by Tom Straw
But wait. She heard an engine. A few yards away a car idled, double parked. She tried to see around the tree trunk, hoping the driver was inside. The car was empty. Then, as her attacker moved her toward it, a wave of ice water flooded her gut.
The trunk of the car was open.
Shit. This guy was going to put her inside the trunk.
She tried to find the strength to keep that from happening but he was powerful enough to arch her backward. Her feet left the pavement and bicycled at the air. Somewhere in a high window blocked by the leaves of the tree, a woman called out, “What’s going on down there?”
The man chuckled to himself. The brazen calm of that sent another shudder through Macie. Like the struggle meant nothing to him. Like her life meant nothing to him.
As he brought her across the sidewalk Wild gave up trying to pry his arm and reached up for his face, going for his eyes. She managed to claw his cheek. He groaned and his hold loosened just enough for her to drop her chin, closing his access to her throat. While he struggled to regain his choke hold, Macie brought her knees up to her chest then lashed the soles of both feet out at the trunk of the tree. The force of her kick knocked them both backward. Still clutching her, he fell onto the sidewalk, crashing hard on his back with a sharp moan. The impact of her landing on top of him knocked the wind out of the guy. Macie twisted, broke his armlock, screamed for help, and got up to run.
But he swept one of his legs in a UFC move against the backs of her knees and took Wild down before she gained a yard. She landed on all fours and screamed for help again, clamoring to get away even as the man sprung to his feet and bent to grab her around the waist. She side rolled to keep that from happening, and, as he stutter-stepped to stay with her, a voice up the street yelled, “NYPD, freeze.”
Her attacker turned in the direction of the cop, and when he did, Macie bolted up and threw a kick into his groin. With a guttural “oof,” the big man doubled, then lurched to his car in a hobble.
As the cop ran up, he yelled to halt, but the door slammed and the car burned rubber up the street with its open trunk waving bye. In seconds it fishtailed around the corner at Columbus, and was gone. Bent at the waist with her hands on her knees, gasping and fighting back nausea, Macie turned to the cop as he approached her. But he wasn’t a cop after all.
He was an ex-cop named Gunnar Cody.
♢ ♢ ♢
“You OK?”
“Yeah, I think so. He just . . . I never heard him . . .” Bringing herself upright she drew a deep shuddering inhale, filling her starved lungs. Shaken, but slightly more collected, Wild felt her brow thicken into a frown as she regarded her rescuer standing there, assessing her. Whatever relief she felt crumbled to confusion followed by disbelief. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I dunno. Kinda keeping you from getting stuffed in that trunk, it looks like.”
Was it the wisecrack or the laugh? Whichever it was, everything that was weighing on Macie gave way in a mudslide into anger. “What the fuck is this?” His cool demeanor didn’t break but she did see him blink. The smirk disappeared too. “You’re making a joke out of this? And really. Why are you here? And don’t bullshit me. Are you stalking me?”
“No, not at all.”
He moved to comfort her, and she recoiled a step. “You can kiss my ass.”
Sirens burped at both ends of the one-way street and the quiet block, the refuge, became flooded with flashing lights and patrol cars.
♢ ♢ ♢
When she arrived at her apartment nearly three hours later there was a blue-and-white from the Thirteenth Precinct idling near her front steps. The pair of uniforms inside greeted her by name without getting out and said the precinct commander of the Twentieth had made a courtesy call asking their PC to make sure Ms. Wild had “a safe home.” Macie had taken an immediate liking to the captain up at the Twentieth, who was a warm woman who could easily work undercover as a fashion model. She had assured her they’d do everything to get the guy, which she expected. What Wild never expected was this kind of compassion to a victim.
After a soaking in a warm tub to ease the body aches from her struggle, Macie stepped out of her bathroom to a vibrating phone. “Please tell me you’re all right,” said her father. Macie hesitated, not just to figure out how to answer that without freaking him more, but to wonder how he knew.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Don’t BS your old man. I just got a disturbing call from Len Asher.” Wild’s boss had called her while she was on her way home from the precinct to ask how the case was progressing, and she had told him about the attack. The executive director was friends with her father, so it didn’t take long for word to reach him. Macie would have preferred to leave this until the morning, but gave her dad the PG-13 version just to get off the damned subject. Good luck with that. “You know how I worry about you doing this level of work,” he said, leaving out the term lowlifes for once. Jansen Wild’s legal clientele usually arrived at his office in black town cars, not Rikers vans. “Do you have any idea who it was?”
“No. I gave a description to the police though. They’re on it.”
“Do you have any idea why someone would do this? Was he stalking you? Think a minute. Could this be related to some case? What about this one you’re working on, the one who tried to hang himself?” She tried to talk him down from his tree as best she could, saying it was all fine, voicing her confidence in the police captain, but he wasn’t mollified, and they hung up without either of them feeling better for the call.
Macie tried to shut out the trauma noise with some tube. She uncapped a Sam Adams and watched Iron Chef Gauntlet on the Food Network. Alton Brown was challenging contestants to find the sweet and savory taste combo that packed a one-two punch. When the tournament finished, she killed the TV and sat numbly, reflecting on the very thing she was trying to avoid thinking about, at least until morning. But trouble had a mind of its own and she wrestled with the visual flashbacks of the assault, trying to shut those one-twos away in hopes they wouldn’t come back to bully their way into her nightmares.
The ration of shit she gave Gunnar Cody on the sidewalk pretty much ended their conversation for the night. Even though the two had shared the back seat of a patrol unit to the precinct to file their accounts, his brief “How you doing now?” overture was met with a hard glance, and he took the hint.
When they made their statements at the police station Macie sensed deference to him because he was ex-NYPD. Cops shared a bond and spoke a common language. Wild had seen it before among the retired detectives with whom she had worked. Cody guessed their Sixty-One Report would be an exercise, thanks to the plateless vehicle, and the intake officer couldn’t disagree. It came time for her to give her account of the attack, and she said she was unsure whether her assailant had been waiting in the alcove or had followed her as a victim of opportunity. Macie had never seen the man before, and neither heard him, nor sensed his presence, until the choke hold. Cody did most of the talking when it came to describing the guy. Even though she had seen him, Cody had a more complete view, and, again, spoke the language of The Job.
“Male cauc, thirty-eight to forty-two. Five ten to six feet, 210 to 215, muscular build. Lean. Mean and powerful like a CrossFit rat. Close, thinning hair. Brown, maybe red, in that light. Short-cropped goatee. Black or navy sweatshirt over jeans and white athletic shoes. He’ll also have a superficial facial wound.” Cody indicated the smear of blood on Macie’s shirt collar.
“That’s right,” she said. “He’ll have a mark on his cheek. I scratched him.”
“And gave a helluva kick into that tree to bust up his plan,” said Cody. “Well done. Probably saved your life.” No wisecrack, no deflection, pure sincerity. Replaying that station-house moment, Wild considered the warmth and trueness of his compliment. And something else along with it. What . . . his relief?
Macie sat a few minutes pondering in the night’s solitude then polished off her beer. S
he leaned forward, triggering a whiplash twinge in her back, and picked up her cell phone that the police had retrieved from the scene of her assault. It awakened revealing a spider web of cracked glass, but the thing still worked. She found the number she wanted. “Hi, Gunnar Cody? Hope I didn’t wake you. It’s Macie Wild.”
C H A P T E R • 8
* * *
The host at Felice 15 hugged two menus to his chest and waited for her answer. It didn’t come quickly. Macie stood in the entry and surveyed her seating choices. The Financial District feed wouldn’t start for fifteen minutes so she basically had her pick, which was precisely why she had arrived so early for her noon lunch meeting with Gunnar Cody. The banquette looked appealing, comfortable and not too intimate. But soon those empty surrounding tables would be filled and there would be too many ears in tight proximity. That deuce off in the corner would work, but with those surrounding wall mirrors, he would be staring at her from every angle for the whole meal. “If you are looking for privacy,” said the maître d’, “our booth is unreserved today. I would be happy to give you that.”
A booth. Yes. But Macie tracked his gesture and hesitated. It was private enough. In fact, too much so. A wood-paneled nook framed by floor-to-ceiling privacy drapes? No, it fell into cozy, and cozy was the opposite of what she wanted out of this.
“A booth? Perfect.” Macie’s breath caught at the sound of Cody’s voice. She spun to find him right beside her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s just . . . Hi.” She shook his hand. “Guess I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Years of tailing perps, I guess. I had a girlfriend in college who said she wanted to put a bell around my neck. Cat lady. Less said the better.” By then they were at the booth and he was standing aside so she could slide in and face the restaurant. “Better view for you,” he said. Then, as he sat on the outside of the padded L, Cody added, “Plus I’ve got this thing about not being hemmed in.”
“Another cop habit?” she asked.
“Small bladder.” He leaned toward her and nodded confessionally, then laughed. “Uh-oh, I’d better watch it. Someone who believes whatever I tell her.”
She smiled. “No, I’d better watch it. Someone who flatters himself.” When he grinned at that, she turned away to study a herd of noisy diners as they rolled in.
“Relax, no one will see you here,” he said. And when she furrowed her brow, Cody spread his palms wide. “You work, what, ten blocks away, up near the courthouse? Plenty of places to eat around there. You invite me to this particular spot—very nice; glad I wore the sport jacket—but—just far enough off your turf not to risk being caught by your discerning lawyer pals, sitting knee-to-knee with an ex-cop. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Macie busied herself with the menu. “I only chose this place because I heard it was good,” she lied into the list of daily specials.
“Still. Kills a slice of your day coming down here.”
“I spent all morning in court, and freed up my afternoon for paperwork and research. I’m pretty capable of working out my own day, Mr. Cody.”
“Gunnar. And if this is the thank-you lunch you promised after telling me I could kiss your ass, it’s everything I dreamed it would be.” If anyone else had said that, she would be planning her exit. What was it about this guy? Somehow his swagger and self-assuredness came off as fun and naughty instead of conceited and spiteful. Like the actually-cute-when-you-get-to-know-him bad boy she was always warned about. Maybe it was the smile that invited her in on the joke. Or the kindness in his quick eyes. Macie realized he was speaking to her.
“He wants to know if you want wine.” Then she noticed the waiter standing there and chided herself for losing focus. Even though this lunch was her olive branch, she really wanted to get Cody to give up why he kept popping up in her murder case. But this guy was smart, and to get him to spill, she needed to keep a clear head.
“No. No wine. Iced tea for me.” Wild dipped her head to him, urging, “But you go ahead. Probably a relief not to have to abstain anymore because you’re on duty.”
“You kidding? I kept a cooler of Sam Adams in the stakeout van at all times.” He gave her a stage wink. “The trick is to know your limit.”
“OK, I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”
Cody steepled one brow playfully. “Like I said, one of us better watch it.” He went for Pellegrino then shared the bottle, slowly filling her stem glass only halfway, showing both manners and finesse. She couldn’t decide on a starter because they all looked so good. He suggested they make a meal of appetizers.
While they sampled and picked, Macie said, “You did want this, right? I just never knew a man who was happy going tapas mode.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like an eighties Eurotrash hair band. ‘Hello, Reykjavik, vee are Tapas Mode!’ But with those two funny dots over the O in mode.”
“An umlaut.”
“You shame me. I scarf down all three Stieg Larssons, and did I even once look that up?” Wild caught him studying her face and she shifted away to give him another inch of DMZ. “I could sit at another table, and we could text.” And when she blushed, he said, “I don’t mean to make you uneasy. It’s just I’m getting this push-pull vibe off you. It’s OK. I get it.”
She tilted her head to one side. “Get what?”
He speared an artichoke. “You’re very nice, offering to take me here, but it has to be conflicting. Given what you do, and what I represent. But I’m not a cop anymore. I’m an ex-cop.”
“I have absolutely no problem with cops.” Then she added, “As long as they don’t indiscriminately video protesters at legal rallies.” And since that didn’t seem to faze him, she continued, “Or, let’s say, infiltrate and wiretap ethnic or religious groups without due cause.”
“What, nothing about the flawed trade-off Americans have made, swapping constitutional protections for the hazy promise of better security?” She watched him fork the carciofi in his mouth and chew, forcing her to fill the silence.
“OK, that too. And, all right, I will admit my experience with law enforcement, especially pretrial, isn’t so stellar. I respect them, definitely honor their service and sacrifice—but I also know they are out to stop me at all times and in all ways.” He swallowed but still waited her out. It occurred to her that Gunnar Cody worked silences like a skilled interrogator. “But cops—ex or otherwise—no issues here.”
“Good,” he said at last. “I can’t say the same for lawyers.” He lofted his Pellegrino and smiled. “But let’s not look for trouble.” After she toasted him back, Cody added, “Especially not after that spinning groin kick I saw you land on your man last night.”
She smiled self-effacingly. “I take a class.”
“From who, Jason Bourne?”
Macie eased open the door to her agenda. “Now that you fear my superpowers, maybe I can get you to tell me about your big documentary project.”
“Seriously? Isn’t that the exact topic that made you freeze me out the other day?”
“Correction: I was the one frozen out. After asking you the legitimate question of why you were stalking my homicide case.”
“Stalking. So pejorative—”
“—Three times. Once in Chelsea. Second, trying to interview my alibi witness. And third . . .” She folded a hand around three fingers, bundling them. “. . . just happening by last night when I was attacked.”
“And lucky for you I did.”
“How is that lucky? I smashed his nuts, and you let him get away.”
“Best thank-you lunch ever.” Without a beat he said, “Hey, I saw on Channel Four that the Buzz Killer’s in a coma at Bellevue. What happened? I mean really.”
Even though he had flipped this interview, she was glad he was engaged and answered his question. “Unclear. They found him in an alcove hanging by a trash bag from a pipe.”
“How is that unclear?”
“Meaning nobody saw what happened. An
inmate tried to slash him the other day, another tried to shiv him. But with no witnesses, I can’t rule out staff involvement.”
He set down his fork. “Um, hold up. Doesn’t suicide figure into this, or are you so blindly invested in your client that you’ve gone, default, to conspiracy theories?”
“I am invested, Mr. Cody, in serving the legal rights of a man who is innocent of a crime and has been incarcerated without adequate protection for his safety. And please don’t call him the Buzz Killer.”
He raised both palms in surrender. “Bad form on my part. And bad manners. I’m sorry.”
His apology seemed heartfelt so she let it slide. As they resumed passing plates, Wild circled back. “I’m still waiting. Why the stalk that’s not a stalk?”
Cody reflected a moment. “All right. I’ll share this much: The story I’m working for VICE has a lot of threads, one of which seems to have put me in overlap with you. But I wouldn’t read too much into it.”
“You expect me to be satisfied with that?”
“It’ll have to do.”
She rotated toward him in full cross-exam posture. “What were you doing in that neighborhood last night?”
“Helping you. Your turn.”
There he was, flipping it again. There she was, sucked in again. “I was trying to interview a known associate of the murder victim. These are the straws you grasp at when you can’t access the police report, the autopsy report, or even get into the damn crime scene.”
