She shot out of bed, astonished that her body had taken command of her brain so easily. She was at least refreshed, if not rested.
She retrieved her rugged backpack out of the closet. With its double-stitched compartments, heavy duty zippers and utility-style cord pulls, it was a dependable travel companion, roomy and lightweight.
She took a laundry list of supplies: wallet, hairbrush, a pair of reading glasses she hated but needed, energy bar, Mag flashlight, utility knife, gloves, zip ties, scarf, water-resistant windbreaker, phone, and keys. Her gun, badge, and critical ID went into a belly bag that fit under her clothes. Running shoes, nylon pants, and a hoodie, all black, completed the ensemble.
Just your friendly female cat burglar.
She’d left her car on the street with the NYPD dashboard ID Zielinski had loaned her. She wasn’t sure how that would square with her Maryland plates. Thankfully, the vehicle was still there, intact and unticketed. She breathed a sigh of relief, plugged directions into her navigation system, and headed south.
Traffic was light and she arrived in plenty of time for the seven thirty meeting time. She texted:
here
and waited. Almost immediately, she received directions to a self-storage facility just beyond the glitzy building where they’d met with Theo Austin less than a week earlier.
Sam parked along the main thoroughfare and walked over to a large warehouse that had been repurposed to accommodate differing storage needs. While the block was reasonably well-lit, it was empty save for a single van driving away. The facility itself looked closed, but she guessed the rental perks entailed twenty-four-hour access as well as video security.
The building’s entryway was flanked by two full-size bays clearly meant for the largest items. Successful storage places offered a variety of units so that customers could store anything from a couple of boxes to a boat.
A second text came in with more instructions and access codes for the front door and the elevator. The overhead camera winked. Someone was watching, for better or worse.
Sam punched in the numbers on a keypad and entered a simple but cheerfully painted area that likely served as a customer service check-in during business hours. Directly ahead of her stood a high counter with a monitor, a phone, and a stand that held brochures. A couple of chairs sat against one wall. An Industry City calendar hung next to several shelves lined with boxes of trash bags and gloves, along with an array of locks for sale. The elevator was to the right of the display, and stairs were next to that. The main fixtures were turned off, but discreet inset lighting provided adequate illumination.
In the elevator, she entered a second set of numbers and rode to the third floor. Lights went on as she stepped out, which suggested the floor was empty of people. Once again, she wondered about the lack of activity. It was seven thirty, not midnight. In a city like New York, someone had to be checking on their possessions.
The corridor that included unit 3507 wasn’t hard to find, thanks to the signage along the passageways. Based on the size of the bright-blue steel doors, she figured the units in this section to be perhaps 5 x 7 feet, enough room to store several boxes, a bike, and maybe a chair. Where was she supposed to meet brains&beauty, a.k.a. Teresa Albon? In front of the unit? Inside? The texts didn’t provide her with any clues.
She stuck the phone in her back pocket and peered down the row. Each of the units had a padlock; 3507 did not. In fact, the door was open.
Sam pulled her gun, took a few steps back, and glanced down the adjacent corridors. Empty. She noted the security cameras at the far corners, red lights blinking. She inched toward her destination. A quick check indicated no lights on these cameras. Malfunctioning or shut down.
Maybe no one was watching her. Maybe Teresa was inside, the padlock in her pocket. Sam preferred those thoughts to any alternatives. She pressed her back against the wall, gripped her gun with both hands, steadied her breathing.
And go! she ordered herself and jumped in front of the unit.
The interior was nearly empty, save for a single overhead light, a canister, and an ice chest. And a small pile of clothes crumpled on the floor. No, a small body, capped by short red-gold hair. Teresa Albon, a.k.a. Theo Austin.
Sam rushed over and felt for a pulse. Still there. Gently, she turned over the woman and yelped as her fingers encountered a piece of dry ice. Austin had burns around her mouth. Her jaw was swollen but not visibly busted. The abdomen wasn’t distended, either. All good signs, but Sam wasn’t a doctor. She needed to get the woman to safety.
She glanced around, trying to assess the immediate danger. The chest likely held remnants of dry ice. The canister concerned her more. She detected a faint hissing sound. The container could be connected to a timer slowly releasing concentrated carbon monoxide into the unit. She had to get Austin out, so she could—
The crash caught her off guard. Too late, she realized the opening had been propped up by a thick wooden beam that now lay on the floor. The unencumbered steel fell hard and fast. Sam shoved her backpack underneath. The bag’s aluminum frame folded in on itself yet held the door an inch and a half above the floor.
She fell back, gasping. Too late, she took in the disabled mechanisms: the missing springs, the sheared off inner handle, the metal rod jammed into the counterbalance. The wooden beam had been nothing more than a primitive but effective trap, easily kicked out of the way. Which meant they weren’t alone.
A pair of gloved hands reached down to jerk the backpack free. Sam dropped flat, stuck her gun barrel under the door, aimed for a sneakered foot, and fired. She had the satisfaction of hearing the owner of that foot emit a high-pitched scream and stumble just out of view.
The short period of yelling that followed might have been made by a man or a woman; Sam couldn’t be sure. Whoever it was, she’d caused serious injury judging by the blood-slickened floor. She scuttled away from the opening in case whoever she injured decided to return the favor and shoot back.
The bellowing morphed into a sustained moan, followed by the sound of cloth ripping. The distressed assailant was angry but also busy. After a couple of minutes, she heard a grunt and a shuffling sound. The feet reappeared, one clumsily bandaged in what seemed to be a T-shirt. The injured figure made another half-hearted attempt to pull out the backpack from underneath the door, then pivoted to the elevator. The feet moved out of view. She heard the elevator door open and close.
She risked a quick peek and saw a trail of blood leading to the exit. She and Austin were alone in a windowless room with what was undoubtedly a slow-leaking cannister of CO2. She pulled her phone from her pocket. No bars.
Sam crawled over to Austin, lifted the woman under the armpits, pulled her to the unit entrance, and lay her down so her head faced the slivered opening. Better access to oxygenated air might slow the effects of the carbon monoxide.
Next, she took off her jacket and went to wrap up the cannister, taking care not to touch it. She had no idea if that would inhibit the release of the poison, but she had to try.
She used her phone’s flashlight to examine the entryway. Not only had the springs been removed, but the chain hoist was gone. Maybe she could repurpose the timber that had been used as a prop. She needed to lift the door high enough to get the wood underneath. That would give her six inches.
She squatted close to the door and shoved her toes underneath as far as they would go. She couldn’t have pulled them out if she wanted to, and she really wanted to. She couldn’t squat without turning her knees out as far as they could go. Her positioning couldn’t have been worse. She might strain her meniscus, injure her hip flexor, or tear her ACL.
She inhaled the polluted air and heaved. Her neck and shoulder muscles protested. The door moved four inches. Not enough. She let go with a curse and almost crushed her toes.
On the second attempt, accompanied by more vocalization, she got an additional five inches. She let go as she kicked the beam in position as a support. It shuddered under the falling steel but held.
Exhausted, she sat on the ground, head in hands. From her head to her wounded toes, her body rebelled.
I can’t do any more, a little voice told her.
She glanced at the canister, then at the prone figure lying to her left. “Yes, you can,” she said aloud.
She squatted again, pushed her feet all the way under the gate, placed her hands to either side. She lifted with everything she had: her pain, her fury, and her determination accompanied by the soundtrack of her warrior cry.
The door flew up and immediately began to fall, lured by gravity and its own weight.
She dove for the bulky beam and hoisted it up to a vertical position to catch the door about a third of the way down. The wood held, but the precarious angle made it wobbly. She kicked her backpack into the corridor and pulled Austin to safety just as the timber collapsed and the steel door hit the concrete floor with a thunderous crash.
“Way to cut it close, Tate,” she panted. She grabbed her pack, lifted Theo Austin in her arms, and stood. The pain, held at bay by a combination of endorphins and sheer will, began to sneak its way back into her consciousness. She staggered to the elevator, reached the first floor, and propelled herself out the front door and into Margarite Lopez.
“Teresa Albon. Theo Austin. Dry ice. Hospital.” Sam spat out the words and began to sink. Lopez caught her and Austin with both arms. Zielinski materialized and took the tiny woman from Sam as if she were a fragile package. Carlisle emerged from the shadows, cell phone in hand, Nichols beside him.
“Ambulance will be here in five,” Carlisle reported. “I got in a call to DOH, just in case.”
“You’ll need them,” Sam gasped.
“Are you having trouble breathing?” Lopez asked. “Or standing? What the hell happened to your boots?”
Sam felt herself deflating as the adrenaline rush subsided and exhaustion set in. She lifted her head and filled her lungs with air. Oxygen had never seemed so appealing.
“Can you get me over to the car?” she asked. “If I sit down here, I won’t get up.” Her arms and legs felt like jelly and her feet ached. “By the way, how did you know I was here?”
“You’re not a good liar, Tate,” Lopez said. “I knew Albon sent you specifics of a meetup. I had Jessica track your phone’s GPS. Credit to her for figuring out Albon was really Austin, by the way.”
“I should have figured it out.”
“Holden’s mind works in a particular way. I’ll explain it after we get you in a seated position.”
Lopez and Carlisle got her halfway into the back seat. They leaned in as she gave them a brief overview of her activities, Nichols just behind.
“I don’t even know what time it is,” she said.
“Eight forty-five,” Lopez said.
“Let me get this straight,” Carlisle said. “You shot the attacker in the foot through a one-inch opening, then deadlifted a broken steel door, using a wooden beam for leverage, all while breathing CO2?”
“Don’t forget she carried Austin out of the building on those feet of hers,” Lopez added.
Sam looked around. “I’m almost certain the attacker left a blood trail. Make sure someone collects a sample.”
“We’ll have our people process the scene,” Carlisle told her.
“He couldn’t have gotten very far.”
“You know it was a male?” Lopez asked.
“Yes,” Sam nodded. The movement caused her to wince.
“Okay, let me get on this,” Lopez said. “Danny, make sure she’s treated.”
Lopez walked off, leaving Sam with a clear view of Chloe Nichols, arms folded across her chest. Irritation pulled at the corners of her mouth. Sam would have laughed if she weren’t certain it would hurt. Poor Detective Nichols. She probably didn’t appreciate being pulled away from her evening routine. She certainly didn’t like the way Lopez and Carlisle were fawning over Sam. She likely resented all the fuss being made over an outsider who went rogue. Maybe she’d complain.
An ambulance screeched into view. The paramedics took Austin from Zielinski and got her onto a stretcher and fitted with an oxygen mask. He exchanged a few words with one of the EMTs, who then grabbed a knapsack and followed the detective back to the group.
Sure enough, Nichols waylaid Zielinski and began talking in low, urgent tones. Before she’d gotten very far, he held up a hand. Sam distinctly heard him say, “We’re not going to talk about this now.”
“You’re going to the hospital,” Carlisle told Sam.
“Don’t need to. The medics can check me out here.”
Lopez stood up as a second pair of flashing lights appeared. “Precinct cops have arrived. How about I go fill them in?” She trotted off.
The impossibly young paramedic squatted by the car and started to unpack his gear. “Good evening, Officer,” he said to Sam. “I assume you were in the room with the CO2 as well.”
“That’s not all,” Carlisle replied. He went down the list of Sam’s various exploits. Sam could see him struggle not to laugh as the paramedic’s eyes began to bug.
“You really need to go to the hospital,” the young man insisted when the detective had finished.
“The woman I brought out, she’s the one who needs to get to the hospital,” Sam began just as the youthful EMT slid a mask over her face.
“We’re going to give you a hit of oxygen first thing while we check out the rest of you, including those feet.”
“But . . .”
“Breathe slowly and deeply,” he ordered. “The woman you rescued is getting the treatment she needs. Trust me, we know what we’re doing. If she needs to go before I’m done with you, the medics will make sure she goes. My name is Pat Riley, by the way.”
He began with a flashlight in Sam’s eyes and instructions about following his finger. “No concussion. Excellent.”
Sam moved her mask. “I didn’t knock my head,” she protested.
“Noted. Keep the mask on, please, while I check the rest of you.”
He moved to Sam’s neck and shoulders. Poking, kneading, moving her head. She flinched but was generally relieved to find things seemed to be in working order.
“No apparent broken bones, nothing seems to have popped or ruptured, thank God,” Riley pronounced. “Definite muscle and tendon strain. How much does a steel door weigh?”
“Let’s see, says here two hundred and fifty pounds,” Carlisle replied, holding up his phone.
Riley whistled. “Impressive, Detective. You obviously used your technique to good advantage.”
Carlisle grinned.
The medic pressed her stomach region carefully. “I have no way of knowing if you have internal bleeding without a scan,” he said. “The good news is I have a portable machine, so we’ll do that here after I finish the preliminary exam.”
Next, the medic checked her hips and knees. “You may have strained the hip flexor. The lay term is groin pull. That’ll hurt tomorrow. You’ve got some swelling around the kneecaps. But you’re wincing, not screaming, which is a good sign.”
He moved down to her boots. “And what happened here?”
“I jammed my feet under the door to get some leverage. I’m afraid my first lift wasn’t all that successful.”
Riley stared at Sam to see if she was teasing him. “Okay,” he said when he realized she wasn’t. “That’s definitely not good technique.” He looked more carefully.
“Your boots held up fairly well, all things considered. I’ll have to get them off to see if the same can be said about your feet. It could hurt quite a bit. We could find something to cut them off if you prefer. You’re not going to wear them again.”
“I prefer we get this over with and you get Theo to the hospital. Just yank them off.”
The paramedic did as he was told and was rewarded with a vigorous “Shit!”
Both feet were swollen, the right far more than the left. The tops were so bruised they appeared blackened. Riley pushed gently while Sam bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“The good news is, nothing seems torn or broken,” he told Sam. “No punctures or cuts, and, as you can see, no external bleeding. Your feet are, however, severely bruised. The skin at the top of the foot is very thin, so this is to be expected. The bruises don’t extend to the sole, although I suspect you’ll have some muscle cramping. The third toe on your right foot may be sprained.”
He looked at her. “They will heal, providing you take care of them. This is not a joke. Tissue injuries can cause problems. Stay off your feet for a few days. No boots or tie shoes for at least ten days. Use slippers or sandals with socks if necessary. Keep your feet iced all day tomorrow until you can’t stand it. I’m going to give you a tube of Arnica for the bruises, a prescription for extra-strength Tylenol, a short course of antibiotics just in case, and a couple of Valium.”
He handed her a bottle of water. “I’m going to give you one of the Valium to take now. You’ll need it once the shock wears off and your muscles realize what you made them do.”
Sam took off her mask and took the pill without complaint.
“Get checked out at a clinic or a hospital tomorrow,” the paramedic continued. “And you have to rest, Detective. I’m not kidding. Make sure someone’s with you this evening. Expect to feel awful tomorrow. Don’t try to work through the pain.”
“Promise.”
He gave her a pulse ox test. “Ninety-seven percent,” he crowed. “Impressive. Okay, we’re off.”
“Wait.” Sam laid a hand on the young man’s arm. “First of all, thank you. Second, can you tell me how the other woman is doing?”
“You’ll need to check in with the hospital. She’s alive, thanks to you.”
Several more vehicles arrived. The DOH van dislodged a suited-up hazmat team. A gray-haired man conversed briefly with the occupant of a dark-blue sedan with the storage company logo on the side. Sam guessed he was the building’s manager or owner. The guy was going to be dealing with his own headaches.
Nichols was taking a call. “CO says to check in when you’re done here,” she said to Carlisle.
“Figures,” Carlisle replied with a smile. “First, we need to take care of Sam. Last chance: Hospital or no?”
Sam shook her head.
“Where’s your car?” Carlisle asked.
“Second Avenue. Keys are in the front compartment.” She handed him the crumbled backpack. “Stay out of the main section and you’ll avoid any broken glass. Easy does it, though. That’s my favorite carry-on.”
“I doubt you’ll be carrying it again,” Nichols said.
“Zipper still works,” Carlisle said. “Impressive. Ah, success.” He dangled the key ring. “However, you’re not driving.”
“I can get her home,” Nichols offered.
Sam thought she’d rather walk.
“You know what would help, Chloe?” Zielinski said. “Maybe you can locate Lopez. We’re going to need to stick around. Danny can get her home and come right back.”
Nichols turned on her heel and marched off.
“She’s a little grumpy,” Carlisle observed.
“I don’t really care,” Sam replied. “But I have to get in touch with Rosa.” She reached for her phone, safe in her back pocket. “My poor aunt. I come for a visit and upend her life.”
“Stay at my place,” Carlisle said suddenly. “I have a guest bedroom that’s very comfortable and surprisingly quiet.”
“Danny, I couldn’t . . .” She spoke slowly. When did her tongue get so thick?
“Can’t what, Tate?” Lopez reappeared, along with Nichols and a heavyset man with thick eyebrows that sat on his face like a permanent scowl.
The perfect match for Nichols, Sam thought.
“This is Detective Sergeant Steve Cairn,” Lopez said. “This area is in his precinct. I filled him in as to how and why we preceded him on the scene.”
The man gave a curt nod. “We’ve got our people patrolling the area,” he began. “The assailant left a blood trail near the storage unit, but it ends in the elevator. I can’t say for certain where he exited the building, assuming he did. We’ll make sure he’s not still inside, don’t worry. By the way, seems like your killer is trying to hit all the boroughs. Maybe you can give the local precincts in Staten Island a heads-up when he moves over there.” He didn’t smile.
“Brooklyn Homicide is aware of the Dry Ice Killer case, Detective Sergeant,” Carlisle replied. “We’re not trying to cut anyone out.”
“Fortunately, we’re all on the same side,” Lopez said. “Which means we all want to stop this SOB before he tries anything else in any borough.”
Zielinski joined them. “Theo Austin is on the way to the hospital. I’m going to follow along and see when she can give us a statement. Detective Sergeant Cairn, perhaps you’d like to join me?”
Cairn appeared briefly mollified. “Thanks. I’ll catch up with you. We have other problems right here, including a potentially contaminated floor, if not the whole structure, that has to be treated before forensics can do their thing. Hazmat may have to enter other units, which requires an okay from someone or several someones. The third floor may remain inaccessible to the renters for a while. I don’t envy the building manager.” He walked away.
“We’re going to want to review whatever security footage is available,” Zielinski said.
“Cameras were out near our unit,” Sam managed to say.
“Well, let’s check the others.”
“Chloe and I will help,” Carlisle said. “As soon as I get Sam settled.” He got an arm around her waist and helped her stand.
“She needs to rest, Danny,” Lopez said sharply.
“And she will, Margarite,” Carlisle retorted.
He helped Sam over to her car, tucked her into the passenger seat, and fastened the seat belt. For good measure, he put his jacket over her, which earned him a smile and a sigh.
“I can tell the Valium is working,” he said. “Sam, we’re going to my place. I’m not going to scare your poor aunt by dumping you at her doorstep in your condition. I have a neighbor I can ask to look in on you until I get back. Okay? Contact Rosa; tell her you’re on a case.”
“I’ll let her know,” Sam replied. All she wanted to do was sleep. She sent her aunt a text about pulling an all-nighter with the squad and hoped that made her seem as if she were somewhere safe, surrounded by competent, trained professionals. Better than letting Rosa know she decided to head solo into a darkened warehouse to meet a mysterious contact with information on a homicidal maniac—who then turned up and tried to kill them both.
Will check in tomorrow, she added. Exhausted by the effort, she dropped the phone onto the center console and lay her head back.
She really did feel safe, in the car with the more than competent and oh-so handsome Detective Danny Carlisle. Safe and warm under his jacket, driving through the city, the hundreds of lights twinkling like stars. . .
The shaft of sunlight hit Sam squarely in the face. She blinked twice, bolted upright, and immediately regretted the effort. Every bone in her body ached, every muscle cried for mercy. She felt like someone had stuffed her mouth with cotton and thrown her down a flight of stairs. Repeatedly.
As painful as it was to be awake, the condition was preferable to the most recent dream state in which a monstrous machine was crushing the life out of her. She recalled a green-eyed man but couldn’t tell if he was trying to kill her or save her.
Awake now, she took in the completely unfamiliar surroundings. She was in a modern bedroom decorated in soothing tones of gray and cream. An abstract painting on one wall presented as a forest below a cerulean sky. The blond wood furniture with its clean lines and simple design, managed to be both functional and appealing. The fixtures might have been sculpted. Several pillows in deep teal were piled at the end of her bed.
She threw back the coverlet and eased her legs over the side of the mattress. The movement hurt every bit as much as sitting up in bed. And her feet! More puce than purple. Rust-colored in spots and yellow in others. Swollen and not only on top. She couldn’t have put on shoes if she’d wanted to.
She stood and cried out. Breathe through the pain, she told herself. She gritted her teeth and limped to the window. The slatted shades rose at a touch to open onto a view of sparkling water fronting a panorama that was the Manhattan skyline. A ferry boat moved leisurely across the serene river. Trees of red, orange, and gold dotted the waterfront park. She was facing west; the sun had cleared the building. A little past noon, she guessed, an observation confirmed by the transparent analog clock on the wall that read 12:20.
She was in Danny Carlisle’s apartment in Long Island City. Wearing a sort of oversized flannel shirt that must have been his. Underpants, no bra. Her black denim jeans and jacket were folded on the chair near the dresser, along with an unfamiliar pair of sandals, socks, and a pale blue T-shirt that looked to be her size.
Sam went back to the bed and plopped down, willing her sluggish mind to remember something, anything. She wasn’t in a guest bedroom; the aesthetic of the space, along with a few details, suggested she’d slept in the master suite. In his room. She didn’t see a dent in the far side of the queen bed. Where had he slept?
Her eyes went to her phone, patiently vibrating on the nightstand. Next to it was a note, handwritten in a sort of reverse scrawl. Was he left-handed? Had she realized that?
Decided to let you sleep in. You needed it. Coffee is ready to go, bagels and fruit are on the counter. Take your pills with food. The shoes and shirt are on loan from Fran (neighbor) since yours are trashed. You can leave the keys with her. BTW, Fran changed you out of your clothes. Also, she’s fifty-eight and married. Call your aunt. Then call me.
She stayed where she was to give herself time to absorb the information. Danny had brought her back to his apartment. He’d persuaded a female neighbor named Fran to help. He’d slept somewhere else, checked up on her, and left her coffee and bagels.
The idea of falling all the way back into bed and pulling the covers over her head appealed to her. Nevertheless, she dragged herself into a small kitchen with first-class appliances and an island that divided it from a living room with more breathtaking views. If this apartment was rent-controlled, Danny Carlisle was the luckiest man in the five boroughs.
Hunger suddenly took over, a good sign as far as she was concerned. Half a bagel with cream cheese, half an apple, and two cups of coffee later, she felt almost human, albeit a compromised one.
Rosa answered the phone on the first ring. “There you are,” she said cheerily. “Your nice friend called and told me everyone was working very hard. Are you getting enough to eat? You must be exhausted. Will you be home tonight?”
Though her aunt was trying for nonchalant, Sam could tell she’d been worried sick.
“I’m fine, Rosa, but yes, tired. We’re eating, but nothing beats your home cooking.” She suspected she had coaxed a small smile out of her aunt. “I’ll be home for dinner by six, followed by an early bedtime.”
Sam disconnected, took her coffee, and stood in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. She guessed they were about thirty-five floors up, enough to gain a wide vista, but still low enough to see some details in the green park below. For a minute, she breathed as deeply as her battered body permitted and tried to imagine coming home to this view every day.
With a shake of her head, Sam brought herself back to the present. She could have died last night. Theo almost did. She really wanted to nail the son of a bitch responsible.
She went back to the kitchen island, perched on a stool, and called Carlisle.
“How are you?” he asked. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Better than I expected to. Um, did you? Get any sleep, I mean?” She felt like an idiot for asking, even more so when he laughed.
“Hang on a minute,” he said. She heard footsteps echoing down what must have been a hallway. “Okay, I have a little more privacy now. About last night. You were in pretty bad shape. I put you in my bed, as you probably noticed.”
“I know, Danny, and I really appreciate—”
“I slept in the guest bedroom,” he said quickly. “Fran changed you. Not that I wouldn’t have been happy to do the honors under other circumstances, but it wasn’t the right time, and I would never—”
It was Sam’s turn to laugh, and she did so, gratefully. “Danny, honestly, it’s fine. You were dealing with a woman who was zonked out in more ways than one. You acted like a human being. More than that. Like a good friend.”
“Okay, then.” He exhaled.
“When did you get in?”
“About four this morning.” He yawned.
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at Maimonides Medical Center, which is where they took Theo Austin last night. It’s a trauma one hospital center, which is good. Her injuries are unusual.”
“How is she doing?”
“First, the good news. The CO2 has been flushed out of her system and the doctor reports no internal organ damage. Her jaw is badly bruised, and she’s got a couple of broken teeth. Her tongue and throat sustained cold burns, as did her hands.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“Right now, she can’t talk. Her throat injuries might require surgery. She’s being monitored for infection. The pain is probably through the roof. Doctors have her on a cocktail that includes a light sedative to keep her in twilight.”
“How long before they know what they need to do?”
“Could be twenty-four hours.”
“I ought to get over there.”
“There’s nothing to be done. In fact, I’m headed into the Manhattan Precinct to meet with Zielinski.”
“I guess poor Theo is certainly off the person of interest list. Can’t imagine her trying to poison herself, especially like that. But she might know something. Hey, did anything come of your meeting with Tom Levy yesterday?”
“Not really. Levy’s a smart man. He already figured we might ask about his son’s case. Said his son’s murder had gained a lot more attention than others might get. He understood our focus on victims’ families with grievances, but he felt there might be another motive at play. Not that he could tell us what that motive was or why he felt that way.”
Sam pointed her toes and almost yelped. She pulled her foot back. “What does Tasha say about all this?” she asked. “As a former cop, she’s gotta have an opinion about what’s going on.”
“Apparently, she’s unreachable. Levy saw her Saturday afternoon for a taping. She might have mentioned something about going off the grid. She’s due in this afternoon. Lopez and Nichols are going to visit the rest of your potentials today.
“I can grab a cab and join them.” She stood, gasped, and sat back down.
“Not a chance. What you can do is take a hot shower and slather that arnica jell on your feet. Which probably look and feel like crap.”
“They aren’t pretty,” she admitted. “But Danny, I can’t sit around and do nothing!”
“Maybe you can sit around and do something. Levy thinks there are likely to be clues in the DFD transcripts. I think he’s onto something. Assuming our killer has been active for at least a month, we need to zero in on some of the interactions between our people of interest and our three victims.”
“What if the killer was lurking? What if he or she never said anything?”
“I’m not the serial killer expert, but I think our guy or gal craves attention. The killings are macabre but also showy. I suspect the murderer can’t resist speaking up.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“That’s what I like to hear. I’ll have Holder send everything over. You can use my laptop in the den. Obviously, your phone works. Call if you need anything. I gotta go. Take the pills, take the shower, call Holder. Check you later.”
The contents of Sam’s backpack had been placed on the dining room table. Everything was in surprisingly good condition: wallet, credit cards, even the cash. The glasses and flashlight were broken. The list she’d made at the beginning of the case—was it really only a week ago? —remained intact, tucked inside the wallet.
She took the crumbled paper into the office. The space doubled as a guest bedroom, judging by the sheets and blankets neatly folded and stacked at the corner of the couch. She peeked into the adjoining bathroom and saw a toothbrush. The sight made her feel better.
The place was tidied up; Carlisle had even left a bottle of water by the computer, along with the passwords needed. She logged in and saw that Holder had wasted no time in sending over transcripts for eight chats going back five weeks. Despite her tremendous discomfort, Sam was glad to have something to do.
She had intended to highlight comments from her three victims and five detectives. Instead, she decided to read the transcripts as a whole and annotate as she went along.
Two hours later, she sat back and stretched. She had a page full of notes but no idea how much she’d learned.
While most of the DFDs projected confidence, bythebook came across more self-effacing. Stephanie Chen probably knew more about most topics than the average person. Sam couldn’t tell if her on-screen demeanor was put on or simply a habit reinforced by cultural expectations. Soulsaver, a.k.a. Father Clemons, was similarly disposed to modesty, frequently assuming the role of mediator. As for actingcyclist, Grant Paulson approached the chats as a creative exercise. His suggestions were at times fanciful but never malicious. He took the predictable ribbing with good nature.
Those were the victims. The larger group of detectives was a varied lot. Wknddad tended to be officious. Deepdiver was, well, shallow. Both notmydayjob and seenitall made a point of flaunting their abilities. Dedicateddetective and brains&beauty had their prickly moments. Strongcoffee had strong opinions. Workingmom was cheerful but displayed flashes of irritation, and renaissancewoman was either fretful or flaky.
The others were more tempered in their contributions and seemed as if they might be interesting people with interesting lives outside their shared fascination with true crime. She wouldn’t mind having coffee with the physicist or the mystery writer.
She went back to her original list to see how much more she could add. Despite efforts to chronicle and catalog deviant behavior, killers were rarely one thing or another. The same held true of their motives. Someone seeking revenge might also enjoy torture. Someone seeking justice might also want to be admired or respected for their work.
Respect. Sam had seen that word crop up in the discussion more than a few times. It was an odd word in the context of discussing a cold case, wasn’t it? More the kind of thing you’d hear at a self-help meeting or a relationship seminar.
Before she could put more thought into it, her phone played its latest ringtone. During lockdown, she’d programmed it with a theme from one of the cable news shows that signaled breaking news. Her phone rang so rarely that any call was an event. Now she thought she’d like a day in which it didn’t ring or beep or somehow insist she remain alert and ready.
She swallowed her sigh and answered.
“Hey, Lieutenant Tate, it’s Jessica Holder. Just checking to see if you’re okay and if you have everything you need.”
“How would you define respect?”
Holder didn’t miss a beat. “I guess I’d say respect is about acknowledgement or recognition. The idea is that the person is seen or heard, right? They’re appreciated or their work is appreciated. No one takes them for granted. Like the Aretha Franklin song, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve already got that earworm rattling around my head. Never mind. You asked if I had what I needed. Yes, thanks. And call me Sam, okay?”
“Okay, Sam.” She sounded pleased.
Sam stood. She was stiff, but her feet were marginally less painful.
“Actually, there is something, Jessica. Can you run a background check on Ravi Patel, the Deep Freeze audio engineer? It occurs to me we don’t know a lot about him.”
“Well, he’s twenty-eight, he was born in Edison, New Jersey, second oldest of four kids, went to school at Berklee College of Music in Boston, which is a really good school. He came back to New York to try to advance his career as a songwriter; he writes indie pop-fusion music with some Indian influences, and he’s working with an experienced lyricist. Anyway, he fell into sound engineering almost by accident, but it pays and he likes it. His position with the podcast takes up most of his time now because of the website.”
Sam laughed, which felt better than she expected. “I stand corrected, Jessica. You know a lot about him. Maybe we can just see if he has an alibi for Monday night—”
“He does,” Holder jumped in.
“And you know this how?”
“We, um, we had a drink Monday night. Oh, and food. We definitely had food. And another drink.”
“So, a date?”
“I don’t know if you’d call it that.”
“Okay, you had a get-together over food and drink with the guy you thought was, at the very least, negligent about maintaining a website where a killer might be stalking his victims.”
“I didn’t think of it like that. Am I in trouble?”
Sam smiled to herself. “No, Jessica, you’re not. He wasn’t really a person of interest, at least not until his name popped into my addled brain. Clearly you see something in him, and I trust your instincts. If you vouch for him, he’s not one now. I’m more surprised than anything else.”
“He’s really funny, Lieutenant—Sam. And smart. We’ve been talking about ways to safeguard the website. He wants to do better. I told him I’d help, and he suggested we make it an evening. I didn’t break any confidences.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, and I’m sure you won’t. Thanks for the information. I’ll call you later if I need anything.”
The clock in the den said 2:45 p.m. Sam debated putting in a few more hours, but her head hurt. For that matter, so did the rest of her. She pushed herself back into the kitchen, toasted another half bagel, and ate it slowly. She wasn’t hungry, but she needed to take her pills. She knew better than to try it on a stomach filled mostly with coffee.
Dressing took time. The clothes were at least soft and loose. Though she hadn’t ever imagined going out in socks and sandals, Sam decided the combination would be the most comfortable option. She’d have to put her belongings in a plastic bag, but she doubted a cab driver would care.
She went out on the porch and gazed across the water at the iconic skyline. For a full minute, all she did was listen to the murmured sound of traffic and the buzz of life in the city, to the voices in her head, to the beating of her heart. Then she called Terry, and they talked for almost an hour.
Finally, she called a car service, packed up, set the alarm, and left for the less rarified neighborhood in Queens where her aunt lived.
“Sam, honey, wake up. I brought you a little breakfast.”
Sam sat up with a grunt. She rubbed her eyes against the sunlight that streamed through the handmade lace curtains. She was back in the guest bedroom of her aunt’s house. Rosa stood in the doorway with a tray with coffee, a glass of juice, and a muffin so large it spilled over the plate.
“How do you feel, cara?” Rosa asked. “You were out like a light.”
“How long?” Sam murmured. She carefully rotated her neck, pleased to find the muscles had loosened considerably.
“You went to bed right after dinner. It’s eight in the morning. So, thirteen hours.” Rosa set the tray on the nightstand. “Your phone has been vibrating like crazy. Eat first, then make your calls.”
“Thank you, Aunt Rosa.”
As soon as Rosa left, Sam pulled her pills out of the nightstand drawer and took them with a bite of muffin and a glass of water. She pulled her foot from under the covers. The bruises seemed lighter, not quite so colorful. An improvement, she decided.
She reached for her phone. Five texts and two voicemails. Danny, Ron, Margarite, Jessica. She started with Zielinski.
“Sam! How are you feeling?”
“A lot better, thanks.” She heard the familiar squawk of a police radio. “Where are you?”
“In Brooklyn. Lopez and Carlisle are on their way.”
Sam went on high alert. “Did something happen to Theo?”
“She’s fine. I’ve added more security.”
“You’re in Brooklyn but not at the hospital?”
“Correct. I’m at a building across from the 84th Precinct that happens to be home to both the Manhattan and Brooklyn Cold Case Squads. Sanitation workers found a body in a dumpster.” He choked out the last sentence.
“Someone we know.” Sam felt her own throat close.
“Tasha Wright.”
“Fuck! Sorry”
“Pretty much what I said. Look, there’s more, but I gotta get off and work things out so no one steps on anyone else’s toes.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She’d already pushed herself out of bed. Just a small gasp when the right foot stabbed; the rest was just achy.
“Forget it, Sam. It’s rush hour. You’re at least forty-five minutes away. We already have more people than we know what to do with. Don’t even—”
“Non-negotiable, Ron. See you soon.”
She disconnected in the middle of his protest.
Ten minutes later, Sam made her way down the stairs, her bag awkwardly slung over one sore shoulder. Rosa stood at the bottom step with a carafe, a paper bag, and a spacious tawny leather bag.
“Christmas present from the kids,” she said, handing her the bag. “Beautiful Italian leather, lightweight, too. Probably cost a fortune. I’ll never use it.”
“Rosa—”
“You can carry it in the crook of your arm and skip the shoulder altogether. Oh, I noticed your car isn’t here, so I called a cab for you,” the older woman continued. “I’ve used Dimitri’s service for years. He knows the fastest routes.”
As Sam transferred the contents of her old bag to her new one, Rosa pulled a thin black cane from the closet. She glanced at Sam’s feet, clad in socks and sandals. “You need to take some weight off that foot,” she observed. “I used this after my bunion surgery. It’s much stronger than it looks. It’s also collapsible. Okay, Dimitri is out front now. Take the coffee and a muffin for the ride. You’ll make excellent time. Go.”
“I love you,” Sam said and hugged her aunt. She gathered her belongings and made her way to the shiny black Cadillac that hovered between old and vintage. A short, stout man with abundant gray hair that didn’t quite fit into his watch cap held open the door. Then he zipped around to the driver’s side.
“I am Dimitri,” he said by way of introduction. “Rosa is my friend. We will go fast, but no small talk, okay? You can eat, but don’t drop crumbs and don’t leave garbage. Seatbelt please. Also, give me the address.”
Sam directed him to the 84th Precinct station. She reasoned the activity would be centered on the area where the body was found. Where Tasha Wright was found.
She swore silently.
Dimitri drove aggressively. He took them on and off the highway and through unfamiliar neighborhoods, muttering to himself and consulting the navigation system on his phone. Sam shoved a piece of muffin into her mouth so she wouldn’t yell at him to keep his eyes on the road.
They made excellent time and pulled up to the end of Gold Street not half an hour later. The narrow street was closed to through traffic.
“I can’t get any closer,” Dimitri said.
“This is fine.” She popped on her backup sunglasses and reached into her bag for her wallet.
“No money,” he told her. “Rosa and I are good. Leave the mug. I will get it back to her. You need me, call this number.” He handed her a crisp business card. “Go.”
She pulled herself from the car with a smile and he sped away.
With her provisional NYPD ID on a lanyard, and her Talbot County badge clipped to her belt, Sam passed through the gathering crowd of onlookers and through the temporary barricades, supplemented by a police car with flashing lights and a stern-looking uniformed officer. She worked her way down the narrow street and stopped just short of the tent to text Zielinski.
“Sam! You made it!” Carlisle walked over with his arms outstretched as if he were about to hug her. He settled for a back slap instead. “You look about a million times better.”
“Couple days of nonstop sleep and some pills will do that.” She smiled. “Along with doting friends and relatives.” She lifted the walking stick.
“It means you’re prepared. Although maybe not for this. We should have had security on Levy and Wright from the get-go. And anyone of the Deep Freeze Detectives who live in the five boroughs. Damn it!”
“Come on, Danny. I can’t imagine Tasha Wright thought she needed any protection.” She shook her head. “Where are the others?”
“Zielinski’s on his way over to us. Lopez went to break the news to Tom Levy, who will presumably help her with next of kin notification. Chloe is hunting down the precinct detectives who called us.”
Sam nodded, looked around. “This is a lot of people, even for NYPD.”
“Not for one of their own, Sam. The bastard killed a cop.”
“And left her in front of her old workplace,” Sam said. “But why?”
Nichols showed up with two detectives, judging by their badges. They seemed a mismatched set. The fair-haired man was well over six feet. His features were small, his shoulders wide, his eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. Sam estimated the woman at just over five feet, with straight black hair held back by a headband. Watchful sable eyes, grave expression.
“Detective Connie Ito, Brooklyn North Homicide,” she said by way of introduction. “This is my partner, Detective Fred Bentley. Detective Nichols has more or less filled us in.”
“Detectives Carlisle and Tate,” Carlisle said. “We’re just waiting for Detective Zielinski from Manhattan South.”
“Is he the lead detective on the Dry Ice killings?” Bentley asked.
“That’s me,” Zielinski replied, hurrying over. “We gotta figure out why our killer is escalating.”
“Feeling the pressure,” Carlisle suggested. “Trying to finish the mission.”
“Or the experiment,” Sam said. That earned her a piercing look from Bentley.
“Tate here has some familiarity with serials,” Zielinski explained. “Which unfortunately is what we’re looking at.”
“Sam Tate,” Ito said. “I thought I recognized you.” She looked as if she was about to say more.
“Have you spoken with Tasha’s old colleagues at the Cold Case Squad?” Zielinski asked.
“That’s next,” Bentley said.
“Can we see the body?” Carlisle asked.
“MLI is almost done,” Ito replied. “Let me tell you what we know.”
She swung her arm in an arc. “The precinct station is over there, and the Cold Case Squad headquarters is in the building with the scaffolding. The body was found in a dumpster in front of the building. The dumpster is temporary; it’s just there while the entrance is being repaired. Garbage is collected by a private company hired by the contractor. Two people came this morning. One noticed an oddly shaped bag, opened it, and fell flat on his ass from the fumes. His partner slammed the dumpster shut and called 9-1-1.”
Bentley picked up the story. “DOH sent the hazmat guys because NYPD has been getting calls about homicides involving poisonous gas lately. As soon as DOH determined they were dealing with traces of CO2, we called you.” He pointed at Zielinski, who nodded.
“Good. Can you ask the MLI how much longer?”
“She’s probably ready for us,” Ito said.
“She?” Bentley asked. “I thought the ME’s office sent over a male.”
“You have a problem with the fairer sex?” Ito joked.
“No, it’s just—” Bentley ran a hand through his crew cut. “Never mind. I need a break and some lousy coffee. You guys do your thing. I’ll be right back.” He walked away.
The remaining detectives pulled on disposable gloves and masks, ducked under the canopy and walked over to a fair-skinned light-haired woman in a mask with a digital camera.
“Morning,” she said. “I’m Investigator Ginger Baker from the OME’s office. Obviously not the famous rock drummer.”
Ito made quick introductions. “These are detectives from Manhattan and Queens homicide units. They’ve been pursuing all leads related to the case they’re working on.”
“The Dry Ice Killer,” Baker replied. “It’s all over the news. Objectively speaking, which is all I can do, this woman shares certain postmortem characteristics with the previous victims.”
She stepped aside to reveal the body of Tasha Wright. The woman had been brutalized around the face like the other victims. Her jaw appeared broken and several of her teeth were missing. Bloated, her skin mottled, she scarcely resembled the beautiful and vibrant woman Sam met just a week earlier.
She was overtaken by cold fury. This was no way to end a life of service. She put her emotions aside and bent down, puzzled by what she saw.
“Were you able to make a positive ID?” Zielinski asked.
“Her fingertips are burned almost black,” the MLI said, “but I was able to pull a partial off the fourth finger of her right hand. She also has a scar around her throat from a previous incident, as noted in her file. Her lips, throat, and tongue have the same kinds of burns. Jaw and several teeth are broken. So is her left wrist, by the way.”
“I bet she fought like hell,” Carlisle said, his voice tight. “How would the killer have subdued her?”
“Needle to the back of the neck,” Baker said. “Could have been an injectable form of a benzodiazepine. And yes, she fought back. I’m hopeful we can get DNA from underneath her fingernails.”
“What about cause of death?”
“Distended stomach suggests a rupture, although that may be related to the decomp. I’ve picked up faint signs of CO2. Very much like your other victims, I understand.”
Sam stood. “Not completely,” she said. “Tasha didn’t die in the last twenty-four hours, did she?”
“No, she didn’t,” Baker said. “More like seventy-two hours ago, give or take.”
“Three days.” Sam looked at Carlisle and Zielinski, saw they were thinking the same thing. Tasha Wright had been killed before Theo Austin was attacked.
“Yes, and she was murdered somewhere else and moved, likely within the first twelve hours after her death. The red fibers on her clothes indicate she spent time on some sort of rug or carpet. Can’t tell you much else about where she died.”
“Thank you, Investigator Baker,” Zielinski said. He turned to Carlisle. “Text Lopez. I want a forensics team at the studio ASAP to scour the scene and collect carpet samples.”
Carlisle nodded. “You think she was killed at the studio?”
“Let’s just say it’s a possible crime scene. But Margarite shouldn’t let Levy out of her sight.”
Sam glanced over at Nichols. The young detective hadn’t said a word during the exam. Her notepad was nowhere in sight. Her face was pale, her mouth tight. A slight sheen covered her forehead. She looked sick. Surely this wasn’t her first encounter with a corpse? It could be the first time she was seeing someone in death she’d just met in life.
“Chloe? Detective Nichols? You okay?”
“I . . . I just need a minute.” Nichols backed out of the tent and vanished into the scrum of people.
Sam and Zielinski traded looks.
Bentley met them as they exited the makeshift tent. “Did you get what you need?” he asked.
“For now,” Zielinski answered. “The three-day TOD presents certain complications.”
“Three days?” Bentley looked at Ito. “That’s not what the first guy said.”
“What are you talking about, Fred?” Ito asked. “What guy?”
“I arrived here before you, Connie. The MLI on scene was a man. I told him more detectives were expected and asked him to hang around a little. He said he’d actually been called to another scene and a woman was coming in to finish up.”
“You ever know it to work that way, Fred?”
“No . . .”
“What did this guy look like?” Carlisle demanded.
Bentley shrugged. “Dark hair, thick beard, glasses. Not sure about his eyes.”
“Did you get a name?” Sam asked.
The big man shook his head. “He was gone like a shot. Moved fast for a guy with a bad limp.”
[Transcript of deepfreeze-dfd chat 10/20/21, 12pm EDT]
@notmydayjob: Thanks for showing up, people
@justicewarrior: I almost didn’t
@teacherpreacher: I can’t say I’m completely at ease with this
@strongcoffee: Whose idea was this, anyway?
@workingmom: Someone who knows who we are
@deepdiver: and probably where we live
@notmydayjob: Let’s calm down. A lot of people know who you are by now. Tom Levy and Tasha Wright, the police, maybe other agencies
@truthsleuth: the killer
@dedicateddetective: I bet @notmydayjob knows who we are
@truthsleuth: Does he?
@teacherpreacher: Do you?
@notmydayjob: It’s kind of my jam. Don’t worry, I haven’t shared your identities. But I can help anyone who wants to beef up online security
@justicewarrior: Are you seriously shilling for work?
@deepdiver: or hunting for victims
@notmydayjob: Come on. A clever killer wouldn’t be so obvious. Just cuz someone knows your ID doesn’t mean they’re at your door. The murders were inside the five boroughs, okay? No one on today’s call lives inside the city limits, am I right?
@workingmom: Even if you are, some of us who live outside New York still work in it
@justicewarrior: true
@strongcoffee: Again, what’s the purpose of this chat?
@deepdiver: We’re not all here
@notmydayjob: That’s always true with these chats. And this one was scheduled last-minute
@justicewarrior: Why?
@dedicateddetective: Maybe we’re supposed to talk about the threat
@deepdiver: Says who?
@truthsleuth: Maybe we should hear from brains&beauty, who stirred the pot. What do they have to say?
@deepdiver: I was wondering that myself
@notmydayjob: brains&beauty isn’t on today
@truthsleuth: do you know why?
@strongcoffee: Can we get back to why we were called together?
@teacherpreacher: to help the police, right?
@notmydayjob: It was Tom’s idea. Well, it was mine first. I reached out to him to offer our help. Told him he had some mental firepower among the DFDs
@dedicateddetective: Gee, thanks
@workingmom: Did you offer to put us in harm’s way?
@deepdiver: Yeah, who made you our leader?
@teacherpreacher: Do the police know we’re doing this? Are they monitoring us? Is Tom?
@notmydayjob: Tom isn’t online. He’s wrecked by the thing with Tasha.
@justicewarrior: you mean her torture and death
@dedicateddetective: what?
@strongcoffee: what the ever-loving hell are you talking about?
@workingmom: it just hit the news. Tasha Wright was killed, probably by the Dry Ice Killer.
@teacherpreacher: the hell you say
@countyhunter: How do you know she was tortured?
@justicewarrior: I have friends inside NYPD.
@notmydayjob: Interesting. Are you a cop?
@justicewarrior: (inserts laughing emoji) No
@workingmom: are you a reporter?
@justicewarrior: strike two
@dedicateddetective: I think we can assume the police are monitoring this chat
@deepdiver: Do you think that’s why some people aren’t on?
@truthsleuth: Have we all decided the killer is one of us?
@workingmom: Doesn’t seem fair to point fingers at ppl who aren’t here to defend themselves
@notmydayjob: Presence or absence is not the takeaway here
@deepdiver: what is?
@dedicateddetective: our shared identity as Deep Freeze Detectives
@justicewarrior: We’re being targeted because someone has it in for Tom or Tasha?
@truthsleuth: or because we already know each other
@notmydayjob: Bingo
@teacherpreacher: Do you know us?
@notmydayjob: Does anyone know anyone?
@workingwoman: Don’t be smart. Are we connected through our true crime hobby? Did we meet IRL?
@strongcoffee: Where are you going with this?
@notmydayjob: Has anyone here heard directly from the police?
@teacherpreacher: Why?
@notmydayjob: True confession. The police came to visit me yesterday. Two detectives I won’t name. They wanted me to provide a couple of alibis for a couple of the killings. Not hard, since I’m not the killer. They probably wanted to find out what I’d learned while I was researching
@justicewarrior: You mean hacking
@workingmom: What exactly is it you do, @notmydayjob?
@notmydayjob: I have computer skills. It makes sense they’d come and see me
@deepdiver: But do you have dry ice skills
@truthsleuth: might ask you the same question
@notmydayjob: They also asked me questions about my involvement with all things true crime. Like did I belong to any other chats, listen to any other podcasts, visit any other websites, or attend any conferences, hang IRL with other fans?
@workingwoman: I knew it!
@truthsleuth: So have we met in real life?
@teacherpreacher: bet we have
@notmydayjob: I’m not the only one who’s been contacted
@strongcoffee: I got a call but not a visit
@deepdiver: ditto
@justicewarrior: I got a message to call
@teacherpreacher: same here
@workingmom: I got a visit. At my place of work, which I did not appreciate
@justicewarrior: Now I want to know what YOU do
@workingmom: Why don’t you ask our computer hacker? He seems to know everything
@notmydayjob: not everything
@deepdiver: So we need to figure out who we pissed off on a chat or at a live conference
@countyhunter: Is that our job? Seems dangerous. We could flush out the killer or send them underground. Why not cooperate with the police, let them do the hunting?
@justicewarrior: Can’t it help the police if we brainstorm? Do you think it’s unsafe to throw out theories or even to chat?
@countyhunter: I can’t say. I’m inclined to agree with @notmydayjob that those of you who don’t live or work in the area are probably removed from harm’s way. On the other hand, the killings are happening closer together, which suggests the killer is getting bolder or more desperate
@deepdiver: You sound like police.
@teacherpreacher: Are you police?
@countyhunter: I’m a fan with a practical streak
@workingmom: So how do we stay safe?
@countyhunter: There are things you can do. Make sure you’re never alone. Don’t go anywhere by yourself, day or night. Don’t meet up with anyone you don’t know well, which probably includes your fellow Deep Freeze Detectives. Report anything strange. Talk with the detectives who contact you. Beef up your online security or stay offline. The police are aware of you. Good news for everyone but the killer.
@workingmom: Yeah, you’re police
@strongcoffee: @countyhunter, do you expect us to lock ourselves away?
@teacherpreacher: Thought we were done with all that
@truthsleuth: Sounds like we’re just getting started
@countyhunter: It may not be much longer
@strongcoffee: from your mouth
@notmydayjob: Solid suggestions from someone who works for the county but as what? A discussion for another chat. For now, keep your head down and your online profile low
@workingmom: Okay, I think we’re done here. @notmydayjob, since you’re so chummy with Tom, you can let him know we’re keeping a low profile as a group.
@teacherpreacher: I think any of us who want to reach out individually should do that.
@notmydayjob: sounds about right
@justicewarrior: hope that’s good enough
@deepdiver: it’s gonna have to be
[end transcript]
Sam closed the laptop at Holder’s desk back at the Gramercy Park Precinct and rubbed her eyes. She was flagging, but only a little, thanks to five cups of coffee. The captain was down at One Police Plaza, NYPD headquarters for an emergency meeting. The couch in her office looked as if it might be a nice place to lie down. She talked herself out of trying it out.
She considered what, if anything, she’d just learned on the unexpected chat. The remaining DFDs lived outside of the five boroughs but some still worked in the city. How safe were they? Did her presence on the chat offer a measure of security? Could NYPD provide more? Maybe that would have to wait until the new task force met. Or maybe they didn’t have that kind of time.
Her phone played. Gordy.
“Just wondered if you need some backup?” he asked. “Or we can build a gym at the office so you can keep up with your weightlifting?”
“What did you hear now?”
“Remember, I used to be a Baltimore detective. My ex-CO has a cousin who works for the forensic division of the Manhattan DA’s office. Long story short, plenty of people know about the Dry Ice Killer because of this cousin and because a certain Talbot County lieutenant keeps turning up in the center of things. Did you really deadlift a broken steel door?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, it took two tries. My feet took a hit, although it could have been worse.”
“Yikes!”
She grunted. “That’s not the half of it. Who else knows?”
“Probably everyone,” Gordy said. “By the way, our very own Senator Sean Parker called over to Sheriff Reed. The topic, from what little I can gather, was you.”
Sam didn’t trust herself to respond.
“Lieutenant? Something wrong?”
“No, no. I just can’t believe someone like that would check me out based on one encounter at a cocktail party.”
“Sheriff Reed praised you to the sky if that helps to know. He also suggested the senator contact you directly.”
“Thank the sheriff for me. No, I’ll call him myself. Then I’ll give the senator a call.”
A couple of seconds of dead air. Then, “Are you thinking of leaving us, Lieutenant?”
“Gordy, I don’t know what Senator Parker wants, but I don’t have any other plans.”
“All right, then. Keep us up to date.” Gordy disconnected.
Sam had started to boil during the call, and she was still fuming when it ended. Where the hell did Parker get off, calling Terry, calling her boss, throwing his weight around with the NYPD, which she believed he’d done? If he had a problem with her—or an offer to make her; she didn’t really care at this point—let him come to her.
Maybe he was forcing her hand. Fine. She could call right now and demand to speak with Uncle Quinn. Or leave a message with the chief of staff. Something like, “Could you please ask the senator if he attended my brother’s wedding back in 1994 to protect my family or to kill us all? Thanks so much.” That could earn her at least a FaceTime encounter.
Holder popped back into her office. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“I don’t even know what I’m looking at anymore,” Sam replied. “What’s in the bag?”
“Brought you lunch, Lieutenant. You gotta keep up your strength.” She placed a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of sweetened iced tea in front of Sam and pulled up a spare chair. “Hope you like it.”
“Chicken salad,” Sam exclaimed. “Absolutely perfect. Thank you, Jessica.”
They ate in companionable silence. Sam forced herself not to bolt her food. Working while injured seemed to burn up a lot of calories.
“I have notes on the two interviews you asked for,” Holder said when they’d finished. “Kevin Turner and Regina Young. Detectives Carlisle and Nichols handled both of those. Seems to be a difference of opinion.” A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“You have your own opinion?”
“Not me,” Holder replied. “I’m the finder. I leave the interpretations to others. Speaking of which, the DFDs are very solid with their alibis. I haven’t found anyone who claimed to be at home alone with Netflix, a cat, and a bowl of popcorn.”
“Sounds convenient,” Sam said. “Then again, New York is not a city of slackers. Let me see what you’ve got.”
“All right. I’m going to make some coffee.”
Sam pushed aside her half-eaten sandwich and scanned the reports. Turner was interviewed at his parents’ upper East Side townhouse, a piece of real estate Sam imagined to be north of eight figures. Regina Young was at her job at a pediatric dentist’s office when they called on her. Neither seemed particularly pleased to be interrupted at work, although for Turner, it was more about time management and less about a boss noticing the presence of two NYPD detectives.
Carlisle’s assessment boiled down to Turner’s being arrogant but pleasantly so, a smart man being paid well to use his brain. His home setup allowed him to ride out the pandemic while still pleasing his remote and apparently generous employer.
All in all, Turner struck Carlisle as being grievance-free and outgoing, a man unlikely to derive any pleasure from torturing his victims.
Young was indeed related to a victim whose kidnapping was never solved. Yet she seemed almost resigned to inequalities within the justice system and to the challenge of tracking down a beautiful young woman who disappeared. Meanwhile, her son was an honors student, her home a neat and tidy row house she owned free and clear. She seemed to enjoy her job and the company of her young patients. Her boss declared he a national treasure, a conclusion with which her coworkers agreed.
Not killer material, Carlisle concluded.
Nichols took a decidedly non-benevolent view of the subjects. Turner, she declared, was full of himself, a narcissistic misogynist who might well derive great pleasure out of hurting others. He had the computer skills to fake his own alibis and identify and locate his victims.
As for Young, she radiated resentment as far as Nichols was concerned. Her very particular expertise in working in the mouths of young children told Nichols the woman had the ability to inflict damage. The detective also concluded that Young’s many friends might be more than willing to provide alibis.
Sam sat back, puzzled. No two detectives ever saw things in exactly the same way. Experience colored first impressions. Still, partners usually ended up on the same page, at least in successful investigative pairings. How did Carlisle and Nichols reach such different conclusions about their persons of interest?
Her phone rang, giving her the impetus to vacate Holder’s office for the empty conference room.
“Hey, Danny. How is the mood at the Cold Case headquarters?”
“Dark, which you’d expect, and determined, which you’d also expect. Chloe’s here. We’re going through Tasha’s old cases with help from her former partners. Trying to see if we can match any of them to our DFD profiles.”
“How is Chloe?”
“What? She’s fine.”
“This morning . . .”
“Yeah. The shock of seeing Tasha sent her into a temporary tailspin. I think we were all a little shook up.”
I don’t buy it. The thought popped unbidden into Sam’s head. She decided to keep it to herself. For now.
“How was the online chat?” Carlisle asked.
“I’d like to say illuminating, but I didn’t learn much, except people are shook up. Oh, and a few regulars were missing. The rest were ready to go all Salem witch trials on the absent ones.”
“Hard to defend yourself when you’re not present and accounted for.”
“Pretty much what Kevin Turner said. By the way, I read the notes you and Nichols submitted after yesterday’s interviews. Day and night.
“How do you mean?”
“You don’t see them as stone-cold serial killers. Nichols seems ready to crown one or the other as the Dry Ice Killer.”
“I haven’t read her report . . .”
“You were there. I’m not trying to pry. I just want to get an idea as to what happened.”
“It’s fine. Turner is self-confident. Puffed up but why wouldn’t he be? He’s smart, rich, not bad-looking, and he knows it. But he’s upfront about it. He could be a sociopath, sure, but I didn’t sense it. Honestly, I kind of liked the guy. Young is direct to the point of being blunt. Again, a quality I appreciate. And she adores her patients.” He paused. “Maybe Nichols doesn’t like quite that much honesty.”
Sam let that comment go by. “Who’s left to see in person?” she asked instead. “Puzzlemaven and seenitall, right?”
“Yes. I’m willing to put the author on the back burner, though Lopez is jonesing to meet him. That leaves the physician assistant who, by the way, called this morning with alibis. One of them was his mother, so I don’t know how much stock we can place in that. I’ll probably take a run at her just to confirm.”
“What about a face to face with her son?”
Carlisle snorted. “PAs seem to be very busy. Kostakis can give us ten minutes.”
“When?”
“Zielinski is hung up at the scene. Lopez is at the studio where Levy is hard at work planning a tribute podcast for his former cohost. Ever the professional, I guess. Ron thinks this might be a good time to spring our visit, maybe without an appointment.”
“You and Nichols?”
A slight hesitation. “She’s staying here. Do you want to join me?”
“Sure. I’ll clear my schedule. Holder needs her space back so she can manage the calls coming in from the other DFDs.”
“Great. I’ll get you in an hour and we’ll take FDR straight up. Three p.m., we should be able to avoid traffic in at least one direction.”
“What if it isn’t him, Danny? Or any of them?”
“Don’t even think that way, Tate.”
“Nice location for a hospital,” Sam observed as they walked from the parking lot on East 102nd Street. “How does a patient score a room with a view of Central Park?”
“My mother’s friend stayed in a private patient suite and it’s all Ma can talk about now,” Carlisle replied. “‘It was like a hotel, Danny,’ she said. ‘Put me there if I need a hospital.’ Like we could afford it.”
He stopped walking and consulted his phone. “Kostakis works in the hospital’s cardiac care unit. Sounds important.”
“Is he expecting us?”
Carlisle shook his head. “Nope. I cleared it with his supervisor, but I figure we’ll surprise him, just like we did some of the other Deep Freeze Detectives. We’re here. Masks up.”
Kostakis kept them cooling their heels in the main lobby for half an hour before directing them to an upper floor in the cardiology wing. They found him leaning against the reception desk, looking at his phone. He was a solid man, strong through the shoulders, a little soft under the chin. The dark blue scrubs hid a slight paunch. Not fat, but not an athlete’s body, either. Heavy eyebrows hung over nearly colorless eyes, maybe blue, maybe gray. They rested briefly on his visitors, then fixed on a spot behind them.
Kostakis put his phone on the counter and pulled up his mask. He made no move to approach the visitors.
“Good morning, detectives,” he said. He spoke in a pleasant monotone. “I’m Alex Kostakis. Sorry for the delay. I wasn’t expecting you.” The eyebrows moved down ever so slightly.
“I’m Detective Tate and this is Detective Carlisle,” Sam said.
“Pleasure to meet you.” He offered a slight nod as his eyes traveled to Sam’s sandal-clad foot. “That looks painful. Have you had it checked out?”
“I have, thank you.”
His concern evaporated. “Down to the business of why you’re here, then. We’re all pressed for time. I understand you have some questions about the recent gruesome murders and how they might relate to the true crime podcast I occasionally listen to.”
“And the podcast’s chat room you seem to frequent,” Carlisle said, his voice betraying a slight irritation.
Kostakis moved his gaze to Carlisle’s face before sending it back to the far wall. “Some people relax by watching football,” he said. “I log in anonymously to discuss cold cases. I hope that’s not a crime.”
“Not at all,” Sam said. “We really do appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Kostakis.”
“PA Kostakis,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Excuse me?”
“A physician assistant is a trained and licensed medical professional, Detective Tate. We take the same courses and develop the same skill sets as doctors. Yes, we spend less time in school, no, we don’t technically receive a medical degree. The timeline is compressed because we can bypass residency. Nevertheless, we share a knowledge base with the physicians. Just as you might say ‘Nurse Jones,’ you would say ‘PA Kostakis.’ To do so acknowledges the abilities of the person who holds the title. It’s like calling you Detective Tate.” His half-smile seemed like an effort.
“I see. Thank you for clearing that up, PA Kostakis. I had no idea.”
“Mind you, some PAs are fine if patients use their first names, especially in an office setting. I’m not in an office setting as you can see.” He moved an arm to indicate his surroundings.
“Do you actually perform surgery?” Carlisle asked. “I thought only doctors did that.”
“As I said, we’re virtually the same thing,” Kostakis answered. “Especially when it comes to surgical assistance. These days, with the doctor shortage, a surgical PA will do a lot of the same work physicians did in the past.”
“Impressive,” Sam said. “A surgical physician assistant sounds almost like a specialist.”
“More of a well-qualified generalist, but I take your point.” He seemed to relax under her compliment. “Actually, we know a great deal more about the nuts-and-bolts operation of the profession. At the same time, we have a great deal of medical knowledge in common with the most rigorously trained specialists. I’ve performed a number of routine procedures, of course; I’ve even assisted in more challenging operations. In truth, I’ve probably spent more time in an operating room than your average general practitioner, not to mention almost any other PA in this hospital.”
“I see.” Sam nodded. “What else does your job involve?”
Kostakis twisted his head slightly, making the absence of color in his eyes even more pronounced.
“Intake, including patient history, preliminary exams, writing prescriptions, making recommendations, initiating follow-up, and, as I mentioned, more routine procedures in the operating theater. Assistance at every level. We step out front as needed.”
“That’s very impressive,” Carlisle said. “All that responsibility on top of which you care for your mother, is that right?”
Kostakis narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.
“I’m not certain what my private life has to do with your inquiries, Detective. As for what my job involves, I could offer a more detailed overview but not today.” Kostakis glanced at a nearby wall clock. “If you need alibis and that sort of thing, over and above what I already provided, I can get you more information. If you think it’s necessary to go over the same ground, that is.”
“We’re really hoping you might be able to shed some light on the murders in terms of your fellow detectives’ reactions to them,” Carlisle replied. “You do realize you’re the only medical expert among the Deep Freeze Detectives who regularly shows up to chat.”
Kostakis inclined his head. “I’m not certain how that makes me an expert on murder. We’re in the practice of saving lives here, not taking them. However, if you’re soliciting my impressions of the other so-called detectives, I am willing to share those. The one called notmydayjob seems particularly impressed with his abilities.”
“His abilities?” Sam asked.
“His wit, his knowledge, his skill set, which I gather from his comments have something to do with computers. And yes, I said ‘he,’ though I might be mistaken. Women are less inclined to boast. Except for brains&beauty. That individual, whom I judge to be female, has no problem reminding us how clever she is.” Kostakis delivered his judgments in an affectless tone.
“Have you met any of these people in real life, PA Kostakis?” Sam asked. His face shuttered. “I suppose it’s possible. I attended a conference a year or two ago. But I wouldn’t know anyone’s name. These chats are anonymous.”
“You seem comfortable enough on a computer to penetrate the layers,” Carlisle observed.
“My firewall, you mean. Yes, I’ve taken great care with my own security. I don’t have any interest or time in seeing about anyone else.”
“Thank you for your insights,” Sam said.
Kostakis wasn’t finished.
“I do have an affinity for problem-solving the others seem to lack. Again, I don’t know how that will help you.”
“How do you mean?” Sam asked.
“There is a right way and a wrong way to approach a puzzle,” Kostakis explained. “Everyone likes to emphasize thinking outside the box, looking at a problem from as many angles as possible. But at some point, it comes down to two central issues. Details matter. Process matters. One provides clues, the other provides a framework within which those clues can be assessed. It’s a concept many people, including most amateur detectives, don’t seem to respect. Of course, you do. You’re professionals.”
That last line was delivered without any inflection, so that Sam couldn’t tell if it was meant ironically or not.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Detectives, I really do need to get back to work,” Kostakis said. He remained as he was, a statue with poor posture and restless eyes.
“I think we’ve been dismissed,” Carlisle muttered.
“In more ways than one,” Sam replied. She turned to the elevator, certain that the man who hadn’t once made direct eye contact during their conversation was now watching them intently.
Zielinski called early the next morning, just as Sam was finishing her second cup of coffee.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“Coming along,” Sam answered. She glanced at her bare feet. The bruises still looked hideous, a paint smear of mismatched colors, but the swelling was way down. She could almost wiggle her toes. “Good. Keep using your cane, even if you don’t think you need it. Listen, Theo Austin wants to see us.”
“She’s better?”
“She’s awake. The good news is she probably won’t need throat surgery. The bad news is she can’t really talk. I guess she’s using some sort of hand signals plus a pad of paper. She’s determined to communicate with us. With you, since you saved her life.”
“Where’s everyone else?”
“Danny’s meeting with his CO. Lopez is on her way to the precinct to meet with ours. Chloe will meet us there.”
Sam almost swore out loud. She made a fist and punched her leg. “I’m sure she has other investigations to work on,” she said.
“I think we need to keep someone from Queens North Homicide in the loop on this.”
“Of course. See you there.”
She telephoned Dimitri, who promised to be there as soon as possible. The idea that she had a car and driver on call amused Sam. Once again, she marveled at the connections her aunt had made over the course of a lifetime confined to this Queens neighborhood.
On the way into Brooklyn, she telephoned Sean Parker’s office and requested an online meeting with the senator to discuss his interest in her. Provocative without being overly aggressive. Not that she could measure its effect based on the carefully worded and utterly innocuous response from the receptionist about delivering the message.
She met Zielinski in the lobby of the medical center hospital around 10 a.m. “Austin’s been moved out of the ICU and into a private room,” he said. “She’s also got a private duty nurse, and the head of gastroenterology is personally handling her case.”
“Sounds like progress,” Sam said. “Who pulled what strings to get her the extras?”
“No one from NYPD, as far as I know. Or the mayor’s office.”
“Theo Austin has friends with leverage,” Sam said. She looked around. “Where’s Nichols?”
“Running late. She can catch up.” The cop outside Theo Austin’s room was young, masked, and alert. Head was up, not down to his phone. He jumped to attention as they approached.
“She’s got a visitor, detectives,” he announced. “Dude’s been in there since late yesterday afternoon. She’s allowed a maximum of two people at a time, so you’ll have to work it out. I don’t care, but the nurses are sticklers for the rules.” He grinned under his paper mask.
Sam found herself smiling back at him.
“Thank you, officer,” Zielinski said. “If you need a break . . .”
“If it’s all the same with you, I’ll stay here until my shift ends.”
“Very good.” Zielinski knocked, waited two beats, and entered with Sam.
Theo was propped up with three or four fluffy pillows that looked nicer than any Sam had seen in a hospital setting, as did the nightgown and the bright blue comforter on the bed. A brownish drink, which might have been a Frappuccino, sweated next to her on the nightstand.
A long-legged man with silver-streaked brown hair and a worried expression sat in a chair he’d pulled as close as possible to the bed. His knees were pressed to the bed frame, and he held one of Theo’s much smaller hands in both his own.
Her father? Sam wondered and then corrected herself. This man wasn’t old enough to be a generation ahead. Maybe a brother, a colleague, or a special friend.
Austin appeared wan under the less than flattering glare of the hospital lighting. Her freckles almost disappeared against her pale skin. By contrast, the bruises around her jaw were equal to any gained by a prize fighter on the losing end of a glove. Her hair was flat against her head, the color muted, as if coated with rust and sand. A thick gauze bandage encircled her neck; a couple of fingers on her left hand were similarly bandaged.
Fortunately, her enormous cobalt eyes appeared unclouded. She waved as they entered
If Austin was glad to see them, the man was less so. He leapt to his feet, fairly quivering with disapproval at the intrusion.
“May I help you?” he demanded.
“Detective Sergeant Ron Zielinski and Lieutenant Sam Tate. Ms. Austin requested we visit her as soon as possible. We hurried right over.”
Sam covered her surprise at Zielinski’s use of titles. He must have known something she didn’t.
“Oh, right, the detectives. I didn’t think meeting with you so soon after the incident was such a great idea. She’s only just woken up, you know. But she can be quite insistent.” The tall man had a British accent, just a suggestion of posh but toned down perhaps for the Americans. His attitude softened marginally. “Sorry. Don’t mean to come across like a mother hen.” He stuck out his hand. “Gregory Davies. Greg is fine.”
“Nice to meet you,” Zielinski said. “How are you connected to Ms. Austin, if you don’t mind me asking?” He didn’t sound as if he cared if Davies minded.
“I’m a major investor in her company. And a, um, close friend.” He colored ever so slightly.
Business partner and special friend. Sam made a mental note. She knew without looking that Zielinski had done the same.
“Er, hospital regulations don’t allow three people in the room at one time,” Davies said. “Perhaps one of you can step out?”
“How about you and I step out, Mr. Davies? Sam here can communicate with Ms. Austin. Meanwhile, we can chat in the lounge. I’m sure you can help me with a couple of details.”
“Oh?” He looked disconcerted. “But Theo can’t really talk. Just whisper. She writes things down, you see.”
“We’ll be just fine,” Sam told him.
“I’d really like to get some information from you, Mr. Davies,” Zielinski said. “Trust me, the NYPD is grateful for any assistance.” He put a hand under the man’s elbow and herded him toward the door.
“Well, if you’re certain. Theo, dear? Will you be alright? Can you tell the detective if there’s anything you need? Anything at all?”
Austin smiled, which immediately took ten years off her face. She gave a gentle wave that managed to convey both affection and dismissal.
When the two men left, she made the sign of a heart with her hands.
“He seems fond of you, too,” Sam observed. “An investor and perhaps more than that?”
Austin inclined her head and lifted a shoulder. Sam took the response as an affirmation of sorts. No doubt Zielinski would dig deeper to learn more about the relationship. Love and hate could easily occupy the same space.
The woman in the bed made the sign again and pointed to Sam, then herself.
“If you’re thanking me for getting you out of the warehouse, you’re more than welcome,” Sam said. She pulled out the chair Davies had vacated and sat down at an angle that let her see Austin’s writing pad. “Are you able to talk at all?” she asked.
Whisper, Austin printed. A little
“We’ll stick with pad and paper then. Before we get started, do you need anything? Are you in any pain?”
Austin shook her head.
“Good. Okay, Theo. Let me start with some observations. Call it housekeeping. Then I will listen to, or read, what it is you want to tell me. Will that work for you?”
Austin nodded and gave a thumbs up.
“First of all, you should be aware that we know your real name is Teresa Albon. Not a lot about you we could find, except you were born and grew up in northern Maine with at least one sibling and two parents. No problems, no record, nothing that seemed to necessitate an identity change. So why the new name?”
New career, new gender-neutral name
“I can see that,” Sam said. “What was your interest in becoming a DFD?”
Research
Sam rolled her eyes. “I’ll let that go for a minute,” she said. “Let’s skip to the night at the warehouse. Do you know who attacked you? Did you see his face?”
Austin shook her head and wrote:
He stayed behind me the whole time. I couldn’t move.
“I don’t know if anyone told you, but I shot someone in the foot. A man, judging by the noise he made. He got away, obviously. I didn’t hear him speak, though. Did you?”
Just muttering
“Okay, don’t worry about that. It was you who summoned me to a meeting, right? When did you figure me for a police officer?”
Austin jotted down:
@countyhunter is 2 obvious
So much for the back story, Sam thought. “Why did you want to meet me at such an out of the way place?”
To talk abt killer ID
Sam almost sprang out of her chair. “What? You know who it is? The Dry Ice Killer?”
Austin shook her head
Suspicions
“And you wanted to talk to me about them. Who else did you talk with about your suspicions or about having a meeting?”
Tasha Wright. Sat night
A Saturday night meeting, after which Tasha was killed.
“Why didn’t you come into the precinct?”
Tasha wanted to do podcast first
“Podcast? Were you planning a podcast about the Dry Ice Killer with Tasha?”
Tues. Good 4 ratings, good for TCCon, good for police. Win-win
Sam’s anger startled her; it swept away any sympathy she’d brought with her into the room. Brains&beauty had dropped enough hints on the chat to concern the killer. Maybe that person had identified her and even followed her to the meeting. Sam didn’t want to imagine what the killer had done to Wright to extract information from her.
She forced her voice to stay steady. “You were going to speculate on air about the identity of a dangerous killer without proof?”
Austin shook her head and scribbled:
Tasha said she’d get proof. She texted me Mon to set up a meeting w/you & she’d be there
“Tasha is dead, Theo. Tortured and killed with dry ice. Probably early Sunday, although we just found her body this morning. The killer must have used her phone to text you.”
Austin’s hand went to her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears.
Sam laid a hand on the woman’s shoulders. “I’m sorry. It’s a lot to take in. No, don’t,” she ordered as Austin thumped herself on the chest. “Tasha’s death is not your fault. The blame lies with the bastard who is doing this. Got it?”
Austin nodded miserably.
“Theo, as long as your hand can hold up, we’ll keep going. I know it’s rough. If you need a break, we can take one. Anything that occurs to you, you let me know. However, I don’t want you to share it with anyone else for now, not even your friend Greg. Is that clear?”
YES!
“Good. Now write down anything else you can think of. Suspicions, recollections, whatever. Take your time.” Sam sat.
After a couple of seconds, Austin held up a finger, then wrote:
I ID’d DFD regulars and checked them against a list of ppl at my first TCCON. Looking for suspects. The women dropped off my list. They were team players, even the dental tech. Couple of men stood out. A little too high and mighty.
“Arrogance is not a crime, Theo,” Sam said.
Austin appeared to concede the point. She scribbled:
Several men from TCCon’s physical and virtual conferences ended up on the chat. I pegged them right away. Same attitude, same words
“There are a couple of men on the chat who might not be pleasant to know in real life. That doesn’t make them killers.” She paused. “Wait a minute. You said, ‘same words.’ What did you mean by that?”
Hard to explain
“Are you thinking about a particular phrase or slogan?”
It’s fuzzy
“Understandable. We can pick this up later.”
Austin held up a finger, as if to say, “wait.” She looked off, then resumed writing.
Killer said something b4 I fainted
Sam felt her gut clutch. “Do you remember what it was?”
Austin whispered a single word that sounded as if it had been dragged over broken glass.
“Respect.”
Austin was through. Sam fluffed her pillows and left with a promise to return. She found Zielinski sitting in the nearby visitors lounge with Gregory Davies. The two men were sharing a laugh, suggesting less an interrogation and more a pleasurable exchange. Unless Davies was a psychopath.
“Detective Nichols is in the ladies’ room,” Zielinski said. “She’ll join us in a minute.”
“I think I’ll wash my hands,” Sam said. Zielinski nodded
She pushed open the door and headed to the double sink. Nichols obviously occupied one of the two stalls, which she exited a moment later, head down and hand in her purse.
She looked up, saw Sam, and yelped. The bag slid off her shoulder, dumping its contents on the floor. The two-word curse she yelled, along with her outsize reaction to Sam’s presence seemed so out of character that Sam almost laughed. Until Nichols fell to her knees and, ignoring her wallet and her phone, frantically scrambled after several loose capsules that rolled across the floor.
“Here, let me help you.” Sam moved to join her.
“I don’t need your help,” Nichols snapped. “You’ve done enough. Nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack as it is. Back off!”
Sam retreated to the sink and watched the detective scoop up the pills and throw them back in her bag, except for one she dry-swallowed. She sat back on her haunches, her body trembling, and drew her breaths in and out much the way Sam did when she was trying to calm herself.
Sam didn’t think the yoga technique was what slowed the woman’s heart rate and stopped her shaking.
After a minute Nichols closed, then opened her eyes. Only then did she retrieve her other items and put them back into her bag with slow, deliberate movements.
“Chloe, can you stand?” Sam asked.
“Of course I can.” She stared at Sam with distaste. Her pupils were tiny dots in a sea of lead. “I’m fine.” She got to her feet and dusted off her skirt.
“Chloe, if you have a problem . . .”
“You’re my problem, Tate. You and a bad back, but that I can handle.”
“Is that what the pills are for?”
Nichols walked to the sink. She made a show of washing her hands. She spoke into the mirror.
“Why are you working on this case, Lieutenant? You’re not NYPD. You don’t even live here. Is it the glory? The challenge? Are you going for a record? Most serial killers caught by one person. Or does my good-looking partner, Detective Danny Carlisle have something to do with your interest?”
“I get it, Chloe. You resent my presence.” Sam made no attempt to approach. “You have since the day we met. Did you draw press attention my way, maybe even give the story a negative spin? So you could get some of the rank and file to question my role, maybe force me to stand down?”
“I never—”
“It doesn’t matter right now. What matters are the pills in your bag.”
“My medicine, you mean. For a very serious injury I sustained in the line of duty.” She ever so slightly slurred the word “sustained.”
“Chloe, I was sheriff of a Tennessee county with an escalating opioid crisis. Now I work in a county where the problem is even worse. I know the signs of addiction. I know it can affect anyone struggling with pain. Mothers and fathers, young and old, rich and poor, men and women. Doctors, lawyers, cops. Believe me, I’m not judging.”
“Like hell you aren’t.” Nichols stopped rubbing her hands under the running water. She straightened, smoothed back an invisible hair, and faced Sam, defiant.
“I’m sure you’d like to use this issue to get rid of me, Lieutenant. Or humiliate me; I don’t know which. It’s not going to happen. Things work differently in the big city. Everyone understands what a demanding job this is. I have the trust of my captain and my partner. I have never let my pain define me. My treatment has never interfered with my performance.”
Sam thought that might be true. Plenty of people in her line of work used and occasionally abused pills, booze, or who knows what else. Most of them either burned out or let up. Some just kept going.
How long had Nichols been dependent? Was Sam really the first person to notice? Lopez had hinted at an issue. Maybe sympathetic coworkers chose to look the other way. Maybe even Carlisle. While Sam had no illusions about the drug’s dangers, she also understood that she was an outsider. Her job, in the short time that remained, was to help stop a killer who was only becoming more active.
“Lieutenant, please.” Nichols dropped her defiance like a veil. “I’ve hit a rough patch. I’ll take care of it. I’ll see my doctor. I’ll get a different prescription. I’ll even go back to physical therapy. I want to help catch the guy who killed Tasha. Let me do that.”
“Fine. I promise you, though, if you so much as—”
“I get it,” Nichols said. “Let’s get back to work.”
Sam was glad to do that. Unfortunately, her work now included keeping her eye on Detective Chloe Nichols.
Sam left the ladies’ room first. The two men were still chatting. Zielinski stood, which signaled the end of what looked like an amiable exchange. They shook hands like old friends. Davies appeared less anxious, even more so when Sam reported that Austin was fine.
“She is coming along,” he enthused. “She’s a very strong woman. Detective—Ron—it was very nice to speak with you. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He strode away on his long legs, back to the room where he’d been holding vigil.
Sam watched him hurry off. “Seems as if you two got along pretty well,” she said to Zielinski.
“He’s an okay guy. Charming, amusing, slightly self-deprecating, kind of a Hugh Grant type. He’s wildly in love with Theo Austin. Not sure if she knows it.”
“She knows it,” Sam said.
“I don’t think he’s acting. He’s also a big fan of her entrepreneurship. He believes in her company and its prospects over time. Thinks she’s brilliant as well as beautiful, blah, blah. Oh, and he’s a billionaire several times over. I can’t even count that high. Ever heard of TechJet?”
“The company that advertises ‘faster than the speed of light’ delivery?” Nichols asked. She’d regained her equilibrium, enough so that Zielinski didn’t notice anything amiss.
“That’s the one. Trains that move so fast you can’t see them. Planes that lift off like the old Concord but can be maintained for a fraction of the price. Physical goods that get delivered the same day. 3D backups. It’s going to put a number of companies out of business, from DHL and UPS to maybe even Amazon if Davies sets his mind to it.”
“Not sure that’s necessarily a bad thing,” Sam said. “Is he in the business of manufacturing noncommercial aircraft for, say, the military?”
“I wondered the same thing, so I texted Holder to look for connections between TechJet and the company Kevin Turner works for.”
Sam looked incredulous. “When did you do all that?”
“Just before Davies and I sat down to talk. I thought I recognized him. Don’t look so surprised, you two. I can multitask.”
“I would hope so, Detective Sergeant.” Sam emphasized the last two words. “I mean, way to drop a career bombshell during an introduction.” She slapped him on the back.
“A promotion,” Nichols added. “Congratulations. When were you going to tell us?”
“As soon as we caught a break in the case. Did we, Sam? What did Theo have to offer?”
“To start with—”
“Hang on. Lopez is calling.” He put his phone on speaker. “You’ve got me, Nichols, and Tate.”
“Hi, there,” Lopez said. “Productive day?”
“So far,” Zielinski replied. “You?”
“Yep. Captain Platt is all caught up and I’ve got the information you asked for from Holder.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Davies and Turner work for businesses with different clienteles and probably different mission statements. Turner’s company has dealings with DOD and DHS. The only government agency TechJet people have spoken with is FEMA, and that’s about delivering emergency supplies. Nothing involving Homeland or Defense. No contracts with any foreign government. They seem more interested in dominating the private delivery service sector.”
“Greg Davies may be what he appears to be, a wealthy guy who is smitten with Austin,” Zielinski said. “Kevin Turner may be nothing more than a pain in the ass genius.”
“I still think he could be our guy,” Nichols said.
“He’s staying on my list,” Lopez declared. “Oh, we got the lab report back on evidence recovered from Tasha Wright’s body. Well, we received two reports.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked.
“It’s a little puzzling,” Lopez admitted. “You met the MLI on scene, right?” “Ginger Baker,” Zielinski said. “Female, not to be confused with the famous rock drummer.” “Right. That’s the report I’m using. But the lab had a partial report from another MLI who arrived earlier. They write everything into a tablet, and everything is saved. This report is marked incomplete. Maybe that’s why there’s no mention of a red carpet.”
“Red carpet?” Zielinski asked.
“Yeah. Baker’s findings included samples of red carpet fiber. The lab confirms they came from a cheap polyester long-weave rug just this side of shag. Nothing like the nice stuff they have in Levy’s studio, by the way.”
“A clue to where Wright was killed,” Sam said. “Who signed the other evidence report?”
Lopez took a moment. “That’s just it. No signature. Which is weird.”
Sam stood stock still, rooted in place by the sensation that several dots were about to connect.
“Hold on, Margarite.” Zielinski turned to Sam. “Tate? You okay? What’s going on?”
Sam expelled the breath she’d been holding while ideas sorted themselves out. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just a lot of thoughts coming together. For starters, I agree with Nichols that we need to have another talk with Kevin Turner.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Then I’d like to talk with who supervises the MLIs.”
“Someone at the OCME’s office,” Zielinski said.
“Right. How fast do you think we can—?”
She stopped abruptly, aware that she was acting as if she were head of Criminal Command. That was fine back in Talbot County, Maryland. It wasn’t remotely appropriate behavior for a temporary consultant to the NYPD.
“I’m sorry, Ron. You’re the boss,” she added.
“And you’re the consultant with the finely tuned instincts. Let me call over to the OCME and see how quickly I can set something up. Margarite, can you contact Kevin Turner and tell him we need to see him this afternoon or tomorrow morning at the latest? Don’t make it a choice. Sam, do you have something to add?”
“Let’s bring in Kostakis as well. One after another. We can put new people in front of each of them. Me and Lopez on Turner, Chloe and you on Kostakis. Carlisle is our observer. Oh, and Margarite, can you ask Jessica to go back in the chat transcripts a few months and highlight the word ‘respect’ wherever she sees it?”
“Will do.”
“Okay, we all have our marching orders,” he said. “Chloe, do you have anything you want to add?”
Nichols was already headed for the elevator bank. “Nope, I’m good,” she called out without turning around. “See you tomorrow.”
Sam didn’t take her eyes off the woman until she rounded the corner and disappeared.
Sam headed back to Queens on high alert. She could barely sit still on the subway and ended up pacing a near-empty car. No one followed her, at least not that she detected. Her jitters related to her efforts to gather disparate facts, arbitrary impressions, snatched bits of dialogue, and random observations and pull them into a coherent narrative.
She’d long ago decided that the most exhilarating, most stomach-churning part of her job had nothing to do with facing danger. Those feelings piled on as you neared the finish line, just before you dropped in the last piece of the puzzle that had been in your pocket the whole time and stood back to take in the big picture.
Tomorrow she would go through all the pockets to retrieve those missing puzzle pieces. In the meantime, she needed to keep busy.
Danny called just as she got to Rosa’s. She brought him up to date, then begged off seeing him in the evening in favor of dinner with her aunt. She reached Terry but he was between meetings and too rushed to talk.
She couldn’t run, so she contented herself with as much in the way of calisthenics as she could manage. Not much, thanks to a couple of knots in her neck. A massage would have been nice, but she didn’t want to leave the house. She decided on a soaking bath with Epsom salts.
Forty minutes later, she padded downstairs in a fluffy robe Rosa had left for her and checked the refrigerator for something to tide her over.
The phone played her latest ringtone selection, “Stayin’ Alive,” just as she sat down to eat. She’d downloaded it for its New York–style swagger. Now the chorus had taken on additional relevance. So did the number displayed on the screen. Senator Parker’s office.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Tate,” the polite young woman said. “I hope we’re not catching you at a bad time?”
“I’ve just finished a meeting,” Sam replied. She could only hope she was out of range of any video cameras or drones that might give lie to her statement.
“The senator is eager to speak with you. Zoom is fine. He does have time constraints . . .”
“Naturally,” Sam said as she headed upstairs. “Can we begin in five minutes?”
“I’ll send a link,” the woman said and hung up. Sam needed two minutes to pull on a sweater, pull back her wet hair and swipe on some lip gloss. She used the remaining three to set up her laptop back downstairs in front of Rosa’s tiny bookcase. The lighting was less than optimal, but the background gave the illusion of a professional setting.
She logged on and waited an extra four minutes. Then he was in front of her, filling her screen and looking much as he had a year and a half earlier when Sam and he were introduced. Perhaps a little more silver at the temples. Impeccably tailored in a dark-blue suit with a purple herringbone tie. Now, as then, he wore lightly tinted glasses that partially shielded his eyes. Sam knew them to be similar in shape, size, and color to her own.
“Sam, how nice to see you again,” he began in his rolling baritone. “You look well.” He leaned in and smiled. She forced herself not to sit back.
“I’m so sorry we aren’t meeting in person, although I hope we can make that happen soon. I understand how busy you are, especially since your participation in tracking down that serial killer. I trust you all are making progress.”
“We are,” she said shortly. “Senator, I’m aware that you called both my former colleague and my current supervisor to talk about me.”
“Yes. Each of them wisely suggested I contact you directly, but you’ve beaten me to it.” The smile was warm, sincere, made for the camera and for videoconferencing.
“Both Special Agent Sloan and Sheriff Tanner indicated you wanted to present me with an opportunity.”
“That’s correct. A career path with more opportunities than the one you’re on at this moment. Now, I understand you have a full-time job under the command of an admiring sheriff. Although after your impressive performance in New York, you must be juggling quite a few offers.”
“Probably not as many as you think,” Sam admitted. “I’m a little, ah, mature to start from the bottom, which is what most city police forces would require. Maybe I’ll hear from a county department down the road, although coming in as an outsider doesn’t appeal to me anymore.”
“What about working in Washington? I don’t presume to know exactly how close you and Agent Sloan are, but he is a man with a bright future.”
“I don’t think the FBI is in the cards for me.”
“I’m talking about the Secret Service.”
She gaped at the screen. “You’re suggesting I apply for a job with the Secret Service?”
“Yes, as a special agent. As you may know, I sit on the Committee for Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs. We oversee DHS and they oversee the Secret Service.”
“My age—”
“Won’t be a factor for several years due to your status as a veteran. Your police and military experience will likely exempt you from basic training in Georgia, although you’ll have to undergo specialized instruction here in DC. I think we can arrange to get you in as a GS-11 or even higher.”
She wanted to get up and walk away, maybe even leave the room. But these onscreen encounters were unforgiving that way. She wasn’t even sure where to shift her focus.
“Why me specifically?” she managed to ask.
“That’s not complicated at all. The agency has encountered more than a few bumps in the road in recent years. Some bad behavior but also some external incidents beyond its control. Morale is a bit low, and several senior agents are retiring. Your experience, your professional profile, even your gender, if we’re being candid, would be a tremendous asset.”
To the agency or to you? Sam wondered.
“Well,” she said at last, “you seem to have worked it all out. I hope you don’t mind my asking: Did you also engineer my appointment to the NYPD task force?”
“You've already made progress on the case, as I understand it.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Sir.”
Parker smiled. “The mayor is a friend of mine. I may have offered an opinion on your worth.”
“And what is my worth to you, Senator Parker? Or should I say, Uncle Quinn.”
If she expected him to look surprised, or even pretend to, she was disappointed.
“So, you know,” he said.
“I do now.” She had the pleasure of seeing him flinch. “I’ve been entertaining the possibility since I met you at the gallery opening in St. Michaels. I assume you knew I’d be there, since you made a point of removing your glasses to flash your green eyes at me.”
He touched his eyewear. “For your information, the glasses correct vision and mitigate a light sensitivity. And no, I didn’t know you’d be there. But I knew you existed. My adoptive parents told me as much.”
“Were these the people who worked for the Patriarca family?”
His face clouded. “These were good people who desperately wanted a child and took wonderful care of the one gifted to them.”
“Interesting way of putting it,” Sam shot back. “I’m curious. Did you ever try to meet your birth parents? My great-uncle and my grandmother? Or your half sisters? You had three.” She waited a beat. “You don’t need to answer. I know you sought out Colleen. But why did you try to track me down all these years later?”
“I didn’t.”
His answer brought her up short.
“Then how did you know we were related?”
Parker lifted his glasses. His eyes were hers in masculine form. Without thinking, she reached up and touched her face.
“We met twice, at the same gallery in St. Michaels. We didn’t speak the first time, but I was bowled over by your resemblance to your mother and yes, to me. After that, I did make some inquiries, so that I had my own ideas about our connection when we met again.”
Was he telling the truth? She floundered and decided to take another tack.
“Do you have siblings or a family of your own?” She already knew the answer.
“No,” he said after a few seconds. “Only child. And my wife died in an accident not long after we were married.”
“An accident?”
“That’s correct.”
Sometimes we hurt the ones we love, Sam thought. She wanted to say it out loud, throw it out there along with the accusations and recriminations that festered inside her.
She stared at the screen, saw that the discussion was being taped, considered her options.
“Sam?”
“I was just trying to recall if you were at my brother’s wedding in New York back in 1994.”
“I wasn’t invited,” he said simply.
The door opened behind him to reveal a young man in a suit. “Excuse me, sir, but you have that three o’clock.”
Parker replaced his glasses and smiled. “Sam, please think about the offer we discussed. I think it would be good for you in so many ways.”
He left the chat. Sam stayed where she was, her eyes on the inactive screen, her head and heart in turmoil.
Sam sat in the passenger seat massaging her temples while Zielinski drove them to the OCME’s office for a 9:00 a.m. meeting with the MLI supervisor.
“You need ibuprofen or something?” Zielinski asked.
She was tempted to spill the entire story of Senator Half Uncle to Ron. Except she didn’t have enough distance. Despite hashing out her misgivings about Parker with Terry last night, she still woke up to a throbbing headache. The only thing to do was to force her concerns onto the back burner.
One homicide at a time, she reminded herself as they arrived at the facility.
They were greeted by Ezra Pollack, tall and fit, with salt and pepper hair, twinkling eyes, and a mustache that would make a walrus proud. He ushered Sam and Zielinski into his office and closed the door.
“Thanks for taking the time to see us so quickly, Director Pollack,” Zielinski said.
“Please call me Ezra. Have a seat and ignore the mess.” He gestured to a relatively tidy desk and pulled over a couple of chairs.
“Let me jump right in with the bad news,” he began without preamble. “I did some checking after you called yesterday. We have no history of an Alan King working here as an MLI or in any other capacity. Not now, not ever. I even tried alternate spellings on the first name. Nothing.”
“I was afraid of that,” Sam said.
“However,” Pollack continued, “I went a little further. I pride myself on my detecting skills.” His grin pushed up a generous mustache up to reveal small, even teeth. “People who use aliases tend to stick with their initials. You’d think after thousands of films, TV shows, and novels . . . well, never mind. The point is, I found something.”
“An MLI with the same initials,” Zielinski prompted.
“Not quite. An applicant. We’ve had multiple submissions for an MLI position from someone named Alexander Kostakis of Forest Hills, Queens. And by multiple, I mean four.”
Sam and Zielinski looked at each other.
“How did Mr. Kostakis apply four times and not get accepted?” Sam asked.
Pollack leaned on his desk and steepled his hands.
“Let me start with what he did get right. He went to CUNY, majored in chemistry, then went on to get an MS as a physician assistant. We require that of all our MLIs. It’s one of the reasons the OCME in this city is a national leader in the field of forensic investigation. Kostakis then did a clinical rotation at Mount Sinai. He was twenty-six at the time of his first application.”
“Sounds as if he’d put in the work,” Sam said.
“Getting through the program is no mean feat. It’s like an abbreviated form of med school and it’s hard work. But once you’re finished, you’re finished. No residency or associate positions. You graduate, pass the board exams, and become a licensed PA. Nowadays, it’s a smart career choice. PAs are in demand, and the salary is impressive. A lot better than here.” He grimaced.
“But Kostakis didn’t want to keep working as a physician assistant,” Sam noted.
“Apparently not. That could be said of all our applicants, although most spend more time trying it out before applying here. Not that Kostakis failed at his clinical rotation. According to his supervisor, he was quite thorough and excellent with details. He was invited to stay.”
“They liked him?” Sam asked.
“Let’s just say his supervisors admired his work. He was knowledgeable and thorough. Valuable skills to have in any setting, especially prized in a hospital setting.”
“I sense there’s more,” Zielinski said.
“According to his mentoring physician, he lacked interpersonal skills.”
Sam thought about her encounter with Kostakis. “Could he have been autistic?” she asked.
“Possible, I suppose. Unfortunately, autism is all too often used as a catch-all to explain away a range of psychosocial disorders. His supervisor mentioned that Kostakis didn’t seem concerned with what other people felt. He was dismissive of colleagues. He didn’t connect with his patients. He showed little interest in the human side of the practice.”
“A lack of empathy,” Sam observed. “Not a great quality in a physician assistant.”
“Or a medicolegal investigator.” Pollack stretched his long arms and gracefully brought them back to the desk, like a heron settling on the water. Then he continued.
“People assume that since we’re working with the dead, feelings like empathy and compassion don’t come into play. Plenty of others see what we do as ghoulish. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, our people must be able to compartmentalize. You can’t approach a dead body in anything but a detached manner or you’ll go crazy. But our investigators are kind and caring. They want to honor the dead and help the living. They know that if they do their job effectively, homicide investigations can be moved along, families can be comforted, and sometimes justice can even be served.”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “My wife tells me I step up on the soapbox too much of the time. Apologies.”
“Not an issue,” Sam said. “Your description fits with a lot of what we do.”
“Did you interview Kostakis yourself?” Zielinski asked.
“Not the first time. That was done by a senior MLI. She later admitted she didn’t like him. Nothing he said per se, just a bad feeling she had. I was concerned she’d been influenced by the caveats included in his recommendation. Still, first impressions count for a lot around here. We have nearly a thousand applications for just a few openings every year.”
Kostakis first applied ten years earlier, the supervisor went on. He wrote a follow-up note even after his application was denied thanking everyone for the opportunity. Two years later, he applied again.
“I handled that interview,” Pollack said. “Kostakis still worked at Mount Sinai during the day. He’d also picked up hours at a clinic on the Bowery. Lousy pay, late nights. He performed admirable work, according to everyone there.”
“He’d gone from self-centered to altruistic?” Zielinski asked.
“Seemed so, at least on the surface. Then I spoke to him.”
They waited while the supervisor considered his words.
“During the interview, we got on the topic of medical ethics when dealing with the deceased. He asked if I thought a dead body could apprehend pain. I thought he was joking. ‘Surely your training has taught you the answer is no,’ I said, or some such thing. He assured me it did. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder, or so he said, whether, if the pain was unimaginable at the end of life, the dead might retain a memory of it.”
“Scientific curiosity?” Sam asked.
“Perhaps, but the line of inquiry bothered me. He obviously read my discomfort. He attempted to walk back his remarks. He just dug himself in deeper. He knew it, and he knew I knew it. Just as we both recognized that he’d tanked his chances.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I suggested his interests might align better with private sector laboratory work. He acknowledged the recommendation; I can’t say that he appreciated it.”
“You said he applied again?” Zielinski asked.
Pollack nodded. “Twice more after that, in 2016 and 2018. He was categorically rejected both times. That was the last I heard of him. A year later ‘Alan King’ made an appearance.”
He turned his computer screen around to face the detectives.
“These are the report forms an MLI must file after he or she has completed a preliminary investigation,” he said. “We investigate approximately eighty-five hundred deaths per year, more than a hundred and fifty per week. The investigations are handled by forty or so trained MLIs. I don’t review those reports. That task falls to the Senior Medical Examiner in each of the five borough offices.”
He brought up two files side by side. “These two reports were submitted in Staten Island and Brooklyn, respectively. The first in 2019 and the second in 2020. Both reports were by the book and a hundred percent accurate. Preliminary cause and manner of death were confirmed by autopsy.”
“These aren’t homicides?” Sam asked.
“No. The first victim was a homeless man who froze to death during a particularly brutal week in December. He was found near a subway stop, poor guy. The second was a woman who was found asphyxiated in a Brooklyn warehouse where she was employed as a catalog specialist. Both classified as accidental deaths by the MLI.”
Pollack brought up a third form.
“This form was filed a little less than two weeks ago in Manhattan. A bartender named Grant Paulson was found dead at his place of employment, the Salty Peanut. Noted as a probable homicide.” He looked directly at Zielinski. “This was your case, I believe.
“It was.”
“Look at the MLI’s signature on all three of the forms.”
Zielinski bent over the desk. “A. King,” he read. “Alan King. The person who identified himself as a medicolegal investigator at several of our crime scenes, although no such person ever worked for the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office.”
“Correct.” Pollack brought up two more files. “And here are the final two reports. Both recent cases, I believe. Both signed by the same person. These came to my attention because the Senior Medical Examiner in Queens couldn’t remember anyone by that name. And because the investigations came so close together, just two days apart.”
“He’d started to escalate at that point,” Sam said.
“Did either of you meet this Alan King at a crime scene?” Pollack asked. “Does he resemble Alex Kostakis?”
“He might,” Zielinski admitted. “Or not. He wore a mask, glasses, and a beard which may or may not be real.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure we can definitively say one way or the other.”
“What kind of person impersonates a death investigator?” Pollack demanded. “A necromaniac?”
A killer, Sam thought.
“I’d like to get a warrant to search his mother’s house,” Zielinski said as they made their way uptown.”
“That would be ideal,” Sam said. “And maybe whatever cubicle or locker he has at the hospital.”
“I’d like to get a warrant, Sam, but I don’t know if I can. The question is whether we have probable cause.”
“Isn’t it a crime to impersonate an investigator with the ME’s office?”
Zielinski nodded, his eyes on the road. “It is,” he said. “But what proof do we have that Kostakis is the same person as Alan King?”
“The Brooklyn detective, Bentley, saw someone identifying as an MLI limp away from the scene after he attempted to process it,” Sam said. “We know I shot someone in the foot on Monday night. Most likely male.”
“People limp for lots of reasons. Did Kostakis have a problem with his foot that you noticed?”
Sam thought about the interview. “I’m not sure. He didn’t move. Stood like a statue. Which is peculiar but not . . .” She bit her lip.
“Not evidence. Let’s see what Turner has to offer before we decide how to proceed. I don’t want to deal with any more people with burned throats or ruptured stomachs or any other signs of torture, believe me. On the other hand, I have to watch my step on this case. I can’t let it blow up in my face. Let me ask you this: Can you say with certainty that the fake MLI and the real PA are the same person?”
“King had a full beard, Kostakis had his head covered with a surgical cap. But the eyes . . . I could swear they were similar.”
“Swear as in a court of law?”
Sam crossed her arms across her chest. “No,” she conceded.
“Then we need more.”
At the precinct, they ran into Captain Platt, or maybe she’d been waiting for them. “Detective Sergeant,” she said in a low voice, “in my office.” She turned around to find Jessica Holder just behind her with a pot of coffee. Holder jumped back, and Zielinski followed his CO.
“Detective Sergeant?” Holder asked Sam as they entered the conference room. “When did he get promoted?”
“Recently, I think. Is everyone here?”
“Not yet. Turner’s due any minute.”
Zielinski returned in five minutes and made a beeline for the coffee. “Where’s the team?”
“I’m here,” Lopez announced. “Are we ready to get the party started?”
“Ron just finished meeting with Captain Platt,” Sam said.
“Uh-oh. Hope we’re not in trouble.”
“No, Margarite. I do have to update her after we interview Turner. Oh, and she, uh, wanted to know when she could announce my promotion.” He flushed. “I asked her to hold off a few days.”
“Well, congratulations,” Lopez exclaimed. “You deserve it.”
“Thanks. Ah, here’s Nichols.”
Chloe Nichols looked exhausted, even gray under the fluorescent lighting, which only emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. Her pupils were normal, Sam noted, and she was her usual pulled-together self in a neat black pants suit with a blue blouse that unfortunately emphasized her pallor.
Zielinski punched in a number by heart and put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Danny, how far out are you?”
“Don’t take my head off, Ron, but I went up to the hospital.” Carlisle sounded energized. “I’ve been gathering information and insights.”
“Damn it, Carlisle,” Zielinski huffed. “Fine, what did you learn?”
“You first.”
“Turns out Kostakis applied to be an MLI with the ME’s office four times. We think he decided after the last rejection to impersonate an investigator using the name Alan King. We can’t prove it yet.”
“How long has this Alan King been working?” Carlisle asked.
“The ME’s office uncovered two earlier deaths investigated by someone with that name,” Sam said. “Both were ruled accidental. It’s possible, given the circumstances, that they were homicides on the order of experiments that were covered up.”
“Alan King, the MLI we met at two of our scenes?”
“That’s the one,” Zielinski confirmed.
“He might have been the bearded guy with glasses who Detective Bentley saw limping away just before we arrived,” Sam chimed in. “It’s a lot of compelling but circumstantial evidence. Kostakis is clean-shaven. He might have disguised himself, but we didn’t notice him limp.”
“He has definitely been limping around the hospital,” Carlisle rejoined. “According to several of his colleagues, including his supervising doctor, Kostakis claims he has a trick back he’s been dealing with for years. It doesn’t keep him from doing his job but I gotta ask, does someone like that have the strength to murder several people and maybe, in Tasha Wright’s case, move her body?”
Sam’s excitement deflated like a party balloon. “He could be faking weakness as part of a long-term strategy. His alibis check out, don’t they?”
“I still have to follow through with the mother,” Carlisle replied. “I’m sorry, Sam. Wish I had something more definitive.”
“It’s fine, Danny.”
“Wait, when was his first MLI application?”
“Ten years ago,” Zielinski replied.
“Interesting,” Carlisle replied. “One of the long-time nurses told me that maybe six months after starting at Mount Sinai, Kostakis began applying to medical schools. He believed he could enter as a third year with recommendations from established heart surgeons like his mentor, Dr. Silver. The nurse told me he pestered several doctors for more than a year. They put him off. His moves didn’t generate a lot of goodwill among the residents.”
“Why didn’t the hospital fire him?” Sam asked.
“Short answer, the guy is brilliant. PAs with his abilities in the surgical arena are not exactly a dime a dozen. Silver and the others figured they were getting more than their money’s worth as long as he didn’t lose them clients. Kostakis seemed to know just how far he could push it. As I said, he’s not popular, but he is relatively well-respected.”
Sam sat up straight. “How fast can you get back, Danny? We’ve got Kevin Turner coming in and it would help if you were here.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
One of the beat cops stuck his head into the conference room to announce Kevin Turner’s arrival.
Sam had been expecting an affable-looking guy in a T-shirt, jeans, and overpriced athletic shoes. Maybe a man bun or one of those hipster hats, along with a small goatee. Either on the scrawny side or hefty. Definitely pasty from so many hours spent inside.
The young man who entered could have modeled for GQ. High cheekbones, a straight nose, and strong chin covered by a neatly trimmed beard made up a face that looked like it had been carved out of marble. His light gray eyes were framed by enviably long lashes. The indigo suit and monogrammed pale-blue shirt radiated casual elegance, as did the loafers without socks and the leather pack he wore slung over one shoulder.
Turner wore his wardrobe in a way that intimated monied ease and filled his clothes in a way that suggested regular gym visits and a personal trainer for good measure. No two ways about it: the man was gorgeous. Ten years too young for her and not Lopez’s type, but Sam guessed Holder’s heart rate had increased.
Nichols didn’t look up at Turner’s arrival. Maybe his good looks were an irritant.
“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Turner,” Lopez began. “I’m Margarite Lopez. This is Detective Sergeant Ron Zielinski. Officer Jessica Holder is our technical specialist.”
“The NYPD version of me,” Turner replied. Holder’s face colored.
“You’ve met Detective Nichols,” Lopez continued. “And this is Sam Tate, who is serving as a consultant on the case.”
The younger man smiled. “Sam Tate, the county sheriff and hunter of serial killers.” His emphasis on the words “county” and “hunter” told Sam he’d made the association. That gave her an opening.
“Mr. Turner,” she began, “let me get right to the point. You are enough of an expert with digital information that you would have no problem identifying the people on the chat. Let’s assume you’ve already done so. Why?”
His smile widened. “I didn’t bother, Lieutenant, not at first. Sure, I was curious about which DFDs I might know from the conference circuit, but I decided it would be more fun to figure out who was who by paying attention to the clues they gave.”
“And then?”
“After Theo, a.k.a. Teresa, a.k.a. brains&beauty, put it out there that we might all be targets, I decided to do some more high-level sleuthing. Even though NYPD was already on the case.” He turned his handsome face to Holder, who blushed anew.
“Who have you met besides Theo Austin?”
“Regina, Jeff, Esther, Ellen, Grant, Alex, and a couple of others.”
“Tell me about Alex Kostakis.”
Turner rolled his eyes. “That guy,” he said. “I met him at CrimeCon maybe three years ago. He’s smart, I’ll give you that. He decided we could be best friends, whatever he thought that meant. Maybe he wanted to hang with the other smart kids. I tried to be nice, but the man is a social misfit. Hard to believe he’s in the medical profession. He didn’t try to fit in; he just expected to be let in.”
“What do you mean by that?” Zielinski asked.
“Well, the women outnumber the guys by a huge margin at these conferences,” Turner explained. “We could have had some fun. And there are some really nice people there. I’ve made a lot of friends. I mean, shared interests and all that.”
“I gather Alex didn’t care about that?” Sam prompted.
Turner shook his head. “Not romance, not friendship, not even a good time. He wanted attention and respect. As if this were a career instead of a silly hobby and he was the guy to teach the rest of us how to solve a crime. Tasha Wright almost laughed him off the video chat last year.”
“Did he talk about respect?” Sam asked.
“Hell, yeah. He was like a broken record on the subject.”
“Did he get angry when Detective Wright came after him?” Lopez asked.
Turner shrugged. “With Kostakis, it’s hard to tell. Being a prick is his default position, if you know what I mean.”
“How was he on the chat?” Sam asked.
“Pretty much the same. Annoying, but not seriously so.”
“Did he know enough to work out the identities of the other users?”
“He might have, yeah. I showed him how to do that, and as I said, he was intelligent. Before I forget, which of you is impersonating renaissancewoman?”
“What do you mean?” Holder asked. “Renaissancewoman is Ellen Keeley.”
“It actually isn’t. At least it wasn’t during the last two chats.” Turner came around the table to stand behind Holder and her open laptop. “The IP address has been spoofed. Check it out.” He pointed to her screen. Holder followed his finger and typed onto the keyboard. Turner added a few keystrokes. “See?” he said. “I figured this was your work. I mean, NYPD.”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion, Mr. Turner?” Sam asked. She was watching Nichols, who seemed to be watching the door as if someone might burst through it.
“Low-tech plus high-tech. Ellen sent me a postcard last week. Said she was writing friends to let them know she’d be offline for ten days. A yoga retreat in Vermont. No internet, no cell service. I realized it wasn’t her on the chat and poked around to see who it was. The road led back to you, or rather, to NYPD.”
“Can you narrow down that location?” Lopez asked. “Hold on, Chloe,” she said as Nichols began to rise. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on?”
“I really should check on my partner,” Nichols began.
“We’ll call him back in a minute,” Zielinski told her.
Holder looked up from her keyboard. “The address leads back to Queens North,” she reported.
“Sit down, Chloe,” Sam said.
“Officer Holder, Mr. Turner, would you two mind waiting outside?” Zielinski asked.
Neither Turner nor Holder seemed to view the request as a hardship. “Should I continue my research?” she asked.
“Yes,” Zielinski replied.
As soon as the door closed, he turned his attention to the woman across the table, her body rigid. “Detective Nichols,” he said, “I’m hoping you can help us get to the bottom of this situation. Should I get Detective Carlisle back on the phone so we can decide on the best way to proceed?”
“No, that’s not necessary after all. I can help you. I also want to make sure you’re not making any assumptions.”
“No one’s accusing you of anything, Chloe.”
“Why do you think we would, Detective Nichols?” Lopez asked.
Nichols glared at Sam. “I have no idea what Lieutenant Tate may have told you or my partner, with whom, by the way, she is very close, about our conversation yesterday, but that was personal and unrelated to whatever you may think is going on.”
Sam said nothing, although she took in the sidelong glance Lopez tossed at her.
“I don’t think anything, Chloe,” Zielinski continued. “Lieutenant Tate hasn’t said anything to me about whatever transpired between the two of you. In this moment, I’m asking your help in getting to the bottom of a disturbing turn of events. Are we clear?”
She nodded.
“Is there someone within your department who may have a reason for posing as a chat room member without telling the rest of us?”
His words marginally reduced the tension.
“It’s something I need to think about,” Nichols said. “It would help if Detective Carlisle were here. Do you know when he’s expected?”
Sam had her phone on vibrate. She looked down to see a message from Holder.
U need 2 see these
Holder had attached two documents. Sam scanned the first and nodded. This was information she already had. She did the same to the second and barely swallowed the gasp that rose in her throat. Her mind hopped into overdrive, making connections even as she kept her eyes on the tiny screen.
“Sam, is there something you’d like to share?” Zielinski asked.
“Sorry, everyone. I received some information that might help us understand what’s going on. It concerns Detective Nichols’s oxycodone dependence following a work-related injury five years ago.”
Nichols rose from her seat. “You promised!”
“I would never betray your confidence under normal circumstances, Chloe. These are not normal circumstances, however. Please sit.”
“It’s not like I’m an addict,” Nichols snapped. “Whatever problems I had immediately after my injury, and many of my colleagues know that I struggled with pain, I’ve pretty much resolved them. My judgement is not impaired in the least.”
“Hold on.” Zielinski raised his hand. “Sam, our job is to catch a killer. I’m not suggesting your observations are meritless. However, if you’re suggesting that Detective Nichols can no longer function effectively as a member of this team, you’ll have to shoulder the burden of proof.”
“I understand. Chloe, who do you list as your emergency contact at work?”
The abrupt change of subject caught not only Nichols but everyone else off guard.
“Let me help you,” Sam continued. “Your sister passed away while you were still in the academy. Your parents live abroad. So, who do you list as a local contact? Family? Friend?”
“I don’t remember. I probably don’t list one.”
“The form requires a name. You listed someone at one point. If you later went back and tried to delete that name without putting in a new one, the system defaults to your original choice.” She shrugged. “Which means your file lists your aunt.”
“Sam—”
“Helena Kostakis of Forest Hills Gardens. Mother of Alex, your cousin, who happens to be a physician assistant. I imagine he has access to various drugs.”
Nichols put her head in her hands.
“Is your cousin the killer?” Lopez demanded. “Were you warning him? Keeping him up to date on our progress? Trying to steer us away from him?”
“I don’t know! I mean, why would you think that? He’s my cousin! We weren’t close growing up; he’s ten years older than I am. But he’s a successful PA, and he takes wonderful care of his mother.”
“When did you approach him about getting the oxycodone?” Sam asked. “Or did he come to you?”
“I initiated the contact. This was maybe nine months ago. I had the gold shield; I was transferring to Queens. I’d already exhausted my resources at my old precinct. With everything going on, I couldn’t afford to . . . to be weak.”
She sighed. “Alex was incredibly understanding, especially since his mother suffered from chronic pain. He offered a limited supply of pills as a short-term solution. He really wanted me to get help. I didn’t want him to get in trouble. It seemed like the perfect solution, just until I got settled into my new position and got myself a new doctor.”
“How did he get the pills to you?” Zielinski asked. It was the first time he’d spoken since Nichols began her story.
“We’d meet once a month in Central Park and he’d give me just enough medicine to get me through. He promised he’d work up a plan that would allow me to taper off. He never asked me for anything, at least not directly.”
When they met two weeks ago, Alex was upbeat, Nichols told them. Said he’d had a good week. He wanted to talk about the bartender’s murder. She confessed she hadn’t heard much beyond the usual chatter as she was now working out of Queens. He pushed just a little, asked if she’d keep him up to date on any new developments so he could share them with other true crime friends of his.
“You didn’t think that was strange?” Lopez asked.
“Not really. I wouldn’t have pegged Alex as a murder junky, though he’s always been drawn to the macabre. What was strange was that the next case showed up in my jurisdiction.”
“The priest’s murder at St. Joseph’s,” Sam prompted.
“Are we supposed to believe you didn’t recognize your cousin masquerading as an MLI at the scene?” Lopez asked, her voice rising.
“I never met the investigator at the church. And I never got a chance to speak with whichever investigator showed up at the library.” Another glare in Sam’s direction.
After that murder, Nichols continued, Alex called her even though they weren’t scheduled to meet. He asked her if she’d be willing to participate in a psychological experiment he was conducting. He wanted her to pose as someone named renaissancewoman on his true crime chat.
“And do what?” Sam asked.
“I wasn’t sure. He said something about profiling the others. I tried to tell him that was out of my area of expertise. He laughed; told me I had enough training to come up with snapshots.”
Nichols was dumbfounded to learn that Sam was going undercover on the chat. “I thought she’d be off the case after, well, after the press debacle,” she admitted.
“The one you engineered?” Lopez asked.
Nichols ignored her. “I told Alex. I assumed he wouldn’t want two police officers on the chat, but he loved the idea. ‘Whatever she suggests, do the opposite,’ he told me. I tried, only Sam didn’t contribute much. And when she did, I agreed with her. The real surprise was Alex. He immediately latched onto the idea that the detectives were being targeted. I thought he’d be more skeptical.”
Alex contacted Nichols after the chat to thank her for participating. He said he’d have the name of a doctor in Queens. In the meantime, he asked if she would give him a peek into the investigation. Nothing classified, he insisted.
“He wanted my impressions of the people on the chat and the people I worked with for a study he was conducting. Especially Sam Tate.” Her tone was smug, almost triumphant.
“You were giving him your impressions,” Zielinski said.
“Right,” Nichols said with relief.
“About us and about our potential suspects,” Zielinski continued. “Impressions which would be key components of our criminal investigation and thus confidential.”
“And you followed me to Queens last Friday, didn’t you?” Sam demanded. “Why? So that I’d be worried the killer was targeting my aunt? So that I’d drop off the case?”
“She did what?” Lopez’s body language suggested she was more than happy to throttle the younger detective.
“Everyone, stop.” Zielinski put his hands up like a traffic cop. “Chloe, when did you realize your cousin might be the Dry Ice Killer?”
Nichols scanned the room as if she might find an escape route or a place to hide or. She swallowed several times before she managed to choke out a response.
“When the MLI mentioned red carpet fibers, something clicked. I mean, red carpets aren’t rare, but Alex has a kind of a shag rug in his basement laboratory. Hideous thing. I panicked, tried to reach him at work and on his cell. I left messages everywhere. He still hasn’t gotten back to me. I don’t know where he is.”
Sam’s phone alerted her to another text. “I need to duck out,” she said. “Excuse me a minute.”
Zielinski also rose. “We have to get Carlisle in here now.” He tried the number. “Damn, it went straight to voicemail.”
“He could be stuck in traffic,” Lopez suggested.
“Detective Nichols,” Zielinski said to the woman slumped in her chair, “you’re in trouble. How much trouble is up to Internal Affairs and the Queens DA. I’m going to recommend that you be held for impeding a homicide investigation at the very least. Ideally, Detective Carlisle would escort you back to your precinct. Since he’s unavailable, I’ll request that your captain send someone over to escort you back. Please stand up. Now, empty your pockets and your bag and place the contents on the table, along with your badge and your weapon.”
She did so without protest.
Zielinski picked up the items. “Margarite, follow me, please.”
They paused just outside the door; Zielinski spoke in a low voice. “We need to keep this as quiet as possible for as long as possible. I want someone stationed out here while I let Platt know what’s going on. We have to call over to the Queens North CO. Nichols didn’t actually ID Kostakis as the killer, which means I still need a blanket search warrant. You’d better believe I’ll get that expedited.”
Holder came out of her cubicle followed by Turner. “What happened?” she asked.
“I’ll fill you in.” Zielinski raked his eyes over Turner. “You’re free to go. Thank you for your time and assistance.”
Kevin Turner looked disappointed. “I’ll call you,” he whispered to Holder as he left.
Zielinski turned to Holder. “Where is Carlisle, damn it? And what the hell happened to Tate?”
“I can’t speak to Detective Carlisle’s whereabouts, sir. Lieutenant Tate left the building. Told me to let you know she was going to get Detective Carlisle.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ah, shit,” Lopez responded. “She’s headed to Forest Hills Gardens, to the Kostakis house. Ron—”
“Go.”
Dan Carlisle had trouble believing this leafy neighborhood was located within the city limits. Forest Hills Gardens was an entity unto itself, a uniquely sheltered enclave within the larger and more diverse community, protected by a century-old covenant. The homes, some of which had been standing since the 1890s, were big, at least by New York standards, and generally conformed to a Tudor-style architecture.
The neighborhood was a perfect antidote to the gritty life outside its borders. Even the weather seemed made to order. Yellow and red-leafed trees filtered bright sunshine from an azure sky. The air smelled fresh. He was tempted to walk around, take a tour of the place, fall facedown onto the emerald grass.
He would enjoy other nice days, though. The victims wouldn’t.
The house where Alex and his mother lived stood on a corner lot. Large for two people unless they had live-in help. More ornate than many of its neighbors. Several old-growth trees shielded the house from the street and kept it in shadow.
His decision to head to Queens instead of back to meet with the others in Manhattan was propelled by instinct. Kostakis had taken the day off. Maybe he was visiting a chiropractor for his back. Maybe he was visiting a museum. Or maybe he was home planning his next attack.
Carlisle grabbed a cab in front of the hospital. On the way over, he Googled the Kostakis family and landed on a detailed Wikipedia page. Alexander Kostakis had grown up as the only child in a successful second-generation family. Constantine, a.k.a. Gus Kostakis, had turned his father’s single grocery store into a profitable string of boutique-style food emporiums that extended across Queens, Brooklyn, and Staten Island. A fixture of the Greek community, Gus gave generously to several charities. He had died ten years earlier.
The accompanying photos showed Gus as a child and then as a grown man with his wife and son. Little Alex appeared sullen. Helena Kostakis was tall, slim, and fair-haired. She didn’t appear ill; that must have occurred later.
Alex had been caring for his invalid mother for some time, according to Holder’s research. Couple that with working full time while trying to change careers. What prevented him from achieving his goals? His personality, according to almost everyone that knew him. Kostakis wouldn’t see it that way. Where would he direct his resentment? How would he express it?
Time to find out. He left a terse voicemail for Sam just as his phone powered down, the battery spent.
If the handsome wood door featured a bell, he couldn’t locate it. Instead, he lifted a brass knocker and set off a series of chimes from inside. A middle-aged woman with coffee-colored skin answered the door. Not a maid, though. Perhaps a home health aide or a nurse.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
Carlisle had debated his opening. He began with a casual approach. “Hi. Is Alex at home?”
“He’s not at the moment, Mr.—”
“Detective Dan Carlisle, Queens North Homicide. Is Mrs. Kostakis available?”
“I’m sorry, was she expecting you?”
“Please show him in, Emilia.” The voice, a pleasing alto, came from a room in the back.
Carlisle stepped into the short foyer. To his right was a stairway and a dining room, to his left, a small library. The living room straight ahead was tastefully decorated, and he could see glimpses of a garden beyond that.
“She’s in the family room,” the aide said. “Follow me.”
The open-plan kitchen seemed to be the largest area on the first floor. Carlisle, who’d picked up a couple of tips from the woman who decorated his apartment, noted the up-to-date appliances, the quartz countertop, the recessed lighting, the maple cabinets. The décor extended into the family room, which included a couch and chair in front of a large fireplace that burned even on this moderately warm day.
A woman with shoulder-length blond hair, dressed in an ice-blue sweater and black slacks, sat in a wheelchair. Her hands rested in her lap on top of a light afghan. Her silver earrings caught the light when she turned her head. She wore no obvious makeup, save a touch of gloss on her lips.
She offered her hand, her wide cornflower eyes appraising her visitor. Though she must have been in her early sixties, she appeared far younger.
Carlisle managed to keep his mouth from hanging open. He inclined his head and took the delicate hand in his. He almost bent to kiss it. She grasped it firmly, then laughed at his surprise.
“That’s quite the grip, Mrs. Kostakis.”
“You caught me on a good day, Detective,” she said. “At least a good day for this hand.” She laughed, a shimmer of silver bells. “Please call me Lena.”
She looked up at him, her direct blue gaze washing over him like cool water. He’d always been a sucker for women with extraordinary eyes and the ability to make you believe you’d been given a peek into their souls just by looking at them. He’d met three such women in the last two weeks.
He put his other hand on hers and patted it. As he’d hoped, the gesture broke the spell. She loosened her grasp, and he pulled his arm back.
“Please, sit.” She pointed to the chair, which put him closer to her than the couch. He sat toward the front edge with his hands folded.
“Can I get you anything to drink, Detective?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Kostakis.” He made the decision to address her that way. He wasn’t here on a social visit. “Actually, I was here to see Alex. I understand he’s out. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“What is this about?”
Carlisle cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about the cluster of strange homicides that have taken place recently.”
“The Dry Ice Murders.” She shuddered. “So awful.” She put a hand to her throat. “You don’t think Alex has anything to do with it?”
“He’s one of many people whom the killer seems to be targeting, based on his interest in certain true crime organizations. Not that we think Alex is in any imminent danger,” he added. “We’re just talking with as many friends and relatives as possible to find connections.”
“That makes sense.” She shifted in her chair. The movement caused her to tense; he read pain in her face.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, rising out of his chair.
She held up a hand. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
The aide appeared with a glass and a capsule Lena Kostakis popped into her mouth like candy. She chased it with a dainty gulp and let out a sigh of relief. The medicine seemed to work quickly.
“Thank you, Emilia. You can leave early today. My son will be back shortly, and I’ve got an NYPD detective for company.”
Emilia covered her apparent doubts about Carlisle with a “yes ma’am” and turned to leave.
“Nice to meet you,” he called out to the retreating figure. Then, to his hostess, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but do you suffer from MS?”
Lena Kostakis regarded him curiously. “Do you have some experience with neurological conditions, Detective?”
“My uncle had muscular dystrophy,” he said, wishing he didn’t have to use the past tense. “I spent some time reading about MS and similar disorders.”
“Then perhaps you’ve heard of Guillain-Barré syndrome.”
Carlisle was taken aback. “Yes, I have. It’s an inflammatory disease that causes paralysis as it makes its way through the body. Horrible to get through, but I thought most people survive and the survivors generally recover with no long-lasting effects.”
“That’s true for most of the afflicted patients. Unfortunately, I contracted an exceedingly rare variant that has converted into a chronic condition over the past ten years. It affects me primarily in my legs, sometimes in my neck and arms. Weakness, balance problems and of course, a great deal of discomfort.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do the doctors hold out any hope of recovery?”
She shook her head. “The doctors know nothing. They are useless when it comes to creative thinking, which is what treatment for a rare disease requires. I was misdiagnosed and, I might add, discounted for more years than I care to remember. It was Alex who discovered what really lay at the bottom of my problems. While he hasn’t come upon a definitive cure, he’s done a lot to ease my pain. I owe him everything.”
Ease her pain or study it? Carlisle’s mind raced. He would have liked to whisk this beautiful woman out of her gilded cage and over to a top-notch neurologist. Right now, though, he needed to stay on track.
“You’re lucky to have a son like that,” he said. “Too bad your husband isn’t around to see how well he’s done for himself.”
She let out a small sigh filled with regret. “Yes, that might have been helpful to Alex, assuming Constantine was capable of change. He was hard on the boy. Stingy with praise, generous with criticism that took the form of insult. Claimed it would toughen Alex up. Mind you, there was nothing weak about my son. He was, if anything, headstrong like my husband. And he loved his father, insofar as he could love.”
“That’s an odd statement to make about a child, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is. Then again, Alex was odd to many people. Less social, more introverted, very introspective. Fascinated by details. I can understand why he turned to true crime as a hobby. He approaches these cases as if they were puzzles. He revels in the minutia, some might say. I find that people who combine an interest in detail with an unlimited imagination end up creating unique solutions.”
Or uniquely horrible deaths, Carlisle thought to himself. “The medical profession sounds like a good fit,” he said.
“Perhaps. I always thought he might be better off in a laboratory. Less interaction, more time for discovery. But Alex was determined to become a doctor and earn his father’s respect.”
“Was that important to Alex? To be respected by his father?”
“I think that’s every young man’s goal, don’t you, Detective Carlisle? I will say that the concept of respect was vitally important to his father. It may have been tied to his upbringing. His own father came to this country with nothing and became a revered member of the Greek community in Queens.”
She shook her head. “Constantine lectured constantly on respect and reputation. You work for it; you earn it. And when you finally get it, you fight like hell to keep it. Alex may have”—she struggled for words—“taken that to mean something a bit different. For him, respect was active and alive, a thing with a clear opposite.”
“Disrespect,” Carlisle suggested.
“Disrespect, yes, but it was also broader than that. In Alex’s world, disinterest is a sign of disrespect. Inattention is a sign of disrespect. Rejection is a sign of disrespect.”
“I should tell you that a few of Alex’s colleagues feel that his behavior toward them reflects that approach. He comes across as dismissive.”
“You’ve talked to his colleagues.”
“We’ve talked to family, friends, and colleagues of everyone who may have interacted with the killer as part of a routine investigation,” Carlisle replied.
“I see. Well, if Alex comes across that way, it’s purely defensive. If his father wasn’t irritated, he was indifferent. In school, if his classmates weren’t teasing him, they were giving him the cold shoulder.”
The back of Carlisle’s neck prickled. “Cold shoulder,” he said almost conversationally.
“Yes. To him, being ignored or being given the cold shoulder was the ultimate sign of disrespect.” She laughed.
Carlisle recalled Sam quoting Death of a Salesman: “Attention must be paid.”
The woman in front of him smiled, then suddenly began to topple from her chair. He jumped up to catch her in his arms and felt a sharp pain in his neck.
He reached up to swat away whatever the hell had stung or bitten him. His arm froze halfway there and fell helplessly back down. His legs gave way, and he crumbled to the floor at the feet of the woman he’d been trying to help, his vision blurred.
Listen, he commanded himself, but heard only the labored breathing of the woman in the wheelchair, then his own heartbeat, then nothing.
Carlisle’s voicemail sent Sam out of the conference room. She didn’t need to be present for the paperwork that would precede any action. She needed to get to Danny Carlisle, who was an idiot for not picking up when she called. And for heading into a dangerous situation without backup.
For that matter, so was she. But at least she had Dimitri.
She’d texted her aunt’s enigmatic friend as soon as she realized Danny was heading to Queens. Dimitri told her he could have a car and driver waiting for her in two minutes. That put her at least ten minutes ahead of Lopez—or maybe they’d all arrive at the same time. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, but also insurance.
A Lincoln Town Car waited outside the precinct, its motor purring like a confident cat. The man who stood by the back door was bald, his face hollowed out like a skull. He was well over six feet and so thin Sam thought he might topple over. As she drew near, she revised her impression. He looked more like a steel rod than a tender sapling.
“I am Vlad,” he said, inclining his large head. He handed her a card like the one Dimitri had given her. “Please check your phone.”
Surprised, Sam looked at her cell and saw a familiar number attached to a brief text.
Vlad is picking you up. He’s okay. Xoxo Rosa
She couldn’t help it; she laughed out loud. Either her aunt watched too many detective shows, or Sam was living inside one right now.
She clambered into the spacious back seat. Vlad strode over to the driver’s side and started moving almost before he got his stringy body inside.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
She gave him the address in Forest Hills Gardens and sat back, only to jerk forward when he stuck a mobile flasher on the dashboard.
“That looks like police issue,” she remarked.
“You are on police business,” Vlad replied, and that was the end of that.
Ten minutes into the trip, Sam remembered she’d left her gun in her aunt’s house. She couldn’t waste time and energy berating herself; she needed to make do. She reached into a compartment of her now-favorite leather bag. Her hand wrapped around a small container of pepper spray combined with CS tear gas, a formulation available only to police officers. That would be effective in a close-up situation. The adjacent pocket held her beloved Swiss Army knife. Beloved because the model she had contained every kind of tool imaginable, including a potentially lethal blade.
Moving to the main compartment, she discovered a couple of zip ties. Then bumped into the folded black cane. She’d put it in her purse to see whether she could walk without it. The answer turned out to be “more or less.”
She shook it open and moved it around, testing its weight and efficacy as a weapon. Suddenly, she had an image of Stefan in a gi tied with a brown belt. He started martial arts lessons the year she was born, which was also when he saw The Karate Kid, starring Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita. For several years, he practiced diligently.
Sam’s father took her to a demonstration in which Stefan and his classmates engaged in stick fighting, or bōjutsu. She might have been five, which put her brother into his senior year of high school. Everything about the performance thrilled her, from the formalized, almost reverent introduction to the power that seemed to come from a single thrust. At home she tried to imitate the moves with a broom and a high-pitched yell. She nearly put her eye out. That was it, as far as her mother was concerned.
“Let her take lessons, Ma,” Stefan had implored. “Lots of girls are doing karate. Some of them are really good at it. It’s great self-defense and it instills discipline.” He gave his mother his best smile, one she could never resist.
“When she’s ten,” her mother conceded. “Not before.”
Ten years old never came, at least not in the way Sophia Russo had imagined. Years later, Sam Tate would pick up the bō as part of her army training and find she had a knack for stick fighting. Not Ralph Macchio–level skills but good enough. She embraced the ritual and the structure. She even managed to absorb some of the more practical aspects of the Eastern religions that influenced the practice, like dedicating oneself to becoming a better being. Survivor’s guilt played a part in her desire to become new and improved, as did the ray of hope that doing so would make her feel better.
Unfortunately, that was more than a decade ago, and though she was still agile enough, she had the foot injury to contend with. She had no idea what she’d be able to handle if it came to that.
But you will handle it, she told herself.
She swished the cane through the air a few times and nodded. In the rearview mirror, she caught Vlad’s quizzical gaze. She shrugged. If his Lincoln could impersonate a police vehicle, she could impersonate a brown belt. Minus the kicks.
Vlad made good time. He stopped the car down the block from the Kostakis house and killed the engine just as Sam caught the text from Lopez. Something about being stuck in traffic, along with a question about Carlisle’s whereabouts.
The frustration encapsulated by the few words pulled Sam in several directions. On one hand, she’d gone off without informing anyone of her whereabouts. Impulsive behavior, notwithstanding her good intentions. On the other hand, she felt the pressure of rising to the demands of her job, of being there as needed. Not a great excuse but the only one she had. That and a gut feeling.
If Danny was having a nice chat with Mrs. Kostakis, she’d simply become a part of it. If something else were going on, she had her trusty cane as well as a couple of zip-ties she always carried. Either way, she would respond to Lopez as soon as she’d assessed the situation.
She shut off her phone.
Vlad popped out of the car and opened the door. Sam extricated herself from the back seat. She gave an oof as her weight landed on her right foot. At least she’d been able to squeeze into a pair of shoes, which offered slightly more protection. At least her foot was bruised, not shot up.
That brought a grim smile to her face.
“Are you okay?” Vlad asked. “I could stay, in case you needed anything.”
Sam had no doubt he could provide a variety of services. His hands were callused, the knuckles enlarged. She didn’t think he got the nasty-looking scar slightly below his jawline from shaving.
“Thank you, Vlad. I’m just going to join my partner on an interview.”
He swiveled his head from side to side as if looking for danger. He then reached inside the car and under the driver’s seat. “At least you must take this,” he said.
“This” turned out to be a SIG Sauer P365, an efficient and popular lightweight gun favored by the concealed carry crowd. He held the weapon out to her with great formality, as if it were a sacred offering.
“Don’t worry,” Vlad said. “Is legal and registered.” His face remained impassive.
“Vlad,” she began. She couldn’t figure out how to deal with his offer.
“Just for safety,” he added.
“Why don’t you hold onto it?” she suggested. “I promise to call you for backup if I need help.”
“You will use stick?” he asked in disbelief.
“I will be fine. I appreciate the gesture, believe me. I promise to call if I need help. Thank you and please thank Dimitri.”
“You have number,” Vlad said. He got back into the car and drove away.
“I’ve been stuck in traffic for half an hour!” Lopez yelled through the phone. She threw in an impressive string of epitaphs for good measure. “Where are you?”
“I’m still at the home office.” Zielinski answered. “I’ve got the warrants. What happened?”
“I was at the Queens–Midtown Tunnel in ten minutes. Then this a-hole driver jams his clearly oversized tractor trailer into the entrance. Right in front of me. I’m watching him make his move and yelling at the top of my lungs, but of course he can’t hear me. No, he goes and gets himself stuck.”
“You’re not inside the tunnel, are you?” Zielinski had very few phobias, but he knew for a fact he would hate to be stalled in a tunnel that ran several miles underwater.
“No, for all the good that does me. I’m sandwiched between the jammed-up rig and a bus. I hit the siren, which got the bus driver’s attention. At least he’s trying to back up to give me some space to turn around, but he’s got a dozen idiots on his tail. It’s like being in a freaking parking lot. Did you hear from Danny or Sam?”
“No,” Zielinski replied. “Carlisle’s been there less than an hour. Hopefully not enough time to get into trouble. And if Sam is right behind him . . .” He let the thought drop. “The warrants mean we can call in the cops from the precinct nearest the house.”
“That’s a backup plan if I don’t get through in the next five minutes.”
“I can light a fire under the traffic cops if you think it’ll help. They already know me because of my tendency to treat orange stoplights as if they were green.” He was trying to keep it light, keep the rising concern he felt to himself.
“Anything will help. I just need to know if I can get through this mess or if I gotta turn around.”
“Don’t turn back, Lopez. Crawl over bumpers, hitch a ride with the traffic cops, push the cars through the tunnel if you have to. Whatever it takes to get across. I’ll see about clearing a path on 495.”
She let a beat go by. “You’re worried,” she stated flatly.
“I’m trying to account for all the possibilities. Keep your phone charged and keep me updated on your position. Meanwhile, I’ll call Danny’s CO.”
So much for sounding unconcerned, he thought as he clicked off.
He looked up to find Holder standing at his desk.
“I don’t suppose Lieutenant Tate got in touch with you?” he asked.
“No, and I haven’t been able to reach her. Her phone’s GPS doesn’t seem to be working, either.”
Zielinski allowed himself a short and pungent profanity, which he accompanied by a fist slam to the desk that caused his mug to jump. Holder startled at his uncommon reaction.
“Sorry. This day is getting complicated. Okay, what do you have for me? I assume that’s why you’re here. Make it quick, Officer. I need to get Detective Lopez out of a jam—literally—and then call for reinforcements from across the river.”
Holder pushed her glasses up her nose and consulted her tablet. “I dug up juvenile records on Alex Kostakis,” she began. “Which, I know, are technically sealed and thus inadmissible.”
“We’ll deal with that later. I want to know what you found. Strictly as background.”
“Alex Kostakis was arrested for animal abuse following a half dozen complaints from neighbors whose pets had gone missing. Mostly cats, along with one dog.”
“Don’t tell me. Young Alex ‘borrowed’ them for some sort of science project.”
“Yup. He tortured the animals, monitored them to see how they reacted to the pain, then dissected them to see what the torture had done to them. Recorded everything on video in a little basement lab his parents built for him. They claimed they had no idea what he was up to. I guess that’s code for ‘we weren’t really paying attention.’”
Zielinski felt his bile rise. He’d seen a lot of depravity over the years. Nothing infuriated him more than cruelty, especially when used on innocents like children or pets. Then again, not all children were innocent.
“How old was he when this went down?”
Holder didn’t need her notes. “Ten when he started, thirteen when they caught him.”
“And?”
“He went before a judge in juvenile court just before New York passed the law that classifies severe animal cruelty as a felony. His parents received a fine. The judge assigned a pediatric psychiatrist to interview Alex, but the boy’s father retained his own behavioral specialist.”
“Let me guess. Alex had no idea what he did was wrong.”
Holder grimaced. “The two agreed on that much. The boy claimed he was using animals for testing purposes, just like big companies did. Anyway, the real disagreement was over rehabilitation. The court shrink was worried; the family therapist thought Alex just needed a little more time under the loving and watchful supervision of his parents.”
“That was it? No more incidents?”
“None that I could find. According to the court reports, Alex was kept on a very short leash in high school. He was allowed to join the science club and the swim team. Nothing else. No parties or dances, only events connected with church. His family hired an adult companion who was always with Alex except when the boy was in class or with his parents.”
“A kind of jail, then. And an opportunity to feed a sense of injustice.”
“Right, although the boy insisted that he wasn’t angry, only curious as to why his work was misunderstood.” She shook her head. “One more thing. Alex Kostakis tortured the poor kitties by shoving dry ice down their little throats.”
“That’s pretty damn specific. Good work, Officer.”
A text popped up from Lopez.
I’m thru. Less than ten min out
Zielinski exhaled. He typed back:
Be careful. It’s definitely Kostakis
No shit, she typed. E-fax warrants and send me backup
No doubt about it, Zielinski thought. Alex Kostakis was their killer. Neither did he doubt that Detective Dan Carlisle had walked himself into a dangerous situation. He only hoped that Sam Tate hadn’t followed him all the way in.
Sam stood in the quiet that followed Vlad’s departure. She heard only birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves. The Kostakis residence reminded her of a small castle, lacking only a stone wall to ward off invading armies. The unattached single-car garage was closed. No vehicles were parked in front of the house or in the driveway. Danny had arrived by cab.
She walked around to the side, listening for the bark of a dog or a query from a neighbor. A locked, wrought-iron fence led to a small backyard with a patch of lawn ringed by several neat little gardens. The space was dominated by a stone patio with a blue-striped awning. Behind it, two sliding doors led back into the house, possibly to the kitchen and a den.
She returned to the front door and lifted the knocker. A bell chimed; the tune was reminiscent of Big Ben. She waited several beats and sent the sonorous notes through the house once more. Then she reached instinctively to the handle below and found, to her surprise, that the door was unlocked.
“Good afternoon,” she called out. “I’m Detective Sam Tate, here to join my partner, Detective Danny Carlisle.” She’d rehearsed her opening lines on the way over, afraid she might inadvertently introduce herself as “lieutenant” or “sheriff.”
“Hello?” she tried again as she moved down a short hallway. The house was laid out to accommodate a relatively narrow footprint, although Sam assumed renovations had been made over time. She moved past a couple of small, dark rooms and into the kitchen. The mix of warm wood, stone, and high-end appliances reminded Sam more of an upscale country home than a baroque villa. She didn’t cook much, but after seeing Carlisle’s apartment and now this, she wondered how she could go back to her mix-and-match scullery.
Like so many other houses built for show, the room farthest from the front door looked the coziest. The space seemed both roomy and intimate. And warm, probably owing to the switched-on gas fireplace.
Who spent time here? She doubted the busy, possibly homicidal son sat and read by the fire. The mother, a woman who, according to Holder’s report, suffered from an undisclosed malady. She looked down and saw the faint imprint of twin wheels on the area rug. Helena Kostakis was confined to a wheelchair.
The cushion of the chair next to the couch bore an indentation. Someone had been sitting here recently. A nurse? Carlisle? Sam set down her cane and bag, then crouched, careful to keep one leg behind her. The position was awkward but took weight off the bad foot.
Squinting, she picked up a trail made by the wheelchair that led off the area rug and onto the hardwood floor. She let her eyes follow an imagined path to one side of the fireplace. The simple yet classic wood mantle was painted white. It extended several feet on either side and blended seamlessly with the wall. Or maybe not.
She went for a closer look. A tap on the wood and presto! A panel slid to one side to reveal a small elevator, just big enough for a wheelchair and two occupants, one standing. This was apparently how Mrs. Kostakis reached the upper floors. Clever.
She came back to the chair and thought about her next move. Mrs. Kostakis could be upstairs. Maybe Danny helped her or maybe a home-health aide. Surely Helena Kostakis could afford one.
A gleam by the corner of the sofa caught her eye. She stooped to retrieve a small object half-hidden by the fabric skirt and closed her hand around a gold pin in the shape of a horn.
Danny had been here, which begged the question: Where was he now?
Sam’s heart began to pump. She would need the adrenaline, but not yet. She slowed her breathing and directed her attention to the rug again. If Danny walked or had been moved from the scene, maybe the accommodating rug could provide a clue.
The flat weave seemed unwilling to give up any more information. The bare floor was another matter. Sam located a small black scuff mark. Now she saw the door in the corner of the room. Not hidden, just unobtrusive. Plain white, brass knob. A linen closet, perhaps, or a powder room.
Sam pulled her jacket over her hand and gently turned the handle. The door opened onto a set of stairs leading down. She descended to a lower level made entirely of brick and stone, like a medieval warren with a fully stocked wine cellar behind an archway.
She made her way down a narrow corridor clutching her cane and passed a laundry room, a storage room, and a utility room, all windowless, all encased in stone. The passageway led to a space that seemed two parts government laboratory and one part hobbyist.
It was as if two set pieces occupied one stage. In the center between them sat a reclining chair like those found in a dentist office. Danny Carlisle had been strapped in, conscious but clearly unable to move. He stared at her, eyes wide open in fear.
Sam forced herself to stay still. She pulled her eyes off the terrified man and swept the room.
The lab section was comprised of neat shelves that held a variety of bottles, a glass-front refrigerator, a metal table, several pieces of expensive-looking equipment, and fluorescent lighting.
A second area was designed more like a dorm room. A lumpy-looking couch held a pillow and blanket and might have doubled as a bed. An overflowing bookcase made of cheap wood stood in one corner, a simple writing desk in another. The old-fashioned reading lamp by the patched armchair was switched off. Sam wasn’t surprised to see a blood red shag area rug on the floor.
Alex Kostakis turned from the metal table with a smile, as if she’d just caught him in the middle of an experiment. He wore disposable slip-ons over sandals and a pair of heavy-duty gloves. In his hands was a pair of tongs. Empty for now, but Sam saw a large cooler under the table.
“Why, hello, Lieutenant, how nice of you to join us. Did you know you’re the third law officer to see my lab in the space of a month?”
“I do now.”
He glanced at her cane. “How’s your foot coming along? Mine is going to take a while. That doesn’t make me happy, but we must soldier on.”
Sam’s brain was issuing commands at warp speed. Stay calm. Assess the situation. Keep the suspect talking. Find his weak spot. Find your opening.
She forced herself to look not at Carlisle but at his tormentor.
“Hello, Alex. I didn’t see your mother when I came in. Is she down here with you? Does she know about your nasty hobby? Does she collaborate with you, or is she one of your subjects?”
“PA Kostakis, Lieutenant,” he scolded. “I won’t remind you again. My mother is resting in the master bedroom on the second floor. She’s not well, as you may have guessed. I’m surprised you didn’t check. You probably wanted to locate your partner. As you can see, he’s indisposed at the moment.” He inclined his head to the chair.
“He looks uncomfortable.”
Kostakis chuckled. “Far from it. He is as relaxed as he’s ever likely to be. He is, in fact, the first to try my most sophisticated hybrid paralytic. Unlike with the previous subjects, his immobility skirts the esophagus and the diaphragm entirely. He can swallow! He can breathe! No more dislocated jaws or ventilators.”
He grinned like a boy who’d won first prize at the science fair.
“But you still plan to hurt him,” Sam said.
Kostakis scowled. “I don’t enjoy inflicting pain, Lieutenant. I enjoy studying it. A distinction you fail to grasp.”
“What’s the goal, Alex? Do you have some humanitarian endgame in mind or a plan to end suffering instead of causing it? I somehow doubt it. You seem to be all about making a statement. You literally ice people for the crime of ignoring you. Your response to the proverbial cold shoulder. Were your victims guilty or were they stand-ins for a lifetime of insult?”
The pupils in his icy eyes shrunk to pinpoints. She’d struck a nerve.
“Coming back to the scene of the crime as an MLI was diabolical,” she continued. “Definitely one for the serial killer books.”
“I’m a scientist, not a serial killer,” Kostakis answered, his tone sharp. “An innovator. And not as gullible as you seem to think I am. No, no.”
He waggled his finger at her. “I’m not affected by your attempts at analysis. I don’t care what you say. You will die along with Detective Carlisle, and that’s on you. The passageway you used to locate me has been locked. I have the means to flood this space with CO2 and a secret exit you’ll never locate.”
Sam took a step. Kostakis bent to the cooler and plucked out a piece of solid CO2 with his tongs. He held it over Carlisle’s face. “Don’t move, Lieutenant. I can still kill your friend the slow and tortuous way.”
Carlisle suddenly jerked forward from the chair, his left shoulder hitting Kostakis in the back and causing him to stumble. He dropped the tongs; the ice hit the floor with a sizzle. Sam swung her cane, intending to hit him midsection. Her blow landed well below the kneecap.
The resulting crack vibrated back through her hands and wrists and nearly knocked her over. She’d hit not bone but metal. Kostakis was using a support brace, probably to take the weight off his foot.
Her blow still hurt; she could tell. Even better, it made him angry.
“Bitch!” he shrieked and lurched forward on his good leg.
Sam drove the stick down like a spear, straight through his sock and into the tender part of his foot. She twisted it, then pulled it out. Kostakis howled like an animal. He stumbled and fell onto his back. From the floor, he tried to kick at her with his uninjured leg. She tromped on his kneecap and felt something snap. More screaming, which she ignored.
She dropped her knees to either side of his torso, sitting on his abdomen above his useless legs and pinning his arms. She lifted the cane above her head like a sword. She could end him, thrust her weapon into his excuse for a heart. Or cut away at him little by little. How many wounds for how many deaths? How much pain for how much suffering? How much blood to stain the bare floor until it turned as red as the horrible rug nearby?
“Sam.” She heard the effort that single word cost Carlisle. Did he want to remind her that behind the avenging warrior prepared to pierce the heart of her enemy lay a good cop, a dedicated cop, a decent human being?
She wrestled with her rage. There is no justice but mine, she imagined yelling, except she didn’t believe it. The man she sat astride had to pay, without a doubt. The system in place to do that, however imperfect, was the one she was sworn to uphold.
Sam didn’t move at all for six long seconds. Finally, she stood and in one fluid motion flipped Kostakis over onto his stomach and zip-tied him. He yelped.
She squatted by his head and hissed into his ear. “If you move an inch or utter a sound, I will impale you. Do you understand?”
He managed to nod.
Sam stepped over him and reached for Carlisle, who had slid down in the chair. She undid the binding and pulled him onto the floor. With his head in her lap, she examined him for wounds. No burning around the mouth, just a small blister on his cheek.
Carlisle struggled to speak.
“You don’t need to talk right now, Danny. Use your eyes. One blink for yes, two blinks for no. First, did you swallow any dry ice? Can you move? Wait, can you blink?”
Two blinks, two more, and one slow one. She started to giggle, looked down to see the corner of his mouth lift. She couldn’t help it; she threw her head back and roared with laughter.
“I honestly thought you’d lost your mind,” Lopez told Sam.
The two of them were sitting in the visitors lounge on the third floor of New York Presbyterian–Queens. Sam had an ice pack tied to her foot, which rested on a small stool provided by a sympathetic nurse. Danny Carlisle’s room was down the hall. The door was closed to outsiders while a team of doctors examined him. A half dozen detectives milled about the hall, including Carlisle’s CO and the assistant chief of detectives.
It occurred to Sam that she’d now visited three different hospitals in the space of two weeks. Not exactly a routine New York holiday. Then again, neither was catching a serial killer.
Lopez had breached the underground lair with help from a tactical team from the 112th. They took down the locked door using a twelve-gauge projectile. When they burst through, they found their primary suspect facedown, hands secured behind him, one foot bleeding, the other bent at an odd angle. The female subject, immediately identified as a “friendly,” was sitting cross-legged on the floor with another man’s head in her lap, laughing, as one officer said later, “like a crazy woman.”
The team found several canisters believed to contain CO2 on an interconnected timing device, Lopez reported. They located the second exit behind a false wall inside what appeared to be a closet. A set of wooden stairs led outside. In the refrigerator unit, they gathered up various serums that Lopez hoped might tie back to the drugs found in the victims’ systems.
They also found Mrs. Kostakis upstairs in her wheelchair in a locked room. She was brought to the same hospital and was undergoing both a physical and psychological evaluation.
“The doctors want to see if her paralysis was caused by a kind of nerve-blocking injection, since Alex seems to have a fondness for sticking people with syringes filled with drugs they didn’t ask for,” Lopez said. “Can you imagine?”
Sam could not.
Helen Kostakis faced other problems. Ten years of neuromuscular injections, even one customized to affect only certain parts of the body, could have created permanent organ damage. A decade of muscle atrophy might mean she would never regain use of certain limbs.
Then there was the issue of what she knew, what she ignored, and how complicit that made her in her son’s activities.
An imposing woman wearing a uniform with plenty of brass stepped into the waiting area. She carried her hat under one arm, military style.
Lopez sprang out of her chair and Sam followed suit, ignoring the ice pack that slipped to the floor.
“Assistant Chief Vanessa Ortiz, I’m Margarite Lopez, Manhattan North Homicide. And this is our special consultant, Lieutenant Sam Tate.”
“I know who both of you are,” the assistant chief replied with a wide smile. “Lieutenant Tate, how is your foot?”
“Better, ma’am, thank you.”
“Good. I want to update you on your colleague. All good news, I’m happy to report. Detective Carlisle will not require surgery. Nor does it seem he ingested any dry ice. He has a bump on the head and bruises from being dragged down a flight of stairs and across a rough surface. He also has a burn on his face that will heal.”
“What about the paralytic?” Sam asked.
“It seems to be wearing off,” Ortiz replied. “Detective Carlisle will need to remain under observation for at least twenty-four hours. The doctors think Kostakis modified a transient neuromuscular inhibitor commonly used for surgery.”
“Something he could get from work,” Sam observed.
“Does that mean his victims weren’t unconscious?” Lopez clenched her fists.
“We don’t know what it means yet, Detective Lopez. This drug needs to be analyzed and compared with the toxins found in the victims. The lab techs also need to examine the vials recovered from the basement and the one in the bedroom where Mrs. Kostakis was found. They have their work cut out for them.”
“Where is Kostakis?” Sam asked.
“Here in the hospital, under lock and key. He’s got a broken kneecap on one leg, and two different wounds in his other foot that have led to an infection.” She focused on Sam. “These were administered, as I understand, by a walking stick.”
“Yes ma’am,” Lopez piped up.
“He won’t be mobile anytime soon, but of course, no one trusts him. We’ve got uniforms outside his hospital room. The ADA is moving to expedite a hearing. Given the publicity, it could happen very soon. Quite a few of Detective Carlisle’s fellow officers would like a turn at Kostakis, and I don’t mean standing guard. Not that I’d allow anything to happen, but I understand the temptation.”
Sam nodded. At least she’d worked out some of her wrath on the suspect.
“What about Chloe Nichols?” Lopez asked.
“Internal Affairs will meet on her case this evening. Both the Manhattan and Queens offices are likely to be present.”
“Who will represent Nichols?”
Ortiz considered Sam’s question. “Her union will provide representation. For your information, her problems are well-documented, as is her previously exemplary record. I don’t know what her future holds, but if rehabilitation is an option, it will be offered.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Sam said.
Lopez caught sight of Zielinski and waved him over.
“Detectives,” he said. “I assume Assistant Chief Ortiz has you all caught up?”
“She does,” Sam replied.
The assistant chief smiled broadly. “Detective Sergeant Zielinski, congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Your CO and I will want to debrief you and your team. She and I will set that up along with the CO for Queens North Homicide. I don’t need to tell you that all media inquiries should be directed to the Office of the Chief of Detectives. We’re coordinating a response with the mayor’s team. There’ll be a press conference. This is a win, but there will be questions.”
“I think Lieutenant Tate is used to dodging media inquiries,” Lopez said with a straight face. Sam stifled the urge to poke her friend in the arm.
“I’m sure she is. By the way, Lieutenant, you’re cleared to go in to see Detective Carlisle. I imagine he wants to thank you for saving his life.” Ortiz chuckled as she walked back down the hall.
“I’m in the presence of greatness,” Lopez wisecracked.
“You’re part of it, Margarite,” Zielinski said. “We’ve all earned a pat on the back. Although I might have something to say about special consultants who run off without informing their team.”
Sam swallowed and bent down to pick up her ice pack.
“Come on, Zielinski,” Lopez said. “Sam subdued the suspect with a cane. No shots fired.”
Sam flashed on herself sitting astride Alex Kostakis, arms stretched over head, prepared to drive a pointed stick into and through his heart. What if Lopez and the others had burst upon that scene? Would she now be sitting in a room waiting to be evaluated like poor Helena Kostakis?
“I was downstairs when they brought Kostakis in.” Zielinski was watching Sam closely. “His foot looked bloody awful, pardon the pun. You did that with a cane?”
Sam shrugged. “I hit soft tissue.” She glanced down the hall. “Let me go check on Danny.”
She slipped on her mask and walked over to Carlisle’s room. The group outside his door crowded around her with backslaps and high fives and “atta girls.” One man called out, “Tennessee tough.” Another followed with “Watch out; the sheriff is in town.” Everybody laughed, then stepped back to let her slip through the door and lock it.
“Someone sure is popular.”
Carlisle was propped up in bed wearing a hospital gown someone had haphazardly tied around him. Despite a monitor and a couple of IV drips, he looked chipper, albeit drained.
Sam laughed. She walked over to the bed and smiled at him. “That someone is you. Your colleagues out there are celebrating your survival. They’re also vowing to make sure someone has an eye on Kostakis until they send him wherever they’re going to send him.”
“Probably Attica,” Carlisle replied. “Is he on suicide watch?”
“I can’t see someone like him ending his life. He’s too fond of himself.”
“What about Chloe?”
“I was told Internal Affairs is going to decide how to proceed with input from both district attorneys. I have the impression they’ll take her problems into consideration. But there will be consequences.”
“I know.” He reached out and grabbed her hand.
She waited for the spark or, more significantly, a deeper connection. What washed over her was relief at seeing a valued colleague on the mend and affection for a dear friend. Nothing more.
He felt it too, a shift in the air. He released her arm. “My upper body reflexes are returning,” he said with a nod.
“How about your legs? Can you move them?”
“I have some sensation. Doctors are pretty sure it’ll all come back to me. I’ll be chasing bad guys in no time. Or bad girls,” he added with a smile.
“I don’t think you’ll want for opportunity.”
Carlisle bit his lip. “You’re an extraordinary woman, you know.”
“Danny—”
“Let me finish, Tate. Not just your looks, although you are awesomely beautiful, as the kids might say. And not just your physical strength, although I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone, male or female, who can lift an overhead steel door with her toes or handle a walking stick like it was a samurai sword.”
Sam flushed. “You can never tell anyone.”
“I never would. I like the idea of having a couple of secrets between us.” He took her hand. “We were crushing on each other for a minute, weren’t we?”
“We were,” she said softly.
“I expect you to do great things, Tate. Not in New York. Not now, at any rate. Also not in Eastern Maryland, and that’s me speaking as a friend.”
“How about Washington, DC? I have a job offer. Hush-hush for now. Advancement possibilities. I think I’m going to take it.”
“Washington. More politics, not less. But you can keep an eye on your senator. And maybe close the distance on a certain relationship.”
Sam looked at their intertwined hands; he let go.
“Just so you know, and I’m still speaking as a friend, if you ever need anything, you reach out to me from wherever you are. I’ll be there in a flash. It’s the least I can do for someone who speared a suspect to save my life.”
“I heart you, Dan Carlisle,” Sam said and kissed him gently on the forehead.
“Take a number, Tate.” He waved, then turned his head away.
Sam walked out the door and into an empty passageway. The assembled well-wishers had moved on. Good. She needed a moment to collect herself. She took several slow, deep breaths and shook herself. Carlisle was going to be okay. And so was she.
From the visitors lounge, she heard someone call her name.
“Hey, Tate, Detective Lopez has been filling me in on your so-called vacation. You got any pictures we can post to Instagram?”
She tore down the hallway and threw herself into Terry Sloane’s waiting arms. He didn’t flinch against the onslaught but caught her in a wordless embrace. She buried her face in his solid, familiar chest and let the tears flow.
“Senator Parker is here, sir.” The stylish, black-suited woman spoke into the phone, received her reply, and rose from her desk. “Right this way, Senator,” she said.
Sean Parker followed her down a short corridor filled with artwork and living plants. Recessed fixtures added a glow that was supplemented by the natural light from a skylight. Someone had strung fairy lights, perhaps as a nod to the holiday season.
At the end of the hallway, the woman entered a numerical series onto a discreet keypad. This activated a sliding door that lay flat against the wall, nearly invisible to the casual observer. It opened onto a beautifully appointed office with what appeared to be customized furniture. The floor-to-ceiling windows afforded a panoramic view of downtown Providence. As soon as Parker entered, the woman disappeared.
A slope-shouldered, white-haired man in a cashmere jacket stood at the window. When he turned around, Parker couldn’t help but notice the deep furrows that ran along the sides of his face and the excess skin that hung from his chin almost to his chest.
“You look well, Joseph,” Parker said by way of greeting.
“What, no Uncle Joe?” the old man replied. “I suppose you’re used to more formality these days, Senator.”
He smiled, his sparkling dentures at odds with his aged visage. Though in his early nineties, his voice hadn’t changed. Deep, sonorous, controlled, persuasive. A purr that could without warning become a roar. A voice that had once advised powerful men, seduced women, commanded subordinates, and intimidated so many others, including Parker himself.
“This”—Parker indicated his surroundings—“is quite the setup.”
“Isn’t it? My son is all about sustainable living. Systems, materials, the chair you sit on, the clothes you wear, the car you drive, the food you eat. Most of what you see is made of bamboo or some other natural matter that isn’t likely to disappear in ten years. Radiant heat, recycled air. I can’t keep track. All I know is he makes a fortune. He’s got me sitting on the board of his company, where I don’t do a damn thing to earn this gorgeous office.”
A wet cough interrupted his train of thought. “Sorry. Healthy living hasn’t brought back my lungs, even though I gave up cigars years ago. At least I’m still here. Speaking of which, I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thanks. It was his time.”
“Glad he died in the comfort of his own home instead of in a damned prison cell.” He gestured to a comfortable chair and took a seat behind the desk. “Have a seat.”
Parker hesitated, then sat.
“How’s your mother doing, by the way?”
“She’s fine, thanks. I’ve moved her to an assisted living facility in Maryland.”
“You were always a good son to your parents. Made us all proud.” He winked, an animated skull in an expensive jacket.
“I had help.”
“We got you started. You did the rest. By the way, congratulations are in order. First you get elected to the Senate. Then you get engaged to that media heiress. She’s a lawyer, isn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“Smart, good-looking, connected, and rich. Locked and loaded. When’s the wedding?”
Parker didn’t answer.
“Smile, Sean. You have it all. Money, power, a great woman, more on the side if that’s what you decide you want.”
“I only ever wanted the one, Joseph.”
“A youthful mistake. Best nipped in the bud, so to speak.” He took in Parker’s stiff posture. “Is that why you’re still so angry? The girl? Or is this about what happened in Queens?”
“Why does it have to be one or the other? You destroyed my chance at happiness. Then you ordered me to destroy my sister’s happiness.”
“Half-sister,” the old man replied. “A woman you didn’t even know. Your job was to deliver a message to her husband on behalf of the family.”
“At a wedding. With a gun. Like I was some sort of hired assassin.”
“Was the assignment too low rent for you, Sean? Did you use your weapon? I read the transcripts, you know. The kid was fixated on a man with a brown suit she thinks pulled a gun.”
“Brown was a popular color for men back in the nineties,” Parker said.
“Enigmatic as usual. Makes me wonder if you were even there.”
The old man placed his hands on the desk. Carefully manicured, though spotted with age, they still looked capable, strong. Parker knew he’d been the well-educated counselor to the Patriarca family. Maybe his usefulness hadn’t been confined to advice.
“Here’s the bottom line, Sean. It’s ancient history. No need to keep bringing it up. Past time for you to let all that go.”
“Is it, though? Then what’s your interest after all these years?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” the old man snapped. “How come you connected with that girl, that half-niece, after all this time? She’s working and living in DC, thanks to you. With a senior FBI type, no less. Why would you want to make that happen?”
“Maybe I want to keep an eye on her.”
“Why? You think she’s going to stumble onto something? Does she even know you’re her half uncle?”
“No,” Parker lied.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. I heard the mother just died. That’s a blessing in more ways than one. Look, Sam Tate is free and clear. She’s got a new name, a new job, a steady boyfriend. This would be an ideal time for her to turn the page on her past.”
“Just stay away from her,” Parker said.
The old man laughed. “Either you’re getting sentimental, and I don’t believe that for a minute, or you’ve got another angle.”
Parker stood. “My interest in or feelings about Sam are none of your concern. I have my own plans. You don’t need to know what they are, and I don’t need either approval or input from you or any of your associates.”
Instead of responding, the old man reached into his pocket and withdrew an electronic cigarette. “Someone told me this, what do they call it, vaping is better for me,” he said. “Piece of crap plastic, probably made in China. Like something my granddaughter would use.” He pulled, exhaled with satisfaction. “Ah, well. We all gotta make sacrifices, right?”
He looked up and squinted at Parker. “Sit down, Sean, and let me offer you a piece of advice. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, son. You’re in the catbird seat right now, but we can still . . .”
“You can still what, Joseph? Get me to do your bidding? I don’t think so.”
The old man coughed, once, then again. He dropped the vape and waved a hand in front of his face as if to ward off evil spirits. The coughing turned into choking. He pounded his chest and fell back in his chair. “The cigarette,” he gasped.
“Consider it enhanced. Call it modern technology or bio-weaponry. A hard-to-trace poison, designed to shred lungs. Mix in a little help from outsiders and money spent in the right places and offered to the right people. There’s more than one way to persuade people to do your bidding, Joseph. Although force has its place.”
Parker came around the desk and stood over the man who had governed his life for many years.
“Listen up, old man. Blood doesn’t matter. Background doesn’t matter. Loyalty is conditional. What counts now is power and influence. For instance, I’m now in a position to grind the entire familia into dust with the help of my new friends at the FBI. And I intend to do so.”
He pulled a pair of latex gloves and a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Don’t mind me, Joseph. I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”
The old man had both hands to his neck as if he could coax more air through his throat. “Who do you work for?” he wheezed.
“I work for the people, of course.” Parker smiled. “And for myself.”
He shoved the handkerchief into the old man’s mouth, pushed him forward until his head rested on the desk, and held him there until all movement stopped. Then he removed the cloth, used a second one to wipe everything down, then stooped to pick up the e-cigarette. The items went into a small bag he put back in his pocket.
He looked around and smiled.
“Dust to dust, Uncle Joe,” he said to the dead man. “Very environmentally friendly. I hope your son will be happy.”
-END-
Thanks for reading Freeze Before Burning. I hope you’ll take a moment to leave a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or any other social media you frequent. That way, I can connect to even more readers who are looking for books like mine.
With this book, I feel I can lay claim to a legitimate series. To that end, I’ve had all the covers redesigned to present a unified theme. My goal is to have everyone see the three books as distinct stand-alone stories but also a part of a continuing narrative.
Sam Tate is, of course, the anchor. As I’ve grown to know her, she’s grown as a person. She has, I hope, a bright future ahead of her. I may give her a little time to adjust to her new life. Or I may come up with an idea and start on the next book sooner than I anticipated.
Meanwhile, book two, Bird in Hand, is doing well. Who doesn’t like pirates? The book has received its share of accolades last year. Shelf Unbound named it a 2020 Best Indie Book and it also became a Next Generation Book Awards finalist.
My book total is up to six now, along with countless essays, some of which you can read at nikkistern.com. Type the address or scan the QR code.
I’m still on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, the last two as @realnikkistern. Come visit.
Because I Say So
Hope in Small Doses
The Former Assassin
The Wedding Crasher
Bird in Hand