“I’ve known plenty of ADAs who wouldn’t jaywalk and still asked me for a piece, just so they could sleep well at night without going through the rigmarole of getting a permit. In Lauren’s case, it might not just have been to expedite the process. Maybe there’s something in Richard’s background that would have denied them a permit. Or, more likely, he balked at providing years of his tax returns.”

Even though the media is full of stories about how anyone can get a firearm with virtually no effort, in New York City it’s a time-consuming process, and does actually include disclosure of financial records, including years of tax returns. Gabriel’s theory makes a lot of sense. I’m certain Richard Trofino would never let anyone see his tax returns.

It’s only been a little more than twelve hours since Lauren’s body was discovered, but the first twenty-four hours are critical in any investigation. If the first day doesn’t point in the definite direction of a suspect, the odds of ultimately apprehending the killer become exponentially greater.

Which is why I’m hoping with all my might that Lauren procured a cop gun and then her husband used it to murder her. At least that way, there’s some evidence pointing to the person who killed her.

PART TWO

PART TWO

16. ELLA BRODEN

16.

ELLA BRODEN

Lauren Wright is laid to rest on a sunny, bitterly cold Monday morning. The cemetery is on Long Island, more than an hour outside of Manhattan. The grounds are expansive, tombstones as far as the eye can see. It snowed the night before. Nothing major, just enough to dust the landscape white.

Gabriel is wearing his dress blues. I’ve never seen him in uniform, and if it weren’t for the circumstances, I would have commented that I’d like to see him dressed like that more often. As good as he looks, I can tell he’s uncomfortable. He’s tugging at the collar like it’s choking him.

Among the four hundred or so mourners, a sizable percentage are cops. They form a veritable sea of blue. Henry Lucian, Gabriel’s captain, is near the front of the chapel. Gabriel tells me that the shorter man with the mustache standing beside Lucian is Chief of Detectives John Calimano, his boss’s boss. I recognize from television the African American man who completes the triumvirate—Calhoun Johnson, the New York City Police Commissioner.

Directly across the room, similar higher-ups from the District Attorney’s office congregate. Drake McKenney centers their group. He’s studying what appear to be index cards. His deputy Larry Kassak goes on tiptoe to whisper something in McKenney’s ear, while Dana Goodwin looks on as if she’s bored.