Читать книгу Temptation Calls - Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 7

NYPD Detective Peter Daly never made it home after the drive-by shooting. From the moment the call had come in, just past midnight, he’d been on the job.

It was just as well. He didn’t really have any reason to go home.

The sights at the morgue that morning had been grim. Three dead, all below the age of sixteen. Another one in critical condition. Amazingly, three had survived with barely a scratch.

He was still puzzling about those three as he stood on the sidewalk, examining the scene of the shooting once again. The Crime Scene Unit was supposedly finished here, but Peter thought there had to be something they’d missed. Something that would explain how three kids had escaped a fusillade of bullets.

He stepped backward, off the curb and into the middle of the street where the car had paused. With as many rounds as the Tec-9 could fire, you didn’t need good aim. Just point and shoot. That was enough to hit almost anything within close range.

Which didn’t explain how three of the children had somehow gotten away. Nor could the children explain it either. All they recalled was that they were suddenly whisked into the stairwell next door. The hangers-on in the neighborhood, religious semisuperstitious types from what Peter could see, had murmured that an angelita had saved the children. It was a miracle.

Peter didn’t believe in miracles or maybe even Heaven for that matter. But Hell. Hell was right here, he thought as he ambled back to the sidewalk, searching for any clues the Crime Scene Unit might have missed. Along the street and stoop there was nothing. Down in the stairwell of the building next door, he hit pay dirt.

Some drops of blood. Just a few on the top step leading down to the shelter’s lower level. Along the railing, what appeared to be a smear of blood. Removing a kit from his jacket pocket, he swabbed at the drops and the smear, and then safely tucked the evidence away for analysis.

Glancing up at the shelter, he wondered if anyone there had seen anything. Or if someone within had been responsible for the supposed miracle. And the blood.

As Peter turned, he caught sight of the garbage cans. A veritable source of information. He popped open the lid on the first receptacle. Nothing but recyclables. Lifting the lid on the next one, he noted the refuse from last night’s dinner. Taking off his jacket, he undid the cuff on his white shirt and rolled it up. Then he gingerly placed his hand in the garbage—a job he totally hated—and rooted around. Barely below the surface he came across something tucked into a bag from the local grocery.

The santero down the block had claimed to have been shopping. Peter grabbed the bag from the garbage. He undid the tied handles to reveal a woman’s blouse. Easing the blouse out using the plastic of the bag, to avoid contaminating the evidence, he noted the bloodstains and two glaring bullet holes—one high up on the shoulder, the other along the rib area.

Curiouser and curiouser. Peter slipped the blouse back into the bag and returned to his car. He stuffed the blouse into an evidence bag and noted the details about his discovery. Placing the blouse and the swabs in his trunk, he decided to visit the local market to see just who had been shopping last night.

As Peter walked to the Gristedes, just a few blocks away, he was struck by the neat and tidy conditions of this area. There was a sense of safety and community he hadn’t expected in this neighborhood. But then it hadn’t been the least bit safe for those involved in last night’s shooting.

At the market, Peter had no luck with the clerks or manager on duty. The night shift had just left. But the manager offered to let Peter view a tape from the night before.

There was a clear shot of a woman making a purchase shortly before midnight. A beautiful woman wearing a shirt much like the one Peter had discovered in the garbage.

“Do you know who she is?” Peter asked, motioning to the image paused on the screen. Had she been another victim? If she’d been hurt, why hadn’t she shown up in a local hospital?

The manager shrugged. “I’ve never seen her before. Maybe one of the clerks has.”

One by one the clerks were called into the manager’s office and one by one they all failed to recognize the woman in the video. Peter thanked them and added the tape to the other evidence in his car.

Then, figuring he had nothing to lose by following his instincts, he walked up the short set of steps to the door of the Artemis Shelter, identified by a small bronze plaque. Vaguely he recollected that Artemis was a warrior goddess in Greek mythology and wondered who had chosen the name for the shelter and why.

A young black woman with a toddler balanced on one hip answered his knock. “May I help you?” Hostility came off of her in waves.

Peter held up his shield for the young woman to see. “NYPD. I’m here investigating last night’s shooting. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Do you have a warrant?” she asked, maintaining her position smack in the middle of the doorway to bar his entry.

“I just want to ask a few questions. Find out if anyone saw anything last night.”

“Come back when you’ve got a warrant.” She was about to slam the door in his face when he reached out and grabbed the edge of it.

“There’s no need for this. Just a few questions.” Although given all that he’d found between the garbage can and the grocery store, he’d have enough probable cause for a warrant.

When the door fully opened again, the woman from the grocery store stood behind the young black woman. He’d thought her beautiful in the grainy video. Up close, she was stunning.

Jet-black hair fell in thick waves, framing a heart-shaped face with just the hint of a cleft in her chin. Her skin was the palest of café con leche and her eyes were large and a startling shade of crystalline blue. Barely thirty years of age.

Peter felt poleaxed as she focused her cool gaze on him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sofia is just a little protective. What can we help you with?”

Her tones were cultured, with a bit of an accent. Southern, not that he was any kind of expert.

“Detective?”

Embarrassed at his almost juvenile silence, Peter stammered as he said, “I’m investigating last night’s shooting. I’d like to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

“Actually, breakfast is a rather busy time—”

His interest was replaced by irritation. “Miss—”

“Ms. Turner,” she corrected with an almost regal lift of her head.

“Ms. Turner. We can either do this here or down at the precinct, which would take substantially more time out of your busy day.” He took out his notepad from his jacket pocket to stress his point.

The young black woman protested at the same time as the vision of beauty said, “Detective, I’d rather not—”

“Ma’am. Please understand. Between the videotapes from the grocery and your garbage can, I have probable cause. I’d rather not complicate this with a warrant.”

What little color she had fled from her face and for a moment he worried she might faint. Instead, Ms. Turner stiffened her spine. “Sofia. Could you make sure the children are ready for school while the detective and I share a word in the kitchen?”

Sofia nodded curtly and glared at him as she stepped away.

Ms. Turner opened the door wider, giving him space to pass, and held her hand out in invitation. “Please come in.”

Peter stepped inside to a whirlwind of activity. Ms. Turner hadn’t been kidding when she said it was a busy time. Sofia and another woman were handing out lunch bags and checking schoolbooks for at least half a dozen children of varying ages and ethnicities.

Ms. Turner walked down the hall adjacent to the parlor and past stairs leading to the upper floors of the converted brownstone. At the far end of the hall, Ms. Turner took the stairs leading downward and he followed.

On the lower level was a large dining room that opened onto a small, neatly kept courtyard. The tiny patch of grass was a bright green from the spring rains and someone had been busy planting flowers.

The dining room table was still littered with the remains of breakfast. At least Ms. Turner was being truthful about that.

She walked to the kitchen located at the front of the building. There was a door at one end and he suspected it was the one that opened into the stairwell where the children had taken refuge last night. “May I?” he asked and at her nod, he confirmed his suspicions.

When he closed the door, Ms. Turner motioned to the worktable. “May I get you something? Coffee? Beignets? I just made them fresh this morning.”

“Ben-what?” he asked, confused, but he took a seat at the table. He hadn’t eaten since an early dinner the night before.

“French donuts.” Ms. Turner poured a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. The aroma was wonderful. Beside the cup, she added a pitcher of steamed milk and a small silver dish with brown sugar.

“Donuts, huh?” He added sugar and milk to the coffee, took a sip and nearly groaned at how tasty it was.

Ms. Turner didn’t wait for his answer. She gave a wry smile as she placed a plate of the ben-donuts before him. “They say the way to a cop’s heart—”

“Is with donuts? I don’t think so,” he teased back. Then he picked up one of the square bits of dough, which were still warm, and took a bite. This time he did groan, “Or maybe it is. Thank you. I haven’t eaten in a while.”

Samantha examined the detective, trying to make some sense of him. He was in his early thirties, but there was a weariness in his stance and gaze that spoke of having seen too much of life. Handsome, if you liked those Nordic types. Thick hair streaked with varying shades of blond fell in uneven layers around his face. The raggedness of the haircut was boyishly appealing in an “I don’t care” kind of way. He had pale hazel eyes tinged with the tiniest bit of light green.

As they’d walked through the shelter, she’d noticed he was tall and physically robust, inches over her five foot seven height. A rangy kind of build, though with more strength and bulk than a runner. Possibly kept there by the way he ate, she thought with some humor as he devoured the plate of beignets.

“Would you like some more, Detective?”

A wash of pink colored his cheeks and he wiped his mouth with a napkin to remove all traces of powdered sugar. “No, thank you. Do you mind if—”

“We get to the questioning. I’m not sure I can be of much help.” She hoped to avoid any questions that would involve her in the investigation. She couldn’t afford anyone delving into her background too deeply. Plus, despite a feeding earlier that morning, she was feeling weak once again. Losing control in front of this detective…she didn’t want to think about it.

“A tape from the store shows you buying groceries just before midnight. Since I walked the route, I’m guessing you got back to the block as the car drove by.”

“I was already in the shelter when I heard the gunfire.”

“Really?” He raised one sun-lightened eyebrow. “I found a blouse in the garbage. Just like the one you were wearing at the grocery store.”

“Coincidence? Passersby regularly use those garbage cans.”

“Passersby with two bullets in them?”

Samantha smiled and held her hands up to emphasize her point. “Do I look like I’ve been shot, Detective?”

He eyed her up and down and then asked the unexpected. “Mind if I check?”

Peter watched as his request registered. Her blue eyes grew hard like diamonds. Her jaw worked up and down a few times before she croaked, “Excuse me?”

“You posed a rather interesting question, Ms. Turner. Did you expect me not to take you up on it?”

Her eyes blazed with anger. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

Definitely not a New Yorker. Problem was, everything about her made him think of sultry Southern nights and sex, which were the last things he should be thinking about. Recovering, he said, “You can ask one of the other women to come down and act as a witness. Or we can go—”

“Down to the precinct,” she finished for him even as she reached for the buttons on her blouse.

“Please turn around, and lower the shirt.”

She did as he asked, revealing the upper part of her back, unmarred except for a myriad of faint uneven lines. Old scars?

She gazed at him over her shoulder and he felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. There was so much pain, so much fear and anguish in her gaze she couldn’t hide it.

Without thinking, Peter laid a finger on one of the pale lines. Her skin was as cold as ice.

She wrenched away from him. “Don’t.” She grasped the opening of her blouse as she whirled to face him.

Peter took a step back, shocked at his own actions. At what he was feeling about this woman he’d only just met. He’d had enough of women in his life, after all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Do you need anything else, Detective…? Come to think of it, just what is your name?”

“Daly. Peter Daly from the twenty-third. Who did that to you? Mr. Turner?” Instinctively his hands curled into fists as he imagined exacting punishment on her behalf.

Anger emanated from him. Samantha cringed and stepped away. “It was a long time ago and I’m over it.” Not that she really was. Her reaction to his touch had proven that. “Please. Just go.”

He hesitated, clearly troubled, but then he reached into his pocket, withdrew one of his business cards. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Samantha didn’t know how to read his offer. Had she just gone from suspect to victim? If the former, he’d be back.

As for the latter, the good detective was obviously a man used to not only dealing with violence, but meting it out when necessary. And more violence was the last thing she needed in her life. “Goodbye, Detective.”

“Not goodbye, Ms. Turner. We’ll be seeing each other again.”

Any other woman might have viewed a further visit from the handsome detective with anticipation.

It was an indication of the state of her undead life that she viewed it with dread.