Dismayed at the sight, Amelia Sachs pulled her Torino to the curb on this quiet street in Long Island City, tossed the NYPD sign onto the dash and climbed out.
Four blue-and-whites were there. One unmarked. And an ambulance. Which was now unnecessary, as the polyvinyl tarp covering the body in the front hallway explained.
The body of Saul Weintraub.
Her first thought: What could they have done differently to save his life?
No answers came to her.
The killer would have spent his time since the killing in Midtown tracking down Weintraub. His canvassing had been just a bit better than theirs. The instant they’d learned his name, she’d called. Lock the doors. Don’t let any strangers in. And the local precinct, the 114, had gotten a car there as fast as they could.
That Weintraub himself should have called them the minute he learned of Patel’s death wasn’t a factor. No cop can blame potential witnesses for duck-and-cover.
Her phone hummed. Rhyme.
“I’m here,” she said.
“Got something interesting, Sachs. Text from a burner phone, now dead, of course. It went to a half-dozen TV and radio stations in the area. It’s all over the news. I just sent it.”
She minimized the phone screen and went to texts.
The concept of engagement is based on a binding promise to wed by the man to his betrothed. Now I have promise too. I am looking for YOU, I am looking every where. Buy ring, put on pretty finger but I will find you and you will bleed for your love.
—The Promisor
“Jesus, Rhyme. You think it’s Forty-Seven? Or just a copycat?”
“I don’t know. I’m having somebody from downtown, a linguist, look at it. Not that’ll tell us much, I think. My gut says it’s from him. But you know how much I trust that. Well, run the scene there and we’ll talk more when you’re back.”
She started toward the home, a modest row house, painted white, in need of more paint, and windowsills lined with empty brown flower boxes, like droopy lower eyelids. Instinctively, she tapped her Glock—the Gen4 FS—to orient herself to the weapon’s exact position. There was a large crowd. It wasn’t impossible for Unsub 47 to be among them—here to learn of the police’s progress. Sachs eyed those on the street—fifty or sixty people—and the TV stations’ vans. Was the unsub among the spectators? Street Crime officers were canvassing. If anybody seemed suspicious or left quickly, they’d pursue the lead. Still, she suspected that the man’s business was completed and he’d fled after the murder. A shooting this time, she’d learned. No knife work. The victim had, however, been beaten.
“Hey, Amelia.”
She nodded to Ben Kohl, a gold shield out of the 114. He asked, “So how come you guys’re involved?”
Sachs explained to the detective, a lean balding man in his mid-fifties, “A wit in the killing at the diamond shop, Four-Seven Street yesterday.”
“Oh, that. Jesus. How’d the perp find him? They know each other?”
“We don’t know. How’d you hear?”
“Gunshots reported.”
“Anybody see anything? Get a description?”
“Maybe. But nobody’s talking. We’ve been canvassing but we got nothing so far. I mean, we’ll handle it out of our house, you want. But Major Cases want to take it?”
Hope blossomed in his voice.
“If I can borrow some of your people for the canvass. You mind?”
“Mind?” Kohl laughed. “I’m taking the wife out for our anniversary tonight. All yours. I’ll get you three, four uniforms to help out. Just keep our Homicide crew in the loop. This one’ll show up as our stat and we’ll need to report it out. You understand.”
“Sure.”
Sachs walked close to the scene to make sure it remained clear and to await the Crime Scene bus, so she could get to work.
*
Mikey O’Brien had a plan and he was unwrapping it in his mind right now.
After the wedding they’d stay in the neighborhood for one year. That was it. Three hundred sixty-five days. Less, if possible. But definitely no more than. By then he’d be a senior floor manager (okay, teller) at the bank and be making close to 45K. Emma would be getting thirty from the hospital, more if she worked nights. Enough for a down payment in eastern Nassau somewhere.
Close enough to the in-laws (both sets) to visit. But not too close.
The slim redheaded man, twenty-six, strode with hope and a hint of cockiness down Avenue U. Past the tanning salon, the Progressive Medical Center, the deli, the meat market, the pharmacy. Signs in Greek, signs in Italian.
Nothing wrong with this neighborhood, Gravesend. But, it was a place to leave, not a place to stay.
For him at least. Michael P. O’Brien, future district manager of Brooklyn Federal Bank, had places to go.
Another block and he saw her, waiting on the street corner. After errands this morning they’d planned to rendezvous here then proceed to their apartment (the temporary apartment—one year, no more, he reminded himself firmly).
He smiled at the sight. Emma Sanders, blond, with stunning green eyes, was beautiful, an inch taller than he was, and round where a woman should be round—perfect for having, and making, babies. He smiled to himself as he thought this. There would be three children. Among the names to pick and choose from: Michael III, Edward, Anthony, Meghan, Ellie, Michaela. Emma had signed off on these.
Mikey O’Brien was a happy man.
“Hey, sweet.” They kissed. She smelled of flowers.
He assumed the scent was flowers. That was a subject he wasn’t familiar with—no gardening in his genes. But it seemed to be floral. On the other hand, he was soon to be very familiar with the subject. The groom’s side was helping contribute to the wedding expenses, and his family—that is, Mikey himself—was picking up the florist’s bill.
“How’d it go?” he asked her.
They continued walking in the direction he’d been heading—toward the apartment.
“Oh, honey. She’s great. Totally great. She’s not trying to talk us into anything we don’t want. I thought she was going to and I was going to sic my big, bad Mikey on her. But, uh-uh, she knows the budget—”
Already a shitload of money, Mikey thought but didn’t come close to saying.
“—and is sticking to it. I mean, Nora’s planner talked her into the eight-piece band, remember.”
Friggin’ orchestra.
“But Stacey didn’t push me. She’s cool with a keyboard, guitarist, bass and drums.”
Had he agreed to a four-piece band? Joey got married with a DJ was all. Worked out great.
Again, keeping mum.
In truth, Mikey O’Brien wasn’t even sure why they needed a wedding planner. Wasn’t that something you could figure out yourself? He’d put together bachelor parties. And a wake. They’d all gone fine.
But Emma wanted one—because her sister had had one and Nora, her BFF from the hospital, had had one. So, honey, Mikey, pleeeeease.
Oh, hell, sure. She was so beautiful…
Emma slipped her arm through his and they continued through this interesting neighborhood, where commercial and residential coexisted peacefully. Two blocks farther along, they turned the corner and started toward their apartment. He felt her breast against his biceps.
That low urge unfurled within him, demanding attention, like a horse hoofing the ground.
Maybe just a half hour…the bedroom, the couch? The living room floor? Nope, he said to himself. No time. They had to get ready to meet her parents out on Long Island.
The wind shook branches overhead and speckled the couple with icy water. Mikey brushed it off his shoulders and happened to look back. He noted someone behind, about thirty feet away, in dark coat, gloves and stocking cap. Gravesend, despite the name, wasn’t particularly dangerous. But this was New York. You had to keep an eye out. This guy, though, was by himself, no gang action. He was looking down at the screen of his phone as he walked. Innocent as could be.
Soon they were home. The block was a little scuffed, a little worn, in need of a sidewalk sweeping and repair and couldn’t the damn super at 368 get that moldy green couch off the effing sidewalk until trash day?
But it was a pleasant enough place.
Good for a year.