CHAPTER 3

 

THOUGH THE VIEW OF the New York skyline was breathtaking, Mark stared into K’s eyes. He couldn’t remember when she looked more beautiful. He reached into his pocket and pulled out her gift, then placed it on the table and slid it toward her with a smile.

“Oh, Mark, Honey, you shouldn’t have. All I need tonight is you.” Her eyes sparkled as she untied the red bow. The lid of the narrow, black box made a faint popping sound as she opened it.

K gasped and put her hand to her lips. “It’s beautiful.” She lifted an intricate, silver chain from the silk lining. The diamond pendant suspended from the necklace caught the moonlight that swathed the balcony in white and twinkled a response.

He moved to her side of the table to kneel behind her chair and hook the necklace for her. Nuzzling her ear, he whispered, “This has been the most wonderful five years of my life, sweetheart. Never in all my wildest dreams did I think marriage would be this good.”

She nodded, tears glistening like stars on her eyelashes. “Me too.”

He kissed her shoulder, then pulled her to her feet. They embraced for a long, tender moment. His cheek against hers, he murmured, “Dance with me, my love?”

A string quartet played softly in the background as they danced, holding each other close. The balcony of The Leaf sat fifteen floors above the city and overlooked Brooklyn Bridge. All around the terrace, orange flames flickered from tall torches. His wife’s soft skin glowed in the firelight. Despite the cool breeze, he felt warm and content holding her in his arms. He was the luckiest man in the world.

After Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata ended, they joined hands and walked to the edge of the balcony. The city was alive with the lights that filled the sky around them, making the stars pale in comparison.

“Thank you, honey, for five wonderful years,” whispered K. “And for tonight. This has been an incredible evening.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.

He felt a shiver vibrate through her body. “Are you cold?”

“Just a little.” The weather was warm, but a gentle wind off the East River cooled their skin.

“I’ll get the check and be right back. I have another surprise for you.” He hurried off to find the waiter.

After taking care of the bill, Mark wrapped his arm around his wife and hurried her down the elevator to the lobby. Their car was waiting for them at the entrance to the restaurant. When they walked out the door, a short man wearing a white shirt and a red vest with the restaurant’s signature cursive L stepped from behind the wheel. Mark gave him a fifty and opened the door for K.

As soon as he got behind the wheel, she tugged on his arm. “Where are we going?”

He grinned. “You’ll see when we get there.”

She pretended to pout, a look he always loved. Before he pulled into traffic, he kissed her long and hard, silencing her protests.

The streets were busy, but then again, it was Friday night in New York City. He’d booked the Hilton Garden Inn, the hotel where they’d spent their wedding night before heading to California for their honeymoon. He couldn’t wait to see K’s reaction when she realized he’d booked the same room they’d shared their first night of marriage.

As they drove up in front of the fourteen-story, stucco-and-glass building, the valet, a thin-faced, grade-school-looking kid, took the keys and delivered the car to the parking garage. K giggled as she clutched Mark’s hand and pulled him up the stairs and into the front lobby. “Mark, you sneak. How did you get us a room? They’re always booked.”

“Not just a room. I got our room!”

She smacked his arm with her purse.

He grinned and deflected the blow. Sam got her energy—and her orneriness.

Inside the lobby, smooth, cream-colored, marble floors were topped by red-leather couches and fluffy chairs in the same, soft shade of red. A fireplace glowed in the sitting room. Mark checked in and they took the elevator up to their room.

The room was everything they remembered. It was as if they had stepped into a time machine and it was their very first time together as husband and wife. A fire burned in the living-room fireplace, sending soft orange-and-white light throughout the room. Candles flickered on the nightstand.

K’s eyes reflected the light from the fire, dancing like fireflies in the spring. Her soft hands took his, and she led him to the bedroom through a set of French doors. Her long, blonde hair was that of an angel. Mark touched a strand, which curled around her shoulder. He tried to say something but she put a finger to his lips, reached behind her, and closed the door.

Mark knew from the way he felt tonight, how his heart pounded in his throat, that what they had was something special, something not found by accident. This was love, true love. It couldn’t be faked or manufactured. Every day, he fell more and more in love with his wife, and he so looked forward to growing old with her.

“I love you, K.”

* * *

REPORTERS SWARMED THE YARD like ants scurrying around an anthill. The prison had an odd presence about it. It was like Death had moved in, and even after he'd done his work, the stench of his soul lingered.

Kirk was used to seeing guards high up in towers or roaming the grounds, and inmates in orange jumpsuits working out or playing courtyard ball. However, this facility looked like a movie set without the cameras rolling.

Most of the bodies were already at the CSI crime lab for their final examination. He got out of his car and flashed his badge at a potbellied officer wearing dark sunglasses and holding a radio in his hand, who was trying to restrain the media mob without much success. The cop glanced at his ID and let him pass. The poor guy had probably been fighting off FBI tweaks and NYPD all day, so what was one more goon tromping around the crime scene? He squinted over his shoulder at the reporters and muttered, “Stinkin’ vultures. They all want a piece.” He looked around. Finding the poor sap who was supposed to be in charge was easy. He would be the guy in the cowboy hat barking out orders, a blueprint of the prison in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

Kirk sauntered over to him. “Hey, Cap. You the man around here?” He didn’t bother to take off his mirrored-finish sunglasses, though he knew it was a sign of disrespect. He’d never been good at the whole butt-kissing thing.

“Yeah. Who wants to know?” The captain’s thick mustache curled as he spoke, and he talked out only one side of his mouth.

“Name’s Kirk Weston, DPD. I‘m here with the FBI to look around.” He held up his badge.

The captain glared at Kirk from under his wide-brimmed hat. “Fine. Just don’t touch anything. There isn’t much to see, but knock yourself out anyway.” It was obvious he didn’t appreciate an outsider stomping around in his crime scene.

Kirk didn’t blame him. Heck, he didn’t want to be there. “Thanks.” He turned toward the front door, ducked under the police tape and headed in the direction of where he thought the cafeteria might be.

The correctional facility—or as he called it, prison—stinking liberals liked to gussy up the place to make it seem like a four-star resort—had the usual amenities. To the west, for the inmates’ viewing pleasure, stood a concrete wall with razor wire affixed to the top. He stared at the building in front of him. Not many windows or bushes. To his surprise, there were no petunia gardens to brighten the drab surroundings. The felon lovers must have fallen down on the job.

The front doors stood open and unguarded, which was highly unusual for a maximum-security prison. A paramedic wheeled by him pushing a gurney with a black body bag strapped to it, another paramedic right behind him pushing a similar load. Kirk wandered into the building and down the hall. Following the smell of stale milk and instant mashed potatoes, he turned left and walked through two sets of double doors by using a borrowed card key into the cafeteria.

Trays of food still sat on the tables. Others had fallen to the floor and spilled gravy and corn in a splash of yellow and brown across the concrete floor. It was like time had frozen, and everyone had disappeared. Metal tables were lined up in neat rows, just like in the pictures he’d seen earlier, but with one distinct difference–no one sat at the tables, stunned looks on their faces, fear in their eyes. A few rows over from where he stood, crime scene investigators were collecting samples and placing them in labeled plastic bags.

“I thought you guys would be done by now.” The sound of his own voice intruding into the silence of the huge room surprised him.

One of the agents, a short man with thick, blond hair that kept falling in his face, looked at Kirk. “We were done, but after we didn’t find anything abnormal in the samples we gathered the first time, we decided to come back to retrieve samples from the food bins in the kitchen, as well as something from every tray.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” said the other agent, a slim brunette in her mid-twenties dressed in a white, button-up top and black slacks. “If it was in the food, it would have killed the guards who, according to them, ate the same thing as the rest of the inmates.”

“What about something airborne?” Kirk asked. “A gas or something.”

“No. That would have done the same thing. It would have killed anyone within range.” The short agent, looking to be in his thirties, scratched his head and pushed a loose strand from his face.

“Do either of you have a card?” Kirk asked. The pretty brunette reached in her pocket and pulled out a white business card.

“I’m Cassy—”

“Good to meet you. I might call you in a few days to see if you have anything new. I’m working with the FBI on this one... Never thought I would work with the feds...” His voice trailed off.

“No problem. This one’s a mystery to us all,” she said.

He looked around a little more, then stepped into the kitchen where he spied a file cabinet in a back corner. He pulled out the top drawer and sifted through the files, one by one. Finally, he found a paper that looked like a purchase order.

One hundred pounds of flour, twenty-five cases of mac and cheese… All the items on the P.O. looked like they came from the same place: Simco Foods.

He shoved the paper into his pocket. Finally, I’ve got a lead. He looked through the rest of the files but didn’t find anything about where they had acquired their bedding. He wrote a note to himself on a beat-up old notebook he kept in his back pocket and closed the file drawer.

In the main hallway, he found a hall that led to the cellblocks. He peeked inside several cells, but nothing seemed out of order, except the lack of prisoners. Once he was back in his Crown Vic and driving again, he glanced up at the sky, which was cloudless except for one out-of-place, determined-looking rain cloud. He turned on the radio and had just tuned in to an 80s rock station when the downpour hit.

He slowed and steered with both hands through the deluge. It was almost impossible to see more than ten yards in front of him.

He glanced at the dark scar on his left forearm. It had been raining like this back in Detroit when he earned the scar. He’d caught up with a suspected drug trafficker, but as soon as he showed him his badge, the idiot ran. He had pounded the pavement after the dealer and cornered him in a dingy alley behind a laundromat on Sixth Street. The chase ended in a slippery, bloody shootout. He’d been grazed by a bullet, but the criminal—idiot, as Kirk liked to call him—was dead, thanks to two well-placed bullet holes in his heart. He patted his Glock .45 in his side holster and remembered what his shooting instructor had said repeatedly—never leave home without it.

The sun would be setting in a few hours. He wanted to scope out the food warehouse before it closed and had to work fast before his boss got wind that he’d gone AWOL.

Whatever. He’d just tell him one of the dead convicts’ mommas told him her little boy had a friend who works there. He smirked as he turned off the expressway and headed

toward Manhattan.