White Night: Detective Connors, #1

Acknowledgments and Dedication

Thank you to my family for both believing in me and helping me pursue my passion and to God for giving me a passion. Special thanks to my mother, who read the initial drafts many, many times without complaining, and love to my father –you don’t know who I am any more, Dad, but we will never forget who you are, despite the memories you’ve lost. To my darling R, love you and look forward to many more years together XX.

Extreme gratitude to my editor Carmen Erikson

(www.bookeditingmagic.com), who combined a sharp eye with a razor wit; my copyeditor Therese Arkenberg, whose attention to detail and overall assistance was invaluable; and to cover designer Olivia (Oliviaprodesign), for her incredible talent and patience. Last but not least, to my friend and fellow writer Alison Webb King (www.mywordsmith.ca) for her final review of the cover and supplemental material. 

To all the officers out there every day who truly are ‘Fidelis ad mortem – thank you for your patience, courage and dedication.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Nancy Lee, Christine Ingram and Sarah Richard.

Chapter 0 – The Catalyst

P

op.

Clink.

The old pane in front of Michael cracked a split second before he was knocked onto his ass, then his back, sending the measuring tape in his hand skittering across the floor. Two more pops echoed in the distance while he stared at the ceiling unable to move.

Comforting warmth radiated through his shoulder, but all comfort disappeared as a dark red patch spread across his shirt and pain seared him like the devil was jamming a finger through his body.

Cold silence surrounded him. The other construction workers had gone home hours ago. Only he was stupid enough to work this late and now he lay bleeding on the floor.

Outside, an engine revved in the darkness and tires squealed on frozen ground.

He had to move, get help, make the pain stop, but standing up could get him killed.

Lying here could kill me too.

His throat was closing fast as he rolled onto his hands and knees.

Air. I need more air...

As he gasped in snatches of breath, the scent of the fresh pine plywood inches from his face filled his airways. A small red pool appeared beneath him, spreading out in a perfect circle as the warmth dripped steadily from his shoulder.

He needed help, but his third cellphone this year was in the truck. He had to stand, but it wouldn’t be here where the shooter could drop him again. As he crawled away from the window, the blood weeping from his shoulder painted a dark line on the floor underneath him.

Going from his knees to the balls of his feet, he lifted himself from the floor, his hands flailing, reaching for support from walls that weren’t there. As he stood, blood raced down his ribcage, fusing his T-shirt to his hot skin. His heart punched the inside of his chest and his feet felt like cinder blocks, his legs barely able to shuffle them forward.

He needed something to cover the wound and let him put pressure on it, but they’d been gutting the old building for days, there was no bathroom left standing to contain a medicine cabinet full of supplies or clean towels. A discarded sweater lay on the window ledge, but he couldn’t make his body move in that direction, back to where he was shot. The deathly black void beyond the window balled his stomach and clenched his throat. His legs wouldn’t move.

Forget it. Just get to the truck.

Turning to leave, he caught sight of a roll of shop towels on the edge of a table saw in the next room. He inched his way there and tore off handfuls, folding them over and stuffing them under his shirt. His hand tremored as it rested on top of the wad of towels. He took a quick breath, held it, and pushed down hard.

Blistering pain erupted through his shoulder, strangling the breath out of him and collapsing him over the table saw as his screaming nerves stole strength from the rest of his body. The saw lurched sideways as he landed on its edge and he rode it to the ground, crashing down heavily onto the plywood.

His ears rang from the sound of ninety pounds of DeWalt slamming into the subfloor, filling the air with dust. The tightness in his chest suppressed his breathing again as he realized he was back where he started, on the floor with blood still flowing from his shoulder.

Dumbass.

Sweat clung to his body despite the sharp winter night. Was it shock? They said he’d gone into shock after the accident a decade ago, but he couldn’t remember much from that day.

The lump of paper under his shirt was already soaked and heavy, the damp sheen on his skin amplifying the freezing New York air.

Footsteps crunched on the aggregate outside.

Stay calm, Michael, help is coming...

Drawing in a long breath, he pushed himself off the floor and started toward the door but stopped dead as his stomach dropped inside him.

How had anyone known he’d needed help?

Only the person that shot me knows I’m here. It’s not help.

The footsteps grew closer, echoing now on the wooden subfloor. Steps that were slow and deliberate, searching, searching for him.

He had to get out, but his feet would make noise too. He wanted to run but his legs wouldn’t move.

The footsteps paused as a low voice came from the room next door, calm and professional. There’s blood on the floor but no body. What’d you want me to do?

You’re a detective, so do your damn job! The shouted response sounded distant and electric, like it came through a cell phone. Use that overpaid NYPD brain to find the SOB and finish him!

Michael’s lungs turned to stone and his breath stuck in his throat.

Sirens wailed in the distance as the steps echoed slowly on plywood again. The detective would enter the room any second.

Get out now!

But the only exit was past the cop. His best hope of not getting seen was to cut the power, except the electrical panel was near the front door. He’d never make it.

The footsteps grew louder as his enemy approached. Scanning the room, Michael found nothing he could use to defend himself. Just an overturned table saw, pliers, and a piece of hardwood flooring.

Pliers!

The outlets for both rooms were on the same circuit. If he could short them out, it should shut down all the work lights. Grabbing the rubber handles of the pliers, he stabbed them into the side of the nearest exposed outlet. White sparks flew like tiny fireworks, and an acrid smell filled the air as the contents of the room disappeared into blackness.

Shit, whispered the voice from the next room. Steps echoed through the dark again, each one louder than the last.

He’s coming in.

Picking up a piece of the flooring, Michael scrambled quietly across the stone hearth to the doorway between the two rooms.

Pale hands appeared through the doorway, clasping something tightly. Michael made out a dark, square gun barrel and didn’t wait for the rest of the detective to appear. He swung his strip of timber hard at the gun, a metallic thud on the plywood confirming it was a good hit.

The detective bulldozed him, launching him backward into the fireplace. Pain ricocheted up his spine as the stone mantle slammed into his back. He grappled at the dark mass in front of him but couldn’t overcome the fury of his opponent. Thick hands clamped down on both his shoulders, sending the burning pain in his right one nuclear.

Michael’s knees started to fold and agony burst from his lips as he half shouted, half screamed at the man pinning him back, Get off me! and clawed at the bulky arms restraining him.

Spinning sideways, he pulled the detective past him and bolted forward into the next room. But the pig latched onto his jacket and jerked him backward. A blow crashed into to the side of his face, rattling his skull. Falling into a nearby wall, he didn’t see the next hit coming, but felt it in his ribs. He tried to barge past his attacker, but the detective connected with his ribs a second time, doubling him over and forcing a cough from his lungs. As he straightened up, something passed close to his face. He returned a swing with his dominant fist, but his damaged nerves seared with pain, crumpling his arm mid-flight. The pig caught it, pinning him hard against the wall. This couldn’t be it, it couldn’t be over...

Twisting his body, he threw his weight behind a solid swing with his free hand. His fist connected with a soft abdomen and a ribbon of warm spit hit his neck as his opponent choked and wheezed.

Thick fingers clamored at Michael’s neck. He tried to connect with that nice doughy stomach a second time, but the cop regrouped, tangling Michael’s arm with his own and pinning it out.

As he pushed himself off the wall behind him, Michael drew his head back and threw it forward quickly. The top of his skull connected with something...hard. He heard a crack and the pig’s hands dropped off Michael’s arms.

Go! Now!

His feet pounded across the plywood as he darted through the open door and into the sharp night air.

Relief swept through him at the sight of his old square truck standing sentry across the gravel lot. No sign of the cop yet, but panic overtook relief as he remembered the gun; the asshole would retrieve it in seconds.

Sirens still wailed in the distance, but he wasn’t running toward them. The five-o weren’t helping him so far. Swinging the heavy truck door open, he leapt in and found his keys in his pocket, but he couldn’t locate the ignition with shaking limbs and a racing mind. Finally, the key slotted in and the truck roared to life. He reached for the shifter and dropped it into gear, his shoulder burning.

The site gates were closed, but his old tank of a truck had to be able to break through. There wasn’t much of a run up to them—maybe ten or twelve feet. He flattened the accelerator, turned his head, and closed his eyes as the truck exploded through the metal gates.

He opened his eyes in time to swerve around a dark shape on the ground to his right, no time to find out what.

Speeding into the street, he scanned his rearview mirror.

What the hell just happened?

Chapter 1

W

alking through the precinct as she arrived for the evening shift, Detective Jen Connors heard her colleagues before she saw them.

Connors just got ‘Sir Ross’ assigned as her new partner, Saunders whispered.

Kosinski chuckled. This is going to be good.

I’ve got $20 says it doesn’t last the week, Jamieson chimed in.

I’ll take that, said another voice.

"Sir Ross and the hitchy witch. You can’t make this crap up," laughed Saunders.

I’ll take $40 that it doesn’t make it through the weekend, Kosinski added.

Her jaw tightened as she rounded the corner. It was time to shut it down. I’ll take $50 that it does.

Her colleagues froze. Three armed pros transformed into gaping-mouthed chickenshits. They shifted glances at each other but she wasn’t about to give them an out. Detective Saunders, ten-year veteran, department grapevine, and apparently the least chickenshit, responded first. Come on, Connors, we were just joking around.

Not funny. Her career, nearly ended by her last case, was presently on life support and her new partner wasn’t likely to help her resuscitate it.

So do we have a bet? she said, folding her arms across her chest.

Saunders swallowed and looked across at his colleagues, who stared back blankly.

Yeah. Sure, he said quietly.

Fine. See you in a week. She walked away, holding the sigh inside her until she was out of earshot. Her colleagues would laugh about it in the break room, probably tell each other that she couldn’t take a joke, but it didn’t matter. She’d won the moment even if she’d probably lose the bet.

Left with a slight hitch to her walk after her last case, she still caught glances from the other detectives as she walked through the rows of desks to her own. Some sympathetic, others awkwardly looking away. She didn’t know which she hated more. Everyone had an opinion about that night.

Connors should have jumped sooner.

She’s got a screw loose.

She didn’t have to do it, could’ve called for backup.

That one stung.

The others were the usual department opinions, mostly from colleagues she’d pissed off over the years, anyway. But the idea that she was flung ten feet, endured multiple surgeries, and spent months trapped in her apartment like a battery hen for no reason stripped her of the tiny comfort that it was worth everything she’d lost: her credibility, her confidence, not to mention half her knee joint.

She reached her desk, still trying to minimize the minor unevenness in her walk. It made it worse, she knew it did, trying to make her gait flawless, but she still couldn’t stop herself trying. She didn’t need another reason to be different from her colleagues.

Born in the UK and moving to New York City when she was sixteen, she didn’t sound like a true New Yorker. She’d tried hard to pick up the accent in high school but still spoke a strange mix of Brooklyn and Bristol. Her use of random limey words during her early days on patrol cracked up dispatchers and other officers.

Not exactly Miss Popular before she was injured, she at least could rely on cursory invites for social events and starchy acceptance from her peers. Now she was radioactive, colleagues afraid to associate with her in case they contaminated their own careers.

There wasn’t much danger of that. Of the files piled on her desk, most were grunt work, investigating leads for other detectives. Designed to ease her back into the job, it wasn’t working.

Got some more for ya. Rosa, one of the longer-term office aides, smiled as the files hit her desk with a thud, but even without looking, Connors knew it was more of the same.

Thanks, Rosa.

Hey, Rosa said sternly, don’t let Saunders get to you, Connors. You’ve been here long enough to know what he’s like.

Connors forced a smile back, glancing briefly at Rosa’s warm brown eyes before returning her gaze to the papers in front of her. She couldn’t take the concern on Rosa’s face, or worse, the sympathy.

Rosa would be back within hours to collect the completed files, but the blue file on the shelf across the squad room was calling, seducing her like it had so many times before. She glanced at the folder and it edged closer, facts jumping out from the binder, begging to be heard for the thousandth time: two children from the same family, murdered five years apart.

The Argon case was officially cooling but still simmered hot in her mind and the mind of any other cop who’d been there. The first Argon child was killed almost a decade ago, horrifying enough on its own. Their second child was murdered five years later by a killer dubbed The Magician after a string of brightly colored handkerchiefs was found within twenty-four hours of each child’s death. The family had two more children who hadn’t been out alone since the second murder. Every party or trip to the mall, every step accompanied by a parent or trusted guardian. Any chance of a normal childhood had been murdered with their siblings.

They’d been a perfect family, two girls and two boys. A perfectly unremarkable family, Dr. Joseph Argon a pediatrician and Catherine Argon a saleswoman for a manufacturing company. Backgrounds, financials, and phone records all clean. No note, no demands, and no reason to kill two children from parents who were as normal as apple pie.

Four years now since the second murder and both the FBI and NYPD had interviewed everyone in the family’s lives, as well as every magician in Brooklyn and the greater Tri-State area. Nothing.

One year on the clock until The Magician could come for the next child, and they were no closer to finding a suspect or motive. The blue file couldn’t be ignored for long, but if these phone records didn’t get finished, then Detective Carter would be all over her.

Chapter 2

N

ikolai’s head slammed into the glass of the rear passenger window as the SUV lurched violently. Tires screamed and a set of headlights burst through the dark, barely missing their left side before the driver regained control of the vehicle.

Idiot. Watch the road! A sharp crack followed as Grensky’s hand connected with the driver’s face.

Sorry, the driver mumbled.

Nikolai rubbed his own aching head and looked down at the blood drying on his shirt.

You okay, boss? Grensky asked, staring back at the scarlet patches on Nikolai’s chest with concern.

Yeah, it’s not mine. Just get me home. Now.

The SUV surged forward as the driver punched the gas pedal.

He had to make it home before the house phone rang.

The order from Don Romano was clear: Everyone lay low. No one makes a move on anything this week without checking in first.

The Romanos had a big shipment coming in this week. Enough crank to OD every meth head in the city. Anyone who threatened the safety of the shipment threatened their own life, and now a man was dead and police would soon be swarming the area. It wasn’t his fault, but the Romanos wouldn’t show him any mercy for that.

They’d hear about the corpse within the hour. With a murder in Nikolai’s territory, they would call him, ask him what he knew. They could call his cell but they wouldn’t. The Don’s brother, Mauro, would call the house phone, literally catching him out.

Being caught lying to the Romanos meant broken bones, wannabe capos kicking you in the face until finally Mauro lumbered over like a drunken bear and beat you unrecognizable with his metal baseball bat.

He’d seen it firsthand when he became an associate, slamming his own foot into a former capo’s face and hearing the crack of a breaking nose, followed by rasping gasps as the mope fought to breathe through the blood flooding his throat. Don Romano knew the best way to keep future recruits in line was to show them the results of crossing it.

The construction site was disappearing behind them. It happened so fast that the body still lay outside the gates. It was messy, sloppy, but the cop would clean it all up.

Five minutes, boss, Grensky said, his unshaven chin creasing into a reassuring smile. He looked older tonight, his jet black hair infiltrated with grey, the shadows under his eyes darker than they were twenty years ago.

Five minutes from home and his beautiful little girl. His watch showed 9:44 pm. Katya would be sleeping now and it was better that way. She couldn’t be allowed see the blood on his shirt, he was still just Daddy to her.

The Romanos would call soon and the girl’s mother would answer and tell them he was out. Then Mauro would call his cell and ask him why he was out, who he was with, so many questions. They would send capos to verify it all.

If the answers weren’t satisfactory, then the Don’s son Celso would smile as he pumped bullets into Nikolai’s chest before going into his house for his daughter. His knuckles turned white as he forced the image from his mind.

We need to move it up, Grensky added, and Nikolai shot him back a glance that silenced him. He would not discuss his plans in front of the driver.

The buildings rushed past as the driver steered the car through the streets of Brooklyn. The neighborhood had been discovered by the middle class and the big franchises were moving in. Joe’s Café became Artisan Brew, then Starbucks. The coffee was better but the atmosphere wasn’t.

Joe gave you the news of the neighborhood with your morning brew. The ignorant teenage barristas gave you a corporate smile with your latte; he wouldn’t miss the change.

The car came to a halt. Katya’s bedroom light was out but the nightlight with the bears would be playing soft music for her. He smiled at the thought of her tiny, peaceful breaths.

Nikolai nodded at Grensky to get out of the car with him.

Watch the driver, stay with him. He’s going to want to talk, better to you than someone else.

Grensky nodded and gave his shoulder a heavy slap. The stench of strong tobacco always traveled with Grensky, but Nikolai patted his friend’s arm. He would miss him too.

The house phone started to ring and he started running.

He could not miss this call...

Chapter 3

C

onnors looked up from her files as Detective Ross arrived, sat down at his desk, and stared through the computer screen. She checked her watch: 11:00 pm. Only an hour had passed since she managed to block the Argon file from her mind and drowned herself in the paperwork surrounding her, but it felt like five.

Ross glanced back at her, his brow tightly wrinkled under his dark blond hair. He looked away quickly as she met his gaze. He wouldn’t be excited about her as a partner, either. Freshly back from injury, she had a reputation for being difficult, obsessive, and after her last case, possessing an almost fatal lack of judgment.

The low voices of her colleagues in the break room haunted her and clawed at her confidence.

Connors should’ve jumped sooner...

She didn’t have to do it...

Detective Connors! Captain Reyes barked, motioning Connors into her office.

The captain smiled as she sat down and flipped her thick black curls over her shoulders. Reyes was trying to sell her on this new partnership, but she was wasting her time; she’d already made it clear that this assignment wasn’t optional for either of them.

Reyes had snatched Ross from under the nose of Captain Ward at the