“I’m not done with it.” He pulled on another pair of gloves and tugged off the plastic sheet covering a table to the left of the vic's remains.
On a tray, lay the blood-crusted wooden block that had acted as the stand for the human sculpture with a wicked-looking metal skewer sticking out from the center pointing her way, like an accusatory finger.
Bisby picked it up and set it flat so it was standing up the way it had outside of the museum.
“I’m thinking he sat it up straight and slid the parts on like a shish kebab." He mimicked the motion and then paused to touch his index finger to the tip of the skewer. "This thing is sharp as the dickens. He kept it close, running parallel to the ulna,” he paused and shot them a glance, “the bone on the medial side of the forearm. Probably slid down with ease."
He went silent as, for a moment, they all contemplated that ghoulish scenario. Then, he tilted the contraption to the side and set it back on the tray.
Lucky squinted hard, her pulse skittering.
“Let me see that,” she murmured, gesturing for him to tip the wooden base upside down. A shockwave ran through her as she leaned closer. “There’s something under the blood. Something white. Like a tiny piece of paper. See it?”
‘Los and Bisby both craned their necks to get a closer look as the M.E. muttered under his breath about getting enough goddamned time to do his job properly. She ignored him, because none of that was important right now.
She stared at the one-inch by one-inch sticker, sealed flush against the wood. Her ears buzzed with the rush of blood and adrenaline as Bisby set the spiked block onto the table in front of him and began rifling through his tools.
She needed to calm the hell down. For all she knew, it could be a generic inspector’s stamp from the manufacturer, and she was getting all amped up for nothing.
Bisby turned back to them with a light strapped to his head and a magnifying monocle over one eye, making him look like some sort of steampunk gold prospector. ‘Los and Lucky were still and silent as he painstakingly turned the wooden piece this way and that.
“There are definitely letters or something printed under here but I can’t make them out clearly, due to the blood. I’m going to guess maybe B4?” he murmured.
Lucky shouldered her way between the men, pressing her face close enough to the wood that the coppery scent of old blood rushed up to meet her.
She stared at the printing, straining so hard it was a wonder she didn’t pull an eye muscle, but she came to the same conclusion as Ed.
B4? Maybe B9? Not clear enough to be definite on either of the characters, though.
She bit back a growl of impatience as Bisby straightened.
“Until we send it to the lab and they can remove the blood in a way that won’t compromise the print, that’s about all I can tell you. I still have some notes and measurements to take on this. As soon as I’m done, I’ll let you know and the lab can take it. Now, go do something else until then because I’m not gonna have you two breathing down my goddamn neck all day,” Ed groused from behind his monocle.
‘Los peered over at her and tipped his head in a clipped nod. Of course, Bisby was right. No matter how much she wanted to grab the thing and scrape the blood off with her fingernails, there was no other alternative but to wait.
Still, as they walked out, her whole body was humming.
“Do you think it was put there, or something from the manufacturer he just didn’t remove?” She shook her head slowly. “It could lead us to the store where it was purchased, at any rate. I don’t know, ‘Los. It’s something important. I feel it in my bones.”
“I have a lot of faith in those bones, partner. Hopefully, our patience will be rewarded.”
They climbed into the stifling heat of the car and she tugged out her cell phone as ‘Los started the engine.
"Halal Guys are open soon. Let's drop the watch off at the lab and then see what they have to say while we wait for Bisby to finish up,” ‘Los said.
“Yeah, sure.” She nodded absently, but her mind wasn’t on the food truck employee or Mel’s watch. Her mind was firmly on the sticker. What if it was a message from the killer himself? B4 could simply represent the word “before” or it could be a code for…something else.
She tapped it into the search bar and waited. What came back was less than dazzling. An old sci-fi movie that took place in a parking lot, a bus route on the MTA, and a music video by some obscure band. After scrolling for another minute, she tried B9. Vitamins and another bus route. She let out a low growl.
“Patience is a virtue,” ‘Los reminded her with a chuckle.
“Yeah, well, God already packed me full of other virtues, like the ability to fit eighteen grapes in my mouth at once, so when it came time for patience, I guess there wasn’t any room left.”
“Fine. Sit there and spin your wheels. I’ll keep quiet.” ‘Los shot her a grin and then turned his attention back to the road.
She worked the puzzle mentally as they dropped the evidence bags off and headed back toward the museum, but was no closer to an answer when ‘Los double-parked the car on the corner in front of the popular Middle Eastern food cart a while later.
He let out a long, low whistle. "Crazy line already and it’s only 10 AM. They're not going to be thrilled about being a man down."
They approached, the smell of chicken and rice making her mouth water as hungry patrons protested.
"Sorry, people. Not trying to cut the line. This is police business," ‘Los said with an easy smile as she held up her badge silently and shouldered her way through the grumbling crowd.
She stepped up to the window and a good-looking young man with black hair and warm eyes peered down at her.
"I think the woman in front of you was next."
She held up the badge for his inspection. "Are you Ahmed Al-Sayed?"
"I am," he said, his expression immediately going wary. "Are you here about the other night? Because I already talked to a cop that night...Flynn? I think was his name."
"Yeah, and we appreciate that. We just have a couple more questions. Can you give us a minute?"
Ahmed nodded, gesturing toward the back of the truck.
She and ‘Los left the line to a chorus of low cheers and met Ahmed as he stepped out the back door. It was already almost ninety degrees out but a blast of heat seemed to exit the vehicle along with him. His face was slick with sweat and he sucked down half a bottle of water before looking their way, gaze troubled.
“What else can I tell you?"
‘Los took out a pen and pad. "Tell us what you remember one more time, please. Sometimes, we forget things in the heat of the moment. Sometimes, we forget to mention things because we don't think they're important. Just start at the beginning."
He nodded slowly. "It was almost closing. We'd already had our usual middle of the night rush of shit-faced club-goers on their way home, and things were slowing down. The other guys were inside the truck packing up the food. I was outside bringing in signs, taking out the trash. That was when I heard the scream. At first, I didn't pay too much attention. There are lots of people laughing and squealing that late at night. I saw the girl...Tala, I think she said?"
He looked to Lucky for confirmation, and she nodded.
"I saw her standing in front of the—" he stopped short and ran the back of his hand over his upper lip, "in front of it. I dropped the trash bag I was carrying and ran toward her. At first, she was blocking my view, so I just kept asking what was wrong as I got closer, but then she moved. I never saw anything like that." He looked away, gaze unfocused like he was lost in a waking nightmare. "We saw some crazy stuff when we were kids before we came here. But I never saw anything like that," he repeated, his knobby Adam's apple working as he swallowed hard. "That poor girl. She just kept screaming. I think she'll be seeing that in her dreams for a long time. I know I will."
"Did you talk to her?" ‘Los asked, jotting something on his pad. "Ask her any questi
ons?"
"No. Not at first." He shook his head and leaned his ass against the rear bumper. "I sort of tugged her toward me, so she couldn't see it anymore. I tried to calm her down. I told her we had to call the police to get help. She had her phone in her hand because she had been listening to music on it, and she made the call. Then, I waited with her until you guys came. That was it.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I wish I could tell you something more."
"Did you look around when you first approached? See anyone else on the street, even from the back?"
"Nope. But once I heard the screams, I wasn't paying attention to anything except the girl," he admitted, looking down at his hand and flexing it. "I definitely could've missed something."
"Did you have any cause to leave the truck earlier than that? Before the screams, before you were closing up?"
"No. We were pretty busy until almost three A.M. I heard people talking and I guess there was some sort of DJ doing a secret underground show that wrapped up late and we were slammed. Sorry."
The truck's window faced away from the museum and the perp had approached from the opposite corner, so it had been a long shot anyway.
"Not your fault. How could you have known?" ‘Los said. "You heard a girl screaming, and instead of running the opposite way or ignoring it, you headed right for her to lend a hand. You did good."
The young man’s lips trembled into a half-hearted facsimile of a smile, but it was gone in an instant.
"Yeah, well, I gotta get back to work." He looked down at his hands again and shrugged. "If you talk to Tala again, tell her I'm sorry that happened to her. And if she ever wants to talk..." He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a business card. "She can come by and I'll feed her."
Lucky took the card. She doubted young Tala would ever want to walk down this block again, but who knew? Maybe the two of them could help each other get past what was likely one of the toughest things either had gone through in their short lives.
"Thanks. I'll make sure she gets this."
Ahmed stood and pitched his empty water bottle into a nearby recycling bin.
"Can I go back to work now?"
‘Los waved his hand toward the truck. "Absolutely. And thanks for your time."
He climbed back into the truck and she and ‘Los made for the car.
"Not exactly a fountain of information," her partner said once they were back in the sedan. He plugged the key into the ignition, cranking the a/c before pulling away. "Seems like a nice enough kid, though."
He did. In fact, nearly everyone they'd spoken to so far had been both helpful and forthcoming, with the exception of Xavier Walsh. But so far, they were still drawing blanks. With a crime this complex that had so many moving parts, multiple crime scenes in a metropolitan area, it should've been easier to find someone who’d seen something. And with the ever-important seventy-two-hour window fast approaching, she knew they were on borrowed time.
Come on, Bisby, put the pedal to the metal, here.
"Did you hear back from Garcia?" she asked ‘Los as she aimed the air vent at her face.
"Yup. He texted early this morning. He said no one's taking credit."
Mobsters got cocky. They didn't confess, but they definitely talked amongst themselves. The NYPD had undercover people with ties to most of the crime families in the area. ‘Los had tapped Garcia, a friend of his in vice, to put out some feelers. Apparently, no one was talking.
Not that they would’ve gotten anything they could use in court, but at least rumblings would've given them some direction. As it stood, she was feeling more and more like a ship without a rudder on this one.
"In fact,” ‘Los continued as he navigated his way through traffic, “Garcia heard that Frankie had been asking questions, himself, trying to get to the bottom of it so as to get the heat off him.”
They were still going to talk to him, but the more things progressed, the less she believed Frankie had something to do with it. Why would he kill Mel when he owed him money, and then leave all that expensive jewelry there?
Made not one lick of sense.
The rest of the ride back to the precinct passed in silence and she let all the possible reasons for murder tumble around in her mind.
She still wasn’t liking money. With what looked to be millions worth of jewelry left untouched in the store, it seemed insane to leave it there. Even if Xavier Walsh or his mother had hired someone to do it for future inheritance, they’d have done a damn sight better for themselves if they’d robbed the place. They’d get to fence the shit and then file the insurance claim. The perfect double dip.
Fury didn’t fit, either. It was all planned so well. Revenge was a possibility. A long-simmering anger, a score to be evened.
But every way she turned it, time and time again, one motive kept bobbing back to the top, like a message in a bottle on a stormy sea.
Pleasure.
10
“Eh, I don’t know anymore,” Lucky said, blowing a chunk of hair out of her eyes as she gazed critically at her handiwork.
She’d been messing with the set-up in the interview room for over half an hour. It was bordering on compulsive at this point and she knew it.
She’d just set a folding tray table next to one of the chairs and put a bottled water on it when ‘Los cleared his throat.
“You sure you don't want to put the table back?" he asked, brow wrinkling dubiously. "Seems awfully empty in here.”
“Yeah, I’m okay with that."
She wanted to be close to Frankie. See the pulse in his neck, hear it if he swallowed too hard, watch his pupils dilate or not as they talked. The table was too square, too big, and would only be in the way.
When Frankie "Quarter to Ten" Lewis was led into the interrogation room a little while later, Lucky couldn't help but think they'd gotten the nickname for him wrong.
While his head was definitely cocked to one side, it was also as square as a block, and between that, his squashed nose and cauliflower ears, she'd have gone with something more like Frankenstein. Definitely a face only a mother could love, and one that had made contact with more than its fair share of fists.
Still, as he took his seat across from her, she couldn't help but notice that he was dressed like he'd stepped off the pages of GQ magazine. He’d paired his robin’s egg blue, button-down shirt with a tailored, dove gray sports jacket and his buttery, camel-colored shoes probably cost more than she made in a year.
He might not be much to look at, but he definitely cared about appearances.
She made a mental note of that as she closed the door behind them. Plan was, she would talk to him alone with ‘Los watching through the two-way mirror, in the hopes that Frankie felt less on the defensive with just one of them there playing good cop.
Already, though, as Frankie’s watery blue eyes trailed over her from head to toe, a half-leer pasted on his ugly mug, she could tell it wasn't going to work. She had the feeling he was the kind of guy who called a woman "dollface". She might be packing heat and wearing a suit jacket, but he had no intention of taking her seriously.
Which meant she was going to have to take him down a peg.
So much for good cop.
She gave him an easy smile and slid into her chair, brain chugging along double-time as she tried to think of how best to do it.
"Mr. Lewis, thanks so much for coming down."
He let out a low snort and crossed his legs at the ankle, flashing a slick pair of two-toned argyle socks. "Did I have a choice?"
She set the file she'd been holding on her lap and nodded apologetically. "Sorry for the confusion. Of course you had a choice. When my partner called, he mentioned that this was voluntary at this juncture, didn't he?" She made to stand. "If not, I'll definitely speak to him, because—"
Frankie gestured for her to sit back down, irritation flickering across his flat face. "At this juncture," he said with a frown. "And then, if I said no, it'd be mandatory. What's the point of tryin
g to dodge you? I didn't do nothing wrong, anyways. Make it fast, though. I got a business to run."
She settled back in her seat and wrinkled her brow. "We're very sorry for the inconvenience. We offered to come to you instead of you coming down to the station, but my partner mentioned you declined."
His eyes flashed and she could tell she was getting on his nerves. That was a good start.
"I can't have the whole neighborhood seeing you in and out of my joint. This is fine. Let's get it over with."
"Sure, I understand. Just a few questions and you can get on with your day." She thumbed open the manila folder and shuffled some of the papers around, but it was just for show. She'd mapped out her questions long beforehand. "Do you know a man named Mel Walsh?"
His face went blank, his gaze inscrutable, as he uncrossed and re-crossed his legs. "Yeah." She waited, and he almost seemed content leaving it at that, but then added, "I know a lot of people in this town. Why?"
"What is your association with him?" She kept her tone gentle, but paid close attention to his expression as he considered his reply.
"I wouldn't call it an association. More like, we were acquaintances."
"Were?" she asked softly. "You're not anymore?"
His smile was anything but joyous as he attempted to stare her down. "You're homicide. My assistant looked you and your partner up before I came in. You got a big file in front of you and I'm here answering questions. Don't take a genius to figure somebody whacked old Mel."
They hadn’t officially released his name yet, but word was out. She’d wanted to see if he admitted it without prompting, and he hadn’t.
“Where were you between the hours of nine PM on Sunday night and four AM on Monday morning?”
“A poker game at my cousin Lou’s house in Staten Island. For charity, like,” he said with a wink. “We didn’t break it up until six AM. I can get five guys to verify my whereabouts.”
She asked him for names and numbers and jotted them down before plucking a sheet of crumpled paper from her folder.
"Does this look familiar to you?" She held the note out and he leaned in to peer at it. "You can take it. Get a close look," she urged, waggling it in front of him.
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