Page 67 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“And if he did drive,” Koprowski said, “he’s too smart to expect he would find a parking space on the Upper West Side at that hour of the morning.”

“Tell me about it,” Cates said. “He’d wind up doing what I always do: find a parking garage and pay through the nose to leave it there for a couple of hours.”

“That’s the hope,” Kylie said. “If he did, we figured he’d park within easy walking distance of the crime scene—maybe five or six blocks. But he’s a professional. He’s not going to take the easy way out. So Rich and I thought we should expand the area to ten blocks on either side.”

“It’s aone-milestretch fromNinety-Secondto aHundred-and-

Twelfth, and from the river to Central Park West,” Koprowski said.

“That’s a big chunk of real estate,” Cates said. “How many garages and parking lots are we talking about?”

“Fifty-six,” Kylie said. “But we’ve been coordinating with Cardona and Henry from theTwo-Four. Their CO flew in eight more detectives from the surrounding precincts. It should go fast.”

It went faster than we expected. Within two hours, we had six black RAV4s that were in and out of those garages in the time frame we’d decided on. Two of them had a seven in their license plate. Both cars were owned by men. We ran their driver’s licenses.

The first man’s picture popped on Koprowski’s computer screen. Name: Raymond Villeneuve. Home address: WestNinety-EighthStreet, Manhattan. Age:thirty-seven.

I could almost feel the energy getting sucked out of the room.

Koprowski brought up the next picture. Name: Wesley Varga. Home address: Fitchett Avenue, Rego Park, Queens. Age:seventy-one.

And his face—his face was the spitting image of the sketch our homeless artist, Izaak Weathers, had drawn for us three nights ago at theTwenty-FourthPrecinct.

Kylie let out a booming whoop. We had found Barbara.

CHAPTER 45

The celebrationwasshort-lived.

It took less than a minute to find out that the address in Queens didn’t exist. The name Wesley Varga was probably just as phony. Koprowski had pulled up five different passports for Alice. It stood to reason that Barbara would also have multiple identities. As for the RAV4, that was probably inside the jaws of ascrap-yardcompactor within hours of the chase through Riverdale.

But one thing was real. One thing that Barbara couldn’t shake. The license plate on the RAV4. It was on the car’s registration, it had been entered into the computer of a parking garage six blocks from the stabbing, and with any luck, it was somewhere in the City of New York’s vast database of traffic and parking violations.

Koprowski, atwo-fingeredtypist, pecked away furiously on his keyboard.

“Got him,” he said as the image of a summons appeared on his screen. “A month ago, his car was parked in front of Forty toForty-SevenSeventy-SeventhStreet in Elmhurst.Street-sweepingrules go into effect eight thirty in the morning, and he got the ticket at eightthirty-two.”

“Ah, the code of the NYPD traffic agent,” Kylie said. “Show no mercy.”

“Two months before that, the car got anexpired-meterviolation at Forty toForty-TwoEighty-SecondStreet, also in Elmhurst,” Koprowski said. “Hold on.”

He brought up Google Maps and checked the street views on both addresses. One was in front of a bakery; the other was outside a small apartment building.

“How far apart are they?” Kylie asked.

Koprowski banged on the keys, and the map refreshed. “Three-tenthsof a mile. Three minutes by car, six minutes on foot.”

“You think he lives in the neighborhood?” Kylie said.

“Or works,” Koprowski said. “It’s pretty commercial. Remind me again—what does this one do for a living?”

“All we know is that Barbara is theedged-weaponsexpert,” Kylie said. “Or as Theo puts it, ‘y’know, knives and shit.’ But we don’t have a confirmed occupation.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “He was a medic in the military. Theo said he knows exactly how to slash his victims’ throats so that they bleed out on the spot.”

“Doctor!” Kylie said.

“Surgeon!” Koprowski said, right on her heels.

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