City of Prey: An Ava Gold Mystery (Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  Maybe it was the little trek through the outskirts of Harlem or the growing trust and familiarity with Frances—whatever it was, the afternoon went by quickly and smoothly. Her feet were hurting again despite the proper footwear but Ava figured all of the walking would at least help her keep in shape.

  About half an hour after the incident with the two boys, Frances checked her watch and tapped it. “Time to head back. I’d say that was a decent day’s patrol, how about you?”

  “I don’t know. How often do you have to patrol all day?”

  “Maybe once a week. We usually break it into shifts. Again…I think this might be some sort of fear tactic. And for what it’s worth, I hope it’s not working.”

  They headed back down the same blocks as dusk started to fall. It was broken just as they passed back by the little jazz clubs. The soundchecks had come to an end; Ava figured the musicians might be elsewhere, sneaking a few illegal drinks to juice up for the night’s shows. She recalled the blissful nervousness of performing but did not have time to dive deep into those memories.

  Instead, her concentration was broken by the sound of a terrible scream. Ava had never heard anything like it. But still, she recognized it as a sound of fear and pain, a wretched sound that sent a chill through her heart.

  Both women went running toward the sound as it belted out again. This time, there was pain in it. Also, it was acute enough for them to pinpoint the exact location. It was an alley that ran between an apartment building and one of the small jazz clubs. For Ava, there was no question; she took off running down the alley to help in any way she could. And though she sensed the hesitation in Frances, she also came running up behind her, unable to match Ava’s speed.

  Ava had made it just five or six steps into the alley when she saw a fallen figure on the ground and another figure standing above the body. The standing figure had something in its hand—a large hatchet from the looks of it—and was raising it into the air. Ava’s heart and gut worked together and made a judgment call in that moment. She knew she was far faster than Frances and she should go after the standing figure, even if it was to chase him toward a larger crowd by blowing her stupid whistle.

  Fleeting thoughts of the warnings Frances, Myra, and Lottie had given her flashed through her head but she killed them off right away.

  She dashed after him without thinking. It was an act that surprised the man. He hesitated, the hatchet raised mid-swing. He then turned and ran. It was, Ava knew, a mistake. She was lightning fast and even though he had a weapon, she’d catch him. She knew this was not the man who had killed Clarence, but it was a man who had hurt a woman and left her for dead—a man who thought it was okay to act in such a way. That was enough motivation for her.

  She faintly heard Frances protesting behind her. “Dammit, Ava!”

  The man with the hatchet came to the end of the alley and turned right. Ava did the same, her eyes focused on the man’s back. He was leading her through a series of back alleys which she knew, deep down, might even be some sort of a trap. These were likely alleys he knew well and Lord only knew what sort of people slunk about here. Even now, as she watched the man shoulder down another thin alleyway to the left, Ava was quite sure she passed by the back of a poorly disguised speakeasy.

  Ava went down the same alleyway and saw the man weaving his way through a fractured wooden fence that ran along between two brick buildings. The alley was no more than four feet across, making it a tight fit. The attacker had to squeeze, sucking his gut in to pass through. He still held the hatchet and even in the shadow of the alleyway, she could see blood smeared all over the blade. He was still struggling with the fence when she made it halfway down the alley. When he did finally clear it, she did not lose heart. She was far slimmer than he was and she would be able to—

  A man appeared as if out of nowhere to her right. He came lumbering out a small doorway to what must have been another speakeasy. Even in the split second she clearly saw his face, Ava could tell he was intoxicated. She could smell hard liquor on him as he reached a hand out and punched her in the chest.

  Ava stumbled backwards, the wind rushing out of her. She fell against the side of the wall and the man fell against her. One hand held a knife. The other groped her right breast with a violent sort of need. “You see this blade?” he said. “If you don’t let me inside of you, the blade is going inside of you. It’s your ch—”

  Ava brought her right foot up and slammed it down on his foot. When he stepped back in surprise, she brought her right hand up in an uppercut. The man’s teeth clinked together and he reeled backwards. He swung out with the knife, but Ava blocked the blow easily. She captured his wrist and yanked up and backwards hard. The man screamed and tried slapping at her with his other hand. She leaned her head back, easily avoiding the desperate blows, and delivered two more quick jabs, one to the side of his head and the other to his nose. She saw his eyes roll back into his head and he collapsed to the ground. The knife clattered uselessly to the ground.

  Confused and still wired on adrenaline, Ava looked from the man to the fence. She supposed this man had seen her coming, attracted by the commotion the hatchet-wielding man had caused. Drunk and armed, he’d apparently thought he’d be able to have his way with her. What he’d ended up getting instead was a broken nose and, whenever he came to, one hell of a headache. And maybe a fractured wrist.

  She went over to the fence, realizing how badly her back and chest were aching from the failed assault of the fallen man behind her. She started making her way through the crack in the wooden fence only to realize that it was too late. She couldn’t see the hatchet-wielding man, and the alley split into two directions, with a main street ahead. There was no telling where he had gone.

  Massaging her right hand (that last jab she’d thrown had been a doozy, a rocket she’d learned to deliver while sparring at her father’s gym), she quickly made her way back to the spot where she and Frances had come upon the fallen woman. Frances was blowing her whistle, the sound impossibly loud in the alley.

  Ava looked down at the woman and cringed. Her legs stopped moving when she saw what had happened. Her stomach lurched a bit but she managed to get control of it.

  There were two deep grooves etched into the woman’s head—the same size as the blade of the hatchet the man had been carrying. One was chiseled into her head, tearing through her hair. The other was a bit lower, creasing across her brow. This one was obviously deeper, the blood pumping out in measures that made even the worst boxing matches Ava had ever seen look like nothing more than little paper cuts. But somehow, the worst part was the way the woman’s eyes remained open, staring helplessly toward Ava.

  She wasn’t yet dead, but it wouldn’t be long now. Frances was weeping softly as she continued to blow on her whistle. She did not look at Ava, likely angry that her partner had once again gone running off to play the hero.

  Ava could not take her eyes off of the woman’s gaze. She sank down, her chest still aching, and took the woman’s hand. The woman gave Ava’s hand a faint squeeze and her eyes grew hazy as Frances continued to blow on her whistle behind her. As for Ava, she couldn’t find enough breath to blow into hers. All she could do was kneel there as the woman faded away, the already soft grip on Ava’s hand eventually loosening completely.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ava stood by quietly as the first two policemen arrived. By then, Frances’s face was red and she looked to be on the verge of blacking out from blowing on her whistle so hard. The cops were an interesting pair: one was an older gentleman who seemed to almost be offended by the sight of the dead woman and the other was a younger chap who didn’t seem bothered at all.

  “How long have you been here?” the older cop asked.

  “About five minutes,” Ava said.

  “And did you see the man that attacked her?” the younger asked, almost one question right behind the other.

  “Yes,” Ava said.

  “Get a good look at him?”


  Ava took a moment to consider her answer, but also knew it would only make matters worse if she lied about it. “I did,” she said. “I chased after him for a moment, but all I ever really saw was his back.”

  “Was he a black man?” the cop asked.

  “No. He was white.” She hated that race was the first thing considered, but given this part of town, she supposed it made sense that was the first place he’d go. It still made her angry, though.

  The policeman looked to Frances and said, “You’re Mrs. Knight, correct?”

  “I am.”

  Even standing in front of the dead body, Ava noticed that the policeman called Frances by the identifier of Mrs. rather than Officer.

  “And you?” the policeman asked.

  “Ava Gold. I’m…new.”

  “Clarence Gold’s wife,” the cop said thoughtfully as he slowly leaned down to look at the body. “You see the weapon he used?”

  “Yes,” Ava answered. “A hatchet. Almost like a meat cleaver.”

  “And you chased him, you say? In which direction?”

  “Up this alley and then down two others. He escaped me when I was attacked.”

  “Attacked? The killer attacked you, too?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “It was someone else, someone—”

  She was interrupted by the presence of another cop. This one was younger, but carried the look of authority well. The first two cops filled him in and within twenty seconds, it was almost as if Ava and Frances weren’t even there. Just like that, it was a boys’ club. When it was clear that any involvement in the case was about to be stripped from her, Ava decided it was time to speak up.

  “I can give you a basic idea of where the killer escaped to,” she said.

  The older cop narrowed his eyes at her and gave her an Oh, ain’t that cute sort of look.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll take it from here.” Then, as if considering some great problem, he added, “I don’t suppose either of you know this lady?”

  “No,” Frances said.

  “Stick around for a bit, would you?” the second cop on the scene said. “We’ll need to get your full report on this.”

  Ava nodded, noticing that Frances had a defeated look on her face. Ava understood it, only she was pretty sure it was upsetting her more than Frances. They’d found the body, Ava had chased the killer down, and now their final contribution was going to be retelling the story so a bunch of men unfamiliar with the original scene could take over. In Ava’s estimation, there was a fine line between being sexist and being dumb and ineffective—and these men were taking huge strides over that line.

  Again, she felt the need to speak up. She wondered if she would have been able to stay quiet if the adrenaline from the chase and her own attack weren’t still rushing through her. Add to that her ample dismantling of the man who tried to rape her and there was simply no way she could hold her tongue.

  “I want to help,” she said.

  “Like I said,” the second cop said, “you can give us your report in a moment and—”

  “Let me on the case.”

  She saw Frances’s eyes grow wide, replaced quickly with a frown. Apparently, as far as Frances was concerned, Ava was in the process of writing her own walking papers. However, there was a moment of amazement when the three cops shared a look, as if trying to communicate with only their minds. The elder cop looked from the body, then back to the women detectives. Any hope Ava had that they might be treated as equals was demolished when two of the three cops smiled at them.

  The younger one shook his head and Ava found herself wanting to send a hard right-handed jab into his kisser.

  “No, ladies,” he said, clearly trying to hold in a giggle—even in the presence of this dead woman. “Your report will be enough.”

  Ava could only stand there as the case was stripped away from her. And as far as she was concerned, it was like swallowing acid.

  ***

  Her father was sitting at the dinner table alone when she entered her apartment. She could see where he’d tried his best to throw dinner together—a slightly charred chicken and too-thick gravy.

  “Long day, I take it?” Roosevelt asked.

  “Yeah, that’s for sure.” She sat down at the table, feeling guilty and sad. No sign of Jeffrey meant he was probably already in bed. She knew she was late, but she didn’t realize just how late until she’d entered the apartment. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I’m happy to do it. I’m not happy that you weren’t home when you said you’d be. You were supposed to pick Jeffrey up from the gym over two hours ago. I thought…” He stopped here, took a breath, and then looked at her with as much sincerity as he could muster. “Two hours late…I was worried something had happened to you.”

  “I really am sorry, Dad. There was a murder. “

  His eyes grew wide and he grimaced slightly. He considered this for a while and Ava could feel his worry in the silence of the moment. “A murder?”

  “Yes. And I’m sure they’ll put the screws on me about it tomorrow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I chased after him. The Women’s Bureau isn’t supposed to do things like that. We’re only to blow on our whistles and have the men come do the work.”

  The trace of a smile on Roosevelt’s face almost made the tension of the afternoon worth it. “You get any punches in?”

  She thought of the man who had tried assaulting her, and it wasn’t a story she wanted to tell him. “One or two,” she said, and left it at that.

  Roosevelt nodded and pushed the remnants of the chicken toward her. “It’s not great, but Jeffrey seemed to enjoy it. I let him help me cook it.”

  “How long has he been in bed?”

  “Thirty minutes or so. I’m sure he’s probably still up, waiting to say goodnight.”

  She tore a piece of meat from a chicken thigh and popped it into her mouth. It was dry and flavorless, but she was so hungry she barely noticed.

  “Can I say something that may seem invasive?” Roosevelt said before she made her way to Jeffrey’s room.

  “Of course you can.”

  “I know Clarence would be proud of you for what you’re doing. He’d be smiling and bragging his ass off to all of his buddies. But I also know that he wouldn’t expect it of you. He’d be more worried about you raising Jeffrey into a respectable man. You don’t need to pick up where he left off.”

  “I know. But I want to. I have to at least carry out his legacy. He was my hero, you know…right up there with Isabella Goodwin.”

  “The first female detective in New York, right?”

  “Right. But the thing is, he wasn’t only my hero. He was Jeffrey’s hero, too. And this…this journey into the police department…is all about the man who killed him. He’s still out there somewhere. And as a part of the Women’s Bureau, I know my chances of being involved in his killer’s capture is so incredibly small—but at least I’d be part of it.”

  She could tell that Roosevelt wanted to say something else. In the end, though, he simply got to his feet and came to her. He hugged her loosely (Roosevelt Burr had never been one for hugs) and whispered: “Just be careful. He’s lost a father…it would ruin him if he lost you, too.”

  She turned away before the tears could start and walked down the small hallway to kiss her son goodnight. And even in that moment of sweetness, the statement she’d just spoken out loud rang in her ears. It seemed to circle her heart and land there, permanently becoming a part of her.

  This journey into the police department is all about the man who killed him. He’s still out there somewhere.

  It was all the motivation she needed to continue trying to be Jeffrey’s hero since his original hero had been so cruelly taken from him. And it gave her the motivation she needed, too. It helped her to decide that tomorrow morning, when she arrived at work, she was going to head straight to Minard’s office and demand that he put her on the case.


  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The voice came back gradually, after having disappeared for about seven months. When it returned, he was not at all surprised to find that it was the voice of his mother. It made sense, he supposed. When he’d been discharged from the mental hospital, he’d gone back to the house he’d shared with his mother for all those years. And there in the corner was the chair she’d been sitting in when he’d killed her. Of course, no one knew he had killed her. Somehow, that connection had never been made. He guessed it was because he looked so innocent. He knew he looked borderline daft; he’d always had the look of a rube, a guy who might be just a little slow—the sort of fella his mother often said “looked a ham sandwich shy of a full picnic.”

  He heard her speaking up now, yelling in the hallways of his head. She usually quieted down when he left the house and wandered out onto the streets. The fresh air and the thick lanes of people moving along the sidewalks drowned her out. But it was almost as if she knew what he was up to today. It was like she knew where he was going and what he had planned.

  You’re sick, you know, she said. All those treatments in the nuthouse did nothing, huh? Maybe they should have shocked you real good like they used to back in my day.

  A sick grin crept cross his face at the thought of his mother getting electric shocks. When he had been admitted to the mental institution, he’d been relieved to hear that such violent and barbaric treatments had been discontinued. Instead, they’d pumped him full of barbiturates and used a form of shock therapy that was much milder than what he’d been expecting.

  The worst of it, though, had been the restraints. He’d pissed himself a few times because he had to use the bathroom during his episodes and no one would free him. When someone did finally come to him when his episode had passed, it was one of the nurses. He’d resented her for it and dreamed about killing her. She was a smart woman, much smarter than him, and making money with an honest job. Oh, the things she must have thought about him when she smelled his urine and had to change his sheets…