Dedication
For Bianca, Fred and Sylvia, and Fred
Epigraph
Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,
And makes it fearful and degenerate;
Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.
—William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 2, Act 4
I was taking every hit from you,
You drive-by shooting son of a bitch,
I’m done. Oh whoa, I’m done.
And I’m sorry that you don’t like your life
My joy, my joy, my joy takes nothing from you.
—Frazey Ford, “Done”
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Grahamsville, New York, 1999
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Grahamsville, New York
1999
A question:
What are some things you can do to kill time while you are waiting to kill someone?
Sure. Things you can do:
Breathe.
Watch.
Listen.
Suck on a lozenge.
Things you can’t do:
Smoke.
Make a phone call.
Chew gum.
Pee.
Thank you.
The man stands at his kitchen sink, looking out the window. He can’t see me. I am one hundred meters away, dressed in black. The date was chosen so there would be no moon. He rinses dishes and puts them in the washer.
My rifle, on a tripod, is aimed at the window. I was taught that I will need to have his head in the crosshairs of my scope.
The bullet will travel at a speed of 2,500 feet per second. Sound travels at 1,126 feet per second. He will be dead before he hears the rifle shot.
I was taught not to close my eyes.
I close my eyes and pull the trigger.
When I open them he will be dead.
I will have killed his time.
And mine, too.
But I will be alive.
And many will be saved.
Many will be saved.
Praise God.
Chapter 1
Artemis Shelter for Women
I have two black eyes, possibly a broken nose, and scrapes and abrasions over my face. I also have a loose molar and a cut lip that doesn’t seem to want to stop bleeding. A meat tenderizer hammer wrapped in a dish towel added three purple bruises to my thighs. “For good measure,” he said.
I get in my car, drive unsteadily to a parking spot on Northern Boulevard, and walk two blocks to the shelter. I lean against the shelter’s steel grille; behind it is a solid wooden door with a peephole. Above the door out of reach, there is a CCTV camera aimed at me. I ring the bell and count seconds to dull the pain. At thirty-one, the door opens. A woman looks at me and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, we’re full. We have no room.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I step closer so she can get a better look at my face. I see hers. It’s about sixty, unlined, with kind blue eyes behind granny glasses. She thinks for a moment, then says with gentle resignation, “We’ll give you a sleeping bag on a couch for now. I’m sorry I can’t promise more.”
It’s okay. I’m in.
Chapter 2
Long Island City Police Department Headquarters
Two months earlier
What the fuck?
I write it and cross it out.
There is no way I can enter these three words into my daily log—a thick loose-leaf folder, pages defaced with coffee stains, containing notes of interviews, arrests, observations, phone calls scrawled in ballpoint, Sharpie, and India blue-black ink. It is the record of everything related to my job as a Long Island City homicide detective: investigations, interviews, active and inactive cases, and most recently what I did on the first Thursday in October apart from my choice of lunch—a foot-long Subway Meatball Marinara with a bottle of iced tea. I ate six inches and saved the rest for later. The meatballs are still sloshing around in my stomach like wet towels in a washer. Not a good choice.
On that day, What the fuck? came in three visits. Before I get to them, my name is Nina Karim. I am a single thirty-one-year-old woman who likes cats, Ryan Reynolds movies, beautiful sunsets, and walking on a wintry beach holding hands with a tall, caring, lightly bearded third-wave feminist. Yeah, right.
Long Island City Police Log: Detective Nina Karim
October 6, 2017
10:35 a.m.: Interview with John and Melinda Steevers, 3600 Myrtle Drive, South Flushing. Their son Ronald failed to show up at the weekly Sunday-night family dinner and had not reported to his job at the Home Depot in Long Island City. There was no response to their phone calls, texts, or emails. On Monday Mr. Steevers drove to Ronald’s residence at Sunny Gardens Apartments, in Queens, and found his apartment empty. There was no sign of Ronald’s wife, Susan. Most of her clothes were gone. Mrs. Steevers said, “We’re not interested in the disappearance of Ronald’s wife as there was no love lost between us.”
Mr. Steevers: “It’s not our problem.” Mrs. Steevers intimated Susan was capable of murdering their son. I asked them to fill out a missing persons report and told them I would follow up with an investigative visit to the apartment.
11:45 a.m.: Interview with Lawrence McDermott, Caucasian male, 25 Lancelot Lane, Northport, New York. Mr. McDermott confessed to murder but had no knowledge or memory of the person he had murdered. Mr. McDermott appeared to be sane and well dressed, and works as a risk specialist at Chase Bank in Manhattan. As ridiculous as his story sounds, I have some memory of this man that I can’t quite place. I know it will come to me. (I noted his basics—see above.) After he left, I endured mild verbal abuse from my fellow homicide detectives. Apparently, Mr. McDermott has been here before. He is considered a nutcase. What the fuck? #2
12:15 p.m.: Interview with Arthur “Artie” Crews, Caucasian male, 365 Maiden Lane, Little Neck, New York. Crews is a weatherman on KCS TV Channel 7. He asks if he could employ me on a private basis to help his son Scott find his missing cat, Bonkers. What the fuck? #3.
Chapter 3
I consider finishing my Subway sandwich in the car on the way to the Sunny Gardens Apartments but instead rewrap it carefully and hand it to a homeless man zigzagging cars at the stoplight. At the Police Academy, we were taught the cautionary tale of Jack Salucci, a veteran cop who wa
s forced by new regulations to report to the shooting range and take a proficiency exam on the .38 revolver he insisted on carrying. Officer Salucci arrived at the range, aimed his weapon at the target, and couldn’t pull the trigger. His gun was jammed. Salucci handed it over to the instructor, who discovered a cement-like material encasing the hammer. There was no way it could be fired. Salucci freaked, picturing himself facing an armed bank robber, hunched behind the open door of his patrol car, unable to return fire. Further analysis of his pistol revealed the cement-like material around the hammer to be hardened mozzarella cheese that had dripped down on the weapon from the hundreds of pizza slices Officer Salucci had consumed while sitting behind the wheel of his patrol car. My own weapon, a regulation Glock 22, is strapped to my hip under one of the two navy-blue JCPenney blazers I rotate, along with four white blouses, three pairs of blue slacks, and two pairs of black rubber-soled shoes that comprise my normal work costume. I also have a formal Long Island City Police uniform: a navy-blue suit with gold braids on the sleeves for my years of service, a medal for bravery, and an American flag patch. I am expected to wear a white shirt and a tie, completing the appearance of a man in law enforcement. For miserable Long Island weather, I own a series of blue sweaters, a blue raincoat, and, in winter, a down jacket, also blue. I am just a little girl blue homicide detective; that’s fine. My just-in-case weapon, strapped to my ankle, is a .38 Ruger LCR, the Lightweight Compact Revolver. I call it the NLF, Nasty Little Fucker. It’s about five inches long. Apparently, it kills as well as anything else. The point is, unlike Officer Salucci, when I need to fire my weapons there will be no cement-like mozzarella on either of them.
So far, I have never had to fire either weapon at any living thing. So far.
I don’t wear makeup. I have a serious interest in a man, Bobby Booth (Bobby B), the one I sleep with when our busy schedules allow—mine as a cop, his as a loan shark.
Sunny Gardens Apartments is a two-story brick building with white wood trim and flower-lined concrete paths. There is a smug no vacancy sign planted in the lawn. I park in a handicapped spot, place the blue badge with the wheelchair symbol on the rearview mirror. I confiscated the badge from a guy at my gym. As I passed him on my way to the treadmill, he said something unkind about my butt to his trainer.
Okay, a word about my body. Unlike Gaul, I am divided into two, not three, parts. Top is perfect: a twenty-two-inch waist, flat stomach, and Kate Moss breasts. South of the belt, the geography changes. My hips widen, and my thighs end in a bump that looks like it should be on someone else—on my best days, a modern dancer; on my worst, what my ex-fiancé Darren used to call “not a one hander.” But Bobby loves me, and that’s just fine. I say there’s something in me for every taste, just not all in one package.
I followed Mr. Unkind to the parking lot, showed him my badge, told him I’d heard what he said and asked to see his handicapped paperwork. Mr. Unkind mumbled apologies, said he had a bad heart and friends in the police department. I could see that his heart was encased in a buff body, and told him it was a bad idea to use the friends in the police department line.
“Friends? Name one,” I said.
He can’t. He finally confessed he bought the handicapped-parking badge on Canal Street. Can you believe he began to cry? I forgave him and kept the badge.
My face? My favorite V. S. Pritchett story is about a woman who owns an irresistibly lovely nose and a devoted dog. A handsome gentleman woos her, but just as he is about to propose, the dog bites off the tip of her nose. The man disappears. She and the dog live happily ever after. My nose? Like hers, also missing a little piece.
The rest? I was born with a slight smile. It tends to confuse people. A tiny turnup at the mouth that makes me look perpetually happy, in opposition to my naturally discontented soul. I have been told at various times in my life by disgruntled teachers and superior officers, “Karim, wipe that smile off your face.” I can’t. A smile doesn’t come in handy at funerals, disciplinary hearings, or breakups. But it can be disarming when I tell you that you are under arrest, move along, show me your driver’s license, or, in a movie theater, Get your hand off my knee.
Anthony, my hairdresser, who keeps me blonde, says I have Dutch hair; he means wild and salty. If I keep it short, I will stay presentable. My eyes are blue and lively, my cheekbones prominent enough to make a difference. I have been told I look like Geena Davis or Victoria Beckham. Have they been told they look like me? I will add that I take after my mother. I have her eyes, her complexion. Looking in the mirror makes me miss her, and thus sad. I tend to avoid mirrors. Back to work.
The manager of the Sunny Gardens apartment complex is Brian Robbins, a shortish, bearded early thirties adjunct professor of psychology at Fordham. We both know the title means nothing as he works too hard teaching freshman classes and earns just a bit too much money to qualify for food stamps. In addition to being essentially disposable, adjuncts don’t get tenure, health care, retirement, or offices. They are paid by the course unit; their teaching loads vary from part-time to overloaded. Brian’s managerial job at Sunny Gardens gives him a free apartment in a building that is new enough not to need any serious care while Brian works on his PhD and dreams of a professorship with tenure. At Sunny Gardens, the tenants are all employed and they pay their rent on time.
Brian leads me to the Steeverses’ apartment, number twenty-two, second floor, rear. Since first impressions are best gotten alone, I ask him to wait outside. Inside is an apartment of no consequence: low ceilings and clean rooms with wooden floors. There is a picture window with a view of a copse of trees that enclose a deep ravine. I wander around making simple observations. The walk-in closet has empty hangers and few women’s clothes: a pair of torn jeans, a blouse, and two dresses—size two. One from Target, the other Macy’s. A drawer contains a rumpled T-shirt, one pair of pantyhose, and two mismatched sweat socks. On the floor of the closet, there are a pair of flats and a lone flip-flop. She’s gone.
Ronald’s side of the closet contains three pairs of jeans, two khaki Dockers, a baseball jacket, a gray Gap hoodie, a John Tavares Islanders jersey, and a navy blazer with a pair of gray flannel slacks. His drawers are a mess of socks, underwear, rumpled T-shirts, a white dress shirt, and a stack of baseball caps. There is a pair of worn Nike sneakers, and scuffed black loafers on the floor. Ronald tends toward slob, and Susan took her good clothes with her.
Apart from a few lonely ants marching around the toaster, the kitchen is spotless. The fridge holds man food: cold cuts, Ball Park hot dogs, yellow mustard, Kraft Singles, beer, a jar of pickles, a head of browning iceberg lettuce, and a plastic jar of Muscle Max. No yogurt, almond milk, probiotics, or Diet Coke. I assume Susan left first. Or, if Mama Steevers was right, Susan returned, killed Ronald, and took off. I make a note to search the ravine for Ronald’s body.
Then, while my brain is in murder mode, I suddenly remember where I have seen Mr. McDermott, the man who didn’t know who he killed. Six months ago, I was called to a high-rise apartment building in Lefrak City in Queens. The victim was a dancer at the Gallery, a gentlemen’s club—surely an overstatement—in Manhattan. She did pole work and lap dances. Occasionally, when the manager was away, she took a customer back to her apartment for further pleasure (his). Her last customer strangled her and left her sitting upright on the couch. Two days later, her sister, a stewardess for Singapore Airlines, discovered her body. NYPD was thorough in trying to identify her clients that fateful evening, but whoever he was, he’d paid cash, and the club’s CCTV cameras were out of commission. The employees were interviewed and all had the same useless response: “He was a middle-aged white man in a suit.” The murder became another cold case—a victim without an advocate, a woman in a problematic profession, her interest to the homicide squad somewhere between the homeless and the undocumented.
Because she lived in Queens, our homicide department had a piece of her. I was assigned to find out who murdered her. I subscribe to the theo
ry that often killers return to the scene of the crime, join the gawkers behind the yellow tape to watch the parade of police and forensic and medical personnel. They like to catch a glimpse of their grim work being wheeled to the waiting ambulance. So, while my colleagues are inside dusting, scraping, and cataloguing, I take photographs of people standing outside. I may have a picture of Mr. McDermott. Back to work. I open the door for Brian.
“Okay, Brian, you can come in now. Tell me about the Steevers.”
Brian is a man full of pent-up information who lectures about psychology for a living. I try not to get in his way. I know I’ll get more insights into Ronald and Susan than I need.
“Ronald and Susan. Ronald and Susan. You know?”
Not a smart beginning, Brian. I don’t know anything and I hate it when people say You know? On my list of speech warts, it comes right after No problem or people who say Thank you after you say Thank you. But I nod encouragement, and Brian continues.
“Ronald works at Home Depot; he told me he’s a big deal in the paint department. He’s six two, about two twenty, an ex-jock, but I don’t think he’ll keep the body. I can tell from the beer cans. He complained about stuff I couldn’t control, like pool noise, slow Internet, and jerks who take his parking spot. He leaves at eight, comes home at six, works Saturday and Sunday, with Mondays and Tuesdays off. He gets up early Sunday to wash his Mustang GT. For him, it’s church.”
I laugh insincerely along with Brian.
“Sunday nights, he and Susan drive to South Flushing for dinner with his parents. Lately, I notice Susan doesn’t go with him. How do I know?” You took the words right out of my mouth, Brian. “My apartment looks out over the garage. Ronald customized the Mustang’s exhausts, and he puts the top down. I hear the engine, look out the window—it’s Ronald driving away. Alone. You know?”
I consider complimenting Brian on his powers of observation but resist.
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