The last thing she had gotten from Joe was a DNA “exemplar,” meaning a sample of his own genetic material. Joe had given it willingly. He knew the process anyway and didn’t pretend like it was a mystery. She handed him the swab, about seven inches long and tipped with cotton. He ran it along the inside of his cheek, then dropped it into the evidence bag she held with gloved hands.
That process, Zochi thought, might have produced some fresh doubt or anxiety in Joe as a suspect. Plenty of guys talked tough and seemed as carefree as songbirds throughout a long interrogation, only to start sweating and backpedaling when it came time to provide what most people assumed was better than magic. Providing a DNA sample was as good as turning your entire identity over to the police. But like pretty much everything else that day, Joe had done it without hesitation or any hint of rancor.
The long day finally over, she stood out in front of the Six-One, a forgettable square brick building that looked like a ’70s medical office. She texted her daughter, telling her she’d be home in an hour. Today had been rough, but tomorrow would be worse. There was one thing Zochi had told Joe that, for all his stoicism, produced a look of horror and almost startling grief. Holly Rossi’s mother and father were back from Paris. Zochi would be meeting with them in Mimi’s office the next afternoon.
CHAPTER 31
Monday, July 31, 2017
Kings County District Attorney’s Office, Sex Crimes Unit
Brooklyn
5:45 p.m.
“We were waiting for room service,” the man was saying. He was Sal Rossi, Holly’s father. He and Holly’s mother, Linda, sat in two chairs facing Mimi Bromowitz’s desk while Zochi sat a few feet away, her hands between her knees. Mimi was behind the desk, and before the couple had arrived, she had taken everything off it—other than a box of tissues—so that she wouldn’t be tempted to look away from them. Zochi admired that.
Sal looked older than Zochi expected, although part of that was probably shock and exhaustion. From what she knew, they hadn’t really slept since the news reached them in Paris on Sunday morning.
“There was a knock on the door. That’s what I thought it was, you know?” Sal let out a slight chortle that Zochi sensed could have evolved into a full-throated sob, but it was cut short. “Room service. Instead, it was a Parisian detective in a yellow windbreaker, there to tell me that my daughter had been murdered.”
His eyes, swollen and red, searched Zochi’s with a combination of disbelief and desperation. She held his gaze and waited, unsure if she was projecting some measure of empathy or just blankness. Eventually, Sal’s gaze moved to Mimi, who could only do the same thing. Sal had a large, rounded nose and a bushy gray mustache. To Zochi he looked kind, the type who once laughed easily. Linda looked younger and had been pretty once, with small, delicate features and light hair. She clutched the arms of her chair and sat portrait still, as if moving would shatter her like an ice sculpture.
“Do you think she suffered?” Linda asked, her voice low and raspy. Her eyes, dark pools of suffering, moved back and forth between the two women.
“Lin, don’t—” Sal started.
“Let me ask, please.” The eyes bore into Mimi’s. “There was an autopsy; you must have an idea.” Mimi paused, and Zochi held her breath. It was an easy question to answer with a lie, but Mimi didn’t look like much of a liar.
“I think she was very frightened for a few seconds,” Mimi said. “There was an initial blow to her face, but then her neck was broken. To the medical examiner, it looked like it happened very fast.” Zochi let the breath go. Mimi had handled that about as well as possible.
“Do you think he . . . did sexual things to her?” she asked, this time to Zochi. Sal put his hand on her arm, but she pulled the arm out from under it, moving something other than her mouth and eyes for the first time since she’d sat down.
“No,” Zochi said. “There was no evidence of that. Like ADA Bromowitz said, it happened very fast. She was surprised by the intruder, probably. He left quickly.”
“She was all alone,” Linda whispered.
In the end, aren’t we all? Zochi thought.
“I guess I’m not sure why we’re here,” Sal said, breaking the silence. “If there isn’t a suspect yet, there isn’t a court case, right?”
Mimi nodded. “There isn’t an arrested suspect, but we think your daughter’s case could be related to another case.”
“Oh my God,” Linda said, the last word almost a sob. “Oh my God, another one?”