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  “So maybe we’re both right,” she said.

  “How so?”

  “Maybe Tanya’s a victim and a bad guy. She was hiding in the bathroom at the 212. Had nothing to do with that. But four months later, her roommate’s a problem.”

  “That works,” Rogan said, completely ignoring his dinner by now. “She uses Campus Juice to create a distraction, kills Megan, and cuts herself to make sure no one suspects her.”

  “But she’d need an accomplice for that,” Ellie said. “There was no weapon in the apartment.”

  “Or maybe she just hid the weapon really well and went back for it when she left the hospital. I mean, it’s not like we looked in the toilet tank.”

  “Okay, good. And then she leaves the hospital, either because she realizes we’re going to figure out who she was, or maybe she saw the news reports about Katie’s murder.”

  “Which, if you’re right, could be Sparks cleaning up his mess. And now that Tanya’s figuring out that she could be next, she might have been reaching out to you for help. Or maybe the last couple of days have given her time to come up with some story that gets her out from under Megan’s murder.”

  This felt right. The pieces fit together. “It doesn’t matter. We still can’t find her.”

  “No,” Rogan said. “But we do know where Sam Sparks is.”

  “But we can’t prove any of this, and we don’t have PC for an arrest. If we go to him with more questions, he’ll just lawyer up and Guerrero will never let us near him again.”

  “So we won’t question him.”

  “What? We’re just going to stare at him real hard and hope he comes clean?”

  “No. If we’re going to assume we’re both right about Tanya, let’s assume you were right about all of it. Not just Sparks, but about Paul Bandon doing him special favors. If we go to Sparks and rattle his cage, he might reach out to Bandon again. If we can prove that, we can flip Bandon to find out what he knows, and then we might be in business.”

  “When should we begin the rattling?”

  “I’m still good to go. You?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “You going to finish that?” He pointed to the last piece of burger on her plate, which she promptly stuffed into her mouth.

  “You’re a cruel, heartless woman, Hatcher.”

  If working a room were a competitive sport, Sam Sparks would line a wall with gold medals. Wherever he paused in the ballroom, clumps of curious onlookers followed, hoping for a handshake, a quick hello, a look into the glint of those steely eyes, perhaps even a photograph of themselves beside the next American celebrity tycoon.

  Tracking him down to what the Four Seasons called its Cosmopolitan Suite had not been difficult. They’d started with a phone call to Kristen Woods. Ellie had hit redial seven times before Kristen finally picked up. Over the background noise of light jazz and cocktail chatter, Kristen had insisted that Sparks was unavailable to speak with them until the morning. He was delivering an address for the Columbia Business School alumni association. With that nugget of information in hand, it took only a quick scroll of the school’s Web site to learn that Sparks was delivering a keynote speech that night at the Four Seasons about the relevance of business education in the new economy.

  Ellie watched from the ballroom entrance as waitstaff cleared dessert dishes and eager alumni lingered to greet Sparks. “I can’t take much more of this.”

  “There’s your girl Kristen.” Rogan nodded toward a spot not far from the jazz quartet in the corner of the room. They worked their way through the crowd toward her.

  “Detectives, my boss will not be happy to see you here.”

  “I’m sure he won’t. If you could find a way to pull him aside, we can be discreet in the hallway. There’s no need for this to be uncomfortable.” Ellie said it as if she had any authority to force a confrontation.

  “Fine. I’ll do my best.”

  Kristen interrupted Sparks’s conversation with an older, well-dressed couple. His eyes flashed toward them as he headed for the exit. They took their cue to follow.

  Sparks did not waste any time once they were on the opposite side of the lobby outside the ballroom.

  “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call my lawyer right now and enjoin you from having any further contact with me.”

  “Because we would move to have your favorite judge, Paul Bandon, disqualified from hearing any issues involving you or this case.”

  “Now what kind of paranoid theory have you come up with?”

  “You had to know we’d eventually ask ourselves why Bandon took such a special interest in your case,” Ellie said.

  “I don’t think he had a particularly strong interest until you essentially perjured yourself in his courtroom, Detective.”

  Ellie steeled herself to accomplish what they had come here to do. For months, Sam Sparks had been under her skin. Now it was their turn to slide beneath his. “We know why you wanted access to the evidence involving Mancini’s date the night he was murdered.”

  “As I believe my attorney explained, I wanted my team to follow through on any steps you might have missed in your zealousness to focus attention on me.”

  “It’s all about the photographs we used during the court hearing. You saw the open cabinet in the photograph of the bathroom and realized there was a witness. Someone knows what happened in your apartment that night, and you don’t want us to find her. We know why Bandon was willing to bend over backward for you. We know about Prestige Parties.”

  Sparks had retained his usual self-possessed demeanor, but at her mention of the escort service, his eyes darted toward the alumni event as if someone there might save him from this conversation. She had been right. Something about Prestige Parties linked him to Mancini’s murder and to Paul Bandon.

  “You may think you know something, Detective, but until you’re ready to put your money where your mouth is and file charges against me, you should keep your theories to yourself. My lawyer could have a field day with you in a slander suit.”

  “We’ll be quiet, Sparks, but that won’t mean we’re not working. And listening to people who aren’t so silent.”

  “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “You should ask yourself how much you trust the people who’ve been so eager to help you.” She needed to plant doubts. She needed Sparks to wonder how much pressure a man like Paul Bandon could resist. She needed him to think that Bandon might admit he’d been pressured to show preferential treatment. “You should ask yourself if your secrets are safe.”

  She saw it then. A crack in the effortless facade. A hint of apprehension in that otherwise omnipresent stare of resolved confidence. He was no longer certain he was in control.

  “Enjoy the rest of your night, Mr. Sparks. We’ll be in touch.”

  As they took the stairs to the main lobby, she said to Rogan, “You were awfully quiet back there.”

  “I thought you needed to do that on your own.”

  He was right. She had. The tables were turned. She had gone toe to toe with Sparks and hadn’t broken. Now he was the one with something to worry about.

  Outside the hotel on Fifty-seventh Street, Rogan threw her the keys to the Crown Vic. “You sure you want the night shift?”

  “Absolutely.” She was ready to see where Sam Sparks was heading next.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  10:43 P.M.

  Twenty-two minutes. It had been exactly twenty-two minutes since she took the keys from Rogan.

  In what was probably the fourth of the twenty-two minutes, Ellie had ducked into the Borders on the corner. A guard was about to lock the door but made an exception when she’d flashed her badge and pleaded for caffeine. She left one minute later, a large black coffee in hand. Once she was in the car, she took a U-turn and parked on the north, hotel side of Fifty-seventh Street, just west of Park Avenue. Sparks would likely have a driver, and the driver would pull up to the front of the hotel. She was p
oised to follow.

  For the remainder of the twenty-two minutes, her gaze floated between the hotel entrance, her watch, the six awaiting black limos she’d counted between Park and Madison, and—just to help the time pass—the ascending floors of the Four Seasons’ limestone exterior. Ellie had counted fifty-two on the way up, and was on thirty-one on the way down when she spotted Sam Sparks leaving the hotel, Kristen Woods at his side.

  She looked at her watch. Twenty-two minutes. Not so fast to be proof of a panic. Not so slow that she should write off the possibility.

  One of the six limo drivers—this one double-parked not a hundred feet from the hotel—hopped into his car, pulled forward to the curb, hopped out again, and dashed to the opposite side of the car to open the back door for Sparks.

  Ellie started the engine and pulled into traffic four cars behind the limo on Fifty-seventh Street. Without signaling, the limo took a right at the light to head north on Madison Avenue. She followed. Traffic was moving smoothly, and the limo made good time in sync with the lights. She maneuvered into a different lane to get a closer position.

  They’d hoped that the confrontation in the hotel might trigger a meeting between Sparks and Bandon. As they continued north on Madison, Ellie worried that the only act in which she’d be catching Sparks red-handed tonight was a return to his town house on Seventy-seventh, but she reminded herself that Bandon also lived on the Upper East Side.

  At Seventy-third Street, the driver shifted into the left lane. Sparks’s place was between Madison and Fifth Avenue. Bandon was farther east on Park. He was definitely going home.

  When the limo lurched through a yellow light at Seventy-sixth, she chose to stop at the red rather than risk flagging her tail. She watched as the light at Seventy-seventh turned red. The limo stopped. Still no left-turn signal, but the driver hadn’t used his blinker back at the hotel either.

  Her light changed to green and she hit her blinker to hang a right to take Park Avenue back to the precinct. But something kept her from tapping the gas. She’d waited twenty-two minutes and driven twenty blocks. She’d stick it out until the limo turned onto Sparks’s block.

  The light at Seventy-seventh turned green. But the limo didn’t turn. It went straight. So did she, maneuvering into the left lane to follow.

  She trailed behind the limo as it turned left on Eighty-first, then another quick left, south on Fifth Avenue. Had the driver spotted her? She hung back, pulling into the loading zone of an apartment complex on Eighty-first, just in case. She could pause here and catch up after the turn.

  She forced herself to count eight full beats and then made a left on Fifth Avenue, holding her breath until she spotted her target. The limo was turning right into the parking entrance for the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  The museum was dead. Maybe Sparks was turning around in the hope of losing her tail. Or maybe he was meeting someone in the garage. It was open to nonmuseum parking after hours, and if darkened garages worked for Woodward and Bernstein, she imagined they’d work for Sparks as well.

  She pulled over on the west side of Fifth behind a southbound M4 bus and watched the museum driveway. No limo. If the driver were taking a U-turn, he’d be out by now. But if Sparks had a clandestine meeting inside, there was no way she could drive through the bottleneck entrance without being noticed.

  She waited.

  Two minutes later, she was parked in the same spot, but with no bus to cover her, when she spotted the black limo pull out of the driveway. She immediately migrated into the flow of traffic, hoping that the driver wouldn’t spot her as she passed and would eventually overtake her so she could resume the tail. She was just about to pass the limo when it pulled forward for its right turn onto Fifth Avenue. As the chauffeur paused beneath the streetlamp at the end of the driveway, she could make out a silhouette of the car’s interior.

  The backseat was empty.

  “Damn it,” she said, pulling her car in front of a hydrant in the left lane as the limo flew down Fifth Avenue. She scanned the museum driveway in her rearview mirror. Where was Sparks?

  She’d hopped out of the car, ready to cover the parking garage on foot, when she spotted another vehicle exiting the driveway. She ducked back into the driver’s seat and watched as Sam Sparks passed her behind the wheel of a two-tone gray Maybach.

  She wouldn’t have known the name of the car except for a brief stint patrolling Central Park when that famous couple had swathed it with bright orange fabric. The artists had viewed their handiwork from a car just like Sparks’s, and one of the other officers racking up easy overtime commented that the vehicle cost nearly four hundred grand. With the real estate market in its current condition, even Sparks had to be feeling the pinch, but he certainly wasn’t going to let anyone know it.

  But Ellie didn’t care whether Sparks drove a Maybach or a Honda or a GMC Pacer. What mattered to her was that it was eleven o’clock at night, and he’d ditched his driver and was on the move.

  If Ellie had been asked to bet on Sam Sparks’s likely destination as the clock approached midnight, her imagination would have carried her on a luxury excursion through the city: a top-secret avant-garde performance art debut in SoHo, an exclusive club opening in Chelsea, the rooftop bar at the Gansevoort. Instead, she found herself in the burbs. Riverdale, to be exact.

  Riverdale was a perfectly decent place. Nice, in fact. Pleasant. Even fancy in parts. And she supposed that it technically fell within the limits of the Bronx and was therefore formally part of the city and not a suburb. But in all the ways that counted, Riverdale was the humdrum boring suburbs.

  But something had brought Sam Sparks and his Maybach here as the clock approached midnight.

  She had followed him crosstown on Seventy-ninth, and then north on the Henry Hudson Parkway. She had wondered if he was leading her all the way to his upstate country home when he turned off at Exit 22. The winding, hilly residential roads challenged her tailing abilities, but she managed to keep sight of him.

  She was one turn behind him when she saw the red blush of his brake lights. He parked on the street behind a blue minivan and turned off his engine. She killed her headlights and backed into a spot at the curb. Despite the angle, she could see his car around the corner if she leaned forward.

  With the twists and turns through Riverdale, she had not had a chance to take in the surroundings. Upper-middle-class residential neighborhood. Well-maintained brick Tudors seemed to dominate. Average-size lots. Average-size homes. Not the kind of place she’d expect Sparks to leave a Maybach on the street.

  She tried to make out the street names on the perpendicular green signs on the corner, but did not have enough light. Why was Sparks here? And why hadn’t he gotten out of his car?

  She waited. She watched. Nothing happened.

  Ten minutes later, she sensed a brightening somewhere on the street past Sparks’s car—a porch light—followed by the faint sound of muted voices. She saw the silhouette of Sparks’s head slink down in the driver’s seat.

  Rogan had mocked her for grabbing a set of binoculars before they left the precinct, but she was grateful for them now. She rotated the lenses until the street came into focus.

  She spotted the couple on the lit porch of a house two lots down from Sparks’s Maybach. Taller guy. Shorter woman with light-colored hair in a low ponytail, keys in her hand. They were kissing—nothing too passionate, but more than just a friendly good-bye.

  The kissing stopped, and she heard their muted voices again. The woman turned to leave. She had a bounce in her step. She looked back toward the porch when she hit the sidewalk and then headed toward a white Toyota Camry parked at the curb. The woman was Lieutenant Robin Tucker.

  Ellie swung the binoculars back to the porch, where Nick Dillon was waving good-bye. Tucker pulled away from the curb and returned the wave before driving off. When Tucker’s taillights were out of sight, she heard the engine of the Maybach. Sparks pulled forward two lots and turned into Dillon’s dri
veway.

  He remained inside his car, engine idling, as Dillon retreated inside his house. Seconds later, she heard a faint electric hum as one door of Dillon’s two-car garage rolled open. The Maybach pulled inside and the door rolled closed behind it.

  Five minutes later after Tucker had left, Ellie saw the white Camry pass her parking spot and turn again onto Dillon’s street. She expected it to pull to the curb in front of the house, but it cruised by, slowing slightly but not stopping.

  An hour passed. No one came. No one left. Nothing happened. At one in the morning, Ellie finally gave up and drove home. Something was important enough to bring Sam Sparks to the suburbs to talk to his head of security in the wee hours of the night, but watching Nick Dillon’s house wasn’t going to tell her what that something was.

  PART V

  SECRETS

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 29

  9:25 A.M.

  “Not to be rude or anything, Hatcher, but I think you looked better after that night you spent in the hoosegow.”

  Ellie tossed her head back to drain the last drops of coffee in her Styrofoam cup and saw Detective John Shannon standing beside her desk, peering down at her.

  “Not to be rude or anything, Shannon, but do you mind moving to your right a few feet? The shadow from your stomach has caused a solar eclipse above my work area.”

  “Lay off,” Rogan said. “Hatcher was up late on a stakeout. Hard work, nothing you’d need to worry about.”

  “What’s this I hear about a stakeout?”

  Ellie hadn’t noticed Lieutenant Tucker heading toward her office, unbuttoning her tan trench coat as she walked.

  “Rogan and I were following up on some leads we got from the Prestige Parties bust last night.”

  “I heard Rogan mention a stakeout.”