Read Online 212 LP: A Novel by Alafair Burke - Free Book Online Page B

in the Hudson? Wouldn’t matter. Home invasion victims were always and automatically labeled as drug dealers. But in recent years, police had seen an increase in both home invasions and the number of tragic cases in which innocent people had found themselves targeted by the most predatory and violent offenders, simply because their address was one digit away from a reputed drug house.
    On the second floor, Rogan asked a second civilian aide to see Sergeant Frank Boyle.
    “The sergeant had to leave. Are you Detective Rogan?”
    Rogan nodded. “And Hatcher. I called Boyle a little more than an hour ago. He was expecting us.”
    “Something came up.”
    “Like maybe five o’clock?” Rogan said, glancing at his watch.
    The aide smiled politely. “Perhaps. He said to see Detective Carenza over there.” He pointed to a refrigerator-sized man standing over a desk toward the back of the squad room.
    As they walked toward the man who was apparently called Carenza, Ellie noticed that his tanned, veiny biceps were challenging the seams of his fitted black T-shirt. The rest of the ensemble consisted of faded blue jeans, pointed alligator shoes, and a heavy gold chain.
    “Ellie Hatcher,” she said, offering her hand. “Your sergeant left word to see you?”
    “Tony Carenza.” The detective gave her a firm handshake and then turned to Rogan to offer the same. “Then you must be Rogan, because Boyle told me some guy from Homicide was coming.”
    “You heading out on an undercover?” Rogan asked, eyeing the wardrobe.
    Carenza glanced down at his own clothing and shrugged. “Nah, man. Just wrapping up some paperwork here, and then I’m audi.”
    Rogan was nodding politely when Carenza broke out laughing. “Gotcha nervous there, didn’t I? Nah, my stuff might not be quite up to what you got going on here,” he said, pointing at Rogan’s three-button Canali suit, “but this getup’s definitely for the job. The mod’s running some buy-and-busts tonight at some of the clubs.” In addition to the teams of stop-and-frisk uniform cops that had made New York’s zero-tolerance policing famous, the narcotics division used so-called investigatory modules to run undercover operations.
    Carenza pulled at the diamond-encrusted dollar sign dangling from his gold chain, most likely a trophy seized during a prior bust. “Too much?”
    “Fierce,” Ellie said.
    “Yeah, I thought so. So what can I do you for? My sergeant made a point of instructing me to be helpful, so consider me your most helpful helper.”
    Rogan scratched his cheek while he spoke. “We’re still chasing a case from May—dead body left behind in a home invasion on Kenmare and Lafayette.”
    “Yeah, I know that case. The 212. Should be called the 646. Last time I checked, no one could get a 212 number anymore. The place belonged to Sam Sparks, right?”
    Rogan nodded, and it struck Ellie that Sparks might be better known to the general public than she had realized, even without the assistance of a reality show.
    “We checked with Boyle at the time to see if we might be looking at a case of mistaken identity. He came up with nothing. Now Sparks’s lawyer says he hears otherwise. He claims you’re running an operation on one of Sparks’s neighbors.”
    “I wouldn’t call it an operation,” Carenza said, handing Ellie a DD5, the departmental form used to report on ongoing investigations. This one related to for Apartment 702 at 212 Lafayette.
    “It’s directly next door,” she said.
    Rogan glanced at the sheet of paper over her shoulder. “The only other apartment on that floor, as I recall.”
    The DD5 contained entries for three events—two in March, one in June.
    “Two neighbors came to our front service desk in March, complaining about a drug dealer who had just moved into one of the luxury condos on the top of the building. You’ve seen that building?”
    They both nodded.
    “Okay, so you know the deal. It’s this old building, been there