City Dark(3)
“Yeah. They’ll be here in ten.” MLI was the medical legal investigator, the arm of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner that did the initial handling of the corpse at a homicide scene. No one, not even the crime scene investigators, touched or moved a body before MLI in most cases. “Crime scene should be right behind them.”
“Thanks,” Zochi said. “Let’s take a look.”
Behind them, three young patrol officers prevented onlookers from spilling onto the boardwalk. A few flashes from camera phones went off. Normally, that part of the beach was dark and empty late at night. There was a boardwalk but no amusement rides or hot-dog stands as far west as they were. Just high-rise projects. Zochi gazed out over the water as they stepped down to the sand. The surf was calm, lapping on the shore.
“Who found her?” she asked. “That woman back there?”
“Yep. Homeless. Goes by Wilomena. Pushes a shopping cart. She won’t give us a last name, but you should follow up with her. The vic looks homeless to me also, but sometimes you can’t tell. Especially in the summer, you get all types out here. Well, hell, why am I tellin’ you?”
“Yeah, summer,” she said, as if the word had weight, which, to Six-Oh detectives, it did. It meant far more work than the winter months. “Let’s watch where we walk, in case this is the path someone took on the way out.” She moved forward, carefully placing her steps. She viewed the body the same way Wilomena had, feet first, then moved her eyes slowly up the legs and torso to the bra around the neck. Her eyes moved back down, making a visual outline around the body. They stopped where the sweatpants were still bunched up above the knees. There was something in one of the deep pockets.
“You got a flashlight?” she asked. Sedrick handed one over, and she trained it on the bulge.
“Something in her pocket?”
“Looks like it.” She handed the flashlight back and pulled on two gloves, then gingerly reached into the pocket. She drew out a worn brown or black leather folder, almost like a rectangular women’s wallet. It zipped down the middle like a day planner, but the zipper was broken. What remained was held together by two rubber bands. Papers were stuffed inside; a few looked as if they’d gotten wet and dried out again.
CHAPTER 3
Bath Beach, Brooklyn
12:37 a.m.
Joe DeSantos had been walking for what seemed like miles in the dark. He made deliberate strides in a sweaty button-down shirt, slacks, and brown loafers. The streets seemed uniform, empty, and swallowed by shadows.
Now, though, his attention was drawn to the open door of a mid-’70s Chevy Monte Carlo, black with red interior and velour seats, across the street. Sitting in and around the car was a group of Black teenagers, illuminated by the interior lights and passing a joint around. He could hear music from the car—a song he recognized. But that seemed odd because the song was very old. It was “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” by Leo Sayer.
He felt a flutter of hope, as if the darkness he’d been plodding through was finally breaking altogether. He smiled as Sayer’s falsetto screech caught in his memory. One of the kids noticed him and ribbed his companion. The group seemed to brighten in unison, nodding and following him with laughing, sleepy eyes. They were dimly visible in the yellow glow of the car’s dome light—combs and Afros, tube socks and short shorts. The song faded, and he heard a female DJ’s voice, silky and echo laden.
It is 1977, it is JUE-ly, and the Big Apple is hot, honey!
He struck an aluminum pole, first with his left foot and then his nose. He cursed and rubbed his face, the collision reigniting his perception. It was a sultry night, stinking mildly of the avenues and the bay beyond them. He was on a street that was nearly silent. No old car, no kids. His eyes cleared, then darkened.
It’s still with me.
His heart started to thud.
No. There’s light, see? Relax, it’s all around you. It’s 2017, not 1977. That was a dream. Or a hallucination. Or something.
His gaze, suspicious and uncertain, moved over cars, stoops, and doorways, then softened as he took in window boxes, clumps of pigeon droppings, trash cans, and cracks in the sidewalk. All were laid bare by sodium streetlights and bulbs in windows. His eyes feasted on them.
You’re in Brooklyn. You’re a lawyer. And everywhere there is light. You can see, and you’re not afraid.
He wasn’t afraid, but now he felt hypervigilant and antsy. To the left was his house, ornate and empty. To the right was a bar called Greeley’s. His addled but otherwise razor-sharp brain knew that the house—his bed—was the right way to go.
But Joe wasn’t done drinking.
CHAPTER 4
Riegelmann Boardwalk, Coney Island
1:01 a.m.
By the time an assistant district attorney arrived, professionals were hovering around the body, including two crime scene investigators who snapped photos and momentarily bathed the scene in harsh light from various angles. Zochi recognized the ADA as the chief of the sex crimes unit in Brooklyn: a woman in her midfifties named Mimi Bromowitz. Mimi approached in slacks and a golf shirt, flashing a badge to a couple of patrol officers nearby. She was tall and wiry, athletic looking, with flat brown hair in a tight bun. Zochi, like many people, had mistaken Mimi for a lesbian cop at their first meeting. In fact, she was a lesbian prosecutor, married to a woman who was an accountant. Through IVF, they had twin boys.