by Carrie Smith
“Not sure what you mean,” said Muñoz. But he had a terrible feeling he knew exactly what Blackstone meant.
“Oh, I think you do,” said Blackstone quietly.
The Heineken came. Muñoz sipped it. Murphy cried out when the Knicks scored on a breakaway slam dunk. All around the bar, people were cheering, but Muñoz felt as if he were sitting in an isolation bubble. He was trapped, and he wasn’t sure how to escape before a fatal shot was fired.
Blackstone leaned toward him and sniffed the air. “Is that aftershave you’re wearing?” he asked in a loud voice. Then he sniffed again, more dramatically. “Or is that,” he paused for effect, “perfume?”
Muñoz sipped his beer. “What’s your problem, man?”
“No problem, New Dick,” Blackstone responded. “It’s just, well, I’ve been meaning to ask you all day because—don’t be offended, I’m just being honest—ever since you joined the precinct, the detective pool smells,” he paused for effect again, “a little girlie.” He chugged his beer. “Hey, guys, is it just me or do you think Muñoz smells a little girlie, too? Have a sniff.”
Murphy leaned in, then Schugren and Aceveda. They were like classic stooges. Muñoz jerked away and stood.
“That’s enough,” he said.
“We getting you all hot and bothered?”
“Hardly.” He pulled on his jacket.
“But you’re not denying you’re a fag?”
There it was, Muñoz thought. The deathblow. The two sudden adversaries looked at each other. This time Muñoz was determined not to look away first.
“Well?” Blackstone pressed. “It’s okay. It’s a new world, right? But we wanna know if it’s a fag who’s got our back.” And then all four men were waiting for his response.
There was only one path to salvation in that moment, Muñoz realized. He would have to punch Blackstone in the gut so hard that the beer in his belly erupted from his mouth like lava. So why was he waiting? He was no coward. He’d just spent almost two years of his life getting guns pointed in his face on a regular basis, and he hadn’t panicked then. He was stronger, taller, and fitter than Blackstone and every other detective at their table. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Despite his size and strength, he wasn’t wiping the floor with their asses. Apparently, he was as girlie as he smelled.
“Jesus Christ,” Blackstone exploded with glee. “He’s a fuckin’ fag. We got ourselves a fuckin’ fag in the unit.”
Muñoz turned. “So long, guys.”
“That’s right. Guys.” Blackstone repeated the word as Muñoz walked toward the door. Blackstone’s grating, triumphant voice somehow carried over all the ambient noise. It was like a guided missile aimed directly at his ears. “We’re guys, all right. Real guys. Not your kind of guys.” He heard the four men laugh as he pushed open the door and stepped out into the chill night.
What had he done or not done? he wondered. How had he given himself away? What had Blackstone seen that he didn’t even know he had shown? How was it that this overblown asshole could nail him to the wall? Muñoz had heard their laughter in his head all the way home.
He pushed it as far from his mind as he could when his team arrived ten minutes later, two uniforms with pounds of paraphernalia hanging off their belts. They stood in front of the apartment building while Muñoz briefed them on the situation.
“We’ve got a school principal in there who was murdered sometime last evening. There was no forced entry. Whoever did it must have come in and gone out through that front door.” He pointed. “Either the victim let him in or someone else did. And we’re gonna talk to everyone in there. We need to know who entered and left the building yesterday afternoon and evening. We need times, details, descriptions. I want everything on paper. And remember, you could be talking to the killer. Keep your eyes and ears open.”
The officer named Caputo paid careful attention. He was the kind of young, enthusiastic cop Muñoz himself had been a couple years out of the academy. He obviously had big plans for himself, and helping out on a murder investigation instead of cruising the blocks between Amsterdam and Manhattan Avenues in a cramped patrol car was an opportunity to prove his usefulness. Muñoz sensed he could count on this man.
The officer named Garcia was older and less moved by the urgency of the situation. “Eight doors a floor. Fourteen floors.” He stopped short of doing the math. “This’ll take forever with just three of us, Detective.” His tone challenged Muñoz’s right to ask so much of them.
Muñoz remembered Codella’s words as he stared into the man’s passive-aggressive eyes. Let’s get a few things straight. I don’t tolerate sloppiness. I don’t leave stones unturned. “Then I guess we won’t have to figure out what to do with the rest of our lives,” he told Garcia, and he held Garcia’s stare until the officer averted his eyes. Being six foot six had plenty of disadvantages when it came to riding in compact cars, flying coach, and buying beds. But height had an upside, too. People usually backed down when Muñoz confronted them.
He pointed to Caputo. “Start on fourteen and work down to eight. And you,” he turned back to Garcia, “start with the ground floor apartments and move up. The victim lived on six. I’ll take five and seven. No one goes anywhere near the crime scene. If you come across anyone who saw the victim yesterday or saw someone strange in the building, call me on my cell right away.” Then Muñoz climbed the fire stairs to seven feeling like a detective for the first time since his official promotion. Fuck Blackstone, he thought. Fuck them all.
There was no answer at the first two doors he knocked on, but when he rapped on the third one, a dog barked and a delicate female voice on the other side said, “Shhhhhh, Carter. Stop. It’s okay.”
The door opened and a woman, maybe twenty-five, looked up at him. She had long, wavy hair with natural bronze highlights, and the eyes behind her glasses were yellowish green, like cat eyes. They were bright and intelligent. He pulled open his blazer to show her his shiny new shield.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “They wouldn’t let me leave. Is it true Hector’s dead?”
Muñoz nodded. “You knew him?”
“I walk his dog every day. Charlie.”
“When was the last time?”
“Yesterday. One o’clock. I do it every day while Hector’s gone. What happened to him?”
“We’re trying to find that out. Does he keep his door locked while he’s at work?”
“Always. Top and bottom. Two different keys. I keep a set in my apartment.”
“Did you see him yesterday or just his dog?”
“I saw him, too.”
“What time was that?”
She thought for an instant. “A little after five, I think.” She leaned down to scratch her dog’s ears. “I dropped off some doggie treats I forgot to leave earlier. There’s a pet food store I go to. Carter and Charlie went with me. They have organic dog treats.”
“People buy organic treats for their dogs?”
She smiled.
“Do you remember what Sanchez was wearing when you saw him just after five?”
“Jeans. A short-sleeved shirt. Yellow or tan, I think.”
“What sort of mood was he in?”
“Cheerful. Same as always.” She shook her head. “How could something like this have happened?”
“That’s what we have to find out. Did he say anything about his plans for the night?”
She shook her head and curled her index finger around some strands of hair.
“Was anyone else in his apartment when you saw him?”
“No.” She paused and considered. “I mean, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed.”
“Did you stand at his door or go inside?”
“I went into the living room. I was there for three or four minutes. I petted Charlie. Where’s Charlie now?”
“With the super.”
“I’d take him, you know. I’d give him a home.” She was still curling her finger a
round the strands of hair.
She was very pretty, he thought, and very kind. The antithesis of a bully. And how different his position would be right now with Blackstone if he were the kind of guy who’d look at her and think, I’d like to take you home. He could sit with Blackstone’s posse and shove back beers and shots and be one of them. But that thought was even more unappealing than being their victim.
“What did you talk about while you were in his apartment?” he asked the young woman.
“Charlie’s walk.” She smiled. “Hector always liked to hear what Charlie had done. Yesterday I let him off his leash in Riverside Park, and he ran after some teenagers playing Frisbee and caught it midair. They started throwing the Frisbee for him over and over. I told Hector he needed to get a Frisbee and play with Charlie.”
“What did you notice in the apartment?”
“Nothing unusual.” She winced apologetically.
“What was he doing?”
Her brow furrowed as she thought. “He was holding his phone,” she remembered.
“Cell phone or landline?”
“Cell phone.”
“And did you happen to see his laptop anywhere?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. The case was next to the door.”
“You’re sure about that?”
She nodded. “Carter was sniffing at it. I had to pull him off.”
“Was it open?”
“Partly. It was crammed with stuff.”
“You’re sure the laptop was in it?”
She nodded again.
“Sanchez has a footstool in his living room. Was there anything on the footstool?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so. Why?”
He ignored her question. “Did you see anyone enter the building yesterday who you didn’t recognize?”
She thought for several seconds. “The FreshDirect guy was hauling boxes in as I left with the dogs.”
“Anyone else? Anyone later in the day?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Out with friends. I left around seven, I think.”
“All right, Miss—”
“Swain. Cameron Swain.”
He wrote down her name and phone number. He gave her his card. “Call me if you think of any other details that might help us.”
She took the card and closed her door. He walked to the far end of the corridor that led to the other wing of the building. Then he stopped and turned back. He knocked on her door again. She hadn’t retreated yet and she opened almost immediately. “More questions?”
“Just one. Sorry. Did Hector Sanchez ever greet you at the door in his boxer shorts?”
She was obviously surprised by the question. “Hector? He’d never do that.”
“Why not?”
“He just wouldn’t,” she said. “Trust me. He wasn’t that kind of guy.”
Chapter 3
Codella stood on the sidewalk and stared at the façade of Manhattan North. Ten months had passed since she had last entered this unattractive glass building where her new homicide unit was stationed. She took a deep breath and held it in for several seconds. She had to face Dennis McGowan sooner or later. During her leave of absence, he would have shut her out of his mind completely, she was certain, and he would not be happy to have her back in his squad. For all she knew, he had even secretly hoped she would die. He would be looking for ways to discredit her, and she couldn’t let that happen. She had to play the good subordinate and update him on everything.
She gripped the door handle and stared at her reflection in the glass. She certainly looked tough enough to hold her own, she thought. Someone seeing her for the first time might mistake her for a military recruit at the end of basic training. She could imagine her new homicide colleagues making cracks behind her back or taking surreptitious cell phone photos and texting them to each other.
She pulled open the door. Just inside was the Plexiglas-partitioned area where uniformed desk cops were stationed. These officers were the first line of defense between this fortress and the general public. They deflected the onslaught of Harlem’s men and women with anger issues, outraged recipients of misdemeanor violations, hysterical victims of muggers or pickpockets, drunks and homeless people with nowhere else to go, and the occasional curious reporters doing research for a crime blog.
As she entered, these officers looked toward her and then quickly away assuming she was just the latest petitioner who would demand, complain, excoriate, or vomit on the tile. She recognized all of them and reached through her foggy brain to recall their names: Andy Vaccaro, the desk sergeant whose family came from the same part of Italy as her father’s family; Paterson, who was manning the phone line; and Kevin Hernandez, who was processing a patrol officer’s arrest. She didn’t feel up to greeting them, and she was relieved by her anonymity.
It was just before nine when she reached McGowan’s second-floor office. His door was open and he was leaning back in his swivel chair, his big puffy hands knitted together behind his neck. He didn’t hear her arrival. He seemed to be focusing on something outside his window, perhaps the ominous, bulging cloud formations in the direction of Fordham Road or the crane two blocks north, perched precariously atop the skeleton of a high-rise ascending out of the rubble of leveled warehouses. Maybe she had underestimated his capacity for introspection, it occurred to her. Was he perhaps sitting there debating his future—whether to give up the paid overtime he enjoyed as a lieutenant and finally take the captain’s exam and join the next generation of NYPD police leaders? Was he feeling dismissed and undervalued by one of his superiors at One Police Plaza the way she was by him? She felt an unexpected flicker of compassion for him, and in the very next instance she told herself, What the fuck are you thinking, Codella? He is after you. He’d love nothing better than to drum you out.
She rapped on his open door. He swiveled around and his hands came down as he stood. His bristly reddish-brown hair was sculpted into a flat mesa on the top of his head. He was over six feet tall—towering next to her five-foot-two-inch frame, but short, she thought with private enjoyment, compared to the detective she’d just met, Eduardo Muñoz. She observed that he was still a little thick around the belt, although she recalled him telling other detectives last year that he had joined a gym. “So you’re back,” he said.
His lack of enthusiasm wasn’t lost on her.
“That body you sent me to see? It wasn’t just a body. It was a body laid out like Jesus Christ on the cross. A public school principal.”
“Homicide?”
“No doubt about it. Crime scene is finishing up. Gambarin is there. I’ve got a canvass started. I’m going to head over to his school right now. Just wanted you to know. I’ll keep you posted on developments.” She took a step back, toward the door.
“Wait.” He came around his desk. “Let’s give this to Fisk and Nichols.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re just getting back on your feet.”
“I’m on my feet, sir.” She pointed down, and then met his stare.
“The media will be all over this,” he finally said.
“I’m used to the media.”
He raised his brows, and she knew at once that her words had been a mistake. Now he was remembering the Wainright Blake case. Solving that case had gotten her more media attention than she had ever wanted, and because of that case she had been promoted to his unit. She had been forced onto him. And now he was undoubtedly regretting his early morning call to her. Better to have given her a rousing welcome back at the morning briefing than hand her another case that she could run away with. But he had handed it to her, and she wasn’t about to give it up. He was still staring at her. He was waiting for her to look away first, and she did. She had to give him something. “I’ll keep you in the loop on everything, Lieutenant,” she assured him in her most respectful voice.
“See that you do.” He turned his back to her.
Chapter 4
Codella showed her shield to the school safety officer, a woman named Rivera. Then she entered the main office in time to hear an agitated woman saying, “Where’s the sub, Janisa? I need her here now. Why wasn’t this handled?”
“It was,” said Janisa, a younger Hispanic woman behind a waist-high counter. “I called the sub on Friday. It’s not my fault she didn’t show up.”
“Well, get us someone else now. I’ve got twenty-seven kids in that room with no teacher.” The agitated woman sideswiped Codella on her way out the door.
“Can I help you?” asked Janisa.
“Who’s in charge when your principal isn’t here?”
“Marva Thomas. That was her.” She pointed to the door where the woman had just disappeared. “She’ll be back.”
Janisa got on the phone, and Codella surveyed the office. Opposite the counter were beat-up wooden inboxes of the PS 777 teachers. A nicked wooden bench, which fifty years ago must have shined with a high-gloss varnish, was built into the wall perpendicular to the door. Above the bench was a long cork bulletin board with school announcements. The school’s chess team had qualified for a regional tournament and was having a bake sale to raise money. Someone named Sofia Reyes had posted a sign-up sheet for an after-school workshop on differentiated instruction strategies, but so far only one name had signed up: Vickie Berrard. On the other hand, several names had signed up to hear a representative from the McFlieger-Walsh School Publishing Company give a “Sneak Preview of iAchieve” on Wednesday at 3:45 PM Codella scanned the handwritten names on that sign-up sheet. Christine Donohue. Anna Masoutis. Kristin DeMarco. Jenny Bernstein. Eugene Bosco. Natalie Rapinoe. Roz Porter.
Then she retreated to the hallway outside the office. Twenty feet to her left, a student-created banner mounted near the front doors read, “Welcome to PS 777—Explore! Learn! Grow!” On the wall above the school safety officer were hundreds of photographs below the headline “We’re the Proud Families at PS 777.” Codella approached the wall, and her eyes fell on the placid image of a mother in a black chador embracing a thin, almost frail-looking son. In the photo next to that one, a Hispanic father, mother, and three young children had been caught by the camera’s lens in an instant of raucous family glee. Another photo showed a single black mother and two children, girl and boy, sitting erect and staring into the camera with uncertain smiles. The mother’s solid torso, high African cheekbones, and turban made her look dignified but uneasy, as if a semiautomatic rifle were pointed at her head.
