Chapter 52
If Beth turned out not to be a suspect, I wanted her on my side. That’s why I continued the investigation in half measures. I left my rental car parked on the street. Then I strolled across to the gym, walking casually in front of the big bay window to get a better look inside.
I could remember a surveillance I was on in Brooklyn about fifteen years ago. I was helping a narcotics borough unit. We’d set up on a coffee shop where an informant was supposed to meet one of the bigger heroin dealers in Brooklyn.
While I sat alone in my car, looking at the coffee shop, I noticed two men rush into a liquor store next door. It was a robbery, and people could get hurt. I knew what I had to do. I popped out of my car, and two of the local detectives followed me. The robbers were so shocked when they burst out the front door and saw us standing there that they surrendered instantly.
The funniest part to me was the fury of the narcotics detective that I would blow a drug deal for a good armed robbery arrest. Sometimes you had to question people’s priorities. Like someone who’d do anything to protect the reputation of their brother.
I walked past on the sidewalk as casually as possible to see if Beth Banks was still working out. I didn’t see any sign of her. The treadmill she’d been using was now occupied by a large hairy man in a fluorescent-orange shirt.
When I turned from the window, I felt the world tumble in front of me. Or maybe I was the one tumbling. I was on the sidewalk in an awkward sprawl. My vision went dim, my stomach heaved, and I felt like I might be having a stroke.
When my senses started to return, someone was standing directly in front of me. I looked up from my humiliating position like a dog on all fours. To make matters worse, I looked up into the stern face of Beth Banks.
As I slowly rose to my feet, I realized Beth had just kicked me in the head with her long, limber legs. Hard. It didn’t matter that I stood a head taller than her and probably weighed seventy pounds more. I was impressed.
I rubbed my temple where her foot had caught me so squarely, knowing that she had a clear shot to prolong the attack.
Beth Banks put her hands on her hips and cocked her head a little to the side. All she said was “Don’t be creepy. It’s bad enough you barged into my office. Are you going to follow me around the rest of the day? If I catch you stalking me again, I’ll break something. And it will be something you use a lot.”
The vagueness of what she was going to hurt made her threat that much scarier. She turned and walked away confidently. Even in the business suit, she was clearly fit.
I kind of liked her.
Chapter 53
I sat in a nearly empty sub shop a few blocks from Gold’s Gym. The half eaten turkey sub on my plate was evidence that my head hurt too much for me to eat. My remedy, for the moment, was to sit quietly with a bottle of cold water pressed against my temple. Almost the exact spot Beth Banks had kicked me. I thought I could reasonably say I was the only person ever kicked in the head by a Supreme Court justice’s chief of staff. I figured she’d kicked someone in the head before this. I just assumed it was before her tenure with the Supreme Court.
I recognized I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I’d just had my ass kicked by a woman 70 percent of my size. I wasn’t on the trail of a killer, nor did I have any decent leads. Most of all, as I sat there wallowing in self-pity, I missed my family.
My quick trip home had only made me realize how desperately I needed my family. And that was a joyous realization. Most people would be thrilled if they could actually say they enjoyed spending time with their family. But I really did love spending time with them. Yet I couldn’t do it. At least not now.
The three other people in the sub shop all had their own problems. The kid behind the counter clearly didn’t want to work here. A woman sitting near the front looked clinically depressed as she picked at a salad with brown lettuce and two whole tomatoes thrown on top. A guy in a delivery uniform didn’t have time to enjoy lunch, downing his six-inch sub in four bites. My problems seemed more manageable when I looked at the big picture.
I took a pen and my little notepad from my sport coat and started to make a few notes. I wrote down the names of my three best suspects.
Beth Banks, who was certainly physically capable, had a motive to protect her brother and was just plain mean.
The next name was Robert Steinberg. I knew it was far-fetched to think a Supreme Court justice might commit murder. But in the real world, almost 80 percent of women who disappear or are murdered are attacked by their husbands or boyfriends. Domestic violence is real. It doesn’t care what aggressors do for a living.