HOLLY
FWYDTM
The letters were neatly painted, the width of the polish brush and maybe a half inch or more in height. They seemed to magnify in flashes as the crime scene unit snapped pictures. The duty lieutenant from the Sixty-First Precinct, a tall, lanky, mustachioed Black man named Goodridge, stood between the kitchenette and the bed and cursed under his breath.
“I hate this shit,” he said. Beside him was a Six-One detective, the one most likely to catch the case. He was short with a pink face and a baby-fine buzz cut. His name was Brad Gallagher.
“What shit?”
“This shit. Clown car, freak show . . . what the fuck?”
Gallagher grunted something in reply. Outside the tiny apartment in the hallway, the neighbors were wailing like professional Sicilian mourners—another thing Goodridge had to deal with. It was making canvassing almost impossible. Everyone was hysterical, and so far no one had reported seeing a thing. They were also exchanging observations and stories and getting lost in each other’s shock. The dead woman’s landlord, in particular, was a complete mess.
Her body was splayed out on the floor. She should have been facedown, but her head was turned at a hideous angle to her body. The robe was still on, hiked up so that her backside was exposed, covered only by a blue thong. It was a grim example of the indignities of violence, even in death. The crime scene unit and MLI techs moved around the place like ants. It occurred to Goodridge that there had probably never been as many people in this space as there was now.
“No signs of forced entry on the door to the balcony,” Gallagher said. He had sauntered away but was back. Goodridge sighed. She had been found by a friend who had keys and hadn’t heard from her all day despite a slew of messages. The friend had turned both locks, including a dead bolt, to open the front door, so unless the killer had his own keys, that wasn’t how he had left.
“Great,” Goodridge said, rubbing his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “Okay, so maybe she let him in and locked the door behind them. Then, after he greased her, he went out the back door. Just shut it behind him and jumped.”
“It’s possible,” Gallagher said. “Or maybe he climbed up. There’s all sorts of shit to climb up on back there. It wouldn’t be hard to get to that balcony. Who knows? Maybe she called him up, like Rapunzel or some shit.”
“You can’t even spell ‘Rapunzel.’”
“Whatever. I know the story. Look, it’s obvious that he knew her, right? Writin’ her name in fuckin’ nail polish, holy shit. Gotta be an old boyfriend or some shit. You’re right, though, this is weird. Those letters on the wall? What the fuck is that?”
“What about family?” Goodridge asked, ignoring the immediate question. “What do we know?”
“They’re in Paris,” Gallagher said, as if that were both weird and extra awful.
“Paris?”
“Vacation. That’s what the friend said, the girl who found her. One of the neighbors backs it up too. Fuckin’ A. So we gotta call someone over there to notify?”
“We’ll let the command decide that,” Goodridge said. He paused, his mind clicking back to something he remembered in conversation in the squad room. Those strange, seemingly nonsense letters painted on the wall—hadn’t there been some other fucked-up case that had come down earlier that month in which a woman’s neck had been broken in a similar manner? The head wrenched back? Something around Coney Island? His eyes lit up.
“That freak-show case in the Six-Oh a couple weeks ago—know what I’m talkin’ about?” Gallagher thought for a moment.
“Old lady on the beach, yeah.”
“Who caught that?”
“Ugh . . . shit, I know her. Six-Oh. She’s like . . . a little fireplug. Zochi something. I can find out.”
“Do that. And get her over here.”
CHAPTER 29
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Marine Basin Marina
Brooklyn
7:45 a.m.
Another dream of floating down a river in darkness. Water was lapping against the boat, except it wasn’t a boat—it was the family LTD. He was in the station wagon in the back seat, and Robbie was up front driving, but not really driving because neither of them was in control of the car. It just drifted along. It was hot. So hot. There was a sound that they were floating toward, a rushing, churning sound.
Joe woke up soaked in sweat and feeling like he’d passed out in a steam room. His breathing was labored, his mouth sticky and dry. He rubbed his eyes and felt the room tip slightly, then right itself. The confines were cramped. He was on his boat.