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He sat down, uninvited. “Yes, I could see you were tearing it up as I walked through the office. You looked more like a poet dreaming about the beauty of a waterfall than a detective hunting for a serial killer.”
I bristled at his tone. If he was laughing or joking, I didn’t mind the comment. But this guy seemed pretty serious.
I had to say, “Looks can be deceiving. I would’ve guessed you were a model. Maybe the before picture in a Rogaine ad.”
He let out a forced laugh. “I love cop humor. You know I was with the NYPD.”
“Sure. Remind me in what capacity?”
“I was a beat cop.” He paused and smiled. “For about five minutes. Then I got smart and went to law school.”
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.
