More gritty fiction from
Daniel Serrano
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BOOGIE DOWN
Available now from Grand Central Publishing
CHAPTER 1
CEMETERY HILL
Cassandra was an NYPD detective, an undercover assigned to stop a monster.
The newspapers called him the Marathon Slasher. He stalked female joggers at night. He shredded their faces with a scalpel.
Cassandra’s job was to lure the Slasher out of hiding. To act the part of a lonely jogger, unaware, reckless in her choice of shadowy cinder trails at dusk.
Cassandra was nervous. Undercover work was always dangerous.
Plus she had seen the photos in the case files. The scars. The grief in the victims’ eyes.
Her department-issued semiautomatic was holstered inside her waistpack.
Two male undercovers shadowed her. Ghosts, they were called. Their job was to protect Cassandra yet stay out of sight. Each pretended to be a lone jogger, one ahead, the other behind Cassandra, about a twentieth of a mile, approximately one city block.
Compost in a nearby field mixed with the July heat to deliver a sweet, disgusting smell. That summer had been a scorcher.
Cassandra spoke up: “Jennings, what’s your twenty?”
They communicated using radios rigged to look like MP3 players.
“Behind you, Detective, about an eighth of a klick.”
“All clear?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Pace?”
“Ten-minute miles.”
Cassandra glanced at her watch. “Ten-zero exactly?”
That would put Jennings thirty seconds back.
“Ten point oh exactly, Detective. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on you.”
Tactical teams throughout the park monitored their transmissions and tracked them on satellite.
Each jogger had a GPS chip on his or her person. Cassandra’s was tied to her sneaker. A command post managed the entire set from inside a fake Metropolitan Transportation Authority repair truck, parked on Broadway, under the number 1 train.
Cassandra radioed the lead ghost: “Jones? What’s your twenty?”
She envisioned Jones checking the GPS watch he had coaxed from Technical Assistance. “A block ahead of you, Detective. Ten-minute miles.”
Six miles an hour. Fast for her, this late into the run. Sweat salted her eyes.
Jones called. “Approaching the bridge, Detective. Ready for Cemetery Hill?”
Runners talked about the Hill. They feared it.
It was called Cemetery Hill because the city’s first native-born mayor had been buried up there. It was known as a spirit-breaker for runners, but supposedly rewarded your effort with a special view of Manhattan’s distant spires.
Previously Cassandra had always been too fatigued by this point to take the Hill and had stayed on the flats. This night she wanted to push herself.
“Stick it.”
“Ten-four.”
Cassandra imagined the lead runner crossing the bridge that connected to the back hills. Thirty seconds later she came to the span herself. She crossed it.
Trees on either side of the trail reached for one another with their branches like laced fingers. They formed a dark canopy over the trail that enveloped all who passed beneath.
Cassandra pumped her knees. Her earphones radiated silence beneath her ghosts’ heavy breathing. She bopped her head and pretended to listen to music to appear like an easy target. In her mind, she got to the Spanish part of “Diamond Girl.”
The first hill rose. It quickly became vertical. Like running in sand. With boots on.
Cassandra immediately regretted her decision to take the Hill.
She felt jumpy. It was dark. A raccoon scampered from a bush and she flinched. Cassandra’s heart rate was off the chart. She labored to breathe.
She glanced back and saw only shadows. She glanced again and caught the flash of a man suddenly in, then suddenly out of sight on the curved path behind.
A running man.
Cassandra’s heart skipped. Where did you go?
She slowed to let the running man round the bend. He didn’t.
Where are you?
She whispered into her mic. “Jennings?”
“Yeah?”
“You see him?”
“Who?”
“In front of you. John Doe running man.”
“Where?”
“Just ahead of you, maybe half a klick.”
Jennings cleared his throat. “Negative.”
“On the Hill.”
“The Hill? I thought you said, ‘Skip it’?”
“What?”
Jones cut in. He could see their locations on his special watch. “Detective, it looks like Jennings didn’t take the cutoff, he stayed on the flats. I’m heading back—”
Cassandra stage-whispered, “Negative. Slow your pace and stand by. Tactical units stand down.”
A lieutenant inside the fake repair truck radioed.
“Detective, you have to abort. It’s too dangerous. Jones, turn around and rendezvous with her. Jennings—”
Cassandra cut in: “No, Lou, please don’t. If it’s him, he ain’t made me. Don’t blow my cover.”
“Detective—”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. I have my firearm.”
It got harder to breathe.
The lieutenant hesitated. “Ten-four.”
Cassandra didn’t waste oxygen thanking him. “Jennings, are you hauling back?”
“Fast as I can.”
“Floor it.”
Cassandra glanced behind. Nothing.
I saw you. I know you’re back there, running man.
Cassandra touched the cherished gold ring on the chain around her neck. She said a two-second prayer and quietly unzipped her waistpack. She felt the gun and removed a small can of pepper spray.
“Jennings?”
Her feet were like buckets of wet cement.
“Halfway up the Hill, Detective. Don’t see nobody.”
How is that possible? The curvature of the trail was not so great; one of them should be able to see someone between them.
Cassandra glanced back.
Nothing.
When she turned to face forward the Marathon Slasher leaped from behind a tree with his scalpel out.
“It’s him!”
He swung.
Cassandra snapped her head back. The blade missed her throat by a whisper but sliced the earphone wires. The Slasher swung his free hand and tore her necklace off.
Cassandra aimed the spray but the Slasher knocked her hand and the aerosol discharged into her face.
“Aaahhh!”
The sting exploded up her nostrils. It lit her eyes on fire. The can dropped from her hand.
Cassandra’s eyes welded shut. She threw a wild punch.
The Slasher slapped her with a hand like cast iron. He grabbed her ponytail and yanked her off the trail into some trees.
“No!” She kicked. “Stop!” She could not see.
Her sneaker with the tracking chip came off.
Opening her eyes, Cassandra plunged her hand into her waistpack.
The Slasher threw himself on top of her. They tumbled downhill, grabbing each other.
Suddenly he was above her, scalpel high.
Cassandra jammed the gun under his chin.
“Freeze!”
He froze.
She strained to keep her eyes open. “Toss the blade!”
He hesitated.
She flicked the safety and cocked the hammer. “I swear to God!”
The Slasher tossed the scalpel.
Cassandra pressed the muzzle to his carotid. “Off me! Kiss the dirt!”
The Slasher moved slowly.
Cassandra got to her knees and jammed the muzzle into the back of his head. She forced him facedown and scrambled for the cuffs in her waistpack. She restrained his hands behind
his back, then spun away to empty her water bottle into her eyes.
“Oh, God!”
She gagged, hands on knees.
There was something in her bra. She felt it.
Her special ring!
The necklace was gone, but the ring had fallen into her cleavage. Cassandra held back a sob.
The Slasher spoke to her in Spanish. “I will peel your face away and the world shall see who you really are.”
His accent was unfamiliar to her. He was not Puerto Rican, Mexican, or Dominican. Cassandra’s backups, Jones and Jennings, called from the running trail.
Her eyes swollen almost shut, she bent and grabbed the links between the cuffs. She put her foot on the Slasher’s shoulder and yanked. His rotator cuff popped.
“¡Ayy!”
She spoke Spanish. “Threaten me again and I’ll kill you.”
Her ghosts ran up with flashlights and guns drawn. Jones had a finger through the laces of her running shoe.
Cassandra snatched it and pointed. “Weapon’s in the bushes. Locate it for Crime Scene.”
Jones searched for the scalpel. The Slasher squirmed and moaned. Blue and white lights flashed through the trees. Sirens approached.
Jennings bent toward Cassandra. “Great work, Detective. You collared the Marathon Slasher.” He put his hand on her lower back. “Wanna go for a drink after the paperwork?”
Mucus dripped from Cassandra’s nose. She looked into the man’s face. He had been assigned to protect her.
She thought of something sarcastic to say, but heaved on his sneakers before she could get it out.
CHAPTER 2
MOTHER’S MILK
The following morning Cassandra was in the kitchen of her house on Virgil Place, in Castle Hill, in front of the stove in her robe and slippers.
She was sore. Her face stung as if she’d fallen asleep in the sun. Her throat was irritated. But she was alive, Praise God, in one piece, and making breakfast for her son.
Yellow butter sizzled in the frying pan. The smell of it filled Cassandra’s kitchen. She poured pancake batter into perfect circles.
“Jason, honey, I need you to clear the table.”
The boy was playing with toy cars, as he did every morning. He did not respond. He lined the cars side by side, counted them, recited their colors in order. Then he scrambled the cars and lined them up again exactly as they had been. He counted and recited their colors again.
Cassandra interrupted before he restarted the process.
“Jason.”
He stopped but did not look up.
“Please put your cars away so we can eat. Thank you.”
Her son’s eyes did not find hers. Cassandra stood in front of him, collected the cars, placed them in his hands.
“Go put them in your room. Wash your hands; breakfast is almost ready.”
Jason slid slowly off the chair and went to his bedroom. She grabbed the spatula.
Children with autism require routine. Cassandra had learned that.
What she had never imagined was how much she would need these mornings with her son. Nothing could take away her guilt and constant worry about how much work kept her away from him. She was not there to attend to or protect him for most of the day. That bothered her.
But their quiet time, when they ate together, that gave Cassandra great satisfaction.
Seven in the morning and already the heat was making the back of Cassandra’s neck sweat. Her mother returned from the corner store with bananas and an armful of newspapers.
“Wait until you see!”
Cassandra had made front-page news.
The New York Post and the Daily News had run virtually identical full-page color photos of the Marathon Slasher as he was wheeled from an ambulance into the emergency room, hands cuffed to the sides of his gurney like Hannibal Lecter.
In each picture Cassandra was escorting the prisoner in her running gear. The gold detective’s shield dangled across her chest.
Both papers featured the same headline: CAPTURED!
One ran a caption: NYPD Det. Cassandra Maldonado hauls alleged Marathon Slasher to hospital after daring Bronx foot chase.
Her mother read the news account. She stopped and looked up at Cassandra.
“That man tried to cut you?”
“Mom, reporters exaggerate. Want a pancake?”
“Too fattening.”
“You always say no, then end up eating one of mine.”
“Cassandra, you did not tell me this was gonna be dangerous.”
“Want some scrambled eggs?”
“Cholesterol.” Her mother went back to reading.
Cassandra told her mother that the commissioner’s office had called about a press conference with the mayor.
“The mayor? Think you can get a desk job?”
“I told you, Mami, I wanna go to HI-PRO.”
“What’s that?”
“High-profile crimes. Celebrities. Cases that make big news.”
“Out on the streets?”
“Sometimes. But not like before. No more buy-and-bust operations with drug dealers.” Cassandra pointed the spatula at the newspapers. “I can’t do undercover work anymore. The whole world knows I’m a cop.”
“What about the hours?”
Cassandra knew her schedule had been a strain on her mother, who took up the slack in caring for Jason. It was only the three of them now. Cassandra’s recent stint at Missing Persons had given her a predictable 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. schedule. No overtime, and she was home in the evenings to care for her son. Her mother feared a return to old ways.
“I don’t think I’ll work so much overtime when I get my promotion. It comes with a raise. I can still keep coming home at a decent hour. You’ll keep your evenings.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“I know, Mami. Egg white omelet?”
“Uy, no. Don’t taste like anything.” Her mother pointed at the Slasher on the front page. “How did he get hurt?”
Cassandra stacked pancakes on a plate.
“Slipped on a banana peel trying to escape.”
Cassandra peeled a banana, sliced it, made a smiley face on the top pancake out of it. She poured her son a glass of milk.
“Jason!”
He bounded into the kitchen, sat at the table, and picked up his fork.
Cassandra’s mother looked at Jason through the top part of her bifocals. “What, Grandma’s like a piece of furniture around here?”
The boy climbed from his chair and went to her. She raspberried him on the neck and he giggled. She pointed at Cassandra on the front page.
“You see who that is?”
He looked at the paper.
“Who is that, Jason?”
“Mommy.”
“Who?”
“Mommy.”
“That’s right. Your mommy’s famous. She stopped a bad guy. Now we don’t have to worry about him no more.”
Jason looked Cassandra in the eye and smiled. She smiled back.
Her mother patted him on the butt. “All right, Papito, sit down and eat.”
Jason sat and ate one banana slice at a time. First the eyes, then the nose, finally the smile. Always in that order.
Cassandra poured pancake batter. She included an extra one for her mother. She spied her child from the corner of her eye and felt the fullness of love.
Contents
FRONT COVER IMAGE
WELCOME
DEDICATION
A PREVIEW OF BOOGIE DOWN
AUTHOR’S NOTE
EPIGRAPH
PRÓLOGO
PART I: WINDY CITY SHAKEDOWN
CHAPTER 01: MONEY AIN’T A THANG
CHAPTER 02: SAGITTARIUS (DEEP INSIDE)
CHAPTER 03: JURISDICTION
CHAPTER 04: MAESTRO (THAT LATIN STRUT)
PART II: MOTIVES
CHAPTER 05: SEPARATE WAYS (WORLDS APART)
CHAPTER 06: BEHOLD THIS GOLDEN CHARIOT
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 07: LOVE TUMBLES DOWN
CHAPTER 08: TUMBANDO CAÑA
CHAPTER 09: SLINGSHOT
CHAPTER 10: WORKING-CLASS DOGS
CHAPTER 11: THE 1980s
CHAPTER 12: SNAKEBITE
PART III: INTERLUDE: AZTEC GOLD
CHAPTER 13: A TIGHT RED DRESS
CHAPTER 14: MARGARITAS (WITH SALT)
CHAPTER 15: LOVE’S LABOR
CHAPTER 16: DAWN OF THE GILDED AGE
CHAPTER 17: PORTRAIT
CHAPTER 18: PRIME RIB
CHAPTER 19: FLING
CHAPTER 20: AUTUMN LEAVES
CHAPTER 21: AFTERGLOW
CHAPTER 22: NURSERY RHYME
CHAPTER 23: CONFESSION
CHAPTER 24: THE COLD, HARD ONES
PART IV: GALLERY OF ENDANGERED SPECIES
CHAPTER 25: THE MOURNING AFTER
CHAPTER 26: BACKSLIDE
CHAPTER 27: CONFUSION’S MASTERPIECE
PART V: NIGHTFALL
CHAPTER 28: THE FOURTH MAN
CHAPTER 29: SLOW DANCE
CHAPTER 30: TODO TIENE SU FINAL
EPÍLOGO
READING GROUP GUIDE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PRAISE FOR GUNMETAL BLACK
COPYRIGHT
Praise for
GUNMETAL BLACK
“Violent… a sobering dose of life, friendship, loyalty, and betrayal that will leave readers hanging on every word.”
—Upscale magazine
“Serrano delivers… he writes with style and power… a surprisingly lyrical book filled with graceful sentences and potent imagery. The dialogue snaps realistically and fast… Just as important is Serrano’s success in plotting… Serrano’s story does what all the fine crime novels do—place a choice in the hands of a man who may or may not be corrupted… a crime novel that is traditional and new… a page-turner.”
—Popmatters.com
“If Elmore Leonard were Nuyorican, this is the novel he would write.”
—LatinoLA.com
“A complex yet simple, edgy yet smooth, 3-D work of art that reads like a classic movie. Daniel Serrano, the craft master, truly has a way with words!”
—Pynk, author of Sixty-Nine
Gunmetal Black Page 33