The car was blessedly cool and Michael wiped the sweat off his brow with his ever-present handkerchief.
“Little hot for gloves,” he said as his driver settled his hands on the wheel.
“My dad was a professional driver before me and always took pride in looking the part, regardless of the weather, sir.”
Michael nodded absently before rifling through the front section of his suitcase for his Kindle. Best to look busy or he’d be making polite small-talk the entire ride.
They’d only been on the move for ten minutes or so when the driver turned toward him with a sheepish smile.
"I'm so sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I have to use the restroom. I’ll be fast.”
Michael counted slowly back from five and smiled. “Nothing to apologize for. We have plenty of time to get to the airport.” Patience, after all, was a virtue, and he’d be out of the city soon enough.
They pulled into a gas station and Michael waved the driver off when he asked if he'd like a coffee or soft drink. Not one to let grass grow under his feet, he used the time to take out his notebook and begin jotting down a to-do list for his arrival back home.
He was so intent on his task that, when the back door swung open a few minutes later and the driver's face appeared, he flinched in surprise.
“Sorry to startle you, sir. I know you said you weren't thirsty, but I got you a lemon iced tea anyway, since it’s so hot out,” he said, holding out a massive cup with a red straw sticking from the top of it.
Michael reached for the cup instinctively, having no intention of drinking gas station iced tea but not wanting to appear rude. As his fingers closed around the condensation-slicked plastic, the driver let go an instant too soon, and sixty-four ounces of crushed ice and tea gushed over his lap in a rush.
"Son of a gun," he gasped, lurching up in shock at the accidental ice bath.
He shot a glare toward the driver, expecting to see him sputtering an apology. Instead, he looked back, the epitome of calm as he pulled a thin cloth from his shirt pocket.
"That's clearly not going to do the job," Michael objected sharply, squirming to swipe some of the ice from between his legs. "We're going to need a whole roll of paper towels, so if you can go back into the store and get some, that would be a good start."
But the driver wasn't paying him any mind. He was pushing his way into the back seat, roughly crowding Michael against the opposite door.
"What in the world do you think you're doing? Get away from me, this instant!” he demanded, baffled and getting angrier by the second. But his demands were cut short as the driver's arm shot out and his leather-encased hand plastered itself over Michael’s mouth like a starfish.
His heart pumped triple-time as he struggled, trying to jerk away but instantly recognizing he was no match for the trim, young man’s deceptive strength.
Was this some sort of ransom attempt? Was he being mugged?
A scent, not unlike that of the stuff they used to clean his bathroom, filled his nostrils and he gagged. As he struggled for oxygen, his brain flickering like a candle in a drafty room, he realized this was no simple robbery attempt. This was something far worse.
He would die tonight in this God-forsaken city.
14
When the call came in, Lucky was sleeping hard, and the shrill peal of the phone had her bolting upright with a gasp.
“Strickland,” she muttered, heart pounding with adrenaline as she tried to get her bearings.
She’d been in the middle of a dream. She was chasing a white rabbit down a long hallway, and the faster she ran, the faster the creature scampered, always one step ahead.
Damned if that didn’t feel too prophetic for comfort.
She swiped a hand over her weary face and flipped on the light as the voice on the other end spoke.
“On my way to get you,” ‘Los said, his voice grim. “We got another one.”
It took a second for 'Los's words to sink in, but when they did, she froze.
"Same MO?"
"No, no, not like that. Just a new case," ‘Los continued. "Chavez and Halloran would've taken it, but it's going to be another media circus. Visiting Bishop was killed leaving St. Pat's after giving a speech to graduating seniors. Could blow up and get ugly fast. Cap wants us to juggle both cases, if we can."
It wasn't unusual to be working several homicides at once, but when one was as hot as the Mel Walsh case, and they were still tracking down early leads, something new would typically be passed to another team. As good as Halloran and Chavez were, though, the Catholic Church had clout, and an institution as lauded as St. Patrick's Cathedral would command only the best.
And that meant her and Carlos.
Some of that was their reputation for results. But she wasn’t blind to the fact that some of it was definitely due to her father's legacy. He had been important and well-connected, and people assumed she was, too. It was a blade that cut both ways. One that had paved a barrier-free, speedy path to detective, but one that meant she and 'Los got tapped for high profile cases that required lots of glad-handing and diplomacy, even when they were eyeballs deep in other work.
Even when it certainly wasn’t her strong suit.
"Shit," she muttered, rubbing at her gritty eyes.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes or less."
“Yep.” She clicked off and lurched to her feet, ambling to the bathroom, mind reeling.
It wasn't even July yet and already this summer was a pressure cooker. If it got any hotter, they'd have more bodies in Midtown than Bisby had run through the morgue the whole rest of the year.
Maybe this one would be easy. Cut and dried.
A girl could dream.
She leaned over the sink and blasted the cold water, making short work of brushing her teeth and yanking her hair into a ponytail. By the time she was dressed and on her way into the kitchen a few minutes later, Abby was standing there in her usual bedtime underwear and tank top ensemble, barely smothering a yawn.
“And I thought my job sucked,” Abby muttered, eyeing her warily. She paused for a long moment and then lifted her chin almost defiantly. “I put the coffee pot on when I heard your phone ring. Should be done in a sec.” With that, she turned and padded back toward her room.
“Thanks,” Lucky called after her.
Abby didn’t reply and her door closed with a loud click a moment later.
Lucky made her way to the coffeepot and took the extra minute to pour herself a steaming to-go mug and grab a peanut butter granola bar. She was only half finished with her breakfast when her phone beeped with a message from ‘Los, letting her know he was outside.
A moment later, she headed out into the muggy, middle of the night air. The ride was quick and quiet. Despite the whole “City that Never Sleeps” legend, the Midtown streets were almost a pleasure in the wee hours compared to the honking, fume-filled gridlock of the day and evening hours. ‘Los was even able to nab a parking space right in front of the gas station.
She got out of the car, coffee in hand, right as a uniform named McKenzie stepped out of the dingy box of a building, a frown furrowing his brow.
“Well?” she asked, taking a stabilizing pull from the mug as she braced herself. "What have we got so far?"
“Nothing like your MoMA vic. Clean, quick, no muss. Puncture wound to the chest, but body is intact.”
Good news, there. The last thing they needed on their hands was another case like that for the press to glom on to, ripe for a pithy headline.
The Midtown Mangler Deconstructs Another Victim!
She pushed the thought aside and focused on the crime scene at hand.
Typical gas station. Four pumps, small parking lot, only a black Lincoln Town Car still parked.
“Cashier closed shop at midnight, did all his nightly duties, and locked up at right around one. He was headed to catch his train but noticed the car still in the lot. Walked over to make sure no one was inside before he called the tow tru
ck, and saw the Bishop’s body in the back seat, slumped over. He banged on the windows and doors a bunch to make sure he wasn’t just sleeping, and then called it in.”
“Cameras?” ‘Los asked.
McKenzie shook his head. “Nope. New owners, only owned the place for a month. They weren’t hooked up yet.”
Figured.
Lucky chewed on her bottom lip as she thought it through.
“What about the car?”
“Part of the Reliable Livery fleet. Reported stolen at nine sixteen PM from a parking garage on Lexington.”
“Give them a call and get us all the footage from the last twenty-four hours.”
McKenzie turned away and then swung back to face her.
“Also, don’t shoot the messenger, but something that makes things a little sticky from a PR perspective…”
‘Los muttered a curse under his breath.
“Go ahead, shoot,” Lucky said, the pressure in her chest building.
McKenzie winced.
“When we jimmied the lock and checked for signs of life, we noted that the vic’s belt was open and his pants were unzipped.”
15
Andy let out a whoop as he peered outside the window at all the snow on the ground, as thick as a blanket. No footprints in it yet, just an ocean of white.
“Day off. Yessss!”
He practically toppled down the stairs in his excitement.
"No school, right?"
His mother glanced in his direction from her post at the stove and smiled.
"Nope. Got the phone call a little while ago but I didn't want to wake you."
He let out a whoop and stomped back up the stairs to put on his snow gear. He was just jamming his feet into last year's too-tight snow boots when he heard a knock at the door.
"If that's Piper, tell her I'll be down in two minutes!" he called.
His best friend and he had already planned their day in case school got cancelled, but he thought she'd give him time to at least wolf down a Pop-Tart before she came over.
Whatever. He was just glad she wasn't mad at him anymore. He hated when she was mad at him…
He yanked a thick sweatshirt over his head and then stood by the light switch, counting softly under his breath as he turned it on and off, eight times. Once he was done, he pounded down the steps, calling to his mom as he went.
“We’re going to make a snow fort, so I need to get a shovel from the garage and..."
He trailed off as he passed the open front door. Cold air blasted in, carrying with it the sound of his mother shouting.
"You can't do this! God damn it, my son is inside. He's only nine years old, and there's no one else."
Andy's stomach flopped like a fish as he peeked his head out the door.
The bright sunlight skittered off the snow crystals, nearly blinding him, and he blinked hard until his vision cleared.
There were three police cars with lights flashing parked in front of their house, one blocking the driveway. His mother stood on the porch struggling, with her arms pinned behind her, as a policeman dressed in black muttered something in her ear about her rights.
"Son," a deep voice said. "Go on inside. We'll be in to talk to you in just a second."
His mother stilled, her face crumpling as she noticed him in the doorway. "Oh, God, baby. It's going to be okay. I'll be back soon. This is all a big mistake, just try not to worry."
But he was worried. He'd seen her cry a lot of times before. Like when his dad came home late—back when he used to come home at all—and they spent the night yelling in their bedroom. Or when the mail came with lots of pink envelopes, sometimes he'd find her at the kitchen table, tears streaming down her face.
He hated pink envelopes.
But he'd never seen her cry like this. She was really scared and that was making him feel scared inside, too.
"Ma'am, he'll be taken care of by a social service liaison until this is worked out. She'll be on scene any second now. He's in good hands."
"Your hands?" she demanded, her wild hair falling in a tangle around her face. "That doesn't make me feel the least bit better, because you're all a bunch of crooks."
The bigger of the two officers gripped her tighter as she squirmed and jerked away from him.
"I won't go with you. You can fucking shoot me, but I'm staying right here with my boy."
"We'll wait until social services arrive, if that will make you feel better. But then you have to agree to leave with me quietly. This nonsense isn't going to help anyone, least of all your son."
She bit her lip and nodded, before going still.
"Where are you taking her? What did she do?" Andy asked the officer standing closest to him.
And who was going to take care of him? Who would make sure the food on his plate didn’t touch? Who would hold him and rock him when his medicine didn’t work good and he couldn’t stop switching the light on and off? When, no matter how many eights he made, it was never enough?
He didn't say any of that, somehow knowing that, if he did, it would only make things worse.
“Your mother got involved with some bad people, son. We need to ask her some questions about that. Until then, this nice lady is going to make sure you're taken care of." He jerked his head toward a woman walking up the unshoveled pathway. Her face was pinched tight, and her eyes were dark and beady, like a bird.
"Next of kin?" she muttered to the officer as she clopped up the steps, the vibration of her heavy strides breaking a pair of icicles off the awning and sending them into the pillows of snow like twin spears.
The cop shook his head grimly. "Nope. Father isn't in the picture and no close relatives."
She pursed her lips and bent toward Andy. "It's going to be okay, young man. You'll come with me until all this gets sorted out, all right?"
It wasn't all right. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay here, in his house, with his mom.
He shook his head and took a step back into the foyer. "I'll just wait here until she gets back. I take care of myself after school a lot of days, I'll be fine," he insisted. But he could tell by the look on the woman's face that she wasn't going for it. He tried again. "My friend Piper lives next door. I could probably just stay there, then."
"I'm sorry, but we can't let you do that. But I promise that no one is going to hurt you if you just come with me. There will be other kids there to play with that are going through the same things you are. You'll make friends, I swear."
Panic started to swell inside him, making his hands go cold and clammy. Make friends? How long did they think he was going to be there?
He stared up into the woman's cold, beady eyes and had the sudden, distinct feeling that, if he left this house now, he was never coming back.
He slapped that thought away and shoved his icy hands into his pockets.
What was Mom always saying to him? Stop being so negative.
Probably, once the cops asked her their questions, she'd be able to come home. He knew for sure she didn't break the law. His mama once made him bring back a single piece of five cent Bazooka gum that he'd swiped at the corner store register and apologize for it.
Whatever the police had thought she'd done, once she got to explain what really happened, they'd say they were sorry and let her come back home to take care of him.
Wouldn’t they?
Andy sat up with a gasp and blinked hard. He could hear the sound of his own pulse in his ears as he tried to clear his head.
Just a dream. A nightmare, really. A nightmare about a memory. At least it had been cut short this time.
He sat up on the worn couch, avoiding the electrical tape that patched up one particularly busted seam. His eyes were still gritty with sleep as he stared sightlessly at the blank television’s screen in front of him, willing himself to stay calm.
Everything was all right. In fact, everything was great. Last night had gone down without a hitch. After the debacle the night before that, he'd wondered i
f maybe he'd already lost his taste for vengeance. He’d seriously hoped not, since his first kill had been a revelation. He'd felt completely content as he'd carved old Mel up. Not because he got off on torturing strangers—he wasn’t a sociopath, for God’s sake—but because he got off on torturing Ella. And knowing Mel had suffered…been cut up while he was still alive, would eat away at her, all but assuring that Andy would be the first thought on her mind when she woke up and the last when she lay her head on the pillow at night.
That had made it a pleasure, even when it got gross. And when he was done, he'd felt invincible.
But then he'd had to kill the damned animal. Some rational part of him knew how fucked that was. That all those doctors and head shrinkers had been at least partly right. He wasn’t a sociopath, but something was definitely wrong with him. Anyone who wound up curled in a fetal position for nearly a full day after putting a horse down with a syringe, but managed to eat a rare steak after butchering a man alive had to be at least a little messed up.
Leading up to last night, he’d been worried he might have to end the game sooner than he’d wanted. That, when it came time to kill Moncrief, he might hesitate. But he’d been pleasantly surprised to find himself back in the zone, as the athletes liked to say. He'd been able to block out that kernel of humanity inside him as easily as changing the channel on the TV.
"I'm off to work, and won't be back until after two. Also, can you not eat all the Cheez Whiz and then leave the empty can in the cabinet?" a low, irritated voice called from the kitchen. "Like, how hard is it to throw it away?"
Andy forced a smile and murmured an apology he didn't mean. Then, he tugged a pair of headphones over his ears to block out any further conversation.
He hated having a roommate. Hated it almost as much as he hated swallowing pills. Unfortunately, he had no choice on the roommate front. The most perfect, sublime crime ever committed didn't come cheap, and with his past just a click away in the information age, high-paying jobs were hard to find.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 10