With a gloved hand, her killer placed a single piece of paper in Amy’s coat pocket, satisfied with the puzzled and panicked look that had crossed her face in those final seconds. It was a look of recognition. It was a look of profound regret. It had been precisely as he had wanted it. He wondered if the others would flow so smoothly. How many more until they notice?
2
DETECTIVE ELLIE HATCHER WAS CERTAIN THAT SOMETHING WAS wrong with the victim’s story. She’d spent the last fifteen minutes in an interview room of the NYPD’s Midtown North Precinct working through the man’s report. He hadn’t wavered from his bogus story yet, but she knew she was getting close.
But now it appeared from a loud rap on the door that she had a different problem looming. She turned to find the towering bulk of her lieutenant, Randy Jenkins, filling the door frame. He beckoned her with an upward tip of his prominent chin.
“Hatcher, we need to talk.”
“I’ll be right in, boss.”
“Wrap it up.”
“Five minutes,” Ellie said. She looked at the man sitting across the table. He was still holding the pack of ice to the side of his head. “We’re just about done here, right?”
“Five minutes,” Jenkins emphasized before closing the door.
“They gave you one nasty bump, huh, Mr. Pandey?”
“I am sure that in your position you have seen others who faced far worse.”
“Not too many. I’m still pretty new to this.” Ellie smiled shyly, but then quickly tucked her expression away, pretending to look over the notes she had been compiling. “I’m sorry. Can you run over the timeline again – just to make sure I haven’t missed anything?”
As Samir Pandey related his story for the third time that morning, Ellie searched for the flaw.