JONATHAN STURAK
A SMUDGE OF GRAY
A NOVEL
Also by Jonathan Sturak
NOVELS
Clouded Rainbow
COLLECTIONS
From Vegas With Blood
Copyright © 2012 by Jonathan Sturak. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by Pendan Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are used fictitiously and/or are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has catalogued the paperback edition as follows:
Sturak, Jonathan
A Smudge of Gray : A Novel / by Jonathan Sturak
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-0-9825-8944-1
www.sturak.com
To Uncle Mike
Chapter 1
A subway station bustled, infected with morning commuters. Some walked; some ran; some stood; some slept. Trains zipped by in every direction, screeching from the forced steel-on-steel contact. Chaos engulfed the dwelling, yet everyone seemed to have a plan. Burgundy tiles lined the floor, abused by the soles of humans. Overflowing blue trash barrels littered the walkways next to benches. Red digits from clocks stabbed the stuffy, sweat-soaked air. It was five minutes after seven o’clock in the morning.
A particular train slowed. It was not unlike the others as its stainless steel exterior displayed its share of graffiti. As the train’s speed diminished, its moan echoed off the concrete walls and entered the ear canals of the thousands of busy animals. The sound from the train was just as ear-piercing as the others in the fleet of speeding metal, but there was something different about this particular train—something not about the way it looked, but rather the occupant it held. The train finally stopped. The doors burst open and the crowd waiting to embark fought those struggling to exit.
Just as it seemed the deck had shuffled, a pair of charcoal gray shoes stepped from the train. They were made of calf leather with a hand-sewn Goodyear construction for exceptional durability, comfort, and support. Synthetic shoelaces were snaked through five holes with a small piece of white leather sewn into their faces, which accented the reflecting shoes as they coolly clumped on the tile. A pair of black dress slacks swished on top of the polished leather. The pants were made of 100% virgin wool that virgin hands had carefully stitched. They were 34 inches in the waist and had an inseam of 34 inches as well. They had one-inch cuffs, a traditional inflection, and were pressed with a hint of starch to keep the crease prominent, no matter where the wearer took them. The bottom of a black trench coat rested just below the knee, enough to keep it from hindering the movement of its occupant. A stout black briefcase hung from the right side of the man as one of his black leather gloves gripped its steel-hinged handle. The trench coat was open and allowed others to see a black suit coat, size 42 long. A black and white tie hung proudly and covered the six ivory buttons of the man’s fitted white dress shirt. The clothes that cloaked the man ended at his face, or rather, the man who cloaked the clothes began there. He was tall, standing at six feet two inches, and had a cunning face ripened to the age of forty-three. His hair was black and styled like a Wall Street millionaire, perfectly parted to the left. He had the power to tickle any woman’s libido and the stature to make any man envious of his style. The dapper gentleman who walked through the crowd had something about him, something nonchalant, something that begged further inspection. His name was Trevor Malloy.
Trevor took a seat on a bench next to an elderly woman. Above them, a flat-screen television provided the commuters with a weather forecaster highlighting the day ahead—sunny with high temperatures reaching fifty degrees, above average. Trevor eyed the woman and smirked, just enough to show his dimples, but this female wanted nothing to do with him, even if he looked like a leading man in a romantic comedy. She scrunched her face slightly, wrinkling her brow in disgust. The elderly woman stood up to catch her train.
The suave man sat alone on the bench. He glanced at his Rolex watch. It was a silver Explorer model with a black dial, and it ticked six minutes after seven. Trevor looked as if he were waiting for something or someone. He grabbed his train ticket receipt and played with it in his hands. He looked at the flurry of activity around him, the disorder of humans traveling to perform their work. Trevor, enjoying the activity in front of him, sat with his legs crossed. He noticed a beggar offering a change cup to the ignorant crowd. Walking at the slowest pace, a custodial worker in a red uniform lugged a trash bag. Trevor thought it was ironic that all of these people scurried to work, but once they were there, like the custodial worker, their scurry turned into a shuffle. The worker passed the bum on the ground, and for a moment, they locked eyes.
What the bum needs is a red uniform, not some change, Trevor reflected.
Across the tracks, a group of kids played hide-and-seek through the legs of the travelers. Trevor chuckled as he watched a dark-haired girl chasing after a younger boy.
“Is this seat taken?” a soft voice reached Trevor’s ears.
“No. Please take a seat.”
Before he even turned to look at his visitor, he knew it was a young woman. He also knew she was beautiful, and her natural scent invading his nose added even more to the image of her in his mind. He looked up and saw the breathtaking woman with her blonde hair draped over her white designer coat. A devilish smile emerged on Trevor’s face as she took a seat on the bench, a smile that was more than a movement of facial muscles.
“It’s good to take a seat and reflect,” Trevor added.
“I know. It’s exhausting dealing with all this madness at the start of the day,” the woman sighed.
“Everyone in the world always seems to be in a hurry,” Trevor said as he scanned the action around him.
The woman dropped her train ticket stub. The air blew it toward the turmoil, but then Trevor stepped on the stub with his shoe, saving it. The woman noticed the shine on his shoes as he picked up the ticket.
“Thank you so much.” She smiled warmly as he handed her the stub and offered his hand.
“My name is Trevor.”
“April. Nice to meet you, Trevor.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. I like your scarf. Very classy.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” April responded as she grasped her expensive garment.
It was something she had picked up a month ago on a weekend shopping trip. Even though she had worn it every day during her morning commute with probably five thousand people eyeing it, this was the first time that someone actually commented on it—someone who piqued her interest the moment she had seen him.
“You have great taste,” Trevor replied as he opened his trench coat.
At first, April just took the compliment at face value, but then she saw the added meaning. The same Burberry pattern lined his coat. April raised an eyebrow as she tapped his arm.
“Ha! How ironic! Well, real men wear Burberry.” She slid a bit closer to him.
April felt something different about this man, something about the way he was sitting and watching the confusion around him without an apparent care in the world—something about the space next to him, drawing her in like the aroma of fresh-cooked bacon in the morning—and something about the seemingly random coincidence of designer clothing that even a dating couple had a hard time coordinating.
“So what brings you here, Trevor? Where do you work?”
“I work for myself actually. I’m in the consulting business.”
“Like a corporate consultant?” she asked as she glanced at his briefcase.
“Something like that. You can call me a jack-of-all-trades. I help people who are in need of help.”
“Sounds very mysterious, Mister Trevor.”
“Do you like mystery, April?” Trevor whispered.
A sudden shriek erupted. Everyone turned toward it. The beggar was harassing a woman who had knocked over his change cup. Two men in suits intervened. The bum sat back down, and then the people continued.
“So, where are you headed, April?”
“I’m heading north for work. Just another typical day in paradise.”
Trevor looked at his left hand still holding his paper ticket stub.
“I’m actually heading north also,” he lied as he covered the word “Southbound” with his left ring finger.
April peeked at Trevor’s shoes again and studied their rich gleam. They were classy and well maintained and she wondered how he had kept them so flawless. She looked at her black heels and noticed a scuff mark on the face of the left one.
“So, April, don’t you think it’s kind of serendipitous that out of all these people here, there must be a thousand, we had the pleasure of meeting?”
April took a moment to compute his reflection, to energize her synapses with thoughts. Her eyes shifted from his shoes to his left hand holding the receipt. It wasn’t the paper that she was interested in; it was whether he was wearing a wedding ring. The bulge on his gloved finger left uncertainty for April, uncertainty that made her desire to find out. Whatever the situation, she thought, all that mattered was the way he was seducing her with his presence.
“Well Trevor, you do have a way with words. There’s something different about you. I can’t yet place it,” April replied with coyness to her tone.
A sudden screech jolted the couple’s attention. A train slowed marked “Northbound” in red letters.
“Here’s our train,” Trevor said.
He stood up and grabbed his briefcase, crumbling the receipt. Trevor offered his hand to the woman who had occupied his time.
April hesitated, curious about how perfectly everything seemed to have fallen into place with this man of mystery. Just three minutes ago, she was alone, isolated in an un-isolated crowd. She wondered why she had never bumped into Trevor before. It was as if this man had been somehow waiting for her. His matching style, quick wit, and same travel location all seemed to crystallize too seamlessly. April knew this meeting had happened for a reason, a reason that flowed over her, and stimulated her. Although she was normally hesitant with meeting a stranger, she knew that she was in a relatively safe place. As she dithered staring at his extended hand, April decided to succumb to any feeling of doubt and to follow fate. She yearned to change her connection with this man from a stranger on a bench to something more.
“Thank you,” April responded as she accepted his hand and followed his lead.
Trevor guided her through the crowd, as a path seemed to clear, allowing the couple to enter the train car. April felt protected in Trevor’s presence and she hoped the train ride would allow her to see the real man.
The train doors shut. Through the scuffed window, Trevor and April sitting next to each other looked like a couple traveling together. Without warning, the car propelled on the track, and just like that, chaos ensued.
The bench that had housed the outwardly random meeting between Trevor and April was now empty. Commuters flowed past it leaving its wood to cool. The television above the bench now displayed the newscast as the time filled the bottom corner—7:09. The African-American newscaster turned to the camera; the words “Breaking News” flashed in the corner of the screen. The volume was turned up, but the chatter of humans dwarfed the television’s 20-watt speakers. However, the closed captions were enabled as the man’s words crawled across the screen. Still, no one seemed interested in the story.
“…we’re getting this from the newswire. Police are on the lookout for this man,” the newscaster started.
Suddenly, a picture filled the screen’s pixels, transforming them in such a way as to reveal a man, a handsome man with a devious smirk, the man who had sat under the television only moments before.
“…forty-three-year-old Trevor Malloy. He is a suspect in the brutal murder of at least three individuals. Police ask that if you see this man, please use extreme caution as he is considered armed and dangerous.”
Chapter 2
SEVEN DAYS EARLIER
A knife sliced a large cake, which read “Congratulations Detective Brian Boise.” Officers stood around it like vultures awaiting their turn at a lost hiker. The cake was white sponge with vanilla icing. A chubby officer grabbed his plate and sliced the “Bri” from the first name. Then, his friend, a skinny street patrolman, killed the last two letters.
“It’s vanilla,” the chubby officer mouthed as he chomped away.
“Mmmm,” the skinny officer exhaled. “Where is Boise, anyway?”
“He’s probably fucking his desk.”
Both officers meandered out of the break room and looked at the main floor. Gobs of people flurried. Fans lined the ceiling and swirled the stale air. The two officers walked toward the rows of desks in the back as the smell of sweat hit them. They passed the four desks composing the robbery department, and then shuffled through the assault section as an Asian storeowner babbled in broken English about a man who had busted up his store. Further in the back was the detective area with five old mahogany desks providing the crew with a reprieve from the streets. Each desk had mounds of paper, an abused computer, and a tired phone. Four of them were unoccupied as their owners were out in the field detecting crimes. But the last desk hid its occupant with files stacked two feet high and Post-it notes sticking to everything, including other Post-it notes. In front, the nameplate, which read “Det. Brian Boise,” was nearly falling off.
The detective had recently turned forty-three-years-old, and just as he was currently absent from the cake in the break room, he had also been absent from the cake his wife had ordered for his birthday. Brian was trying to be a family man, raising his impressionable nine-year-old son Jonathan and keeping his wife Anne Marie satisfied. He was a logical man with an ounce of feistiness and a pound of compassion. Brian was finishing paperwork on his recently solved case, a case that had brought him to the bowels of the city to search for one of the worst criminals he had ever encountered. As his hand clutched a black BIC Round Stic Pen, he seemed more worried about filling in the suspect’s blood type than eating the cake the captain had ordered for him in the break room.
As the two officers approached the detective, they saw two-day-old stubble painting his face—stubble that, only five hours ago, touched the breath of the heinous murderer. Brian’s dress shirt and tie, recent purchases at the factory outlet, were sweat-soaked and had blood splattered from the wound he had inflicted by sending two lead bullets into the suspect’s leg and shoulder. But this was the way the detective liked to roll; his life revolved around that desk and the many facets of law enforcement that it entailed, some more gruesome than others. This was his life for the ten years he had been fighting crime.
“Hey, Boise. Congrats, man,” the burly officer boasted, as he took a bite out of the letter “b.”
“You da man, one more fuckin’ lowlife off the streets,” the skinny one added.
“Just doing my job, what they pay me to do,” Brian responded, taking a moment to make his parted hair lay to the right.
“What do you need the money for?” the skinny officer asked.
“Family.”
“A family? Boise has a fuckin’ family? Let me see your family,” the big officer pressed.
Brian stopped writing and grabbed his wallet. He rooted through old receipts and expired insurance cards.
“Where’s the picture, Boise? Huh? Don’t be ashamed to be single. But just remember to put your beef into a taco every now and again to keep the mojo flowing,” the skinny one said.
“As long as it’s not filled with sour cream,” the chubby offi
cer said, as everyone laughed except for Brian, who used ignorance to put out their fire. “Hey, Boise. Word in the captain’s office is that you’re up for promotion—chief detective.”
“A promotion would be nice but I’m not expecting anything.”
As the plump officer tried to lean against Brian’s desk, his round backside knocked over a folder, sending its contents to the abused tile floor.
“Your filing system is fuckin’ top notch, good job setting an example,” the culprit replied as he rested his cake on the desk in order to pick up the papers. This time he dropped the cake on the floor. It detonated. A piece stuck to Brian’s black dress shoes, purchased by his wife from the Payless shoe store in the mall.
“Shit!” the flabby officer yelled.
“Nice going, you fuck,” laughed his partner, taking another bite. “Hey, your cake is great, Boise.”
“Yeah. Hurry up and solve another case,” the chubby officer said as he kicked the fallen cake under the adjacent desk.
“Next time, tell them to get chocolate,” the skinny patrolman added.
“Chocolate ice cream cake,” his partner added.
“Aww…”
Suddenly, the sound of a kid’s crying pierced the trio’s eardrums. A rookie detective escorted a plump, twenty-something woman to his desk near Brian. She was making a statement on a case, but was also making a statement with her agitated three-year-old daughter propped on her side. The rookie detective and two officers at Brian’s desk stared at each other and made faces to mock the crying kid. Brian, on the other hand, knew just what to do. He opened his desk drawer, grabbed a buried lollipop, and walked to the toddler with a smile.
“Here you go. Mommy will be done soon,” Brian said as he handed the girl the candy.
Her cries faded to whimpers, and then to the sound of sucking.
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