Chapter 14: Scatterplot

At a dive bar called Billy's on Fifth, Goren and Eames waited for their contact. In his brief call to Eames, Ted claimed that if they waited, Rhino would find them. They had been waiting almost half an hour.

Billy's on Fifth was unapologetically low-class. The floor was dirty concrete, the wood at the bar was scuffed and stained and sported a variety of graffiti scratched into its flaking beige paint. What little of the walls were visible between the posters and fliers were an uninspired shade of off-white, or at least had been before years of cigarette smoke had given it a yellow-brown tinge. The bar was almost deserted, and had been for the entire time they'd been there.

A wiry young man with close-cropped light brown hair and a matching shadow of a beard walked in. He looked around, then made his way to them. "You the cops Ted told me about?"

"That's us," Eames confirmed.

"Not what you're expecting?" he asked after he sat down and noticed Eames looking him over curiously. "I get that a lot. People think with a name like Rhino I'd be bigger, but in the cage it helps to be small. Makes you a harder target to hit."

"Did Ted tell you what we want to ask you about?" Goren inquired.

"Only that it had to do with Brenda. And that he doesn't think you'll arrest me if I tell you what I know."

"We're investigating a woman's murder," said Eames. "Things like illegal fights and drug use are a little below our radar."

Rhino nodded, and spoke in a near-whisper. "Brenda used to slip me coke before matches. She said it would give me an edge, make things more exciting."

"Did anyone find out about it?" Eames questioned.

"People talked. Some of the guys I beat said that was the reason."

"Did someone threaten you?"

"Some people complained to Ted, but this ain't the Big Leagues. Anyone would do whatever it takes. That's just the game, you know?"

"That's right," Goren mumbled. "People get hurt. Isn't that what Ted said?" He'd glanced briefly at Eames as he spoke, then looked back at Rhino. "Did...has anyone died as a result of the fights?"

They could see Rhino withdrawing his cooperation. He would admit to drugs, but this line of questioning could get him and Ted in real trouble. "No. Of course not."

"Has anyone been seriously injured?" Eames asked.

"You know," Rhino stood up, "I've told you everything I know about Brenda. I didn't even know her real name. I don't think I can help you." He left quickly.

Eames sighed in frustration. "We're not going to have another shot at him."

"We might not need one," Goren said.

She raised her eyebrow. "You want to clue me in?"

"He feels guilty. I think someone either died or got hurt from a fight. We need emergency room records."

"That sounds like a long shot. How many people do you think get admitted to emergency rooms in New York City on any given Thursday night?"

"A lot," Goren conceded.

She sighed, then stood up. "So I guess we better go get started."

And that was why he loved her, he reflected.

After hours of pouring over emergency room records and newspapers, Eames and Goren had a list of thirty-eight people who fit what they knew and guessed about the killer. They made a chart of their driver's license photos and took them to the Ensor Foundation's vice chairman, the receptionist, the waitress who'd seen Varina the night she died, and the confidential informant from the strip club. Thomas Arriola didn't recognize any of the men. The receptionist, Mary Brill, picked out one of the pictures as a prospective donor she'd met once, but she didn't remember if it was the man who called himself Remiel Green. The waitress, Lynette Fuentes, said one of them could have been the man Varina had dinner with. The stripper, Luosha, took a copy of the photographs to show around, and reported back that one of them had been identified as a fighter called Arwoc who had stopped coming to the matches months ago.

All three had indicated the same photograph.

"David Preston," Eames read. "Claimed he was injured in horse-riding accident, the first Thursday of last November. Three broken ribs, five missing teeth, a broken nose, and a concussion."

"That doesn't really sound like a horse-riding accident."

Eames nodded. "He's the twenty-seven-year-old grandson of publishing magnate Phineas Preston."

"Definitely fits the bill for upper-crust killer."

"But even if he is our guy, how are we gonna question him? If he's guilty, he'll lawyer up the second he thinks we're on to him. And we just have your psychological profile and some circumstantial witness statements linking him to the victim. We've got no evidence connecting him to the crime at all."

Goren sat back thoughtfully. "What if he thought we did?"

"I don't know." A smile formed on her face; she could almost see a plan brewing in Goren's mind. "What?"

"Right now, David Preston thinks he got away with murder. If we convince him we have proof that he killed her, he's gonna panic. And if he thinks he's cornered, he'll confess."

"If he's our guy," Eames reminded him. "And if he's not our guy, we're back to a suspect list of nada."

Goren nodded. "So we have to make sure we do this right."

"'Cause we've only got one shot."