Chip said, “And you probably have at least ten cups a week, right? That’s fifty bucks a week. That’s about twenty-five hundred dollars a year. Think about it! In the last twenty years of coffee drinking, you would’ve saved enough to buy a decent boat.”

  Trilling looked at the man. “Do you drink coffee, Chip?”

  Chip seemed psyched to say, “Not at all.”

  Without missing a beat, Trilling asked, “Where do you store your boat?”

  That flustered Chip, who decided he was in over his head. He kept walking down the street.

  I smiled and filed the interaction away, realizing there was a lot to this young man that I hadn’t seen yet.

  It was about eight thirty in the morning by the time we pulled up in front of a nice single-family home with a small front yard and a beautiful garden in a raised patch by the front door. The place was tidy but could’ve probably used a new coat of paint and maybe someone to pressure clean the walkway and front door.

  I’d been a little disappointed by the lack of details about the victim, Marie Ballard, in the reports from the homicide detective, but I knew that her two adult children and one grandchild still lived at the address.

  Trilling and I stood on the sidewalk for a moment as I let him soak in the neighborhood. I was about to tell him where they’d found the victim’s body, but he beat me to it.

  Trilling said, “I looked through the crime-scene photos. She had been gardening and was found at 5 p.m. in that raised bed just under the bedroom window. That means”—he looked up and down the street—“most likely the shot came from that direction.”

  We took a couple of steps into the front yard when the door opened and a muscular young Black man stepped out onto the porch with a baseball bat in his right hand. He slapped it into his left hand to show us it was heavy and he meant business.

  CHAPTER 14

  I WASN’T HAPPY to see a man using a baseball bat in such a menacing way. But I wasn’t panicked either. The young man was about Trilling’s age but a little bulkier. I knew from reports his name was Duane Ballard, and he was the victim’s son.

  Duane was still a good thirty feet from us. I was more interested in how Trilling might react. If he drew his gun, I’d be a little concerned. I know there’s no rule about cops retreating to safety instead of defending themselves, but retreating isn’t a bad tactic either. Certainly not in a nice neighborhood like this where crime isn’t the central problem.

  Trilling stayed absolutely still. He gave no reason for the son to get more upset. I was impressed.

  I pulled out my badge and identified myself.

  Duane eased up. He set the bat on the small porch with the handle leaning against a brick wall. We cautiously worked our way up the walkway, and he came down the three steps to meet us.

  He said, “I thought you were more reporters.” He looked at Trilling, then at me. “I guess neither of you look too much like those douchebags who try to get photos inside the house or take pictures of my sister and her baby.”

  I said, “I’m glad we passed your test.”

  Duane said, “Y’all doing anything to find my mom’s killer? You’re the first cops I’ve seen in a month. Once that fireman in Staten Island was shot, it was like you forgot about us. Even the media attention all shifted to him. Now some rich dude in Manhattan gets shot and I figured you’d ignore us.”

  “We’re trying to narrow some things down.”

  “I’m not even sure I want you guys at our house. No one from the NYPD has shown much interest in solving the murder of a single Black woman.”

  Now Trilling stepped toward the young man and spoke for the first time. I tensed, hoping he didn’t try to do this the hard way.

  Trilling said, “Man, I’m so sorry about your mom. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my mom.”

  I hadn’t expected that.

  Trilling stepped even closer to the young man. “You staying in touch with friends and family? That can drop off when you’re grieving. It’s really important.”

  Duane tried to answer but got choked up. He just nodded as he looked down at the ground.

  I was surprised to see Trilling scoot to the side of the man and put a comforting arm around his shoulder. He said in a low voice, “Now, can you walk us through what happened? Maybe you could tell us what you think the other cops have been missing.”

  Duane started slowly. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his arm. But he showed us how he’d walked outside to find his mother lying in the garden with blood pouring out of a hole just above her right eye. He hadn’t heard any shots or seen anything suspicious. I knew all this already from the reports, but I think it was good for Duane to let it out again.

  “Someone killed her while she was just out here tending her favorite plants, like she did every single weekend at that time.” Duane looked off as he remembered his mother. “She was nice to everyone. And everyone loved her.”

  I watched as Trilling followed the young man across the yard to the garden. Standing in front of the house, his eyes tracked from every position, and I realized he was looking at the crime scene from an entirely different perspective than I did. I didn’t know what this young officer knew about investigations, but it sure looked like he understood long-range shots. I still didn’t know how he’d ended up with the NYPD, but I was suddenly grateful we had people with his expertise in our ranks. Officers with this kind of specialized experience are what make the NYPD so effective.

  Trilling said to Duane, “Give us a few minutes to walk down the street and we’ll come back and talk to you. I’m sorry we disrupted your morning.”

  Duane nodded and stuck his hand out for Trilling to shake.

  Trilling shook, then started walking away from the house, and I had to quickstep to catch up to him. Now I felt like the trainee as I trailed behind Trilling. We finally slowed down about four houses away from the victim’s house.

  Trilling looked at the corner of one house and the thick bushes all around it. “The sniper fired from right there, under the bushes.”

  I looked and didn’t see anything specific. “Okay, you’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

  “Because that’s where I would’ve shot from. This house is empty.”

  I hadn’t even noticed.

  “There’s a clear view to the victim’s house, but no one would see the shooter. He could have been lying under those bushes for hours. And a single shot fired is very difficult to locate just by the sound.” Trilling’s head swiveled in every direction. “Really, there’s nowhere else the sniper could’ve shot from.”

  I looked up and down the street and decided to take Trilling’s word for it.

  CHAPTER 15

  AN HOUR LATER, Rob Trilling did almost the exact same thing when looking from the balcony of Adam Glossner’s apartment. The doorman, whom I’d already interviewed, had walked us up to the apartment but refused to come inside. He believed the apartment had bad karma and he didn’t want it rubbing off on him. Victoria Glossner and the children were still at her mother’s place.

  Trilling stood on the balcony as I explained what the forensics people had told me about how they thought the body had fallen into the apartment. Trilling leaned on the railing. He pointed to a building down the street to the north, just visible from the balcony. The little curve in the road gave the other building a perfect view of this balcony.

  Trilling pointed and said, “The killer shot from that building. Probably from the second or third floor.”

  “Again, you’re going to have to walk me through your reasoning,” I said. “I interviewed an elderly man in that building who thought he heard a gunshot the night Glossner was murdered. He couldn’t tell me much else.”

  Trilling took me a little too literally and we left the apartment and started walking to the building. I don’t know why I was still a little skeptical after my new partner’s impressive review of the first crime scene. Once again, he didn’t say anything as we walked toward the building. When I thought about it, I realized he didn’t say much most of the time.

  When we walked up to the front of the building, I was surprised to find the door propped open by a stool. There was no doorman. I called out but got no answer. Trilling walked right past me to the stairs and went up to the second floor. It was almost like he was in a trance.

  I followed my partner up the concrete stairs to the second floor. He turned and walked to the front corner of the building and didn’t hesitate to knock on the door of apartment 2A.

  When we got no answer, Trilling tried the door handle and found it unlocked. Before I could even object, he’d opened the door and stepped inside.

  The place was completely empty. Not even any furniture.

  Trilling walked through the apartment to the balcony. The sliding-glass door was open an inch. He grasped the door high up on the frame, in case there was any forensic material we could get from the door handle, and slid it back.

  As soon as he stepped onto the balcony and looked toward Adam Glossner’s apartment, Trilling said, “This is definitely where the shot was taken.”

  I stepped out onto the balcony behind him but couldn’t picture exactly what he was talking about. I could see the building where the Glossners lived, but I didn’t understand how Trilling was so certain the shot had come from here.

  Then we heard a sharp voice from behind us, in the apartment. I turned to see a heavyset, middle-aged man holding a bucket. It had to be the super.

  In a thick Russian accent he said, “The realtor has to show the apartment. You can’t just walk in.”

  I badged him and identified myself.

  The Russian superintendent said, “That badge don’t give you no right to walk in any apartment you want.”

  “We tried to find someone when we entered the building. Your front door was propped open.”

  “Don’t give me no excuses. I hate the cops. You guys don’t do nothing.”

  Trilling turned to the man and said, “This is a crime scene. You’re going to step out of this apartment and wait until we’re done processing the scene. Your shitty security allowed someone to enter in here and shoot someone in the building down the street. That’s on you. So you can take your attitude and shove it up your ass. We’ve got a job to do.”

  I knew I was smiling as I stared at my new partner, but I couldn’t help it.

  We didn’t wait long for the Crime Scene Unit, but unfortunately they didn’t find much to help us. They couldn’t find any fingerprints on the doors. They took some DNA swabs but weren’t hopeful.

  I turned to Trilling and said, “Let’s start putting together a list of potential snipers and see if any tips came in from the hotline.”

  Trilling said, “I have an appointment.”

  That was all he said, and then he was gone.

  CHAPTER 16

  IT HAD TAKEN a meeting of the minds from our squad to come up with a decent investigative plan for the Longshot Killer. (Even our lieutenant was using the nickname.) My idea of putting together a list of snipers in the greater New York City area wasn’t realistic. But I did still think that if we coupled that idea with tips coming in on a phone line, we might get lucky and connect an unknown sniper to the killings.

  We’d already gotten a lead involving a guy who lived up in Newburgh but had been traveling back and forth to the city. The tip said he’d trained as a Navy SEAL.

  That’s why in the early morning the next day I picked up Rob Trilling in front of the Three-Three in Washington Heights. It was the precinct closest to the George Washington Bridge so we could race up Route 9W to Newburgh, about a ninety-minute drive north.

  When he hopped into my Impala, I asked Trilling if he knew anyone from the Three-Three. All he did was shake his head. It wasn’t a surprise he didn’t know anyone at the precinct. Usually you actually have to speak to people before you get to know them.

  We found the guy in Newburgh quickly, and it took only about a minute of talking to him to realize he was a straight shooter, so to speak. He had washed out of SEAL training, but he had worked with the shore patrol afterward. Now he was some sort of half-assed, unlicensed private investigator. He’d been trying to find a missing husband and was able to show us a couple of receipts and reports that convinced me he was telling the truth.

  I couldn’t face another hour-and-a-half ride without any conversation. I engaged Trilling immediately as we got back in my Chevy.

  I said, “Those SEALs can really shoot well. Don’t you think?”

  Trilling did think about it for a moment. The silence stretched close to ten seconds, then he said, “They’re good with a lot of different weapons. Only a few SEALs are sniper certified. Most of them are trained to move and shoot.”

  “How well do Rangers stack up against SEALs or other special forces with long-distance shooting?”

  “It doesn’t really work like that. Every unit and situation has different dynamics. I’m proud to have been a Ranger, but I would never denigrate any other position in the military.”

  “Okay, I’ll make it more personal. How well can you shoot from a long distance? Maybe that would give me a baseline and I could figure out something about our killer.”

  That must’ve made sense to Trilling. I saw him smile. I realized it was probably the first time I’d seen it.

  The young officer said, “We’re about twenty minutes from West Point and it’s hardly out-of-the-way on our drive back down to the city. One of my old platoon leaders has a six-month assignment to the academy. He could get us on one of their rifle ranges and I could show you. Maybe it’ll give you some insights as to what goes into a shot like that.”

  I liked that idea, and I also liked the opportunity to see the military academy at West Point up close. Trilling made a call, then turned to me and said, “Captain Hawks said to drop on by and he’d work out the details.”

  I noticed an even broader smile on my new partner’s face.

  CHAPTER 17

  DOING THE MATH, I realized Trilling had been only twenty-two years old when he left active service and joined the NYPD. I knew from his service record he was now a sergeant in the Army Reserve. But someone thought highly of him. As we pulled up to the front gate, a tall Black captain stood right by the inspection point.

  Trilling jumped out of the car and saluted the captain as he approached, then they gave each other a big hug. I didn’t even want to think what these two might’ve gone through together to forge such a strong bond.

  Trilling led the captain over to my car. “Detective Michael Bennett, this is Captain Isaiah Hawks. He was just a lieutenant when he ran my platoon in Afghanistan. He’s also one of the most trustworthy men I’ve ever met.”

  Captain Hawks gave me a big smile and stuck out his hand, saying, “Is Trilling causing as much trouble at the NYPD as he did in the Rangers?”

  Trilling certainly hadn’t learned interpersonal skills from the friendly captain. I just grinned and said, “He’s been a great resource on this sniper case we’ve been working.”

  The captain let out a laugh. “We’re just grunts. We don’t know shit about snipers.” I wasn’t sure what the inside joke was, but I laughed along with the two of them.

  I parked my Impala, then jumped into a Toyota pickup truck along with the captain and Trilling. Hawks gave a quick tour as we drove down toward the ranges. The campus really was spectacular. He pointed out historic and beautiful spots, like Washington Hall with the giant parade field in front of it. But I was mainly interested in seeing Trilling on the range.

  We rode past ranges for all sorts of ordnance. Range 1 was called Argonne, after the US Army campaign of World War I, and was for hand-grenade training. Range 3, called New Orleans, was the combat pistol range. We drove all the way out to range 11B, called Normandy. This was a long-distance range for rifles.

  Captain Hawks took a hard-sided case from the rear of the truck. He opened it and pulled out a rifle equipped with a short scope on the top rail. The captain handed the rifle to Trilling and said to me, “This is an M4, the Army’s main infantry rifle.”

  We stepped back while Trilling readied the rifle to fire and stretched himself out on the ground. He moved with authority and speed. This was clearly a weapon he was comfortable with. I was starting to suspect that Trilling might be more comfortable with rifles than people.

  When Captain Hawks and I were out of Trilling’s earshot, the captain turned to me and said, “I worry about him. Is he doing well with the NYPD?”

  “I’ve only worked with him a few days. To tell you the truth, he’s awfully hard to read.”

  The captain chuckled. “That won’t change. The one thing I could count on was Rob Trilling doing the right thing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  From the firing station, Trilling yelled out, “Eyes and ears, the range is hot!”

  The captain handed me a tiny packet with earplugs inside. Then he also handed me heavy plastic goggles.

  Trilling looked over his shoulder at us to make sure he could fire. Then he looked through the scope and paused.

  The captain said, “We have a paper target set up at two hundred yards. He’s going to zero in the scope on a metal target about a hundred yards downrange.”

  Trilling fired once. Then he turned the knobs on the scope. He fired a second time and then sat up. “I need a minute to tighten a few things.”

  The captain nodded, then turned to me. “He’s meticulous. That’s an example of doing the right thing. You won’t ever accuse Trilling of being sloppy. But more importantly, he follows the mission. For instance, when we were in Afghanistan, the fighting was being done mostly by Afghans with our support. One day Trilling was security on a medical call for an IED victim. Not far from the Pakistani border near FOB Fenty in Jalal-Abad. Turns out it was an ambush. A medic and a Black Hawk crew member were hit immediately. They were grounded with insurgents firing from several nearby buildings. Trilling didn’t wait for orders or reinforcements that would be too late to help. Instead, he slipped off to a side street, flanked the shooters, killed two and captured three more.