Manhattan Serenade: A Novel. Joseph Sinopoli Steven

agree with Alice,” Moran said. “Max Roth was lying.” He pointed to the boxes that contained Lacy Wooden’s personal effects; they were stacked against the far wall. “I want to go through them again. Now that we’ve a clearer idea of what we’re looking for, there might be something among her things connecting her to somebody in that photo that we missed the first time.”

      “Why don’t we just question all of them?” Simms said.

      Moran waved his hands dismissively. “Much as I’d like to there’s no way we can lean on this crowd like they were run-ofthe-mill thugs. We need compelling evidence before we brace them. Let’s go through Lacy’s stuff again and then we can weigh our options.”

      The purr of the fax machine caused everyone to focus on the document that started to come through. Moran stepped toward the machine and pulled out the paper. It was a black-and-white photograph of a pretty, swarthy, shapely, smiling woman. Her straight jet-black hair was gathered in a tight bun. The lieutenant read the paragraph under the picture and walked back to the table. He set the fax down in front of Hernandez and jabbed his index finger on top of the picture.

      “That’s the real Linda Garcia—age fifty and vice-president of Banco de Mejico’s main branch for the past five years,” Moran announced.

      Hernandez’s jaw dropped as he gazed at the picture. “How… how did you get on to this?” he stammered.

      “The day after you returned,” Moran said, “Miss Garcia phoned, apologizing for having not kept her appointment with you. She had gotten a call that her car had been hit by another vehicle in the bank’s parking structure across the street. Turned out it wasn’t true. She dismissed it as a prank. As you can see, she doesn’t match the description of the woman you met.”

      Hernandez gave Moran a quizzical look.

      “When I spoke with Linda Garcia to set up your meeting, she was very cooperative and pleasant on the phone, and she sounded like an older woman. Much different from the Linda Garcia you met. So I had the bank’s Human Resources department fax me a picture of Linda Garcia on the pretext that we needed to clarify a possible identification snafu.”

      “Then who the hell was the woman I met?” Hernandez said.

      Moran shrugged. “Had to be someone who knew Garcia and the bank’s procedures in order to give you a copy of the bond transaction. Someone in the bank.”

      “Which would explain her curtness; she wanted me out of there before the real Linda Garcia returned.”

      “Exactly.”

      Simms asked. “But why give Frank anything at all?”

      “Giving him nothing would’ve seemed suspicious,” Moran said.

      Hernandez gazed at the picture again, made a face, and bolted out of his chair. “I could use a friggin’ drink,” he said. “This case is becoming weirder with each turn. What’s next, running into Chupacabra? ”

      “What the hell’s that?” Simms said.

      “The Latin-American version of Big Foot,” Hernandez answered. “Depending on whose version you hear, it’s supposed to be a five to seven foot half-alien, half-dinosaur creature that sucks the blood out of goats and other animals.”

      “Nice,” Moran muttered.

      “But who the hell tipped off whoever in Mexico? We were the only ones who knew I was I going,” Hernandez said.

CHAPTER 16

      Frank Hernandez was in a foul mood when he walked under the arches of the NYU Law School building and skipped down the steps to the sidewalk. It had not been the best day in his life—the meeting that morning with Moran and all its implications had taken the wind out of his sails. The fact that someone had tipped off the Dragon Lady in Mexico kept eating away at him. To make matters worse, the Evidence class had been a disaster.

      Professor Fagan wasn’t pleased when Hernandez tried to bluff his way while trying to explain the hearsay evidence rule and let the sergeant know it: ‘Mr. Hernandez, the holiday season is not upon us yet, so please spare us the window dressing,’ Fagan had said when he interrupted the detective’s flight into fantasy.

      The sergeant raised his eyes and gazed across the street to Washington Square and the stone arch that marked the beginning of Fifth Avenue. He pressed his attaché case against his chest as he hunched his shoulders and leaned against the cold wind coming off the Hudson River. Minutes later, when he climbed into his three-year-old Camry and pulled away from the curb, he caught a glimpse of a late model black Mustang that fell in behind him. When Hernandez made a U-turn and then a left onto Canal Street, he noticed the Mustang close behind. The glare of the headlights made it impossible to see the front license plate.