Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland)

by Christine Gael

"Hey," she called as he padded down the hallway.

  “I knew you’d be awake.” He held up a paper bag. "Cheesecake from Juniors.” He slowed to a stop just outside the door and his lips twitched as he took in her outfit. “A little bit nerdy, a little bit rock and roll. I like it."

  She glanced down at her Joan Jett t-shirt and Abby’s Star Trek boxer shorts. “As much as I’d like to take credit, it was purely function over fashion. These were the only items that passed the smell test. I need a week off just to do laundry.”

  She waved him in and then closed the door behind them.

  “How about some pizza, first?" she said, taking the paper bag from him and setting it on the kitchen table.

  “I ate a burrito a couple hours ago, but I’ll never say no to pizza.” He folded himself into one of the chairs as she grabbed another plate. “So much for going home and relaxing, huh?” he said, jerking his chin toward the whiteboard on the wall and her open notepad.

  “Yeah, turns out, it’s not that easy to shut it off,” she said with a rueful shrug. “I’m out of bottled water. Tap or toilet?”

  "Tough choice. I'm feeling fancy today, so I’ll go with tap." As she got him his drink, he pried the box open and pulled out a slice of pizza. Then, he tucked in with a grunt of approval. “Damn, that’s good. The places near me suck."

  For the next few minutes, they ate in silence but she could see the tension in his shoulders, and the awful anticipation was killing her. She was just about to start the dreaded conversation herself when he scarfed down the last bit of his crust and swiped his hands over his jeans.

  “Something’s eating at me, Luck. And I can’t shake it.”

  She picked at a gooey piece of cheese and popped it into her mouth as she nodded, trying to ignore the sudden pounding of blood in her ears. But when ‘Los turned to face her, she knew that whatever he was about to say had nothing to do with the awkwardness between them.

  She recognized that expression. The irritation mixed with confusion and dogged determination. One of the cases was getting to him. He’d come here because it was driving him batty and she was the only one who could truly relate.

  A curious mixture of relief and disappointment coursed through her as she navigated her way back to safe, familiar ground.

  “Okay, so shoot. What’s going on?” she said, giving him her full attention.

  “I wish I knew,” he said, scrubbing at his jaw restlessly. “It’s like, I can’t help but feel we’re missing something big. Every time I try to go to sleep at night, I wind up staring at the ceiling, caught in the same weather pattern. And every time, I wake up in the same shitstorm. When was the last time we had two cases, within a couple days of each other, no less, that were atypical? Not a domestic and a shooting, or robbery gone bad. Straight up, first-degree homicides, both of which have left us grabbing our asses. Even the obvious suspects and motives feel wrong.”

  She tucked her feet beneath her and set her uneaten crust back into the box, apprehension fading as she flipped back into cop mode.

  “So let’s run with that for a minute,” she said, her mind chewing through all the evidence. “We both initially had a gut feeling that Mel’s death might’ve been the work of a serial killer. Granted, his wife and son both have motive—money, jealousy—but neither of us are sold, there.”

  “Exactly,” ‘Los said, eyes blazing. “And why not? Xavier seems perfect for it, on paper.”

  She didn’t have a tangible explanation for it, but he was right. “Something about the way he looks when he talks about Mel…like he still can’t quite believe he’s gone.”

  She leaned and scooped up her notepad and pen, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her.

  “Okay, let’s circle back to how we felt about Mel on day one. We both instantly thought serial killer. That would also explain why we had two pre-meditated murders in a week. On the face, they’re unrelated…but what if they’re not?”

  ‘Los’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in. “Keep going.”

  She drew a line down the middle of the paper. On one side, she wrote “Similarities”. On the other, “Differences”.

  “Let’s start with what they have in common. Number one, both older male victims. Both successful in their fields,” she said, jotting bullet points as she spoke.

  “Both in Midtown.”

  “Just a few blocks apart,” she added with a nod.

  “Mel’s killer, or at least the person who transported the sculpture of his body parts, was a young, trim, white male.”

  “And Mrs. Brennan from St. Pat’s said that she caught a glimpse of the driver when she walked Moncrief to the door. Possibly not his murderer, but likely the last person to see him before he was killed. Also trim, likely white, and male.”

  Given that most murders were committed by men, it was thin, but for some reason, her pulse started beating faster.

  “Both bodies defiled, and both victims started out in one location and were moved to another.”

  ‘Los stared at her. “What if Moncrief wasn’t chosen because he assaulted someone personally? What if he was just a symbol? The attack on him was an attack on the Catholic Church, as a whole, for the cover-ups? Same with Mel. What if they’re stand-ins for wrongs done to him or to others? Maybe the killer fancies himself some kind of vigilante anti-hero, meting out justice.”

  “And what does Mel represent?” she asked.

  “Greed? Maybe the killer was cheated in some way? Or lust…maybe his mother was cheated on?”

  Also thin, but Lucky wrote it down anyway. Because they were on to something.

  It was still just a tiny filament…not even a thread yet, but for the first time since they’d stood outside MoMA earlier that week, she felt like they were truly on to something.

  “What else?” she urged, tapping her pen against the pad. “There was some theater to both murders, right? Like he was making a grand sort of statement. He wanted people to stand up and take note.”

  It wasn’t lost on her that, at some point, they’d both taken to referring to the killer as one person. A singular “he”.

  “Which could be why both started or ended at major landmarks,” she continued, almost breathless now.

  ‘Los shot to his feet and moved into the living room toward the whiteboard.

  “Let’s map it all out.” He snatched up a black marker and quickly sketched out a ten-block grid. “2nd Ave. and west, to Hell’s Kitchen,” he said, gesturing to the vertical lines, “and then from 50th up to Central Park,” he added, pointing to the horizontal lines. He scribbled shorthand for the street and avenue names and then drew a rectangle to represent Central Park.

  She set down her pad and pen and joined him. “Okay, so Mel’s shop is on 51st between 5th and 6th.” She pointed to the block and he wrote Mel’s initials beside her finger. “And he was moved here,” she said, pointing to, “two blocks north to 53rd. Also between 5th and 6th.”

  ‘Los drew an arrow and then made a circle, writing Mel’s initials inside.

  “And Moncrief started at St. Pat’s, here,” ‘Los said, writing the Bishop’s initials on the block between 50th, Madison and 5th. “And he was brought here,” he continued, sliding his finger up and to the left, three blocks, “to this gas station.”

  He drew a circle around Moncrief’s initials, and then turned toward her.

  “Luck?”

  But she barely heard him. She was too busy reeling by what had become so blatantly obvious just an instant before. It was like she’d been smacked between the eyes with a brick.

  The pawn shop owner, the visiting Bishop…

  “Come on, partner, talk to me,” ‘Los demanded.

  She lifted a finger to trace the perfect, diagonal path from St. Pat’s to the gas station again.

  “Chess,” she croaked. “Fuckin’ A, ‘Los. He’s playing a game of chess.”

  25

  This was bad.

  Really, really bad, and it was all Ella’s fault.


  Andy's whole body was shaking as he peered into the filthy, cracked mirror of the Quick-E-Mart bathroom. He used the hem of his undershirt to swipe away the grime, and then almost wished he hadn’t. A thin trickle of blood streaked down his sweaty cheek and, for the first time, a true sense of fear stole over him.

  He might actually get caught.

  “God damn it!”

  He drew back and hammered the aluminum trashcan with his foot, barely swallowing a howl of fury.

  Everything had been perfect. Not a single misstep for the first few days. Not in the planning. Not in the execution. And now, when he was this close to end game, he'd made a critical error. He’d followed that stupid bitch around like a lovesick puppy yesterday and let her mess with his head.

  So badly, that he’d gotten reckless and almost got caught slashing her tire red-handed.

  So badly, that just a couple pills hadn’t been enough to quiet the storm inside him. He’d wound up taking three more once he got home, passing out on his bedroom floor, and waking up twelve hours later. Luckily, he’d had the wherewithal to email Brandon and reschedule their appointment to tonight before he’d gotten too woozy. Still, she’d ruined his meticulously laid out game plan, and he hated her guts for it right now. If he’d done the job the night before, when he was supposed to, it wouldn’t have gotten so fucked up.

  Leaning toward the mirror again, he tore off his fake mustache and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, he yanked a fistful of paper towels from the dispenser and dampened them with warm water, his brain chugging like a locomotive as he wiped at the wound on his face.

  The cut was superficial. A hairline split over his cheekbone that he'd barely felt when it happened. His adrenaline was so high, he doubted he'd have felt a bullet at that point, though. When he'd picked Brandon, he'd picked him for a reason. A lot of the guys he'd seen at the drag show were big. Some outweighed him by a hundred pounds and towered over him by six inches. He'd specifically picked the smallest. One he was sure he could take down easily when the time came. One whose body he could transport easily in a large suitcase when he left the hotel. Brandon had been perfect. Slender, with trim legs. His arms were toned but not muscular and, even in heels, he was only a couple inches taller than Andy.

  Getting him to meet up had been easy. A dangling carrot in the form of a possible acting gig, Brandon had agreed to meet him without question. He’d even taken the last-minute cancellation in stride. In fact, by the time that they’d gotten to the hotel room, Andy had finally managed to convince himself that deviating from the plan the night before hadn’t been catastrophic, after all. That Ella hadn’t gone and inadvertently derailed his whole plan.

  And then the shit hit the fan.

  Andy had gone to the bathroom and come out behind Brandon. He should’ve been knocked out by then. He was never even supposed to see the knife…

  Andy closed his eyes now, trying to replay the fight in his mind. Desperate to recall every movement, relive every mistake.

  Blood was bad. He’d been so careful not to leave behind any DNA, up to now. Gloves whenever possible, skullcap under his wig, face clean-shaven under his fake mustache. Every night when he went home, he checked his body under the florescent lights of the bathroom, using his phone to take pictures of himself from every angle to make sure his skin was intact and uninjured.

  He just hadn’t expected much of a fight with Brandon. He’d been wrong, and now the queen was out of play, which ruined everything.

  Andy straightened, crumpling the wad of paper towels into a ball and tossing them into the dented trashcan. The blood would catch up to him eventually, but it would take at least two days for the lab to get back the results, which would give him enough time to complete the game.

  If only the blood had been the worst part…

  A knock sounded at the door but he ignored it. Instead, he stared into the mirror, watching the blood well up again, first in a line of tiny, singular beads, until they linked to become a slender stream that ran down his cheek.

  Fucking Brandon.

  His stomach burned, and he shoved a hand in his pocket for his Rolaids, finding Brandon’s phone instead. Glad he’d had the wherewithal to snag it on his way out of the hotel room, he tossed it on the ground and smashed it beneath his heel, twice for good measure. Then, he wrapped it up in a wad of paper towels and threw it into the garbage can. At least, maybe it would keep the cops from seeing the email about their meeting for a little while. His stomach roiled again as he stuck his hand in his other pocket and froze in stunned silence.

  Gone.

  The roll of antacids was gone.

  Bile rose up like a tsunami in his stomach, threatening to choke him. There was no coming back from this.

  Three strikes. The blood was one. The Rolaids, two. And the fact that he’d definitely been seen leaving the scene of the crime, three.

  If Brandon was still alive, on top of it? Game over.

  The fight between them had been short, but vicious. Andy had lunged with the knife but Brandon had surprised him with a swift kick to the groin that would've been momentarily crippling if he hadn’t turned at the last second. His thigh had absorbed the worst of the blow, but before he'd been able to get stable on his feet again, Brandon had swung that massive purse, clipping Andy in the shoulder and knocking him to one knee.

  The other man had started shouting and made a run for it then, but he was in a panic and couldn’t get the door open. Andy had recovered quickly and followed, grabbing Brandon by the neck and squeezing as he thrust the knife into his back with his free hand. That was when he'd taken the elbow to the face and stumbled. The backs of his knees had hit the bed and, for just a second, he'd fallen on the mattress. Brandon had dropped in a heap, motionless on the floor. But by then, it was too late. Too late to do a check of the room, or to see if Brandon was still breathing, or stuff him into the suitcase, because someone was already pounding on the door…

  Bang, bang, bang!

  Andy lurched, dragged back to the present by another series of sharp raps on the bathroom door.

  "Look, man, I really gotta go," a low voice growled through the crack.

  "It's occupied," Andy bellowed, his heart thumping faster as the memory of all his mistakes stung his brain like a swarm of trapped hornets.

  The timeline was fucked, now, no question about it. Blood took time to process but prints were something else, especially when his were on file. And the waxy paper of the tube of Rolaids would surely turn up at least a partial. They'd know his name inside twenty-four hours, and they’d find out where he lived, just as quickly. Worse, if they’d finally caught on to the chess angle and Brandon was alive and talking, they’d soon figure out where he was going next.

  Which meant he needed to rethink.

  Regroup.

  Pivot.

  He hated the thought of changing the game now, after all his careful planning. But the thought of resigning made him physically ill. He couldn’t give up. Not when he’d come this far. Not when he was so close. Without the checkmate, all of this would’ve been for nothing…

  There was only one solution. He needed to throw the rulebook away and let vengeance take the wheel.

  This time, when the knocking came, it was a frantic pounding that sent Andy's already skyrocketing blood pressure through the roof.

  "It's occupied!"

  "Well, un-occupy it, motherfucker, because I'm about to shit my pants out here!" an angry voice hollered back through the door.

  Andy grabbed the key that had been chained to a large block of wood and opened the door. A middle-aged guy with a fat belly and greasy hair glared at him.

  "About fucking time."

  Andy stepped back and held the door open. The man entered the bathroom and then held his hand out for the key.

  He should’ve just handed it over. Should've just let it go and walked away. But he didn’t. He pushed his way back into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

  "Oh, no, buddy. I
f you think I'm about to—"

  When the block of wood came screaming down against his forehead, the fat man abruptly stopped talking.

  26

  "You're awfully quiet, Cap," 'Los observed as he leaned forward in his chair.

  Lucky stared at their boss and waited, willing him to say something, whole body thrumming with nervous anticipation.

  "That’s it? That’s what you’ve got? You two are out of your fucking minds." Satterfield shook his head, shooting her an incredulous look before turning that same look on her partner. "You want me to request a whole team, get approval for essentially unlimited overtime, and send the media into a fucking frenzy because a bishop and a pawn store owner were murdered in Midtown and you two think that means ‘serial killer’? Is that what you're telling me right now. Because if that's what you're telling me, you can both pack your shit, put your out of office replies on, and prep for a long stay in the loony bin."

  “Sir, I think if we had more people on this, we could tie it altogether and deliver it with a bow on top, and quickly,” Lucky pressed. “We would be able to check out other crimes that might fit our chess theory while having the tech team working to anticipate his potential next move. If we had someone with a deep knowledge of chess, they could--”

  He let out a snort. “And now, you got us shelling out for Bobby Fischer to come and consult, too? Anything else? Maybe you guys would like me to fly Kasparov in from Russia and have him weigh in?”

  “Actually, sir, I think Bobby Fischer is dead,” ‘Los interjected.

  “As am I, because you two are killing me,” Satterfield shot back. He rubbed at his shiny head, like if he rubbed it hard enough, a genie might pop out and he could wish himself far, far away.

  "Sir, with a few extra people, we can put together some visual aids that will help prove this is a valid theory.”

  "I won't have those visual aids when I make my calls, though, will I? I'll just be sitting here with my ass out, telling my bosses that you two have a hunch there's a serial killer loose in Midtown and he's using people like chess pieces. Then, they'll ask me what this hunch is based on considering the MO's were completely different, and I get to tell them that one guy owned a pawn shop and the other was a bishop, that's why." He blew out a breath and turned his gaze skyward. "And then, when they ask me what happened to the son with the million five motive and the stripper love triangle, and the loan shark who hadn't been paid on time, and the Catholic priest who was sexually violated, I get to tell them never mind all that. We're going full bore with the chess angle because of the two victims’ job titles. Is that what you're asking me to do?"