“Yeah, thanks,” Amato said. “Come on, Paulie.”
“I feel like joining that jogger,” Paulie said.
“We’ll wait until he’s through puking before we try and talk to him,” Sal said.
“Good idea,” Paulie said, and took his handkerchief out of his pocket as his nose began to run.
Paulie Hahn’s throat was sore and his head was pounding. He blew his nose and then tilted the brim of his hat just enough to keep the snowflakes from drifting into his eyes. Damn flu. It wasn’t even Christmas, and he was already sick. But when they reached the body, he wished he’d called in sick this morning like his wife had wanted.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and then crossed himself before taking a deep breath of the cold air. “Sal, how many years we been partners?”
Amato frowned. “Since my second year as a detective, which I guess is about seventeen years now. Why?”
Paulie pointed at the body in disgust. “In the old days, people used to just shoot each other. You know…a nice clean kill. A couple of bullets. Some neat holes. Bang, you’re dead. So what the hell is with this mutilation shit? What kind of perverts do we have on our streets that feel the need to do this kind of thing? Ain’t it enough that he killed her?” He looked down at what was left of the young woman’s face and wanted to cry. “He didn’t have to butcher her like that.”
Amato’s frown deepened. “She was probably dead when it happened.”
“How you figure that?”
“The cuts are even and clean. You know…no struggle.”
Paulie took out his handkerchief and blew his nose again, then waved down another patrolman.
“Anybody called the Medical Examiner yet?”
“Yes, sir, on the way,” the officer said.
“Here come Neil and Kowalksi,” Paulie said.
Amato turned, nodding a hello.
The smile on Detective Trudy Kowalksi’s face slid sideways.
“Well, hell,” she muttered, as she glanced at the body and then looked away. “I hope she had some ID, otherwise it’s not going to be easy to get an identification.”
“The perp was kind. He left her purse,” Amato said.
J. R. Neil, Trudy’s partner, stood without moving, staring at the body.
“Obviously it wasn’t about her money,” he said. “From the looks of her, he was pissed. Anybody know if she had a boyfriend or a husband?”
“We just got here,” Amato muttered. “But since you’re so interested in helping, there’s a jogger puking up his guts at the mouth of the alley. Why don’t you go find out what he knows? And while you’re at it, take Red, there, and canvass the apartments above this alley and across the street. See if anybody heard anything last night.”
Trudy Kowalksi tossed her copper-colored curls and then winked.
“You’re just jealous because I have hair and you don’t,” she said, then nudged her partner. “Come on, J.R., you do the jogger, I’ll start on the apartments above the alley. That way Amato and Hahn can stand here looking important when the M.E. arrives.”
Neil grinned at the two older detectives and then walked away with his partner, laughing at something she said as they cleared the alley and parted company in the street.
Amato frowned as he watched them walking away. He liked Kowalksi. She was short and stocky and fiery as her hair, but she gave as good as she got. But he had to admit, when he was being honest with himself, that he didn’t like Neil all that much. It was hard to like a man who was tall, good-looking and still had all his hair.
Then a cold gust of wind whipped down from the sky, funneling the falling snow like smoke from a chimney. Paulie blew his nose again, while Amato squatted down beside the body, careful not to disturb any evidence until the crime scene unit had come and gone.
“As cold as it is, I’m betting they send the new assistant from the M.E.’s office,” he said.
“I’m not taking that bet,” Paulie muttered. “Because I’ll bet you’re right.” He looked back at the body, guessing the victim was close to his daughter’s age, then glanced up at Amato.
“You know what I never get used to?”
“What?” Sal asked.
“The fact that we can’t cover them up. This kid is nude from the waist down and her face is in pieces. Goddamn. We oughta be able to at least cover them up.”
Amato stood and clapped his partner on the back. “But what if it messed up the evidence we needed to catch the son of a bitch who did this to her?”
Paulie sighed. “I know. I was just thinking out loud, okay?” Then he glanced at the area again. “As for evidence, it’s not going to be easy, what with the snow and all.”
“Yeah,” Sal said, then turned to look toward the sound of arriving vehicles. “Looks like the M.E.’s here.” When he saw a tall, skinny black woman get out of the car and then heft a large black case from the back of the station wagon, he started to grin. “Looks like I would have won that bet. It’s Booker.”
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Angela Booker drawled, as she set down her case and then opened it up.
Sal had seen the contents of such cases a thousand times, and they still made him think of the science kit he’d gotten for Christmas one year. Lots of little instruments and slides that he never did learn how to use. “Got anything hot in there to drink?” Sal asked, as he watched her trading driving gloves for surgical gloves.
“Get lost, Amato. My hormones are raging and I’m not in the mood.”
They grinned at each other and moved back toward the mouth of the alley. It was time to start the business for which they’d been hired.
Caitlin woke with a start, her heart pounding, her eyes wide with fright. It took her a few moments to realize that her fear came from the nightmare she’d been having and not from within her own home.
But the dream had been too real for her to want to go back to sleep, so she swung her legs over to the side of the bed and got up, grimacing when she realized it was only fifteen minutes after six.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, she was wide-awake. Slipping into her favorite house shoes and her oldest robe, she combed her fingers through her hair and then made her way to the kitchen, telling herself that as long as she was awake, she might as well get an early start on the day.
As she entered the kitchen, she glanced toward the windows and saw snow swirling down on its way to the streets below. Thankful that her job did not take her beyond the warmth and familiarity of her own home, she ambled into her office and switched on the computer. While it was booting up, she went back to the kitchen and began scrounging through the cabinets. When she realized she was out of cereal and eggs, as well as milk and tea, she put a couple of ice cubes in a glass and poured it full of Pepsi. Half a glass later, the caffeine in the pop was starting to kick in. Toast was browning in the toaster, making her mouth water, but it wasn’t until she thrust a knife into a jar of peanut butter that she remembered the dream.
He’d come at her with a knife. Even when she spun and started to run, she knew she would not get away.
She shuddered, then took a deep breath and looked at the knife. In a defiant gesture, she pulled it out of the jar and licked it clean before thrusting it back into the peanut butter, coming up with another thick dollop, which she spread on her just-done toast. Adding a spoonful of orange marmalade to a second piece of bread, she slapped the two together, put the sandwich on a plate and tossed the cutlery in the sink. After topping off her glass of Pepsi, she ambled into the living room to eat.
She turned the television on out of habit, rather than from a need to know what was going on in the world. When some on-the-spot reporter began talking about a midnight murder, she grabbed the remote and channel-surfed until she found one showing cartoons. By the time she was through with breakfast, the Road Runner had dispatched Wile E. Coyote three times and her mood had been lifted.
After setting her dirty plate and glass in the sink, she headed for her office, promising herself she would get dressed as soon as she checked her e-mail. Hours later, she looked up to realize it was almost noon. Not only had she answered the mail, but she’d written ten good pages of the current chapter, as well. Hitting Save, she leaned back with a smile and was still grinning when her telephone rang.
“Bennett residence.”
“Caitlin, it’s Aaron. Are you decent?”
Her smile widened. If she had to pick a best friend, her editor, Aaron Workman, would be on the top of the list. The fact that he was also gay just made everything easier. Besides the books she wrote, the only thing he wanted from her other than friendship was her shoes.
“What do you think?” she asked.
She heard him sigh and knew he was probably rolling his eyes.
“I think you haven’t even brushed your hair, let alone your teeth.”
Caitlin laughed. “You know me too well.”
“Come have lunch with me,” Aaron said.
Caitlin groaned. “It’s cold and snowing outside.”
“It stopped snowing an hour ago, and you own a coat. Get dressed and meet me at the Memphis Grill at one-thirty. We need to talk.”
“Are you buying?” she asked, and heard him snort.
“Don’t make me come up there,” he muttered.
“Okay, okay, I’ll be there.”
“I’ve already called your driver. He’ll pick you up at one o’clock.”
Now Caitlin was the one snorting beneath her breath.
“What if I’d told you no?”
“But you didn’t, did you? Now be a good girl and get out of those horrible clothes and into something sexy.”
Caitlin grinned. “Sexy? Aaron, is there something you want to tell me…like have you had a change of heart?”
There was another faint snort in her ear, and then Aaron answered. “Hardly. However, one of these days you might actually meet the man of your dreams. I want you to be ready.”
Caitlin frowned. “You better not be trying to set me up again. You don’t know how close I came to ditching your ass when you tried to set me up with Mac.”
“How was I to know that my two favorite people in the whole world would hate each other’s guts? It’s not my fault that you and my stepbrother don’t get along.”
“We don’t get along because Connor McKee is six feet four inches of pure testosterone and an attitude that won’t quit. I’ll be there at one-thirty, and you better be alone.”
“If I’m not, the other guy at the table will be with me, so go make yourself pretty. I’m already hungry.”
Caitlin smiled as she hung up the phone. Even though it was miserable outside, a decent lunch with Aaron sounded like a good idea. Afterward, she would stop off at the market and pick up some groceries before she came home. Suddenly the day had become an adventure.
Kenny Leibowitz reached into the humidor on his desk, removed a long, thin cigar, then strode to the window, looking out as he lit up. Despite the snow, the streets were teeming with holiday shoppers, their arms laden with colorful bags brimming with purchases. When the end of the cigar was glowing, he took a slow puff, savoring the sweet bite of tobacco on his tongue. With careful precision, he puckered his lips and blew four perfect smoke rings into the air.
Watching them dissipate, he smiled to himself, remembering the long, rainy weekend of his sixteenth birthday and how sick he’d gotten smoking his first cigar. He’d come a long way since then. Although he’d sampled other vices since, he was thankful that none of them had stuck.
As he stood, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and absently combed a hand through his hair, settling the thick, wavy strands back in place. He considered himself fortunate that he was more than attractive, with few vices and no addictions.
Then he amended that thought. He wasn’t addicted to anything, but he was to someone. He had a thriving public relations business, with six very high profile clients and seven up-and-coming. He was good at what he did, and he knew it. The only problem was, he wanted more from Caitlin Bennett than her business. But she couldn’t see past their working relationship, and it was driving him nuts. He dreamed about her nightly and fantasized about her during the day, imagining what her naked body would look like and the way her eyes would go all sleepy as she lifted her lips for his kiss.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and then took another puff on the cigar. This time, the perfect smoke rings gave him no joy. He knew what he wanted—what he’d needed for a long time now. Caitlin. She had everything he coveted. Money. Prestige. A name that people remembered. She belonged to him—to do with as he wished. All he had to do was make her see that. One day she would realize that she needed him for more than just to publicize her books.
In frustration, he turned away from the window and strode back to his desk. He flipped the page of his day planner and sighed. Nothing. No one wanted to plan anything around the holidays, which basically meant he might as well go on holiday, too.
He looked around his office and frowned.
So why am I here?
Impulsively he picked up the phone. This was the perfect time to ask Caitlin to lunch.
He dialed her number, smiling to himself in anticipation as he waited for her to answer. After fifteen rings and no pickup, he hung up in disgust. She hadn’t even turned on the answering machine. He flipped through his Rolodex until he found her cell number and dialed it. After being transferred to her voice mail, he slammed the receiver back onto the cradle without leaving a message and stubbed out his cigar. This was ridiculous.
Frustration replaced his good mood as he headed for the door. His secretary looked up and smiled as he came out of his office.
“Susan, I’m taking an early lunch.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to make a reservation for you?”
“No. I’ll take my chances.”
Shrugging into his overcoat and tossing his scarf around his neck, he exited the office with purposeful strides. If everyone seemed hell-bent on getting into the holiday spirit, then it was time he did, too, with or without his favorite client.
Caitlin smiled at her driver as he helped her out of the car. If all things were equal, she would have been the one helping him. Although John Steiner was almost seventy and suffering with arthritis, he took offense if anyone offered him help. He’d been with her father for more than twenty years, and at Devlin Bennett’s death he had taken it upon himself to work for her instead of retiring. Although she didn’t often use the family car, the fact that she owned it kept John Steiner happy and employed.