by Anthology
“Yes, upon his marriage to me.” Mina straightened. She tugged at the straps of her too-tight dress. “And did you say yes?”
“I did, but…” I dropped my eyes. “You know…”
“What is it you think I know?”
“His last three girlfriends died after he asked them to move in with him.” I steadied myself. I’d said what I came to say; the words no one else had said until now.
“Is that so?”
I nodded, pretending again to look nervous. “Should I be worried?”
Mina’s face had gone entirely pale. “What’s that?”
“Nervous. Should I be nervous?” I forced a high, coquettish laugh. “Or am I being silly?”
“Will you excuse me a moment, dear?”
I nodded, but as soon as Mina slipped from the room, my hand traveled to the small of my back, where the Glock remained firmly secured.
I continued my scan of the room. Nothing extraordinary, or immediately alarming. Fine art lined the walls. The furniture was all antique, as was the rug it sat upon. A few vases and a sculpture graced oak end tables. The only unsettling piece of décor was a framed photo from Mina and Cian’s wedding day.
Ten minutes passed and Mina still had not reappeared.
I slowly rose. I pulled my Glock from the back of my pants and wrapped both hands around the metal, dropping it to my side as I took careful steps in the direction Mina disappeared.
My feet rose and fell against the wood floor with in methodical slowness. At each room I stopped, lifted my service weapon, and then dropped it again after determining Mina was not inside.
Light spilled out from under a door at the end of the hall.
I started my approach, my steps slower, quieter. Mina was beyond that door. She had to be, as it was the only room I hadn’t checked.
The metal doorknob was cold to the touch. I started to turn it when I heard a click. Not from behind the door, but the kitchen.
Before I could investigate, two young men stumbled into the hallway carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies and a long black bag that resembled the type people used when traveling with skis or other unwieldly items.
They looked more shocked to see me than I did to see them. The one carrying the bucket dropped it, stumbled to recover, then trained his wide eyes on his partner for direction.
At that moment, Mina burst from the room wielding a golf club and a wild look. I tore her attention away from the newcomers and dodged just as the driver crashed into the wall behind where I stood, creating a divot in the drywall. Then I, still doubled over, rushed Mina and knocked her into the door, flinging it open. Mina stumbled several steps and scrambled for purchase.
I kicked the door closed. I didn’t know if the men were armed, but I needed to secure my immediate area. With my gun trained on Mina with one hand, I fished out my phone with the other and called for backup.
“Are you going to kill me?” Mina shrieked, hanging half on the bed.
“Like you killed the other women Cian dated?”
Mina huffed in indignation, but her eyes were drawn past me as the door opened.
I swung around, pointing my weapon at the intruder. Dunne’s eyes widened and I lowered the gun. He produced his own, directing it at his ex-wife.
“I traced you,” he explained, with an unusually shy glance. “I stopped in around dinner to see you. I couldn’t wait.” He blushed. “Then I saw your note.”
“Gag me,” Mina quipped, despite having two guns trained on her. “All Hail Prince Cian, killer of hearts.”
“The only killer in this room is you,” I said. I looked at Cian. “What about the men outside? We need to stop them before they get far. I called for backup, but they could be down the block by now.”
“Backup is already here.”
I read the question in his eyes. How did you know it was Mina?
I had an answer ready, and would give it to him later, when this was over.
“You want me to say the words, or would you like the honor?” I nodded at Mina.
Cian looked down at his ex-wife, menacing even in her position of disadvantage. “You have the right to remain silent…”
The door opened and two officers rushed in as Cian continued with her rights. They cuffed Mina and one of them removed her from the room. The other stayed, wearing a bewildered look on his face.
“Those two kids?” He waited for Cian and I to nod. “Didn’t even get a chance to read them their rights before they squealed like a couple of baby pigs.”
Cian holstered his weapon. I checked the closet before doing the same. There were at least three people involved in this mess, and, for all I knew there was more. “And?”
“They work for her. For…” he flipped over his notepad. “Mina Dunne. Hey, any relation?”
“Not anymore,” Cian replied.
“At Piedmont College. Didn’t know that place was still open.”
I flashed an impatient look. “Okay, so?”
“Yeah, so, they work in the medical school. Under Mrs. Dunne’s supervision. I guess they have funding issues and so they’ve been having problems getting dead bodies.”
“Dead bodies?” I repeated.
“You know, cadavers. For their research.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“Money wasn’t there, so they weren’t getting bodies. No bodies, no research. No research, no program.”
Cian’s hand slid down his face. He blew out a breath. “So they went out and got their own. Is that what you’re getting at?”
The officer nodded. “According to the two blubbering college kids out there with looser lips than Dolly Parton. Johnson’s trying to get a word in edgewise so we don’t catch hell from the captain when we have to throw out the confession.”
“Jesus,” Cian whispered. He backed up and fell into a seated position on the bed.
“What’s more, they claim this is personal,” the officer went on. “The vics? None were random, to hear them say it. All this, if you can believe it, in the first thirty seconds after we apprehended them. This job always has a way of surprising me.”
“Of course it’s personal,” I muttered. I rested one hand on Cian’s back. I’d been right and was vindicated in my belief, but there was no winner here. Cian would carry this weight on his soul for all time.
“Let’s see. Mostly enemies of Mrs. Dunne. Couldn’t catch everything they said, but we’ll get the details in the confession later. Some friends from her high school days. Girlfriends of her ex-husband.” The officer looked up. His eyes widened. “That’s you, isn’t it? You’re her ex?”
Cian nodded, but didn’t raise his head.
“What a shit show,” the officer mumbled. A pause filled the air as the three of us went silent, and then the other man left us to join the others in the living room.
Captain Miranda reassigned the earlier homicide case and gave Cian and me the next week off. She ended the phone call with me by saying, “And if you guys have something you want to tell me, it can wait until you get back.” There was a light smile in her voice.
Mina had confessed to everything. She needed a plan to save her medical cadaver program when funding was cut. What started as stealing John and Jane Does from the city morgue turned into something far more personal. She made lists. Her students did most of the dirty work, but not all. When it came to Dunne’s exes, she all but bragged at the pain caused. She regretted nothing. “I may go to prison, but Cian won’t escape the one I’ve placed in his head,” she was quoted as saying in her official confession.
I couldn’t turn back time and change the past, but I could be a part of brightening Dunne’s future.
I found him on the fire escape of my apartment, catching snow with his tongue.
“Ever been ice skating?” I asked, as I pulled up a seat on the step behind him, wrapping my legs around his body from the back.
“When I was a boy.”
I kissed his neck. My lips moved through his hai
r, trickling more kisses. “We could go.”
Dunne stood abruptly and turned. He pulled me forward off the step and I stumbled into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered against my cheek.
“It was at least partly a selfish motivation.”
“Still. You’ve been my rock through it all, K. My marriage falling apart, what happened to Lana, Annette, and Katrina. I’m sorry it took me so long to get it together and see that.”
“I’ve always loved you,” I confessed, a truth I’d held tight in my heart for too long.
He wrapped his arms around me, protecting me from the chill of the night air. “Show me.”
Lifeline
By Alexis Alvarez
Olivia
Steam from my hazelnut latte rose into the air, and I was about to take my first sip when Leander texted me.
Livvie. Someone put rubber chickens and a toilet on the Festivus Pole Exhibit and Paolo is IRATE. Need you ASAP. Also, detective is here!!!
“¡Mierda!” I put my phone down hard on the gold-flecked granite. Dudweiler regarded me balefully before flipping her tail left, right, and then leapt, silent grace in flight, to the salvaged wood floor.
“Lo siento, gatita,” I apologized, but she’d already disappeared, and my mind flew ahead, trying to assemble a visual picture. What in the hell? I pulled on my calf-length black leather coat and my favorite cashmere scarf. Red lipstick, and a spray of perfume along my neck and into my long black curls, and I was armed—hopefully—against any fowl play.
The cacophony of the winter city—wheels on slush, shouts, horns—usually lulled me into creative contemplation. The odd text forced my mind into strange whorls, today. I’d dreamed of meeting a man with snapping eyes and a firm mouth, someone to make my holidays come alive with light and passion. But all I had were Leander, my coordinator from the Whitney Museum, and Paolo, an egocentric and sanctimonious artist who was, apparently, pissed off right now.
Another text from Leander: And he’s hot, Livvie. The detective. Not Paolo. UKWIM.
And: Are you almost here???? I’m dying. Paolo is about to throw me in the river!!
It was five miles from Chelsea to Brooklyn Heights, but it took my Uber driver twenty-five minutes of creative maneuvering to cross the bridge and get to Water Street. The wind sent bursts of iced wasabi up my sleeves and I shivered along the wooden boards of the promenade. Instead of summer crowds, disparate individuals pushed into the weather: determined tourists dressed for Antarctica, power walking and pointing; one random old man in a formal coat and beanie hat staring across the river at the Manhattan skyline, still as a glacier.
A trio clustered near Paolo’s exhibit, labeled Festivus Pole: A Master’s Interpretation. Paolo. 2016.
The installation really was something else: A solid steel pole, eight feet high, with what looked like umbrella spokes attached to the top. Spare and sparse, it was called “Hideous,” “The most fuckingly ugly thing I’ve ever seen,” and “One prime example of how modern art is on the downturn” in recent blogs. I loved art—all kinds, all styles, but I didn’t completely disagree with these blogs.
Someone had tied about ten rubber chickens to the spokes, and they dangled from thin ropes. A pristine white toilet sat primly chained to the base. And there was Paolo, incandescent with apparent fury.
Before I got within five feet, I saw flecks of spit hurtling out with Paolo’s words, and I winced in sympathy for Leander and… holy fuck. For the other guy. The detective? The man with them looked over as I approached, our eyes met, and time stopped.
Green eyes set off his aristocratic jaw and dark hair perfectly. Chiseled yet full, his lips were meant to kiss a woman senseless, to suck on her neck while she moaned. I swallowed. He smiled and my heart accelerated. All of the seconds that froze came rushing back around me, water through a dam.
“Paolo, Leander. What’s going on?” I nodded at the stranger, noticing how strong his thighs looked in his pants.
Paolo wrinkled his aquiline nose and smoothed his wavy brown hair. “I’m glad you think this is worthy of your time, Olivia. This pole,” he pointed, his finger an accusing beacon, “is a critical part of my People for a Reformed Festivus celebration. Should I talk to…?” He gestured across the gray, rippling water toward Manhattan.
I held his gaze. “You don’t need to talk to the director, Paolo. Leander and I can take care of this. We’re your go-team here in New York, for the Whitney and The Parks.”
“More like stop-team,” Paolo challenged.
“Let’s talk about how we’re going to handle this,” I said, forcing a pleasant tone. I turned to the sexy cop. “I’m Olivia Terranova. I’m a curator, and I work with the artists whose installations are featured in the park.”
“Detective Lucian Foster.” He gave me his hand and I suppressed my reaction, because the spark of attraction was instantaneous and powerful. I licked my lower lip and something flared in his eyes, and he clenched a muscle in his jaw before releasing my hand.
“I don’t understand why a detective had to come and investigate… chickens?” I turned back to the sculpture. “We can take this down, Paolo. Cut the chain. It doesn’t look like there’s permanent dama—”
Paolo’s voice was tight. “Did you read the note? No, you didn’t. Because clearly this isn’t your priority.”
I leaned forward and scanned the calligraphy hand-drawn onto cardstock. If you’re going to shit on public spaces with ridiculous art, let’s make it official. Feel free to take a dump here. PS—If you don’t remove this statue, I will kill the artist, even though you all think he’s amazing and magnificent. No joke!
I looked over at Paolo, who darted his eyes away and drummed his fingers on his leg. Stepping back, I nodded to Detective Foster. “So you consider this a serious threat?”
“We take all threats seriously, until proven otherwise.” But I saw a hint of humor at the sides of his mouth.
“As should you, Olivia.” Paolo’s eyes slid over to the detective, and I thought I saw a self-satisfied, smug expression as he pushed a lock of hair out of his face.
Detective Foster looked away and I thought he was struggling not to laugh. “What’s Festivus, again?” he asked. He was tall—at least six feet, and built; that much I could tell even under his suit and coat.
Leander was on it. “There was this sitcom, Seinfeld? One of the characters, sick of holiday pomp, invented an anti-holiday called Festivus. You’d put up an ugly pole instead of a tree. Instead of engaging in forgiveness or exchanging gifts, you’d air grievances and complain about your family and friends. It was hilarious.” He blew his nose, apologized, and tucked the hanky back into his coat pocket, which pulled a little at his armpits and over his belly.
I wondered if dealing with the hectic holiday installations at the Whitney had sent Leander straight into the arms of his favorite comfort foods. On a day like today, I could sympathize, although arms… I looked at Detective Foster’s arms. Sexy, muscular arms, with strong hands. I felt a spire of arousal start to wind through my body.
“Oh, okay.” The detective nodded. “I have heard of that.” He looked at me, though, not Leander. “So it’s grown beyond the sitcom, I take it?”
I answered. “Over time, it became a cult thing. There are people who celebrate Festivus. Paolo,” I nodded at our artist, “is famous for putting up Festivus Poles in different cities. He invites local Festivus groups to celebrate with him.”
“And usually,” Paolo added, scowling, “my on-site curator and museum rep are actually adept at securing publicity and viewers for me.”
“Is there anyone who has a grudge against you, Paolo?” Detective Foster’s voice was even.
“Only every other artist in New York who’s jealous of my talent,” replied Paolo, rolling his eyes. “Excuse me while I create a list.” He whipped around, his coat flying about like a whirling dervish, and stalked away, hissing into his phone.
Detective Foster shook his head and laughed. Lucian. I up
graded him in my mind to make him more personal. I loved the crinkles at the sides of his eyes. I bet he’s the kind of guy who leans in with confidence and puts one strong hand on each side of my face, and teases me with his breath, his lips, along my jaw and neck before he moves to my mouth. I touched my index finger to my own lips at the thought.
His smile widened, as if my fantasies played out on my face, and then his expression changed to something thoughtful, and eventually, predatory. He crossed his arms and I tried not to stare.
I cleared my throat. “So… what are you going to do with—this? What’s your plan?”
He nodded, stepped back, and his voice was businesslike. “We’ll bag the note and take it to fingerprint. Ask the park for any surveillance camera footage. The usual—asking if anyone has seen anything.”
I bit back a smile. “You’re taking the chickens and toilet, too?”
He grinned. “They’ll come back with our team, yes, for fingerprint and DNA. My partner has evidence techs on the way. He’ll manage this and head back to the station. And now… I’m off duty.”
Manhattan sparkled, a jagged brilliant necklace on the river, the bridges tiaras in the black air. Another cop directed activity by the installation. Leander followed Paolo across frozen grass, carrying his laptop case like a pack mule.
Lucian put his hands into his pockets as I rewound my scarf. “He seems like a challenge.”
I tilted my head. “He’s frustrated because he’s not getting as much press as he expected. Artists can be temperamental. I should know. I’m one, too, Detective.”
“Luc,” he said, his voice warm and low. “Please, call me Luc.”
“Luc.” I liked his name on my tongue. “My friends call me Livvie.”
“Livvie.” He smiled. “How did you get into art curating? For parks, of all places?”
I tilted my head. “Of all places, parks are the most amazing to curate. I do the High Line park and the Brooklyn Bridge park. They’re lifelines of the city. Arteries pulsing with life, humanity pouring through to enjoy the piece of nature by the water that exists in this city of cement and steel. And when you bring in art and let people interact with it? It’s like the creativity of man meets the creativity of God, and we get to experience them together. It’s awesome.”