First Kill (3 page)

“That’s a creative solution.”

“You know, you mentioned that you’re concerned about how you’re perceived by your fellow police officers.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’m not a police officer.” Here we go. I could almost anticipate what he’d say next. I was already thinking of an excuse as he put his hand on my arm. “You think you’d like to go out some time?”

“I don’t know, Steve. I only go out with assholes, and you’re clearly not an asshole.”

“I can be an asshole. Every guy has it in him.”

I looked into his eyes as if trying to judge his character. “No, I’m not certain you can.”

He chuckled. “What if I just act like an asshole?”

“Not the same thing. You don’t qualify.”

“Hold on. Follow my logic. If I pretended to be an asshole exclusively for the purpose of getting into your pants, wouldn’t that qualify me for genuine asshole status?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “All right,” I said. “Keep talking.”

Chapter Five

Quinlan stood on the courthouse steps with his attorney, Cronan Hartley.
Hartley, a man with an unappealing countenance, wore a cashmere coat trimmed with sable. Pasty strands of hair were lifted off his head by the wind that gusted down the avenue. He flipped up his fur collar to cover his neck and insulate it from the cold. I refused to listen to him speak but knew the rehearsed comments he was about to recite to the press, “Blah, blah, blah—my client has been acquitted and is eager to return to a normal life.”

The word acquitted can mean: harmless, blameless, or innocent. It can also mean freed. Yes, Sean Quinlan had been freed, but he was far from innocent. Of that I was certain. It bothered me that he was smiling as the reporters interviewed his attorney. He didn’t look like a man whose burden had been lifted. He looked as if he was gloating. It was his lucky day. He had beaten the system. A woman lay dead. In a few minutes, he’d be on his merry way to do whatever it was that murderers do.

A text popped up on my cell phone. It was a message from Steve Farrell.
Sorry, Chalice.
That was the entire text, just two words, but it was enough. He didn’t offer excuses or consolation. He was succinct and to the point, just as I preferred.

I heard Ma entering the room. I switched off the TV. Quinlan and Hartley faded to black and disappeared. If only life was that simple. If only we could flush away life’s waste with a tug on the toilet handle.
Good riddance.

“I’m ready,” she said. Ma smiled, although I could see that it took some effort for her to do so. Most things were still a little difficult for her these days. Understandably so—she was still reeling from the loss of her husband. My father had lived just long enough to see me promoted to detective. A long and sad year had come and gone since his passing. I gazed at my mother, watching as she bravely smiled through her pain. Her wound was still open and raw. It was a wound that would take a very long time to heal. “Are you sure we have to go out? I can whip up a quick pot of macaroni and peas—twenty minutes tops.”

“No!” I said resolutely. I needed to get her out of the house, away from solitude and desolation. She needed to be out with other people; smiling people, talking people—normal people. She was dressed in black, just as she had every day since my dad passed away, but she had put on a colorful scarf and was wearing proper makeup. “You look pretty, Ma.”

“Bah! You’re such a liar, Stephanie. I look like a piece of pounded veal.”

She was pale and thin—the veal analogy was not lost on me. Nonetheless … “Put your coat on. There’s this place I’ve been dying to try out.”

“Is it close?”

“Close enough to walk.”

“Oh … okay. I’ll get my coat.” I hated seeing her like this. Her doctor had offered her antidepressants, but his suggestion was received about as warmly as a fart in church. I knew that I was making a nuisance of myself, but it didn’t seem as if she was going to get better on her own—not quickly, at any rate. She came back wearing her coat and was ready to go. “Are you sure I can’t make a pot of macaroni?”

“No.”

“How about grilled cheese and tomato. I’ve got beautiful vine tomatoes. I’ll have it on the table in five minutes.”

“No.”

“How about …”

~~~

The maître d’ greeted me with outstretched arms and a warm smile. “Ah, you’re back. So good to see you again.” I didn’t think he would remember me and hadn’t expected such a robust greeting. Having told Ma I wanted to “check the place out,” I wasn’t sure if I was about to get busted. Hopefully she wasn’t listening too closely in between thinking of all the meals she could prepare in thirty minutes or less. “Would you like the same table as last time?” he asked.

Oh shit—my goose is cooked.
There’d be no way I’d be able to escape her wrath now. At the very least, a full inquisition was coming:
Who did you have dinner with? What’s his name? What does he do?
I bit my lip. “Sure. That sounds great.”

We were shown to a table near the window, not too close as to feel the outside chill through the glass and not so far as to encroach on our view of Times Square. It was the perfect table, the one everyone wanted. Now it was ours. “I have a lovely Pinot Noir tonight. May I bring two glasses for the lovely ladies?”

“We’ll take a bottle,” I said, resigned to my fate.

The maître d’ had barely turned away when Ma lowered the boom. “It’s a good thing you’re not an undercover cop, Stephanie—you’d blow your cover in two minutes.”

“I’m honestly surprised he remembers me.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately, Sweetheart?”

“What?”

“Were you wearing a red rubber nose and a clown suit the last time you were here?”

I’d say Ma was off her meds if I didn’t know better. “What
are
you talking about?”

“Sweetie, men don’t forget a girl who looks like you, not unless they’re sitting at a piano, wearing dark sunglasses, and singing ‘My Cherie Amour.’”

I blushed, not from her compliment but because I’d been caught in a lie. “The city’s filled with attractive women. Trust me, I’m no standout.”

“No standout? I bet the maître d’ can tell me your exact shoe size. It’s a good thing you dress like a man when you go to work or you’d never get anything done.”

“Gee, I hope the wine is good.”

“Don’t try switching gears on me, Stephanie Marie Chalice. Who did you have dinner with? What’s his name? What does he do? You know the drill—start talking.”

Jesus. “His name is Steve. He’s an attorney. We had dinner together.”

The maître d’ returned and proceeded to perform the requisite wine-tasting ritual. I had the wine to my lips when Ma smacked his arm and asked, “What size shoe do you think she wears?”

“Ma.”
I blurted like an embarrassed teenage girl.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Ignore her.”

He looked perplexed. “The lady?”

“Yes, the lady. What size shoe do you think she wears?” He began to peek under the table, but Ma stopped him. “No-no-no,
without
looking,” she insisted.

He shrugged. “Seven and a half?”

“Seven and a half—that’s your guess? Not seven, not eight, but seven and a half?”

“Yes,” he replied hesitantly.

“That’s a very good guess,” Ma said. “The wine is perfect. Thank you.”

“But the lady hasn’t—”

“The lady doesn’t have to taste the wine. It’s delicious. I can tell from here.” She shooed him away. He shrank away from the table. “What did I tell you? Seven and a half, right on the money.”

Now I understood—Ma wasn’t depressed, she just needed someone to argue with. Don’t get me wrong; my father’s death had left her an incomplete and despondent woman, but it was the absence of day-to-day confrontation that was impeding her recovery, or so I deduced. “You’re very proud of yourself. I guess I’m not the only cop sitting at this table.”

“Over twenty years with your father, you think nothing rubbed off?”

“Well, it’s good to see you with a sparkle in your eye.”

“Sparkle? I’ll give you a sparkle. Lie to me again, and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Yes,
Mother
.”

“So an attorney, huh? I don’t know if I like that. Not one of those wrinkled suits who hangs around emergency rooms handing out business cards, I hope.”

“No, Ma, he works in the district attorney’s office. He’s one of the good guys. He was the lead attorney on a case of mine that turned to shit. We were consoling one another.”

“Consoling one another,” she said with a smirk. “Does that involve the removal of clothing?”

I filled her wine glass. “
You’re
a little feisty.”

She raised her glass, and we toasted. “You think I’m feisty now? Just wait until I finish this wine.” She took a hearty swallow. “Delicious. Now tell me about this case.”

I don’t normally discuss my cases with her, but this one was over and done with, a matter of public record. “I was watching it on the news just before we left your apartment. A young woman was murdered. Her name was Emma Sands … used to raise money for children’s charities. I arrested this guy, Sean Quinlan, fresh off the boat from Ireland—has an accent as thick as Aunt Connie’s midsection.” Ma grinned. “Numerous interviews confirmed that he had been dating the victim and was seen with her on the night she was murdered. My partner and I paid him a visit, and he permitted a search of his apartment. I found a knife, which I believed to be the murder weapon. I read him his rights and arrested him.”

“But the case fell apart?”

“Yeah.” I filled my mouth with wine and let it wash over my tongue before swallowing. “I’ll tell you what happened, but you won’t believe it.”

“Try me. You think I didn’t hear stories exactly like this from your father? Believe me, it happened more than he liked, and he was one of the top detectives in the department.”

Ma dipped a chunk of bread into olive oil and chewed while I expounded—or should I say lamented—about the case. “The suspect was able to document that he had a history of multiple personality disorder. His attorney convinced a judge that I read Miranda to the wrong person. He’s out on the street.”

“What?”
she blurted incredulously.

“Yeah, that was my reaction too.”

“What about the murder weapon?”

“The lab couldn’t find any of the victim’s DNA on it. It was meticulously clean.”

“Bah!” she blurted with disgust. “That’s a load of crap.”

“Yeah,”
I concurred. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Chapter Six

It wasn’t the
softer side of Sears
.
It was the seedy side of Macy’s, 35th Street between Broadway and 7th, an entire city block of loading docks and filth so thick you couldn’t see through it to the gutter. It was the side of Macy’s not caught by cameras during the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

She was young and physically rich, slender with a small waist and full breasts. She looked good in her short, blue dress, the quintessence of red-light couture. It was tight in all the right places—a workingman’s fantasy, for sale right there on the street.

She had walked several blocks from the Westside, trying to wave down a taxi for a ride home. She finally stopped and rummaged in her patent leather bag for a pair of flats. Alternately balancing on one foot then the other, she removed her pumps and slipped on her comfortable shoes. She pushed her heels into the bag with an authoritative shove—quitting time; for her it was the equivalent of punching a time clock.

A taxi streaked by, passing her as if she didn’t exist. An icy rain began to fall that felt like pinpricks against her bare arms. She had just pulled a well-worn cardigan out of her bag when she noticed a silver sedan rolling down the street. She smiled inwardly—the speed at which the sedan moved was a dead giveaway. She knew when a john was interested; it wasn’t her first trip to the rodeo, not by a long shot.

She sauntered toward the car and intercepted it as the driver’s window lowered. Resting her arms on the window ledge, she leaned forward allowing the hair from her auburn wig to fall in half moons on either side of her well-developed cleavage. When she smiled, a dark triangle was visible where her two front teeth were chipped. “It’s last call, Sugar.” She gave him a moment to check her out—the routine man-scan that began with her face and moved quickly to her breasts. “They’re real,” she said with an inviting smile.

She was younger than he expected, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. He could feel himself stir. His right hand was in his pocket, his pointer finger sliding back and forth against the blade of his knife. An uncontrollable spasm racked his body, and he accidentally cut his fingertip on the blade. He wiped his bloody finger on one of the bills tucked in his pocket.

“Excited, Sugar?” She reached in and rubbed him where he could feel it, hoping to seal the deal. “Oh, Baby, I think you like me.” The tip of her tongue traveled suggestively across her upper lip. “I’ll show you a good time.”

“What do you call a good time?”

“Baby, your balls will explode and lightning will shoot out of your ass.”

“Get in.”

“She walked around to the passenger side and got into the sedan. “So nice and warm in here,” she said as she rubbed her upper arms. “Pull in over by the loading dock.”

“No, not here,” he said in a flat monotone.

“You want a hotel date? That’s a hundred plus the room.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cash, and paid her without comment.

“Thank you, Baby, I
do
love a bighearted man. “Head on over to the Westside—I know a place that’s generous with the steam heat.” He put the car in gear and rolled down the block. “You’re the quiet type, huh?”

He took his eyes off the road as they approached the traffic light. He gawked at her, examining her long legs in detail. His mouth was agape while he stretched nervously, pressing his palms against the headliner.

“Dear Lord,” she said. “When was the last time you got off? You look like you’re ready to explode.”