"It's ours for the next half hour," he said and gestured for us to follow him.

It was a very bare room with one long conference table and wooden chairs all around it. A few framed photographs of captains and other officers hung on the wall, some of which were so old they were black and white.

"Why don't you sit over there?" Abe pointed to the far end of the room. "I've got a couple of officers bringing our boy out. They'll be staying in here with him. I hope that's okay."

A few minutes later I heard the clink of chains, and then Averly shuffled into the room. With his hands cuffed to waist chains and his feet linked together by more chains, he was a one-man band. And he looked just like his security photo: wavy brown hair that reached almost to his collar, sharp, ferret-like features, and very thin chapped lips that he licked nervously as his eyes darted between me, Bailey, and Abe.

We introduced ourselves and told him we were investigating the kidnapping and murder of Hayley Antonovich. Abe again advised Averly of his rights and he again waived them.

He replied immediately, "I don't know anything about any kidnapping or murder."

That was way too fast. And he looked way too cool. Not good.

"How did you wind up with Hayley's iPad and Brian's ID?" I asked. I couldn't be sure he'd had Brian's driver's license, but we knew he'd used one of Brian's credit cards to buy the plane ticket to Paris, so I surmised that at one time he'd had the rest of Brian's stuff too. Unfortunately, by the time NYPD grabbed him, he didn't have anything of Brian's on him. So I was basically bluffing. But if he didn't correct me, I'd know I was right.

"I found them."

Notice he didn't say, "What ID?"

"How'd you get them?" I asked.

His eyes darted around the table, then settled on a point over my right shoulder. It didn't take an expert to know that whatever came out of his mouth next would be a lie.

"In a car." He shrugged. "I guess it was wrong, but it was unlocked, and the stuff was right there on the floor."

"So you decided to help yourself." The disdain in my voice made it very clear what I thought of this horseshit story.

"Yeah," he said with a defiant look. "I figured I could buy myself a free trip and have some fun."

"Then why didn't you take that flight to Paris? You bought the ticket, why not go?"

He shrugged. "Changed my mind. Decided I'd rather hang out here for a while."

"So you wasted the money on a ticket to Paris because...?"

"Why not? Wasn't my money."

"So you didn't know whose iPad it was when you took it?"

"No."

"But you must've realized whose it was when you used it to book the flight to Paris."

He shrugged again, nonchalant. "Not really. I didn't care."

We'd flown all this way just so this asshat could lie-badly-to our faces. "This is complete and total bullshit. You want to try again with something that resembles the truth?" There was no point pussyfooting around with this guy. He wasn't intimidated, he wasn't scared, and he wasn't remorseful. And there was no way he was going to give us anything.

He favored me with a cold little smile. "Yeah. Here's the truth: I want my lawyer."

Abe gave the high sign and the two officers escorted him back out.

"What did he have on him when you arrested him?" I asked Abe.

"His cell, his wallet-with his own ID. We haven't searched his suitcase yet."

"Can you release his cell phone to us?" Bailey asked.

"Yeah. And we can hang on to him and keep the stolen property charge alive for a while if you like."

"I like," Bailey said. "Is he calling his lawyer now?"

"Should be."

"Be nice to hang around and see who shows up, if you don't mind."

34.

Abe sent a uniform out for subs while we waited. He got a meatball, I had a ham and Swiss, and Bailey had a pastrami. We'd just rolled up the paper wrappers into balls and taken turns trying to make baskets into the trash can in the corner when the sergeant came in to tell us that Jack Averly had decided he didn't want to call anyone right now.

"Lucky break," Bailey said. "Abe, can you keep him off the phone for a little while? If we're right that he's working with someone, it'd help if he couldn't send up a flare."

"I can try. But they do smuggle cell phones in here and I'd bet he's waiting to make a friend in the tank who'll let him use one."

Bailey nodded. "Your jail phones are monitored?" Most were nowadays.

"Yeah."

"Averly probably needs to call his buddy to hook him up with a lawyer," Bailey said. "But if he uses your phone, we'll know who he called."

We thanked Abe for all his help and declined his offer of a ride to the airport.

"We've got to make a stop before we head back to L.A.," Bailey explained.

We couldn't put it off anymore. It was the fifth day since Brian's body had been found-much longer than we'd intended-and we couldn't push our luck any further. We had to notify Janice of his death. Bailey had called to tell her we'd be in Manhattan, and by coincidence, Janice had meetings in the city, so she'd be staying at the St. Regis Hotel, a swanky old-school place in midtown, near Central Park. Even if I hadn't already known she was a bestselling author, the fact that she could afford those prices would have been a tip-off.

I hadn't noticed the weather because we'd been inside ever since we landed. But now, as I stepped outside, I felt like I'd been smacked with a wet towel-a very hot, cloying wet towel. Unlike the arid heat in Los Angeles, summers in New York City are sticky, humid, and airless, and the odors emanating from the sewers can turn your stomach inside out. It's why everyone runs up to the Hamptons, or Connecticut-anywhere to escape the misery. Within ten seconds, I was dripping with sweat and dying for a shower. Fortunately, we lucked out and got a cab quickly.

The doormen at the St. Regis have to wear full livery: top hat, jacket with epaulets, and gloves. In this heat, it must've been torturous. I took a photo so I could show Angel how easy he had it compared to these guys.

I hadn't spoken to Janice since we'd found Brian's body, but we did have one more contact after our first conversation. It was when she'd heard about Hayley's death on the news. Although I hadn't told her Hayley's last name, she'd put two and two together-and she'd called to tell me in no uncertain terms that Brian couldn't possibly have been responsible. At the time, I hadn't known she was right. I told her that since Brian was the last one to be seen with Hayley, we had to consider him a possible suspect. If she heard from him, the smartest thing to do would be to get him to surrender. She promised she would. I promised I'd clear him if I could.

Now it occurred to me with bitter irony that I was about to keep my promise. Janice answered the door dressed in flowing black palazzo pants and a white tank. She looked to be in her forties at most, though I knew she was ten years older than that. Janice had the same slender build as Brian, but not his soft, rounded features. Her cheekbones were prominent and she had a slight hook to her nose. But her eyes were gentle, kindly. Janice ushered us in graciously and offered us something to drink. We thanked her but declined. The posh suite had a sitting room but, as is typical of so many hotels in the city, no view to speak of at all-unless you count the offices of the building across the street as a view. Given Manhattan rates, I figured the suite had to be setting her back at least a couple of grand a night.

Janice took a seat on the couch, and we sat across from her in the small French Provincial chairs. Given what she already knew about Hayley, it took her just one look at our faces to know what we'd come to tell her. Janice put her hands to her cheeks. "No, oh, no," she said. "He's not...please don't tell me..."

"I'm so sorry, Janice," I said. I told her what had happened to Brian as delicately as I could and concluded by saying, "We think Brian and Hayley were likely killed by the same person...or persons."

Though I was sure she had considered the possibility that Brian had met the same fate as Hayley, reality and possibility were two different things. Janice dropped her head and put one hand to her chest as tears quietly rolled down her cheeks. After a few moments, she asked in a tremulous voice, "Do you have any idea who did this?"

"We believe there had to be more than one person involved," Bailey said. "We've got one suspect in custody here in New York. We're still working on finding the second suspect."

Janice nodded and looked out the window behind us. "I didn't really get to know my nephew well until his mother died. I took him in because there was no one else. I wasn't sure it would work out. I'd always lived alone, so I worried, what on earth would I do with a teenage boy? But it was the best thing, by far, that I've ever done. He was charming, sweet, and so loving. With all the loss he'd suffered in his life, he was still one of the most cheerful, generous, kindhearted people I'd ever known. He changed my life. Even got me to watch television. Brian loved The Wire, and he made me a fan too. And I introduced him to classical music and museums." She fell silent for a few moments, then continued as she stared out the window. "We had such fun. I remember taking him to see a modern art exhibit-he made me laugh so hard. 'Aunt Janice,' he said, 'that's not art. I could do that with a paint roller'..." For a moment, the happy memories made her smile. Then the harsh reality of the present took hold again and she bent her head as a fresh wave of tears poured from her eyes.

Janice, who seemed to me to be a lonely soul, had found real warmth and even joy when Brian entered her life. To lose it this way was an unspeakable tragedy. After a few more moments she sat up, and Bailey passed her some Kleenex. She dabbed at her eyes and asked, "Do you think this had something to do with the theft of Tommy's screenplay?"

"I do," I said. "Brian and Hayley were very close. I think Brian confided in Hayley and they faked her kidnapping. Possibly as payback."

"But...it doesn't fit. Money didn't mean much to Brian. You had to know him, to really get it. He was all heart and soul. That's why I believed him when he said he wanted to write. He had that...artistic, sensitive kind of temperament. I just don't see him asking for money."

I didn't know what to say to that. But I did know there were a lot of things that didn't make sense yet and I told her so. We talked a little longer and asked if she wanted us to call anyone for her.

"I-I'll call. I'm having dinner with a friend. Don't worry about me. Just-will you keep me informed of...everything?"

"Of course," I said. "And if you think of anything-about Brian, or Tommy-please call. Any and all information would be helpful." We gave her our cards. "Please know that if there's a trial, we'll help you fly out and find a place to stay so you can attend."

A strange look skipped fleetingly across her face, but then Janice smiled tremulously. "That's very kind of you. Thank you."

I again promised to stay in touch and told her we'd do everything in our power to bring the killer to justice. It was no more comforting this time than it had been for Hayley's parents.

In the cab, on our way to the airport, Bailey and I were quiet. Tired, emotionally wrung out, and, for the moment, stymied; there was nothing good to say. "I don't make Averly as the mastermind," I said.

"He definitely wasn't at Russell's house when the kidnapping e-mail came in. So I'd agree, at least based on what we've seen so far."

"And he doesn't feel like a mastermind. Too weaselly...you know?"

Bailey nodded. We dragged our carry-ons through the terminal and took seats near the boarding gate, then Bailey went to find us some food to take on the plane. It was only after we'd boarded the flight that I remembered what I'd wanted to do.

"Bailey, do you have Averly's cell phone on you?"

"Yeah." She patted the pocket of her jacket.

"Is it wrapped up?"

"It's in a plastic bag. Why?"

"Let me see it."

Bailey pulled out the bag and gave it to me. Carefully, to avoid smudging prints, I manipulated the bag so I could press the power button through the plastic. When it booted up, I found the phone icon and looked at "Recent Calls."

"Look at all those calls to and from 'unknown caller,'" I said.

Bailey frowned. "And they're on the day of the kidnapping." She scrolled back up the page. "Last one was yesterday."

"The day Averly got arrested. We need to figure out who this 'unknown' caller is. How much time do you think we have before Averly gets his hands on a contraband phone?"

"Could be any minute. Especially if he promises big money."

Which he might very well have if he collected the ransom money. Bailey pulled out her cell and made a call. She gave Averly's phone number and asked to have the unknown caller identified as fast as possible. "And if you get the answer before I land, give the information to Lieutenant Hales immediately. I'm calling him now so he'll expect you." Bailey read off Graden's cell phone number and ended the call.

The flight attendant gave the announcement to turn off "all cell phone devices," so Bailey powered down and put Averly's phone back into her pocket.

"I guess that's all we can do now," she said.

There were no Bloody Marys for either of us this time. With any luck, we were going to have to hit the ground running.

35.

We didn't talk during the flight. It was packed, so the case was strictly off-limits, and we were too tired for small talk, so the moment we were airborne, we both fell asleep. But in the last hour of the flight a baby-whose Benadryl had probably worn off-woke up and began to cry nonstop. I felt sorry for the little one, but I confess, the noise was getting to me. And from Bailey's expression, I saw I wasn't the only one. "Want to send over a shot of Jack Daniel's?" I asked.

Bailey turned to face the window and closed her eyes.

Now fully, and unhappily, awake, I distracted myself by thinking about what our next moves should be. Apparently, Bailey did the same. The moment we cleared the Jetway, she leaned in and spoke in a low, urgent voice. "We're getting a telephonic for Averly's place."

It was nearly six o'clock, so the only way to get a search warrant right now was telephonically. The only problem with that idea was that it meant we'd have no choice of judge. We'd get whichever one had pulled the after-hours duty. Though I thought we had enough probable cause to hit Averly's apartment-and his car, for that matter-you just never knew when you'd get stuck with a judge who wasn't the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I started framing the pitch in my head as we raced through the terminal and out to the parking lot.

While Bailey drove, I called in and asked for the duty judge. And got Judge Pastor. A lucky break, because he was both smart and quick on the uptake. With the phone on speaker, I gave him the rundown, and when I'd finished, he immediately said, "You've got it. Put Detective Keller on." I held the phone closer to Bailey and the judge swore her in. By the time she drove up the ramp to the freeway, we had our warrant. I called the station and Bailey found Detective Harrellson.

"I need help. We've got a warrant for an apartment and a car."

Harrellson knew better than to ask on a cell phone whose place we were about to hit. "Send me the address. I'll get a team together."

I e-mailed him Averly's address and the license plate of his car. We got lucky and hit a pocket of light traffic, so it didn't take us long to get there. I noticed that Jack Averly's apartment wasn't far from Brian's place geographically. But otherwise it was a world away. Though Brian's place had been impersonal, his building was alive with working people still dialed in to the world. Averly's looked like a broken toy abandoned in a vacant lot. Worn down and used up. The lobby's glass door was dingy, the paint on the splintered wood frame was peeling and bare in places, and the carpet runner was stained to the point where it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally. Even in shoes, walking on it was gross.

Averly's apartment was even worse. Nothing more than a Dumpster with running water. A plastic ashtray overflowed onto the cheap particleboard coffee table with smoked-down roaches, and a baggie of weed lay on the floor next to a beanbag chair. Against the opposite wall, on top of an old, dusty television set, was a pizza box. The buzzing sound coming from inside it told me the flies were taking care of Averly's leftovers. The bedroom was exactly that: a room with a bed-or rather a mattress-on the floor. Not even a dresser. He'd stacked some of his clothes in U.S. Postal Service plastic bins-the kind you see left next to mailboxes on the street-and the rest he'd just thrown around the room. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to it, just a matter of whim that likely depended on his state of sobriety. I left the bathroom and kitchen to the cops and didn't even look. It was bound to be the stuff nightmares are made of. Not having to search places like that was a perk of being a DDA. I noticed the cops were happier than usual to glove and mask up before tossing this sty. And they only had to do the general combing for the big, obvious things that might link Averly to the kidnap and murders-like Hayley's or Brian's property, or the ransom money. I couldn't even think about what the criminalists would have to endure when they dug for the fine-point search.

I watched them work for a while, but the place smelled so gamy that eventually I had to get outside. Even the smog and monoxide were a vast improvement over the fetid air in that stink pad.

The luckier officers got to stand watch over Averly's car, which was parked outside in the carport. It was an old blue Mustang and in only slightly better shape than his apartment. Inside, I could see that the backseat was strewn with McDonald's bags, Taco Bell wrappers, plastic cups, and empty beer bottles. Surprisingly, the front seat was relatively tidy-just a couple of Coke cans on the driver's seat.

Bailey was standing behind the car, examining the tires. "Hey, Bailey," I called out. "We can add a charge of open container if we need to hold him longer." I pointed to the empty beer bottles. She gave me a sarcastic thumbs-up.

Just then, Dorian's Tacoma came roaring up the street.