The Eighth Day

Chapter 16

Before returning to the precinct, Sam dropped Mooney off at his car, which he'd left at Jaffe's apartment.

"Get with CSU," he told Mooney as he pulled alongside the young detective's red coupe. "Have them check those offices, see if they pick up trace evidence, any indication someone was there at all."

Mooney nodded.

"And find out who manages rent there. See what they can tell you about Lark Morton—a name, a number, whatever. If you can, hook them up with a sketch artist, and run it through facial rec. You find anything, lemme know. I'll do some research when I get back to the office, too. See what Google has to say about them."

By the time Sam pulled into the parking lot of the Midtown North Precinct, the sun had reached its summit. The heat rose off the asphalt in shimmering waves. He slid the gearshift into park and checked his smartphone. Jenny had sent him a text.

"Here safe. Naptime now. Call me tonight. XOXO."

His feet were lead as he plodded toward the precinct. Several officers huddled together outside, smoking cigarettes and swapping war stories.

"How's it going, detective?"

Sam returned the greeting with a nod of his chin, yanked open the door to the precinct, and disappeared into the belly of the beast.

He went first to Lieutenant William Thompson's office. The door stood open, and the lieutenant sat behind his desk, a big man with a bald pate and ruddy cheeks. Sam leaned against the door frame and cleared his throat.

The lieutenant glanced up. "Sam. How's Jenny and Jason?"

"They're fine." Sam dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. "Catching up on sleep at her parents."

"If you need anything..." The lieutenant let the words trail off like an open door.

But Sam shook his head. "The only thing I need is to catch the assholes behind this."

Thompson regarded him, then nodded. "Okay. Tell me where we stand with Nelson and Devine."

"So far?" Sam shrugged. "We got nothing. We have some leads on Jaffe, though. I'm hoping if we find him, we find them."

"What leads?"

"His smartphone and client list. Oh, and the New York Times."

The lieutenant frowned.

"He had an app for the Times open to the classifieds at the restaurant yesterday morning," Sam said. "Found the same thing in his apartment today, but in a hard copy edition."

"What's he looking for?"

"I'm not sure yet. I got Francis tracking it down," Sam said. "Also, Mooney and I just came from his office—Jaffe's, I mean. Place is a ghost town. Entire floor—no desks, no cabinets, not a single paper clip. One of the offices had the walls repainted and carpets shampooed, though. I figure they cleared out sometime yesterday."

Thompson exhaled. "This shit just keeps getting crazier. You check with the property manager?"

"Already got Mooney on it."

"That's why I love you, Sam."

"I'm gonna go see what the guys found out while I was gone," Sam said. "You got anything else for me?"

"Nope. Keep me posted."

Next, Sam paid a visit to the detective squad's cubicle farm. He found Nat Francis with his feet propped on his desk and his Web browser open to YouTube. One hand lay limply over his mouse, scrolling through a series of video thumbnails.