by Steven Henry
“What’d you do for the holiday?” Erin asked Vic.
“I drank. Alone.”
“That reminds me,” Webb said. “My alimony’s coming due. I better get a check in the mail.”
“How about you, Erin?” Vic asked. “You have any lights and sirens last night?”
“Wouldn’t you love to know.”
“I would, actually,” he said. “It’d give me a nice, warm image to get me through February. It’s a Russian month. Dark, cold, nothing to do but drink.”
“And March is like February’s hangover,” Webb said.
“C’mon, Erin,” Vic said. “At least one of us gold shields oughta be getting some. I know I didn’t get laid, and the Lieutenant, well, just look at him. So that leaves you. Did you take one for the team?”
Erin shook her head. “I’ll never talk.”
“I knew it!” Vic said triumphantly. “I’m thinking drunken hookup at that Irish bar she hangs out at.”
“The one full of wise guys?” Webb asked.
At that moment, Webb’s phone rang. Erin felt a rush of relief as the lieutenant took the call. Her fellow detectives had been getting a little too close to the mark. She had been with someone on Valentine’s Day, and it was a man they definitely wouldn’t approve of.
“Your prayers are answered,” Webb announced, standing up. “We got a body.”
Vic jumped to his feet. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
Rolf, catching the sudden energy in the room, scrambled to his feet and looked expectantly at Erin. She grabbed his leash and clipped it to his collar. “Where we going, sir?” she asked Webb.
“Dentist’s office,” he said, deadpan.
Vic’s shoulders slumped. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
The dentist was in Greenwich Village, in a building overlooking Washington Square Park. Erin parked her Dodge Charger next to a pair of squad cars and the coroner’s van. Vic and Webb were close behind in their Taurus.
“Looks like we’re late,” Vic muttered. “Maybe they’ll at least have some good magazines in the waiting room.”
“I doubt it,” Erin said. “I mean, it’s usually Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens, maybe Seventeen or Cosmo. What sort of thing do you read?”
Vic shrugged. “Guns and Ammo. Soldier of Fortune.”
“Surprised?” Webb asked Erin.
It was her turn to shrug. “Mostly, I’m just surprised he knows how to read.”
They showed their shields to a uniformed officer in the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor. Another uniform was guarding a door labeled “Norman Ridgeway, DDS.”
“That’s our victim?” Erin asked.
“We’ll see in a minute,” Webb said. “Dispatch just told me we had a sudden death.”
“Must’ve been suspicious for them to call in Major Crimes right away,” Vic said.
“They called it a probable homicide,” Webb said.
The waiting room was populated by two patients, an oral hygienist, and a secretary. The hygienist was sniffling into a tissue. One patient was a young man, college age, who was leafing through a back issue of People magazine. The other was a thirtysomething businesswoman who looked pissed off.
“The victim’s in his office,” the cop at the door offered, pointing past the front desk.
“Excuse me,” the businesswoman said, standing up. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I’ve been waiting here almost forty-five minutes. This is totally unacceptable.”
“I’m Lieutenant Webb,” Webb said. “Major Crimes. We’ll need a statement from you, but I hope you won’t be inconvenienced much longer.”
The woman made an exasperated sound in her nose. “I don’t see how this day could possibly get any worse.”
“You could’ve been the victim instead of a witness,” Vic offered. “That’d probably be worse.”
She glared at him. He gave her his best meeting-the-public smile and moved on.
Erin steered Rolf past the bystanders to the office. She’d been a cop almost twelve years. She’d responded to gruesome traffic accidents, homicides, suicides, and found bodies that had been dead for days by the time they were reported. Her last big, dramatic case had featured a victim literally sawn in half with a spectacular amount of blood spray. She was ready for anything.
It was an anticlimax. The victim was sprawled on a leather couch against his office wall. He didn’t have a mark on him. His lips were tinged blue, and there were flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth, but otherwise, he didn’t look half bad. There was one odd thing about the body, however.
“Where’s his clothes?” she asked aloud.
“The paramedics reported the body was this way when they arrived,” a woman said. She was wearing a white lab coat and disposable gloves, and was kneeling beside the naked corpse.
“Hi, Levine,” Erin said, recognizing the medical examiner for their precinct.
“Hey, doc,” Vic said, coming up behind Erin. “He’s dead, but I bet his teeth are in fantastic condition.”
Sarah Levine blinked. “I haven’t examined his dentition,” she said. “When there’s no question of positive identification of the victim, it’s not a priority.”
“You have a preliminary COD?” Webb asked, moving past his detectives into the room.
“Discoloration of the lips and fingernails,” Levine said. “Cyanosis, typical of asphyxia. The lack of ligature marks on the throat indicates a probable chemical cause. The most likely agent is cyanide, but I’ll have to do bloodwork to be certain.”
Erin glanced around the room. She saw a desk with a computer on it, an office chair behind the desk, and a coffee table. On the table was an open candy box.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she murmured.
Webb and Vic followed her look. “I wouldn’t eat those,” Webb said. “I’m guessing they might kill you.”
“And give you cavities,” Vic added.
Levine leaned forward and carefully parted the corpse’s lips with a pair of gloved fingers. “Trace amounts of a brown substance between the canines and lodged in the molars,” she announced. “This supports the hypothesis of toxic candy.”
“I told you to check the teeth,” Vic said triumphantly.
“So,” Erin said. “Who was in here with him?”
“Maybe he liked eating chocolate alone,” Vic said.
“Naked?” Webb asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Hey, this is New York City,” Vic said. “We got all types here.”
“Given the options in the waiting room,” Erin said, “I’m guessing the oral hygienist.”
“Not the skirt with the bad attitude?” Webb asked.
“I’m thinking the one who’s crying is more likely,” she replied.
He sighed. “Okay, we better talk to her.”
They didn’t want to take statements in the office with the dead guy, or in front of the other witnesses, so they ended up using one of the examining rooms. Erin thought it was a little weird to be interviewing a person of interest who was sitting in a dental chair, but it was hardly the strangest thing she’d done in her twelve years with the NYPD.
The hygienist, a pretty blonde named Amber Hayward, carried a crumpled tissue in one hand. She kept dabbing at her eyes with it. Her mascara was running.
“Miss Hayward,” Webb said, “can you tell us what happened?”
“I came in to work,” Amber said. “Well, I had breakfast before that. And before that, I put on my makeup. And my clothes. And got out of bed. I guess I woke up first.”
“Take your time,” Webb said.
“The first appointment was at nine,” she went on. “That was Mr. Pavlicek, with his root canal. It was the number nineteen molar. Doctor Ridgeway decided to do a standard procedure, with…”
Webb held up a hand. “I don’t think we need the details of the procedure,” he said. “Maybe you could skip ahead a little.”
Amber nodded. “After Mr.
Pavlicek, we had three more appointments. Teddy Coogan, extraction of a dead baby tooth, 5D. Then Paul Dexter, impacted wisdom tooth, number sixteen. And Lori Smithers, routine exam and cleaning, just before lunch.”
“Does anyone else work in the office?” Webb asked.
“Valerie Booker, our other hygienist,” Amber said. “And Della Ackerman, our secretary.”
“Where’s Valerie?” Vic asked.
“Out to lunch,” Amber said. “She’ll be back any minute. Oh God, what am I going to tell her?” She blew her nose loudly.
“What happened at lunchtime?” Webb asked.
“We had an hour and a half blocked out on the schedule,” she said. “Valerie went to meet her mom. Mrs. Booker works for a Wall Street firm. They have lunch together once a week. Norm… Doctor Ridgeway, I mean… he said we’d have time to eat… later.”
“Miss Hayward,” Webb said quietly, “were you and Doctor Ridgeway physically intimate?”
Amber nodded and whimpered.
“Amber,” Erin said. “Where did the chocolates come from?”
The hygienist’s eyes filled with new tears. “I gave them to him!” she wailed. “I put… I put one… right in his mouth! I killed him! Oh God, I killed him!”
“Well, this’ll be a short case,” Vic whispered in Erin’s ear.
She ignored him. “Amber,” she asked the young woman, “was the box opened?”
“What?” Amber sniffled.
“When you went to give Doctor Ridgeway the chocolates, had the box been opened previously?”
“I… I don’t understand.”
Erin knew it was important to be patient when interviewing witnesses. “Was the box wrapped? With plastic?”
“Oh. No.”
“Were any chocolates missing, or disturbed?”
“Yes,” Amber said. “It wasn’t a full box. Maybe four or five were missing. Rocky said he ate a few. It’s so typical of him. Even a gift, he just can’t help himself.”
“Who’s Rocky?” Webb asked sharply.
“Rocky Nicoletti,” she said. “My… my boyfriend.”
Webb’s eyebrows went up. “Your boyfriend,” he echoed in a flat voice.
She nodded. Then a thought hit her. “Oh my God. He might have eaten… he might be… oh God. Rocky!” Then she started crying again.
Erin exchanged glances with Vic. He shrugged. Rolf, at Erin’s side, was the only one who didn’t look surprised. To him, all these human interactions were equally nonsensical. He kept watching his partner, in case she decided to do something more interesting.
“Miss Hayward,” Webb said. “Were you and Doctor Ridgeway getting along?”
“Wha… what?” she snuffled.
“Had you been fighting?” he asked gently. “Was he putting pressure on you to do something you didn’t want to?”
Amber shook her head. “No! Norm… Norm’s a sweetheart. He’s kind and… and good with kids. He talked about dinosaurs with Teddy Coogan!”
“So you weren’t angry at him?” Webb pressed.
Erin saw recognition hit Amber. “You think I wanted to hurt him?” Amber exclaimed. “You think I took a box of chocolates, and… and poisoned them… and gave one… to my Normie?”
“Normie?” Vic said, but he said it quietly and no one took any notice of him.
“You…” Amber advanced on Webb, waving her used tissue in his face. “You… you big jerk!” She threw the soggy scrap of paper at him. It bounced off his trench coat and landed on the carpet. Then Amber buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Webb didn’t react. He’d been called much worse.
“Amber,” Erin said gently. “Rocky gave you the chocolates?”
It took a moment to get through to her, and she had to repeat the question, but the other woman finally nodded.
“Were they a Valentine’s Day gift?” Erin asked.
Amber nodded again.
“Amber,” she said. “Please listen. This is important. Did Rocky know about Normie?”
“I… I don’t… I don’t know,” Amber managed to say between hiccupping sobs. Then she lost whatever was left of her self-control and became useless from a police perspective.
Erin cocked her head to Webb and Vic. They stepped into the hallway just outside the examining room.
“What do you think?” Webb asked his two detectives.
“If she’s a murderer,” Vic said, “I’ll field-strip my gun and eat it, one piece at a time.”
“I’m with Vic,” Erin said. “I don’t even think Ridgeway was the intended target.”
“It does seem like a pretty iffy way to kill someone,” Webb said. “You think it was meant for Miss Hayward?”
Erin nodded. “If she’s telling the truth, and Rocky gave them to her…”
“Then Rocky’s got some explaining to do,” Vic finished for her.
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March 2016
Washington, D.C.
Desiree Schulman stepped down from the bus a few blocks from the Anacostia metro, into the arms of the late March night. The bus door closed and suddenly she was alone with the quiet. Natural shadows and open space: no buzzing yellow lights or shivering white lights flecked with black, no announcements, no rules posted, no walls, no yelling and no tense silence. Not the isolation of solitary and not the unbearable intimacy of a four-bunk cell. For the first time in four years she felt open sky and privacy. Neither chaos nor order, but peace.
Engines roared behind her and four werewolves came howling down the street, rearing up on the back wheels of their motorbikes.
They were young kids, late teens or maybe early twenties, with not just Halloween wolf heads but also tufty gray fur on gauntlets up their arms. And furry gloves with thick black plastic claws, curling around the bike handles like acrylic nails. The roaring bikes had green and golden flame decals along the sides.
The werewolves were howling at the moon—no, they were howling at Des. Just a quick friendly howl of male mammals to a female mammal; they howled and then they were gone.
She had jumped when they roared onto the scene—she was keyed-up, all edgy energy, she hadn’t slept in days, and so she couldn't control it, she jumped at everything. But when they disappeared, she eased up. “Welcome home,” she said to herself, grinning. Catcalled by werewolves: the ultimate multiculturalism.
And then, sighing a little, “Welcome halfway home.” She settled the clear plastic bag with her belongings over her shoulder and headed down the dark street.
The open darkness was disorienting, and she kept darting glances around as if she was trying to find the wall. She was glad that this area was low-lying, all the streets rising from where she stood. It made her feel a little less like she was about to fly off the face of the earth. When she crossed a street the cars seemed to come too fast and stop too close. After four years in federal prison in West Virginia she wasn't used to
where things were supposed to be in a city.
This world used to belong to her. It was hard to believe.
Soft night noises. Burrs from a sweetgum tree scattered along the sidewalk. A weeping willow with long curved branches, little white blossoms clustering along the branches' ends, like a cornrowed head with beads along the braids. Sirens in the distance, shouting, the drifting smells of fried food and marijuana, the scrape of a faraway gate and the clash of its latch swinging shut, footsteps behind her like hard rain. And before she'd even noticed how she'd tensed up—somebody slamming into her from behind.
“Get out the way, bitch! This ain't a standing area!”
Des spun and choked. Her vision seemed to crack and she couldn't orient herself in the dark street. She stumbled and her heart was hammering, and the plastic bag fell and split open as she braced for violence, her body taut and terrorized and anticipating its suffering.
But in a fraction of a second her instincts rearranged themselves. She heard that hometown accent, that D.C. accent that sounds best in a moan or a purr. A way of talking made for flirtation and lament, complaint and self-defense, for all the ways human nature asserts itself but doesn't expect you to listen to or respect: a foot jammed against a closing door. This ain't a standin urr-ea. Des, still gasping, her heart still racing, turned with a grin all the way across her face.
“Sorry,” she offered. She bent to pick up her things; the smaller bag from the Walgreens in Union Station hadn't burst, so she could stuff her extra release clothing and the scraps of plastic in beside the freshly-purchased toiletries.
The girl who had slammed into her was short and stocky, with a cheeky round imp-face. In camo pants and a faded black t-shirt, cornrows snaking down her neck. A summer anger, intense and already passing. She was cute and muscular, looked like she could twist your arm. Twist my arm.
