Usually, when he crossed paths with Lucky and ‘Los, she took the brunt of his irritation. A former DA’s daughter who had blatantly used her father's connections to get on homicide, she’d accepted that animosity as her due. But today, even her partner was taking flack from Flynn, and that was seriously pissing her off. Because she knew something Flynn didn’t…
Despite his easy banter, Carlos Figueroa cared more than anyone.
Too much, sometimes.
She could see by the stiffness of her partner's shoulders and the clench of his jaw that he was already struggling not to let the violence of this one get in his head, burrowing its way deeper and deeper until it felt like it would eat him alive.
Lucky couldn't blame him. She was notorious for keeping her emotional distance, and this was a tough one, even for her. Neither had acknowledged it yet, but if the ugly bruising present was any indication, it was a pretty safe assumption that their vic had been alive for at least some of the dismemberment. Which meant pain.
Lots of pain.
They'd take an execution-style gunshot murder over one like this a hundred times out of a hundred.
Today, though, this was the hand they'd been dealt. They would do whatever it took to keep themselves as focused as possible, and screw what Flynn or anyone else thought of it. God knew, the darkness would ooze in soon enough, usually followed by nightmares. Whether they failed him or prevailed, this vic would be forever etched into their brains and consciousness. The longer they could hold those distractions off, the more clear-headed they would be as they tried to piece together what happened and who was responsible.
She shot a glance behind her and noted with a flash of irritation that a couple news teams were already lining up. The sidewalk had been taped off and Flynn, along with the other uniforms, kept lookie-loos at a distance as best they could, but this was Midtown on a Monday morning. There was no stopping people from getting a gander at what was left of this poor bastard set up in front of the museum like some abstract sculpture.
"Initial thoughts?" she murmured, loud enough for only ‘Los to hear. Two CSU investigators were meticulously walking the grid, taking notes as they did.
The body parts had been mounted onto a wooden stand, all held in place by what she was guessing was some sort of spike that had been driven through the flesh to give it structure and stability. That had taken some time, for sure. Time their perp wouldn't have had in plain view of the streets of Manhattan.
"Parts are all from the same vic. Older male, sixty or so, I’m guessing. The wet work and assembly wasn't done here. Maybe he fought back. Hopefully, we’ll find some of the perp’s DNA when we figure out where that all went down."
She appreciated the confidence in his use of the word "when" but they both knew full well it was an "if". The sheer number of places the dismemberment could have occurred was endless. Not to mention the fact that there were still quite a few body parts unaccounted for. They could be looking for one more crime scene, or a dozen.
They'd already swept the outer perimeter for clues while the CSU detectives took photos at the core, but they hadn't turned up much there. No bloody footprints, no weapons or visible blood spatter.
Close to the vic, though, they’d found a red, velvet cape that had been covering the display until the civilian who'd called 9-1-1 had removed it and let it fall to the ground. There had also been the filthy rucksack filled with the crumpled pages of a bloody newspaper that had likely been used to wrap the body parts for transport.
It had all been bagged and tagged to be tested for DNA and prints back at the lab, but she wasn't holding her breath. Ninhydrin or another chemical might bear fruit in the way of fingerprints on the newspaper. Unfortunately, odds were the killer had planned ahead and nicked the paper from a public place like a coffee shop or trashcan. Which meant loads of prints, not just his. The rucksack had DNA potential, as well, but she had a feeling it, too, was something “borrowed”.
Until it was all processed and tested, which would take days, she had to hope they'd catch something concrete from a wit or on film that they could use. There were loads of security cameras around the museum and high-end stores in the area, and this part of the city was almost never entirely deserted.
No matter how quickly the killer had acted, someone had to have seen something.
‘Los’s body was practically humming with tension as he paced around the human sculpture. It was their most important piece of evidence, but until the M.E. arrived on scene and did his thing, all they could do was look.
He took a step closer, shaking his head. "Not feeling it as a crime of passion. It's all so neat. No slashing. Still wearing his watch, so probably not about money." He exhaled audibly and shot her a look. "Professional hit, maybe. Calculated revenge."
She took another turn around the body, circling it slowly, absorbing every detail.
The watch was Cartier. Probably worth five grand or more, even on the black market. It would have taken no time at all to slip it off the vic's wrist and pocket it. Point in fact, without the hand still attached to keep it in position, and the initial slimming of the arm due to blood loss, it would've been more trouble to keep it on.
It was almost like their killer had gone out of his way to make it obvious that this wasn't about money.
She turned toward her partner. "Yup. I'll double down with you on that. Maybe he’s connected, did the wrong guys dirty and they want to make a splashy example of him."
“A warning…Vlad the Impaler style.” ‘Los nodded pensively. “Could be.”
They stepped closer and went quiet, each lost in their own thoughts.
Already, the city had begun to heat up to furnace-level temperatures, and, even in the wide-open space, with the countless, competing smells, the body parts had begun to stink hard core. Sweat trickled down the back of her white dress shirt and she tugged at her collar.
She loved New York. Loved the frenetic energy, the people, the culture. But when it got hot...really hot?
It got ugly.
Beefs that had been percolating bubbled over. Smoldering tempers burst into flames. Annoyances that might seem trivial on a crisp, fall day, suddenly became unbearable in the sweltering sun. This might not have been a crime of passion, but this kind of heat was prime breeding ground for a summer chock-full of those.
It was going to be a very long couple of months for the Midtown North Precinct's homicide division. Which meant, even less free time to do what she really needed to be doing. The thought made her stomach cramp with guilt.
It would be fine, she reassured herself. Later nights, earlier mornings. She'd manage.
Flynn stalked over, face mottled and sweaty, and stayed just long enough to interrupt her thoughts with a clipped declaration.
"The M.E. will be here in five. Cap wants this body out of sight ASAP. "
She felt an atypical twinge of pity for him. Those polyester unis layered over that soul-sucking Kevlar vest made it feel twenty degrees hotter than it was. If that wasn't bad enough, apparently she'd missed a call from Captain Alfred Satterfield when she'd been interviewing the museum’s security guard. She obviously hadn't responded quickly enough for his liking, which meant that Flynn was dealing with a whole other kind of heat.
This was a sexy crime. The kind the media loved and politicians hated, depending on how it all shook out. The Captain's call to Flynn meant he was already getting pressure from the Chief, who was already getting pressure from the Mayor to get this scene wrapped up as quickly as possible before full-on rush hour.
She could only imagine hard-ass Satterfield barking at Flynn over the phone to get his point across. That alone was enough to make anybody short-tempered when they were hot, tired and just trying to do their job.
Feeling bad that Flynn actually had gotten stuck with some of the dirty work this time, she mentally took him off her shit-list, for the moment.
"Thanks, Flynn. I'll give him a call."
If he heard her, he didn't
show it, turning back toward the thickening crowd and stalking away, his long strides chewing up the pavement.
So much for diplomacy.
"Did you see this?" ‘Los called. She sidestepped the CSU team, who was focused on the cape, and closed in on her partner.
He was bent low, dark eyes locked on the vic's thick forearm, where what had initially appeared to be another bruise or an oddly shaped birthmark sat.
They both leaned in for closer inspection.
"Anchor tattoo," he said. "Super old and faded out. Maybe former Navy. That and the watch should get us an ID from missing persons pretty fast if his prints don't pop up on IAFIS database."
It was a good thing, because God knew the beaten up, heat-swollen face wouldn't. ‘Los took some notes and did a quick sketch of the tattoo's placement. It would be photographed multiple times, but he'd always said that the process of putting pencil to paper made things gel in his head better.
She moved back to the outer perimeter and called over one of the patrolmen—Flynn's partner, who'd arrived with him first on the scene—with a whistle and a wave. Stevens was a young rookie, and he aggressively ignored the body as he got closer, his face going a little greener with every stride. She instinctively stepped in front of him to block his view.
"What do you need?" he asked, locking gazes with her as his Adam’s apple lurched up and down.
"Head into the museum and talk to the security guard on duty again," she said. "He was working on getting me the video from any cameras pointing outside. See how he's getting along with that. Not just this entrance, remind him, but all around the building."
The rookie nodded before jogging off, and she turned to Carlos. "You want to take a real crack at the girl while we wait, or you want me to?"
He hesitated and she knew why. Lucky was a female and their 9-1-1 caller, Tala Ocampo, was a young woman herself. It could be assumed it would be easier for her to establish a rapport. But ‘Los knew Lucky well enough to know that, as good as she was at interrogating criminals, weeping victims and fragile witnesses made her nervous. She'd probably only make the poor girl, who hadn't stopped trembling the last Lucky had checked, even more upset.
Flynn had already attempted to get the basics from her when he'd first arrived on the scene, but the girl had clammed up tighter than a Duggar on her wedding day. Young Tala needed a gentle touch, and they both knew full well that gentle touch was ‘Los.
"You're better at dealing with Bisby," he said with a wink. "You get ready to do that while I take another quick look through the crowd and see if anyone tweaks my Spidey senses. Then, I'll see if I can get this kid to do something more than cry. Sound good?"
The recalcitrant old Medical Examiner, Ed Bisby, not so affectionately nicknamed "Half-Dead Ed”, was excellent at his job. He kept to himself, abhorred small talk and didn't burden himself with the pressure of societal norms. Instead, he said as little as possible, came in, did his work and went home. If anyone didn't like it, or him, that was too fucking bad.
Bisby was one of her favorite people and she’d take dealing with his saltiness over trying to soothe a shattered witness any day.
"Sounds perfect." She nodded and glanced at her watch again. "He should be here any minute."
‘Los headed toward the perimeter and slipped past the tape to where nineteen-year-old Tala sat on the back end of an ambulance. The girl looked up, caught sight of Carlos, and instantly lifted a hand to her inky hair to tidy it.
Lucky could hardly fault her. ‘Los had that effect on most people. He was easy on the eyes, but that was almost incidental. It was more the aura he gave off. One of strength, confidence and genuine empathy. Like a living omen that everything was going to be okay, no matter how bleak things seemed.
When Lucky had first come to homicide, it had taken months to get past the worst of the all-consuming grief and feelings of helplessness that had brought her there in the first place. But once she'd pulled her head clear of the murky smog and gotten to know her partner, it was like a light had gone on in a dark room. He was vital and alive when she had been dying inside. Stabilizing when she'd been spinning out.
As she thought back on her time on the force, the line was almost tangible. There was B.C.—before Carlos, when she'd felt entirely alone—and there was now. He was her truest friend. And when the rest of Midtown North either discounted her or hated her outright, that mattered.
She watched as ‘Los walked past the crowd, scanning faces and taking stock before making his way toward the ambulance.
With a practiced ease, he hoisted himself up onto the back of the vehicle next to Tala and leaned his head closer to hers as he spoke.
If the girl had any information tucked away and cowering somewhere in her traumatized brain that might help them, Carlos would lure it out.
Lucky turned her attention back to the vic, pulling out her notebook and scribbling some of her initial thoughts down. When she next looked up, Bisby was walking past Flynn, his no-nonsense, heavy gait not slowing until he was almost on top of the body.
She sidled up next to him and tipped her head in a curt nod. "Ed."
"Luck," he said without looking at her. He summarily ignored the pair of CSU detectives as he set his bag down and assessed the situation.
She stayed silent as he tugged on his gloves and began his work. Despite a slight tremor at points, due to what Lucky suspected was the beginning stages of Parkinson’s, he was nimble in his task. Nearly a half-century of practice resulted in muscle memory that seemed to override the effects of his vicious ailment, but she wondered how much longer it would be before he was forced to retire.
Not for a while, she hoped. She appreciated both his no-nonsense attitude and his propensity for being right, and she'd miss him when he was gone.
"Hacksaw, maybe," he mumbled under his breath.
But Lucky didn't write that down or ask him to elaborate. She’d worked with him enough to know that he wasn’t talking to her, and she wasn't about to interrupt his flow. He’d grumble and mutter for a good long while, working through his initial impressions before doing the autopsy.
"Detective?"
She lifted her head to find the rookie, Stevens, standing right outside the perimeter of the crime scene, a bag in hand.
"This is all the pertinent video from the past six hours, in and around the museum."
"Have Flynn log it and then I can take it on my way out."
He headed off, passing ‘Los as he returned from his interview with Tala Ocampo. Lucky met him halfway, not wanting to distract Bisby with a lot of chatter.
"How'd it go with the girl?" she asked, trying not to get her hopes up but not quite managing it.
"She didn't see anyone," he said with a grim shake of his head. "She's really freaked out, but she was a little more forthcoming this go-round. She said she was on her way to her job at a bakery on West 52nd. It was only her on the street, and then The Halal Guys down on the corner closing up the food truck. No one close to her when she saw the cape. She thought it was some sort of performance art exhibit. Like the museum had left it there for people to interact with. She looked around, and said screw it, tugged the cape off."
His jaw flexed as he continued.
"Poor kid. For a while, she just stared at it. Wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a shock piece. Then she saw the vic's eyes and got a good whiff. She screamed and one of the food truck guys came running to help her." He scrubbed a hand over his weary face. "She's only been out here for a year at NYU. Decided to stay and work part-time while doing an internship for the summer. I'm thinking she winds up on the next bus back to Minnesota after this."
His look said he didn't blame her.
"Anyway, it definitely firms up our timeline a little. The security guard took a smoke at three ten and went back to walking his rounds, and Tala recalls looking at her watch at a little after four right as she approached."
It was something, at least.
"We just got the video from m
useum security, so we'll focus on that block of time, to start. Once we've gone to the buildings around here to see if they have any other footage we can use from the street view, the food truck should be back out. We'll see if the guys there can tell us anything that they didn't tell Flynn already."
He nodded his agreement and jerked his chin toward Bisby. "Anything out of him yet, or all quiet?"
"Some muttering. Said something about a hacksaw."
They hung back as Bisby continued processing the body, working alongside the CSU team.
By the time he'd finished, the temperature had climbed to what felt like a hundred degrees. Lucky’s thin, cotton button-up was plastered to her back and flies had come out to join them. The stench had ramped up to something like that of rotting, bargain-bin meat and they all breathed a sigh of relief when Bisby finally zipped the body bag closed and began to pack up.
"Any leads on where the rest of him is yet?" Bisby asked, his wiry gray brows rising high on his forehead in question. "I'd like to get a look at his heart."
"If we find it, I promise you'll be the first to know, Ed."
He offered her a clipped nod and held up the body bag. "See youse tomorrow sometime. I'll call when I got something."
With that, he turned and lumbered off down the sidewalk, head down. She knew the second he'd stepped past the sawhorses, because the journalists exploded into action, calling to him in unison, relentlessly hammering him with questions they knew full well he wouldn't answer.
"Piss off, jackals," Ed bellowed, and ‘Los cracked a strained smile.
"Gotta love him."
She smiled back but it faded as quickly as it had come.
The jackals’ yipping was just the beginning. This was going to be a high-profile case, which meant everyone would want a piece. There'd be too many cooks in the kitchen and, in an election year, too many agendas to promote. The odds of this turning into a major cluster-fuck were high. Once the press dug in and the politicians started weighing in, they'd lose control of the narrative and it would turn into a total shit-show.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 2