Steve Rush

Chapter 1

Neil Caldera wondered which girl might be next. Seven NYU students dressed in bright colors chattered in line while those ahead of them ordered pastrami and falafel sandwiches. Life shoved forward despite a lethal-threat’s scent wafting through Greenwich Village on this Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

Their drone lessened when a haggard man raced into the deli where Neil had turned back to watching an apartment building south of Washington Square Park. A grimy hand slapped the table. His other pressed his side through a tattered coat. “He’s at the tavern on MacDougal Street, Detective.” The man panted the words. “He has a gun.”

Neil pocketed the hour-old notes from his interview with NYU junior, Samiya Carta. Samiya’s family’s influence, and important information about her friend’s murder, led him to set up in the deli. He put two twenties in the man’s palm and sprang off the stool. He zipped his jacket on his way out and called in the sighting.

Procedure and common sense dictated each choice Neil made on the job. He planned out his strategy through the block-and-a-half jog to his destination. Adrenalin fueled his approach. His jacket’s zipper jammed as he angled across the street to business façades analogous to five-o’clock shadows on ruddy faces. Two men in overcoats rounded the corner. They moseyed toward the tavern.

The tavern’s front door ruptured open. The person Neil sought erupted onto the sidewalk like spewing vomit. He crashed into one man, staggered three strides, and darted past a hand-truck-wheeling delivery person into the street.

Neil ripped open his jacket and sprang off the opposite sidewalk in pursuit of the person responsible for the murders of five NYU foreign-exchange students in an eight-week span. The man fled in a direct line for two blocks while Neil closed the distance to ten yards. Pedestrian traffic increased at Washington Square. Cold air stung his cheeks. Vehicle horns blared and tires screeched when the wanted man shoved an elderly woman off a crosswalk into the path of a sedan and angled right across the intersection from Washington Square onto Thompson Street.

Neil slowed. Two men rushed to the woman hunched over the car’s hood. Neil continued his pursuit when the woman waved them off.

The alleged killer strobed in and out of sunlight on the vacant, tree-lined stretch of Thompson north of Bleecker. At sun-blazed Bleecker Street, the thirty-nine-year-old ex-con faded left. He veered right, spun 180-degrees, and whipped out his left arm. Neil’s warning alerted nearby pedestrians. The blast from the killer’s handgun scattered them.

Instinct told Neil what to do. Training taught him how to do it. Calculated motion. Full awareness of the gunman and his surroundings. No immediate threat to bystanders. Two shots. Center mass. The killer sprawled in the intersection.

A scream relayed a message Neil hoped never to hear. A young woman crumpled in the gutter on Bleecker in front of the pharmacy. A middle-aged woman threw herself on top of her. The woman’s shriek and sobs reverberated between buildings.

Neil holstered his pistol. He put two fingers to the downed man’s neck, confirmed no pulse, collected the killer’s weapon, and rushed to the women. Sorrow flushed his chest when Saniya Carta, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Genovese family’s consigliere, touched her mother’s face. It worsened the moment he dropped to one knee and grasped her hand. Her eyes fixed on him. Saniya’s smile sliced through his heart before her body wilted on the asphalt.

A NYPD cruiser slid to a stop on Bleecker. Two uniformed officers hopped out. The sergeant raced up to Neil and the women. She radioed for emergency response. The other officer secured the killer’s weapon from Neil. Three additional officers cordoned off the intersection and ordered people back from the scene.

The mother lifted her head. “You’re that detective. Neil Caldera, right? I recognized you from the press conference.” She extended her hands and pressed his hand to Saniya’s. “I’m glad you are the one who killed the man who shot my daughter, Detective. I’ve been following the story on the news.” She released his hand and dabbed her eyes. “Saniya was just telling me about the interview you did with her. She expressed her belief that you are a candid and honest cop.”

Neil frowned. “He did not shoot your daughter, Mrs. Carta.”

The mother’s body morphed from somberness to outrage. She pried off his hand from Saniya’s and flailed her arms. “Get away from us. How dare you act as if you care? I hope you the full wrath of what’s coming terrorizes you for the rest of your life.”

The sergeant touched Neil’s shoulder and motioned him across the street. She strode alongside him. “What were you thinking, DT? You just admitted to killing a member of the most notorious crime family in the city. Did you not see them?”

Neil fought to not give away his emotional turmoil through his body language. “I can’t say how it happened with any certainty. They approached from the right. Neither was anywhere near the line of fire.”

“No matter, DT. It’s people’s perspective. Right now, the blame is on you. My advice to you is to contact a rep.” She stepped up on the sidewalk and turned to face him. “Do you have anybody in mind?”

“Never had a need for one.”

“I’ve heard that about you. You are good people based on chatter at the house. I’ll take care it.” She pulled out a notepad and pen. “I need the facts for a scratch report. How did this go down?”

***

Arlo Messana, a sixty-one-year-old tamed beast, watched the shooting from a loan-shark’s third-floor office on the northeast corner. The elevation and angle offered a perfect line-of-sight between the shooter and his target. A grunt escaped his chest as if someone stabbed him. Arlo tightened his face at the sight. His niece, Saniya, pitched forward off the sidewalk.

Arlo hurried toward the door. “Get someone outside the pharmacy before the police shuts down the block.” His voice issued a formidable tone. “Saniya’s been shot.”

His brother blocked his passage. “You can’t go down there. You know what will happen if people see your face.”

Arlo turned back to the window. He watched the increased response on the street as he studied the lines-of sight from his location. The scene replayed in his mind. The outcome remained the same each time. The plain-clothes officer shot after the person he chased turned and fired a weapon at him. A bullet from the detective’s firearm somehow struck Saniya. Arlo considered the shooter-to-victim alignment. Any variation in the shooter’s position showed no consequential difference.

The raised scars on his face reddened in anger. Garlic on his brother’s breath wafted over Arlo’s left shoulder.

“The mayor and police commissioner will oust that detective. See to it he gets what he deserves.” Arlo turned. “I want a copy of his personnel file. Spread the word, Zeno. No one touches him.” He sat behind his brother’s desk, opened the center drawer, and pulled out a writing tablet.

Zeno squeezed in an armchair in front of the desk. “The family will not like you taking this away from them.”

The fountain pen made a scratching sound on the paper. “Get this to Guido Carta. My regards for losing his daughter. I want no misunderstanding between us. If he questions anything in my note, tell him I’m calling Declan.”

Zeno pleaded. “That copper shot and killed his daughter.”

“I watched it happen, Zeno. No one will deprive me of this opportunity. I won’t allow it. I have my own plans for Detective Neil Caldera.”

Chapter 2

Eighteen months later

The time had come for the wife of Madison’s police chief to mutilate the town’s pride. Tess Fleishman ensnared her first victim in a manner likened to a Southern belle in the best small town to live in Georgia. She inhaled the humid air ripe with the scent of pine. The fringe of success released an adrenalin rush. Tess braced on the repossessed sedan as she filmed Vanessa Flack running through the thicket.

The sun’s rays conveyed a strobe effect on Vanessa’s yellow tee and orange shorts. The eighteen-year-old raced across uneven terrain, fought low hanging limbs, and craned her neck to look for her assailant. Vanessa cut over to the dirt road and hustled up the red clay embankment. She heaved breaths and rested her hands on her hips.

“How was that?” Vanessa puffed out the words. “I need realism for the school project.”

Tess clapped. She hobbled along the side of the car. She ducked through the open passenger’s window and backed out holding a towel and an insulate tumbler. “You showed me I made the right choice.”

Vanessa draped the towel around her neck and dabbed her face. “Thank you for this, Tess.”

Tess set the camera on the rear seat. She pictured the murder scene planned at the barn. “You can thank me when it’s over. I need your help with this next part because the doctor told me I’m not to lift anything over twenty pounds. This leukemia drains me.” She popped open the trunk.

“I heard about your diagnosis.” Vanessa embraced Tess. “I thought about going into oncology once I complete medical school. If I get accepted. That’s still a long way off, though. What has the doctor said about your prognosis?”

“We view my future differently. I’m hoping for remission.” Tess gestured to the trunk. “Climb in.”

Vanessa glanced inside the trunk. She retreated two strides. “Do I have to get in there? It looks grimy. Why did you not bring your car?”

“We’re documenting an abduction and murder, Vanessa. We can’t let anybody see my car or you with me. It will ruin the surprise. It’s only until we get to the barn.”

Vanessa clambered into the trunk. Tess swathed towels around Vanessa’s wrists and ankles before she bound them with paracord. Vanessa thanked Tess for the use of towels to prevent ligature marks on her skin.

Tess grinned. “A killer must focus on details, Vanessa.”

The repossessed Impala bounced and swayed through Fairview Cemetery five minutes later. Tess parked in the shadow of trees on the north side. She donned tactical apparel and opened the trunk. Vanessa squirmed and strained against her restraints. Twilight robbed her face of color. Her skin appeared gray. Tess pictured her at the crime scene sans the restraints, her clothing, and a pulse.

Vanessa lifted her head. A puzzled expression formed on her face. She wiped sweat from her eyes with her fingers. “Why are we in the cemetery? Where are Katie and Chad? You told me the murder-mystery party is supposed to be filmed at the barn.”

“It is, Vanessa.” The tactical-garbed Tess sat on the lip of the trunk. She grasped Vanessa’s hand to calm her. “I sent Chad a message to prepare the scene. Katie and the others will join us after I get you set in place.”

“Are you sure?” Vanessa took another look at the cemetery. She again struggled against the restraints.

“Have you ever known me to lie to you?”

“No.” Vanessa stilled. “You’ve always been sweet to me.”

“Then trust what I tell you, Vanessa. I’m taking you to the barn where Chad will make a video of me killing you. He’s agreed to edit our project. I’m counting on Katie for bonus imagery.”

Vanessa flinched when Tess flicked open a tactical knife. Uncertainty filled her eyes. “That knife is just for show, right? You’re not really going to hurt me.”

Tess waved the knife a foot from Vanessa’s face. “The effect of a tanto blade is one experience a person never forgets. Keep that look. I want to capture it.”

Vanessa reached out once Tess lowered the camera. “Please let me ride up there with you. I’ll hide behind the seats. Nobody will see me.”

“Relax, Vanessa. You agreed to do this. How would it look if one of your friends saw you getting out of the back seat instead of me hauling you out of the trunk? It will be over soon.” Tess slammed the trunk lid.

No one seemed to notice the dark Impala as Tess drove from the cemetery to the west side of town. Darkness consumed them when she shut off the lights. The sedan rolled to a stop beneath a hundred-year-old oak tree behind Fletcher’s barn on Washington Street. Tess eased along the side of the car to the trunk. She felt for the lock. Inserted the key.

Vanessa jerked away when Tess’s gloved hand touched her arm. “Where is Chad?”

Tess shushed her. “I told you he’s waiting for us inside.”

“Then why is it dark in there? You lied to me, Tess. Untie me.”

Tess gripped Vanessa’s shoulder. She slid her hand to Vanessa’s throat. Vanessa squirmed. The second her mouth opened Tess stuffed in a gag. “This is reality, Vanessa. It’s time to die for your sister’s betrayal.”

***

Chad Stoltz opened the door to Fletcher’s barn at 9:30 p.m. He winced at the unpleasant smell inside. He sprayed the open space with his flashlight app. A glow came from something on the wall to his left near the back. Chad covered his nose, skirted around a rusty truck hood propped against three bales of hay and stepped up to a four-foot-high image painted on the weathered boards. The portrait appeared crimson up close. When his fore and middle fingertips touched it, he jerked away and rubbed his thumb across them. The goo gripped his skin and threaded when pulled apart. He sniffed it.

His throat seized. Chad focused on the crimson-and-weathered face while he shuffled two short steps in retreat. What kind of crazy would do a thing like this?

The exposé held his gaze long enough for him to remember where he was. This was an old barn full of ominous shadows and places to hide. He looked up to the loft where he expected to see the creature from Jeepers Creepers. He expected any moment to catch sight of the monster’s grin and hear its tantalizing snuffle. An All-American linebacker at Morgan County High School, Chad saw nothing except more bales of hay stacked floor-to-roof on one end and three-to-four high nearest the ladder.

The boards behind the portrait creaked from a gust of wind. Chad shuddered at the sound. A tingle crawled up his neck. A strong acridness nearby enveloped him. The next breath knotted his stomach. His pulse battered his eardrums and punched his temples. That same smell—the smell of Death—once nauseated him. It was when he saw his mother’s body slumped behind the steering wheel of her crashed SUV eighteen months earlier.

Chad’s left foot thumped the truck hood as he hurried to get out of the barn. He stumbled and fell forward onto the dirt floor. Two empty feed buckets banged and rattled on the side boards after his right arm struck them against the outside of one stall. Dust rose from the clay floor.

Death’s stench reeked at ground level. Chad looked around and located the source less than three feet away. Blood saturated the sawdust-covered floor. Spatter and smears stained the slats of wood separating the stall from the one adjoining it. At that moment, not even the joint in his pocket appealed to him. Never had he observed so much blood.