212

CHAPTER THIRTY

10:30 P.M.

Stacy Schecter was a different woman without the makeup. The rock-and-roll eyeliner and pale face powder were gone, rubbed away by tears and half a box of tissues. The dry, droll attitude had dissolved as well. She looked at Ellie across the table with the puffy, red-rimmed eyes of a scared and lonely child.

“I don’t know why I can’t keep it together,” she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “I hardly knew the girl.”

“You knew her at some level. You had her number in your cell phone.”

Because her apartment had scarcely enough room for one person to sit, Stacy had agreed to come in to the precinct to be interviewed. It had been half an hour already, and only now had she calmed down sufficiently to get her words out.

“I didn’t even know her real name. To me, she was Miranda. No last name, but that would have been fake also.”

“How did you know her?” Ellie asked.

“We met last year at a friend’s party. We didn’t stay in touch or anything. We just hit it off, and so I put her number in my phone.”

J. J. stood with his arms crossed behind Stacy in the back corner of the interrogation room. He rolled his eyes when Ellie glanced at him.

“So why was she calling you yesterday?”

“I told you. It was a hang-up. I figured if she wanted to talk to me she’d call back. People pull up the wrong number on their cells all the time.”

“We’re getting the records from the cell phone company, Stacy. They’re going to show any other calls between you and Katie, or Miranda. And I have a feeling we’re going to find a lot more calls than we’d expect to find between two women who met at a party a year ago but didn’t stay in touch.”

Stacy pressed her eyes closed. She was thinking. Hard. She was smart enough to recognize the problem. She needed one more press.

“What are you hiding, Stacy? You obviously cared about this woman.”

She shook her head in frustration. “I wish I didn’t. Jesus, how did I get myself into this?”

“Into what? Were you and Katie involved in drugs?” It was a classic interrogation technique. Offer the suspect one explanation—a wrong one—so the human need to correct an error takes over. “We can work something out. Finding the person who did this to her is a lot more important than whatever you’re holding back.”

“We don’t do drugs.”

“So what was it?”

She closed her eyes again. Still thinking.

“I’m not testifying.”

“Whoa, where did that come from, Stacy? We’re just trying to figure out why your telephone number was the common link between two women who were murdered today.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything about that other number. Only Miranda’s.”

“Fine. We’ll talk about the other one later. But right now you need to tell us what you know about Katie Battle.”

“You ask me to sign anything, or try to use my name, and I’ll deny it all. I’ll be out of here, and then I’ll bail.”

Ellie looked at Rogan, who gave her a look that said the decision was hers. She nodded her agreement.

“I met Miranda last year through a date. Set up by an escort service. We were on, you know, the same date. For the same client. We worked together another couple of times. Since then, we’ve swapped a few dates. We sort of have the same look.” She looked down at her tattered, paint-smeared sweatshirt. “Or at least we have the same look when we’re working.”

Ellie could see a superficial resemblance. Dark hair. Pale skin. Intense eyes.

“And by working, you mean sex for money.”

“You got it,” she said. The attitude was on its way back. “You’re a cop. I assume you know what working at an escort service means. I was with the service for about six months last year, but now I’m strictly independent. I can find dates on my own, and I get to keep the money for myself.”

“It’s dangerous working on your own.” Before getting her detective shield, Ellie had worked more than her fair share of prostitution decoy operations.

“I’m alive. Miranda isn’t. I guess I keep myself safe.”

For now, Ellie wanted to say. But arguing with Stacy about her idiotic decisions was not the priority.

“Even after I left the service, Miranda and I would occasionally swap dates with each other. It was a no-no for her because of her agreement with the service. I’ve got an arrangement going with another couple of girls there, too, so that’s why I don’t want my name getting back to them.”

“Who’s the them?”

“The service.”

“And where do we get in touch with them?”

She paused, but didn’t bother arguing. “They call themselves Prestige Parties.”

“And how often did you and Miranda swap dates?”

She shook her head. “Not a lot. Maybe three or four times since I went out on my own a year ago. When I saw her number on my cell yesterday, I assumed that’s why she was calling. But then she hung up, and I guess I wasn’t excited enough about working to call her back.” Her bottom lip began to quiver. “That could be why she was calling, you know. About her date tonight. She could have been calling to see if I could…I could have been the one tonight.”

“But you weren’t. So stop feeling guilty, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You and Katie knew what you were doing—”

“So she deserved it? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not. No one deserves what she went through. But you were both in this. And to some extent, you were in it together. She wouldn’t wish this upon you, just like you aren’t happy it happened to her instead of you. Deal with it. You can help us here.”

“I’m trying.”

“Do you have any idea who her client might have been tonight?”

“No. She didn’t have a lot of regulars. She relied on the service to set things up.”

“And given how Prestige works, if they tell us they don’t know the name of a client, should we be willing to believe that?”

“Actually, yeah, that’s believable. They were pretty shitty, you know? They talked a big game about all they were doing for us, but they were no better than any street pimp selling you to whoever happened to call in. Supposedly they took credit cards so you’d have some leverage over these guys, but it seemed like half the jobs I went on, they told me it was a cash deal.”

“All right, we’ll press them to try to find out who Katie was with tonight. Let’s talk about the other telephone number. According to the phone records, an NYU student named Megan Gunther called you in May.”

“I don’t know anyone named Megan.”

“You didn’t think you knew anyone named Katie Battle either.” J. J. stepped forward and placed a photograph of Megan Gunther on the table in front of Stacy. She winced at the sight of the dead woman on the metal gurney.

“Take a good look,” Ellie urged. “People’s appearance can change after they…pass.”

They both watched carefully as Stacy took in the image for a full five seconds before finally shaking her head. “No, I’m sure. I’ve never seen that girl before.”

Ellie eyed her skeptically, evoking a frustrated chuckle from her witness. “Look, I just got done confessing to whoring myself out. Why would I lie to you about knowing this girl? Maybe it really was a wrong number. Go ahead. Pull up all the phone records you want. You’ll find a few calls between me and Miranda, or Katie, or whatever. But this girl? I swear, you’re not going to find anything.”

Ellie was startled by the buzz of her cell phone at her waist. She checked the screen. It was a text message from Jess. “Just saw U on TV outside Royalton. Thought Capt. America splurged till they said dead realtor. Sorry you’re working. But can I have the bed 2nite?”

“Damn it. J. J., they’ve got Katie on the news already. It’s out there. We have to tell the family.”