Detective Kennedy leans his massive frame back in the ten-year-old, pockmarked, wooden swivel chair. Badly beaten up, with two wheels in need of repair, the relic serves to remind him how much damage the NYPD inflicts on those who serve it. Kennedy studies the sparsely populated suspect board in front of him, blocking out the cacophony of noise and motion on this typical afternoon at Manhattan’s 17th precinct. Drug dealers, prostitutes, and other unsavory suspects litter the halls and fill the bulk of the interrogation rooms. Detectives bark orders at each other and their underlings as they weave threads of evidence and leads into cohesive stories.
As acting chief, Kennedy could have a room of his own, a place to collect his thoughts and run the DMC away from the chaotic fray. But Ravello never took on such airs, opting instead to work at a desk abutting his own. That desk sits vacant now next to his and will for as long as he can make it so. No one can fill Chris’ shoes, so why bother trying?
Kennedy stares at the suspect board. Little is known about Irina Malekoviec beyond the basics. Fifty-three years old, Russian, a former concert pianist, her career was torn apart by an insufferable case of rheumatoid arthritis. She spent her days these last four years in relative isolation in her one-bedroom apartment in Brighton Beach, in an area affectionately known as Little Odessa due to its preponderance of Russian immigrants. Piano lessons dotted her calendar, providing just enough money and companionship to keep her moving forward. Calls to her students pegged her as competent, demanding, and aloof. The students knew little of her personal life and social circle and suspected she was a loner. Kennedy’s earlier call to Malekoviec’s rheumatologist, Doctor Jerome Gorelick, has yet to be returned. A visit to Gorelick’s office will likely be needed to spur the investigation along.
“Hey Chief, you’ve got a call,” Simmons yells from two desks over.
Kennedy replies with a knowing nod, “Doctor Gorelick?”
“’Fraid not. It’s a guy claiming to be Durand.”
“What! How the hell’s a guy holed up at Rikers get access to a phone?... And why in God’s name would I want to talk to that loon?” Kennedy shakes his head in disgust and turns his attention back to the board. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Simmons shrugs as he relays the message.
His face turns ashen as he covers the receiver.
“You’re gonna want to take this, boss.... Durand says Michelle Ravello is alive and well— but not for long.” Kennedy freezes in his chair, then turns slowly back toward Simmons. All eyes are glued on the detective as the room turns silent and still. Kennedy stares blankly at Simmons as his eyelids open and close several times.
Rising to his feet, he shifts his weight back and forth. He grumbles a few inaudible expletives, then quietly, “All right, transfer it to my line.”
The phone rings three times, four, five as Kennedy stares at it, circling his hand around the receiver. He lifts it to his ear in silence. “Good afternoon, Detective Kennedy. I trust your recent promotion is proving satisfactory?” Insincerity and sarcasm hang in the air. “Such a shame dear Doctor-Detective Ravello could not continue on in the position. Some men just handle stress worse than others.” A throaty laugh fills the line. Kennedy’s anger spills over.
“What the fuck do you want, Durand?” Kennedy says through gritted teeth.
“What indeed, Detective?” Durand’s voice fills with false indignation. “Such hostility... you should be thanking me as I am the only one who can help you catch your killer and recover your partner’s wife.”
“Been hitting the catnip too hard, Durand? We buried Michelle weeks ago, so what the hell are you talking about?”
Durand sighs with disappointment. “So many questions, such little understanding. Why do I even try?” Then pointedly, “Your Malekoviec case, of course—it holds the secret to finding Michelle.”
A chill runs through Kennedy. How the hell...? He spits out a flustered reply, “What about it, Durand? One of your deranged buddies have a thing for piano teachers?”
“Such a simpleton, Detective... ah, but like the ‘little engine that could,’ do keep trying.” Then condescending, as if speaking to a small child, “Someday you may outgrow your diapers and play with the big boys. But today is not that day, Detective.”
Kennedy strangles the phone with white knuckles as he struggles to contain himself. “We’ve got important work to get back to, Durand. So if you’ve got something to say, just spill it.”
“To Ravello.”
“What?”
“I have no time for underlings, Detective, no matter how fancy their titles.” Then icy cold, “Only Ravello. Bring him to me if you want answers.”
“Hello? Hello? Shit!” The sound of the receiver slamming into its cradle reverberates. Men jump back to looking busy while Kennedy stares at the phone, wondering what to do next.