His Hand In the Storm: Gray James Detective Murder Mystery and Suspense (Chief Inspector Gray James Detective Murder Mystery Series Book 1)

by Ritu Sethi

  “Arsenic.”

  “I’ve heard of the stuff. What about it?”

  “Arsenic poisoning, Chief Inspector. Not acid, but arsenic. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

  What? In the backdrop, Seymour continued to speak. Moving towards the window, Gray could just make out the gesticulating gloved hands in his peripheral vision, looking like severed, rubber appendages floating in the air. He finally keyed into the jumbled words. “What did you say?”

  “I said, poor kid was ripped open from the inside, which only makes your job harder. Two victims, dead from two separate modus operandi.” Seymour put down the sponge and snapped off his gloves. Gray half expected them to whip through the air and slam him in the face. “We analyzed the discarded coffee grounds in Jimmy’s apartment. And the vomit and stomach contents. They contained a very concentrated form of arsenic.”

  His heart beat fast. He knew he couldn’t keep the smug expression off his face. “How concentrated?”

  “Pharmacologically engineered. Not the usual stuff in rat poison. Couldn’t have been easy to get, and with all the regulations controlling poisons in the mass market, your killer had special connections to procure the stuff.”

  The smell of bodies and flesh was thick and wet in the air. No wonder the doctor always stank. Gray moved to the small window.

  Outside, a blue and gray hue blanketed the street, and snow swirled around the road coating cars and people. He could see their breaths in the freezing cold. The breaths of living people, not corpse parts jarred up as decoration.

  “So –” Seymour jumped onto the stool and faced his computer. “– one killer or two? What do you think?”

  Gabi’s police records came to mind. “How long would the arsenic take to work?”

  “An hour or so. Not right away like with acid. The murderer couldn’t predict the victim would exsanguinate either since acute arsenic poisoning normally takes hours or days to act. Normally, the patient dies of cardiovascular insufficiency.”

  Gray felt annoyed. “Why the hell do these things always have to be so medically complicated? Are you saying Jimmy could have suffered a heart attack, like Norman?”

  Seymour shook his head while punching the computer keys and cross-referencing what he found in a file.

  “Doctor, will you spare me a minute more of your precious time?”

  Seymour swirled around. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. Such a large amount of arsenic is unpredictable. I’ll say one thing – no amount of resuscitation could have saved the poor kid.” He removed his glasses, bringing one of the tips to his mouth. The nose pads left indents in his skin. “Not an easy way to go either, Gray. Your killer likes an agonizing, grotesque end. I don’t want to think what the next victim will suffer.”

  “There won’t be a next victim.”

  Neither man spoke until Gray said, “Who’d have access to this type of arsenic? Someone with a knowledge of biochemistry?” Simon had a degree in biochemistry. Pretty well everyone at the startup had enough education to be the culprit.

  “Some knowledge, for sure. The hard part is getting the stuff so concentrated. And you know, the coffee grounds could have been laced at any time. Your alibis are useless.”

  “Thank you. I’m beginning to realize that for myself.”

  “We’ve checked prints on the coffee packet,” the doctor continued. “Only Jimmy and one other person’s. They don’t match anyone we’ve printed at the startup. He bought it from somewhere. They probably belong to whoever sold him the coffee.”

  “I have an idea about that. Vivienne will get you several more prints to compare.” If the coffee was bought at Café Doigt, and that was easy to check, the prints would be Kate’s. If instead, an unknown person gave Jimmy that packet of poisoned coffee – well, Gray had some thoughts brewing in that direction as well. “Someone may have visited Jimmy at his apartment,” he added. “Perhaps, that very day.”

  “Who?”

  “That has yet to be determined.”

  “But you know, don’t you –” Seymour continued to speak, but Gray’s mind was a long way away until the doctor said something about the faceless corpse –

  “What?” Gray asked.

  “His tissues were frozen before death.”

  The resulting explanation about renal cell dysfunction and decreased levels of vasopressin which lead to the production of a large volume of dilute urine... diuresis plus fluid leakage into the interstitial tissues causing hypovolemia made Gray want to slam Seymour over the head. But what was the use? Best to let the doctor have his moment. It boiled down to one thing: Norman was exposed to the cold before he died. The tissues hadn’t simply frozen afterward.

  Returning to his office, he sat behind his desk and watched the red and yellow hues of emotional sky bleeding into one another like watercolors in a child’s painting.

  His finger stabbed the numbers on his cell. Vivienne answered after one ring.

  “I can’t find anything on Holly from over a year ago,” she said. “She joined the startup, but before that, zilch. I’m looking deeper into records.”

  Gray already had the answer, but he’d wait to discuss it with Vivienne. Best to keep her out of it for now. His second-in-command had her own problems to deal with.

  “I want Gabi’s prints,” he said, rising. “Go by her house and process those large hands of hers. They’re stronger and more capable of murder than either yours or mine. Match them against what SOCO’s found in all the crime scenes.” Pulling on his jacket, he cradled the phone on his ear. “Seymour also needs prints from everyone in the café, including Kate. Two prints were found on the coffee packet –Jimmy’s and another person’s.”

  “You think Gabi’s prints are on that packet? You think she poisoned the coffee?”

  “I think it’s dangerous to speculate,” Gray said, all the while believing he knew whose prints they’d find.

  CHAPTER 17

  April 3, 10 am

  THEY WOULD BOTH be late for work this morning. She ran from the pain caused by their relationship. This frantic coupling only bought her a detached hour hinting at intimacies of the past. Nothing more.

  Saleem’s arms pressed around and into Vivienne’s ribs as he climaxed over her. She lay motionless, still and wet but breathing heavily. The surrounding world was a blur, secondary to this primal need to be with him, almost to merge into one and keep what she could close to her heart before it slipped away. Which she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried. But that frantic grip could be felt as a vice within her chest. The thought of being alone again was abhorrent to her, but she’d been happy as a singleton before and could reproduce that now.

  Loneliness didn’t scare her. She was terrified by something far worse: seeing Saleem with other women; kissing them; being happy without her. Just thinking about it turned her blood blue, her vision red. No matter what feminism said, what Vivienne’s need for fairness and independence, she’d be the one left alone. It was still very much a man’s world. An unfair world.

  That they could come together physically, while they mentally occupied opposite sides of the room, amazed her. At least, it was some sort of connection other than mutually-inflicted pain. Sex made her forget; she needed to forget.

  “God, you’re great,” she murmured, squirming under him. Their bed felt like a cocoon.

  He stiffened over her and rolled onto his back. The air thickened with unresolved grievances, promises which couldn’t be kept without injury to one party or the other. Why the hell did marriage have to be this way, anyway? Why couldn’t it be simple?

  He looked stern, unreachable. The mood evaporated before he spoke. He was usually the one to bring things up. “Any developments in the case?”

  “Huh?” It took Vivienne a minute to understand the question. Her heart still beat fast; the sheen on her skin suddenly cooled, making her circle her arms around her naked breasts.

  “Norman’s murder,” Saleem said. “Who’s the main suspect?”


  At least, he wasn’t bringing up the other thing. The case, she could safely discuss. Vivienne turned to her side and licked her lips. She let out a gentle sigh before speaking.

  “So far, three of our suspects have managed to get themselves either hit on the head or killed. There won’t be anyone left to charge soon.” An embarrassing squeak escaped from her bottom – the result of arduous lovemaking “Sorry,” she said.

  “Gray always has a favorite by now,” he persisted. “You’re days into the investigation.”

  “He thinks he has identified the victim – I told you about Norman and the hospital – but the killer remains a mystery.”

  “No witnesses?”

  Vivienne sat up, leaning her back against the headboard and pulled the gold satin sheet over her body.

  “There was this boy, at the psychiatric unit next to your hospital,” she said. “He saw the murderer strung up the body.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. The killer wore a sack over his head, and the boy’s delusional. Not to mention incarcerated for murder himself.” She felt pensive now, the sexual high evaporating by the second. Saleem’s face didn’t soften.

  “He’s such a small thing.” she continued. “Only twelve. Killed a fifteen-year-old.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “I don’t know. He probably couldn’t defend his actions, so they drugged him. The more confused he got, the more the psychiatrists upped the medication until he finally snapped. You know how those places are. You can guess the rest.”

  Saleem slumped back on the bed but said nothing.

  Vivienne turned on her side to face him. “I feel sorry for the kid. So does Gray. He’s always had a soft spot for children, even troubled ones. He’s worried the killer might come back if the boy remembers something.”

  “The boy’s at the Institute?” Saleem asked.

  “No. One of the inmates attacked him. He’s at Westborough recovering, poor thing. He shouldn’t be at the Psychiatric Institute in the first place. He’s too young. That’s our garbage health care system for you.”

  Saleem went quiet. She couldn’t hear his breath. The grandfather clock chimed six am on the floor below.

  “Étienne,” he repeated.

  The topic of children was a sore spot between them. She wanted to say what was on her mind. It always amazed her how close a married couple could be, and still remain worlds apart. The abyss only grew wider with each passing year since more was invested, more was at stake. Topics that were hard to discuss with a boyfriend were impossible to discuss with a husband.

  “Did you see your doctor?” he asked.

  Vivienne stiffened. Her nostrils flared. So, it was the same old thing after all. The same old attack. Interest in her work had merely been a preliminary for this more uncomfortable topic.

  “I went in to get my birth control pills, and I got them,” she replied. “Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Vivienne–”

  “Don’t start. Not again.”

  “Pills have complications.”

  “So does pregnancy. Honestly, this is an obsession with you.” Her voice rose and bounced against the walls. “Why do you want to have a kid so desperately? We agreed when we met – you agreed – that we never would. Our sex lives, my career, how we feel about each other – you know it would all change. And I can’t live with that.”

  “You’re not going to lose me, or the child,” Saleem said. “The world isn’t as dangerous a place as you think. You see violence everywhere, a side effect of your job. Marriage with a family is not a dangerous battleground. Each new murder, each investigation brings a stench into this house.” He inhaled deeply, held her eyes. “We’ve been together a decade. I want a kid. I need to have one.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “What’s changed?”

  Saleem jumped out of bed. The muscles in his back rippled in turn. He pulled on his boxers and yanked up his pants.

  “A lot of women would gladly have a family with me, but not you, Vivienne. Not you. What makes you so damn special?”

  They exchanged a look. Too much honesty was dangerous. Even before he spoke, she knew the words would be strong, the ultimatum unfair.

  “I want to know if you’re in or out,” he said.

  “What? You’re threatening me?”

  “I’m not threatening you.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re doing,” she said. She kicked her feet against the sheets, trying to untangle herself, but the silk twisted and turned, tying her legs. “Who’s going to take care of a baby? Huh?”

  “Both of us, together, and we’ll hire help. Lots of women doctors around me have nannies.”

  “I’m not a bloody doctor, okay? I’m a cop. You’re at the hospital sixty hours a week. My hours are often worse. Someone has to be home with a child. What do you think, that you married some nutritionist or some glorified hospital secretary that calls herself an administrator while spewing out regulations to medical students from a manual? I’m also not one of those drooling nurses you pass in the hallways.”

  “Vivienne–”

  “I have a real career. And I’m not going to throw it away. There’s no job sharing among detectives unless I want to settle for a desk job, which you know I could never do.”

  He yanked on his shirt, hands fumbling and trembling trying to do up the buttons. “Other women do it. They manage. It’s what women were created for after all – to have children – not to chase down murderers and avenge faceless corpses.”

  Vivienne finally tore the bedding from her legs and stood beside the bed. “I’m not other women.”

  “You bet you aren’t.” He sighed, seemingly regretting his choice of words. “We could try. How do we know if a baby is possible? I just need to try.”

  Her face burned, her breath caught in her chest. Half-digested food from late last night came up into her mouth. Jumping across the room, she reached for her pantyhose, tearing it as she pulled it over one leg. The rip reached her thigh.

  Vivienne teetered between hell and panic. He’d brought this topic up too many times, and each time she’d suffered through it, tried to reason with him. Too much had been pushed down. Too much hidden and endured alone. The burning spread from her face to her eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She threw the torn hose to the ground.

  “Oh, it’s possible! Believe me, I know!” Vivienne screamed. “Does that fact ever leave my mind, do you think?”

  Saleem grabbed her by the shoulders. “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you know the self-hatred I’ve suffered these last two years? It’s hard, painful. And physically painful too – not like they said. You expect the bleeding. They give you this form to fill out, and then you wait in an impersonal line full of women in hospital gowns, wait for your turn like you’re cattle getting branded and marked forever. They don’t talk about the emptiness you feel afterward. Nobody tells you about that. You expect relief, but instead, you get a one-way ticket to a desert. A barren, horrible desert. And you walk it alone.”

  “What are you talking about? You –”

  Saleem fell onto the edge of the bed. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

  She kneeled before him on the hardwood floor and looked into his eyes, a sledgehammer pounding inside her chest. This was it. It all came down to this.

  The gold flecks in his eyes filled.

  “Without discussing it with me?” he whispered.

  Her answer was gentler, more hesitant.

  “Yes.”

  “A boy or a girl?”

  “A girl.”

  Disbelief flooded his face. A tear streamed down his cheek. Then, his eyes hardened.

  How was he ever going to forgive her? But maybe forgiveness wasn’t the only issue. How could he ever trust her again or live with what she’d done?

  They were mere inches apart, and she could feel his warm breath on her cheeks. Vivienne looked at him until he reluctantly met her eyes, search
ing for something she wasn’t sure he could give.

  “Am I going to walk the desert alone forever, Saleem?

  CHAPTER 18

  April 3, 1 pm

  LIFE MADE MONSTERS of us all.

  Gabi’s background check had uncovered something surprising. It may not directly tie into the investigation, but it gave Gray insight into her character, and understanding his suspects helped him to predict their actions and reactions.

  As he approached her street, the weight of the knowledge he carried felt like a brick in his stomach. Sometime during the morning, his ear bandage had fallen off, and the gaping wound felt cold and unprotected, with its five nylon sutures tugging and pulling painfully whenever he spoke or smiled or moved his head.

  Would he use what he knew against her? Could he? And if not, what did that say about him as a policeman? That he would allow another attack to occur on the heels of the last, that he’d let another unsuspecting startup employee to be bludgeoned, hung, burned with acid?

  Gray ran a hand over his face. He may thrive on the challenge of a case, but what sort of man could make her face this? Did righting the greatest wrong of all – murder – justify his every action?

  Gabi’s street was gloomier than the last time he’d visited. He parked a block away and walked to her house. The brisk wind stung his eyes, inciting wetness and blurring the moving images of a boy and girl playing Cowboys and Indians on the sidewalk as he passed. The little girl gave Gray a cold look; he smiled back.

  No one answered his ring or knock, and Gray resigned himself to waiting seated on the top cement step before the wooden door. Fallen petals from the cherry blossom directly across resembled splatters of blood. A wind picked up and twirled them with leaves and small stems across the damp short lawn. He breathed in, at least able to detect the reassuring scents of spring, which would soon be contaminated by the dregs of his words and her resentment at hearing them.

  Ten minutes later, she turned the corner carrying two shopping bags, noticed him, and picked up her pace. She didn’t nod or acknowledge his presence, silently pushing past him and unlocking the front door.