One Small Sacrifice

by Hilary Davidson

  Sheryn glanced at him. “Ooh, this is the first time I’ve heard about a Mr. Mendoza at home.” She blushed slightly, hoping her partner wouldn’t notice. Another assumption crushed; it had never crossed her mind that he was gay.

  Rafael laughed. “He didn’t change his name when we got married. It’s Cohen. The car is a bribe. He got a huge promotion, but it involved moving across the country. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.”

  “I followed my husband down to Virginia for a teaching job once,” Sheryn said. “That didn’t exactly work out. But if he bought me a nice car . . . nah. I might’ve run him over with it. Honestly, we both couldn’t get back to New York fast enough.”

  “Maybe I’ll get used to it,” Rafael said. “But I miss my family. My parents, my sisters, my cousins, everybody’s out west.”

  “That’s hard. Family was what pulled us back to New York. Can’t live with ’em, but it’s impossible to live without them.” Sheryn stared out the window. It was hard to make out anything in the dark. Maybe it would’ve been pretty during the day, but it was just a gloomy blur before sunrise. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around Kevin Stanton’s game. He goes to Traynor’s building and murders Bobby Costa. Why?”

  “I don’t think that was premeditated,” Rafael said. “That was a case of a victim in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s my take too. Okay, then Stanton goes after Alex Traynor. He tells him it’s a choice between his life and Emily’s. He makes Alex think his girlfriend is going to die. Then . . . bam! Emily magically turns up. And not, like, running out of her prison onto the highway turning up, which I could believe. But she’s been a guest at a bed-and-breakfast all this time? No.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the first good news we’ve had,” Rafael said.

  “I’m not buying it,” Sheryn answered. “Where’s she been for the last five days? Unless she’s been hibernating, it’s hard to believe that she never used a credit card in all this time. You look at her accounts, you see this woman pays at the grocery store and everywhere else with plastic.”

  “I’m going to start calling you Kierkegaard,” Rafael said. “In honor of the philosopher who said his depression was the most faithful mistress he’d ever known.”

  “You do that, and I’ll tell the squad that San Diego PD would only trust you with a tranquilizer gun.” Sheryn shook her head. “I can’t get over the feeling that we’re headed this way because Stanton planned something. Whatever it is, it’s going to be ugly.”

  When they pulled up in front of the Amberley Inn, Sheryn couldn’t help but admire it. It was a triple-decker old house that might well have been made of gingerbread. Gas lamps marked either side of the front door. Thick woodlands surrounded it, giving it even more of a fairy-tale ambience.

  The front door was locked, so they had to ring the bell. After several minutes, an elderly woman with long gray hair pulled back in a thick braid answered the door.

  “Sorry to bother you at this early hour,” Sheryn said, holding up her badge. “I’m Detective Sterling, NYPD. This is my partner, Detective Mendoza. We’re on a missing persons case, and the missing woman—or someone using her credit card—took a room here last night. Her name is Emily Teare.”

  “Sure. A very nice lady.”

  “Is this her?” Sheryn held up her phone. The woman squinted at it.

  “Maybe?” the woman said. “Is that an old photo?”

  “Maybe a year or two?” Rafael answered.

  “I thought she looked older than that. She’s quite tall.”

  “About five foot ten.”

  “Well, that could be her.” The woman rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, I was pretty soundly asleep.”

  “We need to talk to her,” Sheryn said.

  “Now?” The woman’s pale-blue eyes bugged out. “Not at this hour.”

  “When you’ve been a missing person for days, time is an issue,” Rafael said. “If it’s the right person, great. If not, we could be losing precious time to save the victim.”

  The woman grudgingly allowed them inside. She double-checked the register. “She’s in the Gershwin Room. Our rooms are all named for composers.”

  “Great.” Rafael didn’t sound enthusiastic.

  “Give me the key,” Sheryn said. “We’ll go up and wait. Call the room. We’ll only let ourselves in if she doesn’t answer.”

  The woman gave her a dubious look and muttered under her breath, but she did as Sheryn asked. The detectives headed up the sweeping staircase, which split at the landing, with one branch heading east while the other went west.

  “This is a classy joint,” Rafael whispered. “I’m going to have to come back here with Brett. He’s a sucker for this kind of architecture.”

  They stationed themselves in front of the Gershwin Room, which had the name spelled out on the door, above a photo of the Gershwin brothers. The phone was already ringing. They let it sound off eight times before Rafael put the key in the lock. When the door swung open, Sheryn flicked on the light. There was no one in the room; the bed hadn’t even been slept in. Knowing it was futile, she still checked the bathroom and the closet but came up empty. There was no sign of the woman claiming to be Emily Teare.

  When they went back to reception, Rafael asked, “What kind of car was she driving?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Dead end,” Rafael said. “This is bad.”

  “Stanton has been playing us all this time,” Sheryn said. “Now he’s dead, and he’s still messing with us. Hold on.” She sent a text to another detective at the precinct. Within a couple of minutes, she received the photo she’d asked for. “Could this have been the woman you saw?”

  The innkeeper stared at it closely and nodded. “Yes, that does look like her.”

  “Magda Zimmermann,” Sheryn said.

  “Stanton’s receptionist? Seriously?” Rafael shook his head.

  “Also his girlfriend,” Sheryn said. “She’s in this with him.”

  “What do you want to do now?” Rafael asked.

  “What I would’ve done yesterday if I’d had the time,” Sheryn answered. “We need to check out Stanton’s house.”

  “You think he stashed Emily there?”

  “Maybe, but not necessarily,” Sheryn said. “He was diabolical, so I don’t expect anything to be simple. But no matter how good he thinks he is at covering his tracks, there will be evidence.”

  They’d been speeding on the way out to Greenwich, but they drove even faster to get to Stanton’s house. If Magda Zimmermann was leading them in the opposite direction, Sheryn figured that was where Emily had to be. What scared her was that the clock was ticking. Kevin Stanton had planned to kill Alex that night, so he knew he wasn’t going home. What awaited them there was anyone’s guess.

  They found the house just before eight in the morning. Rafael turned into a long driveway, and the road behind them disappeared behind a thick hedge. A few yards ahead was a two-story mock-Tudor house, with what looked like stained-glass windows on the top level.

  “It’s so secluded no one would be able to hear any screams,” Sheryn said, stepping out of the car.

  “True, but this Stanton bastard was nothing if not cagey,” Rafael answered. “You think he’d stash a girl in his own house?”

  “It’s not like he could ask a neighbor. How many other places could he have?”

  They approached the massive front door. Its brass knocker wore the face of a snarling dog.

  “It’s a big door. I could shoot the lock, but I’d like to find another way in,” Rafael said.

  “Don’t do that. Let’s circle the house. Meet you at the back.”

  They parted ways. Sheryn crept around one side, peering into windows and finding that everything that wasn’t stained glass was covered with heavy blinds. Either Stanton had been allergic to daylight, or he was obsessed with privacy. She wondered what kind of a man he really was; never having known him before his horri
ble grief struck, she had no idea. Violence and vengeance had twisted him past the point of being recognizably human.

  At the back of the house, she spotted a small cottage at the far end of the lot. “I don’t remember that being here,” Sheryn said quietly.

  Rafael was coming around the other side. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Just after Cori Stanton died. But Sandy and I were only at the front of the house and the parlor inside.” She stepped toward the cottage. “Do you think the Huntington cops checked that out yesterday?”

  “I doubt it.” He looked at the kitchen door. “This guy really worried about burglars. There’s an electric security system too.”

  “You want to handle the breaking-and-entering part?” Sheryn asked.

  “My specialty.”

  “Good. I want to take a closer look at that cottage.”

  She ran down the garden. The cottage was painted white with crisp blue trim. The windows were covered with white lace eyelet curtains. The front door was locked, but she rammed it open with one shoulder.

  Inside, she found what looked like a teenage girl’s bedroom, only there were posters of horses instead of boy bands. The bed had a canopy covered in flowing pink tulle. There was a vanity table with a three-part mirror; above it on the wall were gold letters that spelled out PRINCESS CORINTHIA.

  There were barely three rooms in the place, just the bedroom and a bathroom and a kitchen that might’ve been the right size for a frog prince. The bedroom was the showpiece; it was filled with photos of Cori Stanton, some of them at riding competitions. A collection of faded ribbons and unpolished trophies lived inside a glass case. Somehow, that made Sheryn the saddest: How might Cori’s life have turned out if she hadn’t died so senselessly?

  She was just about to leave when her eye fell on a postcard lying on the night table. Sheryn couldn’t remember the artist’s name, but she recognized the subject immediately: Ophelia, lying dead in the water, with colorful flowers floating around her. It felt out of place in this frilly, girlish place, and Sheryn inched closer to it. Ophelia’s eyes were open, and her lips were parted, almost as if she were in the embrace of a lover and not death. She picked it up and turned it over. Sir John Everett Millais, Tate Museum, London, was printed in the top corner; under it, in blue ballpoint pen, were handwritten words in Cori’s distinctive old-fashioned script.

  When I die, I’m not going alone.

  Sheryn set it down, feeling a little shiver down her neck. It didn’t matter anymore, whatever Cori Stanton had written. It wasn’t going to help them find Emily Teare. Frustrated to come up empty, she let herself out of the cottage and caught sight of Rafael opening the kitchen door. At that moment, the house exploded, knocking Sheryn down and sending Rafael flying through the air.

  CHAPTER 51

  SHERYN

  “You need to sit still,” the EMT told Sheryn.

  She hadn’t realized she was moving. Her brain was struggling to process what had happened. It had taken refuge in the Ninety-First Psalm, which was playing on repeat, a familiar touchstone that centered her. “You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day,” Sheryn whispered.

  “What’s that?” The EMT wasn’t a tall woman, but she had a squat build and shoulders that would’ve fit a linebacker. Sheryn’s instinct was that she wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.

  “I’m good,” Sheryn said. “I need to see my partner. He’s in bad shape.”

  “He’s got some bleeding, second- and third-degree burns, and a blown-out eardrum. There’s nothing you can do for him right now.” As if realizing her tone sounded harsh, she took a breath. “We’re taking care of him. You can see him at the hospital. He’s in good hands.”

  “I need to see something.” Sheryn gazed at the burned-out husk of Stanton’s house smoldering in the near distance. She tried to stand, but the EMT put both hands on her shoulders and made her stay.

  “You’re not going anywhere until I get all the glass out of you,” she said. “Now stop fidgeting.”

  Sheryn didn’t let anyone boss her like that except her mother. But the part of her that was annoyed was surprisingly small; she respected people who knew how to get a tough job done.

  “Good thing you put up your hand when the house blew up,” the EMT said. “Otherwise, this glass would be sticking out of your face. Out of your eyes, for all we know.”

  Sheryn’s skin burned as the EMT extracted another piece.

  “You saved his life. You know that, right?” the EMT added. “At least, if he lives out the day, he owes it to you. Being at the door when the house blew up, he should by rights be dead now.”

  Sheryn only remembered a fireball coming toward her, consuming her partner. She’d run to him, knocking him down and rolling him over until the flames were extinguished. “Do you know what caused the explosion?”

  “I can tell you they got the bigwigs here looking at that,” the EMT said. “I can also tell you the conclusion ain’t gonna be any different than when me and Ed got here. We’ve seen a lot of shit in our time. It was a gas explosion.”

  “Gas,” Sheryn repeated. She closed her eyes for a moment to center herself.

  “Yeah. The powers that be are going to hem and haw about whether it was from a gas leak or arson. I can tell you someone left the gas on and rigged a device to the kitchen door. There was one at the front as well.”

  “The owner of the house died in Manhattan last night,” Sheryn said. “We believe he may have killed another man, and attempted to kill a third man, before he died.”

  “Shit,” the EMT said. “You see a lot of crazy, doing this job. But balls-to-the-wall diabolical evil is not something you encounter every day.”

  Sheryn was quiet. For the better part of the past year, she’d thought of Alex Traynor as a perp and Kevin Stanton as one of his victims. Now, with blood dripping out of the cuts in her arm and a fire blazing a few yards away, she saw everything more clearly. Stanton himself had been a time bomb waiting to explode.

  “It’s worse than that,” Sheryn said. “He also kidnapped a woman last week. We still don’t know where she is.”

  “If anyone was inside that house, she’s dead,” the EMT said. “It’s like a bomb went off. They should have the fire under control by now. You could talk to the fire marshal.”

  Sheryn felt guilty about not being by Rafael’s side in the hospital. That was what partners did for each other, after all. But she knew he was in good hands; Emily Teare was not.

  When the fire was reduced to embers and the marshal finally had time to talk, Sheryn blurted out, “He may have had a kidnapped woman in the house.”

  The man’s thin lips pursed into a line. “That explains the remains we found. It looks like someone was in the basement when the house blew up.”

  Sheryn bowed her head and murmured a prayer. “Her name was Emily Teare.”

  “We’re gathering the bones right now. There will be plenty of DNA evidence.”

  “Bones?” Sheryn echoed.

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “This I need to see.” Sheryn headed for the shambles of the house. Nothing that had happened since the explosion felt real; a part of her was hoping to wake up from this nightmare.

  “You really shouldn’t go too close,” the fire marshal called after her. “It’s still not safe.”

  She was long past caring about safety, she thought grimly. As she got nearer, Sheryn spotted a small pile of bones, charred black and matching the asphalt in places.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she whispered, picking up a femur.

  She turned and limped back to the fire marshal. “Have you ever seen what a fireball explosion does to a human body?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It can tear a person apart, limb from limb. But there’s charred flesh on the bone.” She held out the femur. “Unless Emily Teare was already a skeleton picked bare, this isn’t her.” She
tossed the bone down on the driveway in disgust. “That monster played us every step of the way. He planted a skeleton in the house and rigged it to blow. This was supposed to make us give up on finding her. I hope he’s watching from his perch in hell, because we are going to find her.”

  CHAPTER 52

  SHERYN

  There was a second veterinary clinic owned by Kevin Stanton in Babylon. Sheryn drove there in a mad dash. On the way, she called her precinct. “I need to know every piece of property Kevin Stanton owned in the last ten years. No, make that twenty years.”

  The clinic had a sign that reminded her of the one on the Lower East Side, even if it was older and the paint was flaking off. The receptionist inside matched the sign, aged and weathered, so that her pale skin crinkled like parchment.

  “Detective Sterling, NYPD.” Sheryn held up her badge. “Has anyone called yet about Kevin Stanton?”

  “No, but he’s never late like this without phoning me,” the receptionist said. “I’ve tried his house and his cell phone. I’m getting worried about him.”

  Sheryn stared into her eyes. How did she tell a nice woman like this that her boss was a homicidal maniac?

  “Kevin died in Manhattan last night,” she said finally.

  “Oh, no. Was it the cancer?”

  “I’m afraid not. He tried to kill another man.”

  The woman winced and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shook. “I knew something like this would happen, after Cori’s death. He was a completely different person.”

  “I’m going to need to look around,” Sheryn said. “Part of the investigation, you understand.”

  The receptionist’s eyes were wet as she nodded. “Of course. Anything you need. I’ll try to help.”

  Sheryn knew Emily wasn’t in the basement of that building. It was too public a place with employees and customers and pets trooping in and out the door all day. Still, she headed down the linoleum-covered steps and stopped to take stock of what was down there. There were shelves lined with plain plastic containers; the labels read detomidine and thiopental and other chemicals she didn’t think she could pronounce. Her eyes started to glaze over as she read them, until one hit her hard. Ketamine.