Whatever the reason, it was too soon to feel this way about another woman. If she ignored the attraction it would go away—eventually. She stared at the candles. In desperation she clicked on the television, hoping that, as usual, the TV would lull her to sleep, but that was not to be. There on her sixty-inch screen in living color was Senator Aloysius T. Parker. Half expecting him to attack her, she sat up and increased the volume. For the first time ever, she listened instead of tuning him out. He was passionate, talking about the inequities in society, that it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t the American Way, for people to lose their jobs, lose their homes, and struggle to eat while Wall Street executives and bankers received millions in salaries and bonuses. He attacked with the same passion he brought to his rants about brutality and racism in the police department. She agreed about the economy and sometimes he was right about the department. Maybe he wasn’t all bad but growing up with a father like him would’ve been no bed of roses. At least my father, as old-fashioned and prejudiced as he is, doesn’t go on television to convince the world he knows the right way.
She looked for his daughter in him, but the buttoned-down P.J. Parker was cool and cerebral. She showed none of her father’s passion or his messy in your face aggressiveness, nor his short, chubby, dark looks. She fell asleep musing about fathers and daughters.
Chapter Seventeen
With Corelli deposited safely at home with her lesbian lover, Parker drove uptown to Hattie’s Harlem Inn on 125th Street. After the emotional see-saw of the day, she needed the comfort and straight thinking of her godfather, Captain Jesse Isaacs. Unlike the senator, who criticized everything she did, Jesse supported her choices and encouraged her to follow her heart. But this time her heart seemed to have led her astray. Maybe Jesse could help her understand what had possessed her to agree to work with the most hated and, as it turned out, the craziest and most difficult detective in the department. Then since she was going to hang in with Corelli, maybe he could help her figure out how best to deal with her.
As usual, Hattie’s was dimly lit, crowded and noisy. Parker hesitated in the entryway and shivered as the cold air chilled her sweaty skin. Wrinkling her nose at the familiar smell of beer, cigarettes, and fried foods that permeated the wood-paneled walls and wooden floor, she scanned the crowd for Jesse. Although she couldn’t make out his features, she recognized his silhouette standing at the bar, the biggest guy there at six-four. The bartender leaned in and said something and Jesse turned to watch her weave through the crowd toward him. He smiled and pulled her close for a hug, crushing her face against his chest. With him the physical contact was only mildly uncomfortable, and she hugged him back. When she couldn’t tolerate it any longer, she pushed away. He ordered her a beer and they grabbed an empty table.
“How are you, Detective Parker?” he asked. “Things working out with Detective Corelli?”
“I think so.”
“What’s happening?”
She gazed at the musicians, and Jesse being Jesse, sipped his drink and listened to the music, giving her space. When she started, he listened without interrupting.
“Why would the chief pick me to protect her? There are probably lots of big strong guys, more experienced detectives that would be better.”
Jesse examined her face. “The chief’s no fool, and it’s no accident that he picked you. He and Corelli go back a long time. He probably feels responsible for sucking her into that undercover assignment. You know most cops would have turned it down, too dangerous, too much to lose or too afraid how other cops would treat them. She’s a courageous, dedicated detective, and she did a great job smoking a lot of the rats out of the nest. But some of the biggest rats are still out there. So who do you trust to protect you if you’re surrounded by lots of rats, and you can’t distinguish those who would be happy to see you dead from the others?”
“I didn’t think of it like that.”
“The chief considered a lot of detectives before settling on you. He rightly feels you have the makings of a good detective. Even your problems connecting with the other cops at the precinct and having Aloysius for your father were attractive because they meant you weren’t tied in. He particularly liked your bravery and cool head under fire.”
She stared at him, wanting to believe it. Then she frowned. “How come you know so much about what he liked?”
“He ran it by me. I almost lied so you wouldn’t get the assignment, but I figured it should be your decision. It’s dangerous but it’s an opportunity to learn from the best and prove yourself in homicide. Just don’t get yourself killed.”
“Corelli is off the wall. She needs me, yet she’s needling and condescending, almost like she wants me to dump her.”
He seemed lost in thought, then he nodded. “You should Google her, if you haven’t already. She’s been through a lot, tours in Iraq and Afghanistan followed by the undercover assignment from hell. She’s lost a lot and given up a lot. Now it’s her against the whole department. Maybe she needs proof that you’re committed and that she can trust you.”
“I’m not sure I can trust her. She’s so erratic. Just when I’m about to tell her to shove it and leave her to deal with her own shit, she says or does something nice.”
Jesse chuckled. “Don’t let that Parker pride, what some would call arrogance, get in the way of this opportunity. Her behavior may be hard to take because you tend to observe rather than join in and get dirty, but it sounds to me like she’s treating you as an equal, or at least as she would any trainee.”
“If this is participating, I haven’t been missing anything,” Parker snorted. “I’ve decided to force myself to tolerate her harassment, but it’ll be difficult to do the job successfully because she doesn’t think she needs to be protected.”
He grinned. “Just be your usual stubborn, persistent self and she’ll have no choice. She’s got a lot to teach you, P.J. Working with her might not be easy but it will be good for you. But you be careful. Watch both your backs. Remember these guys are stone-cold killers.”
Chapter Eighteen
At four thirty in the morning when Corelli hit the street it was still dark. She loved this time of day, before the rest of New York woke up and the early morning air felt cool and fresh and soft. In a little while the few wholesale meat markets still operating in her neighborhood would raise their iron gates, ready for business, and the huge refrigerated trucks would back in to load, but right now it was quiet and safe. After stretching, she jogged at an easy pace to work the stiffness out of her knee, crossed West Street to the Greenway path and turned left toward lower Manhattan and Ms. Liberty. It was quiet except for the sound of an occasional car, the gentle sucking of the Hudson as it smacked and receded from the retaining wall, and her own steady breathing.
Relaxing into the run, she picked up speed. A sudden movement ahead, behind the trees on the right, caught her eye. She tensed but controlled the impulse to turn back. She readied the pepper spray and increased her speed, hoping to sprint past whoever it was or blind them. But she miscalculated and smashed into a full-sized poodle running off leash. The dog yapped and dashed away. Corelli staggered forward but regained her balance, checking for damage to her knee as she continued running downtown toward Battery Park and the statue in the harbor. Happy that she hadn’t used the pepper spray on the dog, she focused on her breathing and lost herself in the pleasure of running.
Forty-five minutes later when she approached her street again, it was no longer night but not quite morning. The blood-red claws of dawn slashed the gray-black sky. She slowed her pace, switched into cooldown mode, and greeted the early joggers and dog walkers emerging from the shadowy streets like zombies gliding to their crypts.
She dashed across West Street and walked to her building. Except for the familiar hum of the refrigerated trucks now backed up to the loading docks, the street was empty and quiet. At her door, she wiped the sweat from her forehead with the bottom of her tank top, shifted the pepper spray to her
left hand, and knelt to remove the key to her building from the bag attached to her running shoe. She stood and put the key in the lock. A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. As she pivoted, she switched the pepper spray back to her right hand, clenched it, and using the momentum of the spin to increase the force behind her swing, hit a face. Hard. She heard a crack and a scream. Another hand grabbed her from behind, spun her again, and punched her in the stomach. She crumpled to the ground.
Two of them stood over her, wearing ski masks. One clutched his nose, the other pointed a gun at her. She couldn’t see the blood, but she smelled it and felt the wet, warm drops splattering her body. The bleeder lifted his leg to kick her. Someone yelled. “Hey. What’re you guys doing?” Their heads swiveled toward the voice. She rolled over, jumped to her feet, and squirted the pepper spray, first at the one with the gun and then at the other. With the pepper spray container still in her fist, she hit the one holding the gun in the face and was rewarded with the sound of what she hoped was his nose breaking too and another scream, “Bitch.”
The men staggered toward the street. Still gasping for air, she leaned against the building and with her left hand yanked her backup gun from the ankle holster under her pant leg. Four people with dogs in tow having a heated discussion walked in front of her, cutting her off from the street. She heard a motor rev and the screech of tires. When the group had passed, she saw the goons tumbling into a van. She sighted the tires as the car peeled away, but her left hand was not nearly as accurate as the right so she lowered her gun rather than endanger the people on the street.
“You okay, Detective Corelli?”
It was George Lopez, one of the guys from the packing house up the street, someone she had chatted with from time to time.
“Thanks to you.”
“It took me a minute to make out what was happening, you know, them wearing masks and all. But when that guy pointed the gun at you, I knew I couldn’t get to you in time, so I yelled, hoping to scare them.”
“You saved my life, George. I owe you a drink, or two or three. Can I send someone over for your statement later this morning?”
“I’m here until two. Were they trying to rob you?”
“Something like that.”
Chapter Nineteen
Parker took Jesse’s advice. When she got home, she Googled Corelli. There were lots of articles and though she felt a little like a stalker, Parker realized that knowing about Corelli might help her understand her. So she started reading. And was surprised that the only negative articles were the recent ones about the undercover assignment. Parker made notes as she read.
Corelli had joined the army right out of high school for the training and the educational benefits. She served in the military police. She was a twenty-four-year-old New York City police officer when the World Trade Center attack occurred in September 2001. Although she was off-duty that day, she, along with many other police, firemen, and EMTs, rushed to the aide of the people working in those buildings, and she barely escaped before the first building came down. Sixteen years later and she’s still having flashbacks.
Soon after 9/11, despite having already completed her four-year commitment to the army, Corelli signed up to go to Iraq. After two combat tours of duty she returned home in 2006, rejoined the police force, and completed her college education at night. She’d received a Silver Star for rescuing members of her unit during an insurgent ambush on their convoy. Damn. It was hard not to admire the woman.
Corelli was promoted to detective in 2011, right before she signed up for a tour in Afghanistan during the 2011 surge. In February, 2016 she went back to Afghanistan with a contingent of NYPD officers to train Afghani police. They were there twelve months and they were attacked three times. Two members of the training force were killed in an ambush. The group returned to New York City mid-March 2017 and, at the beginning of April, Corelli went undercover in her old precinct.
Parker put her pen down. I can’t even begin to imagine what she’s seen. No wonder she’s crazy. There was a lot of information about her NYPD career, cases she’d solved, killers she’d captured, and people she’d saved. Impressive. But still not carte blanche to be rude and nasty.
Resolving not to let Corelli goad her today, Parker drove up to Corelli’s building at six thirty. In the early morning light, she could see Corelli lived in a converted industrial building that occupied the entire square block. She searched the listing of tenants and pushed the button next to Corelli’s name. Her faraway voice said, “Yes?” Parker’s name generated a buzz that unlocked the door to the lobby, and Corelli’s disembodied voice said, “Come up to eight. I need your help.”
Help with what? Maybe carry the coffeepot? She felt the familiar surge of anger but caught herself. She would smile and carry the damn pot if that’s what Corelli needed her to do. She pressed eight, the top floor, and as the elevator moaned and creaked its way up, she wondered whether the lesbian girlfriend would be there.
The elevator opened in the apartment, indicating that Corelli had the entire floor, the size of a city block. Parker gaped. Actually, it was only half the floor, so half a city block, but still enormous. And what a spectacular floor it was. A huge expanse of uninterrupted space drenched in sunlight streaming in through the tall windows on three sides. Comfortable-looking sectional couches and easy chairs were arranged in groupings with areas defined by vividly colored Indian, African, and Middle Eastern rugs. The same colors appeared in the tapestries and paintings hung on the white walls and in the cushions piled on the floor and scattered on the furniture. It was dazzling.
The open kitchen was magazine gorgeous, with copper pots and pans hanging on a ceiling rack, granite counters and oak cabinets surrounding an island. One could easily cook dinner for an army on the stove. Corelli, or maybe her girlfriend, must be a cook.
Corelli stood in the kitchen, her smile competing with the sunlight. “Like it?”
“Wow, it’s…I’m…It’s so bright. Really alive and…yet peaceful.” Different than the Winter house, that’s for sure. She hadn’t given it much thought, but based on her impression of Corelli, Parker would have imagined her in a dank, depressing studio, with broken-down furniture in a rundown building, or something like her own sunless one-bedroom apartment that had seemed so luxurious when she moved in ten years ago. Now she had to rethink her assessment of Corelli. An apartment like this must cost a fortune. How could she afford it on a detective’s salary?
Corelli expelled that relaxed throaty sound she made when she laughed and said, “Come in. Help yourself to coffee.”
Corelli’s hair was loose, swirling around her face and tumbling down her back. Made her look…sexy, softer, like she’d just tumbled out of bed, but she was pale, holding her right arm close to her body.
“You all right? You’re kind of…white.”
“I’m fine, but I had another encounter with my friends this morning. They got in one solid stomach punch but I bested the two of them. Let me fill you in when we get to the office. I’ll be ready in a minute.”
Parker controlled her urge to shout but couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. “I thought we agreed that I would watch you. What’s the chief—”
Corelli put her hand up, cutting Parker off. “It was stupid, but it won’t happen again.”
“What happened to your hand?” Parker asked, her voice rising. “It’s all—”
“Parker.” Corelli was smiling, but her voice warned to let it go. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
Parker nodded. She urged herself to relax. She found a cup, took coffee, and sipped as she surveyed the loft, checking for signs of the mystery woman. She didn’t find any. Corelli had gone into the bathroom, the only enclosed space on the floor. Judging by the bookcases and neat piles of books all around, Detective Corelli was a reader. A wall unit facing a sofa housed a TV and a sound system, with records and CDs neatly slotted into shelves underneath. An iPod was nestled in a unit attached to the syst
em. Speakers hung high around the large open room. Parker itched to check out the music and the books. One could learn a lot about people that way, but she didn’t want to be intrusive. Actually, she didn’t want to get caught being intrusive.
Corelli came back into the living area with a towel in her hand. “Parker, I want to beat the…um, crowd to the station, so would you mind going downstairs?” She pointed to a staircase that Parker hadn’t noticed. “And get my holster from the night table near the window in my bedroom and my gun and jacket from the bed, while I clean up here.”
Downstairs? “No problem.” Her bedroom? Even Corelli wouldn’t be crass enough to send her in there if the mystery woman was in bed. Would she? Downstairs was the same size as upstairs, but enclosed rooms lined two of the walls. She started with the room with the open door, hesitated in the doorway and smiled. No mystery woman but lots of mysteries. Shelves filled with books and photos lined the walls, and both night tables had books stacked on them. Parker removed the holster from the night table, picked up the jacket, and moved to the opposite side of the bed. She stared at the gun on the pillow. Damn, she really is one damaged woman.
As Parker turned to leave, a photograph caught her eye. She lifted it off the night table. A smiling Corelli stood with her arms around a woman with glowing tawny skin, a mane of dark-hair, flashing dark eyes and a beautiful smile. Even dressed in camouflage they were stunning together. She put the picture back on the night table. Had the war turned the relaxed and happy Corelli in the photo into the tense and angry Corelli she knew? Was the dark-haired woman still in her life?
A Matter of Blood Page 11
