Chapter 6 – Gamesmanship
The intruder had been in the conference room longer than necessary, and Goren was anxious to go through all the Foster case files to see if any other evidence had been planted … or if anything was missing. But CSU had taken everything, assuring Goren he'd have it all back by tomorrow morning – they'd bring in extra help if necessary. CSU didn't like the idea of someone sneaking into One PP anymore than he did.
He'd also asked that they get their best photo-forensics person to analyze the picture of Eames and Valderez. Not that it was out of the realm of possibility that the photo was real, but he didn't like the fact that nothing about it looked familiar to her.
With nothing to do on that end until tomorrow, he and Eames had pulled the name and address of the officer on duty at the security desk last night. They were now stuck in traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge on their way to Officer Timmons' Greenpoint apartment. Alex was impatiently drumming her fingers on the gearshift knob and, unable to stand it anymore, Bobby placed his hand over hers to still the motion.
Startled, she looked at their hands and then at him. "I'm sorry," she murmured.
"It's okay … we're both anxious." Caught by the worry he saw in her eyes, Bobby couldn't look away. He was acutely aware of her hand beneath his and as moments passed, neither one of them moved. That is until the car behind them blew the horn loud and long, letting them know that traffic was moving.
That hand gesture of hers is going to get us in big trouble one of these days.
They finally approached the turn onto Sutton Street when traffic once again slowed. This time the reason was clear – a cluster of police cars and flashing lights, accompanied by an EMT bus.
"This is it, right?"
Goren checked the building number in his notes. "Yeah."
Flipping the switch for the lights, Eames wrenched the steering wheel to the right and parked the SUV perpendicular to the curb.
Gold shields on display, they approached the nearest uniformed officer.
"We're with Major Case. I'm Detective Eames, this is Detective Goren," Eames gestured toward him. "What happened here?"
"MOF down," the young officer looked pretty shaken. "Looks like suicide."
"What did a suicide do to warrant MCS?" the older beat cop next to him asked.
"Beside the fact that he was one of our own?" Eames snapped as she and Goren walked past them toward the building.
A narrow staircase led up to Timmons' second floor apartment above the street-level storefront. Goren walked ahead of Eames into the back bedroom and was immediately struck with a sense of déjà vu. Timmons lay in a pool of blood, dressed only in his underwear. Next to his outstretched right hand was his .38 caliber service pistol, the apparent cause of his fatal injury.
Crouched next to the body, Goren took in the head wound, the position of Timmons' right hand, and the gun. So young. He looked back up at Eames. "Look familiar?"
"You mean other than briefs instead of boxers?"
Sighing, Goren reached into his pocket for a pair of latex gloves so he could begin his examination of the body and the scene. Eames asked the nearest officer to let the OIC know that MCS was taking over and would have their medical examiner's office pick up the body.
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"Eames … instead of heading right back, let's call Personnel and get Bishop's address," Goren interrupted her concentration on weaving in and out of traffic.
"Bobby …"
"Just … indulge me." His voice held an edge of frustration.
Alex knew he was like a terrier with a bone when he had his mind set on a course of investigation. Throw in the threat to her and the involvement of Nicole Wallace, and Bobby's usual determination was now going to be pure stubbornness. Sighing, she gave in as she knew she would. "Hurry up and call, in case I need to stay on this side of the bridge."
Keeping her eyes on traffic and her ears on Goren's end of the conversation, Alex slowed up a bit until she could find out where she was headed.
"Okay … thanks," Bobby was about to end the call, "What? When? Any other information? Thanks."
"What's up?"
"Bishop left the department … six months ago," he sounded bemused.
"To go where?"
"They don't have any other information … just that she gave thirty days' notice and … and left," Bobby looked out the window, lost in thought.
"So, where am I going?"
"Oh, sorry … her apartment's on the Upper East Side, bordering Harlem."
"Great" Why did she let him talk her into this stuff? "It'll take us at least an hour to get there."
"Try FDR. We'll jump off if we have to."
"Easy for you to say."
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An hour and ten minutes later, Alex turned on the flashing lights and double-parked in front of the address they had for Lynn Bishop. Only problem was, none of the tags on the apartment buzzers out front bore her name. Not seeing one clearly marked as "Landlord" but knowing they usually had a first floor apartment, Bobby tried both buttons for the first floor. When no one answered, he took his large hand and pressed all the buttons at once. Foolishly, someone actually buzzed them in without first checking to see who they were.
"We need to post security information for these people," Alex grumbled.
Bobby didn't seem to care. He just smiled and opened the doors.
They knocked on both doors on the first floor, but got no answer. At the end of the hall there was, however, another door that was open and appeared to lead down to the basement.
"Hello?" Goren called down the stairs.
"Hello? Who's there?" an Italian-accented voice answered.
"It's the police. We … we have some questions … about one of the tenants." His eyes met hers before he asked, "Can we come down?"
"I'll be right up," the man sounded tired.
They heard him climbing the stairs and then saw the rotund, fifty-something man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a pair of blue overalls. He held a rag and was wiping grease from his hands.
"I'm Detective Goren. This is Detective Eames. We're here to ask about one of the tenants."
"So you said. I'm Sal Ianelli, the landlord," he looked up at Bobby from his height of about five foot seven. "I apologize … I'd shake your hand, but as you can see …" he held up a grease-stained hand.
"No problem, Mr. Ianelli," Bobby turned on his 'formal' charm. "We have a few questions about Lynn Bishop."
"Bishop? Lovely red-head. She moved out about four or five months ago."
Alex could see Bobby's disappointment. "Did she leave a forwarding address?" she asked.
"No … she … said she was moving out of state. That she would contact me, but I never heard from her."
"Did she leave anything behind. Or receive any mail?" Bobby pressed.
"There was some mail at first. But without an address …" Ianelli shrugged. "I eventually threw it away. There was … something. A week ago. An envelope was left under the front door with her name on it." He slipped past them and headed toward the apartment at the front of the building. Mr. Ianelli opened the front door and Alex looked into a tidy apartment that released the fragrant scent of garlic, herbs and tomato sauce. Her stomach grumbled and she realized that neither she nor Bobby had eaten since that morning.
Ianelli handed a large envelope to Bobby. No postmark. Hand-written block letters spelled out 'Lynn Bishop' in the center of the front. Bobby's look questioned the landlord, and Ianelli simply nodded his head granting his permission to open the envelope.
It contained only one sheet. Another photo of Alex and Valderez. This time it included Mark Foster … handing her a thick envelope.
Bobby looked at Alex with alarm in his eyes. The anxiety she'd felt since that morning was now replaced with a finger of fear running up her spine.
She knew what this looked like – a bribe.
TBC …