by Nancy Holder
Then Vincent made as if to wait at the curb for a break in the traffic to cross the street. In actuality, he was searching with his beast senses for the cook. Catherine was a few feet away on his right, waiting out of sight as he had requested. He scented her and heard her steady heartbeat. She was on the job, intent but not nervous.
There.
The guy was hurrying down the street to Vincent’s left. Vincent began to follow him, maintaining a good distance with his ball cap down and the snow landing on his pea coat. He didn’t turn to look back at Catherine, wasn’t sure if she would stand still in the snowfall, which was getting worse, or re-enter the diner to examine the empty kitchen. Maybe she would start following him and his mark.
The cook looked over his shoulder, realized that Vincent was behind him, and his heartbeat picked up. He quickened his pace. A tiny flicker flared to life inside Vincent. Where it resided, Vincent wasn’t sure—his brain? His body? It was the first flash of the interest of a predator in potential prey. But he was allowed to feel that, wasn’t he? It was the same kind of charge a cop got when they tailed a suspect.
Wasn’t it?
He didn’t have to feel less than another human being so that he could actually claim that he was a human being.
So, okay, he permitted himself to enjoy the hunt.
The cook was getting increasingly scared. As he walked past a large window he glanced into it, searching for Vincent’s reflection. Vincent slowed to make that impossible, and the flicker inside him grew.
Beasthood was ingrained in him, inside his very DNA. He had to work to control that side, and he couldn’t relax his vigil, ever. He throttled himself back down and worked to see what the cook had done in the alley with the ladder, now that he had more sights and sounds to work with.
In beast-flashes, he saw the cook carrying the ladder into the alley. It had not yet begun to rain. The young man set the ladder down about five feet from the Dumpster. The body was already in the Dumpster by then, but it didn’t appear that they guy was aware of it. Despite that, the man was afraid.
He climbed the ladder, looking constantly up and down the alley. Dripping with apprehension. Then he climbed to the top of the ladder, balancing precariously on the top, and extracted something from his jeans pocket, beneath his white work apron. Cotton fibers and tiny fragments of tobacco had cascaded out of his pocket onto the ground.
There was something in the man’s hand, but Vincent couldn’t see what it was. The roof of the diner was shingled, and there was a gap where part of a shingle had broken off. He slipped whatever was in his hand into the gap. Vincent concentrated harder. It was something metal…or in metal.
We have to go back and get that, Vincent thought. He thought about texting Catherine to check it out but he was too intently focused on his quarry to do it.
He let the vision-memory fade. The cook was coming up to a cluster of men and women in jeans, work boots, and jackets that read dickinson construction, who were hurrying beneath the eaves of the buildings toward Vincent, possibly returning from lunch.
The young man broke into a run. He waved his hands and shouted, “Help! That man is after me! Help!”
The construction workers looked from him to Vincent. Their faces became ugly. Then one of them narrowed his eyes in suspicion and said, “Hey, man, what’s up?” His eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute!”
Recognized. Or nearly. He considered blurring past them but knew he couldn’t. Even considered knocking them all out. But of course he couldn’t do that either. He could only look on helplessly as the group spread themselves across the sidewalk, effectively barring his path.
He was afraid to even speak to them, for fear of being recognized, and hung a right toward the curb. He watched the cars as they trundled past and he darted into an opening. Once across the street, he disappeared into an alley.
Then, safe from scrutiny, he turned left and blurred, hoping to catch up with the cook. His mind was so fixed on triangulating his location that he missed the gaping hole in the ground before him—part of another construction site—and tumbled down hard onto his back. A crusty layer cracked beneath him and he fell into ice water. He lay stunned, the wind knocked out of him, and cursed Reynolds for taking away his ability to heal himself. Of course Reynolds had done it so that when it came time to kill Vincent, it would be easier.
His phone was still in his pocket. He rolled over onto his knees to protect it from the ice water. Finally able to take a breath, he crawled to the nearest side of the pit and searched for handholds—plant roots, rebar, anything. There was nothing but damp, packed earth; he pushed his fingers into the mud and made grabbing attempts with his hands. He pulled himself up, then extracted one hand, raised his arm, and drilled his fingers into a section of mud closer to the top. His ribs hurt and his head was pounding.
Still he forced his fingers in, and then in again, until finally he lifted himself out of the hole and lay on the ground for a moment, catching his breath. He held his hands straight out to let the rain wash them, then found the paper towel he had used to open the Dumpster and dried them. He wanted to tell Cat to search the diner’s roof for something metal.
He texted her and hit send.
Message undelivered, his phone read. He saw that that he had only one bar, and cursed under his breath.
He finally stood and then he blurred, seeing the cook’s path down the block and attempting to follow it. But then he detected a car and put on the brakes. He ground his teeth in frustration as he watched a cab driving away. He knew the young man was in it, and soon it wove into the complex pattern of traffic. As he tried to decide if he should attempt to overtake it, he caught an elderly man beneath an umbrella staring at him.
Best not to chance it, he thought.
Daubed with mud and soaked to the skin, he trudged back to where he had left Catherine. She was standing beneath an eave, as wet as he was, colder, no doubt, and she heaved a sigh of relief when she saw him. He gestured for her to stay where she was—he would come to her—but as soon as he was within striking distance, she threw her arms around him as if she couldn’t help herself.
He told her everything. Then together they walked back down the alley. Vincent did a long, slow scan of the area, checking for observers as she pulled on a pair of Latex gloves; then he laced his hands together to crate a foothold for Catherine and she did a leg-up. Balancing on his hands, she found the gap in the shingle he had described and felt inside.
“Found something,” she reported. “I’ve got it.” He lowered her to the ground and she held out a tin bandage box. He shielded her as she opened it, taking care to ensure the contents stayed dry.
It was a strip of notebook paper with an unconnected string of numbers beginning with a 2. Below that was the word Rikers. Vincent didn’t immediately realize what it was, but Catherine did:
“This is a commitment number. An inmate ID.”
“Your father’s?” he asked and she shook her head with such certainty that he realized she had memorized Bob Reynolds’ prison number. She looked inside the can, then fished around with her gloved fingers. “That’s the only thing in here.”
“The cook wrote it and stashed it here,” Vincent told her. “I can smell him on the paper and the can. That’s why he brought the ladder into the alley.”
Turning the paper over, she inspected the other side, then held it in one hand while she fished in her purse for a pencil flashlight. He watched the care she employed to glean all she could from the clue. He had beast senses, true, but she was good at her job and often she put together the data he gave her in clever ways he hadn’t considered. He’d always admired competence—people who were good at what they did, and cared about the quality of their work—and Catherine never slacked or lost her edge no matter what was going on in her life.
She put the paper back in the can and looked toward the Dumpster, her brow furrowed.
“He was risking a lot to place it where someone could get to it. My mone
y’s on Claudia,” she said.
“And she was killed before she could retrieve it.”
Catherine looked fierce. “I want justice for her, but more than that I want to find Angelo DeMarco. But I have to call in her body now. It’s just too much of a loose end if I don’t. I’ll say we were wondering why she hadn’t shown up. Tess went to check out Lizzani and I searched the diner. I spotted the body in the Dumpster and climbed in to see if there were signs of life.”
“Sounds good. Better if your DNA is in there.”
“They’re not going to sift through the trash. They’ll check her body. After I search her, I have to call the homicide squad for this part of town. I have to follow procedure. So don’t come into the Dumpster with me. I don’t want there to be any chance of our CSU discovering your DNA.”
“Got it.”
She put the bandage can in her purse, muttering to herself about evidence bags; then she opened the lid and snow powdered the contents. He gave her another leg-up and she clambered inside, into the filth. Just part of the job. Most civilians had no idea what New York’s Finest endured to solve cases. The good cops, that is.
She hesitated. “There could be surveillance. Go to your car and wait for my signal.”
“Makes sense.” He groaned inwardly, thinking of the mess he was going to leave in J.T.’s car. “How about I call Tess and debrief her about the cook and what you’ve found? She can officially request information about the diner’s employees. Or have J.T. do it and keep it quiet.”
“Yes. Good,” she said. “I’m thinking J.T.”
He hesitated. “I don’t want to leave you here.”
She narrowed her eyes in irritation, but it was in jest. A little. “Don’t try to protect me. I’m just doing my job. You’ll endanger us both if you’re found with me.”
She was right and he knew it. But it was still felt as if he were abandoning her. He had saved her life eleven years before, and he could still remember the sight of her flat on her back, a gash across her forehead, disoriented and pleading for her life. He had watched over her ever since. For years he had dreamed of simply meeting her. Ironically, once they had connected, she had ordered him to stop protecting her.
But Catherine could more than hold her own. She had become a cop. Because she was strong. And a great fighter. If those gunmen approached her and her mom today, his money was on both Chandler women walking away alive.
He loped on, drawing more stares because he was so filthy. He took a circuitous route to the car, then popped the trunk in hopes of finding something to cover the car seat with. He was in luck: he found not one but two thick blankets and a towel from J.T.’s gym. He draped both of the blankets over the car upholstery and cleaned himself up as best he could with the towel. Then he sat in the car, locked it, and pulled out his phone, already impatient for word from Catherine.
He started to dial Tess when a text from Catherine came in. BFT. I have her phone. “BFT” meant that blunt force trauma was the cause of death. That was how he had seen it go down. He was glad she was taking McEvers’ phone. They might be able to identify McEvers’ murderer from her messages and texts, and to deduce if the crime was linked to Angelo’s abduction, and how Curt Windsor fit in.
Called it in, Catherine texted next. Waiting. Did you call Tess yet? If not, I will.
He texted back, Go ahead.
He knew that NYPD CSU and the medical examiner would come to the scene. And a detective supervisor and detectives from the homicide squad. Cat was Special Crimes. She’d hand off the case and leave. Homicide would canvass the area for possible suspects and witnesses. Surely the texting waitress in the diner would reveal the abrupt departure of the cook. Vincent could be placed at the counter and wandering back to the bathroom, but he had kept his head down. Security cameras wouldn’t have been able to catch his face. Outside, witnesses had watched him, Vincent, go after the cook. One person had possibly recognized him.
He prayed that he and Catherine had been careful enough not to be linked.
She texted, I can get a ride. Go look for cook.
He texted back, KK.
Careful.
O&O. Over and out.
Vincent started the car and moved slowly into the traffic. Searching for the cook would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. There were over eight million people living in New York City. And yet, he and Catherine had found each other. They were destined, she had told him. She had insisted on that.
She had promised that.
If you were destined, that gave you an advantage over the cruel whims of fate. He knew that she believed it with her all her heart. He did too, although sometimes it frightened him to admit it. As if by owning it, he could lose it.
“So who are you?” Vincent mused aloud as he started the windshield wipers. He meant the cook. “What’s your part in all of this? And, more importantly, just where the hell are you?”
Searching for answers, he drove through the falling snow.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Claudia had been a pro.
Cat thought of her as “Claudia” now that she had frisked her dead body and gone through her pockets. The phone Cat had lifted from the crime scene was a burner, but luckily for Cat, it contained the history of one other call besides the calls they had traded. It was a local New York number. Cat dialed it while she was waiting for NYPD homicide.
“Oh, my God, where the hell are you? Some guy was chasing me!” said a male voice. It had to be the cook.
“I can’t talk right now,” Cat whispered, trying to emulate Claudia’s voice. It was easier to masquerade as someone if you whispered. “Where’d you put it?”
“Like we agreed. The broken shingle.” The man’s voice was shaking. “Why can’t you talk? Where are you? You didn’t come to the diner.”
“They’re here,” Cat said, improvising.
“Bastards. God, I hope you can take them down. Joey’s number’s in the can. He’s willing to testify.”
Cat blinked. Testify? About what? She took a chance. “Heard anything about Angelo DeMarco?”
Tony DeMarco had managed to keep everything out of the papers, but Cat didn’t know how long that would last. Although the press might argue that the public had a right to know about such things, the better reason to go public was in case anyone could provide a viable lead. Hundreds of false leads would come in, maybe even thousands because the DeMarcos were so high-profile. But there could be gold buried among the dross. When a life was at stake, NYPD did everything they could. Cat had to assume DeMarco had told—not asked—the mayor to put pressure on the department. And on the Feds, too.
“Hello?” she said into the phone.
“The… TV’s on,” he murmured. “Hey… hey… what the hell? Who are you? Did you kill her?”
He disconnected. Cat heard a helicopter, then shouting and slamming doors at the end of the alley. The chopper was from a news outlet. Someone had alerted the press, or else a member of the press had successfully hacked a police call. Maybe they’d descrambled a scanner. At any rate, they were here before her homicide squad backup. Not good.
She grimaced, hoping the cook was too paranoid to tell anyone that someone had just called him using the dead woman’s phone. She pocketed the burner and stayed beside the Dumpster as she called Tess.
Cat explained everything and gave Tess Joey’s identification number. Then she said, “I really spooked the cook and I’m afraid he’ll try to call this Joey and warn him not to speak to anybody. Can you get down to Rikers and talk to this guy stat?”
“Yes. And it actually makes better sense if I go, since someone’s already tried to place you there once and you do not need to be asked why you went there again. If anyone asks me, I’ll just say I have a C.I. and they might leave Joey alone. But they do log visits, and it might be a tip-off to whoever did this.”
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Cat said. “Did you find anything at Lizzani’s?”
“I’m still there.
The guy’s gone,” Tess said. “He left in a big hurry but I didn’t see signs of a struggle. Enough clothes were missing that I assume he packed a bag but he didn’t take care of business like someone is going away permanently. For starters, he left a cat.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. J.T. will take care of him.”
“He will?”
“I’ll convince him. Unless you want to take care of him, Cat. He’s really cute. He’s orange and he has little white socks, and his tail looks like it was dipped in white paint.”
“I’ve thought about getting a pet before,” Cat said, with a pang of temptation. “But with our schedules, I’m thinking it would be better for J.T. to take him.”
“As I figured. Okay, checking that off my list. Mr. Boston White Sox is taken care of. I’m checking with the post office after I go to Rikers, see if they have a forwarding address.”
“Any clues about where he went?”
“It doesn’t look like he had a car. I told Gonzales and Robertson we should have someone canvass to see if anyone saw him leave. Of course they probably hired him a limo.”
Cat heard a siren, a sure sign of the cavalry. They had probably realized the press was there and wanted to assert control as fast as they could so the crime scene wouldn’t be compromised. Speaking of which… she traversed the area, running her shoes over the surface of the alley to make doubly sure that Vincent’s footprints were erased. There should be no trace of him.
“Thanks for filling me in. It’s show time for me,” she told Tess.
“Break a leg,” Tess replied. “Preferably a bad guy’s.”
Then Cat put her phone away and went to meet her fellow officers.
* * *
Rikers
An island of four hundred thirteen acres situated in the East River, between Queens and the Bronx. It was not a place you ever wanted to find yourself. Overcrowded, dangerous. Desperation and rage coated the walls like cooking grease, and Tess had to remind herself to stay on topic, because she knew that some of the inmates had been unjustly convicted, and that some of those innocents were barely sixteen years of age. You could be tried as an adult at sixteen.
