Read Online Blind Sight (A Mallory Novel) by Carol O'Connell - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol O'Connell
Ads: Link
Also, there was the matter of the guy’s eyes—scary-widewhite saucers with little black holes dead center. Kind of intense. They said to him, Don’t move, without saying a word out loud. I got you in my sights, they said. But the old man did not take this personally. Naw, this was just luck of the draw—like a birth defect.
And so he continued to entertain the stranger with his best story, the mugging that had landed him in the hospital. Parting the grimy curtains of a window that overlooked St. Marks Place, he called the man’s attention to the sidewalk below. “That’s the spot.” That was where he had been standing before the assault. He had no memory of entering the empty store where he had been found unconscious. “See that lamppost? I kill an hour there every day.”
He turned to face his mystery guest. The man had not yet offered up a name, but that long upper lip reminded Albert of a mug from the old Irish clans. And this guy had a way of talking that would have said homeboy back in the day. He asked more questions than cops did, but he was no cop. He had more the look of a mob enforcer, a bone breaker.
Was that worrisome?
Naw, the Irish gangs were history, and the Italian mob was dying off, the old dons gone to jail. These days, Gangland was Russian, Chinese and Dominican. Yeah, the good old days had gone to the dogs. And he said to the stranger, “So . . . you grew up around here. Am I right?”
Ma-a-a-n, what a cold one you are. And the guy got that way all of a sudden, losing his smile, going all stiff and strange-like.
Albert shuffled off to the kitchen. “I’m gonna getcha a cold beer.” This promised to be a most interesting day. Life was looking up.
—
DETECTIVE RIKER ’ S PARTNER pulled up in front of an innocuous building two blocks from the train station in the town of Jamaica, theborough of Queens. This was the address of the Crime Scene Unit. He had just put both feet on the sidewalk, and— ZAP —the street was clear, the car was gone, like maybe Mallory had taught it how to fly.
The captain in command of the CSU was standing in the open doorway, caught in the act of coming or going. Heller’s other name was The Bear, for he clearly did not belong in that suit and tie, nor did he walk about like other men, but lumbered everywhere, taking his own time. His slow-rolling brown eyes took in every detail, noting Riker’s loosened tie and the swipe of wet palms on the suit jacket.
This captain was not the first man or the tenth one to ask, “Why do you let Mallory drive?”
Riker shrugged and waved off the question without tipping his hand to a long flirtation with suicide.
When they had climbed the stairs to Heller’s private office, the commander sat down at his desk and laid out the evidence gathered by his team. “Nothin’ to do with black-market organs, and that comes straight from the ME’s Office. Dr. Slope says the stabs run deep. So your perp damn sure nicked the hearts before he removed ’em.”
“He took their hearts?” Riker slumped low in his chair. “Hell of a trophy collection.” And this lunatic act killed Mallory’s theory of a professional hit man. Good. He rooted for the psycho option. Pros were hell-to-impossible to catch, and, in this case, hired killings had never made sense.
Heller picked up a roll of silver duct tape. “No tape was found on the vics, but this brand matches adhesive residue on their skin. It’s sold in every hardware store in America. No shot at tracing it.”
“Any ideas about where the bodies were kept? We figure they died at different—”
“No freezer burns, but I know it was air-conditioned storage. Dr. Slope says the nun’s rigor won’t square with a likely time of death.” Heller moved on to the small evidence bags and sheets of text fromthe Police Lab. “We got debris from the clothing. To me, it all says warehouse. Mice droppings, pieces of roaches, fibers from cardboard cartons. . . . One pinfeather.
And so he continued to entertain the stranger with his best story, the mugging that had landed him in the hospital. Parting the grimy curtains of a window that overlooked St. Marks Place, he called the man’s attention to the sidewalk below. “That’s the spot.” That was where he had been standing before the assault. He had no memory of entering the empty store where he had been found unconscious. “See that lamppost? I kill an hour there every day.”
He turned to face his mystery guest. The man had not yet offered up a name, but that long upper lip reminded Albert of a mug from the old Irish clans. And this guy had a way of talking that would have said homeboy back in the day. He asked more questions than cops did, but he was no cop. He had more the look of a mob enforcer, a bone breaker.
Was that worrisome?
Naw, the Irish gangs were history, and the Italian mob was dying off, the old dons gone to jail. These days, Gangland was Russian, Chinese and Dominican. Yeah, the good old days had gone to the dogs. And he said to the stranger, “So . . . you grew up around here. Am I right?”
Ma-a-a-n, what a cold one you are. And the guy got that way all of a sudden, losing his smile, going all stiff and strange-like.
Albert shuffled off to the kitchen. “I’m gonna getcha a cold beer.” This promised to be a most interesting day. Life was looking up.
—
DETECTIVE RIKER ’ S PARTNER pulled up in front of an innocuous building two blocks from the train station in the town of Jamaica, theborough of Queens. This was the address of the Crime Scene Unit. He had just put both feet on the sidewalk, and— ZAP —the street was clear, the car was gone, like maybe Mallory had taught it how to fly.
The captain in command of the CSU was standing in the open doorway, caught in the act of coming or going. Heller’s other name was The Bear, for he clearly did not belong in that suit and tie, nor did he walk about like other men, but lumbered everywhere, taking his own time. His slow-rolling brown eyes took in every detail, noting Riker’s loosened tie and the swipe of wet palms on the suit jacket.
This captain was not the first man or the tenth one to ask, “Why do you let Mallory drive?”
Riker shrugged and waved off the question without tipping his hand to a long flirtation with suicide.
When they had climbed the stairs to Heller’s private office, the commander sat down at his desk and laid out the evidence gathered by his team. “Nothin’ to do with black-market organs, and that comes straight from the ME’s Office. Dr. Slope says the stabs run deep. So your perp damn sure nicked the hearts before he removed ’em.”
“He took their hearts?” Riker slumped low in his chair. “Hell of a trophy collection.” And this lunatic act killed Mallory’s theory of a professional hit man. Good. He rooted for the psycho option. Pros were hell-to-impossible to catch, and, in this case, hired killings had never made sense.
Heller picked up a roll of silver duct tape. “No tape was found on the vics, but this brand matches adhesive residue on their skin. It’s sold in every hardware store in America. No shot at tracing it.”
“Any ideas about where the bodies were kept? We figure they died at different—”
“No freezer burns, but I know it was air-conditioned storage. Dr. Slope says the nun’s rigor won’t square with a likely time of death.” Heller moved on to the small evidence bags and sheets of text fromthe Police Lab. “We got debris from the clothing. To me, it all says warehouse. Mice droppings, pieces of roaches, fibers from cardboard cartons. . . . One pinfeather.
Similar Books
