by Lynn S.
Esteban paused, biting the inside of his cheek. The small sign of frustration unnoticed by Marissa.
“I’m a total idiot. Forgive me. You lived through horrors worse than mine. While most of the time I was suspended between life and death, you were being torn apart in the flesh. Damn it! I might even be the cause of some of your nightmares. But I assure you, the portal to the land of Fae is closed. None other than I came through. Now, come here, back to bed. If it makes you feel better, just tell me what you dreamt of. You know what they say, if you tell someone of a nightmare as soon as it happens, you scare the bad away.”
Marissa started to relive her terror and Francis Alexander, who crossed the portal from the land of Fae wearing Esteban O’Reilly’s skin, heard the details he knew quite well. As she spoke, adding her point of view, the story echoed within him, feeding him, making him ever stronger. He had allowed her to see for a reason. Dark fairies sustained themselves on desolation and death. Francis went to bed with two things quite clear: Marissa’s distress would help him sleep like a baby, and the morning would find him even more at ease. After all, before that damned kid forced him into thin air, he was happy to snap his neck and let that body hit the floor.
Chapter III
New York in the Rearview Mirror
Detective Harry Anderson had been a golden boy since his days in the academy. When an opportunity arose to choose a definite career path within the force, it was a given that he’d tackle homicide. He wanted to make a mark, and though the numbers had fluctuated toward a steady decline during the last decade, New York City still had a history of vice, and Anderson was the kind of cop that liked his plate full. Unfortunately, an unspoken rule stated that crime wave and cities were to be forever intertwined with progress. There was something about greed and lack of respect for life that thrived in places like these; violence always about to burst.
These types of crimes were common, routine. His line of work involved corrupted elements and individuals who had a disposition to repeat their incidents. However, the file that the guys from the district attorney’s office tossed on top of his desk had a different flavor. It was not a regular homicide, but an act of sadistic cruelty committed right in the heart of a quiet suburb in Queens.
The suspect, Adriana Popescu, had no previous history or criminal record, not as much as a parking ticket. The forty-something woman never had an encounter with the law. However, a call from a concerned landlord, after receiving complaints from neighbors, sky-rocketed the woman to the top of the list of the Queens Homicide Division.
Her air conditioning had been running at extremely low temperatures for a couple of days, freezing the pipework before finally shorting out. Eventually, accumulated moisture started dripping from her apartment into the lower floor and soon, an unsightly dark spot growing in concentric circles was filtering through her neighbor’s ceiling. The family living on the floor below tried to contact her to no avail, and after a couple of days, the landlord was given notice. The man decided to open the apartment, and it became a crime scene with a turn of a key.
Detective Anderson identified the male victim without much trouble. The young man still had all his documentation, money and credit cards neatly folded in a wallet in his back jeans pocket.
There were remarkable signs of a struggle throughout the scene, as the alleged perpetrator didn’t show much of an effort in trying to conceal her deeds. As it looked, Popescu had no other concern than to leave a corpse behind and rush to rent a car. If any measures were taken, she lowered the temperature to keep the place chilly and subdue the smell of rot, if only for a short time.
Logic indicated she might have planned to return to the scene to tidy up, but that was when all became complicated. The GPS on the rented vehicle read that she made a quick, overnight trip to upstate New York. Shortly afterward, the car was returned in excellent condition, just not by Adriana.
There was no hint of the whereabouts of the blonde woman, whose photograph Anderson had added to the file. The investigator expected some of the rookie mistakes of people who had never committed a crime: use of the credit card for required expenses, a phone call to a relative…but not Popescu. She had disappeared without a trace.
Her daughter, Marissa Salgado, lived in Brooklyn and was the only kin known to Popescu. The young woman was meant to be his start. Though the cop knew procedure and what was required, he was not too fond of making calls ahead. So, after procuring permission to act within another precinct—and gaining a partner in the process—Anderson got ready to pay the young woman a visit and set up an interview.
“I’m okay with your being here, Carter,” he told the policewoman assigned to him while visiting the nearby borough’s station. “Having said that, I know I’ll come across as rude, but please stay back as much as you can. Two people engaging a person of interest in what’s meant to be an amicable conversation might just scare the hell out of this young lady.”
Carter agreed. Relatively new to the force, she was content with shadowing. The complexity of the case had caught her eye and she was willing to learn as much as possible.
Marissa opened the door, a little shocked to find a couple of cops in her doorway. However, as soon as her mother’s name was mentioned, she relaxed. Perhaps Adriana had left some sort of notice on her disappearance, things that might escape a couple of police officers, but that she might have known about.
“Please come in. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Anderson seemed to glide to the seat, armed with nothing but a wide, warm smile, but Carter soon noticed the man had given Marissa a side-eyed look as the woman nervously fidgeted with a cell phone in her jacket pocket.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” she quickly said. “Could I just make a quick call to a friend who is on her way over? I’d rather we not be interrupted.”
“Sure!” Anderson stated.
Marissa gambled with the idea, hoping increasing nervousness wouldn’t betray her. Wanting to know about her mother was one thing, but having Esteban come back from the storage room to face two cops was another. She dialed a number, keeping her voice steady as her fiancé answered.
“Hey, Steph! I’m just calling to cancel our lunch date. I have some matters to tend to. Catch you up later.” She hung up without waiting for a response, hoping Esteban understood it was not okay for him to return just yet. “Now I’m all yours,” she told the officers assuredly, taking a seat across Anderson and Carter.
“A couple of minutes ago,” the man proceeded, “we told you our visit is in reference to your mother. You may or may not know that her landlord filed a missing person report on her in the last day or so.” Anderson let the words slide casually, but Marissa caught on. As a legal assistant, she was aware of certain police procedures and knew it was too early to open a missing person’s investigation.
“I haven’t seen my mother in a couple of days, but it is customary for her not to be in contact with me on a daily basis. We are not that close. How long has she been missing?”
“Long enough.” Anderson spoke through his teeth. “Actually, her disappearance is linked to a major ongoing investigation. What brings us here is the need to know if you might have an idea of your mother’s whereabouts. Miss Salgado, your mother, Adriana Popescu, is the suspected perpetrator of a murder that took place at her residence some four days ago.”
Carter’s observations, if precise, were only to corroborate what Anderson kept mental notes on. She could see the quick meeting of eyebrows on Marissa’s face and her eyes opening wide to the realization that she might have been told a truth. Surprise, but no doubt. The young woman knew nothing about the crime; she came to know as she quickly scanned the pictures provided by the officers. While repelled by the images, she tried to look for a justification for such bloodshed. Marissa might not have partaken of it, but it was obvious she didn’t discard the possibility of her mother being capable of such a level of violence.
Carter took the pictures back, gently placing her h
and atop Marissa’s wrist, reassuring. Anderson had to recognize his assigned partner’s capabilities. That simple touch invited the interrogated woman to open up, letting her know she was not a suspect. They had come to her asking for help.
“My mother did this?” Her eyes clouded with tears. Marissa knew the transition to vampyr required an intake of blood directly from the vein, but the intensity of the scene offered no other context than that of an instinct of immeasurable cruelty.
“Our goal right now is to find her.” The things left out by the detective were implied. “Miss Salgado, the GPS on her rental vehicle indicates your mother drove up to the vicinity of Syracuse. Do you know of any reason for her to visit upstate?”
Doubt. Fear. A slight look down that denoted shame. Anderson hit something.
“I…I was visiting an estate in the nearby area this last weekend. I did not meet my mother there if that is what you are asking. I was attending a private service, a dedication of ashes.”
Marissa answered truthfully, if only halfway. One of the details that had the investigators puzzled was that the car was parked for most of the night some two miles from the nearest town, in a wooded area, from which point on the GPS was disabled until the signal was reactivated upon entering New York City. Anderson tried to push a little further, producing another set of pictures.
“These are not as hard to process as the first set, but interesting nevertheless. They come from the security system at the rental place.”
Marissa took the pictures he offered. They were black-and-white reproductions, copies from a CC camera feed. The image was distorted, nothing beyond a silhouette and a blur in shades of gray. The young woman didn’t need much to fill the gaps. After all, she had been waiting a couple of blocks south of the place as Esteban returned the vehicle. The adulterated feed gave no clues, but Marissa could clearly see. For a second, she was about to confess. Her lips opened, almost involuntarily, but Anderson made her snap out of it.
“As I was saying, the pictures come courtesy of the vehicle rental place. The employee in turn told us that a man returned the car on behalf of your mother. It is against policy to accept a return from someone other than the leaser, but somehow, this person processed it all without asking a question. He was quite mortified and willing to help with the investigation. You might say that is a plus. But, quite curious if you ask me, the guy at the desk fainted as soon as he finished the paperwork. Though there were people there, other clients and, of course, employees, no one remembers anything about the subject who returned the car. There’s nothing but an array of confusing statements. We are trying to put together who this person might be. Upon interviewing your mother’s neighbors, they told us she had a number of…varied acquaintances.”
“Hmm, that is a gallant way to presume about my mother’s possible promiscuity.” Marissa’s interruption and the dry expression on her face broke any attachment to Adriana on the spot. So far, the young woman had been sad, worried, and, curiously, slightly ashamed. Now there was a level of disgust that implied she was somehow happy to be rid of her mother.
Anderson continued without allowing Marissa to avoid a subject he considered not altogether covered. “We have a male subject who frequented her house enough to leave an impression. Some neighbors even knew his name. Do you know your mother’s relation to Esteban O’Reilly?”
“What are you implying?” Marissa burst out, indignant.
“Just corroborating facts,” Officer Carter injected, a bit cross with Anderson’s way of approaching the situation.
“There was nothing between my mother and Esteban. Esteban is…was my fiancé. The service I attended this past weekend was his funeral.”
Officer Carter expressed her condolences, but Anderson just stared at Marissa’s face intently. To their right, the lock on the door turned and Marissa jumped from sorrow to clear panic.
It had to be Esteban. She had counted on him to pick up on her brief warning call. It was imperative for him to keep away from the officers interviewing her. There had been enough risk with both of them returning to the neighborhood a couple of days ago and trying to walk about unnoticed.
The door opened and the man coming in didn’t much care for the people in the living room, his words were just for Marissa.
“I think it is time to give you back these keys. You’ve been more than kind. Oh! I’m sorry,” hazel eyes scanned the room, “I didn’t know you had people over.”
Both Marissa and Carter got to their feet while Harry Anderson just observed the effect this man had upon both women. Marissa looked nervous, more so than during their brief conversation. Her hands were closed into fists and held close to her body, much like a child who was caught in mischief. Carter simply looked mystified by the recent arrival, a little more than her professionalism should allow for. The man who caused the commotion just kept walking toward them, a smile on his face, forcing Marissa to explain his presence.
“Detectives Anderson and Carter, this is—”
“Francis Alexander. I’m a cousin of the O’Reillys’ and stayed behind to help Marissa move some of Esteban’s stuff into storage,” the man explained in a most charming way, extending a firm handshake to both officers. Carter was delighted to hold his hand, but Anderson simply shook it quickly before retaking his seat and setting his eyes on the new arrival. The young man produced a driver’s license that identified him as a resident of Manhattan.
“There’s no need for such formalities.” Anderson brushed it off, though not without committing to memory that Manhattan address. “You have arrived right in the middle of an exchange with Miss Salgado. So, if you don’t mind…”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” the man replied.
The conversation wrapped a couple of minutes later, Anderson crossing Marissa off the list of people of interest and reinforcing the idea that she should contact the precinct if any info on Adriana became available.
“We appreciate your time, Miss Salgado. With no further ado, if you contact your mother, it is your responsibility to contact the authorities. Even if closely related, I suggest you don’t play with the idea of obstructing justice.”
The officers took their leave, and once they were out of sight, Marissa closed the door and plummeted on the sofa, her whole body shivering with the weight of nervous pressure. Her fiancé took her hands in his, caressing the platinum ring on her finger with his thumb, easing her out of her misery in an instant. Still, she looked at him, questioning.
“Francis Alexander? Where did you get that name from? Better yet, how did you come up with a fake ID? I almost fainted when you flaunted it in front of two cops like it was nothing. It was too much of a risk. Oh my God, Esteban! You should have seen those pictures, Adriana tore a man to pieces! Those images are the stuff nightmares are made of and I lied…I lied more in the last twenty minutes than I’ve done in my lifetime.”
“Yes. And that is another reason for the fake IDs. You need to understand we cannot continue living here in New York. I hope you hadn’t planned on staying. First of all, no matter how big the city, there are people who recognize me here. Secondly, if Adriana is the suspect of a crime, those nice cops won’t just stop knocking at your door. It is inevitable. We need to get out of here.”
Esteban handed her a second ID, one with her picture, an upstate address, and the name Maritza Halloway.
“I’m sorry to rush this decision for both of us, but it’s time to say goodbye, sweetheart.”
***
Days went by and there was no progress on the investigation. The fingerprint report just sent it all into a bizarre direction. The prints lifted off Adriana Popescu’s nightstand and a piece of broken glass from a whiskey decanter were a positive identification, but those imprinted upon the body of the victim, and the clear impression of a blood drenched hand on the wall after the deed was done, seemed to come from a different source. That second set of prints led to no reasonable identification pattern. Not only that, the DNA of the blo
od collected had been altered somehow. The outcome could not guarantee it was completely human.
The blurry impression of a man returning a leased car hadn’t left the top of Anderson’s desk. The cop was haunted by bits and pieces that might complete the puzzle.
A couple of days after talking to Marissa Salgado, Anderson placed a call to Carter. They met to trade a few observations on the case. The man asked the woman about her impression of Francis Alexander. After all, her attention to the man, complacency that came off as almost flirty, was the only objectionable behavior he found with the rookie. Carter excused herself, recognizing it was something she felt out of her character, yet almost impossible to avoid.
“Come on, Carter, leave the crush behind. Just tell me what you remember about this guy.”
The policewoman took a breath and knitted her eyebrows, discovering it was hard to have any recollection of the man who had created such an impression in her.
“Let’s see. He was tall, athletically built. His hair was…goodness gracious, Anderson, I can’t remember!”
The only two observations made by the counter employee at the rental place were highlighted in yellow: tall, wide shoulders.
The address provided by Francis Alexander took Anderson to a residence in Manhattan, registered as property of an Isabel O’Reilly. An employee of the household informed Carter that Mrs. O’Reilly had taken to Ireland after her son’s demise, leaving the administration of all her private affairs to her nephew, Francis Alexander. The testimony easily corroborated what the young man had stated.
It was a notion tinged with stupidity. A thousand men in a lineup could be tall and of athletic build. Even Carter’s loss of memory could not make for probable cause. The blurred image on the picture gripped the man behind the desk quite firmly…a hell of a handshake. The cop found himself scribbling direct physical contact in the margin before scratching through it, frustrated.