The Mysteries of Laura

- Old man, where that money at? - Leave me alone.

- Give me your wallet! - Leave me alone.

- Come on. Give me your wallet. - Leave me alone, man.

Leave me alone! Leave me alone!

Hey!

You have the nerve to bring weapons

inside my children's playground?

Step off, soccer mom!

You step off!

What kind of human beings steal money from a senior citizen

10 feet from a jungle gym?

What, you're gonna slash him

in front of all the toddlers so they can have

recurring nightmares for the rest of their lives?

Huh, what're you gonna do, biatch?

Gimme that money, old man! Come on.

Where's that wallet at? Come on.

- Leave me alone. - Give it!

Now you the bitch.

And you're under arrest.

Gross!

Five-second rule.

Manhattan south, homicide squad requested.

Report of criminal fatality at the Neoteric.

325 Water.

Hey, victim's a female, white, 40s, no ID, purse or cell,

paid in cash, gave the name Samantha Jones, could be made-up.

You think? Security cameras?

None up here, but plenty downstairs,

even though it's a zoo in the lobby.

Hotel security said they saw her on tape come in around 7:00, alone.

As far as the guy is concerned, a needle in a haystack.

Detective, lights-out for this one, uh,

approximately 8:00 to 11:00 P.M.

Bruising indicates a struggle. The manner of death, ligature strangulation.

Likely weapon is the victim's own scarf.

It makes sense, easier to use than hands,

distributes the weight, the pressure evenly.

- Might not be a big guy. - Or gal.

Well, whoever it is, they are scratched up pretty good.

I got a whole mess of skin fragments under her nails.

I'll try to match DNA.

Am I the only one noticing the funk in here?

My allergies have been acting up. Smells like sex or something?

I wouldn't remember.

No, more like bad cologne.

Like a blend of musk and roadkill.

All right, so no forced entry, she must have known her killer.

Fake name, cash... Hooker and John?

Dress comes from one of those discount chains,

they always cut the tag like this.

Simple makeup, no implants.

Samantha Jones... Sex and the City, anyone?

Wrong demo.

No.

More likely she's just a regular suburban gal.

Fifty shades of very dark grey.

All right, let's get the fingerprints, find out who she is.

You got it.

Follow me.

Oh, it's just a typical nightgown,

she could have bought this anywhere.

Excuse me!

Mmm-hmm?

It's a camisole and she bought it here. It's their own label.

Jake dragged me in here once, thinking we could act out

some changing room male fantasy.

- How'd that go? - Quickly.

Happens.

Well, this stuff's more upscale than the rest of our vic's clothes.

And considering how much she spent on that hotel suite,

must have been a big night for her.

Excuse me! I'm just following up

on my "excuse me!" from 30 seconds ago.

Can we get some help?

It'll be a minute, sweetie.

And FYI, the sale ended last week.

Your attention, please!

I have a bit of a outbreak down below.

Ew!

And I tried on a lot of stuff from here the other day.

I know that we're supposed to keep our underwear on,

but I didn't, so, you know, FYI...

Oh, back already, that was way less than a minute, sweetie.

One of these camisoles was bought, I'm guessing it was this week,

given that it's still on display,

by a pretty, middle-aged brunette.

Recognize her?

Let's see if we can find a receipt, shall we?

Christa Chase. Mid-40s, brown hair, blue eyes.

- We need an address. - On it.

Uh, what's with the meter maid convention?

Captain Booty, nine o'clock.

Seems like you have a fan club.

Oh, sorry, I was speaking to your ass.

You bought me this bad boy. Remember?

I remember all sorts of things, Jake,

birthdays, every Top Chef winner...

I even remember yesterday, when you weren't my boss.

How exactly is this gonna work?

It's gonna work great.

Look, we can coordinate our schedules,

we can pick up the boys and bring them here after school, eat together...

Sounds pretty good, right?

No, actually it sounds like a stupid, evil divorce nightmare.

Speaking of which...

I got my papers to the lawyers, it's official.

Ah!

I'll have Max get a cake.

No, we're good. I got cronuts.

Cronuts, everyone. Come grab a cronut.

And share.

Come and have a cronut, best donut on earth, right?

He's just the best.

He sort of is.

You're being jaked, just shake it off.

Oh, Peter and Christa Chase, 421 Adlers Way, Staten Island.

Peter Chase?

Yes, sir. Problem?

Mr. Chase, where were you last night between 8:00 and 11:00?

Uh... I was here. Watching, uh...

The Yankees. Beltran went three for four, why?

Can anyone verify that, sir?

When was the last time you saw Mrs. Chase, sir?

Why... wha...

Why're you asking me that?

Mr. Chase, we found a body that we fear is your wife.

You'll have to come down with us to make a positive identification.

Oh, no, no, no...

Baby?

They told me you were dead.

What?

Are you not married to Christa Michelle Chase?

We have her living at this address.

Not anymore, I'm Mrs. Chase now.

I told Christa to update her records

but she's not exactly quick on the draw.

She's dead, sir.

She's not my problem anymore.

So, Mr. Chase, when was the last time you saw your ex-wife?

Uh... the lawyers, few weeks ago.

-- And this house was the one you lived in together?

This was my house long before Christa,

hell if I was gonna lose it in the settlement.

Bad enough I got to pay her bills, but even that wasn't enough.

She asked you for more money?

She sued, to void an already signed separation of assets agreement.

I own a fleet of trucks.

What, she deserves to be co-owner

just 'cause I got myself a little extra-curricular?

It's all new furniture and linen.

I ha start over. I mean, when it comes to style, Christa was a lost puppy.

Oh, thank God Peter found you.

I sort of have a sixth sense.

I think we only have five for a reason.

So, what were you two honeymooners up to last night?

Just cuddling, you know, watching TV.

Romantic Yankees game?

Like Peter would watch the Yankees.

Peter Chase was clearly a Mets fan.

And the Mets didn't play last night, the Yankees did.

Must have been, uh, first thing that popped in his mind.

Lying about your alibi, that's never a good thing.

- So, which one do you like? - Both have motive.

He was afraid of losing half his business.

And she was afraid of losing the zillion bucks' worth

of bougie house crap she just bought.

- Visible scratch marks? - Long sleeves, couldn't see.

But did you catch her broken nail?

Could've happened last week.

Skinny little trophy wives?

So much as chip a nail, they book a mani.

Sorry, thought I heard European-style frothing?

Voila!

- Oh! - My contribution to precinct culture.

They had this exact model at the cafe where I learned how to barista.

- Thanks, Mike. - My name's Max.

I love you so much!

Not "love" love.

- Adore. - Just getting worse.

J'adore?

E-ZPass serial numbers for Chase and trophy wife's cars.

If either of them drove into the city last night it'll show up.

Back at ya.

Looked at the post office. Christa had her mail forwarded to this address.

- Can I touch it? - No.

It's not much, but she sure made it look nice.

I asked her if she could fix up my unit.

Hmm, it looks like she stole your CD collection.

Oh, my God!

- In eighth grade I saw the Like A Virgin tour. - I know.

Beastie Boys opened and Andrew Cohen

- grabbed my left boob. - Grabbed your left boob. I know.

She didn't have anything special to wear.

That's what the camisole was about,

starting over.

Divorce hit her hard. She was so lonely.

Most Saturday nights she was home binge-watching Top Chef.

Her ex-husband was the outgoing one, she said,

so she didn't have a social life.