by Alexa Steele
“With all due respect, Billy, what is this?” Bella asked. “What’s going on?”
“Dennis needs some help,” he began. “He’s a close friend, hell, he’s like a brother, and he’s twisting in the wind right now. Mack is going to keep you company, provide some support. I know you are not going to be thrilled about working this and I get it. But if this thing isn’t solved, and solved quickly, it’s his career. He needs me, which means I need you.”
She looked at Mack and wondered how the hell a guy like him was going to blend into a suburb. Besides his height and size, he looked to be Cuban—not a problem for her, but she didn’t think the odds of him connecting with folks in suburban land were very high. He looked more like a character out of WWE than a guy who could mingle with the refined.
“Mind filling me in?” Mack asked Billy, sounding tired. “You woke me out of my pretty little slumber to come in here and I’m still in the dark.”
Bella cocked her head to the side to check him out more carefully. He was actually very good-looking, underneath his demeanor and his scruff, but he seemed like a prima donna, big time.
Billy took a deep breath and brought them both up to speed on what he knew: a female found dead with signs of sexual assault on a yacht at an exclusive marina up north. Name: Joslyn Freed. Husband: powerful hedge fund manager Jamie Freed. Two daughters in high school. Manner of death unknown.
“There was a big event at some club up there last night. Hundreds of people there. But this thing has a twist—that’s why you are both here.” Billy paused and rubbed his hair. “It’s not just about her.”
“What do you mean?” Bella asked.
“Last month, two high school seniors were found dead in the town, hanging in a garage. The girls’ deaths were ruled a double suicide and the case was closed.”
“OK?” Bella’s brow furrowed.
“When the girls were brought down from the rafters each had a ribbon around her neck, with a crest at the end, like some kind of trophy. Reason Dennis is in such a panic is because the crest has shown up again—Joslyn Freed had one hanging around her neck.”
He stopped for a minute so they could take in what he had said. Neither said a word.
“Looks like our killer is having some fun,” Billy noted.
“Why me?” Mack asked.
“Why him indeed?” Bella added.
“My guys are spoken for—knee deep in other matters. This is not our usual circus of clowns, kids.” Billy spoke slowly, looking back and forth between the two of them. “This one’s going to attract press like bees to honey—the media trucks are already lined up. If it gets out there’s a link between the murder and the high school girls, all hell will break loose. On top of that, these folks are cut from a different cloth—they’re used to being handled delicately. We need a real gentle touch.”
Bella looked over at Mack and smirked. Billy read her mind.
“That’s your department, my dear. Mack’s got his own kind of leverage.”
Billy and Bella exchanged a look.
“Bella, he’s an old-timer,” Billy continued as though Mack wasn’t in the room. “We have worked together for longer than I can remember. I called him out of his self-imposed sabbatical”—this with a sly look at Mack—“because I think you two complement each other and will work well together. You each have what it takes to crack this one open and to do it quickly.”
Bella sat back and frowned, clearly not happy.
Billy turned to Mack.
“Bella’s become my girl in sex crimes. She practically runs these cases down singlehandedly. She’s an ace in the hole. I want you back in the game, my friend, and this could be the one to do it,” Billy said with a glint in his eye.
Mack kept his gaze on Billy, but cracked a slow, smug smile. Billy continued:
“This thing has to be solved yesterday or I am telling you, heads will roll, especially Dennis’s. I need you to work it together, no drama.” Billy leaned forward in his chair and studied the two of them with that look Bella knew too well.
“I am asking for a favor here. I know it’s to neither of your likings, but I am asking for a favor. Dennis hasn’t had to deal with much more than traffic violations for twenty years. I’ve got Brad and Marlowe working the Ritgar murder, Chase and Tony jammed up, the Clayton Boulevard case going nowhere fast.”
“I have some leads on Clayton,” Bella said, although that wasn’t exactly true. “Let me stay on it and send Quinn up to Greenvale. I am getting somewhere.”
“Not fast enough. Besides, Quinn wouldn’t know what to do with all the women,” Billy said with resignation in his voice. “Hell, you’re about to enter girl land, what with all the victim’s friends, her daughters, the high school girls, the mothers—forget about it. Quinn won’t know which end is up. As soon as you wrap this one up then Mack, you can go back to doing whatever it is you do these days, and Bella, you can have that long-deserved vacation you refuse to take.”
“Working a case in Greenvale will be vacation enough.” Bella sounded deflated.
“Ah man, you didn’t mention it was Greenvale,” Mack said, rubbing his chin. “I actually spent some time there in my youth.”
“Ha,” said Billy. “So did I.”
“No, seriously, I knew a girl who lived there…” Mack trailed off.
Bella couldn’t tell if Mack was joking or not, but Billy seemed to consider the possibility it was true.
“Good, then my gut was right you were the one to call,” said Billy. “It will be familiar territory for you.”
“We didn’t much make it out of her bedroom, but I might remember how to get back up there.” Mack chuckled, as though his comment was adorable.
Bella was not amused. She was used to guys like him. Pure testosterone and arrogance, so full of themselves they couldn’t find a clue if it hit them on the head, especially if the clue was about themselves.
“OK, let me tell you what I want,” said Billy.
He got up from his chair and came around to the front of his desk, where he stood directly between them, like a principal with two students. In an almost fatherly tone, he looked at Mack and said:
“You need to get back in the game, my friend. It’s been long enough. Put those goddamn demons back in their box and give me what I need here.”
Demons? Shit, thought Bella. Billy was going for the jugular right in front of her, which she didn’t much appreciate. She stole a glance at Mack and noticed he didn’t react to the comment at all. He looked as emotional as a worn-out trucker being told his route for the thousandth time.
Billy then turned his attention on her.
“Bella, we are one off on this one, gonna be playing catch-up. I’ll provide support on my end. You’re my girl. You two head up there and see what you can learn.”
These were the magic words. When Billy told her she was his girl that meant there was no point in arguing. This was a done deal.
She nodded to Billy as she stood up, and Mack followed her lead, stretching as he sauntered into the corner to get his black leather jacket off the coat hook.
“I guess that’s the thing about life, Billy, the thing I’ve never quite gotten used to,” Mack said, as he put his motorcycle jacket over his shoulders. “You can start the day a stone cold loser—and end it a hero.”
Billy looked surprised at the comment and for a split second Bella thought she saw concern in his eyes.
Mack shrugged.
“Or you can start the day high on the hog—but by bedtime be dead.
CHAPTER 3
Bella rode shotgun as Mack drove the regulation blue Ford sedan up the parkway, heading north. She looked out the window as they drove and took in the industrial urban decay of graffiti-covered projects, garbage-strewn hills, and chain-link fences put in place to separate the people from the highway, or maybe the other way around. Mile after mile of dilapidated neighborhoods abutted the parkway, places whose underbelly Bella knew intimately.
Bef
ore long and like magic, burnt-out warehouses, abandoned businesses, and empty, broken playgrounds gave way to trees in full bloom, manicured athletic fields, and well-maintained shopping centers. Even without the benefit of early morning light it was hard to deny the beauty and order upon entering Westchester County, a beauty equal parts natural and imposed.
She thought of her apartment in the Bronx—a small standard-fare one-bedroom with linoleum kitchen floors and eight-foot ceilings. It was nothing special when she signed the lease, but she had turned it into her very own sanctuary, with muted colored walls and a few select pieces of beautifully wrought furniture collected at high-end flea markets over the years. In fact, she had made the place a miniature jewel box. An eighteenth-century French antique mirror hung in her tiny foyer, an eggplant-colored arched velvet sofa sat in her small living room flanked by a pair of steel end tables from ABC. Two black and white signed photographs of Greta Garbo as a young woman in matching chestnut frames hung on a gray-toned wall; and her favorite find of all—a faded pink woven cotton George Smith chair, slanted under the window next to an ultra-modern 1970s floor lamp.
Finding well-designed, beautiful furniture at bargain prices was the one hobby Bella had loved since her childhood. Some of her happiest memories were spending Saturdays with her aunt scouring high-end thrift shops and flea markets. To this day, it remained a pleasure she indulged in when she had time, which was rarely. In her next life, she told herself, she would deal in furniture. For now, she had a murder to solve.
As they drove in silence Bella consoled herself by viewing this as the break everyone kept telling her she needed; a reprieve from the recent spate of prostitute murders on Clayton Boulevard. What would be so bad about taking a brief break from the dangerous chaos of her life? It would be a mini-vacation, a walk in the park, a go through the motions kind of situation, she reassured herself. She would use it to recharge.
As though reading her mind, Mack suddenly spoke up.
“You bummed about working this one, huh?”
Bella wasn’t sure how to respond.
“I am,” she admitted. “Though I shouldn’t be. Murder is murder after all.”
“Yeah, but I can see why this would suck for you. Sounds like you’re used to quite a bit of action.”
“Working Special Victims is pretty intense,” Bella reflected. “Don’t know what we’re gonna run into up here, but I’m sure it’ll be a lot cleaner.”
He smiled at her for the first time. “Is that what you think?”
She couldn’t tell if he was being sweet or condescending. He sounded a little of both.
“I’m guessing,” was all she answered.
“Don’t bet on it,” he advised with an arrogant tilt of his chin.
She was put off by his manner. “Clean or dirty—it’s all the same to me.” She looked straight ahead as she said this, clearly sending the message she was in no mood to talk anymore.
The rain pelted the window as the darkened sky turned deep pink and purple. She and Mack didn’t make small talk again, each in their own head until they reached their destination: the Greenvale Yacht Club. An enormous gated entrance shielded the magnificent white stucco mansion behind it, a structure resting on a knoll not too high above the Sound. A long winding driveway lay behind the wrought iron, lined with hundred-year-old oaks.
“So this is how the other half lives,” Mack said, with a dazzled look on his face. “Man, this place is awesome.”
Bella did not respond. She focused on a local reporter heading toward them. She gave Mack and the officer at the gate a quick heads-up and they got inside before being pounced on. Mack drove slowly along the driveway, whistling in astonishment. Bella ignored him, not half as enthralled. She had never much liked the concept of gates; they locked oneself in or kept others out. Come to think of it, she never much liked clubs either. Same idea.
Half a dozen police cars, an ambulance, and a blue and white van sat parked in front, yellow crime scene tape everywhere.
“What is this, Halloween?” Bella remarked. It seemed amateurish to have used so much tape, and she wondered if the guys running the show here had ever investigated a real homicide.
A couple of high school–aged boys sat on an ancient stone wall looking tired and bored. They must be valet, Bella thought, as she and Mack got out of the car to do a meet-and-greet and ask questions. It turned out one of them had noticed a fire in the Dumpster around midnight and alerted the manager, while the other stayed with the cars, taking care of the long line of people wanting to leave. Other than that, they saw and heard nothing.
Bella turned her attention to the flurry of activity down by the water. A dozen cops swarmed the grounds behind the mansion and a few stood blocking the entrance to the marina. A cluster of figures stood on the dock behind, two officers with dogs walking the property as a photographer snapped away. She felt irritable all of a sudden.
“Let’s go take a walk,” Bella said, and headed in the opposite direction of the marina, toward the front of the club. Mack followed like he couldn’t care less. The black wrought iron fence surrounding the perimeter protruded fifteen feet high, pointed at top. No one’s scaling that baby, she thought.
A video camera was visibly perched on a tree out front, but she did not see one near the entrance of the club. The driveway wrapped its way under a huge portico, which hovered above two grand mahogany entry doors, dwarfing those who entered.
Mack followed as Bella made her way to the right side of the club and followed its horseshoe shape to a perennial garden in back, where outdoor lighting fixtures flanked a long bluestone path down to the crowded marina. Even in the gloom of the morning, the sweeping vista of blue water, dry stone sea wall, and sparkling white yachts made for a breathtaking sight. Bella couldn’t believe she was only twenty minutes outside of the Bronx. It was like she had entered a different world.
She looked across the yard about 200 feet or so and noticed another path down to the boats: a narrow, neglected-looking pebbled walkway. Bella walked over to check it out; true to form, she was drawn to whatever looked discarded. Unlike its twin on the other side of the clubhouse, this path was craggy and jagged, filled with loose rocks and unclear borders. It began outside the kitchen area, edged past the Dumpsters, and ended abruptly in a patch of dirt near the marina. Meant for employee use only, she guessed.
She led Mack to it and they followed it down to the water. When they were almost at the dock Mack suddenly exclaimed, “God dammit!”
Turning around, Bella saw he had stepped in what looked like vomit.
“God dammit!” he said again, scraping his boots in the grass.
“Hey, are you kidding me? Don’t scrape it off!” she reprimanded, as she called a CSI guy over. The rain had diluted it, but she wanted to preserve what was left.
Mack let the guy examine his boot as Bella examined the old wooden fence separating the lawn from the dock. It was rotted in some places, missing boards in others. Its latch hung loosely to the side and the gate swung open and shut easily. Mack came over when he was done and opened the gate for Bella in a gesture of mock chivalry. An officer stopped them and put their names in his security log. Mack told him about the pile of vomit he stepped in and the officer expressed sympathy and offered to get him a towel. It didn’t seem to dawn on him it might be potential evidence. What a dolt, Bella thought, as she brushed by him.
The smell of the morning sea wafted as Bella lifted her hood to shield herself from the steady drizzle. They moved down the dock, through the mist, slowly checking out the colossal, luxurious yachts that greeted them one after another.
“Man oh man,” Mack hooted. “Can you believe these babies?”
Despite herself she too was overwhelmed. The yachts stood powerfully upright, defiant and proud, their names and their stature broadcasting power and invincibility: Lucky Lady, The Good Life, Riches Galore, Sweet Success. A moment later they stood at their destination: a fifty-four-foot Alden Ketch named Paradise
Found. She was berthed sideways along the furthermost portion of the pier, her left side grazing the dock while her right side stood exposed to the open harbor. A shiny aluminum gangway connected the vessel’s stern deck to the gray-planked pier above. It stood at a steep angle, its slick metal surface wet and slippery from the rain.
“Let me go first,” Mack offered, as he descended the swaying gangway onto the boat. Bella held both rails tightly for balance. When she reached the transom, Mack was there with an outstretched arm to steady her.
“I got ya,” he said instinctively.
She accepted his hand, ignoring the unfriendly stares of three male officers huddled together on the deck above them.
“Good luck!” one of them yelled at Bella, laughing. “Paradise ain’t what it used to be!”
CHAPTER 4
There was always this moment in a homicide investigation—the moment before she entered a crime scene, the place the victim had spent his or her last moments on earth. It had always felt a bit sacred to her and still did, after all these years. Usually the place she entered was abandoned: a ratty motel room, an alley. The victims had usually died some kind of death long before she saw them, their murder the final formality. Prostitutes, drug addicts, unwanted children, runaway teens—souls whose light went out long before leaving their bodies.
These were the kinds of murder victims she did this work for, the ones who were truly alone in this world. The ones who broke her heart. But here, on this yacht, there wasn’t much pulling her heartstrings; nothing but a life of privilege and paradise, as the boat’s name advertised.
She stood on the teak deck of the massive white and walnut specimen of luxury and tried to take it in: two white sail masts protruded thirty feet into the gray sky, perfectly polished aluminum railings fended off the drizzling rain, blue and white striped seating arched around the stern and the bow. The cabin stood directly before her and, through its open door, she could see into a room lined with walnut-paneled walls. A trail of dark blood led from inside out onto the deck, then back around toward the right.