“Yes, Mrs. McAllister, hello.”
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you. I’m sure you’re very busy, but I just had a quick question.” Mrs. McAllister’s overly polite demeanor bordered on apologetic, but she still couldn’t mask her exhaustion.
“It’s not a bother at all, Mrs. McAllister,” Megan assured her.
“I’m calling because I was wondering if it’s possible for us to get into Shannon’s apartment for a few things …” She paused briefly before continuing, “for her funeral.”
“Of course. We have everything we need from the apartment.”
“I’m coming into the city tomorrow to make arrangements with the funeral home. May I come by and pick up Shannon’s personal effects?”
“That’s not a problem at all.”
“Detective, while I have you on the phone, I was just wondering …”
For a moment Megan regretted not taking Dr. Sutherland’s call instead. She knew what the next question was going to be.
“I was wondering if you’ve been able to find out anything regarding my daughter’s case? If you have any leads?”
Megan was not about to give her the only new information they had: their daughter was dating a married man prior to the time she was savagely murdered. Megan knew Mrs. McAllister wasn’t aware of Shannon’s affair, and she didn’t see any reason to pour salt over this poor woman’s wound by telling her now. It could wait a day or two.
“I know it hasn’t been long since Shannon … passed, but I was just wondering if you had any information.”
“No, I’m sorry, not yet.” Megan was ashamed of her answer. She wanted to offer some kind of hope that there would be justice waiting for them at the end of this stroll through hell.
“I figured as much, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.” Mrs. McAllister tried to hide her feelings of defeat in her answer.
“Actually, while I have you on the phone, do you mind if I say something?”
“Please.”
“Mrs. McAllister, I just want you to know we’re doing everything within our power to find who did this to your daughter.” Megan felt a need to convince Shannon’s mother of her commitment. “I …” Megan glanced over at Nappa as she offered Mrs. McAllister reassurance. “We won’t stop until we get the person who is responsible for this.”
“I know that, Detective. Thank you.” The last part of her statement ended with her voice cracking and sniffling heard on the other end of the line.
“One last thing, ma’am. Would you mind bringing the laptop with you when you come in? I’d like to have our technical department take a look at it. If that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all.”
Nappa had gotten off the phone with Dr. Max while Megan continued her conversation with Mrs. McAllister. He sat across from her and offered an empathetic look as he waited for her to finish.
Megan concluded their conversation by giving Mrs. McAllister her cell phone number and office address. She hung up the phone, slumped her exhausted body down into her chair, and slouched over her desk, burrowing her head into her folded arms. Her muffled question was barely audible, “What did Dr. Max have to say?”
“Well, for one thing, she was strangled.”
Megan lifted her head up and looked at Nappa with a “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” look. “Boy, that Dr. Max knows his stuff, huh?” Megan joked.
Nappa continued, “Her larynx was nearly crushed. This guy really wanted her dead. Other than that, there wasn’t a lot.”
“Mmm. What about the fibers, anything more on those?”
“No. He said the same as before. They’re very common,” Nappa answered.
“Did the lab get anything on what was used to clean under her nails?”
“There were traces of acetone, most likely from nail polish remover.”
“Did they test the bread from the oven?”
“Plain old Irish Soda bread. About th—”
Megan interrupted, “Did he find anything?” She sighed. “Sorry.”
Nappa continued, “The thread used is typical thread from any sewing kit, but the knot at the end the unsub made is surgical grade. The kind of knot still has him stumped. He said he’d get back to us.”
“Surgical grade,” Megan paused, “to basically guarantee it”—she motioned with her hand, knowing the word vagina would make Nappa uncomfortable—“wouldn’t be opened.”
“Looks that way.” Nappa pushed his desk chair back and ran his hands through his thick black hair. He was just as frustrated as Megan with what few leads they had. Nappa remembered what Megan mentioned in Walker’s office of her time in Shannon’s apartment. “Hey, what did you mean when you said you didn’t find anything at the apartment, not really?”
Megan was quickly reminded of the item in her pocket and used a tissue to pull it out. “This fell from the archway when I opened the front door in the McAllister apartment.” She pulled out the cross and showed Nappa. “Isn’t this a little weird?”
“It’s a cross. What’s weird about that?” Nappa thought she was reaching.
“The shape. Don’t you think this shape is odd? Who puts a cross like this above a door?”
Nappa was unfazed with her discovery. “Well, the victim had a Claddagh ring on. Maybe she was sort of religious?”
Megan dropped her chin down. “Sort of religious? This religious woman dated a married man.”
“Now who’s being judgmental?” Nappa said.
“I’m not judging. I just think it’s weird to have something like this above a doorway.”
“Didn’t Mrs. McAllister say that the apartment actually belonged to Shannon’s grandmother? It’s probably hers,” Nappa said matter-of-factly.
Megan turned the cross around to look more closely at the shape. “That’s true, I hadn’t thought about that. But I think I’m going to have the lab look at it anyway and have them run some tests.”
“You’re an Irish Catholic. Shouldn’t you know what kind of cross it is?”
“I’m a recovering lapsed Catholic who didn’t pay all that much attention in Sunday school. The Irish side of me hits more bars than churches. Hey, have we heard anything from the tech guys regarding the desktop?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Great. Mrs. McAllister said her daughter had a laptop. She left it at their house, and she’s bringing it in, in the morning.”
Nappa nodded. “It’ll take some time for tech to get to it.”
“I have a friend who might be able to help us.”
“What kind of friend?” Nappa asked.
“The kind of friend that you go see about a dog and six wee pups.”
“What?”
“It’s something my grandfather would say.” Megan laughed.
“When he was avoiding the answer?”
“No, when he didn’t want to tell my grandmother he was walking down to the corner pub. Would you have rather me responded with ‘None of your damn business’?”
“You wouldn’t have said ‘damn.’ You would have used another word.”
“True.”
“What about her phone?” he asked.
“I went through the whole apartment again. Nothing.”
“I called the number again. Same. Nothing.”
Detective Palumbo walked in to hand Megan an envelope. “Finally got the warrant for the center. Only the vic’s phone line. Rasmussen is checking out a few more details on the professor’s alibi.”
“Thanks. How’s that coming?” Megan asked, opening the envelope.
“So far it looks legit, and the E-ZPass timing checks out. There are a lot of people that night who verify he was there.”
“We figured as much. Oh, by the way. Did either of you try calling me earlier today?” Megan asked.
Both men a
nswered no.
“What about Rasmussen?” Megan asked.
“Not that I know of, and we were together all day,” Palumbo answered.
“I got a call when I was at the McAllister apartment. It must have been a wrong number or a butt dial or something. The line went dead shortly after I answered. I didn’t recognize the number.”
“It wasn’t me. Maybe it was an adoring fan from your recent television interview?” Nappa ribbed.
“You’re so not funny when you try to be, Nappa,” Megan said.
“You’re just a tough crowd.”
“Still not funny. I have an errand to run.” She put her jacket on and gathered the case files together.
“Buy him one from me, all right?” Nappa had a soft look in his eyes and offered her a knowing smile.
Megan felt a lump form in her throat. “How did you—”
“You’re my partner.”
She stared back at him in gratitude, along with a dash of astonishment he’d remembered. She mouthed a silent thank you, and went on her way.
_____
“Hey, Gint. I brought you something.” Megan placed two cans of Guinness beside the freshly covered grave and knelt down. Not that she was waiting for one, but had she received a thank you following her greeting, the Guinness would have been the first thing she’d have gone for.
The air was cold, the ground wet. The mist matted her hair down, long strands clamped over one cheek, making her look more like a disheveled child than a grieving daughter. She bundled her hands in her coat pocket while glancing at the graves scattered nearby. She realized her duties with funeral arrangements had yet to be completed. The headstone would need to be chosen, and paid for by Brendan, of course. A strong surge of wind blew against her back as if forcing her thoughts forward. She stared down at the wet mound of dirt in awe of the fact her father was merely days away from his sixty-eighth birthday when he died.
“Happy Birthday, Gint. You almost made it. Good thing I didn’t get you a gift.” An uncomfortable laugh was followed with the hope that somewhere in the ethers her father would have found that unseemly comment funny; instead her pain shot out in volcanic anger. “You son of a bitch! You weren’t supposed to go yet. You weren’t supposed to leave!” She grabbed the closest rock in front of her and chucked it, wishing God, disappointment, and pain had physical form so they could feel her wrath.
Her face fell into the palms of her hand as she begged, “Please, God, just bring him back. Please. I’ll never drink again if you just bring him back. I’ll go to church. I’ll … I’ll … please.”
Megan wanted to slump over and hug the earth where her father had just been laid to rest. She wanted just ten more minutes with him, five if that’s all that would be allotted. Instead she conceded, “Fine. Fuck you.” She wiped the tears from her face with her sleeve and cracked open one of the beers. “I don’t have to keep any promises.” Her mind went directly to the promise she’d made earlier to Mrs. McAllister. “At least not to you.”
Megan chugged the beer, throwing the empty to the ground. Images of Shannon’s body, the disgusting things done to her, raced through her head.
“I’m going to get the bastard, Dad. I’ll get him.”
fourteen
When Megan left the Bronx, it was dusk; it was pitch black when she returned to Manhattan. She sat on the downtown train. It was the local, but it could have been an express for the amount of attention she gave the loud speaker. When she emerged onto Lexington Avenue, she was forty blocks south of her stop. Her miscalculation had nothing to do with her exhaustion or the one Guinness—she’d handled a hell of a lot more on a hell of a lot less. Her focus was on Shannon McAllister, her mother, her father … her murder.
The chill in the night air accompanied by the drizzle wasn’t enough for her to venture back to an empty apartment filled with mounting sympathy cards and regrets. She walked the streets, hoping to see the city as tourists do—a beacon of fast-paced excitement and opportunity. But what she saw were murdered people pulled out of buildings in black body bags. The line outside the Empire State Building was long, even for this hour, but Megan’s memory was longer. She was called to a crime scene in the building her first year on the job. A security guard was stabbed in the chest.
Sirens wailed down the street as she turned to walk toward Times Square. Empty white noise to her ears. Megan maneuvered through the crowd as umbrellas slammed into her shoulders. A Starbucks was now at the location where a strip club once was. A hooker was found there one night with a needle sticking out of her arm from an overdose. There would be no grande lattes in her future.
Megan found herself in Midtown heading to the Upper East Side. She waited at the crosswalk, staring into the window of a restaurant. People laughing, clanking glasses of wine, enjoying overpriced food. The last time she was in a restaurant like that, a chef had stabbed the owner with a butcher knife. Slashed him right through the gut. That was the extent of Megan’s fine dining experience.
Megan crossed at 59th Street on a green light when a yellow cab screeched to a halt. His horn and angry foreign words yanked her back from trolling the list of homicides she’d worked to the fact she was nearly mowed down in front of Bloomingdale’s—which was not the way she wanted to go out.
The night’s drizzle was now turning into a full-on bitter cold rain. Her own image caught her eye at the corner electronics store. The store was closed, but the televisions for sale in the window remained on. It was the late news. Eight televisions cast the same story: her interview leaving Shannon McAllister’s apartment. Between the sound of the rain hitting the pavement and her focus on the muted newscast, she didn’t hear her phone right away. She flipped open her cell. No answer, only a dead line. She glanced at the same unknown number she’d seen earlier that day.
“What the hell?”
She rang back and heard Shannon McAllister’s voicemail.
Motherfucker.
Megan stared at her own countenance on the screen. Her facial expression was tired, whipped. Now, standing in the storm, saturated through and through, she felt a fire ignited by a killer’s simple gesture that no amount of rain could douse.
She stared down at the cell phone, knowing she wouldn’t receive a call from that number again.
“I am no one’s bitch. I will not be fucked with.”
fifteen
Megan had passed drenched a half hour previously. Her kaleidoscope of moods would not tolerate sitting alone in an empty apartment for long, though. She pressed the outdoor buzzer to the entrance of the Carnegie Hill Swim Club. Glancing up into the security camera, she thought for a brief moment how ironic it was that her gym had a better security system than most apartment buildings in Manhattan. Being buzzed in through two doors and swiping a gym card for admittance made entrance to the Pentagon seem less troublesome than gaining access to the semiposh Upper East Side swim club.
Manny, the attendant on duty, sat at the desk reading an outdated issue of Sports Illustrated when Megan walked in. She swiped her membership card through the monitor, and her photo appeared on screen as well as the date and time of her last workout.
Manny was a big guy with dark, curly hair. He had a year-round tan and muscles that Megan was sure were aided by performance-enhancing drugs.
He glanced up at the screen. “Been a while, huh?”
“Yeah, thanks for noticing, Manny.”
He grinned, handed her a towel. “Have a good workout.”
“Could I have two towels, please? I’m swimming tonight.”
“You look like you already have been. Oh, just so you know the lifeguard is on his break, so you’ll need to wait until he gets back. Gym policy.”
“Sure. I’m steaming first, anyway,” she lied. Policy was not a word she felt a close kinship with, and the local swim club was no exception.
Two women were getting
dressed when Megan entered the ladies locker room. The smell of baby powder mixed with an overpowering perfume filled the air. She stripped off her clothes, put on her bathing suit, stuffed her belongings into one of the lockers, and hoped she was able to remember the combination to her lock by the time she returned.
Megan set her swim paraphernalia—towel, goggles, swim cap, and earplugs—on the counter while she showered down. Her flip-flops made slapping noises as she walked into the shower stall. She was one flight down from the pool, but the scent of chlorine already had its calming effect on her. When she made it to pool level, she was surprised and relieved to see she had it all to herself. She walked over to the aerobics room door and glanced in. The lifeguard was busy chatting up a short, young blonde. He was definitely still on his break, and Megan wasn’t about to wait for him.
One side of the room had floor-to-ceiling windows with glass doors opening to a landscaped courtyard, now empty with autumn’s arrival. Sycamore trees and wooden sculptures lined the fenced-in area. The view from the pool made Megan feel like she was in a wooded backyard rather than a hard city. As daylight began to fade, the underwater pool lights turned on automatically.
As Megan placed her towel on one of the lounge chairs, she realized she’d forgotten to remove her jewelry while in the locker room. She took off her watch and crucifix and placed them underneath the towel. She tugged at the backside of her swimsuit in an attempt to cover more of her ass, then set her goggles, swim cap, and earplugs on the adobe-colored tile and stood at the pool’s edge to warm up. She rotated her arms forward and backward, loosening up her shoulders. She twisted her back left and right, all the while listening to popping noises as she moved. She bent forward, touching her palms down on the cold floor to stretch the backs of her legs. Sitting down on the edge of the pool, she dangled her feet in the water and was greeted with a mild shock to her flesh. “Christ, what is this, the Polar Bear Swim Club?”
The pool’s glimmering light reflected off her pale face. It would have had a hypnotic effect if not for the last few days she’d experienced. The quiet only offered space in her mind to wander back to the crime scene: remembering Shannon’s lifeless stare, the moment in Dr. Sutherland’s office when he’d recounted his examination. The mental images weaving through her mind became more uncomfortable than the water temperature. She quickly inserted her earplugs, stuffed her hair into the swim cap, and suctioned the goggles to her face. The dark-shaded lenses made it difficult to see anything outside of the water, so she used the underwater lights as her guide when she plunged in. Using all her lower body strength, she pushed off the wall to begin her first lap. Months ago the first ten laps had been simple, a mere warmup for the following twenty. Today her body was deadweight as she tried to maneuver down the lane. The only noise she heard was the pounding of her heart as she cleared the first lap and wondered if it had been a good idea to start swimming without the lifeguard present. By the fourth, she began to assume a decent pace. Long rhythmic strokes moved her from one end of the pool to the other. She soon found her groove and quickly reverted to her old pattern: front crawl, backstroke, sidestroke. Repeat.
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