by Sharon Sala
He let himself out the door of his fifth floor apartment and took the stairs down to the street. The first bite of wind took his breath away, but he began to acclimatize as he walked, relishing the frigid cleansing.
Despite the hour and the cold, the bar was noisy. He entered with a grin, and when someone called his name, he nodded and waved as he slid onto a stool and ordered a drink.
“Looks like I’m not the only cold fool in the city,” he said, grabbing a handful of pretzels from the closest bowl.
The bartender laughed. “Cold weather is always good for business,” he said. “What’ll it be?”
“How about a lager?”
“Any particular brand?”
“Just something dark and smooth.”
Moments later, the bartender sat a tall glass of brown liquid in front of him, which he used to wash down the pretzels. The cold bite of the brew tasted of yeast and hops and something wonderfully strong. He liked the scent almost as much as the taste as it slid down his throat. Glad that he’d come, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar and closing his eyes, letting the anonymous camaraderie of the place seep into his soul. For this moment, it was easy to pretend he was among friends.
An hour had passed when he got up to leave, tossing a handful of bills onto the bar then waving goodbye as he left. The cold seared his eyeballs, making them tear as he walked outside. It had gotten colder in the short time he’d been inside, and he quickly put on his gloves and pulled the collar of his coat up around his ears.
He paused, looking up at the sky and wishing he could see the stars. But in a city the size of New York, you couldn’t see night past the streetlights. A spurt of longing swept through him as he thought of his mother’s house on the outskirts of Toledo. Unwilling to go to bed with old ghosts, he turned in the opposite direction from his apartment, hoping to walk off the mood.
The sidewalks were almost deserted, although the street traffic was fairly constant. After a while he got weary of squinting against oncoming headlights and took a left onto a side street. There, in the lee of the wind, exhaust fumes from the traffic seemed suspended within the cold, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Now and then he caught a glimpse of himself in the windows he passed and was reminded that while he hadn’t been born rich, he couldn’t complain about his physical appearance. He was above average height, muscular in build, and had more than his share of good looks. With a little luck, he should have at least a good fifty years more on his side before he left this earth. He walked without aim, enjoying the power of his stride and the knowledge that he was Man, the superior animal.
The window displays were well-lit and cheery, even though the stores were all closed. They reminded him of the days when he was a boy and his mother had taken him into the city to look at the holiday decorations.
Look at that one, Buddy. Isn’t it marvelous?
He smiled to himself. His mother had been fond of superlatives. He used to tease her about them. Now he would give anything just to have her back. Losing her to cancer had been hard, but losing himself had been harder. She was the only one who’d called him Buddy, and he missed hearing it said. Everyone else knew him by another name, but in his heart, he would always be Buddy.
Lost in nostalgia, he was almost past the bookstore before it dawned on him what he was seeing. The elaborate display of C. D. Bennett’s latest release sent his thoughts scattering out of control. He started to shake, his fingers unconsciously curling into fists. Wasn’t there a single goddamned place in this city that didn’t bow at her feet?
Long minutes passed as he stood unmoving. By the time he came to his senses, he was freezing. Rage was hot in his chest as he turned away from the store. Tucking his chin against the cold, he began to retrace his steps toward home. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of women’s voices and then the heartbreaking tinkle of feminine laughter that he came out of his fugue.
On the stoop of a brownstone across the way, two women were hugging each other and then waving goodbye. As one of them came down the steps and started across the street, he stepped back into the shadows. He had no desire to speak, not even in passing.
He watched as the woman jumped the curb and passed under the streetlight, giving him a clear view of her face. She walked with her head up, her shoulders straight, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, her slim, youthful features framed by thick straight hair the color of chocolate.
She looked familiar, and he stared intently, wondering if he’d met her through his work. It wasn’t until she passed beneath the second streetlight that recognition hit. She looked enough like Caitlin Bennett to be her twin.
Breath caught in the back of his throat as he watched her approach. Bile rose in his mouth, as bitter as his thoughts. Without thinking, he stepped out of the shadows and grabbed her by the throat. He had nothing against her beyond the fact that she resembled the wrong woman, and introductions seemed unnecessary, since he’d made up his mind to kill her.
Choking off her screams, he encircled her throat with his fingers and dragged her out of the light into the shadows of the alley. About twenty yards from the street, he stopped and then let her fall.
With her larnyx crushed, she lay sprawled on her back like a small, broken doll, too traumatized to move. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of one eye, where his ring had cut the flesh. Her gaze was wide and terror-filled as she struggled to breathe, but drawing air past her damaged throat was almost impossible. When she saw him unzip his pants, she closed her eyes and prayed to die.
The assault was brutal and his cleansing was great. The more she bled, the less pain he felt. By the time he was through, he was euphoric. He staggered to his feet, inhaling deeply as he pulled much needed oxygen into his adrenaline-charged body. His mind was blank, his body strangely relaxed. She was dead now, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk away.
He glanced at her again, as if seeing her for the very first time, then smiled in satisfaction. He’d taken that smug look off her face. But the longer he looked, the deeper he frowned. Her eyes, dark brown and still brimming with tears, were wide-open in silent accusation.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he snarled.
In a last act of violence, he pulled the switchblade, slashing her face in two intersecting diagonal strokes. The flesh parted beneath the knife, aptly quartering her features as if he’d cut up an apple. He wiped the knife on her coat, then carefully closed the blade and walked out of the alley as if nothing had happened.
Within the hour he was home. Later, he dreamed of Christmas and his mother standing by the stove stirring gravy, and smiled as he slept.
It was morning before Donna Dorian’s body was found, and by the time the police arrived, it had started to snow.
Two
“Hell’s bells, this snow is really coming down,” Sal Amato said as he rolled his substantial girth from the passenger seat of the car, while his partner, Paulie Hahn, got out from behind the wheel.
A couple of patrol cars were already on the scene, and even at this early hour a crowd was beginning to gather behind the yellow crime scene tape.
Hahn turned up the collar of his coat and tugged on his gloves as he circled the car, wincing as he caught sight of the body in the alley, a short distance away. A uniformed patrolman lifted the tape as they ducked under.
“Hell of a way to start a shift,” the patrolman muttered.
Amato settled his hat a little more firmly on his nearly bald head and then glanced into the alley. Even at this distance, he could tell it was going to be brutal.
“At least you’re still breathing, Knipski. Do we have an ID on the victim?”
“Yeah. Her purse was about ten feet from her body. Name’s Donna Dorian. Her mother reported her missing this morning. Said she went to the movies with a girlfriend. Didn’t come home. Thought she was spending the night with the girlfriend and called over there this morning before she went to work, only to find out they’d parted company
some time after 1:00 a.m. That’s when she called it in.”
“Who found the body?” Amato asked.
“Some jogger.” The officer turned around, scanning the crowd, then pointed. “That’s him. The one in red and black sweats, throwing up in the gutter.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Amato said. “Come on, Paulie.”
“I feel like joining that jogger,” Paulie said.
“We’ll wait until he’s through puking before we try and talk to him,” Sal said.
“Good idea,” Paulie said, and took his handkerchief out of his pocket as his nose began to run.
Paulie Hahn’s throat was sore and his head was pounding. He blew his nose and then tilted the brim of his hat just enough to keep the snowflakes from drifting into his eyes. Damn flu. It wasn’t even Christmas, and he was already sick. But when they reached the body, he wished he’d called in sick this morning like his wife had wanted.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and then crossed himself before taking a deep breath of the cold air. “Sal, how many years we been partners?”
Amato frowned. “Since my second year as a detective, which I guess is about seventeen years now. Why?”
Paulie pointed at the body in disgust. “In the old days, people used to just shoot each other. You know…a nice clean kill. A couple of bullets. Some neat holes. Bang, you’re dead. So what the hell is with this mutilation shit? What kind of perverts do we have on our streets that feel the need to do this kind of thing? Ain’t it enough that he killed her?” He looked down at what was left of the young woman’s face and wanted to cry. “He didn’t have to butcher her like that.”
Amato’s frown deepened. “She was probably dead when it happened.”
“How you figure that?”
“The cuts are even and clean. You know…no struggle.”
Paulie took out his handkerchief and blew his nose again, then waved down another patrolman.
“Anybody called the Medical Examiner yet?”
“Yes, sir, on the way,” the officer said.
“Here come Neil and Kowalksi,” Paulie said.
Amato turned, nodding a hello.
The smile on Detective Trudy Kowalksi’s face slid sideways.
“Well, hell,” she muttered, as she glanced at the body and then looked away. “I hope she had some ID, otherwise it’s not going to be easy to get an identification.”
“The perp was kind. He left her purse,” Amato said.
J. R. Neil, Trudy’s partner, stood without moving, staring at the body.
“Obviously it wasn’t about her money,” he said. “From the looks of her, he was pissed. Anybody know if she had a boyfriend or a husband?”
“We just got here,” Amato muttered. “But since you’re so interested in helping, there’s a jogger puking up his guts at the mouth of the alley. Why don’t you go find out what he knows? And while you’re at it, take Red, there, and canvass the apartments above this alley and across the street. See if anybody heard anything last night.”
Trudy Kowalksi tossed her copper-colored curls and then winked.
“You’re just jealous because I have hair and you don’t,” she said, then nudged her partner. “Come on, J.R., you do the jogger, I’ll start on the apartments above the alley. That way Amato and Hahn can stand here looking important when the M.E. arrives.”
Neil grinned at the two older detectives and then walked away with his partner, laughing at something she said as they cleared the alley and parted company in the street.
Amato frowned as he watched them walking away. He liked Kowalksi. She was short and stocky and fiery as her hair, but she gave as good as she got. But he had to admit, when he was being honest with himself, that he didn’t like Neil all that much. It was hard to like a man who was tall, good-looking and still had all his hair.
Then a cold gust of wind whipped down from the sky, funneling the falling snow like smoke from a chimney. Paulie blew his nose again, while Amato squatted down beside the body, careful not to disturb any evidence until the crime scene unit had come and gone.
“As cold as it is, I’m betting they send the new assistant from the M.E.’s office,” he said.
“I’m not taking that bet,” Paulie muttered. “Because I’ll bet you’re right.” He looked back at the body, guessing the victim was close to his daughter’s age, then glanced up at Amato.
“You know what I never get used to?”
“What?” Sal asked.
“The fact that we can’t cover them up. This kid is nude from the waist down and her face is in pieces. Goddamn. We oughta be able to at least cover them up.”
Amato stood and clapped his partner on the back. “But what if it messed up the evidence we needed to catch the son of a bitch who did this to her?”
Paulie sighed. “I know. I was just thinking out loud, okay?” Then he glanced at the area again. “As for evidence, it’s not going to be easy, what with the snow and all.”
“Yeah,” Sal said, then turned to look toward the sound of arriving vehicles. “Looks like the M.E.’s here.” When he saw a tall, skinny black woman get out of the car and then heft a large black case from the back of the station wagon, he started to grin. “Looks like I would have won that bet. It’s Booker.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Angela Booker drawled, as she set down her case and then opened it up.
Sal had seen the contents of such cases a thousand times, and they still made him think of the science kit he’d gotten for Christmas one year. Lots of little instruments and slides that he never did learn how to use. “Got anything hot in there to drink?” Sal asked, as he watched her trading driving gloves for surgical gloves.
“Get lost, Amato. My hormones are raging and I’m not in the mood.”
They grinned at each other and moved back toward the mouth of the alley. It was time to start the business for which they’d been hired.
Caitlin woke with a start, her heart pounding, her eyes wide with fright. It took her a few moments to realize that her fear came from the nightmare she’d been having and not from within her own home.
But the dream had been too real for her to want to go back to sleep, so she swung her legs over to the side of the bed and got up, grimacing when she realized it was only fifteen minutes after six.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, she was wide-awake. Slipping into her favorite house shoes and her oldest robe, she combed her fingers through her hair and then made her way to the kitchen, telling herself that as long as she was awake, she might as well get an early start on the day.
As she entered the kitchen, she glanced toward the windows and saw snow swirling down on its way to the streets below. Thankful that her job did not take her beyond the warmth and familiarity of her own home, she ambled into her office and switched on the computer. While it was booting up, she went back to the kitchen and began scrounging through the cabinets. When she realized she was out of cereal and eggs, as well as milk and tea, she put a couple of ice cubes in a glass and poured it full of Pepsi. Half a glass later, the caffeine in the pop was starting to kick in. Toast was browning in the toaster, making her mouth water, but it wasn’t until she thrust a knife into a jar of peanut butter that she remembered the dream.
He’d come at her with a knife. Even when she spun and started to run, she knew she would not get away.
She shuddered, then took a deep breath and looked at the knife. In a defiant gesture, she pulled it out of the jar and licked it clean before thrusting it back into the peanut butter, coming up with another thick dollop, which she spread on her just-done toast. Adding a spoonful of orange marmalade to a second piece of bread, she slapped the two together, put the sandwich on a plate and tossed the cutlery in the sink. After topping off her glass of Pepsi, she ambled into the living room to eat.
She turned the television on out of habit, rather than from a need to know what was going on in the world. When some on-the-spot reporter began talking about a midnight murder, she grabbed t
he remote and channel-surfed until she found one showing cartoons. By the time she was through with breakfast, the Road Runner had dispatched Wile E. Coyote three times and her mood had been lifted.
After setting her dirty plate and glass in the sink, she headed for her office, promising herself she would get dressed as soon as she checked her e-mail. Hours later, she looked up to realize it was almost noon. Not only had she answered the mail, but she’d written ten good pages of the current chapter, as well. Hitting Save, she leaned back with a smile and was still grinning when her telephone rang.
“Bennett residence.”
“Caitlin, it’s Aaron. Are you decent?”
Her smile widened. If she had to pick a best friend, her editor, Aaron Workman, would be on the top of the list. The fact that he was also gay just made everything easier. Besides the books she wrote, the only thing he wanted from her other than friendship was her shoes.
“What do you think?” she asked.
She heard him sigh and knew he was probably rolling his eyes.
“I think you haven’t even brushed your hair, let alone your teeth.”
Caitlin laughed. “You know me too well.”
“Come have lunch with me,” Aaron said.
Caitlin groaned. “It’s cold and snowing outside.”
“It stopped snowing an hour ago, and you own a coat. Get dressed and meet me at the Memphis Grill at one-thirty. We need to talk.”
“Are you buying?” she asked, and heard him snort.
“Don’t make me come up there,” he muttered.
“Okay, okay, I’ll be there.”
“I’ve already called your driver. He’ll pick you up at one o’clock.”
Now Caitlin was the one snorting beneath her breath.
“What if I’d told you no?”
“But you didn’t, did you? Now be a good girl and get out of those horrible clothes and into something sexy.”
Caitlin grinned. “Sexy? Aaron, is there something you want to tell me…like have you had a change of heart?”
There was another faint snort in her ear, and then Aaron answered. “Hardly. However, one of these days you might actually meet the man of your dreams. I want you to be ready.”