When you have a potentially dangerous suspect, there’s always a bit of a judgment call on whether it’s better to talk to them first or go right for a warrant. As far as I knew, this guy Étranger had no idea what we were after. It was probably our only advantage. Once we questioned him, we’d be giving that up. The problem is, most judges, and therefore most DAs, want to see good evidence that a warrant is—well, warranted. It’s embarrassing for everyone, and a waste of a lot of time and money, to charge into somebody’s house or business only to find they had a verifiable alibi the whole time. Not to mention the constitutional issue. But here the question of an alibi was moot. No statement by the suspect could contradict the photographic evidence, which linked him to two missing persons on the very dates of their disappearances. In combination with the eyewitness report, any reasonable person would call that grounds for suspicion.
It would have been a slam dunk if not for the fact that the chef’s face was obscured in all of the security footage. Hammond and I knew a judge would want to see positive evidence—maybe not definitive proof, but certainly probable cause—that the man on both tapes was not only the same man but also our guy. Enter forensics. It’s a fascinating discipline. People really specialize. There are guys who know all about carpets, for example. They can look at some fibers under a microscope and tell you not only how old they are, but who the manufacturer was and at what retail outlets they were sold. You might think a fiber is a fiber is a fiber, or that all of them are round like a hair, but it’s not so. Some have a diamond-shaped cross-section, others a cross. And of course they’re all different diameters. Some carpets use all one type of fiber, others weave a specific ratio of different shapes and widths. Then there are the dyes—not just the color and chemical makeup, but how long the fibers were steeped and so how deeply the dye penetrated.
All that to say, there’s a gal at the FBI’s New York office who specializes in forensic anthropology. After looking at the security footage and the color pictures I’d snapped of the chef leaving the restaurant, she used some software to compare height and head shape of the men in all the pictures. Her brief, which she filed with the court, suggested that there was a 95% chance that they were all the same man.
I turned to Hammond. “You ready?”
He nodded and we got out of the car, which was the cue for the others to do the same. Three squad cars emptied and ten uniformed officers followed Hammond and me across the street to the bistro. He held up the folded warrant and directed two patrolmen to stay by the side exit and make sure no one left with anything. Another pair went around to check the back. We walked into the restaurant and I explained to the hostess that we had a warrant to search the loft above, as well as the offices and work space of the restaurant, and she needed to unlock the side door immediately. People are usually a little flustered in those kinds of situations, for obvious reasons. But she didn’t flinch, like this wasn’t the first time they’d been searched. Or even the second. Without a word, she led us around to the side and opened the door. It wasn’t even locked.
My phone rang as I followed Hammond up the stairs to the loft. I ignored it. He stopped abruptly at the giant head with stitched-closed eyes and I stepped around him into the apartment. The high brick walls displayed a menagerie of tasteless art.
“Search this room,” I ordered one of the patrolmen.
I went right for the double doors on the opposite side, but they opened on their own and the chef stepped out, bald head and all.
“Can I help you?”
“Please step aside.” I moved toward the space behind him.
He politely held out his hand to stop me. “May I see some identification?”
I held up my badge.
“The police?” he asked, as if surprised.
“Would you please wait downstairs, sir?”
“Of course. But first may I see the warrant?”
I pointed him to Detective Hammond, who was answering his phone. His had rung right after mine went to voicemail. I had the sense that the chef was stalling, like he was delaying me just enough for something to happen. I moved him to the side with both hands. He didn’t resist. I strode down the hall toward a pair of block stone doors. I put my hand out to open them, but there were no handles. I pushed. They didn’t budge. I turned back to the chef, who was waiting for my colleague to finish what looked to be an urgent call.
“Sir, I’m gonna need you to open these doors.”
“Of course,” he said and started toward me. “May I ask what this is about?”
Fucker was so calm. That’s when I noticed the tattoos on his palms, like the remnants of some kind of gang ritual.
“Just please open the doors.”
“Of course,” he repeated. He raised his palms like he was going to start an incantation.
“Har, wait!” Hammond called.
He strode down the hall and handed his phone to me. I listened patiently as Lt. Miller explained the situation. My face got red. Just like that, it was all falling apart—just as quickly as it had all come together. Poof.
Like magic.
“Change of plans,” Hammond said to the others. “Let’s go. Everybody out.”
I hung up. I lingered.
“Hari!” he barked.
“Where’s Alexa?” I asked the chef.
He looked at me, expressionless. “I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.”
“I’m going to find her,” I said, stepping toward him. Hammond stopped me.
The chef nodded once. “Of that, I am certain.”
“Har . . .” Hammond had the tips of his spread fingers pressed against my stomach. It gave him leverage without being touchy.
“I’m gonna find her,” I told the chef again.
Hammond pushed me back to the door. I didn’t resist.
“I’m gonna find her.”