Wilomena screamed.
CHAPTER 2
Friday, July 14, 2017
12:32 a.m.
“Lousy catch for you,” Sedrick, the night-watch detective, said. “I hate these freak-show cases. Haven’t seen one like this in the Six-Oh for a while.” He was referring to the Sixtieth Precinct, the one that included Coney Island. Sedrick was thin and hunched over, his voice raspy and low. He was a silhouette in the dark, a streetlight corona behind him.
“My fault for answering the phone that late into a tour,” Detective Xochitl Hernandez said, rooting around until she found a box of evidence gloves in a battered gym bag. She stuffed a few into the pocket of her khakis, then breathed in the salt air and glanced over toward the crowds, lights, and sounds of Coney Island. The heart of it was maybe a half mile down the boardwalk.
“Ha, yeah, right?” Sedrick said, gasping on the initial guffaw and coughing through the rest. “You’re Zochi, right? From the squad?”
“I am,” she said. Xochitl Hernandez had been given a first name impossible for most Americans to spell or sound out, and she had long ago started referring to herself, in spelling and speech, as “Zochi.” Barely five foot two, she was compact with short black hair, aqueous eyes of a similar color, and lovely dark skin. “MLI been called?”
“Yeah. They’ll be here in ten.” MLI was the medical legal investigator, the arm of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner that did the initial handling of the corpse at a homicide scene. No one, not even the crime scene investigators, touched or moved a body before MLI in most cases. “Crime scene should be right behind them.”
“Thanks,” Zochi said. “Let’s take a look.”
Behind them, three young patrol officers prevented onlookers from spilling onto the boardwalk. A few flashes from camera phones went off. Normally, that part of the beach was dark and empty late at night. There was a boardwalk but no amusement rides or hot-dog stands as far west as they were. Just high-rise projects. Zochi gazed out over the water as they stepped down to the sand. The surf was calm, lapping on the shore.
“Who found her?” she asked. “That woman back there?”
“Yep. Homeless. Goes by Wilomena. Pushes a shopping cart. She won’t give us a last name, but you should follow up with her. The vic looks homeless to me also, but sometimes you can’t tell. Especially in the summer, you get all types out here. Well, hell, why am I tellin’ you?”
“Yeah, summer,” she said, as if the word had weight, which, to Six-Oh detectives, it did. It meant far more work than the winter months. “Let’s watch where we walk, in case this is the path someone took on the way out.” She moved forward, carefully placing her steps. She viewed the body the same way Wilomena had, feet first, then moved her eyes slowly up the legs and torso to the bra around the neck. Her eyes moved back down, making a visual outline around the body. They stopped where the sweatpants were still bunched up above the knees. There was something in one of the deep pockets.
“You got a flashlight?” she asked. Sedrick handed one over, and she trained it on the bulge.
“Something in her pocket?”
“Looks like it.” She handed the flashlight back and pulled on two gloves, then gingerly reached into the pocket. She drew out a worn brown or black leather folder, almost like a rectangular women’s wallet. It zipped down the middle like a day planner, but the zipper was broken. What remained was held together by two rubber bands. Papers were stuffed inside; a few looked as if they’d gotten wet and dried out again.
CHAPTER 3
Bath Beach, Brooklyn
12:37 a.m.
Joe DeSantos had been walking for what seemed like miles in the dark. He made deliberate strides in a sweaty button-down shirt, slacks, and brown loafers. The streets seemed uniform, empty, and swallowed by shadows.
Now, though, his attention was drawn to the open door of a mid-’70s Chevy Monte Carlo, black with red interior and velour seats, across the street. Sitting in and around the car was a group of Black teenagers, illuminated by the interior lights and passing a joint around. He could hear music from the car—a song he recognized. But that seemed odd because the song was very old. It was “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” by Leo Sayer.
He felt a flutter of hope, as if the darkness he’d been plodding through was finally breaking altogether. He smiled as Sayer’s falsetto screech caught in his memory. One of the kids noticed him and ribbed his companion. The group seemed to brighten in unison, nodding and following him with laughing, sleepy eyes. They were dimly visible in the yellow glow of the car’s dome light—combs and Afros, tube socks and short shorts. The song faded, and he heard a female DJ’s voice, silky and echo laden.