Victims (24 page)

“Maria, I’m going to ask the district attorney to put you in protective custody. You are in immediate danger and—”

“Custody? Are you crazy? You think I’m going to go along with that? I’m not going to jail.”

“No jail. A safe place.”

“A safe place?” Maria laughed. “Where is that, a safe place?”

“I promise you, I will find a safe place, where you can relax. Where you don’t have to be afraid. Not a cell, Maria, someplace where... Let me work this out. You will have someone around at all times to protect you and—”

“Forget it. I am not in danger. Who would want to hurt me? Look, Detective Torres, some bad guys took my sister and Christine out on a date and it must have turned sour. Sometimes, Ara did not use good judgment. You can ask any of the girls who she worked with. So they ran into some really bad guys and, I don’t know, maybe they were doing drugs and things got out of hand. And then these bastards panicked and dumped them out there. In that place, you said, out by Kennedy and...You get the idea?”

“Oh, yes. I do understand. That will be your story. Fine. Stick to it. Publicly. Let that be your statement, your theory, and the police will be looking into it, trying to find the ‘bad guys’ who your sister and Christine Valapo dated. That’s okay. It can be your cover story. But in the meantime, you will be safely hidden away and—”

“No. Uh-uh. No. I just want out of here. Right now.”

Miranda leaned back against the counter that separated her kitchen from the living room. She folded her arms and raised her chin slightly and smiled. “There’s the door. Go.”

Maria hesitated for a moment, found her pocketbook, tossed her belongings into a bag. “Where are my...things? Never mind. It’s no problem. Forget it. By the way, where are we? In Queens?”

“In Astoria. If you want, I’ll drive you back to your apartment. If that’s where you’re going. Or we can call a cab. Or there’s the subway.”

“Never mind what my plans are. I’ll do whatever the hell I want to do. And it has nothing to do with you. Or the police or the District Attorney or...”

“Or Cousin Carlos?”

Maria stood absolutely still for a split second, eyes frightened and then angry.

“Forget that, Detective Torres. For your own sake and mine, forget him.”

She left Miranda’s apartment and found a cab.

Detective Dunphy, who had been sitting Miranda’s apartment since her phone call from the morgue, followed the cab to Barclay Street, watched Maria head for her apartment, watched the lights go on. He used his car phone to tell his partner to relax and go to bed and get some rest. He’d sit Maria for the rest of the night. He didn’t ask Miranda any questions. He knew she’d tell him whatever he needed to know.

A
SSISTANT DISTRACT ATTORNEY JEROME
call-me-Sonny Waters looked around the squad room as though calculating a jury. He did not seem too pleased by the stone-eyed detectives who watched his every move without expression.

“I do not understand the attitude of any of you people,” he said. “I do not know what is bothering you people.
We have a man who is confessing to four murders.
He has been cooperative, helpful, willing, he has been giving us the information we’ve been looking for. Look, we have him cold, flat out, on the Anna Grace thing, right?”

No one said anything. He looked at Captain O’Connor, who seemed to be staring at something slightly over Waters’ head.

“I don’t understand why you people tried to question him about the murder of those two stewardesses who got themselves bumped and dumped at Kennedy. There is nothing whatever, at all, to connect him with those two women. Right? Right?”

Captain O’Connor sighed and then said quietly, “There is nothing—at all—to connect Mera with any of the other three murders in Queens this year. We have about five or six confessions to each of those murders. All carry about as much weight as Mera’s.”

“Now, see. That’s what I’m talking about,” Waters said to the roomful of detectives. “Here we have an honest-to-God verifiable murderer, we got him on videotape, we got a million live eyewitnesses, and we got his confession. So, he gets shook up, say; his conscience bothers him, say. Or whatever. So he figures, What the hell, they can only put me away once, I might as well clear the decks. So he confesses to the other three murders. And you won’t accept his confessions as valid. Why? Why? Because he changed his m.o.? Because the other women he grabbed in the dark and raped and then stuck a knife in their throats? So he did it different with the Grace girl. Who’s to say he can’t try something a little different? Listen, Captain, I’m told he has information that only the murderer could have and—”

“Someone has been feeding him information,” Captain O’Connor said. “It’s that simple. I don’t know why or...”

Waters put two hands on O’Connor’s desk and leaned forward. He shook his head, then looked around the room and focused on the homicide detective.

“You.
You
—you’re from Homicide, right? What’s your name?”

The homicide detective said, “Sergeant.”

Waters went rigid. Everyone here was determined to give him a hard time. “I didn’t ask your
rank.
I asked your name.”

The homicide detective said, “My name is Richard Sergeant.”

Waters stared, turned it over in his mind, then said, “All right. All right, you work homicide, right, er...Detective Sergeant? Well, he—” the D.A. pointed at O’Connor while he kept his eyes on the homicide cop—“he is accusing your co-workers of—”

Captain O’Connor’s fist came down heavily on the surface of his desk. It was a loud crackling sound; like bones breaking.

Waters jumped, startled.

“Hold it, Waters. I didn’t accuse anyone in Homicide or any other police officer of anything. There are a lot of ways that information can get leaked when a man is being held and some little deal might be under way. My concern is why this guy Mera is willing to confess to all these murders, but when my people tried to question him about these two murdered stewardesses he—”

“Hey, hey, Captain,” Waters’ voice went buddy-buddy; one of the boys. “Who the hell can account for what goes on in the mind of a nut? Now, I will say this detective...this lady here must have been surprised by Mera’s reaction to her and her partner. I understand he got a little upset and—”

Detective Dunphy caught the signal from O’Connor. He interrupted the D.A. “Your man went completely bonkers. He banged his head on the table, then rolled all over the floor kicking his feet and et cetera. But the minute my partner mentioned calling Kings County, he got his act together.”

“So? So what does that indicate to you? He’s a nut—that’ll probably be his defense. So what, what’s your point?”

Miranda picked up the opening from Dunphy. They were on a good line. “The point is, Mr. Waters, that Mr. Mera is selectively crazy. When he doesn’t want to discuss something, such as the murder of the two Avianca stewardesses, he pulls this act and—”

“Ah, oh, okay, I see now. ‘This act.’ And you, girlie, are also, in addition to being a lady cop, you are also a shrink? An expert in nut cases and related behavior? That will save the city a lot of money—and all-in-one lady-cop-shrink. What a very accomplished person you are.” He turned to O’Connor. “Not only she’s sexy, she’s multitalented. Terrific.”

Captain Bill O’Connor was six feet two inches tall. There were times when he seemed smaller, more compact, but there were times, as now, when he rose slowly, deliberately, that he seemed to be a giant. He had a way of straightening his spine, pulling his head up and back and glaring down. A.D.A. Waters took an automatic step back from the captain’s desk.

“Okay. That’s it. This woman is Second-Grade Detective Torres, a valued member of my squad. You will not refer to her in any other manner but by her title: Detective. And if you don’t like the attitude of any other member of my squad, or anyone else working for me in this investigation, you will discuss it, in private, with me. And I will tell you something,
Sonny-boy.
I don’t like you or the fact that you are totally and completely incapable of dealing with the entire situation. Now, you can go before the grand jury and go for all the indictments you can get. That’s your job, not mine. But that doesn’t mean shit as far as reality is concerned.”

Waters clenched his fists and rocked back on his feet. His voice was very shrill and thin and he was aware of it and tried to pitch it low, but it kept getting away from him.

“All right. That’s it. Fine. I’ll let you people stew in your own mess. I won’t forget your lack of support. There are other people in the New York City Police Department,
other people
who will be more than happy to know that we can clear the books on the so-called Beast of Queens. There are citizens of this borough—women and girls—who will rest easier knowing that we have this man behind bars. And that I’m the one responsible for that. I’m not soliciting opinions from you people. Your only responsibility will be to testify before the grand jury in the Anna Grace matter.”

As he spoke, he kept his head down, to help modulate his voice. He gathered his papers, which had been spread out on the captain’s desk. He was very careful not to make even passing physical contact with O’Connor, who seemed to keep getting taller and larger.

“And I won’t forget what’s been said here in this room, Captain O’Connor.” He looked straight up, into O’Connor’s icy eyes. “No. I won’t forget. Remember that.” He was more than slightly unhinged. He whirled around to make his exit and banged into the edge of a desk, tripped over a chair, cursed and gathered himself together for a less than great exit.

“Mother-fucking moron,” O’Connor said. Then, glancing at Miranda, exercising the delicacy they all seemed to exert in her presence, he said, “Sorry. That bastard got me a little off guard.” He rubbed his mouth roughly. “Jeez.”

“Okay, troops. Let’s settle down and wind this up for tonight. I want to get this a little clearer in my mind. Two things: Tell me again Mera’s reaction when you asked him about this Maria Vidales.”

“He panicked,” Miranda said. “He swore he had never heard of her. And he said, ‘If she claims to know me, she’s lying.’”

O’Connor leaned on his desk, puzzled. “But she hasn’t claimed to know him. You said she swore she’d never heard of him.”

“In her formal statement, yes sir.” Miranda had typed up a short report of her conversation with Maria at the mortuary.

O’Connor went through his papers, found it and nodded. “Yeah, okay, I remember. Very quickly, remind me of your theory—about Anna Grace and Maria Vidales and Paul Mera and the stewardesses.”

She glanced at the homicide cop, and O’Connor nodded; he was okay. Briefly, she told them her theory: mistaken identity; a drug connection. And, for the first time, mentioned Carlos Galvez.

“And you haven’t been able to contact him, about his cousin’s death?”

“No. Jim and I stopped by the house on Inverness Street before we came here, and it’s dark. We’re going to hit some neighbors tomorrow, see what we can come up with.”

Dunphy dug a scrap from his notebook and handed it across the desk to O’Connor. It was a Motor Vehicle check on the three automobiles that had been parked in front of Carlos Galvez’ residence.

“All rented, Captain. Under different names. We’ll know more about it tomorrow. All returned, by the way—nothing outstanding. The guy pays his bills, anyway.”

“And your theory, Miranda, as to why Mera would confess to three murders he hasn’t committed? And go nuts when asked about stewardesses—denies any connection whatever?”

“I think that he wants to distance himself from anything at all that would connect him with the drug trade. I think he is so terrified of his own mistakes, of the people who will want to take care of him, to deal with him for these mistakes, that he would confess to anything that would put him in a special category. The Beast of Queens is not put into the general prison population. He is kept separate, apart. He is guarded, protected. He is in a position of demanding special consideration right now—special privileges, special security. Give him what he demands, he will give you back whatever murders you want. A trade-off.”

O’Connor carefully considered what she was saying. He listened with the respect of one professional for another. Then, finally, shrugging, “Well, okay. The rest of you people, you do have a job to do, you do have some work to attend to?” Then, to Miranda, “Before you leave, check with me, Torres.”

She waited the ten minutes it took for the office to empty out. Only one detective was left hunched over his desk, the dim yellow light targeted on his typewriter as he squinted over notes and tried to make sense out of his work.

She tapped on the door lightly and went into Captain O’Connor’s office.

“Yeah,” he said, indicating a chair. He hesitated as though making a decision.

“How’s it going with Stein?” he asked finally.

Miranda sat up straight on the hard wooden chair. She felt a surge of energy and alertness. It wasn’t an answerable question and so she waited.

O’Connor said roughly, “I’m not asking a personal question, Detective Torres.”

“I’m not sure what it is you
are
asking me, Captain O’Connor.”

“All right. Here it is. Stein is not to get any further information about any other aspect of this case—or any other case—this squad is working on. He had access only to the Anna Grace killing. As far as I know, we’ve had a full and open exchange of information with him. He’s given us some background stuff on the witnesses, which is of more value to him than to us, and we’ve given him access to everything we’ve done on the case. And that is that. Right?”

Miranda raised her head slightly. The tight line on her jaw was accented by a streak of light which bounced off the captain’s desk. Her tension resulted in a great control over her voice and expression.

“Do you really think it was necessary to tell me this, Captain O’Connor?”

O’Connor reacted to the challenge. He felt that she took advantage of her position—of being a woman. None of the men, not even Dunphy, would challenge him as openly. Or as angrily.