by Ronnie Allen
Flower crouched down on her knees on a bed of leaves by the body of the man who weighed about one sixty at five feet, nine. He appeared to be in good shape for a guy in his fifties. She poked at his ribs and waist with her index finger. No fat. Not good. That would add some complications.
She pulled a ponytail band out of her jeans pocket and picked up her mid-back-length cornbraids, tying them back. Some strands of her coarse black hair stuck to her latex glove. She moaned a sigh of relief, glad she noticed, but annoyed at the same time that she’d wasted precious moments. She pulled the strands off the gloves, rubbed them between her fingers to make a ball, and stuck it into the zipped compartment inside the knapsack. She put on another pair of gloves just in case the first became torn.
From inside the knapsack she retrieved a plastic surgical cover-up, placed it around her neck, and tied it behind her, covering her T-shirt and jeans. Good thing she was wasn’t overweight. She could wrap it around her. Next, she slipped on plastic arm covers, to protect her still open, self-inflicted wounds from splatter and transference. Yeah. Bandages covered them, but you never knew, and they oozed. Besides, they hurt like hell. She dug two fingers into her jeans pocket and pried out a thirty-mg Blue. She popped it into her mouth and dry swallowed, giving a non-verbal thank you to her street pharmacist for her supply of oxycodone. She retrieved a new plastic mat, removed its Saran protective sheath, and placed it on top of leaves next to her. Everything was brand new. It had to be done right--no, more than right. This was by far the most important kill to date. She removed her tools from the knapsack.
Two paring knives and a machete.
CHAPTER 2
The phone ringing at six a.m. made her stomach queasy. She stretched, rolled over in bed, picked up the handset, and glanced at the caller ID. Shit, what could have possibly happened now?
She sat up, leaned against her light wood headboard, and paused before answering. Stalling, she adjusted her pillow behind her back in the hopes they would hang up. No such luck.
“Hi, Mom, what’s going on?”
“Nothing, Sam. Just wanted to hear how my darling daughter is feeling about going into work today.”
Sam rolled her eyes and pushed the comforter down to her thighs. “Mom, I’m fine.”
“Well, it’s not every day you move up a rank. And Daddy and I...well, you know, are just a little concerned.”
“Mom, you’ve been telling me this for four years now. It’s getting old.”
“Yes, but, every day you seem to be going deeper into the trenches.”
“Mom, the only difference between today and yesterday is my uniform. I’m in plain clothes now.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ll be behind a desk more, does it? I hope.”
“Not exactly, but I’ll never be alone either. Please stop worrying. You’re putting undue stress on me, not to mention yourselves.” Sam glanced at the clock embedded in a floral vase on her night table. “Okay, Mom, I’ve got to get ready. Love you.”
“Love you too, baby.”
Sam looked at the handset. Yeah right, baby. I’m thirty-seven and a detective.
Pulling the covers off her, the excitement hit! She’d made it. The rank she’d been aiming for--detective in Manhattan Mid-town South.
Nothing would be as memorable as her first day.
She sat on the edge of the bed with her feet dangling, looking around at all she’d accomplished. She had finally saved enough to purchase, and furnish, her own house, in her own style, contemporary. She stared at the faux painted wall that was behind her dresser. Wow, she had fallen in love with that muted-line design the moment she had seen it in the book. She nodded. Yes. It definitely looked better close up and personal in her own shades of teals, blues, and greens. She still couldn’t believe the hassle she had, finding a painter. Finally, one of the girls at her gym had told her about this guy in the East Village. He ripped her off, though, charging a lot more for him having to schlep to Brooklyn. She’d never tell him, but his fee was so well worth it. Still, the inside didn’t reflect the frame of the house built in the 1930s. She’d get to the outside in due time.
She had five hours to get to her new assignment, so she figured she’d get in a run. Showered, dressed in sweats and a T, she almost made it out the door, but the ringing phone forced her to stop. Looking at the handset, she answered the call with a sense of dread. “What’s up, Loo?”
“Sam, I know you’re not mine anymore, but I really need you on this one. Cleared it with your new captain. Domestic disturbance. Not far from you. I’ll text you the details. Get there ASAP. Don’t even bother to change.”
She glanced down at her sweats.
How in hell did he know that?
***
She stopped at the base of the stoop and checked her Glock 19. Ready to go, she replaced it in her waist holster covered by her T-shirt. Walking up the stairs to the front porch of the attached, two-family home on the tree lined block in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, she heard the commotion from inside the house--a woman and child, screaming. Her first instinct was to call for backup, but it arrived, as if on cue. She abruptly turned and faced him, as he walked up the stoop.
He leaned against the wrought iron banister that outlined the perimeter of the porch, his arms crossed over his chest. “Nick Valatutti, your new partner. Some way to get acquainted, huh?”
“A detective from Manhattan South in Brooklyn? How you’d manage that?”
“Captain to captain deal. No time for that now. It’s your lead.”
Sam got the impression, on the spot, that this was a test. She sneered at the suited man twice her size, her intense glare sending him a message that she got it, and turned her attention to listen to the noises coming from inside the house.
She knew better than to bust in. Last time cops did that, a teenage girl was shot and killed. This was no time to be a maverick. This was the time for her to use her strongest weapon, her training. She knocked on the door.
“Who’s there?” yelled the gruff, angry voice.
“It’s Officer Samantha Wright, Mr. Holden. I was called because of the disturbance inside.”
“There’s no disturbance. Go away.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holden, I can’t do that just yet. Is it okay if I call you Mr. Holden?”
“Yeah, but nobody calls me mister. Yeah, okay, you can. Ah am Mr. Holden. Just go away.”
Sam smiled. She made a positive dent in his self-esteem. “I’m sorry again, Mr. Holden. I can’t do that just yet.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I heard a child screaming in there, sir.”
“That ain’t your business.”
She leaned her head closer to the door. “Yes, sir, it is. Can you tell me what’s going on, Mr. Holden?”
“I’m not talking to no cops.”
Sam paused before speaking, her eyes widening. “Had some bad experiences?”
“Some.”
Good, he’s talking. She nodded, different thoughts running through her mind. “In New York?”
“Yeah, and back home, in Alabama.”
Nick got on his smartphone and made contact with his office for info on this guy. In a few minutes, a rap sheet came up. David Holden. Forty-two. Three arrests for aggravated spousal abuse with those charges dropped by his wife, two arrests for petty larceny, and one arrest for prescription drug trafficking with firearms, for which he spent a dime in federal lockup in Alabama, 1999-2009.
“Okay,” Sam whispered after reading the sheet. “Plans may be changing.” She turned her attention to the door. “Mr. Holden, how long have you lived in Sheepshead Bay?”
“Why?”
“Well, we just like to get to know the people we’re talking with, you know? Just to make conversation.”
“Three months, but ah can’t get this bitch here to move back to Mobile with me.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Why doesn’t she want to go?”
“Doesn’t want to leave her dang family
. An’ ain’t leaving this bastard kid.”
“It sounded like a little girl. Is she your daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is she?”
“Three, almost four.”
“Oh, that’s such a sweet age. I don’t have any children yet, but I’d love a little girl. So what’s the problem, then?”
“Ah’m not letting them leave. That’s what the old lady is bawlin’ about.”
“Oh, so you’re holding them against their will?”
“I don’t like the sound of that, Officer...what did you say your name was?”
“Samantha Wright. Yeah, well, you’re not allowed to do that, Mr. Holden.”
Nick got on the phone and called in a hostage situation. Sam glared at him. “I got this.”
“Not taking any chances. Go on.”
Is he my partner or my boss?
“Mr. Holden, may I please come in, so we can relax and talk about this? I’m getting tired, standing here.”
“You wanna come in? Hah! Just so ya know, I got firepower in here.”
“Oh, what do you carry?”
Nick shook his head. “You’re staying out.”
She mouthed “Shut up” to him. “Mr. Holden, out of curiosity, what do you have?”
“A couple automatics, an’ ah ain’t afraid to use them.”
“I believe you, Mr. Holden, but why would you want to?”
“This bitch is annoyin’ me.”
“Have you been married a long time?”
“We ain’t married. Just met her when I got out of lockup, and she had this brat.”
“You don’t sound like you love them, so why are you preventing them from leaving?”
There was a tension-filled minute of silence. Sam glanced at Nick who already had his SIG P226 held down at his side.
“Ah do love them, I think.”
“Well, if you love them, why do you want to hurt them with guns and all?”
There was another long minute of silence. She’d made him think. Good. Nick nodded. She read his body language. So far, he approved.
“I dunno.”
“You know, Mr. Holden, I’d really like to sit down and talk to you. So we can help fix this. And no one is hurt yet, right?”
“No, no one ain’t hurt.”
“Okay, that’s good. Very good. So why don’t you let your precious little girl--you do think she’s precious, right?”
“Yeah, she’s precious.”
“Okay, so why don’t you let your precious little girl and girlfriend out, and you and I can talk?”
After what seemed to be an hour to Sam, the door crept open, and she saw the brownest little eyes looking up at her with tears streaming down her face. She looked angelic with about twenty barrettes in her braided hair. Her pink dress was tattered and looked about two sizes too small for her already petite frame.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is Daddy letting you come out?”
After receiving a meek nod and sniffles, Sam glanced over the little girl’s head to view the inside of the living room. She saw Mr. Holden seated on a couch, holding a Luger 9 mm to his girlfriend’s chest. He had pinned her next to him with his right arm around her shoulder.
With caution, Sam took the little girl’s hand in hers and escorted her out of the house, onto the porch. Nick scooped her up in both arms, holding her against his chest for a moment. He then handed her over to a female officer right behind him, who ran with her to a squad car.
Sam watched for a moment as squad cars and an ambulance got in place. Officers cordoned off the narrow one-way street to keep bystanders from coming close. Two detectives exited a car and started to approach. Nick gave them a hand signal to back off. Um...he was actually letting her continue?
Sam turned her attention back to the open door and slid it open a sliver wider. As she stood in the entryway, she didn’t see a hardened criminal. She didn’t see a man who wanted to do harm. She saw a man who looked more weathered than forty-two, balding, and who looked tired of the lifestyle. He looked plain exhausted, with bags under his eyes, a paunchy stomach, and soiled white undershirt. The tattoos on his now undefined biceps had faded from their original reds and greens. Some looked like gang tats. “Mr. Holden, may I come in?”
“What did you go ahead and do? Call all the cops in the city?”
“It’s standard practice when someone tells us they have weapons and are holding someone against their will, sir. I’m just following the rules.” Sam crept in to the entry hall and leaned against the doorframe. Her gaze scanned the room--sparse, only the couch against the pale blue wall with a chipped glass coffee table in front of it.
“He’s threatening to kill me,” cried the thirty-something woman. She wrung her hands together on her lap as she kept her gaze peeled on the gun.
“What’s your name, hon?”
She swallowed and made eye contact with Sam for the first time. “Carmen, Carmen Rivera.”
“Mr. Holden, you do see how frightened Miss Rivera is, don’t you?”
He gave a pitiful laugh. “Yeah.”
“Come on, Mr. Holden. What do you expect to accomplish?”
“What do ya mean?”
“You expect a woman to want to be with you when you hold her and her child at gunpoint? That’s not what love is about, and you did say you loved them, right?”
Carmen’s hand tenderly touched his. “And I love him too, most of the time. Most times, he’s sweet and kind to me. I just don’t know what ticked him off. Where’s my baby?”
“She’s safe outside, Miss Rivera. I’d like to know what ticked him off too, so why don’t you tell us, Mr. Holden? What really got you ticked off today?”
He lowered his gun and let it fall between his knees, though his finger remained on the trigger, then lowered his head as if ashamed. “They’re after me again.”
“Who?”
He kept his gaze down on the floor. “Some dudes I used to run with in the hood back in the day. Who ah went to prison for.”
“So why take it out on Miss Rivera and your daughter?”
“Ah thought that if I got arrested again, I could get protection. Know what ah mean?”
“Yes, I do. We could have protected you without you having to resort to this. So how about it? Let Miss Rivera go and we can talk about it.”
He paused. “Okay.” He shoved the woman off the couch. She ran out of the house without looking back.
“Mr. Holden, slide your weapon across the floor over to me, please.” He slid the gun around the coffee table. “Good, now get down on your knees, please, with your fingers interlaced on top of your head. You’ll talk to us down at the precinct.”
He came out from behind the table, knelt beside it, and three uniformed officers rushed in to take over. She had reached her goal of no shots fired.
Sam bent over, her hands on her knees, and let out a deep sigh of relief as Nick approached her. “Nice job.”
She looked up at his stoic face. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me run with it, without letting them interfere.”
Nick didn’t respond to her last comment, but nodded. “Just remember, you won’t get praise easily from me, or often. See you at the precinct.” He turned to walk down the steps.
“Hey, Valatutti. You’re not my supervisor, remember that.”
He paused for a moment but didn’t turn around. With his back toward her, he retorted, “And you’re a detective now. Get used to using the title. Remember that.”
She looked after her training partner as he skipped down the steps. What a bastard! A handsome one, but a bastard, nonetheless. Tall, long straight dark hair covering his shirt collar, hazel eyes, clean-shaven rugged facial features, looked muscular under the suit. She couldn’t help but notice his wide marriage band on his left hand. He was definitely off limits. Okay, he was one man whom she could count on to be safe.
She walked to her Murano and slipped into the driver’s seat. She retrieved the recording device from
inside her bra and turned it off. Transcribing her report, which Nick had to review, would be much easier this way, and would fairly determine Mr. Holden’s fate. That was what she would tell them, anyway. In reality, she didn’t remember what she had said. In times like this, her Spirit Guide, Dara, took over.
It looked like she had just opened another case for this Brooklyn precinct. But to be honest with herself, she was glad she wasn’t a part of it anymore. Everyone would get her DD5, in the meticulous way she had always written them, and her part would be over. Yay!
Now, she needed that run. She’d be able to get it in before heading to her new precinct. She’d shower and change into a suit when she got there. With her hands on the steering wheel, she sat for a few moments, reflecting on the past few days. She spent quite a bit of time choosing her outfit once she got notice. Everything planned down to the smallest detail. Something that would scream professionalism, yet display her femininity. Something that would make the men and women in this Manhattan division respect her, even though she was the newbie.
She looked out the car window. Clouds formed, predicting rain. That was okay with her. When starting a new venture, rain was an omen of good luck. With a new partner like Nick, she’d need as much luck as she could conjure up.
***
She loved this park in the outskirts of Chelsea. It was always clean. The residents here didn’t litter. The dense foliage bordering the jogging track was trimmed and unobtrusive. Orange, yellow, and red leaves, shed from the trees and bushes, padded the ground. Caretakers did their best to blow the leaves off the track, but their efforts were short lived. She felt as if she’d escaped to the country, if only for an hour. If she took pics of this quadrant of the park, without buildings to intrude, no one would know this was lower Manhattan.