Read Online Shadows Still Remain by Peter de Jonge - Free Book Online Page A

blood on the curb just north of the corner of Rivington and Chrystie. Based on the thickness of the drops and the tightness of the splatter, Narin speculates that Pena was crouching near the curb when she was struck, presumably from behind. Soon after, an assistant removes a nearby sewer grate and using a net at the end of a long telescoping pole, fishes an orange T-Mobile cell phone out of the muck along with an uneaten chocolate maltball. As soon as they’re found, hair, blood, phone and chocolate are driven uptown to the lab, and although the damage has already been done, O’Hara apprises Lowry in real time about each discovery.
    When the sun drops completely, O’Hara notices the lights from the squad cars parked up and down Forysth on the far side of the park, and when she steps out of the construction site sees that cops are going door to door on Chrystie as well.
    â€œThey must be looking for security cameras,” says Krekorian. “Trying to find a vehicle parked near here that night. Pena didn’t get to East River Park by walking.”
    No wonder Lowry was so happy to turn the crime scene over to her and Krekorian , thinks O’Hara. Once the crime scene had been found, it instantly became old news, and he was on to the next step. An hour later, when Grimes chauffeurs Lowry back to the Atelier one more time and Lowry again extricates himself from the front seat, he’s not pissed off. He’s triumphant.
    â€œJust to show there’s no hard feelings,” says Lowry. “I got something to share…At this point, Red, you’re supposed to ask, ‘What’s that, Detective?’”
    â€œWhat’s that, Detective?”
    â€œWe just found video of a green piece-of-shit van double-parked twenty feet north of here on Chrystie from 5:20 to 6:05 a.m. Thanksgiving morning. At this point you’re supposed to say, ‘Congratulations, Detective.’”
    â€œCongratulations,” says O’Hara.
    â€œUnfortunately, we only got the front of the van, and the camera angle is so fucked up, we can’t read the plate.”
    â€œThat’s unfortunate,” says O’Hara.
    â€œVery good,” says Lowry, “but the problem wasn’t insurmountable, because we got just enough of a plate to see it was out of state. That makes me think of your pal David McLain, you know, the one you have such a good feeling about. So I run his name through the DMV in Westfield, Mass., and guess who’s the proud owner of a green 1986 Ford Aerostar, if there’s such a thing? That’s right. We’re heading over to pick him up now. Is there anything we need to know?”
    â€œHe’s not armed, if that’s what you mean. Can we follow you?”
    â€œWhy not? You can hear the little bastard confess.”

15
    The door to apartment 5B is still unlocked and partly open, and as far as O’Hara can tell, McLain hasn’t moved in three days. He occupies the same spot on the couch in the same clothes, and based on the city of empties that has sprung up at his feet and the redolent cloud that hugs the ceiling, he hasn’t given up Jack or reefer. When Lowry, beet red and sweating heavily from the five flights, approaches the couch, McLain tries to look around him to where O’Hara stands awkwardly in the doorway, but Lowry, who seems to fill the tiny room, moves to block his view. “Forget about her, David. Look at me. I’m Patrick Lowry, Homicide. You have to deal with me now. When did you get to New York, David?” McLain blinks at him through the smoke, and it’s not clear to O’Hara that he understands the question. “When did you arrive in the city, David?”
    â€œNovember fourth.”
    â€œHow’d you get here?”
    â€œDrove.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMy van.”
    â€œWhat kind is it? What color? What year?”
    â€œAerostar, 1986. Doesn’t really have a color. My guess is