Page 91 of NYPD Red 7: The Murder Sorority

“Great questions,” I said. “I wish I had answers.”

The NYPD Forensics Laboratory is in Jamaica, Queens. Kylie got on the FDR Drive toward the Queens Midtown Tunnel, and I called Cates to tell her about the gunshot residue on Megan’s business

card.

“Megan Rollins?” she said. “The one who will bang any cop who can give her insider information? The same one who trashed Red on the air, then egged on the public so they swamped the mayor’s office with emails and phone calls because we were supposedly denying her First Amendment rights?”

“That’s the one, Cap. Kylie and I are taking her card to the lab. I’m sure they’ll get right on it as soon as I tell them it’s a priority.”

Cates laughed. That’s because almost every cop who submits evidence to be analyzed thinks their case is the biggest thing to come down the pike since the Son of Sam killings. Everything that comes through the door is a priority. Which means nothing is a priority.

Unless you have juice.

“I’ll call Inspector Woolsey,” Cates said.

Woolsey is the CO at the lab. All Cates had to do was let him know that the thirteenth floor at 1PP was waiting on the results of this one, and it would go to the front of the line.

I thanked her and hung up.

“I have a thought,” Kylie said.

“Lay it on me,” I said.

She did, and I wanted to smack myself in the head for not thinking of it first.

By the time we got to the lab, Cates had worked her magic. They were expecting us. We met with Ananda Singh, their senior criminalist, and gave her the background.

“I’ll get right on it,” she said. “I’ll call you in about two hours.”

As soon as we got back in the car, Kylie called Shane. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“I’d rather be dicing onions, but Theo is having a blast. Did you talk to Natalie yet?”

“We’re on our way to her apartment now,” Kylie said. “Any message you’d like me to pass on to her?”

Shane laughed. “Yeah, send my best, and tell her to let me know if she needs a letter of recommendation for her next job, which, if I had a vote, would be cranking out license plates for the State of New York.”

I opened the file we had pulled together on Natalie Brinsmaid and took one last look. There wasn’t much. She wasthirty-five, born and raised in Forest Hills, and went to Queens College, where she got her CPA degree. Her parents had retired to Florida, and her two married sisters lived in Connecticut. Natalie didn’t have a rap sheet, but her social media pages were rife with vitriol, which is not a criminal offense. In fact, her posts were careful not to slander, but she was a serial shamer, and her targets were always men.

She lived alone on Queens Boulevard in one of the manycookie-cutterred-brickapartment complexes that sprang up in the borough after World War II. There was a hydrant in front of the building, and Kylie pulled up to it.

The doorman came scurrying out. “Where you leave your car is none of my business,” he said, making it his business, “but the parking police around here are ruthless.”

Kylie flipped the visor down, exposing a sign that said, “NYPD Official Business,” which almost always gets a laugh from the traffic agent who is writing the ticket. I showed him my ID.

“I guess you can park wherever you want,” he said. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”

“We’re here to see Natalie Brinsmaid,” I said. “Apartmentfive-C. Do you know if she’s in?”

“Oh, she’s in. The question is, is she ever coming out?”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning usually, she comes and goes, I see her, we chat, but these past four or five days she’s been barricaded up in her apartment. The first day, I rang up to see if she’s sick, but she said no. End of conversation. Haven’t heard from her since.”

“You said you and she chat,” Kylie said.

He held up his hand. “I should amend that. She talks. I listen.”

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