Neptune Avenue
“[A] sophisticated contemporary noir … What Cohen does so well here is to give us everything we require from a cop story … and then so much more: There’s a documentary panache to his depiction of Brooklyn and its history.” —
Los Angeles Times
on
Red Hook
“Gives you a real feeling for the neighborhood … [An] outstanding first novel.” —
The New York Times Book Review
on
Red Hook
“At a time when some of the older masterful cop writers, like Ed McBain, are dying or just fading away, Cohen’s appearance comes as a relief and pleasure.” —
The Washington Post Book World
on
The Graving Dock
“Intricate, atmospheric, funny, and enthralling. An impressive crime novel from a powerful, promising writer.” —George Pelecanos, author of
The Night Gardener
, on
The Graving Dock
“A murdered friend, a beautiful widow and the borough of Brooklyn loom large in this superb installment from NYPD Detective Jack Leightner… . An impeccable procedural plus a poignant love story, intelligent, understated and refreshing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
, starred review of
Neptune Avenue
“Cohen’s novels belong … at the top of every Brooklyn crime-fiction list.” —
Booklist
, starred review of
Neptune Avenue
“Spellbinding … Deftly plotted and convincingly written. Cohen once more does the genre proud.” —
Kirkus Reviews
, starred review of
The Ninth Step
A Jack Leightner Crime Novel
Gabriel Cohen
For Tim, Tracy, Carmen, and Jackson
She carried her beauty like a burden.
She was slim, with high cheekbones and almond eyes and fine, feathered blond hair that reminded him of some eighties disco queen, an impression furthered by her silky black blouse, laced with metallic stripes. Yet she seemed far more serious than her fashion sense implied.
When she turned, he saw that a scar notched the edge of her jaw. Somehow, the mark only enhanced her looks. Even her sullenness was oddly attractive. Yet she didn’t seem arrogant or vain. Perhaps she bore a touch of self-consciousness about the scar, mixed with the self-protection of a woman who unintentionally drew the attention of every man she passed.
What I would really like, he couldn’t help thinking, would be to give this woman a good reason to smile.
T
HE ROOKIE DIDN’T FAINT
or lose his lunch. Detective Jack Leightner supposed he ought to give his new partner some credit for that.
A patrol officer met them outside the crime scene, an abandoned row house on the edge of Crown Heights. The uniform looked a bit pale. “It’s not pretty in there,” he said. “The body wasn’t found for a few days.”
Jack just glanced at the crowd of scowling locals standing beyond the yellow tape, out in the brutal August heat. “Keep an eye on my car,” he said, then turned to his partner. “You ready for this?”
The young detective from the Seventy-first Precinct nodded in a show of eagerness. “Let’s do it.” It was Kyle Driscoll’s first time as primary detective on a homicide. He was in his late twenties, and he had burnished brown skin and the confident good looks of a professional athlete.
The body was on the second floor, but its odor met them downstairs, as soon as they walked into the dark front hallway, starkly lit by a floodlight one of the Crime Scene techs had planted to guide the way. The smell was god-awful and sickly sweet. Thousands of years of evolution had prepared human beings to hate this particular scent: it meant
Avoid this spot. Bad things happen here.
The young detective swallowed. “Should we do that thing with the Vicks VapoRub?” He was still doing his best to act enthusiastic, but the smell was clearly getting to him.
Jack tried not to grin. As a veteran with Brooklyn South Homicide, it was his job to temporarily pair up with local detectives and assist them with their murder investigations. “What thing?” he asked.
The rookie squirmed. “Don’t you smear it under your nose to cover up bad smells?” Even real cops were susceptible to false information from TV shows; in Jack’s experience, it took several years to mature beyond all that.
He shook his head. “We don’t do that—all it would do is burn your nose. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
The rookie nodded. The young man had earned his detective’s shield, but he’d spent his first few months on robberies and assaults. He wanted to prove that he was ready for the big show.
The house was an empty shell waiting to fall in on itself, but Jack noticed some elegant architectural details—crown moldings, a dusty, gap-toothed chandelier—from an earlier era. The rookie pulled up short as they reached the top of the staircase. Through the first doorway on the left—a bedroom, judging by a dingy mattress on the floor—they could see a whirlwind of activity. The plywood in the windows blocked any natural light, but the Crime Scene Unit had lit the place with more floodlights on stands. Jumpsuited techs crouched down searching for evidence, a photographer was snapping photos, and the Medical Examiner’s investigators bustled back and forth. In the heart of the maelstrom, as always, was a terribly lonely and still center. In this case, the body was that of a young black woman, hanging by a rope attached to a chain that had probably once supported another chandelier. She was half dressed, in a shorty negligee; she wore her orangey hair straightened and it looked almost shellacked; her light brown legs were purpled with the blood that had settled within. Despite her current puffy condition, Jack figured that she had been a pretty young woman.
He turned and caught the rookie staring. He’d wanted to see, to become privy to this dark knowledge, and now he probably wished he hadn’t.
“The M.E.’s guys control the body at the scene,” Jack explained. “That guy in the white shirt is Anselmo Alvarez, head of the C.S.U.”
The rookie stared up at the corpse; Jack didn’t know if he was even registering the commentary. Having him around was disconcerting; he reminded Jack of his own early days with the NYPD. He recalled the shock of his first few bodies. And he remembered farther back, his first memory of a corpse, when he was a little kid: the sudden jolt of adrenaline he’d felt after almost stepping on a dead squirrel on a sidewalk, its wiry body splayed and stiff, its little watermelon-pit eyes staring up, accusing. There was something terribly unnatural about any creature with its animating spirit gone, and sensible people did everything they could to avoid looking at such things. Jack saw himself and his colleagues through this rookie’s naïve eyes now, and thought something he rarely bothered to think anymore:
What a weird goddamn job.
He squared his shoulders. There was no room for emotion here, or philosophy: this was just a puzzle that needed to be solved. He turned to the kid. “We’re going to have to wait a few minutes until we can get inside.”
The rookie nodded, doing his best not to look relieved.
Anselmo Alvarez stepped out into the hallway. He and Jack had become friendly over the years, two fairly small men in a world of big cops, and two relative outsiders, a Dominican and a Jew. Alvarez was the best forensics man in Brooklyn. He started to offer a prelim, but Jack waved him off. “This is Kyle Driscoll from the Seven-one. I want him to look at the scene fresh, without any preconceptions, and see if he can tell us what happened.” He had a son a few years younger than the rookie. Though he had never felt right talking about the job with Ben—or with his ex-wife—he liked to mentor young detectives, to reach them before the job made them jaded or cynical.
The photographer had finished his work, and it was time for Jack and his young partner to go in. The rookie hesitated before they stepped over the threshold, but this time it didn’t seem to be fear or distaste that was holding him back.
“Something on your mind?” Jack asked.
The rookie squinted. “Um,
yeah
. If this woman killed herself, then why is Homicide here?”
Jack nodded. “That’s a good question. Let’s see if you can answer it.”
The room was sweltering; Jack felt his shirt cling to the small of his back. As they moved inside, his own questions began to pop like firing nerve synapses, but he kept them to himself.
The Crime Scene crew had left a stepladder next to the vic, and he climbed up for a look at her neck. Then he moved down and examined her fingertips. Finally, he turned to the rookie. “You all right with a closer look? There’s something up there I want you to see.”
The rookie nodded. He climbed the ladder gingerly, as if he were ascending a gallows himself.
“Look at the neck and see if you notice anything,” Jack said, patiently.
While the young detective followed his suggestion, Jack turned away and surveyed the rest of the room. Even without the corpse, it would have smelled bad. The place was a mess, with junk-food wrappers strewn about, a pile of dirty clothes over by the window, an open Domino’s box sitting next to the soiled mattress, revealing a half-eaten pizza. A bitter odor, faintly detectable under the overpowering scent of the body, gave away one reason for the human presence here (crack cocaine), and an economy-size box of condoms half tucked between the mattress and a dusty baseboard gave away another. Jack noticed one unrolled, forsaken condom lying next to the bed, and he crouched down for a closer look. Then he straightened up and motioned toward the door. “That’s enough for now.”
THEY STEPPED OUT OF
the house and into a blast of humid summer heat, but the fresh air still felt good.
Beyond the little concrete front yard, several radio cars and a Crime Scene van were pulled up to the curb. Across the street, another small crowd had gathered: not resentful black neighbors, but dour, bearded white men. Despite the heat, they wore black suits and black hats. Crown Heights was home to three main population groups: African-Americans, black immigrants from the West Indies, and these ultrareligious Hasidic Jews.
The rookie breathed deeply. Jack gave him a moment to recover, then turned his attention to the matter at hand. “
So
: why wasn’t this a suicide?”
The freshly minted detective frowned in concentration. “There was something weird about the neck. It looked like there was another mark across it, instead of just from the rope.”
Jack nodded. “That’s exactly right. In a hanging, the ligature mark would rise up behind the ears, but here we have a mark that goes straight across, which would indicate strangulation. And it’s thin, with a double groove—probably caused by an electrical cord.” He leaned back against the stoop’s iron railing, then noticed flakes of rust coming off onto his sports jacket, and moved away. (Despite the often grubby nature of his job, he was a bit fastidious.) “Did you notice the condom next to the mattress?”
The rookie frowned again. “Um, I think so. It was unrolled, right?”