Thirteen
BREATHING hard, I released the backpack and crab crawled backward, until my spine pressed against the opposite railing.
The dead girl slipped back into her watery grave, and I watched her slowly twirl. Her blue eyes were half-open. She seemed to be watching me, too.
I couldn’t take it. I had to turn off my flashlight.
My hands trembled as I dialed 911. In the low glow of the smartphone’s light, I gave my name and reported my discovery to the emergency operator. She told me to stay on the line and put me on hold.
I got to my feet, clutching the phone like a lifeline.
I felt very alone and vulnerable—and that’s when I heard another sound.
Footsteps! Coming closer . . . and closer . . .
I held my breath as I peered into the darkness. The mobile phone’s light obscured my night vision, but I could make out a human figure moving toward me.
Skin prickling, I fumbled for my key chain’s flashlight again, barely swallowing a scream when—
“Clare! Clare!”
I steadied my little light. “Madame?”
“Clare! I can’t see! What happened?”
“I called the police.”
“Police!”
“Why did you follow me? It’s dangerous out here.”
“You seemed so agitated, and . . . I was curious.”
And more than a little tipsy, I noticed.
Madame’s gaze shifted to the body in the water.
“Is that . . . ?”
“I’m afraid so.”
For a moment, she shuddered, then quickly steeled herself. “What can we do?”
“She’s beyond our help. But there is something we can do to help the authorities. Here, take this—”
I handed her the flashlight. Then I activated the camera on my smartphone. “Shine that beam on her face while I take a picture.”
Madam’s eyes went wide. “A picture! Whatever for?!”
“She was a Village Blend customer. I can’t ID her. But one of my baristas might know her name . . .”
As I shot the photos, a shiver ran through me.
The red tattoo on the dead girl’s cheek sent my mind back to the first time I’d seen that little heart. It was a frigid winter afternoon, many months ago, during the frenzy of the holiday season . . .
THE Village Blend was dressed in its festive best and packed with last-minute shoppers, all needing the warmth of our fireplace and energizing caffeine from our coffee before pushing on to the next store.
I was at the machines, pulling espressos and mixing drinks. Esther, in a floppy Santa hat, worked the register.
“Cool tattoo,” she noted as she rang up a young woman’s purchase.
“Thanks! Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I prefer mine on my cheek. It’s my way of telling the world it’s right here, and you can’t break it. Ha!”
The young woman wore her blond hair in a severe pixie cut. Her eyes were bright blue, her good cheer infectious. Esther and I caught the bug, laughing along with her.
“I have a tattoo like that,” Esther confided. “But if I showed it off, I’d get arrested for public indecency!”
While they laughed and chatted, teenage twin sisters began arguing in the line behind the girl with the heart tattoo.
“I can’t pay. I’m out of cash,” the first twin told her sister. “I gave you everything I saved up. Don’t you have any left?”
“Hardly anything. Grandma’s gift cost way more than we thought it would. Maybe we should have bought her something else.”
“How can you say that? You know she’s going to love it! I can’t wait to see her face when she opens it. But we still have to buy a nice card and some pretty wrapping paper—”
“We don’t have enough money for that today. And I only have two dollars left. Maybe we should leave.”
“No. I’m really cold and want to warm up. Here’s all my loose change. Count it up. We can’t afford the fancy holiday lattes, but we can share one small drink before we head home. You decide . . .”
Overhearing the exchange, Heart Girl winked at us and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“We’ve all been there, right?” she whispered. “This should get them whatever they want—with change to help pay for Grandma’s card and wrapping paper. Just don’t tell them it’s from me.”
“Your secret is safe with us,” Esther told her.
“And your heart is a lot bigger than that little tattoo,” I added.
Heart Girl lit us up with her smile. Then she wished us both a happy holiday and went on her way . . .
NOW my own heart sank as I snapped image after image of a beautiful life snuffed out.
It was too late to save this sweet girl. But I could help her parents, her friends, her family—by bringing to light who she was and what in the devil had happened to her.
“I’m sending these photos to my baristas now . . .”
I included a warning that the images were disturbing and they were to remain private, but I urged my staff to reply with anything they knew.
“Sent!” I took a breath, hoping I’d hear from them soon.
Madame hugged herself. “Shall we go back now?”
“I’m supposed to wait for the police. I called 911 a few minutes ago, but I don’t see any sign of them . . .”
I tensely scanned Manhattan’s Twelfth Avenue. No emergency vehicles, no sirens, just sparse traffic, rolling along without urgency.
Then a muted voice called, “Ma’am? Ma’am?”
It was the 911 operator who’d put me on hold.
“I’m here!”
“Officers are on the scene. You should see them now.”
But Twelfth Avenue looked no different. “Where are they? I don’t see any—”
Madame tapped me and pointed at the river. Flashing emergency lights lit up the mirror-black water. Then a sleek police boat burst into view. Powerful engine rumbling, it streaked toward us.
Of course!
I’d been expecting the authorities to arrive by car, but in this town, the river was a road, too. And it was served by an elite force—
The NYPD Harbor Patrol.