Angel's Tip Read Free Page B

that a homicide detective was already at the scene.
    “And tell them J. J. Rogan’s on the way too,” Ellie added. “Jeffrey James Rogan, my partner. Tell them to put us in the system. No need to do a separate homicide call-out.”
    Ellie nodded as the woman repeated the information. Then she went to check on Jess. “I see you met my brother,” she said to the young male officer. “He’s not as dangerous as he looks.”
    Jess cocked his thumb and forefinger toward the cop. “Turns out your compadre here is a certified Dog Park fan.”
    Dog Park was Jess’s rock band. Their biggest gigs were at ten-table taverns in Williamsburg and the occasional open mic nights in Manhattan. To say that Dog Park was an up-and-coming band would be a serious demotion to those groups that were actually on the ladder to stardom.
    “I knew someone out there had to love them as much I do,” Ellie said.
    “Yeah. Small world.” The officer smiled with considerable enthusiasm. Jess was eating it up, but Ellie suspected that at least some of the officer’s excitement was attributable to his relief at having a subject of conversation other than the dead body he’d just seen.
    She turned at the sound of an engine and saw a second blue-and-white arrive at the scene.
    “Would you mind giving my brother a ride home, uh, Officer Capra?” Ellie asked, squinting at the officer’s name tag. “I think his heart’s had enough of a workout for the morning.”
    “Sure. No problem.”
    “He’ll give you my gear and a suitable change of clothes for you to bring back here, if that’s all right.”
    “Uh, yeah.” Capra glanced at his partner, as if worried about her reaction. First he’d almost vomited on the body. Now he was being sent away on an errand.
    “I really need my gear,” Ellie said, following his gaze. “I’ll make sure she knows I told you to go.”
    She touched Jess’s shoulder. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you later.”
    Ellie looked at her watch. Five forty-five. Forty-five minutes since Jess threw shoes at her head. Thirty-four minutes since she made a mental note of her start time outside the apartment. Thirteen minutes since the first jingle of the Gwen Stefani ring tone.
    She looked at the girl, abandoned and exposed against a pile of construction debris. If Ellie had kept on jogging, this would be someone else’s case. Someone else could deliver the news to the family. Someone else could offer their anemic reassurances that they weredoing all they could to find out who’d done this to their daughter. But she had stopped. She had made the patrol officer use her name on the radio. This was her case now. This girl was her responsibility.
    It was time to find out who she was.
     
    TWO HUNDRED FEET AWAY, on the other side of East River Drive, a blue Ford Taurus was parked outside an apartment building on Mangin Street. The man at the wheel watched as a second patrol car arrived, followed by an ambulance with lights and sirens. Two patrol cars carrying four uniform officers had all arrived before the ambulance. He found that ironic. Good thing the girl was beyond saving.
    The first of the patrol cars to have arrived left the park and turned north on the FDR. One cop up front. Civilian male in back, no cuffs. Everyone else remained at the scene for now. He wanted to stay and watch, but knew they’d be canvassing the neighborhood soon.
    He turned the key in the ignition. The digital clock on his dash read 5:46. He adjusted the channel on his satellite radio. Fourteen minutes until Howard Stern.
     
    AT 5:48 A.M., twenty-two miles east in Mineola, Long Island, Lou Harrington’s eyes shot open when his newspaper carrier missed the porch once again, thumping the shutter outside his bedroom window. His body felt clammy. He kicked the quilt away to the side of the bed and welcomed the slight chill on his bare legs.
    He had been dreaming of Robbie.
    The dream began at the Alcoa plant outside Pittsburgh, a place he hadn’t