sergeant wrote on a form in front of him on the desk. He never looked up.

  “When will that be?”

  “Soon as we see if there are any outstanding warrants against you.”

  “There aren’t. Will I be free to go after that?”

  “Now that ain’t up to me.” He motioned toward a couple of nearby cops. “Take his prints.” They did, and then escorted me to a holding cell without a word between them.

  I expected a lockup filled with a colorful palette of street-wise characters, like in the movies. But except for a teenaged kid and one grizzled old man unconscious on a cot, I had the place to myself.

  The large holding cell had a brown and tan checked linoleum floor, bars on three sides, cinder block on the fourth, and a toilet I smelled all the way across the cage.

  The kid and I made eye contact. He gave me a “thumbs up” that I dutifully returned. The old guy snored like a rhino. Nothing else happened for an hour. I spent each of those sixty minutes trying to ignore the stench.

  Detective Lieutenant John Cuozzo—so read his I.D. tag—appeared, one of the cops who’d ridden to the precinct with me from Siobhan’s apartment.

  “Let’s go McKenna.” He unlocked the cell. A hungry-looking cop joined us for a walk down a long, empty corridor to an interrogation room. I’d been through this routine once before. It wasn’t any lovelier the second time around.

  A rectangular table filled most of the ten-by-ten room. The lieutenant waved me to a wooden chair on its far side. A large wastebasket in the corner overflowed with styrofoam coffee cups. Another officer stood in front of the door, arms folded. A single window several feet above my right shoulder was barred. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Cuozzo unfolded a large white handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose with such force that a pencil on the table rolled several inches in my direction. I followed it until it stopped. Once the handkerchief disappeared it was throat-clearing time. First him, then me. I looked up at the cop by the door. He wasn’t playing.

  The lieutenant switched on a video cam behind him. Its red light blinked several times. He adjusted a small microphone on the desktop, introduced me by name as a person of interest, and pronounced the time to be fourteen-thirty hours. My stomach growled. I wondered if it would become part of the official transcript. He recited my Miranda Rights for the benefit of the recorder.

  Showtime.

  “Your name?” He grabbed the pencil in his left hand.

  “Gabriel James McKenna.”

  He scribbled away. I braced myself for his flurry of questions. “Occupation?”

  “Archeologist and Professor of Pre-Columbian North American History.”

  “Place of residence?” Either he was bored already or he’d done this a thousand times before. His voice was dull and lacked any emotion.

  “Albuquerque, New Mexico, U.S.A.”

  He dropped the pencil and stared at me. “With that accent?”

  “Yeah, with that accent. Born and raised in Woodside, Queens. Lived in Elmhurst after that. Moved to New Mexico six months ago.”

  “Any family here who can vouch for you?”

  “My wife died eighteen months ago. I do have a brother-in-law. Dan Mooney.” I coughed up his address and phone number.

  “What were you doing at the O’Donnell residence?”

  “Siobhan was married to Tommy O’Donnell. Tommy was a long-time friend of mine. He was murdered three days ago. I stopped by to pay my respects to his widow.”

  Cuozzo’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Was it possible he didn’t know? “Where did this murder take place?”

  I swallowed hard. “Albuquerque.”

  His eyes flicked a bit of fire. Nostrils widened. There was blood in the water.

  “I’m the one who identified Tommy’s body after the killing. You can check with Detective Lieutenant Sam Archuleta of the APD. He’ll vouch for me.”

  “Why you?”

  I looked up. Had that vein always been there on his forehead? “What do you mean?”

  “How come they had you identify O’Donnell’s body?”

  “Tommy and I were classmates back in the neighborhood. Saint Sebastian’s, over on Fifty-First Street. Served Mass together. Check with Monsignor John Egan. If he’s still around.”

  For the first time, a glimmer of warmth appeared on his face. Then it vanished and he was all business again. “The old monsignor passed away last year. You came all the way back to New York just to see the wife?”

  Careful, Gabe. “I had to come back to New York on personal business. I took the opportunity to pay my respects to the family at the same time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Six months ago I moved to Albuquerque rather abruptly. Left things undone. A bank account, a safe-deposit box at Queens County Savings on Thirty-ninth Avenue. I’m technically on leave from Dumbarton College and needed to sign my termination papers. Had to take care of these things eventually, so I figured, why not now, when I could pay my respects to Siobhan? We were friends.”

  I wanted those words back as soon as they’
d left my mouth.

  “Friends?” Cuozzo leaned across the table a couple more inches. “Good friends?”

  “Just friends. From more than thirty years ago. Nothing more than that.”

  “The story you’re telling makes a bit of sense, but only a bit. For all I know, this could be a romantic triangle gone bad. You kill your rival in Albuquerque, and then come to New York to confront the woman.”

  I knew he was baiting me, but my fist landed on the table just the same. “You’re crazy.” I stood up half way.

  Cuozzo didn’t move. “Sit down, McKenna. Cool off.” His voice was low key. Matter-of-fact.

  “Sorry.” I settled back in my chair. “I can account for every minute I’ve been in New York. I took the red-eye from Albuquerque last night. Sat in seat 16C by the window. The boarding pass stub is in the envelope with my other belongings. The car rental receipt is in there as well. Ask the sergeant at the front desk.”

  Cuozzo sounded unimpressed. “I will. That still doesn’t account for your whereabouts at the time of Mrs. O’Donnell’s death.”

  I felt my cheeks flush. “I haven’t finished. I rented an Impala at 6:30 this morning, at the airport. Hertz. Got stuck on the Van Wyck for nearly two hours. Check the traffic reports. Breakfast at a Colombian diner on Roosevelt at 8:30. The waitress’s name was Caleña. Little slip of a gal with glasses. I left a big tip, maybe she remembers. That receipt is in the envelope, too. Maybe it’s time-stamped.”

  “Too much detail, McKenna. You choreograph everything you do?”

  “I’m an archeologist. Details matter. Look, I was in the O’Donnell co-op for less than two minutes before you arrived. I’ll even give you a DNA sample.”

  “Yes, you will.” Cuozzo took a breath and let it out the way a tired man will at the end of the day. The clock behind him said it was not yet noon.

  “You have my prints. Other than the front doorknob, I only touched Siobhan’s neck.”

  Cuozzo flashed a killer smile. “That might not help you too much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mrs. O’Donnell was strangled to death.”

  “But all that blood—”

  “The way we see it, maybe she left the breakfast table to answer the door. Maybe she was expecting someone. A confrontation ensued. She was struck several times and tried to escape through the kitchen. Her assailant finished her there.”

  Someone pounded on the door to my left. The standing cop opened it and stepped out into the hall. I tried to slow down my breathing.

  “Assistant D.A. Milner is here, Lieutenant.” A gray-haired gentleman with half-glasses and an impeccable blue pinstripe suit entered the room. Cuozzo rose. The two conferred in whispers. The other cop came and stood between them and me. I couldn’t see much of Milner until he stretched out his arm and checked his watch.

  Shit, another one? On the fourth finger of his left hand—a black onyx ring with the raised golden figure of Chief Tammany in the middle.

  I rubbed my eyes and looked again. Milner turned and left the room. The cop resumed his post in front of the door. Cuozzo sat down. His eyes toyed with me, like a cat toying with a wounded bird.

  “I know my rights, Lieutenant. I’m not saying another word until my attorney is present.”

  Cuozzo reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and detonated his nose again. “Sure.” He looked at the cop by the door. “Clancy, take him back to the tank.”

  I stood up and shook off Clancy’s sudden grasp. “I know the way.” With his hovering presence by my shoulder, I trudged back up the corridor and into the holding cell.

  The door clanked behind me. The kid was gone. Just the old man, still snoring.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Cuozzo returned an hour later. “D.A. Milner will take your formal statement at four-thirty.”

  I pressed my forehead against the bars. “I’m not saying anything without an attorney. I want to make a phone call.”

  The lieutenant sighed and unlocked the cell. “Follow me.” We walked down the corridor past the interrogation room to a wall-mounted public phone. No privacy.

  “I need a local directory.”

  He pointed to a large book hanging from a wall by a chain. I used both hands to page through the New York City yellow pages. On page sixty-five, under “Attorneys at Law,” I found my man—Gerald O’Toole, Esquire.

  I hoped my best friend from high school and college would come through for me one more time. “Sloppy” was the only guy I knew who’d worn a sport coat, dress shirt, and bow tie to school each day. Brown shoes, even on weekends. With his wardrobe, and my reputation as an amateur boxer, you could say I functioned as Sloppy’s bodyguard.

  “Gerald O’Toole, Attorney-at-Law. How may we assist you?” She was young, bright, and full of Brooklyn.

  “Hello. I’d like to speak with Sl—with Mr. O’Toole. Tell him it’s Gabe McKenna calling.” I stared Cuozzo down. He took a step back and pretended to read the posters on the wall.

  “Mr. O’Toole will be with you momentarily, Mr. McKenna.” Sweet voice.

  After a brief silence, my call patched through with a click.

  “Sister’s ass! This is a surprise.”

  “How ya doing, Sloppy?”

  “Rich and free, Brain. Where the hell you been hiding?” He sounded the same as always.

  I explained my situation. He told his secretary to cancel all his appointments and promised to make my four-thirty date with Milner.

  “Just one thing,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t call me Sloppy in front of Milner. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Cuozzo walked me back to the holding cell. I wondered if the still-motionless old man on the cot might have lapsed into a coma.

  At precisely four-twenty, Cuozzo came back and let me out. “Time for your singing lesson, McKenna.”

  “Can I leave when it’s over?”

  “Not my call. Come along.”

  My stomach tightened. I had a problem in Milner. I had to figure he knew everything. I had to find that sweet spot between cooperation and self-protection.

  We walked through the open door. Milner pointed to the chair opposite his. “Professor McKenna.”

  “Mr. Milner.” I squeezed out a smile and sat.

  Half-glasses wobbled a bit on the end of his nose. He peered over them with the look of a hungry man at a smorgasbord. Where to begin? He sipped from a Starbucks cup. No jailhouse coffee for the Assistant District Attorney of Queens County.

  “You understand why I’m here?” he said.

  “To get to the truth, I presume.”

  “Have you ever given a deposition before?”

  “No. Where’s my lawyer?”

  My answer came with a knock on the door. Gerald stuck his head in, saw me, and gave me a wink. Milner winced like he’d just swallowed a bitter pill.

  My old friend pulled a chair up next to mine. We shook hands for the first time in three decades.

  Milner turned on a recorder and gave the date and time of day. “Assistant District Attorney Milner questioning Gabriel McKenna. Counsel Gerald O’Toole present at the request of Mr. McKenna.”

  “Has my client been Miranda’d?” Atta boy, Sloppy.

  “Of course.”

  I nodded my head to confirm Milner’s assurance.

  “Mr. McKenna,” he began, “you were discovered at the scene of a homicide on Sixty-first Street in the Woodside neighborhood shortly after nine-thirty this morning. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you acquainted with the victim?”

  I nodded.

  “Speak your answer, please. Were you acquainted with Siobhan Carnahan O’Donnell?”

  “Yes.” I felt Sloppy’s hand on my right shoulder.

  “Are you also aware that her husband was found murdered in Albuquerque, New Mexico, three days ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “And were you present in that city at that tim
e?”

  “Yes.”

  Sloppy looked at me, puzzled.

  “Tommy,” I half-whispered to him.

  His face turned pale. “May I have a moment to confer with my client?” Gerald now gripped my arm.

  “It’s okay,” I assured him and turned back to the D.A. “I intend to cooperate with your investigation in every way possible, Mr. Milner.” Except telling you anything that would hurt my family or me. I looked him in the eye, conscious all the while of the ring on his right hand.

  For the next half hour, I responded to all of the D.A.’s questions, tossing in exonerating details wherever I could. I’d heard of Tommy’s murder from a friend on the Albuquerque police force; I’d flown to New York to clear up personal business, pay my respects to Siobhan, and attend Tommy’s funeral; I could account for every minute of my time since arriving in town that morning—the chits and receipts I’d turned over to the police would back me up.

  I told my story with growing confidence, sure that Sloppy would interrupt me if I said anything that could be damaging.

  Milner lowered his nose to peer at me over his glasses. “Mr. McKenna, who is Joseph Klein?”

  I stared at the table. My mind raced and my heart pounded in my chest. I chose my words with great care. “The only Joseph Klein I know runs a real estate brokerage firm in Albuquerque. His company once held the title to my home. They sold it to my great-aunt Nellie more than twenty years ago.”

  “I see.” He ruffled through a few pages on the desk in front of him.

  I leaned forward, meeting his gaze when he looked up. “And Mr. Milner, as I’m sure you know, Tommy O’Donnell was shot dead in Klein’s office three nights ago. Are you going to be interrogating Mr. Klein?”

  Sloppy kicked me hard under the table.

  Milner ignored my question. “Did you recently visit the Sun Mountain Art Gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico?”

  “Don’t answer that.” Sloppy leaned over the table and eased me out of his way. “My client has told you what he knows about the murder of Siobhan O’Donnell. He has been forthright and cooperative. He is also cooperating with the Albuquerque police investigation into the death of her husband.”