Stephanie Chalice is a cop’s cop. She’s bold, smart, independent and beautiful—a powerhouse working in NYPD’s homicide unit. She’s seen a lot in her years on the force, but she’s never come across anything like the case she’s up against now. A murdering psychopath is stalking Manhattan, on the prowl for a very special type of woman. Part of his twisted game is intentionally leaving clues for the police, clues designed not only to taunt, but to do something much worse. Will Chalice be able to discover his real purpose before another woman dies?
Don’t Close Your Eyes
Stephanie Chalice Mystery #1
By
Lawrence Kelter
Don’t Close Your Eyes Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence Kelter
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
Interior book design by
Bob Houston eBook Formatting
For
Isabella, Dawn, and Chris
Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges the following special people for their contributions to this book.
As always for my wife Isabella for nurturing each and every new book as if it were a newborn child, and for her love, support.
For my children, Dawn and Chris . . . just because.
“Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.”
—Hebrew Bible, Genesis 13:5
DON’T CLOSE YOUR EYES
Lawrence Kelter
Prologue
Thirty years ago
The night was alive with stars. Ricky Clovin flopped into bed and craned his neck until the Big Dipper came into view through the window. Summer nights in Appalachia were hot and humid. A light breeze sailed into the room, coaxing a smile. Ricky had been playing football most of the day and was dog-tired. The sixteen-year-old stretched wearily, pushing his toes past the edge of his mattress. The light sheet felt good against his skin, tantalizing him and drawing him ever closer to sleep. He’d be out cold in two seconds if the squirt didn’t pipe up.
His sister Sheryl wasn’t much of a sleeper. Ricky listened for sounds of heavy breathing. When he didn’t hear any, he knew that the twelve-year-old was still awake.
He couldn’t see her from his end of the L-shaped room, but knew that she was there all the same; eyes wide open, wheels turning, and too worked up to sleep. He could picture her lying on top of the sheets with her spindly legs, knobby knees, and pigtails broadcast out toward the ends of the pillow. God had blessed Sheryl in His own special way. She was sharp as a tack, brighter than anyone in Boone County, and smarter than anyone Ricky had ever known. He worshipped her—couldn’t get enough of the squirt.
“Hey, Clod, which city has the most bathrooms?”
Ricky smiled. He had anticipated the adenoid sound of his sister’s voice. He knew she’d never let him go to sleep. “I don’t know, which one?” He was laughing already.
“Pee-oria.”
Ricky snickered and then they both cracked up; Ricky in his hearty rumble and Sheryl in her short-winded snorts. Sheryl was still hacking away long after Ricky had stopped. The sound of her laughing tortured him. He had always struggled with the sounds the squirt made—they were a constant reminder of her delicate condition. Though it made him smile to know that she was happy, he always feared how much time the good Lord would give her.
There had been three recent trips to Charleston for corticosteroid treatments at Saint Francis Hospital. He could still remember the last one, the long ride through the pitch-black night. He could still feel her head resting slack against his shoulder as they rode side by side in the backseat of the old Buick. He could still hear her wheezing in his ear. “Take it easy, Squirt,” he kept telling her. “We’re almost there.” But the road seemed to go on forever, an endless series of pine trees caught in the fix of the headlamps. The endless voyage was punctuated with his mother’s worried glances. His father grumbled throughout the trip. Zachary Clovin did not take kindly to giving up his sleep. Ricky could still see his father’s stoic features in the dark. More than anything, Ricky remembered the chill of his icy stare.
Ricky heard Sheryl wheezing, and then finally the pumping sound of her inhaler. “Hey, Squirt, are you all right?” Ricky couldn’t imagine what it would be like not being able to breathe. He couldn’t imagine not being able to explode off the scrimmage line and charge up field toward the end zone. Asthma, he hated the word. He hated what it was taking from his kid sister, the youthful vitality he took for granted.
Sheryl’s was a life of books and toy dolls and baking with Mom. Ricky loved watching the two of them together in the kitchen, their pies cooling on the windowsill, Mom rolling dough and Sheryl pouring the filling. She was mommy’s little girl, pure and simple. She always had been and always would be. There was something warm and special between them, an inseparable bond that transcended description.
“Hey, you big lummox, how many touchdowns you get today?”
“Three,” he boasted. “What of it?” Ricky rolled over in bed and waited for the punch line. Sheryl had a delivery like Milton Berle.
“Same as your IQ. Ha, ha.”
“Hey,” he protested playfully. “One more and I’ll come over there and tickle you ‘til you puke.” Of course, he never would. He was always afraid of pushing her too far. He picked up a Spalding and ricocheted it off the wall. He couldn’t see her from his corner of the room, but heard the rubber ball plunk down on her bed.
“Hey, what the—” She erupted with wild laughter. “You hit me right in the belly.”
“Gotcha.” Ricky smiled while his sister cackled and wheezed. “Hey, Squirt, you all right? Calm down, will ya? I don’t feel like driving to Charleston tonight. Sheryl... Sheryl, calm down.”
“I can’t.” She snorted. “It’s too funny.” She continued to laugh and gasp and wheeze, making those familiar sounds that worried her brother to death.
“Hey, you’ll wake Dad.” That sobered her quickly. The old man’s expression alone would scare her to death. Of course he’d blame Ricky and give him a whack with his Sam Brown belt for good measure. Ricky didn’t care. He was every ounce as strong as his old man and could take anything that he dished out. He secretly dreamed of putting the old man in his place and being a hero for Mom and Sheryl. One day he’d lay down the law and put the old bastard’s temper to rest. He couldn’t stomach the old man’s petty jealousy and didn’t understand what made him tick.
Sheryl was still very much awake and still wanted to misbehave. “Hey, stupid, you awake? Hey, you hear me?” Ricky responded by sawing logs. “Darn,” she whispered. “Ricky? Darn.”
~~~
Ricky’s eyes flitted open sometime later. He rarely awakened in the middle of the night, but something had disturbed him. He yawned not knowing what time it was. He didn’t think he’d been asleep very long. He hovered in a vacuous stupor for a moment and then his eyelids succumbed to weariness as he began to drift off once again. He was almost out, somewhere between wake and slumber, when he heard something unusual. Sheryl had her own bizarre repertoire of adenoid sleeping noises, strange sounds that he had become accustomed to over the years. In the next instant, he was out, and i
t was morning before he understood that what he had heard was Sheryl’s last muffled gasp for air.
Chapter One
Present Day
Wendell Johnson loved his job working in the toll both on the Manhattan side of the Roosevelt Island Tram. He had been working the graveyard shift ever since he was hired. It was after three in the morning. In a few minutes, the last cabin would be headed away from Manhattan. A minute or two later, a final cabin would return from the island.
It was mid-May which made Wendell appreciate his job more than ever. The air was warm and pleasant. He wasn’t supposed to be out of the booth, but the rules could be bent a little when the supervisors weren’t around. A spring breeze sailed by, caressing his bare arms and face. He walked over to the southeast edge of the elevated platform and paused at the railing to look out at the city.
The tram job was choice work. He had transferred from the subway system after working in the tubes half a dozen years. The tram was such a small piece of the system, practically insignificant. There weren’t many MTA mucky-mucks to contend with which was exactly how Wendell liked it.
He was only six months away from retirement. His years in the tubes still counted toward his pension and Wendell couldn’t think of a nicer spot to finish out his thirty. With two months of accrued days saved up, he’d be off the tram by the end of September, well before the autumn air turned into winter’s ice. Life had been difficult for a long time and he was really looking forward to collecting his monthly pension and spending his golden years with his grandson.
Wendell looked out at Roosevelt Island. He called it Baby Island because it stretched out long and narrow in the East River, like a miniature version of Manhattan. Lights twinkled across the river and stars burned in the distant heavens. It was a wonderful night: warm, breezy and seductive.
The city’s ruckus subsided for a moment. Wendell savored the quiet. He leaned over the railing, basking in the luxury of silky warm air. It was his own private terrace, his balcony unto the heavens. Wendell gathered perspective as he stared into the infinite sky. It made him feel a little closer to God, not quite close enough to touch, but almost.
Wendell heard the sound of giggling filter up to him from the street below. He knew what that meant. Scores, the gentlemen’s club was letting out. It was Friday night and the girls were in the mood to party. Wendell looked down at the sidewalk. Four of the exotic dancers were walking arm-in-arm and laughing their heads off. It made him smile. “God bless ‘em,” Wendell said. Yes, God had blessed them and the plastic surgeon as well. Wendell was not familiar with cosmetic augmentation. In his mind, surgery was for repair and not improvement. Sometimes you’re better off not knowing.
He often wondered what went on inside the club. The club seemed to be quite a destination for the gents. He had heard so many stories about it but never paid them any attention. He’d been a young man once and knew how young folks could carry on.
“Ha, ha,” Wendell laughed. Valerie and Dina had just hit the street. Dina looked up at old Wendell and gave him a friendly wave. Valerie and Dina, or Chantelle and Tiffany as they were known to the trade, roomed together on Roosevelt Island. They’d be up to see old Wendell any time now, sprinkle him with a little of their girlish sunshine and make him feel like a boy again. They knew how to get to men, but in Wendell’s case, the affection was genuine.
Wendell was starting to show his age. His hair had gone gray and his skin was not as taut as it once was, but his heart was young and his smile still radiant. It got brighter when Valerie and Dina fussed over him. He was really still a boy at heart, a boy doing a man’s work, putting food on the table ever since he was ten years old. He always strived to be a good man, and couldn’t put a finger on anything he wasn’t proud of having done. The only thing that made him sad was being alone. He had lost his beloved wife, Bev, three years back. Cancer got her and took her real quickly. Sometimes Valerie and Dina helped him forget.
“Good evening, Wendell,” Dina chanted.
“Hello, Black Prince.” Valerie put her arm through Wendell’s and gave him a buss on the cheek.
“Finally, a real man.” Dina tousled Wendell’s nappy gray hair.
Wendell glowed. “Evening, ladies. Beautiful night, isn’t it?” He lifted his free arm and Dina took it.
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Wendell,” Dina said with a smile. She drew in the evening air. “No smoke, no hairspray, no cologne—”
“No jerks, no liars, no bullshit,” Valerie continued. “Marry us, Wendell. We’re in love.” They sashayed around the tram platform feeling happy and light. Wendell’s blood pressure rose fifteen points and a youthful gait revitalized his tired step.
“You ladies have a nice evening?” Wendell inquired.
“It was hell, Wendell. Oops.” Valerie covered her mouth with her fingertips. “Heck, I mean it was heck.” Wendell’s eyes narrowed in an accusatory manner. The girls knew how he felt about profanity. “Sorry, Wendell.”
Wendell’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Hell,” he shouted. “There, I said it too. Ha, ha. That’s not so bad now, is it?” He was half-telling and half-asking. He had grown up in the heart of the Bible Belt and was just now beginning to accept the expressions that New Yorkers took for granted.
Dina rested her head against his upper arm. “You’re our prince, Wendell. You’re the only decent man either of us has talked to all night. Now remember, you promised to move in with us when you retire in the fall.” Dina gave him a playful tickle. “Don’t forget.”
Wendell blushed. “You girls shouldn’t tease an old man,” he warned. “If’n you don’t stop, you’ll end up in,” he checked their expressions before continuing, “hell.” Wendell smiled mischievously. They remained still for a moment before simultaneously bursting into laughter.
They were still arm in arm when the unoccupied tramcar came to a stop in front of them. “Your chariot to Baby Island awaits, ladies.” Wendell grinned. Wendell’s childlike demeanor caused Dina to mist up. They both kissed him on the cheek as they stepped into the tram cabin. “Sleep tight, girls.” Wendell stepped away from the cabin as his buddy Charley entered. Wendell slid the safety rail closed as his friend stepped up to the conductor’s controls. A moment later, the cabin’s doors slid shut and the tram began its thirty-one-hundred-foot journey to Roosevelt Island. The girls were at the rear window waving to him as the cabin journeyed off into the night. It made him sad to see them go.
The creaking of the cable faded into the distance. He could see the outbound cabin two hundred and fifty feet in the air, midway between the two islands. In a second, the Manhattan-bound tram would emerge to the left of the other. Yep. There it is. Few things in Wendell’s life were as predictable.
The night grew silent once again, almost eerily so. Wendell saddened still further. He imagined the scene four months hence: his last tram coming to rest. It made him feel very lonely. Darn! Loneliness was going to be a problem. He knew it already. He got to meet so many people on the tram: pretty girls, business people, tourists, and all kinds of interesting types. His son had moved off to Trenton to be near his wife’s family. Wendell sighed. It was time to be a grandpa, maybe even move to Jersey.
Wendell was still out of his booth when the returning car bumped against the guide rails and slowed to arrival speed. A strange feeling came over him. He didn’t see any passengers in the cabin, which was unusual, even for last call. Teddy Balto was the conductor. Wendell turned his head a few degrees and squinted but still didn’t see Teddy standing at the controls. Where the heck is that boy? Wendell wondered.
The cabin lowered. It was almost down. He could nearly see into the cabin’s windows now. He got up on his tiptoes to get a better view. “Dear Lord.” Teddy was slumped over the controls. Wendell feared the worst. He slid the safety rail open and jammed the door-override key into its slot. Just then, he noticed something dripping from the bottom of the doors. The light was just bright enough for him to make out the
color. It was crimson. Blood? Wendell twisted the key and the doors slid open.
A dark figure exploded out of the shadows. It all happened so fast. The powerful, masked assailant had Wendell in his arms and up in the air. He charged to the edge of the platform and slammed him into the concrete retaining wall. Wendell screamed as wave after wave of excruciating pain flowed along his spine. He felt consciousness ebbing away.
He settled onto the ground as his assailant fled the platform down the concrete steps.
Wendell tried to get up. His head spun and his back hurt like hell. Several minutes passed before he was able to get to his feet. He staggered slowly over to the cabin wondering what had just happened.
Reaching the cabin, he slumped against the open doorway to support himself. He was still woozy, but managed to marshal enough strength to step onboard. The blood he had seen had come from Teddy Balto’s back. It was running under his shirt and pants and had pooled on the floor. Wendell could see a bullet’s entry wound through Teddy’s torn and charred shirt. “Dear Lord,” he screamed. His mind raced frantically. He moved closer to take a better look. “Help me, God. Help me, please.” As Wendell reached for Teddy’s walkie-talkie on the window ledge, he realized that he was off balance. He was still disoriented and dizzy. He looked down as the rate of his pounding heartbeat doubled. A woman was lying on the floor and the shank of Wendell’s boot was teetering on her outstretched arm.
Chapter Two
My name’s Chalice, Stephanie Chalice, which is pronounced Cha-lee-see, but most people don’t speak the Italian dialect, so they say Chal-lis. For some reason, they seem to enjoy the association with the spiritual and familiar but there’s really nothing spiritual about me. As soon as the word chalice is mentioned, heads fill with thoughts of the Eucharist, of sacramental wine, the blood of Christ, etc., which is quite a goddamn weight for a young woman to carry around on her shoulders. One thought leads to the next. Words run together within muddled minds: chalice, cup, vessel, and vestal virgin. Do you believe that last one? I get wisecracks like that from the guys all the time. Why can’t they just accept me for what I am, a rookie detective in the employ of the New York City Police Department.
Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) Page 1
