One Small Sacrifice

by Hilary Davidson

  It was hard for Sheryn to think of Cori Stanton without feeling a squeeze under her breastbone. Murder victims got to her, though she tried not to show it. No matter the age of the victim, one thought always coursed through her brain: This is somebody’s child. She could never suppress that notion, though she tried to set it aside. Cori Stanton had been thirty years old when she’d plunged to her death. She hadn’t been a child, but she was still starting out in life: unmarried, no kids, no real job, no fixed address. For whatever reason, in spite of her well-off father—or maybe because of her well-off father—she’d never pulled her life together, and then her chance was over. Sheryn’s own children were so full of hope and promise, and the idea that someone might snuff out a life in an instant twisted her guts. It was what fed her craving for justice: no parent should ever lose a child like that.

  When Sheryn pulled up in front of the Stanton Veterinary Clinic, her heart lightened for a minute. Standing outside, wearing a burgundy pantsuit, was a fortyish woman with a close-cropped afro. She was talking on the phone, and her head was partially turned away, but Sheryn recognized the detective from the Guardians Association, the fraternal organization that represented the NYPD’s black detectives. As often as the NYPD promised change, progress was glacial, but the Guardians never tired of pushing that boulder up a hill.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Norah Renfrew,” Sheryn said as she stepped out of her car.

  A broad smile crossed the other detective’s face. “Weren’t we supposed to make a date to go slumming on Park Avenue?”

  Sheryn laughed at the reference to the Ella Fitzgerald song and gave her a quick hug.

  “I’ve got two stories to tell you, and I’ll let you guess which one is true,” Norah said. “First up: a drugged-out psycho came into the clinic, threatened the receptionist, the patients, even the dogs. Then he beat up the vet who owns the clinic.”

  “I’m going with what’s behind Door Number Two,” Sheryn said.

  “Good choice,” Norah answered. “In that case, a photographer who discovered his girlfriend was being harassed by the vet who owns this clinic came here to confront the man. Things went sideways, and it got physical. We actually have some video.”

  Norah held up her phone, and Sheryn watched it play out. It was a little shaky, but she could clearly make out Alex Traynor and Kevin Stanton at the end of a hallway. Stanton was punching him and shouting. Traynor grabbed Stanton’s shoulders and shoved him back against the opposite wall. That didn’t stop Stanton, who came at him again. Then a woman’s voice screamed, “I called the police, Kevin. They’ll be here soon.” Sheryn watched Stanton back off, saying, “How dare you come in here and attack me.” Traynor’s voice was muffled when he responded, but she heard Stanton clearly. “More of your bullshit.”

  “You were harassing Emily,” Traynor accused him. Stanton denied it. After an exchange that wasn’t clear because the phone wobbled to the side, it focused in time for Sheryn to witness Stanton punch a crouching Traynor in the head.

  “Ouch,” Sheryn said.

  “The first cops on the scene made the mistake of arresting Alex Traynor, because the veterinarian and his employee were telling the same story,” Norah said. “We’re voiding that arrest because it was clearly a mistake.”

  “Where’s Mr. Traynor now?”

  “At the precinct with my partner. You want to talk with him?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “No problem,” Norah said. “The question now is, what do we do with this pair of clowns.”

  “Kevin Stanton has had a rough time in the last year. He lost his only child. I believe Alex Traynor killed her, but I couldn’t prove it.”

  “Murder?”

  “Manslaughter.”

  Norah raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to remain agnostic on that subject. But Kevin Stanton has been a problem around here. He had a dispute last year with a nightclub on the same block. Suddenly, that club had glue poured into its locks and dead animals on its doorstep. We know it was him, but knowing it and making a case out of it are two different things.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around.”

  “It’s not the first dispute he’s had with a neighbor,” Norah added. “Brux and I like to say that there’s a reason Stanton chose to work with animals instead of people.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Sheryn said. “I’ll talk with Mr. Stanton now.”

  “Good luck talking sense into that man,” Norah said. “Hope it doesn’t turn into a conversation with the flying plates.”

  Sheryn took a deep breath and ducked inside. She’d been to the clinic multiple times, and to Kevin Stanton’s home on Long Island, and even to his second clinic there. He used to visit her at the precinct, too, but it had been some time since he’d stopped by, at least three months. Sheryn had figured that meant he’d given up on getting justice for his daughter. She realized she’d been wrong.

  “Detective Sterling.”

  She recognized the deep, resonant voice immediately. “Mr. Stanton. How are you?”

  “Surviving, but just barely,” he answered. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked older than his sixty years. His head was shaved smooth, and his bright-blue eyes had faded since she’d seen him last. Cori had only been a little wisp of a thing, but her father looked like a retired linebacker.

  “You’ve lost weight. Are you doing okay?”

  “It’s been a tough time. I’ve had more than my share of health issues.”

  “Are you still going to your grief group?”

  Stanton shook his head. “After a while, I got tired of telling my story. Talking about Cori is still so hard.”

  “Maybe it’s time to go back. A lot of people find it helpful.”

  He gave her a hard look. “Have you ever been to a support group, Detective? I bet you haven’t. If you had, you’d know people say the most awful things. One woman told me I should consider myself lucky my daughter died quickly. It’s like they think your grief is nothing next to theirs.” He quickly wiped his eyes. “It’s competitive grieving, and it’s sick. People pretend to care, but they don’t give a damn.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Do you have news about Cori’s case?” His tanned face brightened for a moment.

  “You know that’s not why I’m here,” Sheryn said. “This is about your . . . let’s call it your altercation with Alex Traynor. What happened?”

  “What do you think? He came over here like a madman looking for trouble.”

  “I saw the video, Mr. Stanton.”

  “Well, it doesn’t show how it all started,” Stanton said. “You’ve only got a partial idea, enough to screw me over. You don’t have the truth.”

  “Mr. Traynor accused you of harassing Emily Teare. Did you?”

  “How dare you ask me that after what I’ve been through.”

  “It’s important. You probably haven’t heard, but Emily Teare is missing.”

  “And you think I did something to her?” Stanton towered over her. His face flushed red. “I can’t believe you’d even think of asking me that! She was involved with a killer. He destroyed my Cori. If something’s happened to his girlfriend, it’s because Traynor hurt her.”

  “Calm yourself down, Mr. Stanton. You know those other detectives want to arrest you for lying to them. They’re standing down because I asked them to.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, Detective.” He spat the last word out.

  “Look, you can get as angry as you want with me, but I’ve been in your corner from the start.”

  “What’s going to happen to him now?”

  “To Alex Traynor? He’s going to be released, obviously. They’re voiding his arrest right now.”

  “How can they do that?” Stanton’s voice was strangled, almost pleading. “It’s not right. He punched me right in the face.”

  “Unless someone faked the video, that was right after you slugged one to his head,” Sheryn said. �
��The detectives from your local precinct looked at the evidence. This is their call. I don’t disagree with them.”

  “You know what he did to my daughter, Detective,” Stanton said softly. “Or have you forgotten that?”

  “I swear to you, I have not,” Sheryn said. “But I can’t pretend he’s guilty of another crime if he isn’t.”

  “Of course you can. Look at OJ Simpson. He got off scot free for murdering his wife, but then the cops arrested him for some stupid sports-memorabilia fraud case. It was all made up to get him for the murder.”

  “I have been keeping close track of Alex Traynor,” Sheryn said. “If he had so much as a noise violation or a jaywalking ticket, I’d know about it. And believe me, I’d come down on him hard. You have to trust me.”

  “I used to,” Stanton said. “You told me you were going to get my Cori’s killer, and I believed you. I don’t anymore. All anyone at the NYPD cares about is clearing cases, and as far as they’re concerned, Cori’s is shut because some medical examiner ruled her death an accident.”

  “Death by misadventure,” Sheryn corrected him gently. “Because she was so intoxicated, and because there were no marks of violence on her body that weren’t from the fall.”

  “A distinction without a difference,” Stanton said. “I thought you were on my side, Detective. You always swore you were.”

  “I am, because I care about justice. I thought Alex Traynor was guilty because of things he said, things that weren’t admissible in court.”

  “He lied to you. He told you he wasn’t sleeping with Cori, but when you looked at the GPS data on her phone, you found she spent nights at his apartment.”

  Sheryn blinked, realizing she’d forgotten about that detail. “Yes, but that wasn’t conclusive. She could’ve been in the building next door, or on the next block.”

  “Stop making excuses. I’m all out of faith, Detective.”

  “Don’t be,” Sheryn said. “I haven’t stopped looking for answers.”

  “I’ve made it easy for you,” Stanton said. “You can arrest Traynor for what he did to me.”

  “That’s not going to happen, sir.”

  Stanton stared at her, and she felt the full weight of his fury. “I trusted you,” he hissed. “That was my mistake.” He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  When Sheryn left the clinic, she didn’t look back, but her heart felt like a stone in her chest.

  CHAPTER 26

  ALEX

  “You know, you’re pretty damned lucky,” Detective Bruxton said. “If you stop to think about it.”

  “Depends how you define lucky,” Alex said. “Because my version doesn’t include hanging out in a police station after a guy kicks my ass.”

  They were sitting in an interview room in the NYPD precinct at 19½ Pitt Street. The table and chairs were metal, like the ones in Emily’s office, but less fancy and with a lot more graffiti. There was a tiny window that refused to admit any natural light.

  “A sixty-year-old guy busted your chops,” Bruxton said. “That’s my favorite part.”

  “His daughter was a friend of mine. He blames me for her death.”

  Bruxton stared at him appraisingly. The man had a rough-hewn face marked with scars and a blond brush cut that made him look like he’d just gotten out of the military. Another time, another place, and Alex would’ve wanted to shoot his portrait.

  “It sounds like you blame yourself for his daughter’s death,” he said.

  Alex thought about that. “I guess I do.”

  “How come?”

  “Cori was my friend,” Alex said. “We hung out together a lot. I bought drugs from her. When she came over that night, she was acting strange.”

  “She was high?”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t it,” Alex said. “Our relationship was platonic, always had been. But she started coming on to me. Aggressively.” Alex could still picture Cori, her pretty, heart-shaped face flushed with some hybrid of excitement and fury. “She was talking about another guy. How she was going to . . . show him?”

  “That sounds like soap-opera dialogue, my friend.”

  “Screw him,” Alex corrected. “She said she was going to screw him over. I don’t know who she was talking about. Some jerk she was dating. She said he owed her a ring. He’d promised her.”

  “And you slept with her?” Bruxton asked.

  “Hell, no. I didn’t want anything from Cori except heroin.” He gave the detective a searching look. “You can’t arrest me for that after the fact, right?”

  “Nah. But if you’re still using . . .”

  “I’m not. I’ve been clean for almost a year.” Alex stared at the table. Someone who’d sat in that chair had etched GAN into the metal table. Gangster? Gangbanger? They hadn’t gotten very far. “I was the one who said let’s go to the roof. She agreed, and we went up. Then she vanished.”

  “Vanished . . . off the side of the building?”

  “No. She went down the stairs, I guess. I don’t know. I only cared about getting high. But Cori gave me ketamine in addition to the heroin. I didn’t realize that until it was too late. I was so strung out. I don’t know what happened next.”

  “You were on ketamine and heroin? I doubt you were walking around, pal,” Bruxton said.

  “There was shouting,” Alex said. “Cori was shouting. That’s it. That’s all I remember.”

  “Did the detectives who worked the case ever find the dude she was dating?”

  “No. Her father told them we were engaged. Either he lied to the police, or Cori lied to him. He despised anyone she dated.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Come on in,” Bruxton called. The door opened, and Alex recognized—with a sinking heart—Detective Sterling’s stern face.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” she said to the other detective, “but I’m a friend of your partner’s. Sheryn Sterling.”

  He stood and shook her hand. “Bruxton.”

  “One name, like Oprah,” she said. “Norah told me. Thanks for keeping Mr. Traynor on ice. I need to ask him a few questions.”

  “You up for that?” Bruxton asked Alex. He nodded. “Okay then. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope not to see you again, Alex.” He left the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Sterling came closer and sat down. “You want your lawyer here?”

  The last think Alex wanted was to bother CJ again. He’d taken over most of his day on Monday. “No. Go for it.”

  “Tell me why you would go begging for trouble,” she said.

  “I found some letters Kevin wrote to Emily. They were at her office. I had to confront him.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she said. “If you found evidence, you should’ve turned it over to us.” She put her hand out. “I really do want to see them.”

  “Don’t you have them?” Alex asked.

  “Mr. Stanton never mentioned any letters.”

  “I showed them to him. They ended up on the floor when he attacked me. I went to pick the letters up, and he punched me in the head.”

  “Do you want to press charges?”

  “No.”

  “The thing that gets me is that you walked into the lion’s den in the first place,” Sterling said. “Obviously you know how Mr. Stanton feels about you?”

  “Yes.” Alex was quiet for a moment. “He hates me. That’s why he wrote those letters to Emily. He was telling her I was evil, saying I was a sociopath who killed Cori. Claiming I’d kill again.”

  “He signed these letters?”

  “He didn’t have to.” Alex raised his head and looked Sterling in the eye. “After Cori died, he wrote to all the papers and magazines I’ve worked for, telling them I was a murderer and that they were monsters if they ever hired me again. I didn’t know he’d ever written to Emily. She never said a word about it to me.”

  “You never saw any letters come in?”

  “No. They were at Emily’s office. Her friend
Yasmeen and I found them in a file folder in her desk.”

  That earned an arched eyebrow. For possibly the first time, he’d said something that intrigued her. “How did you convince the fire-breathing administrator to let you embark on this digging operation?”

  “I didn’t.” He let that hang in the air. Sterling gave him a barely discernable nod, even though her stern expression didn’t shift. It wasn’t approval, exactly, more like she wished she’d jimmied open the lock.

  “How long have you known about these letters?”

  “We found them this morning.” Alex blushed. “I went straight to Kevin’s office afterward.”

  “But Dr. Khan didn’t feel compelled to come with you?”

  Alex dropped his head. “I didn’t tell her where I was going.”

  “Okay, let’s assume you’re telling me the truth,” the detective said. “Which, in the absence of the letters, is a leap. What did you think you were going to accomplish?”

  “I didn’t think it through—I know. But he was harassing Emily. He needed to answer for that.”

  Sterling was silent for a moment. “We found Emily’s car this morning. It was parked in the Bronx.”

  “Sure.” Alex shrugged. “That’s where she parks her brother’s car. The lot’s near Belmont.”

  “No, not there. Want to guess where we found it?”

  “Last time I saw it was in the lot. Where could it go?”

  “Right by Woodlawn Cemetery. When’s the last time you used the car?”

  “About a month ago. We took Sid up to High Falls.”

  “That’s the last time you were in the car?”

  “In the car, yes.”

  “That sounds like a hedge,” Sterling said.

  “I haven’t been inside the car since then,” Alex admitted. “But I took the subway up to the Bronx late Friday night. I noticed the keys were gone, so I wondered if Emily had taken the car. But it was parked right where we left it.”

  “First time I’m hearing this story,” the detective said. “I believe it should’ve come up when I interviewed you at the precinct and asked you for your whereabouts on Friday night.”