by Maria Siopis
At that same moment, her home phone began ringing. She wanted to ignore it. She tried to ignore it. Finally, she placed the file next to her on the couch, removed her legs from the table, and got up.
She glared at the number and recognized its source. “You know it’s my day off.”
“I know, I know,” her partner, Gregory retorted. “We have a situation, and it’s different from anything else I’ve experienced. You have to see it for yourself.”
“Gregory, calm down. I’ve been around for a long time ....”
“Fiona. Trust me. This is different.”
“Okay, okay. Give me the address.”
Fiona gave up out of curiosity. She doubted the crime scene was more disturbing than any other she had encountered in her career. Gregory was just too new and inexperienced. She ran her hands through her hair and realized she needed a haircut. Of course, her rogue looks were not important right now. She sighed with frustration and let gravity guide her hands to her sides while moving toward the living room to close the file she had opened only minutes ago. She put the photos and the documents back in the manila folder and then pulled out the last drawer where her cold cases were resting in the protection of the darkness.
She got ready in a fraction of her normal time. She had to hurry. These were special circumstances, and they would not wait for her to arrive before removing the body. She mulled over the idea of calling her partner and telling him that she was unable to come ... but only for a second. The thought disappeared as fast as it crossed her mind, and she grabbed the keys of her sporty BMW and made her way out. It was a beautiful day, and as soon as she stepped outside, she was bathed in sunlight. She squinted her eyes to limit the blinding brightness entering her retina. She checked the street on both sides for traffic and crossed the intersection to the parking garage across from her building. Fiona had complained about the limited parking space in the city, and after much consideration, she resolved it by renting the monthly space. She avoided taking advantage of the special privileges she earned as a detective. She rarely used her badge to park illegally since she preferred to follow the rules. She put the clutch in reverse, turning her wheel left until she was clear to make her way toward the garage’s exit. She glanced at the clock and was amazed that she had gotten ready in less than thirty minutes. She congratulated herself on accomplishing the nearly impossible; the difficulty of her getting ready that fast was not lost on her. Fiona preferred a slower pace in life. Ironically, she lived in an environment where a fast tempo was the only way. She pressed down hard on the gas pedal and her car sprang to life. She sped down the avenues, crossing Seventh, Sixth, Fifth, Park, Madison, Lexington, and finally, turning left on Third. Miraculously, considering it was the morning rush hour, the traffic was minimal, and she thanked her lucky stars.
She arrived at the murder scene before ten and parked her car parallel to the curb and next to a cruiser. She got out and looked at the two-story building. The green awning hanging above the entrance door didn’t appear as though it belonged there. Police officers blocked off the sidewalk with tape on both sides to hold back the human traffic that was expanding and overflowing with curiosity seekers. She fought her way to the front of the iron gate and flashed her badge to the female police officer, who stepped to the side to make room for her to pass. Fiona felt she was given greater scrutiny than was necessary. The police officer’s gaze followed her, she was sure of it. She had been getting inquisitive stares from both sexes for so long she almost expected it, and sometimes, she welcomed it. She climbed the stairs and lowered her head when she passed through the screen door. She realized the body was somewhere on the first floor since all the activity was concentrated there. She kept her badge out, holding it on her palm and showing it when she encountered a police officer.
“Fiona. Back here,” she heard her partner’s voice rising above the human commotion.
When she reached the bedroom, she made a quick assessment, storing the information in her brain. There were two additional detectives in the room. One was a female wearing fitted jeans, a t-shirt proclaiming in large font who gives a shit, and a baseball hat. Her frame was small and not taller than the norm. Fiona was observant and didn’t miss the fact that the woman was extremely pretty. The male detective was medium height with broad shoulders, and he appeared to be working out regularly. Gregory, her partner, made the introductions. Sophie and Phil were a pair of detectives from the nearby Queens’ precinct, and they were both absorbed by the curious crime.
“So, what have we got here?” Fiona ventured.
Sophie looked up at her, adjusting her cajoling voice and offering her rejection. “Detective Sapiro.” She let the bubbling air escape her lungs. “You don’t belong here.”
“Please, call me Fiona,” she insisted with a smile that revealed her full mouth and intensified her dimples. Most of her girlfriends told her the indentations on each side of her face were sexy, and she used her smile for just that reason. Besides, she didn’t want to intimidate the female detective, she just wanted to softly coerce her into accepting help and allowing her to be part of the investigation. She wouldn’t pull rank and remind Sophie she was the head of NYSF unless it became necessary.
“Detective Sapiro,” she continued, completely undermining Fiona’s suggestion, “are you aware that you have crossed jurisdictions? I understand from your partner that you’re exempt from such restrictions, but until my captain tells me otherwise, I prefer to conduct my own investigation without your interference.”
To her surprise, Fiona realized that charming the detective wouldn’t work. She was used to having her way with women, not that she really cared about the detective in that way. This detective appeared to be an unapproachable individual, who didn’t care about her looks, though she had to admit the detective was attractive. She was either downplaying her looks for some odd reason, or she was entirely unaware of her attractiveness. Fiona changed her mind in minutes. She wanted to find out more about the woman who was now observing the dead body. She was curious and readied herself to employ a different method.
“Detective, I’m not in any way trying to interfere with your investigation. I’m here to assist and perhaps provide a tiny bit of help. I’m sorry you feel that strongly about my involvement ... our involvement,” she paused and looked at her partner. “I assure you we have permission to cross jurisdictions.” She wanted to be a bitch and tell her off. Did Sophie know who she was? Fiona could make things happen. Her brain already formed its own commands, disobeying her initial intentions of not disclosing her position.
“Let’s start from the beginning. I’m Detective Fiona Sapiro.” She extended her hand, resolving to use the old cliché of introductions.
“Fine, Detective, you can stay,” she replied without considering the extended hand, and the tone of her voice revealed her annoyance. She looked down at the victim again, pondering the perpetrator’s need for perfection and ignoring Fiona’s presence.
“The incision is precise and perfect, and the crime scene is spotless of any excess blood; all the blood is concentrated on the mattress. He took his time to create this,” Sophie uttered, looking at the victim as if she might never again encounter anything similar in her career.
“It could be a she,” Fiona offered. It was not impossible to encounter a neat crime scene where the offender was a man, but it was different on so many levels. Usually, a male perpetrator splashed the blood, forming amorphous patterns. Its metallic odor carried into the killer’s disturbed mind like waves plundering the edges of the earth, flowing in and out. The scene she was now inspecting was neat and precise, clean of any blood.
“Of course, the killer could be female,” Sophie agreed.
Fiona mentally smiled. At first, she had considered Sophie an impossible collaborator. Could she possibly work harmoniously with her after all? She shifted her concentration from Sophie to the victim, who was perhaps in her early thirties with brownish-red, curly hair, its thick waves now li
feless though perfectly arranged around her face.
“Disturbing,” she mumbled, more as a statement reflecting on the perfection of the scene and not the actual murder.
“Disturbing, Detective?” Sophie’s brows arched. She didn’t attempt to hide her disappointment; her voice was fused with sarcasm and the hardness of it escaped her lips.
Fiona didn’t make any attempts to explain what she had meant; she would not waste her time. She began to consciously dislike Sophie, her previous thoughts of harmonious existence quickly dissolving. Perhaps this was the reason she refused to seriously date anyone involved with the police department. She knew from personal experience these women were hard-asses—opinionated and cynical—exactly like her.
“If you want to see disturbing, Detective, go to the next room,” she continued, her voice lacking any empathy.
Fiona was done talking to her and she questioningly turned her gaze to her partner, who was observing the victim. He finally looked up and realized Fiona was ready to move on.
“Come with me.” Gregory appeared a bit annoyed leaving the scene, his face registering as much. Fiona let Gregory guide her to the second bedroom while Sophie whispered something behind her back. She was certain the comment wasn’t anything sweet or chivalrous.
Chapter Three
Fiona glanced at her smart watch, a habitual reaction when she felt cornered by unexpected happenings, and she made her exodus without acknowledging the two Queens’ detectives still working the scene. She concluded she didn’t like Sophie and elected to avoid her, while Sophie’s partner, Phil, who remained silent, was viewed more favorably.
“See you tomorrow, Gregory. If you find something new, or if you want to discuss today’s homicide, come on over. I’m taking my mother and her companion out to lunch, and then, I’ll be back in the city.” She was sure Gregory would stop by her apartment as always.
“How is Mrs. Sapiro? Please give her my regards,” Gregory stated as though to acknowledge his familiarity with Fiona’s family. She was fucked up for scrutinizing Gregory’s sincerity.
“Thanks, Gregory. She is fine. Call me or stop by.” She was full of regret for her thoughts.
Fiona entered her car and sat holding the steering wheel. She was thinking it was too early to knock at her mother’s door, although she had no doubt her mother would like to spend this time catching up and offering her suggestion that Fiona settle down and have a family. She tenuously remembered the last quarrel they’d had a year ago when she decided to separate from Jennifer, a brunette with marvelous legs and ties to the FBI. She dreamily flickered her eyelashes as if to wake herself from her daydream when a knock at her car window startled her.
“Detective, are you planning to move soon?” Sophie asked.
Fiona didn’t like her. She turned on the ignition and lowered her window, preparing to utter a smart remark when unexpectedly, Sophie rested her arms on her car door. The V of her t-shirt lowered, exposing her round, perfect breasts. Her sheer bra with lace trimmings brushed against her flawless skin and enhanced what Fiona was observing. Her breasts were perfect, and Fiona wanted to touch them.
“Detective, if you’re expecting us to work together, I need collaboration and respect. Please tend to your manners.” Sophie turned away with a speed that left Fiona breathless.
Fiona remained quiet, unable to articulate what was on her mind. She was still wedged between the perfection of Sophie’s mounds. Either she was horny—she liked what she had seen so far—or her coping mechanism was in full gear to erase the images of the dead victims that she had witnessed a few minutes ago. She decided she preferred to be lost in Sophie’s breasts.
“Goodbye, Sophie,” she said as she was unable to offer anything more intelligent.
She softly tapped on the gas as there were still people crowding the one-way street and patiently waited until it was clear for her to continue. Sophie had disappeared. She headed straight until she reached the intersection and then, she made a right turn, hoping her navigation skills would take her to her destination. She was determined not to go to her mother’s early, so she stopped at a diner for coffee, spending an hour at the bar talking to a waitress who absentmindedly ignored the rest of her customers. When she left, she had the waitress’s name and number on a napkin. How original, she thought.
She took Grand Central Parkway, leaving behind LaGuardia Airport and exiting onto Northern Boulevard. She had to go the local route today to kill more time. At noon, she rang the bell of her mother’s house. The Tudor brick style home of her childhood stood up impressively well. She had noticed that other Tudor homes were not made exclusively of bricks. Some other notable materials that were used included stucco, stones, and slate, although her old neighborhood obeyed the brick only law. She waited a few minutes before she rang again, becoming almost urgently intolerant with her mother’s delay in opening the door. She stepped back and looked up at the second floor as if that would offer her an explanation for the delay. The roof still appeared in good condition, and she appreciated the impressive, multi-gabled roof lines. Her father had told her once that these asymmetrical structures with the imposing roof lines were found in the northern part of the States where heavier winters were the norm.
“Fiona,” her mother exclaimed when she finally appeared at the door, “you’re early.”
“Sorry, Mom. I was in the neighborhood for business and finished earlier than expected.” She towered over her mother, kissing her forehead.
“No matter. Come in. Don’t stand there like a stranger.”
Fiona hesitantly followed her in, temporarily unsure how to greet her mother’s companion, then deciding at the last minute to follow protocols.
“Mr. Peters. How do you do?” She felt silly and idiotic.
“Oh, Fiona. Please use my first name.”
“How are you, Joe?” She felt much better as she kissed his cheek. Fiona had known Mr. Peters for a long time; he had always been around. He was her mother’s best friend, a fellow teacher, and they shared a passion for travel. Of course, they became lovers long after her father’s passing. Fiona was always uneasy when she met them, yet she tried to appear relaxed. The thought that they might have been involved before her father’s death had crossed her mind more than once. She wanted to ask her mother. She thought she had the courage. Once, she had articulated the words, but they became a mass of incoherent statements, which produced a bemused expression on her mother’s face, so she stopped trying to uncover the possibilities and just accepted her mother’s relationship. One day, she assured herself, she would ask, if she could ever find the balls and the courage.
“Are you ready?” she asked her mother, looking toward the entrance door. She was not in the mood to converse about her life, and she knew sooner or later her mother would bring the subject up for discussion as she skillfully attempted to intervene in her daughter’s personal affairs.
“Not yet, dear,” she answered, and Fiona knew she was going to have a long day.
Chapter Four
Fiona returned to the city feeling much less energetic than she’d felt in the morning; she was emotionally drained. She unlocked her apartment door, exhaling with relief that no one else lived with her. She was thrilled with the stillness and quietness of her immediate environment. She processed in her head the current time, the possibility of Gregory stopping by, and her willingness to jot down the details of the homicide. She decided since it was only six o’clock and Gregory would likely stop by, indeed, she should write down the details of the morning’s murder scene. But first, more comfortable apparel was required.
When she returned to the living room, she was the personification of comfy with her roomy, athletic bottoms and a tiny t-shirt that exposed the mass of muscles on her upper body. She worked out daily, and it was readily evident. Her mother made comments about her physique when they met, pleading with her to stop her vigorous training because her body was already as hard as nails. Fiona didn’t give a fuck what most peo
ple said or thought about her, but her mother’s comments impacted her every time. The only way she could cope was to let her mother’s words go over her head while she continued her daily visits to the gym.
She grabbed a white legal pad (she hated the yellow pads) and a blue pen from her desk to note down facts and connections and make surmises about motives. Her gut feeling told her this case would become larger than life and death, and the perpetrator had plans to strike again. No one would have gone to such trouble to create the crime scene otherwise. Or was she jumping to conclusions? She needed more information. She glared at the clock above the TV set as if time was her enemy. The noiseless timer, a piece of art really, impressively dominated the north wall of her dwelling. She elected to leave the rest of the wall bare, feeling the clock was enough. It resembled a film reel where the core was holding the round clock rather than motion picture film. The clock coordinated with the rest of the room where portraits of past actors and actresses were featured on the remaining walls. Of course, her mother was involved with the mood created in the space, and she was grateful for her assistance.
Fiona’s phone rang at the most appropriate time. Her mind was drifting to irrelevant ideas instead of writing down her observations and her plan of action on the murder case. Mother or Gregory, she mechanically thought.
“Mrs. Sapiro, you have guests. Mr. Gregory Richards and Mrs. Sophie Andrews are here to see you,” her doorman announced in an almost ceremonial voice.