Killer Heat

THIRTY-TWO

So you think Kiernan Dylan's Ruffles might actually be named for this spit of sand out in the bay?" Peterson asked. "That would put the noose a little tighter around the kid's neck."

"You'd have to have roots in the Rockaways-like the Dylans do- to even be aware the island existed, I guess," Draper said. "None of you knew what I was talking about, did you?

"Sorry," I said. "After last night, we were all putting ourselves in a pub, not out on a sandbar. What is the place?"

"There was a time in the 1880s that Ruffle Bar was a resort, a little community with about fifty homes, a boat club, and a fancy hotel, the Skidmore House. Kids who lived there had to row back to the Rockaways to go to school every day, so I know it's doable. The locals did a thriving business in oystering."

"What happened to it?"

"High tide, Alex. High tide and a couple of fierce hurricanes. There are a lot of little islets in the bay-Ruffle Bar, Hog Island, maybe a dozen others. What with erosion they all lost the battle with nature. By the 1940s, there were just some fishing shacks and squatters. Loo, you got a city map?"

Peterson stepped out and returned with a map that Draper unfolded and spread out on the desk. Directly south of Manhattan, just off the shore of Brooklyn, was Governors Island. The double red line of the Belt Parkway circled the borough, and shooting off it was a single artery-a highway and a bridge over the bay waters-to the Rockaways, the peninsula that ended in the village of Breezy Point.

Beyond that bridge, in the large body of water bounded by JFK airport on the east and Floyd Bennett Field on the west, were more than a dozen islands.

I ran my fingers over the unnamed pieces that looked like parts of a jigsaw puzzle floating on the blue background of the bay.

"Sandbars, like Ruffle. The bigger ones are a wildlife refuge now. They're all deserted. This one here," he said, pointing to the one closest to Breezy Point, "it's Ruffle Bar."

"Give me a hypothetical," Peterson said, using his cigarette stub to light another one. "Say Kiernan Dylan meets up with Huff."

"Where?" Mercer asked. "What's your idea of where?"

"Who cares where? His joint, another joint. They wind up in his van. He comes on to her and she says no."

"I hate to tell you, Loo," Mike said, "but Elise was the one chasing after his ass."

"That doesn't mean they didn't fight," I said. "Maybe she wasn't interested in a sexual encounter in the back of the van. Maybe he wanted to do it one way and she wanted something else. Maybe her idea of hooking up was different than his."

"And I've already got them at the beach," Peterson said. "Something goes wrong out there. She gets hurt and then he panics."

Peterson was tracing his finger from the end of Breezy Point back to the highway and around the bay to where Huff's body was discovered in the marsh along the water's edge.

"None of this explains Amber Bristol," Mercer said. "Or Connie Wade. We've got to get this down and figure out our next move, before he makes his."

"I never thought I'd see the day I had to apologize to Dickie Draper," Mike said. "I'll give you your props, my man. If I had known about the real Ruffle Bar when I was talking to Kiernan Dylan, I might have spooked him into a little bit more conversation."

Mike picked up the receiver on Peterson's desk.

"Now what?" the lieutenant asked.

"Central Booking. If he hasn't been arraigned yet, maybe I can take another shot at the kid on his way out."

Behind Mike's back, I held up my hands in frustration and mouthed an emphatic no to Peterson.

"He's got a lawyer now, Mike." I let the lieutenant do the talking. I knew Mike would take it better from him.

"Yeah, but the only thing he's been charged with is the ABC violations. Maybe Shea will want to play with me. Just keeping my options open."

Mike talked into the phone. "Chapman. Manhattan North Homicide. Checking on a prisoner named Kiernan Dylan."

He listened to the answer, thanked the officer, and replaced the receiver in the cradle. "He's docketed and all. But the cut on the back of his head split open so they took him up to Bellevue to be stitched. He jumps to the front of the line when he gets back."

"You still dumb enough to do turban jobs, Chapman?" Draper said. "Smack a guy around and have him in bandages before he sees the judge?"

"His father did it for me."

"You got no class."

"Look," Peterson said, "Shea told you to call him, Mike. That's the way we have to work it. We'll take it step by step. The interview room is open now. Why don't you lay out all the stuff we've got and split up the assignments for the week. If I have to ask the commissioner to put a tail on Kiernan 24/7, I'll do that."

We spent the next two hours in the small windowless room, trying to make sense of the facts we had and dividing tasks. I made a list of items that needed to be subpoenaed-documents to be prepared by me and signed by the foreman of the grand jury-that included cell phone and Internet records for Kiernan Dylan. It grew longer with every idea the detectives had.

"You ever do a sand analysis before?" Mercer asked. He would be the contact person for the museum's expert.

"Yeah," Draper said. "We got miles of beaches."

"Does it take long? Is it reliable?"

"Piece of cake. The color varies, the texture can be smooth or grainy, sometimes it's got rock or coral or particular shells in it. You know how sometimes it sticks to your body, while in other places the sand brushes off real easy?" Draper went on to detail the distinctive features that would allow our witness to compare the samples.

"Spare me the thought of Dickie sitting on the beach with sand sticking to his crotch," Mike whispered to me as he stood to stretch.

Shortly before nine, when we were wrapping up the session, Peterson came back to the room, bracing his back against the doorjamb.

"Score one for the troopers," he said, taking a long drag on his cigarette. "They just found Dylan's white van."

"Where at?" Draper asked.

"Hudson Highlands State Park, not far from Bannerman Island. Ditched in the woods. License plate stripped off, but the VIN number's a match."

"Damn it," Mike said, cracking his pencil in half. "I apologized to Draper, I might as well eat it all and apologize to you, too, Coop. I never should have jumped the gun collaring that kid."

"Apology accepted," I said. "As soon as we get some forensics back from the lab, we'll make that call to Frankie Shea."

"That'll be the state lab in Albany, Alex," the lieutenant said. "They get to do the workup on the van. Even the olive green blanket that was balled up on the floor behind the rear seat."

The news that another blanket had been found in Dylan's vehicle galvanized all of us.

"Get a check on the arraignment, Mike," Peterson went on. "Tacchi, Vandomir-you guys okay to start to tail the kid from the courthouse tonight? I'll have relief for you in the morning and we'll keep on it till we see if there are prints or hair or whatever in the van."

Mike had flipped open his cell and was talking to the officer at Central Booking again. "Chapman here. That Dylan kid, how long till he sees the judge?"

He didn't like the answer he got. He pocketed the phone and repeated it to us.

"Walked out the door forty-five minutes ago. ROR'd," Mike said. The judge had released him on his own recognizance, denying the prosecutor's request to set bail. "Lock your doors, ladies. Mr. Dylan's on the loose.