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Authors: R.J. Ellory
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after ten. Mia wasn′t home, didn′t answer her cellphone, and at eleven I called the police. They told me—′
′That they couldn′t file a report for forty-eight hours,′ Irving interjected.
′Yes, that′s right.′
′And she didn′t say anything else about where she was going or who she was going to meet?′
Grant was silent for some time, and then he slowly shook his head. ′No, nothing that I can remember.′
′Okay . . . so as far as reaching you?′
′I′m going to take my wife to my mother′s in Rochester,′ Grant said. ′I′ll drive back in the morning to deal with everything.′ He took a sheet of letterhead from his briefcase and gave it to Irving. ′My office and cell, and here—′ He wrote two more numbers on the page. ′That′s my house here in the city, and that′s my mother′s number if you really need to reach me tonight. Call my cell first, but there′s very little signal where she is, and I′d prefer it if you didn′t call. I′ll come see you tomorrow. You′re at the Fourth Precinct, right?′
′Yes, up on Sixth at 57th.′
Grant rose from his chair, helped his wife. Mentally, perhaps spiritually, she was no longer in the room. She had long since gone. She didn′t see her husband, didn′t see Irving, didn′t see the uniformed officer who opened the door for them and showed them to the exit. She′d be like that for days. Grant would inevitably call a doctor and the doctor would give her something to postpone reality a little longer.
Irving took a left down the hallway and found Turner.
′No sexual assault,′ Turner told him. ′Haven′t unzipped her, but there are no outward signs of anything but the blunt force to the head. Looks like a hammer, something small, you know? From lividity and laking I′d say between nine-thirty and eleven last night. Wherever she was killed she didn′t stay long. Moved almost immediately. The horizontal laking from where she lay in the park is primary, not secondary. That means you have another scene to find.′
′If there′s anything else would you call me?′
′Sure.′ Turner nodded. ′The parents?′
′Nothing of any great use as yet. Girl went out after a job. Six-thirty, thereabouts.′
′He didn′t say anything when he saw her, you know,′ Turner said. ′Even looking the way she did, it didn′t seem to affect him.′
′It will,′ Irving said. ′Tonight, tomorrow, next week. It will.′
′He′s not a suspect?′
′They′re all suspects until they′re not. But Grant for the murder of his own daughter? I don′t get that from first impressions. Could be a revenge killing, someone he didn′t do such a good job defending. But hell, the truth is always stranger.′
Turner′s pager buzzed. He had to leave. He and Irving shook hands. Turner assured Irving that if anything significant arose in the autopsy he would call him.
It did not.
Forensics drew a blank as well.
Reports came in from both departments on the morning of the fifth. Mia Emily Grant, fifteen years old, date of birth February 11th, 1991. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, massive internal bleeding; there was no sexual assault. The edge of Bryant Park beneath a canopy of trees was confirmed as the dump site, not the primary. Extensive walk-about had turned up very little. The subway crews at 34th and Penn, 50th, 42nd, Times Square, Grand Central, 33rd - all those that might have seen Mia Grant as she made her way from her home near St Vartan′s Park to Murray Hill, were shown her picture and questioned. Of course, Irving knew that there was no guarantee that she′d even taken the subway. He knew that she might never have made it further than a block from her house. He also knew that the part-time job might have been nothing but a ruse to misdirect the parents. Bright, pretty, fifteen-year-old girl . . . Enough said.
On Saturday, 10th of June, just a week after the discovery of her body, the case went cold. Every lead,
′That they couldn′t file a report for forty-eight hours,′ Irving interjected.
′Yes, that′s right.′
′And she didn′t say anything else about where she was going or who she was going to meet?′
Grant was silent for some time, and then he slowly shook his head. ′No, nothing that I can remember.′
′Okay . . . so as far as reaching you?′
′I′m going to take my wife to my mother′s in Rochester,′ Grant said. ′I′ll drive back in the morning to deal with everything.′ He took a sheet of letterhead from his briefcase and gave it to Irving. ′My office and cell, and here—′ He wrote two more numbers on the page. ′That′s my house here in the city, and that′s my mother′s number if you really need to reach me tonight. Call my cell first, but there′s very little signal where she is, and I′d prefer it if you didn′t call. I′ll come see you tomorrow. You′re at the Fourth Precinct, right?′
′Yes, up on Sixth at 57th.′
Grant rose from his chair, helped his wife. Mentally, perhaps spiritually, she was no longer in the room. She had long since gone. She didn′t see her husband, didn′t see Irving, didn′t see the uniformed officer who opened the door for them and showed them to the exit. She′d be like that for days. Grant would inevitably call a doctor and the doctor would give her something to postpone reality a little longer.
Irving took a left down the hallway and found Turner.
′No sexual assault,′ Turner told him. ′Haven′t unzipped her, but there are no outward signs of anything but the blunt force to the head. Looks like a hammer, something small, you know? From lividity and laking I′d say between nine-thirty and eleven last night. Wherever she was killed she didn′t stay long. Moved almost immediately. The horizontal laking from where she lay in the park is primary, not secondary. That means you have another scene to find.′
′If there′s anything else would you call me?′
′Sure.′ Turner nodded. ′The parents?′
′Nothing of any great use as yet. Girl went out after a job. Six-thirty, thereabouts.′
′He didn′t say anything when he saw her, you know,′ Turner said. ′Even looking the way she did, it didn′t seem to affect him.′
′It will,′ Irving said. ′Tonight, tomorrow, next week. It will.′
′He′s not a suspect?′
′They′re all suspects until they′re not. But Grant for the murder of his own daughter? I don′t get that from first impressions. Could be a revenge killing, someone he didn′t do such a good job defending. But hell, the truth is always stranger.′
Turner′s pager buzzed. He had to leave. He and Irving shook hands. Turner assured Irving that if anything significant arose in the autopsy he would call him.
It did not.
Forensics drew a blank as well.
Reports came in from both departments on the morning of the fifth. Mia Emily Grant, fifteen years old, date of birth February 11th, 1991. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, massive internal bleeding; there was no sexual assault. The edge of Bryant Park beneath a canopy of trees was confirmed as the dump site, not the primary. Extensive walk-about had turned up very little. The subway crews at 34th and Penn, 50th, 42nd, Times Square, Grand Central, 33rd - all those that might have seen Mia Grant as she made her way from her home near St Vartan′s Park to Murray Hill, were shown her picture and questioned. Of course, Irving knew that there was no guarantee that she′d even taken the subway. He knew that she might never have made it further than a block from her house. He also knew that the part-time job might have been nothing but a ruse to misdirect the parents. Bright, pretty, fifteen-year-old girl . . . Enough said.
On Saturday, 10th of June, just a week after the discovery of her body, the case went cold. Every lead,
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