It was an unpleasant sensation. Like she'd left a coffeepot on somewhere or something, only much more disquieting.
No other murders like Mel’s had come through the area in recent history. The very idea that this might be the work of a serial killer was a leap with nothing to support it, but that didn’t negate the fact that it felt right.
She reached into the glove compartment and pawed through the stack of papers inside until she came up with the notepad and pen she always left there.
“Maybe this was his first kill. Or maybe not, and he’s a traveler. Let’s make a list of the pertinent points of Mel’s murder and then run them through the system all up and down the East Coast. Further, if we have to.” Her brain churned and she started jotting her own thoughts down as she peppered ‘Los with questions.
“What’s the most unusual characteristic of the Walsh murder?”
‘Los seemed to consider that for a long moment, scratching his chin in thought. “Obviously, the theatrical staging of the body. But his age and sex stand out, too,” he said finally, shooting her a glance.
She let that bang around in her head for a minute and then jotted it down. Statistically, serial killers largely preyed on younger victims, and females were targeted three times more often than males.
She gnawed on the end of her pen and tried to think of how to do their research with the least amount of man power, while also attracting the least amount of attention. The brass hated to see resources wasted and they certainly weren’t going to fund a fishing expedition based on nothing but a hunch.
“So maybe we run a check on any vics that fit Mel’s profile in the past eighteen months and see if we get any hits. We can spare one of the uniforms for a day or so to run down any of those cases, to see what comes up.”
Her cell phone rang and she snagged it, a shudder running through her as she noted the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Ella? I’m so sorry to bother you. This is Cherise from Stonybrook.”
There was a long, heavy pause that had a cold sweat breaking out on the back of her neck.
“Is everything okay?” she croaked.
“Can you come down? Your dad just had a pretty ugly fall. He’s getting some stitches and is disoriented. I think it would help if you were here…”
Son of a bitch.
She pinched her eyes closed and rubbed at her suddenly aching temple. “Yeah,” she cut in. “Did you try Abby?”
“I did. She didn’t pick up.”
Lucky nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing out loud. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said, before disconnecting.
‘Los shot her a sympathetic glance. “Your dad?”
She pocketed the phone and nodded. “He fell.”
Again.
She shoved back her anger and tried to clear her head.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Like most nursing homes—even nice ones—they were short-staffed, and the staff they did have was overworked and underpaid. It was impossible to watch him every second. No one knew that better than Lucky.
She’d tried for six months to keep him at home when things had first gotten really bad. He’d cracked his collarbone after getting up in the middle of the night, and then nearly burned the place down a week later trying to make himself eggs when she’d been in the shower.
“I need to go check on him,” she said grimly. “Run in and out, ten minutes, tops, and I’ll grab us something to eat on the way back.”
They’d already put in a full day, well into the evening, but still had hours ahead of them. Food was a must, and she might as well kill two birds with one stone.
“Sounds good. Drop me off at the station and you can take the car.” He slowed to a stop at a traffic light and shot her a glance, his gaze lingering on her face for a long moment. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, before snapping it shut.
“What?” she demanded, covering her mouth. “Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I was just thinking you look like shit, is all.”
His stark words chased away the pit that had been building in her stomach as she let out a bark of laughter. “Thanks, partner.”
“I just mean tired and pale. Like you’re not sleeping enough.”
“Things haven’t been going great with my dad, even before today’s fall,” she admitted.
“Dementia getting worse?” ‘Los asked softly.
“Not worse, exactly.” It had been bad for so long, now, it was hard to remember what it was like before he’d gotten sick sometimes. “Just that the spells seem to happen more often. He’s been bringing up Brad at every visit and part of me wonders if he realizes how quickly he’s declining.”
It was almost like he wanted to make sure that one last task was done before reality faded altogether.
And what if it wasn’t?
That was the thing that haunted her. The fear that he’d float off into oblivion, like a balloon escaping a child’s wrist, without ever knowing what really happened to his only son.
She gripped the pad in her hand as her jaw stiffened.
Even more reason to solve this Mel case as quickly as possible, at any cost. She had left her job at a premiere law firm and joined the precinct’s homicide division for one reason and one reason only. To hone her skills and use them, along with the tools available to her in her new position, to solve her brother’s murder.
She’d been on the force for more than three years now, on this job for almost two, and had gotten basically nowhere. With her father’s health going downhill at a breakneck speed, of late, she didn’t have the luxury of failing any longer. She needed to clear a pathway to get back to what was most important, and she needed to do it fast.
Which meant, she sure as shit didn’t have time for some psychopath trussing bodies up around her city. Especially not the kind that came back for seconds and thirds.
And, in the blink of an eye, the Mel Walsh case had just gotten a whole lot more personal.
7
Lucky pushed through the doors of the memory-care unit, her brain buzzing from the Red Bull she'd all but mainlined on the way to stay sharp on three hours of sleep.
“He’s in the common room," a voice called from behind her.
Lucky turned and waved a hand in greeting at Rita, the floor nurse who stood behind her dressed in scrubs dotted with cheery, yellow pineapples.
“Be prepared, it looks worse than it is, honey,” she said softly, a sympathetic smile tugging at her lips. “Try not to let him know you’re upset. And see if you can get him to eat a little. He wouldn’t touch his shepherd’s pie or his pudding.”
"I'll get something in him before I go," Lucky promised, turning the corner toward the common room.
They kept it at a balmy seventy-nine degrees inside Stonybrook, and, despite being a good twenty degrees cooler inside than out, it still felt like Hell’s waiting room. She would have passed on gravy-laden shepherd’s pie and pudding, too.
She stopped outside the doorway long enough to tidy her now-limp ponytail and paste a smile on her face before breezing in.
"Hey, Dad."
George Strickland sat on a recliner in his usual spot, legs stretched before him, covered in a thin cotton blanket. Sure enough, a tray of congealed meat and gravy, dotted with graying peas, sat untouched in front of him. His navy-blue eyes were unfocused as he swung his head in her direction.
George had good days and bad days. Even without the mottled purple bruise that covered half his jaw and a row of angry-looking stitches over one brow, the complete lack of recognition in his gaze told her all she needed to know.
Today was a bad day.
"Monty! Thank goodness you're here."
Lucky shoved aside the swelling melancholy and turned her attention to her father's floor-mate, Beverly Marks, who was perched on a high-backed chair watching The Andy Griffith Show on a large screen television b
uilt into the wall before her.
"Hey, Bev, how are you feeling today?" Lucky asked gently.
The woman's shock of white hair was sticking out in every direction, and her makeup, which had likely been elaborate and on-point early that morning, was now smeared.
"I'm so glad you asked," Beverly murmured, pushing her wiry body up and shuffling toward Lucky, eyes wide. "I don't know if you read the newspaper today and saw my exposé, but everyone in this place is positively furious with me over it."
She clutched at Lucky's arm with a claw-like hand and lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Especially Glenda down the hall. How was I to know her husband was one of the politicians involved in that prostitution ring? I have a responsibility as a journalist to report my findings to the public, but I hate to have her upset with me."
Lucky patted the older woman's hand gently. "I'm so sorry to hear that, Bev. If you'd like to write her a note of apology, I can drop it in her room on my way out?"
Beverly’s wrinkled face lit up and she grinned, flashing a row of perfectly pearly dentures. "Oh, Monty. You always come up with the best ideas. I don't know what I'd do without you. George, what would we do without her?"
She posed that question to Lucky's father, who stared back blankly before murmuring, "Cold in here?”
Per usual, Beverly just smiled at him affectionately, padded back to the other side of the room, and began banging around the art supplies in search of a pen and paper.
This wouldn't be the first missive Lucky had been recruited to deliver on Bev’s behalf, and likely wouldn't be the last. Of course, Lucky would never give it to poor Glenda, who was probably still confused by the prostitution ring chatter.
Most times, playing along with whatever delusion Beverly was operating under was fine by Lucky. Some days, she was a jeweler who regretted having to tell the other women at Stonybrook that their wedding rings were fake. Other days, she was a lawyer in the middle of a tough case and just knew she'd never get the defendant off. And other days still, she was a cat burglar on the lam.
As for Lucky? To Beverly’s mind, she was always “Monty”, Beverly's friend, confidant, and erstwhile sidekick. The “Watson” to Beverly’s “Holmes”.
The woman was confused but sweet, and Lucky usually made an effort to spend a few minutes with her. Today, though, after hours spent in relentless city heat and straight up exhaustion, she was nothing but relieved that Beverly had been so easily distracted.
"Cold in here?" George muttered again, tugging the blanket more tightly around himself.
"No, Dad, it's actually really warm. Maybe you feel chilly because you haven't eaten much today?" Lucky popped a squat beside his recliner and took his hand.
His gaze finally collided with hers and a familiar ache settled in her chest as his eyes lit with recognition.
"Ella-girl," he said, giving her fingers a squeeze. "I'm so glad to see you. I was wondering when you’d come to pick me up. Let me get my coat and shoes so we can get the hell out of here." He shifted to stand, but she gripped his hand more tightly to still his motions.
Her chest felt like it was caving in on itself and, suddenly, it hurt to breathe.
"Dad, you live here now, remember?"
This was her second least favorite part of every visit.
"At the doctor’s office? Don’t be silly. We’ve got to go. Your mother is probably worried sick about me,” he said with a confused chuckle.
And this was her first least favorite part.
She swallowed past the achy knot in her throat, forcing the words through numb lips. "Mom passed away three years ago, remember, Dad?"
She could see it as it happened. The synapses firing as he dragged that memory from the yawning bowels of his cobweb-filled mind. She knew the second he’d retrieved it.
"No, she didn't."
But his words were reflexive as he searched her gaze. A moment later, his still relatively smooth face crumpled, his cheeks going chalky as his shoulders slumped. It was like he'd stepped into a time machine and aged ten years, right before her very eyes.
"Yes. Yes, of course, I remember now. I'm sorry, sweetheart. My memory isn’t so good anymore."
Maybe someday, this conversation would hurt less. But so far, it had never ceased to suck the air out of her and make her wish she were anywhere else.
"It's okay, Dad. We all forget things sometimes."
For the next few minutes, she talked to him about anything she could think of. The weather, the Yankees, her sister Abby. The new brand of coffee cake she'd tried and promised to bring a slice of if he would at least eat his pudding. He did, and soon enough, the grief-stricken expression on his face began to fade as he slipped back to the place he'd been when she got there. A sort of purgatory where he felt no joy but seemed to feel no pain, either.
Some of the tension left her as she blew out a sigh. It wasn't ideal. Knowing she'd walk out of there, leaving him like this. But it sure as shit beat leaving him in the tangle of fear and confusion. She mentally thanked a god she had stopped believing in years ago and rolled to her feet.
"Any new cases?" George asked a few moments later.
She had been cleaning up his tray and paused to shoot him a glance. "Um, nothing major. Just business as usual."
Before he’d become the shell of the man that sat before her, George Strickland had been the highly regarded Manhattan District Attorney. He’d worked in the DA’s office for a total of twenty years before retiring at the age of sixty.
Because he was so respected, no one questioned his reasoning…that he was tired, and wanted to travel and play golf. But the truth was, once Brad died, and their mother had followed shortly after, George’s mind just sort of broke. Like one too many blows had cracked it open, leaving a fissure that leaked a little more each day.
When it first started happening, Lucky had been so wrapped up in her own grief, she hadn't even seen it. It had taken a call from one of his close colleagues airing some concerns and fears for his safety to make Lucky realize that her father’s health was declining. Early onset dementia, the doctors had later deduced. He’d been so young, she hadn’t even considered such a thing, but there it was. Dropped balls and lapses in judgment had become the norm, and his friends at the DA’s office hated to see such a standout career ruined so late in the game. If Lucky convinced him to hurry it along, it would only help him. Give him time to grieve and heal, she was told.
Turned out, convincing her dad to retire was a decision she’d questioned ever since. Small bouts of forgetfulness had turned into long bouts of an almost catatonic state. Without the daily routine of getting ready for work and having a purpose...something to wake up for, George had declined so rapidly, it wasn't long before she and her younger sister Abby had been forced to check him in to Stonybrook. But not before he'd secured a promise from her in his last, most lucid moment.
"You and I both know Brad didn't commit suicide. If I retire now, I'll never get the chance to make them pay. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Ella-girl?"
She had understood perfectly.
It was on her.
Because she and her father were the only two people in the world who knew Brad…really knew him. Her mother and sister had known a sanitized version of him. The Brad that grinned widely and bent their mother back in a dip whenever he hugged her. The Brad that had filled in last minute for Abby’s Daddy-Daughter Dance when her father’s work had pulled him away. The Brad that played pickup games at the community center with a bunch of kids who just needed one good reason to stay off the streets.
But they didn’t know the Brad that had gotten involved with the wrong crowd after college and had only avoided arrest due to his father’s influence. The Brad that had found himself in the thralls of addiction more than once. The Brad that had a darkness in him that he tried so hard to hide with a smile and a wink.
And in spite of all that, she and her father were still the only two people in the world who would never
—could never—accept that he'd taken his own life, suicide note be damned.
She wasn’t delusional. Brad had problems. Who didn’t? But he never would’ve left them like that. She had to believe he would have come to her if things were really bad.
So when asked, she hadn't hesitated. She'd taken her father's hand and swore to him that she wouldn't rest until Brad's killer was found. Following in his footsteps and taking a position in the DA’s office wasn’t going to do it, though. She’d worry about making Brad’s killer pay eventually. But first?
She had to find him.
Or her.
And that meant getting an in to all the resources the city had to offer, from the inside. Learning how to dissect a crime scene, drill into potential motives, and piece together a series of clues.
That meant breathing new life into a case that was growing colder every year that passed.
That meant becoming a homicide detective.
So, she'd left her brand new job at a fancy Manhattan law firm to join the NYPD. She would find Brad’s killer, and, in the meantime, she’d bring peace to other families who had lost someone they loved to violence.
The last time she’d spoken to her older brother replayed in her mind for the second time that day, and she shut it down again, zeroing back in on her father's suddenly sharp eyes as he asked the question she’d known was coming.
"Brad’s case? Anything new?"
There wasn’t. The same dead ends, as always. She'd already broken his heart once tonight, though, and had officially had enough, so she shrugged.
"Nothing firm, but I have a new avenue I’m exploring. I'll keep you posted."
She'd just have to solve this damned MoMA murder so she could get a little free time to find a new avenue to explore and make her lie a truth.
Her father settled back in his recliner and sighed.
"I wonder if Matlock is on tonight?"
And just like that, he was gone again, back in his own little world, oblivious.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 5