BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2021 by Olivia Blacke
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Blacke, Olivia, author.
Title: Killer content / Olivia Blacke.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2021. |
Series: Brooklyn murder mysteries; 1
Identifiers: LCCN 2020022171 (print) | LCCN 2020022172 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593197882 (paperback) | ISBN 9780593197899 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.L325293 K55 2021 (print) | LCC PS3602.L325293 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022171
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020022172
First Edition: February 2021
Cover design and illustration by Rose Blake
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Don’t forget to tip your server.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ June 24
I did a thing, y’all. Williamsburg, here I come! #adventure #NYC #Williamsburg #blessed
Brooklyn, NY
I ALMOST DIED ON my way to work today.
Dodging between two enormous food trucks, each racing for the single open spot along Brooklyn’s Metropolitan Avenue, I didn’t notice an oncoming biker weaving around a jagged pothole roughly the size of my head—until he slammed into me, knocking me backward. As I stumbled into the path of the oncoming behemoths—focused intently on each other instead of the out-of-control, petite brunette in a neon green polo shirt, homemade floral skirt, and well-worn cowboy boots—my life flashed before my eyes.
And I have to admit it was as boring as a fence post.
I spent the first twenty-three years of my life in tiny Piney Island, Louisiana, just outside of Shreveport. Calling my hometown a one-horse town would vastly exaggerate the number of horses. There were no pine trees in Piney Island, nor was it an island—it was a chunk of dry land surrounded by more dry land, or at least as dry as it gets in the swampy bayou state I call home. According to the sign demarking Piney Island city limits, there were 2,014 residents, which, as far as I could tell, was at least a hundred thousand less than the population of my new neighborhood.
Ever since I could remember, I dreamed of seeing the world, but that was never in the cards. Not for me. That is, until my aunt, Melanie, asked me to pet-sit her cat for three months. Taking a much-needed break from the obligations of my marshy hometown, I packed a bag and boarded the next Greyhound bus to Williamsburg.
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York City, New York. It’s quite a mouthful. It’s also extraordinary. And fascinating. And terrifying, especially when I was inches away from becoming a grill ornament for the Lucky Stan’s Stuffed Croissants truck, the trendy neighborhood’s latest craze.
I bounced off the food truck’s bumper, tripped into the same pothole that had started this whole mess, and landed face-first onto the hot sidewalk. As I tried to catch my breath, I couldn’t help but notice that the passing pedestrians steered clear of me in a wide arc instead of offering a helping hand. I guess it could have been worse. They could have trampled me.
“No, no, I’m just ducky. Don’t worry about me,” I said, panting loudly as I got to my feet, dusting off my skirt. With its wide elastic waistband, long length, and flowy cut, it was one of my favorite skirt patterns—one I’d made in a variety of colors. “Thanks for the offer, though.” The passersby continued to ignore me. Luckily, I wasn’t too much worse for the wear. There was a mysterious new stain on my messenger bag that I absolutely did not want to know the origin of, but I was in one piece. More or less.
“Hey!” I glanced over my shoulder at the speaker. The Lucky Stan’s Stuffed Croissants truck driver, the one who had bullied his way into the coveted spot, was hanging halfway out the window shouting at me.
I’d never seen food trucks in real life before leaving Louisiana, but they were a staple here in Brooklyn. In my hometown, I’d had the choice between eating free lunch at the Crawdad Shack on my break or running across the street to the Dairy Queen. Piney Island wasn’t big enough to warrant a Sonic, much less a McDonald’s. Now, I had seemingly unlimited choices from a dozen new mobile restaurants a day as enterprising young chefs converted trucks into rolling kitchens serving anything from savory vegan cupcakes to authentic street tacos.
“Watch where you’re goin’!” the driver shouted.
Head down, I scurried away. I’d only been in New York a few weeks. That was long enough to figure out how to navigate the complicated maze of subway lines (with help from the MTA app on my phone), but not quite long enough to break a lifelong habit of Southern manners. If it had been, I might have shouted something nasty in return, even knowing my Gammie would somehow find out and march all the way up here to wash my mouth out with soap.
Williamsburg was starting to have a bad influence on me.
Prior to the nineties, Williamsburg was a run-down, industrial neighborhood of Brooklyn overlooking the polluted East River, which separated the outer boroughs from Manhattan. Then gentrification came and the abandoned warehouses and poorly lit streets were transformed into one of the hippest—and most expensive—neighborhoods in New York City. Decaying factories were replaced by chic parks. Bodegas—tiny corner grocery stores that carried everything from box wine to off-brand laundry detergent—now had to compete with Whole Foods. As rent skyrocketed, street art and expansive murals covered decades of graffiti.
I entered Untapped Books & Café, the hybrid independent-bookstore-slash-cramped-luncheonette where I worked, and the first thing I heard was, “Odessa! You’re late!” The front door hadn’t even closed behind me before the mana
ger started yelling. Yep. It was going to be one of those days.
“Sorry, boss,” I replied, with an apologetic smile.
Todd Morris, the general manager and de facto boss, was a short man with thinning hair streaked with gray that he thought no one noticed. He wore rimless glasses and had a hairy mole above his eyebrow that made it hard to have a serious conversation with him without staring at it. He was nearabout the same age as my dad, but liked to believe he was still young and cool. He listened to bands like Nine Inch Nails and Pearl Jam and the other oldies. In other words, typical Gen X-er.
“What on earth did you do to your shirt?” he asked in a salty voice. “Those aren’t cheap, you know.”
I looked down at the large rip running from the bottom seam to my armpit, exposing the side of my plain white bra. Yikes. “Nearly got into an accident on my way here,” I explained, clutching the shirt closed. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a sewing kit in my bag.” I pretty much always had an emergency sewing kit. I’d drag my sewing machine with me everywhere I went if I could.
“No time for that. Grab a new one from the back and get to work.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. He scowled at me. Todd figured I was being sarcastic when I called him “sir,” but I was raised in a household where manners were drummed into me from an early age.
“And while you’re at it, grab a case of Hopping Rad. We’re running low.”
“How can that be?” I glanced up at the clock. “We just opened.” Todd gave me a look that I interpreted as meaning he’d forgotten to stock one of our most popular beers in the cooler this morning, but he didn’t want to admit it.
Back home in Louisiana, Bud was king. Then again, that could be because most of the time, it was the only beer option. Here in Brooklyn, craft beer—microbrewed, flavorful, independently brewed and locally created beers like Pour Williamsburg Pale Ale—reigned supreme. Boasting fresh, often local ingredients created in small batches, each was named something fun and punny. The first time I tried one, I thought it would be my last, but the taste grew on me. Except for the sour beers. I thought I didn’t have the palate to appreciate them, but then I sampled a sour I genuinely liked and I had to reconsider my tastes again.
I detoured toward the Employees Only door behind the cash register of the bookstore. Untapped Books & Café had been one of the first stores that opened in the new-and-improved Williamsburg back in the mid-nineties, so in terms of the rest of the revitalized neighborhood, it was practically prehistoric. The thin carpet was atrocious, a stained gaudy pattern that would have been right at home at one of the more run-down casinos in Atlantic City. The owner called the flooring unique, but I think he was just too cheap to replace it. The rest of the bookstore was at least tasteful if a little peculiar, from mismatched floor-to-ceiling bookshelves jam-packed with all of the books no one had ever heard of before to huge windows that drew in customers looking for a cozy hideout for a few hours. If someone wanted a unique book, especially something fringy and edgy, either we had it or we could get it.
A dozen café tables were squeezed in behind the rows of shelves. They were almost always full, with additional seating in the courtyard out back. A counter ran along the wall separating the tiny kitchen from the eclectically decorated dining area. From pink flamingo party lights strung up along orange carnation wallpaper to the shiny contact paper that wrapped the steam pipes, no matter how hard I looked, there was no coherent theme to be found. The stools lining the counter should have been registered with the U.N. as torture devices, but that didn’t keep people from lingering for hours nursing lukewarm beers with their friends as they argued over the symbolism in Moby Dick or traded esoteric quotes from Anna Karenina.
Between the food truck invasion and the ever-revolving pop-up eateries, it was a miracle that Untapped remained popular. We had air-conditioning (such as it was), a primo location, and were clean, so we had that going for us. Our book selection was niche, which led to a wide range of choices but hardly paid the bills. Customers really came back for the beer, sandwiches, and salads at the café.
But mostly the beer.
Along with whatever craft beer selection was in stock, we featured a revolving menu, which was a trendy way of saying that we served whatever the cook felt like making that day. We offered savory sandwiches stuffed with plenty of local produce served on warm artisan bread, with a side of house pickles and tasty chips made right here in Brooklyn. Because there was no telling which creations would be available on any given day, a ton of repeat clientele kept us busy from ten in the morning to eleven at night.
There were two boxes of uniform shirts in the storeroom. I bypassed the box that held the tiny ladies’ polos with their sleek lines, cap sleeves, and jaunty collars. On my first day, Todd had taken one glance at me and declared, “We don’t have any girls’ shirts in your size, but maybe one of the men’s will fit.”
Unfortunately, he was right.
As much as I would have preferred the contrasting piping and shorter hem of one of the ladies’ shirts, Todd only ordered female polos in small and extra small, neither of which would fit my curvaceous body. I dug out one of the plainer, larger shirts from the men’s pile. Between the inconsistent sizing and lack of pockets, women’s clothing was impractical at best, but I hated how men’s clothes hung on me like sackcloth. Whenever possible, I made my own clothes or tailored off-the-rack outfits to be more flattering on my body shape. Not that the neon green polos that all Untapped Books & Café employees—even Todd—wore were flattering on anyone. I tugged on the shirt before snagging a case of Hopping Rad and hurrying toward the café tables.
On the way, I carefully stepped over Huckleberry, the approximately two-hundred-year-old shop dog that loosely resembled a golden retriever. If I squinted. He had the shaggy yellow fur and huge friendly eyes of a retriever, but that was where the resemblance ended. He had a short, thin tail; long, floppy basset hound ears; and fat rolls around his ankles and neck.
Huckleberry wandered into the bookstore one day and never left. Most nights he slept here, if he didn’t follow one of the employees home. His job was to greet the customers, give Untapped Books & Café a homey, cozy feeling, and scare off potential burglars. As far as I could tell, he napped in the aisles all day, waking only long enough to beg for scraps from the kitchen. “Heya, Huckleberry,” I said, shifting the case of beer so I could squat down to give him a quick scratch on the top of his head. He opened one eye partway and thumped his skinny tail once on the ground in greeting. “How ya doing today, buddy?”
“Odessa, thank goodness you’re here!” I looked up and saw my friend Izzy Wilson, who worked the cash register at the front counter. Her super short hair was sunset orange this week. With a four-energy-drink-a-day habit and the metabolism of a squirrel, Izzy was a constant ray of sunshine.
She was also the first person I’d met in New York who’d given me the time of day, even going so far as to show me the ropes. If it weren’t for Izzy, I’d probably still be roaming around lost and homesick. “Todd was threatening to make me put on an apron and cover the café for you if you were any later.” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “Troll.”
Izzy was a vegan, along with a surprisingly large number of our customers. And while there was always at least one vegan option on the menu every day, plenty of carnivores frequented the café, too. Izzy got the willies even looking at meat, and had threatened to quit the last time she had to ferry meat-based meals to the tables. Although, to be fair, the special that day was bacon-wrapped ham fritters, and they kept trying to roll off the plates.
“So sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had.”
Izzy nodded sympathetically before gesturing toward the dining area. “And you can tell me all about it on our break.”
I scanned the café. Each tabletop featured a different bold pattern sealed under an easily cleanable plastic shell. My favorite was
faded fabric printed with cartoon spaceships in an epic outer-space battle. The most popular was a paper map of the old subway lines.
Despite having opened only fifteen minutes earlier, half of the twelve tables were already occupied, along with two of the spots at the counter. No one looked particularly happy. Bethany, the only other server on the early shift today, was taking orders at the far end of the narrow room. Wishing I hadn’t stopped to pet Huckleberry, I slid the case of beer into the bottom of the glass-fronted cooler and dashed back to the ladies’ room to wash my hands, grabbed my apron off the line of hooks in the hall and tied it around my waist, and got down to work. Starting at the closest table, I made a sweep, taking orders, serving drinks, and delivering food that was sitting in the window getting cold.
“Thank goodness,” Parker Reed, the day-shift cook, said, as I balanced six plates along my arm. Parker worked in the tiny kitchen, which meant instead of the ugly green polos, he got to wear a long-sleeve shirt. Right now, the sleeves were pushed up to reveal arms covered in cuts and burns. His shaggy blond mop was stuffed into a hairnet and, as usual, a cheery smile was plastered on his face. He didn’t look like my idea of a chef, but he was one of the culinary geniuses that kept customers coming back for more. “I was about to deliver those to the tables myself.”
“It’s gonna be one of those days,” I agreed.
“I hope not. If we have a lull, I need to go check on my bees.” Parker kept 3D-printed beehives up on the roof where he managed a small colony of bees that helped pollinate some of the local community gardens, as well as providing the freshest honey I’d ever tasted in my life. He even sold some to a local brewery for their Bee’s Knees Lager, which we stocked in the café. If that wasn’t the perfect analogy of the Williamsburg ecosystem, I didn’t know what was.
“Hey, I whipped up a new hummus recipe you just have to try.” He picked up a salty kale chip and got a big scoop out of the bowl. Since I had my hands full, I leaned forward into the window and he popped it into my mouth. “Whatya think?”
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