Nine days ago
Isabelle was late. The measure theory class she was taking at NYU had wrapped up later than usual, and now she was late for her session with Horace. Damn subway was no help either. Seemed there was always some kind of holdup on the line lately.
She ran up the stairs, unlocked her door, and ran to her bed. She rummaged through her closet, threw off her coat, jeans, and boots and put on sneakers and a tracksuit. She grabbed her boxing gloves, ran from her apartment, and jogged to the gym, her feet pounding the wet sidewalk. It had been three days since the dream in which Horace was murdered and, despite the lies her mind had told her, he remained completely fine.
She picked up her pace, the night air cold, her breath a heavy fog as it escaped her mouth.
A knot of curious onlookers blocked the sidewalk. She zigzagged through them, halting abruptly when she saw the blue and red lights bouncing off their faces. An ambulance and two police cars were parked in front of Bonnie’s Sex Shop.
She knew instantly. Knew from the light of the full moon above her and the sweet, sickly smell of stale food drifting toward her, that it was Horace.
She fought her way through the throng of people, catching snippets of conversation as she struggled to the front. “Mugging…poor guy…the boxer…bastards…”
She walked up to the yellow police tape and ducked underneath.
“Wait. Miss!” yelled a uniformed policeman from across the secured area.
She ran to the body on the sidewalk, the paramedics around him packing up their gear.
“Horace!” She knelt beside the body, touching the still warm face with her hand.
“Miss!” the policeman shouted again. “You can’t be here.”
She stared up at his face, no older than her own. “I know who did it,” she said angrily. “I know who killed him.”
* * *
Detective Jane Wright stood in the observation room and listened to a gorgeous young woman with copper-colored hair give an amazingly detailed description of the two men she said had murdered Horace Gibson. Jane’s partner was doing the interview. By now it was clear the woman was a complete nut job, but it didn’t seem like Russo minded spending time with her.
Patrol had brought her to the Major Case Squad from the crime scene in Jersey City. Horace Gibson was a former WBA heavyweight champion. His death was already trending on social media, thanks to some look-at-me fucker with a cell phone and eager Twitter trigger finger. Whoever had posted it hadn’t even stopped to consider whether Horace had family who wouldn’t want to read of his death on a cold, blue screen.
Jane sighed. There was little doubt Gibson’s death would lead the news cycle tomorrow, the newspapers announcing that NYPD’s finest had no lead yet. Lieutenant Monaghan was going to be up her and Russo’s asses as soon as he heard about the murder.
She hated the slow news days when the politicians kept it in their pants. Always made the media gun for the nearest crime scene looking for a story. And muggings were already bad enough. They were random, with no connection between victim and perp. It would take a boatload of luck to track these assholes down.
“So, let me get this straight,” Russo said slowly. “You didn’t actually see the men. You dreamed about them.” His short sausage fingers were splayed in the air, his wide eyes mocking her. “Like you see the future, or something.”
The redhead, Isabelle Templeton, didn’t move a muscle. It was clear she regretted telling him she knew who killed the gym owner.
Jane had seen Templeton when she’d arrived at 1 Police Plaza. She’d seemed angry, mostly at herself, Jane felt. It was as if she believed she’d messed up somehow, as if she’d missed something important.
At first, when Russo had started the interview, Jane couldn’t quite grasp what Templeton was saying. Then she’d realized the implication of her words. She was talking about a dream she’d had. A premonition. Woo-hoo voodoo stuff.
Fucking hell.
Russo was probably right. Templeton was a bullshitter, someone looking for attention in a city full of people craving the spotlight. Pity though. She was beautiful. Those green eyes were like something out of a fairy tale. The body, however, conjured up far more grown-up fantasies. Lithe, supple, with full breasts and long legs. Strong cheekbones, full mouth. Slightly askew left eyetooth. A nervous habit to bite a full lower lip when she was angry.
What was more interesting, intriguing even, was the way she held herself. She seemed unwilling to touch anyone or anything. She kept her hands covered by the sleeves of her black sweater, but not in a nervous way. It was more like she didn’t want to pick up some kind of disease. And she sure as hell didn’t seem flaky or unsure. Her story was logical, told from beginning to end. More importantly, it had remained the same, from A to Z, the three times she’d told it, Russo unable to shoot holes in it.
Interesting, and a looker.
Jane adjusted the Glock on her hip, resting her right hand on the butt of the gun. Then she clipped her phone from her belt and dialed a number she knew by heart.
“Any luck?” she asked, rubbing a hand through her messy hair. She stared at her tired eyes in the two-way mirror in front of her.
The man on the other side didn’t even ask why Jane had called. She wasn’t known for her patience.
“Nope. So far CCTV corroborates the woman’s story. She’s clean. Showed up only after the mugging. Probably just another whacko looking for a headline.”
“Whacko? A woman doing a degree in advanced math at NYU?”
“Yep. The crazies can be smart too. You know that as well as I do.”