I owe Lauren a big thank-you. If I had my choice of everyone in the NYPD to handle the search for Charlotte, I would have selected Gabriel Velasquez. And I say that notwithstanding our personal history. Five years ago—before Jeffrey—Gabriel and I went on a couple of dates, the last of which ended with a particularly good make-out session. But then I never returned any of his subsequent calls.
Gabriel and I have since overlapped on a few cases, and our interactions have always been strictly professional. He never referenced our past or asked why I blew him off. I’ve always assumed that was because he was more than smart enough to figure out that I had passed up something real with him because I was a snob who couldn’t see myself ending up with a cop.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your situation,” he continues. “I’m hopeful that this is a false alarm. But, as you know, the first hours are the most critical in any missing-persons case. So, just to be on the safe side, I don’t want to waste another second. I’d like you and your sister’s boyfriend to come down to One PP as soon as you can.”
8.
One Police Plaza is a prime example of Brutalist architecture, a term I’ve always found ironic because the classification has nothing to do with its English meaning—it refers to the French word for concrete. This despite the truly “brutal” appearance of many such buildings. The police headquarters in New York City fits the English connotation to a T. It’s like a fortress with windows punched into it, and is about as uninspiring as a public building could be.
“My name is Ella Broden and I’m here to see Gabriel Velasquez,” I say to Ruth, the police receptionist.
She’s a civilian, which means she’s wearing regular street clothes. Ruth has got to be close to seventy, and I imagine she’s been sitting behind that same table for more than half of her life. She looks at me without a hint of acknowledgment that I was once a fixture on the floor. Even my name doesn’t seem to register.
“Please have a seat,” she says. “Someone will be out to get you soon.”
“Is Zachary Rawls here?”
“Who?”
“Zachary, or Zach, Rawls. I’m supposed to meet him here.”
“Nobody else is here. Have a seat and someone will be out shortly.”
The only place to have a seat is on one of two unpadded wooden chairs set out in the hallway. I do as directed and wait for Gabriel to appear.
As a prosecutor, you spend a lot of time dealing with cops. And while I’m rather outspoken on the topic that the way attorneys are portrayed on television is nothing like real life, cop shows are even worse. For starters, people with 150 IQs or photographic memories rarely choose a career in law enforcement. Another thing is that real-life detectives don’t look like movie stars. By and large, they’re middle-aged men who haven’t seen the inside of a gym in some time.
The one exception that I’ve encountered to that latter rule is Gabriel Velasquez. The female DAs call him “TDH”—tall, dark, and handsome. Gabriel—no one ever called him Gabe—is not only easy on the eyes, but also sharp as a tack. Many of the cops I worked with had street smarts, but most of them lack the candlepower to become lawyers or college professors. Gabriel undoubtedly had those types of choices, and I suspect he went into law enforcement because he sincerely thought it was the place where he could make the biggest difference.
We worked together on my first murder case, which, as it happened, was also the first case where he was lead detective. It was hardly a whodunit. A rich doctor beat his wife to death with a golf club and then claimed self-defense, putting a kitchen knife in her hand hours after she’d been killed. The husband stuck to that story on the stand—despite the fact that the ME testified that rigor mortis had already begun to set in when the wife’s fingers were folded over the knife’s handle—and the defense couldn’t find an expert to testify to the contrary even though price was no object. The jury deliberated for less than an hour before coming back with a guilty verdict. Five minutes after that, Gabriel asked me out.
He looks even better today than I remember. In addition to all his easy-on-the-eyes physical attributes, Gabriel is also a good dresser. Not flashy, but stylish. More like an architect than a cop, usually favoring monochromatic combinations. Today, he’s attired in gray slacks and a slightly darker gray button-down shirt. His badge hangs on a chain around his neck. Lots of cops wear their shields that way, but I always thought Gabriel did it with greater flair.
After we shake hands, Gabriel says that it’s good to see me again and once again apologizes for the circumstances. When he asks me to follow him back to his office, I try not to show too much surprise at the fact that he even has an office. The plaque on his door indicates that he’s been promoted since we last worked together. It’s Lieutenant Velasquez now.
“I know that even though you’ve seen this process from the law enforcement side, it’s not the same as when it’s family,” Gabriel says as he closes the door. He then takes a seat behind the desk and gestures for me to sit as well. “So I’m going to treat you as if you aren’t my favorite former ADA, but the sister of a woman who’s gone missing and fears the worst. Okay?”
I smile at his compliment. Anybody else might hold our past against me, but Gabriel is above that. It further proves just how much of an idiot I was five years ago for not returning his calls.
“That’s what I want too.”
“Good,” he says with a smile of his own. “Obviously, we all hope that this is a case where your sister went home with someone, maybe had a little too much to drink, and is now sleeping it off. I know you’re worried that it’s something else, and so for purposes of the investigation I’m going to assume that as well. That means we’re going to treat this as a missing-persons case from the get-go, so as not to lose any time. The first order of business is for me to learn everything I can about your sister. And it’s got to be warts and all, because it’s the warts that are going to help us find her.”