Caught (18 page)

"Most of the time."

"Well"--Hester gestured to her client as if she were a hostess on a game show--"take a look at this strapping hunk of manhood I call a client. Do you see any bruises or abrasions on him? No. So it would seem that if there was a physical altercation, my boy got the better of it, don't you think?"

"That's proof of nothing."

"Trust me, Frank, you don't want to get into a proof argument with me. But either way, win or lose a fight, it's irrelevant. You're talking about finding motive, like that's innovative or helpful. You're new to the case, Frank, so let me help you here--Dan Mercer took nude pictures of my client's eight-year-old son. That's motive already. See? When a man sexually assaults your child, that would be motive to seek revenge upon him. Write that down. Experienced investigators need to know stuff like this."

Frank made a grumbling noise. "That's hardly the point."

"Unfortunately, Frank, that's exactly the point. You claim some big breakthrough with this blood test. You drag us down here in the middle of the night because you're so impressed by it. I'm telling you, your so-called evidence--and I'll skip the part about how I'll tear apart your crime scene guys and the chain of handling because Walker can play you the tape from our first tete-a-tete--means absolutely bubkes and can easily be explained away."

Hester looked over at Walker. "I don't mean to make bold threats, but are you really going to use this dumb-ass blood test to falsely arrest my client for murder?"

"Not for murder," Tremont said.

That made Hester pull back a bit. "No?"

"No. Not for murder. My thinking is, an accessory after the fact."

Hester turned to Ed Grayson. He shrugged. She looked back at Tremont. "Let's pretend I gasped and move straight on to what you mean by accessory after the fact."

"We searched Dan Mercer's motel room," Frank Tremont said. "We found this."

He slid an eight-by-ten photograph across to them. Hester looked at it--a pink iPhone. She showed it to Ed Grayson, her hand on his forearm as though warning him not to react. Hester said nothing. Grayson did the same. Hester understood certain basic tenets. There were times that called for attack and times that called for silence. She had a habit, big surprise, of leaning too much toward the attack--of talking too much. But they wanted a reaction here. Any reaction. She would not give them one. She would wait them out.

Another minute passed before Frank Tremont said, "That phone was found under Mercer's bed in his hotel room in Newark, not far from where we now sit."

Hester and Grayson stayed silent.

"It belongs to a missing girl named Haley McWaid."

Ed Grayson, retired federal marshal who should have known better, actually groaned. Hester turned to him. Grayson's face drained of color as though someone had opened a spigot and let out all the blood. Hester grabbed his arm again, squeezed, tried to bring him back.

Hester tried to buy some time. "You can't possibly think that my client--"

"You know what I think, Hester?" Frank Tremont interrupted. He was gaining confidence, his voice full of bluster. "I think your client killed Dan Mercer because Mercer was getting off for what he did to your client's son. That's what I think. I think your client decided to take the law into his own hands--and on one level, I can't blame him. If someone did that to my kid, yeah, sure, I'd go after him. Honest to God, I would. And then I'd hire the best lawyer I could because the truth is, the victim here is so unsympathetic--such a bucket of scum--that he could indeed get shot in front of the home crowd at a Giants game and no one would convict."

He glared at Hester. Hester folded her arms and waited.

"But that's the problem with taking the law into your own hands. You don't know where it will lead. So now--oh, and this is all hypothetically speaking, right?--your client killed the only man who may have told us what happened to a seventeen-year-old girl."

"Oh God," Grayson said. He dropped his face in his hands.

Hester said, "A moment with my client."

"Why?"

"Just get the hell out." Then, thinking better of it, she leaned into Grayson's ear and whispered, "Do you know something about this?"

Grayson leaned away and looked at her in horror. "Of course not."

Hester nodded. "Okay."

"Look, we don't think your client hurt Haley McWaid," Frank continued. "But we're pretty damn sure Dan Mercer did. So now we need to know everything we can to find Haley. Everything. Including where Mercer's body is. And we're running against the clock here. For all we know, Dan was holding her someplace secret. Haley could be tied up, scared, hurt, who knows? We're digging up his yard. We are asking neighbors, coworkers, friends, even his ex about places he liked to go. But the clock is ticking--and that girl may be alone, starving or trapped or worse."

"And," Hester said, "you think a corpse might tell you where she is?"

"It could, yes. He may have a clue on his body or in his pockets, something. Your client needs to tell us where Dan Mercer is."

Hester shook her head. "Do you really expect me to allow my client to incriminate himself?"

"I expect your client to do the right thing here."

"For all I know you're making this all up."

Frank Tremont stood. "What?"

"I've dealt with cops and their tricks before. Confess and we can save the girl."

He leaned down. "Take a close look at my face. Do you really think this is a ploy?"

"Could be."

Walker said, "It's not."

"And I'm supposed to take your word for it?"

Both Walker and Tremont just looked at her. They all knew--this was real. De Niro couldn't give this good a performance.

"Still," Hester said, "I won't let my client incriminate himself."

Tremont got up, his face red. "Is that how you feel, Ed?"

"Talk to me, not my client."

Frank ignored her. "You're a law enforcement officer." He leaned right into Ed Grayson's lowered face. "By killing Dan Mercer, you may be responsible for killing Haley McWaid."

"Back off," Hester said.

"You can live with yourself, Ed? With your conscience? If you think I'm going to waste time on legal maneuvers--"

"Wait," Hester said, her voice suddenly calm. "You're basing this connection simply on this phone?"

"What?"

"That's all you have? This phone in his hotel room?"

"What, you don't think that's enough?"

"That's not what I asked you, Frank. I asked, what else have you got?"

"Why do you care?"

"Just tell me."

Frank Tremont looked back at Walker. Walker nodded. "His ex-wife," Frank said. "Mercer used to visit her house. Apparently so did Haley McWaid."

"You think that's where Mercer met this girl?"

"We do."

Hester nodded. Then: "Let my client go now, please."

"You're joking, right?"

"Right now."

"Your client killed our only lead!"

"Wrong," Hester snapped. Her voice boomed through the room. "If what you're saying is true, Ed Grayson
gave
you your only lead."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"How did you bumbling idiots finally find this phone?"

No one answered.

"You searched Dan Mercer's room. Why? Because you thought that my client had murdered him. So without that, you'd have nothing. Three months of investigating and you had nothing. Until today. Until my client handed you your only clue."

Silence. But Hester wasn't done.

"And while we're on the subject, Frank, I know who you are. Essex County investigator Frank Tremont, who botched up that high-profile murder case a few years back. Washed-up has-been ridden out by his boss Loren Muse because of his lazy-ass incompetence, right? And here you are, on your last case, and what happens? Rather than redeem yourself and your pitiful career, you never bother to even look at a well-known pedophile who crossed paths with the victim in a fairly obvious way. How the hell did you miss that, Frank?"

Now it was Frank Tremont who was losing color in his face.

"And now, lazy cop that you are, you have the nerve to come raining down on my client as an accessory? You should be thanking him. All these months on the case and you found nothing. Now you're closer than you've ever been to finding this poor girl
because
of what you allege my client did."

Frank Tremont deflated right in front of them.

Hester nodded at Grayson. They both started to rise.

Walker said, "Where do you think you're going?"

"We're leaving."

Walker looked to Tremont to protest. Tremont was still reeling. Walker picked up the ball. "Like hell you are. Your client is under arrest."

"I want you to listen to me," Hester said. Her voice was softer now, almost apologetic in tone. "You're wasting your time."

"How do you figure?"

She looked him dead in the eye. "If we knew something that could help that girl, we would tell you."

Silence.

Walker tried for bravado, but it wasn't there anymore. "Why don't you let us decide what might help?"

"Yeah," Hester said, standing all the way up now, flicking a glance at Tremont, then back to Walker. "You've both done so much to inspire confidence so far. What you need to do is concentrate on finding that poor girl--not on prosecuting a man who may be the only hero in all this."

There was a knock on the door. A young cop opened it and leaned in. All eyes turned toward him. Walker said, "What's up, Stanton?"

"I found something on her phone. I think you're going to want to see this."

CHAPTER 19

FRANK TREMONT AND MICKEY WALKER followed Stanton down the corridor. "Hester Crimstein is an amoral shark with scruples that would shame a street hooker," Walker said to him.

"You know all that incompetency stuff was just to throw us off our game."

"Uh-huh."

"You've been all over this case. You've done more than anyone could."

"Right."

"So have the FBI and the big-time profilers and your entire office. Nobody could have foreseen this."

"Mickey?"

"Yeah."

"If I need to get stroked," Frank said, "I'll find someone a lot hotter and more feminine than you, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Stanton led them to a corner room in the basement where the tech guys hung out. Haley McWaid's iPhone was plugged into a computer. Stanton pointed at the screen. "This is basically her cell phone blown up for you to see on this bigger monitor."

"Okay," Frank Tremont said. "So what's up?"

"I found something in an app."

"A what?"

"An app. A phone application."

Tremont hoisted up his pants by the belt. "Pretend I'm an old fossil who still can't program his Betamax."

Stanton pressed a button. The screen turned black with small icons neatly aligned in three rows. "These are apps for the iPhone. See, she had iCal, which is where Haley kept her appointments, like lacrosse games and homework, on a calendar; Tetris--that's a game, and so is Moto Chaser; Safari is her Web browser; iTunes so she could download songs. Haley loves music. There's this other music app program called Shazam. It--"

"I think we get the gist," Walker said.

"Right, sorry."

Frank stared at Haley's iPhone. What song, he wondered, had she listened to last? Did she like faster rock or heartbreaking ballads? Typical old fart, Frank had made fun of these devices, kids texting and e-mailing and walking around with earbuds, but in a sense, the device was a life. Her friends would be listed in her address book, her school schedule in the calendar, her favorite songs in some playlist, photos that made her smile--like the one taken with Mickey Mouse--in her photo file.

Hester Crimstein's accusation was there. True, Dan Mercer had no history of violence or rape, seemed to be into girls younger than this, and really, the fact that his ex-wife lived in the same large town was hardly a big warning sign. But Crimstein's words about incompetence hammered him, and in them, Frank feared that he heard the echo of a truth.

He should have seen it.

"Anyway," Stanton said, "I don't mean to go into too much detail, but this is a little weird. Haley downloaded a bunch of songs like every teenager, but none since her disappearance. Same with surfing the Web. I mean, you know every place she visited on her iPhone because you got the server to show you. So what I saw in the browser won't surprise you much. She had done some searches on University of Virginia--I guess she was bummed that she didn't get in, right?"

"Right."

"So there was also a search for some girl named Lynn Jalowski, who's from West Orange, a lacrosse player who got into UVA, so I guess maybe she was looking up a rival."

"We know all this," Frank said.

"Right, the server--so you also know about the instant messages, the texts, stuff like that, though I have to say, Haley did a lot less of it than most of her friends. But see, there's a separate app we didn't really know about for Google Earth. You probably know what that is."

"Humor me," Frank said.

"Watch this. It's basically a built-in GPS feature."

Stanton picked up Haley's iPhone and tapped a picture of the earth. The giant globe spun and then the satellite camera zoomed down, the planet growing bigger--first the United States, then the East Coast, then down to New Jersey--until it stopped about a hundred yards above the building where they now stood. It read: "50 W Market Street, Newark, NJ."

Frank's jaw dropped. "Will this tell you everyplace this iPhone went?"

"I wish," Stanton said. "No. You have to turn the feature on. Haley didn't. But you can look up any address or place and see a satellite photo of it on the map. Anyway, I'm having some experts figure out exactly why, but I guess Google Earth is self-contained so you never saw her searches on the server. The history also can't tell when a search was made, just that it was and where."

"And Haley looked up places?"

"Only two since she downloaded the app."

"Well?"

"One was her own home. My guess is, when she first downloaded it, she turned it on and it showed where she was. So that really doesn't count."