“I’m a cop, and my baby sister is dating a convicted car thief,” Sheryn said. “There’s no part of this scenario that is okay.”
The call that morning was still running through her mind. I need to tell you something, Sandrine had said, before you run Jeremy’s name through your databases. She’d been cagey for months about the man she’d been dating, refusing to give Sheryn his last name. Now Sheryn understood why.
“Convicted when he was eighteen,” Douglass said. “He’s what, thirtysomething now?”
“Thirty-three, same as Sandrine.”
“Okay. Then he’s had a lot of time to turn his life around.”
Sheryn turned off the water and set the soapy sponge and clean knife down. She turned to face her husband. “You are not turning this into a Lifetime movie of the week. Sandrine’s been hiding this from me for a long time, which means there’s more to the story and it’s all bad.”
“Sandrine is scared of you—and rightly so,” Douglass said. “She might be a grown-up in other ways, but she’s more afraid of you than she is of your mama, and that’s really saying something.”
“How can you be so calm about all this?” In the background, Sheryn heard a phone ringing.
“Because I’ve got students who’ve been convicted of all kinds of shit,” Douglass said. “And most of those things are also done by rich white kids who didn’t get arrested. I’d like to think every fool thing a teenager does won’t haunt him for the rest of his life.”
Sheryn rolled her eyes, but at the same time she leaned in and kissed him. Douglass taught literature and history at a school for teenagers, mostly African Americans, who were categorized as “at risk.” She knew that the color of their skin—so similar to her own—affected how the justice system treated them. But her compassion for kids from troubled homes didn’t translate into sympathy for a man who could be described as a convict, especially one involved with her baby sister.
“Get a room, you two,” said a voice from the doorway. Sheryn pulled back and stared at her fourteen-year-old son, Martin, tall and slender as a beanpole. He was holding the house phone in one hand. “It’s for you, Mom. Someone from work. He asked for Detective Sterling.”
“Thanks.” She set the knife on the cutting board. “Why don’t you make yourself useful?”
“But I’m studying, Mom.”
That was his excuse any time there was a job he didn’t want to do. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Martin slunk over to the counter, muttering. She took the phone from him. “Detective Sterling speaking.”
“Sorry to bother you at home on a Sunday, Detective.” She recognized the desk sergeant’s voice immediately. “But you’ve got some names flagged in the system, and one of them came up. Note said to call you immediately.”
“Which name?” Sheryn’s pulse sped up.
“Alex Traynor.”
Sheryn took a deep breath. He had her full attention. “What happened?”
“He was roughed up at Times Square station about four fifteen a.m. on Saturday.”
She frowned at that. “You’re saying Traynor was the victim here?”
Douglass froze at the sound of that name and glanced her way. Martin’s head swiveled back and forth between them, like they were having a badminton match.
“One of the Elmos tried to roll him,” the desk sergeant said. “You know how the Elmos are.”
Sheryn sighed. Elmo had been her daughter’s favorite Sesame Street character; it bothered her that so many of the troublemakers in Times Square chose to wear a costume with his distinctive red fur and innocent face to disguise their identities. “Yeah, we all know how the Elmos are. Is Traynor pressing charges?”
“Nope. Turned out the Elmo had a couple outstanding warrants. He’s in jail now.”
“So, if this happened early Saturday, how come I’m only hearing about it now?” Sheryn asked.
“Cop who collared the Elmo is with the Transit Police. Doesn’t work out of this precinct.”
“I appreciate your calling me,” Sheryn said. “Can you give me the name of the cop who made the arrest?”
She made a note as the desk sergeant spelled it out. Spencer Koch. She thanked him politely and hung up, but she couldn’t tamp down her frustration. “Damn it,” she muttered.
“I can’t wait till Grandma gets here,” Martin stage whispered to his father.
Douglass raised an eyebrow at him. “You think your grandma is going to be impressed by your T-shirt? This is Sunday dinner, son. Go put on a collared shirt.”
Martin slouched out of the room.
“You heard what that was about?” Sheryn asked.
Douglass nodded. “Crime never sleeps,” he deadpanned. “Nor does it make time for Sunday dinner.”
“I need to make a call.”
“Your whole family is about to converge here, and you want to work?”
“You heard me on the phone, right?” Sheryn asked. “You know this is about Alex Traynor.”
Douglass didn’t try to argue with that. She took the phone into their bedroom, closing the door and ignoring the chiming of the doorbell.
She sat on the edge of the bed. It could be nothing, but what was Alex Traynor doing out at four in the morning on Saturday? She knew it shouldn’t matter. He had every right to be in Times Square. But the Elmos preyed on confused, intoxicated tourists, so if one had tackled Traynor, what did that mean? It wasn’t right to hope that the man was using heroin again, but after what he’d done, no one could blame her for taking advantage of any misstep on his part to bring him down.
She dialed Koch’s number and got voice mail. She left a short message, emphasizing how urgent it was for him to call her back. Sending a uniform over to check on Traynor was a tantalizing possibility, but on such flimsy reasoning, it smacked of harassment. She had to be careful.
There was a soft knock on the door, and Douglass poked his head in. “Your mama is here, you know.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Sheryn said. “I need to talk to this one guy.”
“You’re relentless,” he said. “And that’s normally a good thing. But it’s Sunday, and you need to turn your cop brain off.”
“There’s no switch for that,” Sheryn answered.
“There should be,” Douglass muttered, closing the door.
Sheryn dialed Koch again. She couldn’t let up. There was a dead girl she’d never managed to get justice for, and she’d be damned if she ever stopped trying.
CHAPTER 3
ALEX
Alex ran to the open window, grabbing the woman by the shoulders and roughly hauling her back into the room. She shrieked and flailed her arms wildly, accidentally scoring a bull’s-eye when a couple of her fingernails raked across his cheekbone. She went for the fire escape again, but she wasn’t fast enough. Alex pulled her back, spun her around, and shoved her against the wall. Finally, Sid was standing on the bed, barking his gentle heart out. He’d never been much of a guard dog.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Alex said. “I’m calling the cops.”
The woman’s eyes were scrunched tight, but tears rolled down her face. “I’m sorry—I just wanted . . .” The rest of her words were garbled by a sob.
“How did you break into my apartment?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t.”
“You’re not much of a liar,” Alex said. “You’re going to stand there and pretend you’re not a thief looking for drug money?”
She opened her eyes and gulped back a sob. “Emily gave me a key,” she whispered.
That made Alex let go of her, as if she’d invoked a safe word. But it didn’t make him any less suspicious. This woman could’ve picked up Emily’s name from a piece of mail lying around. “And why would Emily do that?”
“She’s trying to help me.” The woman was shaking now, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m sorry. I freaked out. I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re Alex, aren’t you?”
>
“You know who I am?”
“Emily’s boyfriend. She talks about you.” She wiped her face, clearing away the tear tracks but making her mascara smear so that she looked bruised. She cleared her throat. “That’s Sid Vicious on the bed. He likes Ziggy’s Disco Fries. I brought him some.”
She edged around him, picking up a bag of dog treats and rattling it. Alex glanced at Sid. His dog scared a lot of people when they first saw him. Sid was only twenty pounds, a mongrel mix with short brown, black, and white fur, but his most obvious attributes were his blind left eye, which was a milky white, and his stubby, broken tail. If people looked more closely, they saw that Sid was missing toes from a couple of his paws and that there was a long pink scar on his belly, where fur didn’t grow. It took a little longer for some people to appreciate the dog’s boundless friendliness. Alex used that as a litmus test for humans: if you didn’t like his dog, you definitely wouldn’t like him.
But Sid seemed to like the woman. He bounded off the bed, nuzzled against Alex’s leg, and tilted his head toward the woman’s knee for petting.
Alex took a step back. “If you know who I am, why’d you attack me?”
“I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes again. “I was expecting Emily. But I caught sight of you in that mirror.” She pointed to the three-way mirror above Emily’s dresser. “I was so scared. I should’ve remembered you live with Emily, but my mind went blank. I just wanted to run.” She shook her head. “I was afraid.”
Alex looked her over. The woman stared back with wide, frightened eyes. They were a startling shade of violet that Alex suspected wasn’t any more natural than her platinum hair. The woman’s features were a blend of Asian and Caucasian, but with her outlandish coloring, she could’ve been from Mars. She was about five foot six, with a pale, heart-shaped face painted like a fancy porcelain doll’s. She wore a black sundress, which seemed appropriate for a hot day, with a lacy cardigan and tall, skinny heels. At the very least, Alex figured, she wasn’t dressed for cat burglary.
“Emily said she’d help me when I was ready to leave my boyfriend,” she added. “I’ve been calling her all weekend, but she doesn’t answer. Will she be back soon?”
“What’s your name?”
She stared at him suspiciously before answering. “Diana.” He took it for a fake, but if the gist of her story was true, that wouldn’t have mattered. Emily was a bighearted person who took care of strays; Alex could count himself in that category. This wasn’t the first time that Emily had told a virtual stranger to come to the apartment either. Those undocumented people with sick kids used fake names too. But the timing of this woman’s appearance—she’d materialized two days after Emily left—made Alex uneasy.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“What?”
She pointed at his arm. “You’re covered in blood. Do you need help?”
Alex had forgotten his injury when he’d set foot inside the apartment. As he held up his arm, he saw glass jutting out at odd angles. “Yeah, I should do something about that. Come with me.”
He stopped at his desk in the living room, checking again for Maclean’s silver lighter. It had vanished about the same time that costumed creep had tackled him in the empty hours of early Saturday at Times Square station, and Alex had the sinking feeling it was lying on a subway track. He didn’t smoke anymore, but the lighter was his idea of a utility tool; at that moment, he wanted to cauterize the tweezers he was about to jab into his arm. Failing that, he went into the bathroom and laid out the antibiotic and gauze. The cuts in his arm burned, but that was nothing compared to the eye-watering pain that dug its claws in as he poured rubbing alcohol on them. He pulled the tweezers out of the medicine cabinet, drowned them with alcohol as well, and tackled the glass shards.
“I thought that Emily was the doctor in the family.” Diana stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at him.
“You learn a lot when the only hospital in a hundred miles has been bombed into the Stone Age,” Alex said, washing the wounds in his arm with soap and water. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Emily really didn’t say anything?”
“About what?”
“Me.”
Alex racked his brain but drew a blank. In fairness, he didn’t have the sharpest memory. Emily’s mind was an information superhighway; his was a dirt road pockmarked with craters. “Not a word.”
“Well, she told me about you. You wrote a book about being a war photographer.” Diana’s oddly light eyes were appraising. “You went to Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan, recording what was going on for the rest of the world to see.”
“And you’re quite the hustler,” Alex said. He’d gotten the glass out, but he probed his skin, hoping to dislodge any splinters before they got infected. Finding none, he dosed his arm with rubbing alcohol for a second time. “Tell me why I shouldn’t call the cops on you.”
“I’m not trying to play you. Believe me, the last thing I want is any trouble. Please don’t call them.”
“How long have you known Emily?” He patted his arm dry with a fistful of tissue and applied the antibiotic.
“I met her a few months ago.” Diana’s voice was nervous, but the words didn’t sound like a lie coming out of her mouth.
“Where?”
“Does it really matter where it was?”
“It’s a hot day,” Alex said. “And you’re wearing a sweater that covers your wrists, which are bruised, by the way. That makes me think you’re an addict looking for something to steal.”
Something in Diana’s face shifted, and she stood straighter. “I have never stolen anything from anyone,” she said. “You’re a fine one to be talking about drugs. You almost killed yourself with heroin.”
Alex froze for a moment. Okay, maybe this woman really did know Emily. Because there were plenty of details about Alex’s career you could find in the media or online, and the story of his kidnapping and rescue in Syria had made the evening news. He stared at the bandage he was holding. For a moment, it was like he was overseas again, standing in some makeshift hut while a medic pretended you could put humans back together with gauze and glue. “Emily told you about that?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it.” She gave her head a gentle shake. “It’s just I really do need to talk to Emily. When will she be back?”
“She didn’t say.”
“If you called her, would she answer?” Diana asked. “Because she hasn’t been answering me.”
“She’s gone away for a few days,” Alex said. “I can’t tell you anything more than that. By the way, where’s the key?”
“What key?”
“The one you used to let yourself into my apartment,” Alex said. “Hand it over.”
Diana bit her lip, clearly annoyed yet too nervous to argue. Her fingers fished into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a brass key. “Here.”
He took it from her and stared at it for a long moment. His front door had two locks, but they used the same key, and this looked like the right one. What if Emily really had told the girl to come by? Was he supposed to do something to help her? Before he could formulate his next question, there was a knock on the door. Alex hesitated at the thought of opening it; Emily wouldn’t knock, and he didn’t want to talk to anyone else at that moment. But Sid went skittering across the floor to the door, yipping excitedly. “That’s my boy!” announced a loud voice in the hallway.
“Do you really need to get that?” Diana whispered as Alex headed to the door.
“She has a key too.” Alex sighed. “She’ll let herself in since Sid’s here.”
When he opened the door, his elderly neighbor from across the hall smiled up at him.
“Surprise,” Mrs. DiGregorio said. “I’m here on behalf of your fan club.”
“I don’t have a fan club,” Alex said. “Unless you started one.”
Mrs. DiGregorio leaned down to scratch Sid behind the ears. “That’
s my sweetie,” she cooed. She glanced up at Alex. “One of the ladies in my book club has a crush on you . . .” Her voice trailed off as her eyes caught movement in the apartment. “Oh, I didn’t realize you had company. Who’s this?”
Alex half turned and saw that Diana had retreated toward the bedroom but hadn’t made it through the door.
“Hi.” Diana gave an anxious little wave and a forced smile. “I’m Diana, a friend of Emily’s.”
“Nice to meet you. Where is Emily? I haven’t seen her all weekend.”
“She took off for a few days,” Alex said.
“Not another marathon, I hope. She’s always on the run. She needs some downtime.” Mrs. DiGregorio thrust a copy of Alex’s own book into his hands. “Lillian—your admirer—wants this signed.”
“Sure thing,” Alex said, feeling awkward. Of course his neighbor had to stop by while a strange woman was in his apartment. At least Sid would be a distraction, he thought, as he went to the far end of the apartment for a pen, but it didn’t work out that way.
“How do you know Emily, dear?” Mrs. DiGregorio asked as she bent down to pet Sid.
“She volunteers at a clinic where I work,” Diana answered. “I stopped by because I thought she’d be here, but I guess I should head out.”
“Oh, no, don’t leave on my account,” Mrs. DiGregorio said. “I’m on my way out to supper with the girls. Are you a doctor too?”
“No, just an administrator.”
Alex glanced at Diana. She seemed flustered now, ill prepared to deflect the nosiness of an elderly lady. He kept his mouth shut, curious now about what his neighbor would coax out of her.
“Where’s this clinic?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t know it,” Diana said.
“Dear, at my age, you become an expert in medical clinics,” Mrs. DiGregorio said. “Much more interesting than following celebrities. All the ones I cared about growing up are dead, anyway. Where’s this clinic?”
“Out in nowheresville,” Diana said.
“What does that mean? New Jersey? Connecticut?” Mrs. DiGregorio prompted.
One Small Sacrifice Page 2