Date Rape New York (26 page)

Chapter 38

Grazia followed Cargill down the snowy sidewalk to his car parked in a loading zone. She was feeling energetic and upbeat. Sun sparkled on the latest new snowfall. Cargill had been right about contacting Miranda Security. Already they had acquired vital information. “We’re getting closer!” she smiled.

“Don’t look too far ahead, or you’ll miss a detail right at your feet.” Cargill removed the police sticker on the dash and spun his wheels over the crust the snowplow had left behind. He turned right on First Avenue and called in his location and destination into his dispatcher.

Grazia was on her phone, trying again to reach Sophia. She got no answer from her home or cell phone. Cargill veered off at a photo shop, where Grazia printed off two photos, one that she had taken of Valentino the evening before at the Alhambra restaurant, and a group photo she had found on her camera that Stanley had taken of her, Manuel, Edmondo, and Luigi. When she emerged, Cargill was closing his phone.

“That was the taxi driver. You were not vomiting on the sidewalk, he says. You were standing on your own two feet but not looking well. You started to get into the taxi but the man you were with said he would take you to your hotel. He pulled you out and closed the door. The taxi driver said you were shouting in another language, but he did hear in English, “That’s my taxi.” He didn’t pay much attention because he thought you were drunk.”

“Did the man I was with have an accent?” inquired Grazia.

He handed over his phone. “Go to ‘Sent Calls’ and talk to him yourself.”

The answer was quick. “He says everyone in New York has an accent,” she smiled, closing the phone.

At the Jersey City lab, the desk clerk had the results ready at the counter. “The tech just now emailed these to the medical examiner,” she reported, reading a note on the envelope as she rang up the bill.

Grazia blinked at the sum, which was more than double what she had expected. “Dio! I thought it would be around six hundred and fifty dollars,” she quavered.

“Hang on, let me check.” She returned with an energetic man wearing a lab coat.

“We weren’t sure which DNA you wanted us to identify,” he explained cheerfully. “Given your story, we decided to identify them all.”

“What do you mean ‘all’?” demanded Cargill.

“All on the pen, the paper napkin, and the handkerchief. We found one set of female DNA on all three so we assumed it was yours. We were instructed to look for male DNA so we didn’t do an identity. But the others,” and he reached for the envelope and drew out the receipt, “you can see that we got four separate male DNA samples. One was on the pen, two were on the paper napkin, and one was on the handkerchief. The paper napkin looks like a restaurant napkin, so one is likely the waiter’s DNA. In any event, we ran four DNA identities, so the total bill is higher than expected.”

Grazia numbly handed over her credit card, struggling to understand. Cargill passed the tech the police envelope with the napkin that Valentino had spit on. The lab tech peered into the envelope. “Do you want the same? We identify all DNA on the sample, no matter how many? You’ve got a paper napkin in here, so one DNA will be a waiter’s.”

“Identify them all,” answered Grazia grimly.

The tech was reading the invoice the receptionist handed him. “A rush job? Call back at five o’clock. I’ll call you if we’re done before.”

Back in the car, Cargill looked at Grazia. “Whose pen did you swipe?” he demanded.

“If I tell you, will you promise to still have the medical examiner run the match?”

“The captain has already approved.”

“That’s not a promise.”

He held up his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“Edmondo. I know you said that the medical examiner already ran a match using his DNA from his employee files. But Nick says it’s easy for cops to switch DNA information if you have access to the files. So maybe
somebody switched a file somewhere.” She explained how she had obtained the pen.

Cargill shook his head in disbelief. “Is there anyone in the world that you trust?”

“No.”

“Try trusting me,” he said. He pulled out his phone, called the medical examiner, and asked the team to expedite running the match on the DNA identities that the New Jersey lab had just emailed. He informed them that the DNA on the pen belonged to Edmondo Potenza, security officer at the Hotel Fiorella.

“Flushing is next,” he said to Grazia, hanging up and revving the Plymouth. “We’ll show your photos to the staff at the money-transfer company and Starbucks. They may recognize Manuel. Oddly, though, the money-transfer agent told me on the phone that whoever brought in the one thousand dollars didn’t look at all like his photo ID. It’s possible that if Manuel did actually go to Italy, he left his New York ID with someone else to use as ID when they send the money.” He put the car in gear, then glanced over at her. “The pen belongs to Edmondo. So whose are the other two DNAs—the paper napkin and the handkerchief?”

Grazia had opened the envelope and was turning the pen, paper napkin, and handkerchief over in her hands. The paper napkin was the heavy kind found in restaurants. It was smeared with her lipstick, along with food stains. The handkerchief had been a gift from her grandmother who gave her a stack each birthday. Grazia always kept one in her handbag. They were useful for tidying up mascara or blotting perspiration, and they looked classier than a tissue.

She mentally reconstructed how the pen had got wrapped in the napkin and her handkerchief. She had swiped Edmondo’s pen and slid it into her coat pocket. When she was in the taxi going to New Jersey, she had reached into her pocket and pulled out the pen along with the paper napkin and the handkerchief. They had already been there. She had wrapped the pen loosely in the paper napkin because Cargill had said that paper must be used when transporting DNA samples. Then she had wrapped the paper napkin in the handkerchief as added protection.
She looked out the window, letting her mind drift, hoping for a revelation.

They were making good time. Cargill had put his portable siren on top of the car and was driving in the bus lane. His phone rang. He put it to his ear.

“You’re absolutely positive?” he demanded in disbelief after some moments. “Call the captain and tell him all that. I’m on my way to Flushing now.”

Cargill hung up. “Detour,” he announced. “Pay attention. I want you to do two things right now. First, call Sophia again. If she answers, find out where she is and ask her who she’s hiding from.” He waited while Grazia rang both Sophia’s phones.

“No answer.”

“Now call Stanley. If he doesn’t answer, call the reception desk and have him paged. Then hand me your phone. I want to keep my own phone open. I’ll be getting calls any minute now.” He told her Stanley’s cell phone number.

Stanley answered on the first ring.

“We’ve got a situation here,” said Cargill, taking the phone from Grazia. “The medical examiner just ran a match on a DNA identity obtained by a private Jersey City lab. They got the DNA off a pen that Grazia swiped off Edmondo yesterday morning. Maybe you remember? Grazia dropped in on you and Edmondo in your office. She told you about a computer tech and borrowed Edmondo’s pen, which she then swiped and took to a New Jersey lab.”

He paused. “Yes, one independent lady. OK, the lab just emailed their results to the medical examiner. They ran a match with the DNA they got from Grazia’s room and the rape kit and the Hotel Fiorella employee files. You paying attention? Here’s the deal: The DNA off Edmondo’s pen does not match the DNA in Edmondo’s employee background file.”

There was a long silence. “Stanley, you know I trust you absolutely or I wouldn’t be telling you this; I would be down there with the Immigration officials impounding your employee files. There’s more. Edmondo, Manuel, and Luigi all have US passports because they were born in the US. However, I learned this morning from a private security agency in Naples that all three grew up in Italy and have worked in security positions for Grazia’s employer before they came here. The employer’s name is Francisco Pamplona. He’s got a big law firm in Naples.”

Cargill’s own cell phone rang. He handed Grazia her phone. “Tell Stanley to give you the home addresses and personal phone numbers of Edmondo, Luigi, Manuel, and Sophia. I already know where Manuel lives. Tell him we’re going there now.” Cargill answered his own phone.

Grazia relayed the message and was busy writing down the addresses in her journal, so she didn’t hear Cargill’s conversation, but as she closed her phone, he handed her his phone. “A police officer is on the line,” he said. “Read off the addresses of Manuel, Luigi, and Edmondo. We need to get objects that have their DNA on them. I will get Manuel’s. Other detectives will get Luigi’s and Edmondo’s. We don’t need Sophia’s because the medical examiner’s crew already identified her DNA in your room.” He activated the portable alarm on the roof and accelerated past a line of buses.

Chapter 39

Manuel’s home in Flushing was a small, two-story, single-family bungalow on a quiet, tree-lined street of similar dwellings. The front walk had been shoveled and two sleds lay turned over in the snowy yard. A uniformed police officer stood on the stoop, his back to the door. Two squad cars blocked the street.

“She’s the only one home,” said the cop on the stoop. “Kids are in school. The neighbor stuck his head out. I asked if he had seen Manuel recently; he said no and went back inside.”

“Put somebody on his back door,” said Cargill.

“Already there.”

Manuel’s wife was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands twisting a dishtowel. She looked terrified. Two burly policemen were leaning against the counter. Cargill held up his badge to the cops and to Manuel’s wife. He pulled a chair around to face her. “Do you speak English?”

She nodded.

“Where is Manuel?”

“Italy. His mother is in the hospital.”

Cargill leaned back in his chair. “Our associates in Italy talked to his mother. She’s perfectly healthy and she says Manuel is in Flushing. Manuel wired a thousand dollars to her from a money-transfer place in Flushing at a time when he told Edmondo he would be on a plane. And he emailed Stanley yesterday, probably from a Starbucks in Flushing. So I’m going to ask you again. Where is Manuel?”

“I don’t know.” Tears filled her frightened eyes.

Cargill pointed to Grazia. “This woman visited a bar Saturday night where your husband told her to go. She returned to the Hotel Fiorella so drugged that she couldn’t remember anything the next day. Including that somebody took her up to her room and raped her. Edmondo says that Manuel took her up. What do you know about this?”

The woman’s wide eyes turned on Grazia. She shook her head and crossed herself.

Cargill sighed. “OK if we take a look around your house? Or do I need a search warrant?” When the woman didn’t answer, he turned to Grazia. “Translate, will you?”

Grazia translated. “She says you can look around, that she thought Manuel was in Italy. I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Stay with her. If she talks, shout.” He jerked his head at a police officer, and they went upstairs.

Grazia sat watching Manuel’s wife. A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek. Grazia reached into her handbag and pulled out a clean handkerchief she had put in the day before.
She held it out. As she did so, she remembered with a rush of dizziness where she had done this before. She had been in Francisco’s limo going to the airport. Francisco had cried when he begged her to come back to him. She had given him her handkerchief, and when he had handed it back, she had shoved it into her pocket. What a relief to know where that came from and that the DNA was Francisco’s DNA.

As she remembered Francisco’s anguish in the limo, she felt another rush, but this time it was sympathy for Francisco. His company, his life’s work, was in danger; charges of unprofessional conduct could cost him a possible lawsuit if Kourtis decided to go that route to pay for the heavy fines levied by the Building Safety Department. 

Grazia watched Manuel’s wife mop her tears. She felt real sorrow for this suffering woman, but for herself she could relax slightly. Now she knew the sources for two of the DNA samples that the New Jersey lab had isolated: Edmondo on the pen and Francisco on the handkerchief. She only needed to remember where that paper napkin in her pocket had come from. She had eaten in so many places in New York. With the cold weather, her nose was always dripping. She could have picked up a napkin anywhere to dab her nose and shoved it into her pocket.

Cargill was stomping back into the kitchen, phone to his ear. “Edmondo is gone? Luigi too? How did they know we were coming? No, we can’t hold Manuel’s wife. She doesn’t  know anything, and she’s got three kids coming home from school. Manuel sure as hell isn’t coming home now.”

He dropped the phone into his pocket and held a hairbrush and a man’s safety razor in front of the woman’s eyes. “Manuel’s?” At her nod he added, “I have a warrant to take objects belonging to your husband for the purpose of identifying the DNA. He is a suspect. I’m taking the razor. All I want from the hairbrush is hair.” He pulled two paper envelopes from his jacket pocket. “I’m writing my name, today’s date, the location, and that according to you this is Manuel’s hair. Same for the razor.”

He handed the two envelopes to an officer. “Get these to the medical examiner right away, will you? I’ve got places to go.”

Cargill sat down again in the chair facing Manuel’s wife. “The technicians at the medical examiner are going to identify Manuel’s DNA using his hair and his toothbrush. Then they will compare his DNA to the DNA the hospital found on Grazia and the DNA that the criminologist team found in Grazia’s hotel room. If it matches, that means that your husband raped this woman sitting here. And it means we’re going to keep looking for him until we find him.” He looked over at Grazia. “Translate. I’ll be outside.”

When Grazia got into the car, Cargill was closing his phone. “Edmondo, Luigi, and Sophia have all vanished into thin air, just like Manuel. Detectives are at the houses of the first two, getting objects that carry their DNA—which I’m betting we’ll find doesn’t match the DNA in the Hotel Fiorella employee files. I wouldn’t be surprised if their passports aren’t real either. Sophia’s DNA we already have from your room.”

Cargill turned the ignition, then paused with his hand on the gearshift. He looked at Grazia as if he were going to say something. Then he shook his head and put the car in gear. “Next stop, the money-transfer company that sent the thousand dollars to Manuel’s mother.”

The narrow storefront that housed the money-transfer agency was located in central Flushing near the crowded shopping district at the end of the number seven subway line. Nearly all store signs were in Chinese. The sign over the door of the money-transfer agency was in Chinese, Spanish, Russian, and English. Inside, two CCTV cameras sat over the front door and over the counter. Cargill eyed them.

“I’ll add these to my request for court orders,” he said to Grazia, “but don’t expect anything. Got your photos?”

The owner was an older man with thin, gray hair and a Russian accent. He dutifully perused the photos one by one.

“Look,” he said, handing them back. “I get hundreds of people in here every day. Most are Chinese, some are Russian, the rest are Hispanic. I don’t look at faces; I count the cash, and I write down where the money is supposed to go. This guy you want, he came in with a thousand dollars in new fifties—I ran them through the checker. The truth is, Hispanic men pretty much look the same to me. I do remember thinking his New York ID photo didn’t look like him at all. But neither does mine—at least I hope not.”

The Starbucks was packed with young Chinese. The manager was Chinese. He laughed when Cargill asked if he remembered a Hispanic man sending an email on Wednesday.

“Hundreds of people send emails from here every day. I wouldn’t remember a non-Chinese face anyway. Anglos all look the same to me.”

By then it was three o’clock. They went next door to a Mexican restaurant where Grazia ordered chicken tacos, and Cargill had a double order of the same. Grazia’s phone rang. It was the New Jersey lab. The results were ready. They had already emailed them to the medical examiner. She gave them her credit card information while Cargill called the ME’s office and alerted them to expedite the match.

“The cop delivered Manuel’s razor and the envelope with the hair from his brush, and the detectives have delivered their DNA samples from Edmondo and Luigi,” he reported to Grazia, hanging up. “They’re rushing the match because of Edmondo’s non-match.” He opened his battered notebook and found a phone number. He tapped it into his phone. “We’ll head back to Manhattan. I want to show your photos to the guy who wrestled your bag of clothes away from your mugger. Your hero lives in the East Village. Then we’ll go over to the Brazilian Bar. Nick can look at your Valentino photo. Let’s cover all the bases before the day is over.”

Cargill looked at Grazia with an indefinable expression and started up the car.