Harold Huxham’s body slumped over the chair’s arm.
“No…no, no, no.”
The single gunshot had struck the center of his forehead. A clean entry. An assassin’s kill. The fatal damage was only visible in the back of his skull, where the bullet left a ragged, gaping hole.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Sloane’s eyes teared. She turned to the shooter. He still hadn’t moved. His face was pointed in her direction, and she studied it but had no idea who he was.
What the hell was going on? Sloane fell to her knees, replaying the fight in her mind, perhaps the most terrifying of her life, worse than any scrapes she’d got into as a cop.
Bear leaped on the desk and meowed.
“Yeah. I agree. This is messed up.” Her hands were covered in blood. She wiped it on her jeans and got to her feet. Her phone was on the clean side of the desk, sparing it from the blood spray and brain tissue that covered the other side and the wall behind.
After calling 911, she knelt next to the shooter. She had avoided using a rabbit punch and expected to feel a pulse. But the force of her final kick had done the same damage. He was dead.
“Holy shit, what happened?” a startled voice came from the hallway.
She turned. “Damnit, Prence, don’t skulk around my door.”
“I ain’t skulking.” Gary shifted from one foot to another. He had an unlit cigarette dangling off his bottom lip and a grocery bag in each arm. His eyes were fixed on the shooter’s body. Then he looked at the bloody mess behind the armchair. “Oh, man. Is that the old guy in the chair?”
Anger flooded Sloane’s body. She jumped up with clenched fists. “Yeah. His name’s Harold Huxham.” She got in Gary’s face. “Did you let the other guy in, too?”
“Nah, I swear. I never seen him before, Slo. Jimmy took me to the bodega on 120 th right after I let the old guy in. I even got you that cheese you like. But it’s ahight. I’ll give it to you later.” He shifted the bags, and his voice lowered. “I guess the guy was in trouble, huh?”
“He wasn’t here about a case.”
“That one must’ve had it out for him, anyways, right? Nobody’s gonna break into your apartment.” Gary tilted his head to one side, staring at the shooter. “He’s really messed up. I thought you weren’t supposed to go all hocus-pocus in fights no more. You really screwed the pooch, huh?”
“Jesus Christ, Prence. He killed Harold and tried to kill me. I had to defend myself.”
“Okay. Okay. I just don’t wanna see you get into no more trouble.”
Sirens shrilled and wailed as they drew closer.
“You better get out of here.”
Gary backed up. “Ahight. I’m goin’. But your face. Do you need a washcloth or something? Some ice?”
“No. I’m fine. Leave. Now.”
“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
“Yeah, sure. Go.”
The stranger in her living room wasn’t the first person she had killed or the only time she had heard a voice in her head. The last time she was NYPD. It had happened during a drug-house raid. She had heard a warning voice and took cover, but her senior officer hadn’t. Watching her get shot filled her with an anger so overpowering, she ran down the shooter a mile away from the scene and broke his neck with her bare hands. Their supervisor placed her on administrative leave. After FID cleared her to return to duty, she couldn’t. She knew it would only be a matter of time before rage consumed her and she killed someone again.
Sloane took a picture of the dead man’s face with her phone and rifled through his pants pockets. No ID. Nothing. She searched the inside pockets of his black jacket and pulled out two one-inch headshots. One of Harold and one of her. They’d been targeted.
She looked at the back of the photos. Harold’s was blank. Her address was written on the back of hers. She flipped them over again, and with a flash of green light they disintegrated in her hands. “What the hell?”
She got to her feet and backed away.
The sirens outside grew louder.
The assassin was a professional, armed with a weapon and pictures of his marks. No money. No identification. But who hired him? Possible suspects ran through her mind. Perps she had brought to justice? Members of gangs? No. It couldn’t be. He had shot Harold first.
The police siren was right outside. She moved to the window. A patrol car drew to a sudden halt, and two beat cops got out. The shorter officer aimed the car’s floodlight at the front of the row house, even though it was still dusk. She turned from the harsh light and walked to the front door.
The taller cop barged inside, gun drawn. “Hands where I can see them. On the ground!”
Sloane knew the drill. She clasped her hands behind her head and kneeled on the floor. Then she lay on her stomach with arms spread eagle.
“Is anyone else in the house?” he asked.
“No.”
“All clear,” the shorter officer called from the back of her apartment.
She stayed completely still and spoke. “I’m Sloane West. This is my apartment. I called in the shooting.”
The taller cop withdrew his revolver, and the shorter one returned and shoved a pair of shoe covers into his partner’s chest before helping Sloane to her feet. “I’m Constable Bryant. He’s Constable Gordon. What happened here?”
“The deceased in the chair is Harold Huxham. He arrived today from BC to meet with me. The deceased on the floor broke in and shot Harold. Then he turned the gun on me.”
Gordon struggled with the shoe covers, hopping on one leg at a time. He walked over to Harold, examined his body, and flipped open a notepad. “Why was Mr. Huxham here to meet you?”
“He made an appointment with me last week. I’m a PI. My license is in the desk. Top right drawer.” She nodded at the shooter. “He broke through the door about half an hour into our meeting.”
Bryant returned and handed Sloane a damp dishrag full of ice. “Do you recognize the shooter?”
“I’ve never seen him before.” She wiped the salty taste of blood from her mouth, chin and neck and put the cold pack on her nose.
Gordon examined the man’s twisted limbs. “What happened to him?”
“He turned the gun on me, and I disarmed him. In self-defense.”
He smirked. “You did this?”
Sloane stood eye-to-eye with Gordon. “Yeah. Mr. Huxham and I were alone.”
“Maybe you forgot he brought someone with him? Or your boyfriend was here?”
His voice was accusatory, and she glared at him, stepping closer and daring him to double down. “I said we were alone.”
Bryant moved between them and walked Sloane a few paces back while two more patrol cars arrived, sirens screaming.
“Homicide’s gonna have more questions for you,” Gordon said, stepping around Bryant.
Sloane met him straight on. “Yeah, I know.”
Bryant pulled her back and led her to the front door. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. West. I need you to wait outside now. Do you want to call someone to sit with you?”
“No. I don’t need anyone.” She nodded. “Thanks for the ice.”
Sloane walked down the narrow hallway toward the row house’s front door. There was a split staircase off the entry. It led up to Gary’s place and down to an unoccupied basement apartment. She sat on the up treads and picked at the beige patterned carpet, the worse for wear.
Across the street, neighbors milled about, trying to figure out what was happening inside 194b East 140 th Street. She expected the audience. Everybody loved drama.
A door creaked above her, and she smelled Gary’s cigarette before hearing his footsteps. “How you doin’, Slo?” he asked with a hushed voice. “You want more ice for your face?” He wore evening loungewear, a silk set straight out of The Godfather . His cigarette smoke curled up and over his bald head.
“I’m fine, Prence.”
“Okay, okay. But I was thinking the cops are gonna be at your place all night, right? So you need to crash on my couch tonight or what?”
“I figured you were making Jimmy dinner tonight?”
“Nah, I’m stayin’ at his place tomorrow.”
“Yeah, thanks. That helps. We’ll come up after I talk to Homicide.”
“Uh, okay. But do you gotta bring the cat? It gives me the creeps.”
Sloane cocked her head. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“Ahight, ahight. But bring one of your bottles then. A fancy one. It’ll mellow me out.” He winked and hurried back up the stairs.
A voice boomed inside Sloane’s apartment. She turned and stuck her head between two paint-chipped spindles in the banister. “Why haven’t you secured the area?” the man yelled. “How the hell did you get through training? Get out there and set up a perimeter. Front and back. There’s no telling what evidence we’ve lost.”
Sloane recognized the voice—Borough Chief Detective Jacobson. She knew him well. When she was on the force, he was her supervisor. And he had been one of Jane’s oldest friends. He was a real throwback, a Law and Order type, intelligent, intuitive, and all his moves a clichéd performance.
Constables Bryant and Gordon sulked past her. She wiggled her head free and watched them in the harsh spotlight as they taped off the front door. It was a shame Bryant was stuck with an ass of a partner.
A darkened silhouette approached them and ducked under the caution tape.
Sloane groaned. “Jesus Christ. Why are you here?”
“Seriously, West? I hear a 10-10 at your address. I’m going to come. Thank God you’re okay.” Thomas Hanson sat next to her. His cheeks were flushed, and he reached toward her face. “Let me see your nose?”
She batted away his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I don’t want you here, Tom. If you need to, go talk to Jacobson. He’s inside. Otherwise, leave.”
Tom rubbed his hands on his thighs. “C’mon. How long are you going to punish me? At least talk to me. To us.”
“Punish? Please. I’m not talking about it. Not now. Not ever.” Her voice was steady, but her hands shook, clenched into fists. To her relief, heavy footsteps stomped down the hallway, and Chief Detective Jacobson rounded the staircase.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked her.
She glared at Tom. “I’ve been better.”
“Yeah. I guess so. It’s a mess in there.” Jacobson leaned on the banister. It groaned and bowed under the bulk of his muscular body. “It was easy to tell which one you killed.”
“Bad form, sir.”
“Who asked you, Hanson? She knows I’m messing with her.”
“Yeah. Hiding my amusement deep down with all my other buried emotions.”
He chuckled, then turned to Tom. “Why are you sitting here anyway? We need to identify the shooter and get contact numbers for Mr. Huxham’s family. And notify the Canadian Consulate. We’re gonna have a shitload of red tape.” He pointed to the door. “Go on. Get outta here.”
“Yes, sir.” Tom turned to Sloane. “Don’t be a stranger. You can call Jess or me anytime. I know she would like to hear from you, too. And we aren’t going anywhere. So when you’re ready to talk, let us know.”
As soon as he disappeared into the light, Sloane released an exasperated breath, saying, “Give me a fucking break.”
Jacobson shifted his weight. “You sure you’re okay? Do you want a medic to take a look at your nose?”
Sloane leaned back against the stairs. “No. I’m fine, thanks, Jac.”
“Oh, sure. Now I’m worried. Your mother told me what fine means. Fucking Insecure Neurotic and Emotional.”
Sloane laughed sardonically and stared at the worn carpet.
“All right. No medic. Just tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know. I’m still trying to make sense of it.” She looked up. “The victim’s name is Harold Huxham. We had an appointment today.”
“Did you know him?”
“Never seen him before. He’s from Vancouver Island. A lawyer. But he didn’t come to see me for my detective work. He knew Jane and her parents. Seems Jane was born and raised there, in a village called Denwick.”
“In Canada? Your mother said she’d never traveled out of the country.”
“Yeah, well, she lied. He had letters she wrote to her parents and a family photo to prove it. They’re all inside my place. Jane lied, Jac. I doubt she ever told us the truth about anything, ever.” She felt terrible for the callous way she was sullying Jane’s memory, but it was obvious they never really knew the woman.
He looked down and planted a foot on the first step, his shoulders slouched.
Sloane knew he had loved Jane and still grieved her death. He had been in her life for twenty years since the first time the FBI asked her to profile an unknown subject. He had been in the front row next to Sloane at Jane’s memorial.
Jacobson rubbed his foot back and forth on a blackened spot of chewing gum. “I suppose Jane had her reasons.” He straightened. “What did Mr. Huxham want?”
“He traveled all that way to tell me her parents left her a trust, and I guess it’s mine now.”
“And when did the shooter arrive?”
“About twenty-five minutes after Harold.”
“Did you hear or see a car?”
“No. He banged on the door out of the blue. I don’t even know how he got past our security door. And as soon as I turned the lock, he busted in. The door hit me and dazed me a little. I heard him shoot once before I got my bearings. Then he turned the gun on me.” She hesitated. “I tried not to use lethal force.”
Jacobson leaned into the hallway and glanced down the hall. “Do you recognize him?”
“No. But clearly he’s no beginner. And he’s not from around here. No one in my neighborhood wears bespoke tracksuits.”
Jacobson raised his chin, making eye contact with her again. “I agree. That was one helluva shot. What about your investigations? You got any enemies out there?”
She again thought about her past cases, everything from missing persons, wrongful deaths, and organized crime to insurance fraud. “Maybe, but no one willing to pay for a shooter with a custom Nighthawk.”
“Yeah. It’s a beauty.” Jacobson straightened. “Did Mr. Huxham mention anyone angry about him coming to see you?”
“No.” She lowered her voice. “Listen, Jac. I know someone hired the shooter to kill Harold and me.”
Jacobson’s brow furrowed. “What makes you say that?”
The Chief Detective was a friend but had clear boundaries around investigations with her since she left his squad. And she had crossed one. So she measured her words. “Okay. This is going to piss you off. I checked the shooter’s pockets before Gordon and Bryant arrived.”
“Jesus, West. You’re killing me.”
“I know, Jac. But he had just killed Harold and had tried to kill me. All I could think about was why.”
Jacobson looked away.
“There’s more. I found one-inch photos of Harold and me inside his jacket.” She waited for a stronger reaction, but he stared straight ahead, listening. “You’re going to think what I’m about to say is ridiculous but hear me out. As soon as I had the pictures in my hand, they just disintegrated.”
He shook his head and looked at her as though the door had done more than bloody her nose. “What’re you saying?”
“I saw it happen. And you know I don’t lie. He had our pictures. I’ve been sitting here thinking about it, and the only thing linking Harold and me is my inheritance. Only someone in Denwick would know about it, Jac. That’s where we’ll find who hired him.”
She expected him to blow off her hunch, especially since the disappearing photo evidence seemed so implausible. But he patted the banister with his hand a few times and seemed to consider the connection. “All right. But let us find out who this guy is before you start anything.” He pulled his foot off the first step. “Do you have somewhere to spend the night?”
“Yeah, with a neighbor.”
“If you think of something else, call me. Otherwise, get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. And don’t go off trying to track down the shooter’s identity. Leave that to us.”