First Kill (2 page)

The phone rang. It was my friend Tay, an admin in the district attorney’s office. “Tay,” I shouted excitedly. “Guess who’s in my shower?”

“I don’t know … Bill Clinton.”

“Bill Clinton
, really?
That’s your guess? Of all the men in the world … That’s a really bad guess. You think I’m shacking up with the former president of the United States?”

“Uh huh,” she said. “I think you’re his type.”

“And exactly what type is that?” I said, sounding as if I was insulted.

“How can I put this? You look like a middle-aged man’s fantasy, and Clinton strikes me as the kind of man to indulge a whim. Correct that, his indulgences have been well documented.”

Middle-aged man’s fantasy?
“Jesus, you made me feel creepy. Is that supposed to be some kind of compliment?”

“I wish someone would say that about me.” Tay was a voluptuously built sista, who received plenty of male attention.

“Stop fishing for compliments.”

“So who’s in your shower already?”

“Adriano.”

“A-Rod? Why you filthy, little slut. I am so jealous. That man is
fine
.”

“No need for jealousy, Tay. He slept on the couch.”

“What? I don’t get it.”

“Most of the squad went out drinking last night. I had a little too much, and he made sure I got home all right. I woke up in bed, fully dressed. He crashed in the living room—end of story.”

“You disappoint me, girl,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I guess it’s the
Training Day
DVD and a tumbler of Southern Comfort for me again tonight.” Tay is madly in love with Denzel Washington—and his
Training Day
bad-boy role in particular. I think she has Denzel sheets and Denzel jammies, whatever it takes … Celebrity bedding doesn’t quite do it for me. I require a warm-blooded man, just not a fellow cop.

“What are you wearing?”

“Just slacks and a top.”

“Nothing sexy?”

“No!”

“So you definitely didn’t?”

“No! I’m pretty sure I’d remember coitus with a man as substantial as Adriano.”

“Damn,”
she said with a ghetto-girl inflection.

I love this girl; she makes me laugh. “So what do you want?” I said, lightheartedly insinuating that she was a nuisance.

“Look I thought you’d want to know …”

“What?”

“Your case, the Sean Quinlan case … it’s in jeopardy and may get kicked.”

“
What?
Why? I mean how?” An ache crawled around in my stomach—Quinlan had carved up a beautiful, twenty-three-year-old woman. “I don’t understand.”

I heard Tay stirring her coffee—the sound of metal flatware clanging in her Denzel mug—I guess that’s as close as she’d ever get to spooning with him. “His attorney requested a hearing. It may get tossed on a Miranda infraction,” she said.

“
No way!
I read him his rights in front of a squad car. Miranda was recorded on the cruiser’s onboard video. It’s in the record, for crying out loud.”

There was a long pause, as if she were searching for the courage to continue. “You’re not going to like this,” she said hesitantly. “Are you sitting down?”

“
No
, I am
not
sitting down.
What the hell?
Spit it out already.”

“I’m sorry … this is the judicial system at its worst, Stephanie. Quinlan has a long and documented history of multiple personality disorder. The defense is arguing that you read Miranda to the wrong guy.”

Chapter Three

“This is total bullshit!”

Steve Farrell, the assistant district attorney, stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of my voice. He placed his attaché case on the floor and waited bravely for me to assault him. “The defense’s argument is a load of crap, and you know it.”

Manhattan ADAs juggle several cases at the same time but Farrell didn’t have to think twice to know that I was unloading on him over the Quinlan case. “Easy, Chalice, I’m on your side, remember?” Farrell had been in the Manhattan DA’s office for several years and had a reputation for being a friend of the boys in blue. He was no wuss and not the kind of guy to cower in front of an angry detective—not even a raging lunatic with boiling Italian blood in her veins. “You want to do this right out here in the hallway?”

Rage said,
Yeah, hell yeah. Let’s have at it right here and now,
but common sense prevailed. “There’s an empty interrogation room down the hall. Follow me.” I stormed down the corridor and into the room. Farrell was closing the door when I turned to face him. “Steve, I know you’re a good guy, but this case … this friggin’ case—” My mouth was still open, but nothing was coming out. I was at the height of exasperation and too furious to speak.

“Easy, Chalice, don’t have a stroke. I don’t like this anymore than you do. You think I want this turd laughing at us as he tiptoes away from a felony murder charge? Where I come from we fry douchebags like Quinlan.”

Fried douchebag, now that’s a revolting thought.

The door clicked open again, and the Boss walked in. Chief Sonellio was
the man
. I found his presence as soothing as a stroll through a field of lavender. I took a deep, settling breath. “Everyone okay in here?” he asked, sounding circumspect.

Farrell smiled at Sonellio warily as they shook hands. His voice sounded apprehensive. “Nick … what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Sonellio said in a casual manner. “I saw the look in Chalice’s eye and figured I better get my butt in here before the department had another homicide to investigate. Our caseload is big enough already,” he chuckled and then turned to me. “We’re both listening, Chalice—go ahead.”

“How can the defense argue that I read Miranda to the wrong person? It’s a trumped-up, load-of-crap defense concocted by a piece-of-shit, lying attorney.”

“Is there another kind?” Sonellio quipped. He glanced at Farrell, intentionally biting his lip. “Sorry, Steve, I just couldn’t help myself.”

Farrell seemed a little frayed around the edges. “No, Chalice, it’s not a BS defense. It’s a brilliant defense, and it’s not unprecedented. Some piece-of-shit, lying attorneys actually do their homework before they walk into the courtroom.”

“Nothing’s unprecedented,” I protested. “Every conceivable untruth known to mankind has been thought of and used as an argument by a defense attorney. If they can’t tell the truth in court, they search every case in the books until they find some cockamamie ruling they can sculpt into something that will liberate their client. Which one is this?”

“Colorado v. Connelly,” Farrell replied. “The defense has produced medical records from Quinlan’s doctors back in Ireland. The records document that he has a second personality named Seamus. I can send you a copy of the file if you like—it’s well documented. They’re claiming that you read Miranda to Seamus and not to Sean Quinlan.”

I gripped my forehead. “Jesus, I’m getting a migraine. Who the hell is Seamus? A goddamn leprechaun?”

Sonellio snickered. “Easy, Chalice,” he warned. “Give me some details, Steve.”

“The court found for Connelly, ruling that he was not of sound mind and that his murder confession was inadmissible,” Farrell said. “The decision was upheld in state Supreme Court.”

“But that’s
different
. Quinlan didn’t confess. I arrested him after I found the murder weapon in his apartment. It’s apples and oranges, Steve,” I implored. “I read him Miranda when I took him into custody.”

“And
Sean
Quinlan was questioned at the station house before he lawyered up,” Farrell interjected. “Hence he was not properly informed of his rights. He was denied due process.”

I shook my head in disgust. “Chief, this guy is guilty as sin.”

Farrell shot Sonellio another wary glance. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

“What? Jesus! What?”

Sonellio gave Farrell the high sign. “I’ll take it from here, Steve.” Farrell grabbed his briefcase and left. Sonellio closed the door. “Look, kiddo, this is one of those times when everything just turns to shit. I know that you’ve got a big emotional stake in seeing this guy go up the river, but … without being able to find the victim’s blood on the alleged murder weapon …”

“All I know is that the knife was found hidden in the suspect’s home, and the crime lab confirmed that the victim’s wounds were made by a knife exactly like it.”

“Yeah, I know how it looks, but that doesn’t prove that he killed her. Believe me, Chalice; I don’t like being played for a fool. I’m not saying the victim’s blood wasn’t on that knife at one time, but since we’re not able to prove that it was …”

“So now what? They send our perp for psychological evaluation, and ultimately, some bleeding-heart psychiatrist convinces the judge that Quinlan’s brain is made of porridge because he was abused as a child and not fit to stand trial.”

“Don’t get so down in the dumps. The DA’s office is in the process of checking Quinlan’s medical records for authenticity, and the judge still has yet to rule on the Miranda argument. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pull a victory out of our asses yet.”

Chapter Four

The bar was dark, stealthy dark.
I found the dim light comforting. I wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t even drinking. I was nibbling without appetite on a club sandwich and feeling sorry for myself. My collar, which I thought to be the absolute collar of collars, was crumbling before my eyes. Truly, sleight of hand was being used to disassemble the components of the case, but that didn’t make me feel any better. An arrest isn’t worth a damn until the cell bars slam shut. I had been convinced that the arrest was solid and that Sean Quinlan would do serious time. Guess again.

The décor, like the lighting, was dark. The mahogany backbar had seen better days. The veneer was peeling, and the mirror residing behind the liquor bottles appeared to be even grayer and spottier than the last time I had visited. The only things lit up at the bar were the patrons—well, some of them anyway. Sly, the bartender offered to hit my coffee with a shot of amaretto, which I refused. Sly sports a five- o’clock shadow twenty-four hours a day and wears the same thickly ribbed turtleneck sweater so often, it must be bonded to his skin by now. “Chalice, you’re not hungry?”

“Hungry? No, not really.”

“Something wrong?”

“Yeah, Sly. Jurisprudence.”

“The hell does that mean?” he asked.

“It means that an arrest I made may get tossed out of court on a technicality.”

A voice called out from behind me. “Maybe not.” I turned to see Steve Farrell pulling off his overcoat. “This seat taken?”

“Help yourself, Counselor.”

“Hey, Steve,” Sly said with a grin. “Good to see you. The usual?” Steve nodded. “Great. Coming right up.” Sly refilled my coffee cup before walking back to the kitchen.

“What’s the usual?”

“Firehouse chili and a Heineken.”

“Is it good?”

“Better than the dried-out turkey club you’re eating.”

I pulled my sandwich apart, grabbed a strip of bacon, and crunched it between my teeth. “I think of it more as a bacon delivery system.”

“You’re a funny girl, Chalice. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“It’s a defense mechanism.”

“Why do you feel the need to be defensive?”

Humor was part of my armor. I used quips and barbs to shield myself against the possibility of romantic entanglement with other members of the squad. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

He sat down. “You want your associates to focus on your skills and not your cleavage.”

“You’re an attorney—you work with associates. I’m a cop—I work with other cops. It’s all over for me the moment I become known as the girl with a warm bed.”

“I completely understand.”

Sly placed Farrell’s chili on the bar alongside a cold glass of Heineken. “The chili’s mad-hot today—proceed with caution,” he said.

“What happened, the cook find a sale on habaneros?” Farrell tasted the chili and then quickly chugged some beer. “Jesus, that’s ridiculous.”

Sly chuckled as he walked off. “Don’t worry. The first refill is on me.”

“Want to try some?” Farrell offered.

“No thanks. You know you can get arrested for endangering the life of a police officer.” I picked up another strip of bacon. “I’ll stick with pork products.”

Farrell ate lots of bread to subjugate the heat of the chili. “How long have you been on the squad now, Chalice?”

“I’ve been carrying a gold shield just over a year. Why?”

“Because … you’re a good cop, but you can’t let the job get to you like it did today. I’m not dropping my pants on this Quinlan case, but every once in a while, a slime bag walks. You have to learn to live with that.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t, the job will eat you alive. It’s not a fairytale where good always triumphs over evil. Sometimes the good guys lose.”

“I don’t like losing.”

“So I hear. Look you’ve got a nose for crime, and the Chief of Ds has your back. There isn’t much more a young detective can ask for.”

“How about some fresh turkey for my club sandwich?”

Farrell grinned and drained his glass. Sly had it under the tap as soon as Farrell set it down on the bar. “This is going to take some time,” Farrell said.

“How long will it take you to verify that Quinlan’s medical records are authentic?”

“I don’t know. The physicians will have to be contacted and questioned—their credentials will have to be checked. Clonmel, Ireland, for Christ’s sake—I don’t even know where that is. Quinlan’s been remanded for psychiatric evaluation. Could take a while … meanwhile, he stays behind bars.”

“Emma Sands was carved up like a melon, and her wounds were consistent with the foldout knife that was hidden in Quinlan’s apartment. What can I tell you? I don’t like where this case is heading, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Quinlan’s attorney is making a solid arrest look like a circus sideshow.”

“Concerned about your reputation?”

“No, I’m concerned that Quinlan will walk and that more women will die.”

Farrell drank more of his beer. “Not a problem. I’ll see that he’s fed this chili three times a day. We won’t have to worry about a conviction—he’ll incinerate from the inside out.”