The Battle of Jericho Read online

  He looked forward all week to seeing and talking with Katie. But each session exacerbated the intense longing and pain he felt over losing her.

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  “Hi, sweetie. How’s it goin’?”

  “Fine.”

  “How’s school?”

  “Fine.”

  Jericho ached inside, hating the awkwardness of these Skype conversations.

  “I miss you,” Jericho said softly.

  “I miss you too, Daddy. Listen, Mommy says I can come visit you over Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful.”

  “So I’ll see you soon.”

  “Is Mom flying with you?”

  “No. I’m coming alone.”

  “Sweetie, you can’t fly by yourself, you’re too young.”

  “I’m six. Mommy says I can fly as…Mommy, what can I fly as?” She looked off camera.

  “Unaccompanied Minor,” Katie said proudly.

  “Let me talk to your mother.”

  Sarah appeared on the screen. Even after so many years she was still beautiful, Jericho thought. He self-consciously ran his hand over his unruly hair, imagining that on a computer monitor he must look like crap.

  “JetBlue will take her,” Sarah explained. “Their flight attendants are trained in child care. I’ll make the arrangements. Irwin’s gonna pay for the trip.”

  “I can pay for the trip,” he protested.

  “Don’t be silly,” Sarah said. “Irwin’s doing great in his contracting business. He’s says ‘If you do well, do good!’”

  Jericho bristled. He took pride in always making his child support payments on time, and he resented Irwin trying to play good guy and usurp his role as a father.

  “I insist on paying Katie’s air fare,” he said forcefully. “I’ll send a check when I see the amount on her ticket.”

  There was a pause. Then Sarah spoke in a gentle voice. “That’ll be fine.”

  His daughter got back on.

  “I can’t wait to see you, Daddy. And you know what I miss the most?”

  “What?”

  “Bagels. They don’t have real ones here, like they have in that store in East Hampton.”

  “Goldberg’s Famous Bagels?”

  “Yes. Goldberg’s. You know what kind of bagels they have in the supermarket in Tacona?” she asked.

  Jericho smiled at her mispronunciation. “What kind?”

  “Chocolate chip. Chocolate chip bagels! Do you believe that?”

  Right then Jericho loved Katie more than ever.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jericho stopped for his morning coffee at Starbucks in East Hampton village. He always had a tall Americano — Starbucks-speak for small, diluted Italian espresso.

  The town’s zoning regulations prohibited any fast food chains from operating in the township; there were no McDonald’s, KFCs, Subways, Dunkin’ Donuts. But Starbucks received a variance from the town board. Perhaps they were all latte lovers.

  “Hey, Jericho,” said Tim, the barista. “Same ol’ same ol’?”

  “Yes. Heard from any colleges yet?”

  “Got an early acceptance from Colgate. I’ll have to work till Labor Day to make the tuition.”

  “Congrats, Timmy.”

  “So what’s up with that foot on the beach? Everybody’s talkin’ about it.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t discuss it.”

  “Case of the Disembodied Foot,” Timmy intoned melodramatically. “A Detective Jericho Mystery!”

  Jericho smiled. He led a rather solitary life in East Hampton. Except for the Chief (whom he wished he could ignore), he preferred to maintain cordial but not close relationships with the people on the force. He guessed maybe he avoided camaraderie at work because when he was with the NYPD, being “one of the guys” had led to his downfall. But he enjoyed the townsfolk he met daily; shopkeepers, gas station attendants, bank tellers, and even the locals on the street, who were friendly in a small-town way — an unfamiliar but pleasurable experience for him.

  After finishing his coffee, Jericho drove to Headquarters to begin his daily work. It began in the Detective Squad Room, where he organized the day’s activities with the detectives under his command.

  The room’s decor, like the entire EHTPD Headquarters, was nonexistent, the walls devoid of anything that would comfort the eye — not a map, not a flag, not a wanted poster, nothing. The walls were a lifeless off-white, lit by rows of overhead fluorescent bulbs.

  There were six utilitarian Office Depot desks and chairs. Jericho’s main perk was that he had his own office, which definitely suited his loner personality. He’d shattered protocol by having the framed picture of his daughter, Katie, on his desk. And on the wall he’d scotch-taped a Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band poster.

  He addressed his charges with calm authority.

  “Let’s see, Richter’s already out — interviewing the driver of a stolen car. The guy had an argument with a tree trunk this morning and the tree won.

  “Murphy,” he said to the only female in the group. “Go on over to Shah’s Sports Store. They’re reporting four missing surfboards, claiming it was a shoplifter. My guess is the store’s pulling an insurance scam. I mean, who the hell boosts four surfboards in November? And how do you even carry them out of the store?”

  “Will do.”

  “Dobrowolski, Officer Karlin reports finding a men’s work shoe at the town dump, which has red spots on it that might be blood. He’s keeping watch over it.”

  “Probably red paint,” Dobrowolski said. “Karlin’s a numb-nuts.”

  “I agree, but grab some luminol and check it out.”

  “What you got for me, Sergeant?” McCoy asked.

  Ex-Chief Manos had warned Jericho about Fred McCoy. McCoy resented being passed over for Detective Sergeant, since he had seniority. McCoy was a squat, burly, middle-aged man who always behaved in an obsequious manner. Jericho didn’t buy it for a second.

  “Just hang out,” Jericho said. “You can catch the next call that comes in.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss.”

  Sean Anderson stuck his head in the door. “Sorry to be late with this info,” he said. “But my workload is just…well, anyway — I’ve got some bad news. No prints on the letter but yours and the Chief’s. The sender must’ve used gloves.”

  “Thanks, Sean.” If the sender used gloves, Jericho thought, he’s at least moderately smart and won’t be so easy to track down. Maybe he’ll send another letter. Maybe he’ll make a mistake.

  Too many maybes.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was around two in the afternoon when Jericho’s office phone rang. It was the Chief. “Jericho,” he said, “we got a guy here who says his wife has disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “Says she went for a jog on the beach this morning, taking the dog with her. The guy got up later and she wasn’t home. After a while he got worried and went out to look for her on the beach. He found the dog, but the wife was gone. He came in to report her missing, but the desk officer told him he had to wait twenty-four hours. The guy freaked and wouldn’t leave till he talked to me.”

  “I’ll be right there!”

  The distraught husband was named Sanford Richman, an apt name for an obviously wealthy individual. Richman lived in a posh section of East Hampton which was divided by three parallel roads: Hither Lane, Middle Lane, and Further Lane. Richman lived on Middle Lane, not far from the infamous Ted Ammon mansion. The über-wealthy venture capitalist, Ammon, was bludgeoned to death by his wife’s lover, a low-life, loud-mouth electrician. Jericho was a New York cop then, but he’d read about it in the tabloids. And it had irked his pal Chief Manos to no end, because the Suffolk County police took over the investigation, saying EHTPD was too inexperienced to handle a high-profile murder case.

  Richman was a corpulent man in his late fifties. He was dressed in a bespoke Savile Row suit and wore a beige Burberry leather coat over his shoulde
rs like a cape. There was nothing about his hairpiece that could convince you it wasn’t a rug.

  He was clearly agitated when Jericho talked to him, with Krauss by his side.

  “Twenty-four hours!” Richman bellowed. “You found a woman’s foot on the beach a few days ago, now my wife disappears at the beach and you think there’s no urgency? What is it with you guys?”

  Jericho immediately disliked the man, but he’d learned long ago that his likes and dislikes had no place in an investigation. “The desk officer was wrong,” Jericho said. “Twenty-four hours is only a guideline. He should’ve known better.”

  “You oughta demote that asshole.”

  “You say your wife was jogging on Two Mile Hollow Beach?”

  “Yes. It’s a fifteen-minute walk from our house. Well, I walk it, but Ann runs.”

  “You have a picture of her?”

  Richman took a photo from his wallet. Ann Richman was a tall, thin woman, with overly bleached blond hair in an upswept bun, and a face that clearly had some work done on it. She was posed on a front porch, with a forced smile on her face. Her cocker spaniel was on her lap.

  “I’ll need to keep this,” Jericho said.

  “Okay.”

  “What was your wife wearing?”

  “I didn’t see her — I like to sleep late and she prefers to get up early and run. But I know in chilly weather like this, she always wears a Ralph Lauren running suit — she has a couple, both navy blue. Oh, and she usually wears one of my Yale baseball caps — my alma mater.”

  “What about her running shoes?”

  “Always New Balance. She says they’re the only ones that come in six triple E width. She…she has corns that stick out on her big toes, so she needs the widest shoe.”

  “Mr. Richman,” Krauss said. “Is it possible your wife just went to meet with a friend?”

  “And leave Ruff behind?” Richman said incredulously. Jericho shot the Chief a shut-the-fuck-up look.

  “I want you to order an all-out search,” Richman demanded.

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Suddenly Richman’s aggressive attitude vanished. His eyes got teary.

  “Please, please,” he said in a shaky voice. “She’s…we’ve been married for thirty-two years. We have no kids. It’s just Annie and me…All we have is each other.” He broke off, trying to regain his composure.

  “Sir,” Jericho said, “I know you’re going through a lot, but we need more information. We need to know everything you did today since you got up and found your wife missing.”

  “Listen,” Richman said in a shaky voice. “Can I go home and kinda pull myself together? I could e-mail you later. I promise, I’ll tell you everything I can remember.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Jericho said. “That’s not the way it works around here. I’ll write down your statement as you tell it to me, on a witness statement form. Then you read it and sign it, making any changes you wish and initialing them.”

  “But that’ll take a long time.”

  “I got time,” Jericho said. “Let’s go in the interrogation room.”

  “Interrogation room?” Richman fumed. “That’s for criminals!”

  “No. It’s just nice and quiet. Let’s go.”

  Jericho grabbed his Witness Statement pad and clipboard. He took Richman to the older of the precinct’s two interrogation rooms. The primary room was neat and clean, with state-of-the-art equipment. The older one was drab and seedy, with stains and holes on its crumbling walls, which misleadingly implied violence had been used. Along with its harsh fluorescent lighting, the room’s intimidating surroundings encouraged people to tell the truth.

  “Don’t that let one-way mirror make you nervous,” Jericho said. “Nobody’s watching you.”

  Richman got nervous.

  The interview did take a long time. Richman broke down a few times, asked for water, and occasionally spoke in a choked voice that was difficult to hear. A few times Jericho had to stop writing because he couldn’t hear the interviewee. When it was finished, Richman read it over and made only a few changes in the spelling of Wall Street terminology. The statement was very detailed. It read:

  I got up at ten-fifteen. Ann was gone — I knew she was running. I got the Wall Street Journal and the Times from our front step where it gets delivered. Then I made coffee. While it was brewing, I went outside to water the chrysanthemums near our front door — they’ll bloom till the first snow if you tend them. Then I had breakfast — half a grapefruit, instant oatmeal and coffee.

  After, I went down to the basement, where I have my office, and logged onto E*Trade. I watched the ticker and studied the Strategy Scanner, which gives you screener alerts and back-testing charts. I shifted some of my Forex shares to MidCap SPDRs. Then I went upstairs and was surprised Ann hadn’t come home.

  So I went down to the beach to look for her. That’s when I found Ruff — that’s our dog — and realized Ann was missing. I walked up and down the beach looking for her. But I couldn’t find her. Finally, I brought Ruff home with me. I called the place where Ann gets her hair done and they hadn’t seen her.

  I waited in the house for an hour or so, hoping she’d come home. Finally I gave up and drove down to the police station and reported her missing. — Sanford S. Richman

  “That’ll be fine,” Jericho said, while saying to himself — too much information.

  Richman got up and walked toward the door, then turned back. “I’m sorry I acted so…I just…” He took out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes.

  “I’ll scan this statement and e-mail you a copy,” Jericho said.

  Richman nodded and left.

  Afterwards, Jericho thought: There’s something not quite right about Sanford Richman.

  Jericho phoned Maria Salazar. When she arrived at his office she looked eager and excited.

  “What’s the plan for today?” she said.

  “We’ve got another problem. Let’s go see the Chief.” As they walked to Krauss’s office, Jericho gave her a complete account of the Richman case.

  “So the wife just vanished,” Maria said, “leaving her dog on the beach?”

  “Yes.”

  They entered the Chief’s office and sat down.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Krauss said. “Maybe Richman’s wife went swimming and drowned.”

  “This time of year the water temp is in the high forties,” Jericho said. “You’d have to be in the Polar Bear Club to go swimming.”

  “Hey,” Krauss said. “Sometimes people behave irrationally. You told me that yourself.”

  “That’s definitely true,” Jericho said, subtly zinging the Chief.

  “So,” Krauss said, “what do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Jericho responded. “I’ll check out the beach for clues, signs of foul play, see if there’s anyone who saw Mrs. Richman. Meanwhile, I’ll have Salazar continue the investigation we were doing yesterday.”

  “Hold on,” Krauss said. “Salazar is a PO. She’s only working with you as a translator. If you need help, you’ve gotta use someone from the detective squad.”

  “Salazar,” Jericho said, “do you have any sources for potential info on a missing female?”

  “Yes.”

  Jericho turned to Krauss. “So she’ll be interviewing Spanish-speaking people.”

  The Chief scowled.

  “Salazar,” Jericho said, “you follow up in the community while I investigate the Richman case.”

  Krauss stood up. “I want you both to report back to me at six tonight.”

  “Do you mind if I…if I ask a question,” Maria said. “Is it possible these two cases are connected?”

  Neither man responded. Then Jericho spoke up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Maria drove to a site next to a junkyard on Industrial Road, where Latino immigrants gather daily to pick up jobs from local contractors. Most are men, but a few women come too, hopin
g to find day work. During the summer, it’s crowded — there are lots of opportunities in construction, landscaping, farming, and road repair. But in mid-November, work is scarce. There were just five men and two women, all sitting on rusty oil drums. The few jobs available had already been taken, but it was more depressing just to go home, so they stuck around, finding solace in each other’s company.

  The workers tensed when they saw the police squad car, but Maria climbed out and reassured them.

  “No se preocupen. Yo no estoy aquí para hacer problemas para ustedes. Solo necesito un poca de información.”

  Seeing how vulnerable and desperate these impoverished workers were was a grim reminder of the plight of her people.

  Maria questioned everyone but got nowhere. However, one woman looked uneasy when Maria spoke to her. After some prodding the woman described, with deep sadness, a friend from her neighborhood whose daughter had run away from home a couple of years ago. The mother’s name was Soledad Ramírez; she was from Nogales, Mexico, and worked as a cleaning woman at the Sag Harbor movie theater. Maria could find her working there in the afternoon, before the theater opened at night.

  Maria thanked everyone, got in her car, and headed for Sag Harbor.

  As she approached the theater, with its orange neon Art Deco signage, Maria recalled the kids’ matinees she’d spent there, munching on the free candy and watching Three Stooges shorts, Roy Rogers westerns, and old Disney cartoons. When she was a teenager, the theater’s owner, wanting to modernize, took down the neon sign. The community was so upset they got together and paid for it to be put back up.