“Hiya, Chuck—it’s Rob Murphy.”
Rob Murphy had worked with Krieger at Brooklyn South, and had just about blown a gasket, according to Tanya Jackson, his ever competent and eavesdropping sergeant.
“What’s up, Rob?”
“I hear the Valkyrie is headed your way.”
“You heard right. Any advice?”
“Yeah. Play your cards close, and don’t take any crap.”
“I hear you worked with her on the Strickley Affair.”
“Jesus Christ, Chuck, I never came so close in my life to hitting a woman.”
The Strickley Affair was a delicate matter involving a corruption sting on a local union official. Krieger was working undercover, but had threatened to blow it all sky high when the official’s son hit developed a crush on her and started following her around. He was beginning to get suspicious just as they finally collected enough evidence to round up the whole lot of crooks.
“Let’s just say that Krieger wasn’t exactly a team player,” Murphy added.
“Thanks,” said Chuck.
“Let me know how it goes,” Murphy said.
“Okay,” Chuck said, and hung up. The room suddenly felt overheated; he rolled his shirt sleeves up over his muscular forearms and opened his collar.
There were rumors that Krieger had been transferred because of Murphy’s insistence he would never work with her again. And now Chuck was stuck with her just as he was about to investigate two very bogus-looking suicides.
He stared glumly at the full coffeepot on the windowsill. Normally he looked forward to this moment, when he could relax and enjoy a fresh cup of coffee after the long commute to the office. He had even splurged and bought some Jamaican Blue Mountain to mix with his Kenyan AA, but knowing he was about to meet the Valkyrie took away his enthusiasm.
Chuck poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip, but it tasted bitter.
There was another knock on the door—sharper this time, brisk and businesslike. Chuck took a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
“Come in.”
He smiled grimly. Let the games begin.
CHAPTER THREE
After Ana had gone, Lee pulled out his cell phone and hit the CONTACTS button, then selected the second name on the list and pushed the dial button. His party answered on the second ring.
“Butts here.” The voice was a thick rumble, like a bulldog with a chest cold.
“Hi—sorry I’m late. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Oh, hiya, Doc. Well, I’ll just have to order another beer.”
Lee smiled as he put on his coat. He and Detective Leonard Butts were an unlikely pair, but the bond they had formed was a strong one. In the course of their relationship, he and Butts had gone from initial wariness and mistrust to a comfortable familiarity and mutual respect.
They didn’t always see eye to eye, perhaps, but Lee had learned that Butts could be relied upon in a crisis. The squat detective’s gruffness masked a deeply loyal, even passionate nature. The more Lee worked with the NYPD, the more he came to see beneath the masks that cops wore as protective covering. The city was not a soft place to live, and daily contact with criminals and creeps made it necessary to develop a thick outer shell. Otherwise, he imagined, you could be crushed by the harshness of police work in this town.
Virage, the restaurant where he was meeting Butts, was one long block away from his apartment. The rain had slurred to a steady drizzle, the air thick with a hazy mist. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strode rapidly east on Seventh Street toward Second Avenue.
Sure enough, Butts sat at a corner table, a tall, thin glass of pilsner in front of him. Pockmarks littered his face like craters on the surface of the moon. A smile spread over the detective’s homely face when he saw Lee.
“Hiya, Doc,” he said, pulling up a chair for Lee to sit.
Physically they could not have been more different. Lee Campbell was tall and thin (overly so, according to his girlfriend, Kathy Azarian), with the clear, pale complexion and deep-set blue eyes of a true Celt. Butts was short and thick and swarthy, his face a minefield of pockmarks, his thinning sandy hair as straight as Lee’s was dark and curly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Lee said as he settled into the chair Butts offered him.
“That’s okay, Doc—gives me an excuse to have an extra beer. It’s Belgian, I think they said—pretty good. You want one?” “Sure.”
Butts ordered them both a round and smiled at Lee’s inquiring look.
“I’m takin’ the train home tonight, so no worries.”
“Muriel doesn’t mind you being out on a Friday night?”
Butts grunted and downed the rest of his beer, wiping his rutted face with the back of his sleeve.
“Wife’s taken up bridge. She belongs to this club—duplicate bridge, they call it. Some kind of a round-robin thingy, where the hands are dealt ahead of time, and each team gets a chance to play them.”
“Sounds fun.”
“I dunno, Doc—I’m not a card-playing man. All I know is they sit there playin’ for hours, and at the end someone wins fifty bucks or somethin'. Seems like a waste of time to me, and they pretty much take over the living room for the evening.”
“So you decided to be elsewhere tonight.”
Butts threw his arms up in surrender. “I’m just in the way. I can’t even go to the kitchen for a beer without havin’ to pass by a dozen people or more.”
“I understand. I felt that way sometimes when my parents had parties when I was a kid.” Lee remembered with a pang what a handsome, glamorous couple they were—his tall, elegant father with his curly black hair and Italian suits, presiding over the arrival of smartly dressed guests, his mother hanging on his arm, her head thrown back, laughing—a hearty, full-throated sound Lee hadn’t heard since the day his father walked out.
Butts took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and set the glass down on the table with a clunk. “Hey, listen, I’m glad the wife has her own thing, really I am. I just don’t happen to share her love of cards, is all.”
Lee rested one elbow on the white linen tablecloth and looked around the room. Virage had an easygoing East Village charm, elegant and casual at the same time, a relaxed atmosphere with seriously good food. The floor was done in the classic black-and-white Art Deco tiles used in so many building interiors in the twenties, and the décor reflected the French/Moroccan cuisine: comfortable green and white wicker chairs, white tablecloths, with French movie posters on the walls. With the slowly rotating ceiling fan and potted palms, the restaurant could have been a back room at Rick’s in Casablanca.
Lee glanced at his watch. Kathy was late, but he knew the rush-hour trains from Philadelphia often ran behind schedule.
“So what is this mysterious case you’re working on?” he asked.
Butts licked his lips and took another sip of beer. “It’s very weird, you know, Doc—very weird.” “How so? Who’s the victim?” Butts leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Well, that’s the thing. There’s more than one.” “Yeah? Tell me more.”
“Okay, but if they decide to call you in on this one, you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Really? You think they might call me in?”
“Who knows? Alls I know is that we’re not even sure yet these are homicides.”
“Is Chuck Morton involved yet?”
“Well, if we decide that these guys are vics and not suicides, he will be.”
Besides being the head of Bronx Major Case Unit in the Bronx, where Butts was a homicide detective, Chuck Morton was also Lee’s college roommate and best friend—and was largely responsible for his appointment as the only criminal profiler in the NYPD.
Lee took a long swallow of beer. It was very fizzy and a little sweet—it tasted yellow, like honey.
“Okay,” he said, leaning forward, “tell me the whole thing from the beginning.”
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time Kathy showed up a
t the restaurant, Butts and Lee were well into their second round, hunched over the table deep in conversation, their heads almost touching. When he saw her, Lee leapt up from his chair and rushed over to her, his handsome face flushed with happiness. How different he was from the thin, pale, and worried-looking man Kathy had met five months ago. Though he still suffered from occasional bouts of depression, he was much more relaxed than he had been when they met. Of course, he told her it was because of her presence in his life, and as much as Kathy wanted to believe this, she suspected there were other factors as well.
“Hi! We were beginning to worry about you,” he said, kissing her on the lips and putting his arm around her shoulders. She was much shorter than he was, so he had to bend down a little. Kathy was self-conscious about her height, but Lee Campbell made her feel good about the way she looked—one of the many reasons she loved him. She was dark-haired and small, and he claimed to prefer compact brunettes over the American stereotype of beauty—tall, leggy blondes. She didn’t even need to believe him to feel grateful—it was enough that he said it. She was a successful scientist, brilliant and respected in her field, and a member of an old aristocratic Philadelphian family, but she was still a woman, with all the insecurities about her appearance of most American women, bombarded daily by impossible images of airbrushed physical perfection.
“What took you so long?” asked Detective Butts.
“Oh, you know, the whole rush-hour train thing,” she said, slipping into the booth across from the homely detective. Kathy liked the plainspoken Butts—his lack of pretension was refreshing. Her father moved in elite circles in Philadelphia, and sometimes Kathy found his friends irritating, with their expensive wines and trendy restaurants—or at least as trendy as Philadelphia could claim to have. She enjoyed mentioning her frequent trips to New York, knowing that inside most Philadelphians is an envious would-be New Yorker.
Impulsively, she gave Butts a kiss on his pockmarked cheek, and his already florid face turned a deep cherry red.
“Let’s get you a beer,” he said, looking around for the waiter, though she suspected it was so she wouldn’t notice his embarrassment. “You got a lot of catchin’ up to do.”
“What’s everyone drinking?” she asked.
“There’s a special on this Belgian brew,” he said, signaling to the waiter for another round. “It’s really not bad.”
“Sounds good,” Kathy said, looking around the room, which was beginning to fill up. Friday night was prime time for the East Village, but it didn’t begin to really heat up until around ten. She and Lee always tried to be indoors by then, away from the roaming mobs of drunken bridge-and-tunnel teens.
“So,” she said, turning to Lee, “what did I miss?” There was an awkward pause as Lee looked to Butts, who said, “Nothin’ much—we just been talkin’ shop.”
“I see,” said Kathy. “I’m not allowed in on it.” “Well,” Butts said, beginning to sweat, “see, technically speaking—”
“Technically speaking,” Lee interrupted, “I’m not even officially in on it.”
“Yeah,” Butts said apologetically. “See, it’s my case, but I probably shouldn’t be talkin’ about it.”
“But if you’re talking to him about it, why can’t you talk to me?” she said.
Butts picked at the bumpy skin on his chin. “Yeah, well, I probably shouldn’t’ a even said anything.”
“Well, you already have, so are you going to let me in, or am I just going to sit here all evening in suspense?”
Butts frowned and chewed on his lower lip. “Okay, okay—seein’ as how you’re a professional, too, I guess it couldn’t hurt. But you can’t tell anyone I told you,” he added quickly, “or my ass is grass, you know?’
“Understood,” Kathy replied. “Maybe I can be of some help.”
“I dunno,” Butts said. “It’s not the science that’s wacky on this one, it’s the psychology.”
“Ah,” said Kathy. “So that’s why you confided in Doc Campbell here.”
Lee rolled his eyes. He was a PhD, not an MD, but Butts had insisted on calling him “Doc” ever since they first met. He wasn’t sure whether Kathy was making fun of him or Butts—or both of them.
“We’re not even sure there’s a connection yet,” Butts said, lowering his voice as the sleek young, white-aproned waiter delivered their drinks. “But there’s a coupla pretty weird deaths within a week, both staged to look like suicides—but badly staged, y’know, suggesting they weren’t no suicides.”
“That’s why you think they’re linked?”
“Yeah, maybe—or maybe not. The two vics are real different, and as far as we can make out, there’s no other connection between them. Didn’t know each other—weren’t even the same age or profession.”
“What about race?” Lee asked. “You said they were both white.”
“Yeah, sure, but that’s not much to go on. We’re still lookin’ into their backgrounds, but so far we got bubkes.”
“So what are the details?” Kathy said, gulping down a swallow of beer. It was delicious—cold, a little sweet but with a nice bitter edge.
Butts told her the puzzling particulars. Two men, both dead, one electrocuted and the other drowned—both clumsily staged suicides, “phony as a tuxedo on a rooster,” as he put it. Kathy had no idea where he got his sayings—he had a gift for odd metaphors.
“Chuck Morton hasn’t called you yet?” she asked Lee.
“Nope,” he replied.
“That’s odd,” she said. “It’s right up your alley.”
“That’s what I’m sayin',” Butts agreed. “Hey, I’m starvin'—you wanna order?”
They did. Butts ordered a steak, and Kathy got the same thing she always did—the Moroccan chicken. It was terrific as ever—tangy, spicy, and a little sweet, but the real winner was the spinach fettuccine in lemon caper sauce that Lee ordered. After trying one bite Kathy kept looking at it so longingly that Lee finally threw his hands up and pushed the plate toward her.
“Go ahead—have the rest. I can tell you want it.” He turned to Butts and laughed. “She always does this. No matter what she orders, she always wants what I have.”
“I do not!” Kathy protested, but she gobbled up the rest of the fettuccine greedily.
“Hmm,” Butts remarked, chewing on his steak. “I guess you suffer from pasta envy.”
“Touché,” Lee said, poking Kathy in the ribs.
Butts smiled broadly, obviously pleased with himself. Kathy pretended to be irritated with both of them, but in truth she was feeling good—a little tipsy, full of excellent food, sitting in this charming restaurant with a man she loved. Happiness filled her like helium; she was buoyant as rising dough. She wished she could always feel the way she felt right now. Later, she would think back to that evening and wish she could have stopped the hands of the clock right then and there.
CHAPTER FIVE
As soon as Lee unlocked the dead bolt to his apartment door, the phone rang. He rushed through the living room to answer it, but he wasn’t quick enough—by the time he reached it, the phone had stopped ringing.
“Damn,” he muttered, throwing his coat on the couch. He looked at the caller ID, which read UNAVAILABLE. That meant someone was calling from a blocked number—or that they had dialed *69 before calling him to hide their identity. Either way, he wouldn’t be able find out who it was and call them back.
Kathy trailed in behind him, closing the door after her.
“Just missed it?” she said, sinking down on the couch.
“Yeah,” he said. “They blocked caller ID, too, so I don’t know who it was.”
“Who would be calling you at this hour?”
“My first thought would be my mother,” he replied, “but she doesn’t even know what caller ID is, let alone how to block it.”
“Maybe they’ll leave a message.” She rubbed her stomach and grimaced. “Oh, I am so full. I can’t believe I finished the rest of your fettuccine
. I’m terrible, aren’t I?”
Lee laughed. “One of these days I’m going to order something you really hate, like liver, so I can eat the whole thing myself.”
She threw a couch pillow at him. “Sadist.”
He dodged out of the way, then picked it up and threw it back. “Glutton.”
She hurled it back at him. “Poseur.”
He aimed at her head, then, as she ducked, threw it at her torso. “Nympho.”
“Oof!” she said as the pillow hit her stomach. “Got me right where it hurts.” She bent down to pick it up off the floor, then stopped. “What’s that smell?”
“What smell?”
“Like lilacs,” she said, sniffing their air. “It smells like lilac perfume.”
“Oh, that,” he said, feeling guilty, though he had done nothing wrong.
She threw the pillow back at him. “Do you have a mistress?”
He threw his hands up in surrender, letting it hit him. “Okay, you caught me.”
“I knew it! What’s her name?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
He sat down next to her and whispered in her ear. She hurled another pillow at him at close range.
“Ow!” he said. “That hurt!”
“Serves you right,” she said. “Leading a girl on like that.”
“Well, you are my mistress,” he said. “Or my girlfriend, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Seriously, though, was someone here wearing lilac perfume?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Who was it?”
“Well, I guess since she wasn’t here as a patient, it’s all right to tell you.”
He had known two things about Kathy Azarian soon after meeting her: that she was courageous and that she was willful, someone you would want nearby in a crisis. But it was as impossible for him to put a finger on what exactly he was drawn to as it was to pluck a single drop of water from a running stream. Her slim androgyny hid a femininity so profound that he felt in touching her, he was touching all women. It was as though his atoms had been perfectly formulated to resonate with hers.
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