2
FRIENDS, PARTNERS, SECRET KEEPERS
Last year at Thanksgiving, Trina had been the lucky recipient of an invitation to the Webbs’ family dinner. Lanny’s mother had called her personally on her office line: “I told Roland you have to come, please tell me that bad boy actually invited you? He did? Good. Wonderful. You don’t need to bring a thing, sweetie, just your pretty face. We’ve got enough food to feed all of Queens.”
And they had, the narrow two-story brick house packed with relatives bearing covered casserole dishes.
Lanny’s mother, Trina had learned that day, was Italian-American, five-foot-eight, and a knockout. She had a mane of thick black hair that fell to her waist and which she was letting go gray naturally, which on her was a rich silver the color of a fox’s pelt. Wide-hipped, and dark-skinned, a mother of six, she’d reeled Trina in for a crushing hug the moment she met her and declared her “gorgeous.” “I don’t know why my boy doesn’t bring you around more often.”
“Ma,” Lanny had protested.
His father, by contrast, was English. Slender, pale as cream, soft-spoken and scholarly. He was a literature professor at NYU and favored thick wool sweaters. He hadn’t seemed like the father of six boisterous rounders, but when seen alongside his wife, they proved to be perfect complements, a delight of contrasts, each shoring up the other’s weak spots.
That Thanksgiving – seated at a long, cobbled-together table with what must have been every Webb and Moretti relative in existence – Trina had delighted in seeing her partner in his childhood home, meeting his people and learning the ways they’d shaped him.
Lanny had his mother’s eyes, and nose, her tan skin and her thick black hair. On the surface, he had her easy charm and humor. But he also had his father’s habit of holding things back, keeping his concerns and problems tucked deeply away. English in his reservations, using jokes to deflect anything too serious.
So when he said he was “fine,” Trina knew he was anything but. And she knew that if she pressed too hard too fast, he’d dig in his half-English heels and clam up.
She would have to tease it out of him, like handling a recalcitrant suspect.
Speaking of which…
The girl on the other side of the glass – mid-twenties, lots of makeup, blubbering into a tissue – had so far sobbed her way through a whole bunch of non-answers with the uniforms. She claimed to be the deceased’s – Chad Edwards, 25, organ donor, NYU grad student, TA – girlfriend. She hadn’t told Thompkins anything, had just cried and gone along like a lost lamb, was now waiting for a formal questioning.
“What did she tell you?” Trina asked Thompkins.
He shrugged. “Christa Jeffries, age twenty-one, also a grad student. They’ve been dating since undergrad. Tonight was the first time they went to Angelo’s. From what I could tell through the crying, he was the ‘best boyfriend on earth.’” He shrugged again. “Whatever that means.”
Trina bit back a smile. “I’m sure he was.”
Lanny stepped into the viewing room, three paper cups of shitty break room coffee balanced in his hands. He shot Trina a raised-brow look. “We set?”
She grabbed her notepad. “Yep.”
This interview room was the one they used for victims’ families. The chairs were sturdy and mostly comfortable. No one had scratched profanity or crude cartoon dicks into the tabletop. A wheeled cart offered an array of chips, and crackers, and candy bars. A window overlooked the street below.
That’s where Christa’s gaze was trained when Trina and Lanny entered the room, chewing at a now-ragged thumbnail and watching the coffee carts set up shop on the sidewalk. The rain had stopped and the sun was coming up. One of the coffee vendors was already sweating, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
Christa startled when she heard the door click open, whirling to face them, wiping at her eyes. She’d chewed off most of her lipstick and smeared her mascara into big raccoon rings.
No one wore grief well, but for some it was a costume. It was Trina’s job to figure out who was sincere, and who was playing dress-up.
“Hi, Christa,” she greeted, taking her time to pull out a chair and get settled, arranging her notepad, flicking her hair back. Casual, friendly. She sent a disarming, sympathetic smile across the table. “Sorry it’s been such a rough night. We just have a few questions.”
Lanny set down the coffee and slid one across to the girl. “Here, you look like you could use this.” He offered her one of his patented warm-eyed smiles. He was a hell of an interrogator – their captain swore he could get the Pope to confess to a murder he hadn’t even committed – and it all started with a smile. For someone who’d originally wanted to make a living beating the shit out of people, he sure had a soft side.
Tonight that soft side was a show, but Christa didn’t know that.
“I put cream and sugar in it,” he continued, nudging the cup closer to Christa. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah.” She was nasally from crying. “Thanks.”
“Alright, Christa,” Trina began. “Think back to the start of the evening and tell us what happened.”
“Shit.” She wrapped a shaking hand around the coffee cup and scrubbed at her eyes some more. “I had a few drinks, and I don’t…”
“Take your time,” Lanny said. “Sometimes once you start talking about it, more of it comes back to you. No rush.”
She nodded and wet her lips, gaze darting to the window. The windows of the building across the street were beginning to reflect the rising sun, the flat white of a muggy dawn. “I…” Her breath caught, a soft shiver in her throat. “This is gonna sound nuts.”
Trina felt goosebumps break out beneath the sleeves of her jacket. The back of her neck prickled. She’d been a detective for three years, and it never stopped thrilling her, that perfect, baited-breath moment before someone confessed something.
She traded a glance with Lanny and saw that he was feeling it too, one brow cocked.
“Just tell us,” he urged Christa. “Trust me, we’ve seen plenty of nuts.” The corner of his mouth twitched, amused by his own lame joke.
Trina nudged his foot with hers and he nudged back.
Christa said, “You have to understand that Chad is, like, the best boyfriend. I mean, he never looks at other girls, never flirts. He, like, never makes me feel jealous, you know? He’s so good.”
“A stand-up guy it sounds like,” Lanny said.
She turned wide, pleading eyes to him. “Yes! I mean, he really is. Really, really…But tonight…” She glanced down at her coffee and took another unsteady breath.
“Christa,” Trina said. “We’re not here to judge. We just want to find out who hurt your boyfriend.” Killed him, but that seemed too cruel to say in the moment.
The girl nodded and plowed ahead, speaking quickly, staring a hole through the paper cup. “It was his friend Patrick’s birthday and the guys all wanted to go to Angelo’s because it was throwback. Said we’d dress up like it was the nineties, you know? So we did, and it was kinda lame, but the drinks were cheap. So.” She shrugged. “I got up to go to the bathroom, and when I got back there was this strange guy at the table. I’d never seen him before. He was” – she made a face – “kinda posh, and not in a good, rich guy way. Like, a mama’s boy or something, you know? So lame. He was sitting in my spot and he was talking to Chad. Like, leaning on him. Whispering right in his ear. Like they were friends or something. I didn’t like it.” She shivered, and Trina knew what she meant: it had felt wrong, a discordant beat in their evening.
“I told him ‘excuse me, that’s my seat,’” Christa continued. “And he looked at me and he was so mad. I mean, super pissed. Like he wanted to hit me or something. I.” She bit her lip. “He got up…and Chad followed him. They just walked off together.” She started to cry again, fresh tears glimmering on her lashes. “I thought they went to grab a smoke or something, but they didn’t come back, and I got worried…” Her chin quivered and she finally lifted her head. “What did that guy do to him? Why did Chad let him?”
A ragged sob tore its way from her throat and she buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
Trina shared a look with her partner and figured they were both thinking the same thing.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Lanny said gently, turning back to the girl. He produced a packet of tissues from his jacket pocket and set it beside her elbow. “When you can, we’d like you to talk to our sketch artist about the man you saw talking to Chad.”
Christa’s shoulders shook.
~*~
“So Chad was in the closet,” Lanny said when they were back at their desks.
“Don’t be an ass, Roland.”
“I’m not.” He lifted his hands in a defenseless pose. “You know I don’t care. But a guy who’s in a happy relationship doesn’t go out in an alley and get the mother of all hickeys from a guy if he doesn’t swing that way at least a little.”
“Such an ass.”
He tossed his stress ball at her and she caught it easily. “Alternate theories?”
“The guy was his dealer,” she said, tossing the ball back. “And Chad was way past due. They went out to discuss, Chad didn’t have the cash, and things got ugly.”
“So the guy bites him?” Lanny’s brows went up. “There’s only one reason anybody ever has a bite mark on their neck.”
“Zombie apocalypse?”
“You wish, fucking nerd,” he said with a grin, sending the ball her way again.
“Maybe Thompkins was on to something,” Trina said. “And it really was a vampire.”
“Like I said: fucking nerd.”
“Jock,” she shot back.
Lanny stowed the stress ball in its place amid the organized chaos of his desk. “Come on. I’m starving. We can talk crackpot theories over bacon and eggs.”
Her stomach growled, in full agreement with that plan.
And it would be better to eat before the post-mortem.
It was officially morning now, and the precinct bustled with the usual activity of a shift change: fresh uniforms clocking in and the night shift shuffling for the door in their civvies. Detectives Robinson and Delgado had obviously picked up a late-night case too, both of them weary-eyed and slump-shouldered at their desks, flipping through crime scene photos.
“Want us to bring you something?” Lanny offered as they walked past.
Delgado made a face and shook his head. “On a diet.”
“Sucks, bro.” Lanny socked him lightly on the shoulder.
“I’m not,” Robinson said.
“I talked to your wife at the Memorial Day party,” Trina said. “Trust me, you are.”
He groaned.
Outside on the street, morning rush hour traffic shuttled past, cars and pedestrians alike. The air smelled of last night’s rain, exhaust, and the hot-oil tang of a host of fried breakfast foods available at the carts. They turned left at the foot of the precinct steps and fell in with the crowd of preoccupied commuters. Businesspeople in suits. Construction workers with sack lunches and hard hats tucked under their arms. Kids with too-heavy backpacks dragging at their shoulders. Trina spotted an artist in paint-spattered jeans gripping the handles of a bulky portfolio.
She loved this city so much that it hit her hard enough to hurt sometimes. That sweet ache of affection and nostalgia that should probably have been reserved for a lover.
They walked in companionable silence, Lanny smoking a cigarette most of the way, enjoying the bustle and gathering their thoughts. Lanny held the door open for her when they reached Tifton’s, and they found their favorite window booth open and waiting for them.
They slid in across from each other and Janet was on them immediately, slipping menus they wouldn’t need in front of their noses. “You two look like you could use some coffee,” she greeted with a smile, looking a little tired herself.
Lanny leaned back and let the booth take the weight of his considerable shoulders. “So much coffee. All the coffee.”
She laid out their silverware and said, “Be right back.”
Sunlight fell in through the big plate window, already warm, butter-colored and soothing. Trina closed her eyes, just a moment, an extended blink, and that was when the full weight of her sleepless nights hit her all at once. She was exhausted. Lying down in the booth right now and taking a nap seemed like a fantastic idea.
And then she saw him. The man with the blue eyes. Snarling at her through memory.
Shit.
He seemed more concrete now, fully-developed when in the dream he’d been more of an impression. Her mind was filling in the gaps, adding detail based on whims she didn’t understand. His hair was pale, white-blond, falling to his shoulders, blowing in the wind. High cheekbones and a straight nose. Young. Just a boy, really, only starting to resemble a man.
Who are you? she thought. He didn’t look like anyone she’d ever met. He wasn’t even the sort of man she would have fantasized about. For the past year or so, most of her fantasies had been dominated by…
Across the table, Lanny cleared his throat.
…her partner. Which was so wildly inappropriate and stupid. Just stupid. Lanny liked the kind of no-strings women who winked at him across crowded bars and nightclubs. She was like his little sister. And his partner. At work. Stupid.
“Hey,” Lanny said, softly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like shit.”
Fantasies were just that after all: fantasies.
She snorted and opened her eyes. “You’re sweet.”
He was smiling in that lazy way that always made her stomach flip, one arm flung out along the back of the seat. The position pulled his jacket wide so his gun and badge were visible at his hip. “I know,” he said. And then he sobered. “Seriously, though. You’re still not sleeping?”
She shrugged and looked out through the window. Never look a detective in the eye if you were trying to avoid talking about something.
“Nightmares still?”
“It’s stupid.”
“You wanna tell me about them?”
Janet saved her from answering, arriving with their coffee. “You two want the usual?” She didn’t even have her pad out.
“Yeah,” Lanny answered, collecting and handing over their menus. When Janet was gone, he said, “The thing is, though, you don’t lose sleep about stuff. So whatever this is, it’s really bothering you.”
She bit her lip and stared at her reflection in the window, seeing the deep shadows under her eyes. Lanny had those shadows too.
“You gonna tell me what’s bothering you?” she asked. When she darted a glance, he’d pulled his arm back down, shoulders lifted at a defensive angle.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Your family okay?”
“They’re fine.” His jaw clenched, muscle jumping in his cheek.
“Lanny–”
“Leave it, Trina.” Low, rough, angry. So unlike him.
She met his stare, more than a little hurt by his refusal to talk to her.
Then again, she wasn’t sharing with him.
Of course, his problems probably didn’t have anything to do with nightmares and strange visions of blue-eyed strangers.
“So Chad Edwards,” she said, voice tight.
“We won’t know shit ‘til the autopsy.”
Janet arrived with a plate held in each hand. She looked between the two of them. “Everything alright?”
“Fine,” they said in unison.
~*~
Trina was grateful they kept the morgue so cold, because shivering was the only thing keeping her awake at this point. Her eyes felt full of sand and she was reaching the point of fatigue where she was loopy, the world around her too-fast and distorted. She’d downed eight ounces of coffee a half hour ago, but her body was so acclimated to caffeine these days it did little good.
She blinked furiously and tried not to pass out across the body. She contented herself with the fact that Lanny didn’t look any better.
Things had been strained since breakfast, and the more her tiredness dragged at her, the less patience she had for his bad mood. Why couldn’t he just talk to her, damn it?
“Alright,” Dr. Harvey said from the head of the table, one gloved hand braced on its edge. Somehow, she looked wide awake, though she’d been up as long as the two of them. “I haven’t done the full autopsy yet, but based on the preliminary exam, cause of death was a complete cervical spinal cord injury.”
“A broken neck?” Trina asked, surprise bleeding through her exhaustion.
“Right between the C3 and C4,” Harvey said with a nod. “He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“Shit,” Lanny said. “Isn’t that right where he…” He gestured to his own throat.
Harvey nodded, lips pursed. She moved around the table and reached to the side of the vic’s throat, used two fingers to stretch out what had, in death, become a truly ugly wound. She’d cleaned the area, leaving two clear dark puncture wounds and a nasty mess of bruising.
“It’s a bite mark, all right,” she said. “Unmistakably human. Except for these.” She touched the punctures with her gloved pinky. “These were made by something much sharper than human teeth. Obviously. A small knife maybe.” Her smile was tight and humorless. “Meat thermometer maybe.”
Trina glanced over at her partner and Lanny mouthed meat thermometer? with his brows up at his hairline.
“In any event, the bite isn’t what killed him,” Harvey continued. “Your killer was tall enough and strong enough” – she put her hands on Chad Edwards’ head – “to wrench his head sideways, like this, and snap his vertebrae. I swabbed the wound, and the lab’s running DNA analysis on it now. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the perp will be in the system.” She shrugged like she doubted so; Trina doubted too. It was never as easy as it looked on TV.
“Another thing,” Harvey continued, perking up, gaze coming to Trina and then Lanny, swapping a look between them. “Before he was killed, he lost a lot of blood.”
“How much is a lot?” Lanny asked.
Trina felt the goosebumps of last night return, the tightening at the back of her neck.
“Well, we always see lividity with bodies by this point. And we found him lying on his back, so that’s where the blood would have collected. But,” Harvey said, and lifted at the boy’s shoulder so they could see his back. Smooth and pale. “There’s none. Before whoever it was broke his neck, they drained him almost dry.”
The room seemed to tilt. “There wasn’t any blood at the scene,” Trina said.
Harvey looked straight at her, a glint of something uncharacteristic in her eyes: doubt. “No, there wasn’t.”
~*~
The detective bullpen always quieted down after nightfall. A few lingered at their desks, but the big overhead fluorescents were turned off in favor of the muted glow of desk lamps. Phone calls were made in quiet voices. The loudest sounds were made by the printer, the copier, and the coffee machine, punctuated by the soft rustle of file pages shuffling.
“Here.” Lanny set a steaming cup of coffee down on her blotter before he walked around to settle into his own desk chair.
“If I have one more sip of coffee, I’ll throw up,” Trina said, and then took a sip anyway. She didn’t throw up, so that was something. But her stomach twisted unhappily. She needed food, preferably something green and semi-nutritious.
Lanny pulled out his bottom desk drawer and retrieved a half-full bottle of Jim Beam. He poured two generous glugs into his own coffee and waved the bottle in offering.
She gave him a flat look.
“It’ll make you feel better,” he said with a tired half-smile.
“It’ll put me to sleep.”
“Good. You need to sleep.”
“And you don’t?”
“Nah. I can run all night.” He put the bourbon back in the drawer and shut it with a solid thump. “You’ll be wishing you had some in a minute. Just say when.”
Trina bit back another retort and tried to focus on the notes in front of her, her vision blurry. She blinked and blinked…and it didn’t clear. “Shit,” she muttered, giving up and rubbing her eyes with her fists like a little girl. “Time is it?”
“Nine-fifteen.” Lanny’s voice was thick and scratchy. She figured her own didn’t sound much better.
It had been a long, unproductive day. From the morgue they’d gone to Chad Edwards’ apartment, where they found nothing but trendy clothes, stacks of used textbooks, and the expected clutter of a two-bedroom cramped by three renters. From there it was to see the kids’ parents: a graying, grieving couple out on Long Island who couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the loss, insisting that their son’s murder must have been some sort of mistake because “everybody loved him.”
They’d talked to classmates, the professor he worked for, the staff from Angelo’s – nobody had seen a damn thing. Nobody seemed to think that anyone would have reason to kill Chad.
It was another of those miserable cases destined for the cold case boxes in the basement. Unless the lab turned up something useful, or someone stepped forward, there was a slim chance they’d be able to pin down the murderer.
“You’re thinking pretty loud over there,” Lanny said.
When she glanced up she found him leaning back in his chair, tossing his stress ball from hand to hand, eyelids flagging. Face shadowed unevenly with lamplight, he didn’t just look tired, suddenly, but sick. Scraped-raw and sleepless and older than he was.
What’s wrong, she almost said, but she swallowed it down. He would only deflect her like he’d been doing all day.
Instead, she cupped her chin in her hands and, worn down by the day and the night before, said, “Maybe it’s stupid, but the weirdness of this case is really bothering me.”
Lanny didn’t laugh at her. He made a thoughtful face. “Remember that case we had last year? The one with those devil-worshiper assholes who were doing the–”
“Ritualistic killings? Yeah.” It had been the most disturbing crime scene she’d ever laid eyes on.
“They drained that guy’s blood,” he reminded.
And they had. Into big silver punch bowls. All over the floor. Ribbons and globs and still-sticky smears of blood. She still remembered stepping into the warehouse, the stench of sweat, and candle wax, and death, and human shit. They’d tied the vic down and cut his throat; he’d voided his bladder and bowels when he died, all over the worn table they’d used as an altar.
“They did,” Trina said, squeezing her eyes shut a moment. “But the blood was still there. Where was Chad’s? Where did it go?”
When she looked at Lanny, he tilted his head, face scrunched up, thinking. “They drained him somewhere else, and dumped his body there.”
“Where? Harvey said he’d been dead at least two hours when she first examined him at the scene. Christa found him at least an hour before that. He wasn’t away from the club long enough for it to be a secondary scene. Whoever killed him did it in that alley.”
“Then where’s the blood?”
“That’s what’s bothering me!” She threw her hands up and let them flop back to the desk. “Ugh. I’m too tired for this. Let’s put a pin in it ‘til morning.”
Lanny nodded, looking relieved. “Wanna grab a drink?”
“Lanny, you’re already having a drink,” she said with a pointed look at his mug.
He reached for it and took a sip, shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll go by myself.”
“You need to get some rest.”
“I know what I need,” he muttered.
Once again, Trina held her tongue. They’d never been the kind of partners who argued, and she couldn’t start now, not when she was this bone tired.
She paused on her way out, though, leaned down and hugged him around the neck with one arm. “Please take care of yourself,” she whispered.
“Hmm,” he hummed, staring into his spiked coffee. “You too.”