Heart Break: An Isabel Swift Novel (The Isabel Swift Detective Series Book 1)

by MF Moskwik

  Izzy shakes her head and slams the keys of her car into the ignition. As she guns the engine and feels the car roar to life beneath her, she drums her fingers on the steering wheel thoughtfully. “Okay, rule one. Cut the crap, Jameson. I am here to do a job, and that job is to bring the guy who trashed this lab and stole your tech to justice. If there’s time left over, I will do my best to deal with . . . whatever this is,” she comments as she gestures vaguely in his direction.

  Jameson’s face contorts into an expression of confusion, and he finally leaves his laptop to focus fully on her. “What is ‘this,’ may I ask?” he queries as he mimics her gesture at his face.

  “Two,” Izzy continues. “I don’t know how it’s done where you’re from, but here, anyone can be a cop. Man, woman, gay, straight, transgendered. So if you were expecting a ‘he’ and are disappointed? Tough, sir, and welcome to the twentieth century.”

  His eyebrows lift in surprise, and Jameson appears shocked at her remonstrance. “Pardon me, Officer Swift, but I—”

  “And last,” she declares, “if you ever try that romantic, handsome charm thing you did with Lou Ann back there on me, I’m telling you now, it is not gonna work. The only thing I want is a chance to put away the bad guys and to make this county safer, you got it?” Izzy stretches her hand to the gearshift and puts the car in drive. With a pointed look at Jameson, she indicates that she is waiting his affirmative reply.

  Jameson sighs. “I assure you, Officer Swift, I have no intention of courting anyone, seriously or otherwise, at this time,” he states quietly.

  At his change in tone, Izzy looks at him. He is looking through the window into the distance, a pained expression on his face, and for a second, Izzy regrets the sharpness of her tone. A few more taps of her fingers on her steering wheel, and she relents. “All right, then. Thank you.”

  An awkward silence fills the car, and Izzy waits until Jameson comes back from whatever mental trip he was on. After the space of a half a minute, he responds. “Have no worries, Officer Swift. I am most interested in solving this case so that I may return quickly to the city and my position there with the state.” He turns again to face her and gives her a wan smile. “If I may make a professional request?”

  Izzy nods.

  “I require records of recent, similar crimes in the area as well as reliable access to the internet. Is there a way I may obtain both of these resources in order to further my investigation?”

  Izzy heaves a sigh of relief. Finally, some professionalism. “Both would be at the sheriff’s station. I also need to look up Larry’s number so I can give him a call and set up a meeting.” With the conversation back to the case, Izzy relaxes. “What do you say we head back to the station, find you a desk, and arrange our next interview?”

  “That will be most helpful, Officer Swift.”

  “Isabel. Call me Isabel. Or Iz,” she offers. “Or—”

  “Izzy?” At the name, Jameson’s face softens, and the corners of his eyes crinkle just a bit, giving his face a kind expression.

  Izzy shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. No one’s really used that since I was a kid. ’Cept for my former partner.”

  The expression of Jameson’s lips catches up with the expression of his eyes, and his mouth breaks into a soft smile. “As we are partners for this case, when it is appropriate, I will call you Izzy, Officer Swift.”

  Izzy nods her agreement and then gestures to the road with a nod of her head. “You ready to go?”

  Jameson nods and buries his head in his laptop. After a beat, he asks without looking up, “Did you say ‘romantic . . . handsome . . . charm thing’?”

  As Izzy drives her car out of the parking lot, her only response to him is an eye roll.

  Chapter Four

  “Captain Hinojosa?”

  “Yes, Lewis?” Captain Marisol Hinojosa of the 41st police precinct in the Bronx usually doesn’t have stage fright, but standing in the wings, a few minutes from making her keynote speech for the annual New Police Officer’s Luncheon, she feels jittery, anxious, and tired.

  “We’re almost ready for you on stage,” the man in the dress police uniform on her right replies. “Another ten minutes.”

  The captain sighs. She has spent the last two hours in her high heels and her dress uniform, and she is more than ready to change back into her boots and white shirt. But the yearly lunch is tradition, and on this occasion, like all others, Captain Marisol Hinojosa will do her duty. “My notes?” she asks.

  “On the podium, sir. Your speech is also on the teleprompters on your left and right, just in front of the podium.”

  “You know me, Lewis. I can’t see a damn thing with the glare.”

  “I know, Captain. I promise—the notecards are on the podium.”

  “Thank you, Lewis.” The captain paces a tight circle.

  Twenty-five years ago, Marisol herself had sat in those seats and listened as her captain gave them a speech about achievement, service, and dedication. They look younger every year, she thinks. Where has all the time gone?

  The officer’s luncheon was the second to last in a month full of speaking engagements that included fundraising, proactive publicity initiatives for the 41st precinct and, at the end of the week, her police academy twenty-five-year reunion. Though she looked forward to seeing her fellow former trainees, Marisol was eager to be done with her month of public speaking.

  This and one more, and then it’s rest, eating right, and exercise for me. Just as soon as this luncheon and that reunion are over, she thinks with tired hope.

  “Water, Captain Hinojosa?” asks Lewis as he grabs a bottled water from the speaker’s preparation stand just to the right of the stage curtain.

  “No, thank you,” Marisol says as she eyes Lewis and his bottle enviously.

  “You’re not thirsty?”

  Marisol sighs. “I am, but I have an appointment back at the station right after this. It’s going to be tight, so I can’t make any stops before then.”

  Lewis whistles. “Not even for a pee break?”

  The Captain grins. “Sophisticated, Lewis. And no, not even for a pee break.” At the sound of applause, the captain turns toward the stage and sees the MC begin her introduction. “How do I look?”

  Lewis gives her a quick once over and then shoots her a thumbs up. “Give ’em hell, Captain.”

  Marisol waits for her name patiently, and then at the applause, she walks onto the stage.

  In the stage lights, she is hot and disoriented. The spots are too bright and hot for the already crowded room, and in her desire to shuttle quickly between appointments, she has neglected to eat or drink. She is exhausted and thirsty.

  So thirsty.

  As she nears the podium, an expectant hush falls over the crowd. A quick turn of her heel faces her toward the audience, and in the bright spotlights, Marisol picks up her cards and begins her speech.

  Or she would, but her mouth is just so dry.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Officers. Detectives,” she rasps. She clears her throat and continues. “A very important woman was supposed to say very important things at today’s luncheon, but she cancelled at the last minute and now you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

  The new police officers in front of her laugh.

  That’s always a good one Marisol thinks idly. The first laugh always brings relief during her talk, but today, Marisol just feels tired, flushed, and thirsty. It’s the lights; someone needs to turn down those lights.

  “Anyway, we’re here today not for me, but to honor your achievement and your families’ sacrifices, and to welcome you to the ranks of our police brotherhood. So congratulations to everyone, our newly sworn in brothers and sisters of the 41st precinct of the great borough of the Bronx. Thank you for your dedication . . . and your . . . courage . . .”

  The Captain’s words trail off as she begins to sway in place. She feels hot, flushed, and thirsty and can no longer concentrate on the note cards in her hands. “I’m
sorry, the lights are too bright. Can someone turn them down, please?”

  A murmur of concern ripples through the audience, and the spotlight intensity is lowered by half.

  “That’s better,” the Captain mutters. She looks down at her cards again. She doesn’t feel nervous, but she is sweaty and she is hyperventilating, her breaths coming in rapid, shallow pants. “Thank you for your dedication and your courage. You and your families have achieved a great accomplishment. You’ve learned how to protect the innocent, serve the community, and bring those who would flout the law to . . . to . . . those who would flout . . . the . . .”

  The Captain sways again, and in a final moment of clarity, she looks toward the wings. “Lewis?” she asks, and confusion is evident in her tone and her expression.

  The crowd murmurs loudly, but their conversation cannot drown the loud CRASH! of the captain’s body hitting the stage.

  Lewis rushes onto the stage, bends down, and places a finger in front of her nose. “Oh my God, she’s not breathing.”

  The captain’s body begins to convulse, and sick begins to erupt from her mouth. “Oh my God, someone, please help!” Lewis cries as he turns her on her side. He reaches for the waistband of her pants and pulls back her shirt. “What the hell?” He stands and grabs the microphone at the podium. “Doctor! Is there a doctor here?” Lewis yells from the stage. “I need a doctor here, now!”

  Cell phones are whipped out, and an ambulance is called.

  After a few moments of chaos, a woman in a lavender suit and glasses finally comes up onto the stage. “I’m a doctor. Maria DeJesus. What’s wrong?”

  “The captain, she’s diabetic!” Lewis points at the insulin pump taped to her stomach. “Captain’s pump. It’s not working. It was supposed to be giving her continual doses for the last several days, but it’s full. It’s completely full!” He looks in horror at the woman on the floor. “Oh my god, she’s going into shock.”

  The woman feels Captain Hinojosa’s pulse. “She’s got a pulse, but just barely.”

  The captain’s body heaves once more, and more sick comes out of her mouth.

  Another man makes it up onto the stage. “Ambulance is on the way. They’re ten minutes out.”

  “She’s not breathing!” the doctor says. She checks the captain’s pulse again. “We’ve lost her pulse! I’m going to do CPR until the ambulance gets here.”

  “Oh my God, please save her. Please,” cries Lewis.

  In the chaos caused by the captain’s collapse, a single figure that remains seated at a table piques Lewis’ interest. After the ambulance comes and the EMTs pronounce the captain’s death, it is with unease that Lewis watches the figure rise from the table, fold the napkin onto their plate, and make a silent exit from the ballroom.

  Chapter Five

  Izzy and Jameson find their way back to the Sheriff’s station.

  As Izzy pushes through the familiar doors and turnstiles, Jameson looks keenly at his surroundings. The station is abuzz with activity, and in the briefing room hang pictures of the evidence for the county lab case.

  “Efficient, Officer Swift. The speed and alacrity with which evidence from the crime scene has been made available to the station is notable.”

  “Yeah, it’s not London, but it’s not bad for a humble suburban county, is it?”

  “Indeed, the reduced size may allow an unexpected efficiency to processing which can be lacking in a larger jurisdiction.”

  Izzy turns and looks at Jameson in surprise. “Professional and complimentary, Jameson?”

  “Though I find our verbal sparring to be most engaging, our temporary allegiance requires cooperation, Officer Swift.”

  Izzy weaves her way to an empty desk in the detective’s row of the bullpen. “Here. Wi-Fi password is ‘digitalis.’”

  “The poison? From the foxglove?” asks Jameson.

  Izzy gives him a lopsided grin and a shrug. “IT guy is into Sherlock Holmes.” She looks at the clock on the wall and pulls out the sheet of night janitor names that she received from Lou Ann. “It’s 11:30. I need to track down the contact information for the people on this list. You do . . . whatever it is you’re gonna do,” she says as she waves at his laptop. “My desk is over there. I’ll be back at 12:30 with lunch. Holler if you need me.”

  “Indeed I will.” Jameson pulls out his laptop and sets up his workstation. “Thank you for the desk, Officer Swift.”

  Izzy nods. “You see a tall, skinny guy wearing a button-down white shirt, tie, and suspenders? That’s Captain Williams. I’m guessing he’ll be by once he hears that you’re here,” she says as she walks away from him.

  ***

  Jameson logs into the network and begins his search of the local newspapers for obituaries, death notices, and accident reports. As his search engine sifts through the articles and webpages for the information he needs, he glances in the direction that Isabel walked off only twenty minutes before.

  No one can know, he reminds himself. The need for secrecy weighs heavily on his conscience given the true nature of the classified investigation. A glance at his tightly clenched fist, however, reminds him to focus on his data, and not on the crushing weight of guilt he feels.

  For all his technological skill as a scientist, Jameson feels useless and impotent as an officer of the law.

  The sound of someone clearing his throat breaks his reverie, and Jameson swivels around in the creaky brown chair to face his interlocutor. He finds he is face to abdomen with a tall, skinny man in slacks, a white shirt, and suspenders. He looks up, and a middle-aged African-American gentleman is looking down at him with an expectant expression.

  “I’m Captain Williams. I run this ship, and I don’t know you,” the man announces loudly.

  “Ah, Captain Williams. If I may introduce myself, I am Mark Jameson, Consulting Detective for the State of New York, recently from the Yard in London.” Jameson extends a hand to the Captain.

  “Jameson. I heard we were working with you. Thanks for coming on board.” Captain Williams gives Jameson a firm handshake and a probing stare. “I heard you were uniquely qualified to investigate this case. Would you mind me asking what your qualifications are?”

  “I trained in biology at Oxford and earned a graduate degree on using genomic analysis of single-nucleotide polymorphisms to identify relationships among members of a population. I went on to earn a doctorate in the use of data mining to aid in forensic investigation.

  “And you were promoted to Detective Inspector shortly before you came to America. I read your file,” admits Captain Williams. “But something doesn’t add up. Why would the Yard let go of someone with your qualifications? And why would someone with your success leave everything behind to take a consulting job in a city he’s never been before?”

  Jameson shifts uncomfortably under Williams’ gaze. “As you may have noticed, Captain, I am an academician at heart. After eight years with the Yard, I felt the need to return to my truest self and took the opportunity to travel and to enrich my understanding of forensic and criminal justice practices abroad.”

  “Uh-huh.” Williams looks at him a moment and then sits on the corner of the desk. “Well, you can enrich yourself whenever and with whatever the hell you want. As long as you solve the case, first. That’s number one.”

  “Indeed. The fact of which Officer Swift has most kindly, and repeatedly, reminded me.”

  “Well, I’d listen to her. Not only is Officer Swift one of our best up-and-coming cops—on track be youngest detective in the county—but she’s also one of the best marksmen in Westchester. I wouldn’t get on her bad side.” Captain Williams leans in to Jameson’s space and closes his laptop. “I know you’re a hot-shot detective inspector from a big city with a PhD from Oxford, and I’m just the captain of a suburban precinct, but you want my advice?”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “I would do whatever your partner says because she gets the job done.” Williams tilts his head and raises an
eyebrow in challenge. “Understand?”

  “Understood,” replies Jameson.

  “Good.” Williams stands and walks away from Jameson. “Welcome to Westchester County, Detective.”

  After a few moments, Jameson sits back at his desk and resumes his search. He knows that in this brief exchange he has been weighed and measured. As he continues his search of articles and obituaries, Jameson idly hopes that, at the very least, he has not been found wanting.

  ***

  At her desk, Izzy goes through the list of names and uses the police database to find their last known addresses. When she is done, she leaves to pick up sandwiches for herself and Jameson. On her way out the door, she sees Jameson and Williams talking. What I’d give to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, she thinks.

  When she returns, Jameson is still at his desk. On her way to drop off his lunch, Izzy stops by Rodriguez’s desk. She finds him on the phone. His single, held-up finger lets her know that his call will end in a moment, so she sets her goods down on his desk and waits.

  “How goes the day, Detective?” asks Izzy when he hangs up the phone.

  “Not well, Swift,” he replies. “I just got asked to be keynote speaker at my academy reunion this Thursday.”

  “What? Congratulations! That’s good, right? Good for you!” exclaims Izzy.

  “Not good. I got the gig because one of my classmates from the academy died.” Rodriguez lets out a large sigh. “I just got the news. Happened an hour ago in the Bronx.” Rodriguez looks tired and swipes one of his large hands over his tan, weathered face. “First Carter, now Marisol? Seems like we’ve been dropping like flies lately.”

  “Jeez, Rodriguez, I’m sorry to hear that. Were you two close?”

  “Hinojosa? Nah. Hadn’t seen her in twenty-five years. But we came up together, you know? Marisol, Carter, and me. So we had that.” Rodriguez shakes his head. “You train together, work together in this job? You’re like family.”