by Steven Henry
Black Velvet
The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries
Book One
Steven Henry
Clickworks Press • Baltimore, MD
Copyright © 2017 Steven Henry
Cover design © 2017 Ingrid Henry
Cover photo © 2017 Kara Salava Photography
Author photo © 2017 Shelley Paulson Photography
Spine image used under license from Shutterstock.com. (Credit: objectsforall/Shutterstock)
All rights reserved
First publication: Clickworks Press, 2017
Release: CP-EOR1-INT-E.M-1.3
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ISBN-10: 1-943383-34-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-34-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For Ingrid, my inspiration
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Sneak Peek at Book 2
Ready for more?
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Steven Henry
More great titles from Clickworks Press
Black Velvet
Fill a glass halfway with champagne. Pour chilled stout beer over an upside-down spoon to fill the flute the rest of the way. This causes the stout to run down the sides of the glass, resulting in a layered drink.
Chapter 1
“We have a ten-thirty-one at 82-37 164th Street. Nearest unit, respond.”
Officer Erin O’Reilly punched the radio button. “Sixteen Charlie responding, ten-four. ETA three minutes.”
“Ten-four, Sixteen Charlie,” Dispatch replied. “Backup units inbound, seven minutes.”
Erin turned onto Grand Central Parkway and sped up. “No siren,” she said to her partner. “Don’t want the bastards to know we’re coming.”
Rolf didn’t disagree. He stared out the window of the squad car, waiting patiently. He was the best partner Erin had ever worked with. He never complained, never made the usual squad-room comments about female cops. He was totally reliable and entirely fearless. His focus on the job was incredible; he ate it, breathed it, lived it. He’d spent his childhood in Bavaria, and his first language was German, but he’d learned enough English to do his job.
Rolf was extraordinary. Erin had worked with him for almost eighteen months, and as far as she was concerned, she never wanted or needed another partner. He was a German Shepherd, but that just meant she could sleep with him without causing gossip at the precinct.
She steered her Dodge Charger onto 164th northbound. “Dispatch, what’s the target building?” she asked.
There was a short pause. “It’s a discount uniform store,” came the reply.
“Uniforms?” Erin wondered. It sounded like a Halloween prank, but this was early June. It was probably just junkies breaking into the till, looking for a little cash for their next fix.
The time was just after two in the morning, and traffic was light. Erin eased up and braked carefully, not wanting to alert the perps with a squeal of tires. She pulled into a parking space just short of the strip of stores that contained the target building. Putting the car in park, she took a moment to plan her next move.
A 10-31 was a burglary in progress. Protocol dictated that she wait for backup, but according to Dispatch, the other cars were still several minutes out. The perps would be long gone by the time reinforcements arrived. She narrowed her eyes and examined the storefront. There was a broken pane of glass in one of the display windows. That constituted probable cause. She could legally enter.
“Okay, Rolf,” she said. “Let’s do this.” Hitting the radio button once more, she said, “Sixteen Charlie on scene. Signs of forced entry. Engaging.” She opened her door and stepped out onto the street.
The first thing she did was draw her Glock. Then she hit the quick-release on Rolf’s compartment. Ninety pounds of Shepherd hit the pavement, eager for action. The dog’s ears were perked, his nose thrust forward and quivering with excitement.
There was a car parked in front of the store, and she hadn’t seen that it was occupied. Its engine coughed to life. It peeled out, laying rubber on the blacktop. She panned her flashlight over the escaping car, catching the license plate in the beam. Then she flicked her radio. “Dispatch, suspect vehicle northbound on 164th, silver Corolla, plate Robert David Adam six three niner niner,” she snapped. She couldn’t be in two places at once, and she had to secure the crime scene. Besides, with the other car’s head start, she’d probably lose them.
There was nothing to do but keep moving forward. She approached the darkened store, pistol ready. “NYPD!” she shouted. “Come out with your hands in the air! I have a canine here. If you don’t come out in fifteen seconds, I will send him in, and he will bite you.”
It was impressive how effective a police threat was when backed up by teeth. A drunken thug might think he could fight half a dozen police officers, but put him up against a dog like Rolf and he’d fold like an accordion. Erin figured there was something primal in people that made them more afraid of fangs than of bullets.
This time, however, there was no answer. “Okay, Rolf,” she said, using the German command he’d been trained with. “Such.”
The dog went through the broken window in a single leap. Erin drew her flashlight into her off-hand and switched it on. She followed close on Rolf’s heels. He was fast and nimble, and wearing a dog-fitted bulletproof vest, but she wasn’t about to let her partner face trouble without backup.
The flashlight beam illuminated racks of shirts and trousers. The clothes cast human-like shadows against the walls of the darkened store, making Erin’s nerves twitch. But Rolf’s nose wasn’t fooled. He went straight for the counter at the back of the room. He barked once, sharply, which told Erin everything she needed to know. Someone was hiding behind the counter.
“Come out!” she shouted. She walked carefully, her feet crossing over each other, broken glass crunching under her shoes. She held her wrists crossed, lower hand directing the flashlight, upper hand aiming the Glock. “This is your last warning!”
She paused one more moment. Nothing moved. “Have it your way. Rolf, fass!”
The Shepherd snarled and lunged out of sight behind the wood paneling.
“Jesus Christ!” a young and very frightened voice screamed. “Help! Get it off me!”
Rolf’s enthusiastic growls accompanied the cries. Erin stepped quickly to the counter and peered around it, keeping her pistol and light trained.
She had to smile at the sight as the tension drained out of her. A young man, more of a kid really, lay on his back, arms crossed to protect his face. Rolf had seized his right arm and held it tightly between his jaws. The kid was a young punk in a leather jacket too big for him, butt-dragging jeans, and a pair of ratty sneakers. He didn’t look the least bit threatening. All the same, a New York patrol officer learned not to make assumptions. For all she knew, the kid had a gun in his pocket.
> “Pust!” Erin said. True to his training, Rolf released the kid but didn’t step back. He continued straddling the boy, hackles straining against the collar of his vest, a low growl rumbling in his throat. His tail lashed from side to side, but it was excitement, not friendliness.
She took in the scene, the cash register with its drawer jimmied, the flathead screwdriver on the floor, the scattered dollar bills. “On your stomach,” she ordered.
“Crazy dog bit me!” the kid protested. “I’m bleeding, man!”
“I told you he would,” Erin said. She kept her gun trained on him. “You’ll live. Next time, when a cop tells you to come out, you come out. On your belly. Now.” Still protesting, he rolled over.
“Hands behind your back,” she said, planting a knee in his back, holstering her Glock, and pulling out her cuffs. She snapped them on his wrists with a quick, easy movement. “Decided to do a little late-night shopping, huh? Thought you’d just help yourself to the register?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said sullenly.
“Look, kid,” she said, bending close to speak into his ear. “I’ve got you at the scene of a burglary in progress. I’ve got you for forced entry, and if your fingerprints are on that screwdriver, I’ve got you for felony burglary. How old are you? You look like you’re about fourteen.”
“I’m eighteen!” he said indignantly.
“So, you’re an adult?”
“Hey, wait a minute,” the kid said, his brain catching up to what he’d said. He was starting to realize just how much trouble he was in.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”
“You watch a lot of cop shows?” Erin said. “When I arrest you, I’ll tell you your rights. Now, we’re just having a conversation. I’m Officer O’Reilly. You’ve already met my partner Rolf. Now, I’m gonna frisk you. We can do this easy or hard, your choice. But if you’ve got a wallet, I’m gonna find out who you are whether you talk or not.”
“Cal,” he said.
“Cal what?”
“Huntington.”
“Thanks,” Erin said. She could hear sirens approaching, almost on time. Dispatch had been a little slow. If the other car had been closer, they might’ve been able to snag the Corolla that’d fled the scene. They might still get lucky, but she doubted it. “Cal Huntington, you have a problem,” she went on. “See, I know you had a couple buddies who pulled this job with you. But they saw me coming and took off. They left you here, kiddo. Someone’s going to take the fall for this. So your choice is, you can pretend to be a tough guy, in which case you’ll go to prison and meet some real tough guys who’ll teach you what that means, or you can tell me who your so-called friends are, and you can do a deal.”
Erin was a beat cop, not a detective, but she still had a feel for when a perp was about to crack. Cal looked down. “It wasn’t about the money,” he muttered. “They said to leave the cash.”
“What were they after?” Erin asked, startled. That didn’t sound like a typical smash-and-grab.
Flashing red and blue lights lit up the store. Car doors slammed and officers raced inside, guns drawn. Cal twisted around in surprise.
“Get back on the ground!” Erin snapped, planting her knee again and forcing him down.
The moment was gone, and both of them knew it. Cal might talk back at the precinct, in interrogation, or he might not, but either way, it wouldn’t be Erin asking the questions. She sighed. “Cal Huntington, you’re under arrest for burglary. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be assigned to you by the court. Do you understand these rights as they have been stated to you?”
By the time she finished the recitation, another cop was standing over her, grinning. “You’re gonna have to throw this one back, O’Reilly,” he said. “He’s under the size limit.”
“Shut up, Brunanski,” Erin retorted. “If there was a rule we could only arrest guys as fat as you, we’d never get any assholes off the street.”
Brunanski made a face and laid his hand on his substantial belly. “You gotta hit me where it hurts?” he said.
“All right, kiddo,” Erin said, hoisting Cal to his feet. “Time to take a ride downtown.”
Chapter 2
The other officers laid out a roll of crime-scene tape and started snapping pictures. They wouldn’t bother the CSU guys with a standard break-in. While they worked, Erin put her prisoner in the back seat of the squad car, next to Rolf’s compartment. Rolf eyed him suspiciously, but Cal gave the dog a wide berth.
Erin should’ve been happy. She’d gotten a righteous collar, caught a burglar in the act. But the car had gotten away, with whoever and whatever was inside, and she had the feeling she was missing something.
“What’d your buddies want uniforms for?” she asked.
“I don’t have to tell you nothing,” Cal muttered.
“That’s right,” Erin said. “We’ve got all we need. You’ve been caught in the act of burglary in the third degree. You’re looking at twenty-seven months, and that’s assuming no prior criminal history.” While she was talking, she was punching keys on her squad car’s computer. “Look what we’ve got here! Calvin Huntington, age eighteen, vandalism, petty larceny, theft of services, criminal mischief. You’ve finally made it to the big time, kiddo. This is your first felony. Congratulations. With all those priors, I’d say you’re facing, oh, eighty-four months. But if you plead down, give up your partners, who knows? The DA might knock it back to misdemeanor larceny; get you out in under a year. What do you think?”
Cal didn’t answer, and Erin didn’t really expect him to. He’d retreated inside himself, shutting out the experience. She might as well be talking to one of the store mannequins.
A car pulled up in front of the store. A short, balding man jumped out and hurried toward the building. He was dressed sloppily, in a T-shirt and sweat pants, and had all the look of someone who’d woken up at the wrong time of night. Erin pegged him as the owner of the store.
She left Cal to stew in the back of the car, with Rolf keeping an eye on him, and stepped back onto the sidewalk. As responding officer, it was her job to take a statement from the owner.
The man stopped in front of his damaged establishment and ran his hands through his hair, leaving strands sticking out at odd angles. “Oh no,” he said, and apparently liked the sound of it. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”
Erin approached him and put on her official manners. “Sir? I’m Officer O’Reilly. Are you the proprietor of this place of business?”
“Oh, no,” he said again. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“Bernie… Bernard Feldman.”
She went through the usual questions. None of it was interesting, but it had to be done in order to get to the important stuff. There were a few things Erin was very curious about.
“Are you acquainted with a Cal or Calvin Huntington?” she finally asked.
“Calvin? Yes, of course,” Bernie said. “He used to work for me.”
Bingo. “When was this?” she asked.
“Just last week.”
“Why did his employment terminate?”
“I fired him.” Bernie blinked nervously. “Should I have said that? Is he in some kind of trouble?”
You have no idea, Erin thought. Out loud, she said, “Why did you fire him?”
“A couple of guys were hanging around the store,” Bernie explained. “Calvin said they were friends of his. I told him he couldn’t have friends loitering. He got nervous and, uh, defensive. He talked back to me. Then the big one, the one with the tattoo, told me to mind my own business. I told him he was standing in my business, and to get out and never come back. For a second, I thought he was going to, uh, hit me. Then he flicked a finger at my face a
nd stomped out. I told Calvin that if he attracted that kind of person to my store, I didn’t want to see him again, either. He said I’d be sorry I said that.”
Erin nodded, trying to conceal her growing excitement. “Did you know either of the two guys?”
Bernie shook his head. “I’m sorry, officer. They looked like common street thugs. You know… with the tank-top shirts, the low-hanging pants, the big shoes… wait! The little one, he called the big one something. Jake? That’s it: Jake.”
“You mentioned a tattoo,” Erin said. “Could you describe it?”
“It was a snake, twisted around his arm… the right arm, just under the shoulder. A red and black snake, with yellow eyes.”
Erin jotted down the description. “You said he was big. How tall, would you say?”
“Six-two, maybe six-three. He was beefy, too, like he worked out a lot. Big muscles, tight shirt.”
“What color was his hair?”
“He didn’t have any. His scalp was shaved and he had, um, one of those bandannas.”
“I just have a few more questions,” Erin said. “Let’s go inside. I need you to tell me what’s been damaged or stolen.”
The police turned on the lights, the bright fluorescents giving a cold, hard light. Bernie stepped gingerly around the broken glass, wringing his hands. He noted that the money was still in the till. Erin had interrupted Cal before he could finish jimmying the register. Several heaps of uniforms were scattered on the floor, like discarded laundry in a teenager’s bedroom. “There doesn’t seem to be anything missing,” he said distractedly. “But I can’t be sure until everything is tidied up. Oh dear, oh dear. What a terrible mess.”
Erin took a guess. “Mr. Feldman, when the two men, Jake and his friend, were in your store, where were they standing?”
“By that rack over there,” he said, pointing.
“What uniforms are these?” she asked, walking over to take a closer look.