Not on her watch.
She didn't know who their vic was yet, or what he'd been like in life, but she knew one thing. This man had suffered and he deserved justice.
She mentally parsed out the various tasks, a steely resolve settling over her.
"Ready to go?" she asked Carlos.
"Yup. Let's nail this bastard."
4
Lucky squinted at the grainy video again, trying not to go cross-eyed, before slumping back into her chair with a growl.
"Nope. Nothing from this angle, either.”
"Yeah, okay.” ‘Los pinched the bridge of his nose and blew out a sigh of frustration. “I'm going to get another cup of coffee. You want?"
"Pass. My stomach feels like I've been sucking on a battery." She tucked a lock of hair that had come loose from her ponytail behind one ear and turned her attention back to the screen.
There was a lot of footage, and they'd been at it since they got back to the precinct hours before, with little to show. She'd had fantasies of getting a clean shot that showed their perp's features with some clarity. But apparently, the museum saved the good cameras for inside the place, pointing at the fancy art. All they'd gotten so far was one blurred shot of his face that the techs had already warned would still be a Monet, even after they had a chance to scrub it.
She clicked on her copy of that particular clip and let it run again.
The time stamp read three fifty-two as a dark figure entered to the right of the frame, and she leaned forward, squinting.
Average build, average height, brown hair. He was sporting a beard that, fake or real, in conjunction with the generic Mets cap, left only a small section of his face uncovered. Still, there had to be something they'd missed. A limp. A scar. A Nike swoosh on the side of a shoe that was no longer in production.
Something.
Anything.
The figure slowed to a stop in front of the museum and did a quick one-eighty before setting the large, beat-up bag on the sidewalk. His movements were concise and quick. As they'd assumed at the scene, the "sculpture" had been made prior, and when he removed it from the bag, it hadn't taken him long to set up.
He flicked the cape over it with a flourish and then stepped back, taking only a second to admire his handiwork before striding away, empty-handed.
All told, he'd been on camera for under thirty seconds.
They still hadn't been able to determine where he'd gone afterward, because the stores in the area with outward-facing cameras had been a bust so far, as well. They'd hit all the buildings in a one-block radius.
Nada.
Look at me, you bastard.
As she replayed it again, she balled her hand into a fist next to her mouse, the sting of her fingernails grounding her.
The video came to a halt again, a few seconds later. And, again, she’d seen nothing.
Her disappointment wasn't rational. No matter how many times she watched it, the result would always be the same, but she couldn't shake the sense of crushing defeat.
She shoved her chair back with a growl and tried to get her mind right. They were just getting started. Not even half a day in. Things would turn around. All it took was one tiny thread for them to tug at and they could unravel the whole goddamned case.
She leaned in, plucked up her desk phone, and punched out a number by heart.
"M.E.'s office."
"Hey, Marsha. Is he around?"
Marsha Stone was smart, capable and hard-working, but struggled with self-confidence. A fact that her boss, Ed, either didn't notice or didn't acknowledge. When she made a mistake, he let her know. When she didn’t— the vast majority of the time—he said nothing at all.
It was irritating to watch, because Lucky knew the woman idolized him. What Marsha didn’t seem to realize was that Bisby was grooming her to take his spot when he retired. If he didn't think she was good at her job, he wouldn’t even consider it. In fact, he’d have sent her packing a long time ago. Lucky had been resisting the urge to give her a pep talk for the past few months, not wanting to give Marsha the false impression that she wanted to be friends. That said, she respected the other woman greatly and usually went out of her way to ask how she was and chat for a moment or two before getting down to business.
Today, though, she had neither the time nor the energy for small talk.
"Hey, Luck,” Marsha said. “He's in with your MoMA vic right now. How important is it?"
"If you think you can patch me in without him ripping you a new asshole for it later, I’d appreciate it."
"Your guess is as good as mine, but for you, I’ll take the chance. One sec."
Lucky waited, toying with the phone wire restlessly. Ed had said he would call if and when he had something for them, so she was definitely risking his wrath. On the other hand, he’d worked enough cases with her to know that patience wasn't one of her virtues, so…
"What?" Bisby barked into the phone about a minute later, sounding almost cartoonishly angry.
"Got anything for me yet?" she chirped.
She waited for him to read her the riot act as he would’ve done to any of the other detectives who dared to disturb him before his report was complete, and it warmed her heart just a little when he didn't bother.
He just let out a long sigh before replying. "There's an inscription on the watch. Reads, 'No more excuses for being late.’ Then, underneath that there’s a hyphen and the name ‘Phyllis’."
No “love” or even “warm regards”. Not exactly flowery romance, but the sentiment was familiar enough that it had likely come from a family member or a long-time spouse. With no wallet and no hand on the end of the vic's wrist to get a print from, they'd been waiting for a missing person's report that fit the vic's description in hopes of ID'ing him. This wasn’t exactly a home run in that department, but it wasn’t a strike out, either.
"Thanks, Ed. I appreciate the—" A dial tone sounded in her ear and she set the receiver down with a click just as ‘Los sat back in his chair, coffee in one hand, cell phone in the other.
He shot her a look that made her skin prickle as he tossed his phone onto his desk.
"What?" she demanded. "Bad?"
He shook his head. "Not terrible, but not good, either. Cap wants a sit down with us in twenty."
Tension collected at the base of her skull and her eye started to twitch.
And so it began. Captain Satterfield was just the opener. The sooner the brass got their noses involved in this, the worse off they would all be. Then, instead of focusing on finding the killer, their team would have to be worried about soft-shoeing around a bunch of bureaucrats, most of whom had never spent a day on the streets.
She'd been sure they had a little more time, but apparently, the high-profile location of the body had been too much for them to resist sticking their spoons in and stirring the pot.
"I can do the talking if you want. Give ’em a little song and dance," ‘Los said, his lightweight shirt bunching around his broad shoulders as he hunkered over his keyboard and tapped out a few commands. "But it would help if we had something. Beckman just finished a composite of what the vic's face probably looked like based on the images we got at the scene. I just forwarded it to you."
"Good. And we might have the name of the wife or relative. Phyllis, from the inscription Bisby found on the back of the watch."
Her PC dinged and she double-tapped her mouse as the email lit up her inbox.
The image of a man in his late sixties stared back at her and she felt an internal shift, like getting a car into gear. That feeling was everything when working on a new case, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Beckman had nailed the drawing.
This was their vic.
"Yup," she murmured, her sole focus on the image in front of her as she memorized each feature. Broad face, loosening jowls, deep-set eyes. He looked like someone’s grandpa.
That face would drive her and keep her focused. It was too late to save him, but the
re were other victims of this crime. His family and loved ones would surely suffer his loss. And it was her job to make sure someone paid.
Her phone bleated and she snatched it off the hook, irritated at the interruption.
"Strickland."
"Mel Walsh," Flynn snapped over the line. "Owns a high-end pawn shop over on 51st and 6th. His wife just called 9-1-1 and dispatch sent over uniforms. Apparently, he never came home from work last night. She got worried and went to the shop. Walked into his office to find a lot of blood but no body. You two need to get down here ASAP. The wife had a pic of him on her phone that fits the general description of your MoMA vic."
"Her name Phyllis?" she asked, the skin on her arms prickling.
He paused. "Yep."
He didn't bother to ask how she knew as he rattled off the address and then hung up.
She jotted the information on a notepad before setting the receiver down.
"Good news, this time," she said, rolling to her feet as she tore off the slip of paper. "Seems like we got an ID on the vic and may have found our original crime scene. We’re going to have to put away our tap-dancing shoes for the moment and meet up with the Cap later."
Carlos shot up and grabbed his to-go mug of coffee. "Let's roll. I’ll text him when we’re already on the road."
"I'm going to print out the sketch so we can show it to the widow, but I'm liking it so far. Guy owned a store a couple blocks from the museum. Wouldn't be that hard to cart some body parts that short of a distance. I imagine the rest of him will be found in the trash somewhere between here and there."
She hit the print button and, when the paper shot out of the printer, she folded it up and stuffed it into her pants’ pocket.
Notifying a victim’s loved one of a death had to be one of the worst parts of the job, but they wouldn't leave it to anyone else. If this new information panned out, they would need to be there when Phyllis heard the words that her husband was never coming home. Statistically, it was likely that she was involved in some way, and the only time they would ever be able to see her first reaction to the news was if they were there to deliver it.
When she and ‘Los arrived outside Walsh's Diamond Emporium twenty minutes later, there were already three patrol cars double-parked out front. Flynn's was one of them, and Lucky prepped herself for more venom as he stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk.
He gave them a curt nod of greeting, the dislike plain on his face. "Think I found your murder scene. Got it all locked down and started the log. You're welcome."
He stuck out a hand and she accepted the notebook from him wordlessly. She and ‘Los both signed in, noting their arrival time, and then handed it back to him.
"What have we got so far?" she asked, refusing to let him suck her into another petty slap-fight.
Flynn pursed his lips and led them into the building. Thankfully, it was ten degrees cooler in the shop than it had been outside, and she swiped at the beads of sweat that had popped out on her brow.
At first glance, the place looked wholly intact. The gleaming glass cases appeared unmolested, housing sparkling gemstones nestled on tiny, cream-colored pillows. There was no evidence of a struggle or blood on the shop floor at all.
Flynn waved an impatient hand toward the gap in the counter and she and ‘Los followed him.
"Looks like the initial tussle happened here."
He gestured to the floor, where some papers were strewn and he'd marked off a couple droplets of blood spatter with plastic, numbered plaques.
Lucky glanced around and caught ‘Los's eye as he gestured toward a revolver just an arm’s-length away in a cubby beneath the counter. They said nothing as Flynn gingerly ushered them toward two lines of tape that led into the office, so that anyone entering or exiting the crime scene would disturb as little as possible.
"That's where it all went down." He gestured for them to go in.
Lucky tried not to make any snap judgments as she surveyed the scene, but it was ugly. The scent of congealed blood assaulted her nose and she sucked in a breath through her mouth.
The stuff was everywhere, soaked into the thin, industrial carpet, turning the muted tweed to near-black. There were several clean spots, a few inches each, amidst the carnage. Probably where his body had been sprawled during the dismemberment, protecting the rug from the blood to some degree.
She tugged the camera around her neck and began shooting while ‘Los took notes.
"Mel’s wife is at the E.R. for signs of shock. We've got a uniform there. He'll call when she's cleared to talk," Flynn said.
Lucky tugged the sketch of their vic from her pocket, unfolded it and then held it out to Flynn.
“This about right?”
He tipped his head in a curt nod. “That’s him.”
Flynn took out his cell phone and pulled up an image, stretching it wide with his fingertips before holding it out for her to see.
“This is the picture the wife sent me.”
A heavyset older man stood smiling next to a gaudy Christmas tree decked out in blue and purple lights. He was smiling broadly, unlike in the image the sketch artist had drawn, but there was no mistaking.
Mel Walsh was their guy.
“Thanks,” she said, stuffing the sketch back into her pocket.
Flynn grunted and pocketed his phone. "Right. Well, if that's all, I'll let you guys get to the important work."
He began backing out of the office into the storefront again, hands held high like he, himself, had been accused of a crime.
"And who knows? I came in early to cover for Menendez, so I still have another four hours to go. Maybe by the time my shift ends, I'll have found the killer for you, too. Have a good day, defectives."
He headed out, but Lucky barely noticed. It wasn't until the bell on the door jingled that she looked up to find Carlos watching her with a dark expression on his face.
"I don’t want to beat a dead horse, Luck, but one of these days you really should think about telling him the truth. Might change some attitudes around the precinct if they knew."
She gave a noncommittal nod but didn't elaborate. This wasn't the first time he'd tried to convince her to open up to Flynn or some of the others about her reasons for joining the force the way she had. But, like all those other times, it still wasn't happening.
Her business was her business. Besides, she didn’t need them to like her. This wasn’t a popularity contest. She just needed them to do their jobs while she did hers.
"I'll think about it," she lied, already stepping away to face the room again. "Now, let's see what we can see."
The next few hours went by in a haze. ‘Los and one of the uniforms did the rounds of the neighboring businesses on the block, but no one had noticed anything that stood out.
Lucky spent most of her time bent in half like an old crone, picking at and photographing any and everything on the floor, assisting the CSU team with evidence.
After a sweep of the office, they’d found the security camera video recording had been wiped clean of the past twenty-four hours. The rest of the time she’d spent trying to visualize how it had all gone down. She'd run the scene in her mind dozens of times and felt like she finally had a handle on it.
Perp walked in near closing time. Either someone Mel knew, or someone who’d pretended to be a customer. He’d probably played it cool, at first. At some point, he’d leapt over the counter at Mel…maybe the owner had tried for his gun?
A struggle had ensued, but Mel was old and overweight. Not a fair fight, if the grainy video evidence showing a fitter, apparently younger, male was anything to go by. The perp did his work and made his sculpture. Then, he likely walked out to dump the body parts he didn’t need before heading to the museum with his bag full of Mel.
With that in mind, two uniforms had gone out to check all the dumpsters on this block, starting with the closest one. Neither she nor ‘Los was surprised when one of them came back to let them know they’d alre
ady been emptied early that morning. ‘Los made some calls and then contacted a K-9 unit to head down to the dump to see if they could find the rest of their vic.
By the time they left Walsh’s Diamond Emporium, their arms were laden with bags of evidence, her lower back was screaming in protest, and her head was pounding. For all that, though, they had little to show.
Son of a bitch.
“Maybe some of the blood on the floor is from our perp, or they’ll get a clean print off the door sign,” she murmured as they climbed back into their police-issue sedan.
‘Los nodded, but his jaw was clenched as he turned the key in the ignition. “Yeah, maybe.”
They both went quiet, the silence broken only by the blast of the air conditioner.
Sure, they’d found crime scene one and they’d ID’ed the vic. But so far, they didn’t have shit in the way of motive or suspects.
“Let’s see what the widow has to say,” ‘Los muttered, pulling out into traffic.
Lucky was silent as they drove, already mentally preparing a list of questions to ask Phyllis and how to ask them.
Because if anyone could shed a little light on who might have wanted Mel Walsh dead, it was his newly-minted widow.
5
Phyllis Walsh had checked herself out of the hospital and agreed to meet them at the couple’s second-floor Chelsea walk-up that evening.
On the phone, she’d asked Lucky point blank if her husband was dead and if he’d been the victim found on the sidewalk in front of the museum.
News traveled fast in Manhattan.
Lack of sleep, combined with surprise at the direct question, had rendered Lucky a little too slow on the uptake to avoid a flat-out lie, while also not being unnecessarily cruel by giving the woman false hope. Clearly, the silence had been long and awkward enough for Phyllis to fill in the blanks herself, and she’d disconnected on a muffled sob.
Lucky was still kicking herself as she and her partner rapped on the door a short while later. According to Google, the place was a small collection of apartments that topped out at nearly two thousand square feet apiece—massive by city standards—and ran a few million apiece.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 3