“What about the address and phone number that appear here?”
There was another shake of the head. “When we tried to reach her at that address the mail was returned ‘addressee unknown,’ and when we called, the phone had been disconnected,” the bank manager deadpanned.
Hernandez gazed pensively at Garcia. “Didn’t that strike you odd?”
“Not really. People disappear all the time in Mexico City.”
Hernandez lowered his gaze to one of the pages. “I see that she purchased ten million dollars of Repsol Oil bearer bonds in one transaction only four months after the account was opened and then closed it. Suspicious don’t you think?”
Garcia leaned back in her chair. Holding a Montblanc ballpoint pen between the first two fingers of her right hand, she slowly tapped it against the leather blotter. “Unlike American banks, it is not the policy of this bank—or of our government—to interfere in the private dealings of our citizens,” she said in rapid-fire staccato. “Are you familiar with the word privacy, sergeant?”
Hernandez smiled. “Maybe if you spelled it slowly. Do you know the broker who handled the transaction?”
Garcia checked her watch and heaved an impatient sigh. “The bank offers brokerage services for its clients,” she said and let the pen drop from her hand. She sprang up from her chair and extended her hand to Hernandez.
The sergeant gazed up at her. “Does this mean our chat is over?”
“I have another appointment.”
Hernandez slowly pushed himself out of the chair and stood. “I’m disappointed. Thought that two Latinos could help each other.”
Garcia leaned into the desk. “Please, spare me. You’re as much of a Latino as I’m Irish. You may have a Hispanic name but you’re gringo through and through. I’ve told you all I know of the matter. There’s nothing else I can add.”
Hernandez swallowed hard, rolled up the documents in his hand and squeezed them. He then blew out a breath and stepped back. Hell, next thing she’ll scratch my eyes out, he thought.
“Thanks for your time,” Hernandez called over his shoulder as he walked to the door.
“You won’t find her,” Garcia said.
When Hernandez reached the door, he turned around and faced the bank manager. “How do you know?”
Linda Garcia gave Hernandez an icy stare. “Have a good day, sergeant.”
Moran listened patiently while Hernandez told him about his meeting with Linda Garcia. When Hernandez finished, Moran drew back his arms, placed his hands behind his head, and intertwined his fingers. “And then they say it doesn’t snow in Mexico City,” Moran said.
Hernandez twisted his mouth. “Played me for a chump,” the sergeant said and slapped the surface of the office’s conference table with the palm of his hand.
“Relax.” Moran said. “Happens to the best of us.”
“There were three women named Maria Luisa Torres in the Mexico City area phone listing, but the police told me that one had died two months ago, the other has been in prison for the last two years on a drug trafficking charge, and the last one was a patient at a local nuthouse.”
“I’ve had your Dragon Lady from the bank checked out and something’s not right,” Moran said.
The door to the office opened and a middle-aged stout man in a white lab coat marched in. The laminated photo ID that hung from his coat’s breast pocket said he was Roy Fielding, Chief of the NYPD Ballistics Unit.
As Fielding walked toward Moran and Hernandez, the thick crest of ruffled brown hair that capped his head bounced as if on springs, giving him the appearance of some sort of mad scientist. His right hand clutched two typed pages while his left hand gripped a half-eaten onion bagel.
“I completed the ballistics tests,” he said when he reached the table. “Sorry it took so long.” He took a large bite from the bagel, wiped his mouth with the hem of his lab coat and set the report down on the table. “It’s the same weapon that killed Lacy Wooden.”
“Thought so,” Moran said. “The wounds were similar.”
“There’s more, my children.” Fielding began with a professorial air. “The .22 has a left-hand rate of twist 1 in 10, and the .38 right-hand rate of twist of 1 in 12. You’ll find that one bullet came from a barrel with six grooves while the other came from a barrel with eight grooves.”
For a long moment, the words hung over the room like a thick fog. Moran and Hernandez looked at each other.
“Are you saying that two guns were used?” Hernandez said.
“That’s where I have a problem,” Fielding said. He picked up the report and flipped to the last page. He pointed to a paragraph that was highlighted in yellow. “Read it.”
Moran grasped the report and when he finished, he dropped it on the table and rose from his chair. “Both casings were struck on the same side and with the same firing pin indentation,” Moran said.
“Exactly,” Fielding said. “You and I know that no two pins strike the primer at the same angle and with the same indentation. All of which throws the two-gun theory out the window.”
Moran slid the report to Hernandez and turned to the ballistics chief. “What’s your take?”
Fielding massaged his chin. “Never seen anything like it.”
“What about a derringer?” Hernandez asked.
“If it is, it’s got to be one hell of a custom job,” Fielding answered.
Hernandez scratched his head. “Then it’s got to be two killers and the firing pin markings are just a fluke. Which could mean the killer used two guns to make it look like two shooters.”
“And both guns left the identical firing pin markings?” Roy Fielding said. “I can’t buy that.”
“I agree,” Moran said. “Two separate shooters can’t produce a pattern that tight. It’s impossible for two separate weapons to produce the same angle of entry.”
Hernandez furrowed his brow and his gaze drifted back and forth between Moran and Fielding. “Maybe you’re right.”
Moran began to pace. “Let’s play it out. Myer and his assailant have a violent argument. They struggle, and in the heat of the fight, the killer strikes Myer on the side of the head with a heavy object, and then shoots him twice,” the lieutenant stopped and faced Fielding and Hernandez. “If it was a planned hit the killer would’ve just shot the guy and been done with it,” Moran said.
Alice Simms floated in through the glass doors of the Haifa Diamond Exchange. The store’s large window displays pricey objects that ranged from gaudy Rolexes to oversized diamond rings. But it wasn’t in the city’s Diamond District, home to wholesalers and retailers of ninety percent of all the diamonds that entered the United States. In fact, the jewelry store was flanked by a Falafel eatery on one side and crates of tropical produce from, ‘La Isla,’ a bodega, on the other. The several glass counters with expensive jewelry on display were busy with salesclerks attending clients. From nearby a man with thick eyeglasses wearing a long black beard and ringlets that ran down the sides of his thin, pallid face moved toward Simms.
“Can I help you?” he said. The man’s long black coat sagged over his lanky frame and he tipped the wide brimmed