wide with questions. The crime scene was lit up like Times Square. There was a festival of lights in front of him, no less than six regular patrol cars with blue-and-white wig-wags flashing, the Crime Scene Unit van, and the city medical examiner’s vehicle were also parked in front of the hospital.
Brice wasn’t new to anything he was seeing, but something felt different about the scene. He could tell by the number of cars that this crime scene had been pushed up to important.
“Hey, Simp. Female DOA, no valuables missing, except they took her identification out of the wallet. No witnesses. Scouring the area for surveillance footage... so far, nothing. Best guess is we will take a few pictures, show them around inside to ID her. We got uniforms fanned out all over the other floors and inside the hospital. Oh, and we got a full, perfectly intact shoe print in a small spot of oil on the parking lot floor. Crime Scene doing a cast of that,” the patrol sergeant reported to Brice, who wrote feverishly on his little black notepad.
Brice took a deep breath, flexed his neck, and then walked over to the sheet that covered the body. The top half of the sheet was soaked through with dark red blood. He lifted the left corner and took a peek. He dropped the sheet back over the body.
“How soon are they going to be able to identify?” Brice asked stoically. He’d seen a lot of dead bodies, but this one was particularly sad. The woman looked like she could be someone’s wife or mother, and Brice would bet his life that she was.
Brice and walked over to where Michelle Grafton and Lucille Teller were standing huddled together. Michelle acknowledged Brice first.
“Hey, Simpson. Pretty sad, wouldn’t you say?” Michelle asked. “A beautiful woman. Not too old, either. Nothing really amiss. Weird.”
Brice shook his head at her. They’d known one another for years now. She had been Brooklyn’s chief medical examiner for nearly ten years. She had testified at several high-profile trials, and she was the best at determining causes of death. She had been a godsend to the homicide squad.
“Is it me, or does it seem personal?” Brice asked, rubbing his chin. “We got people fanned out in the hospital trying to make an ID. How long before you can make a positive one from the remains?” he continued, asking more questions before he got the answer to the first one.
“Probably going to be at least twenty-four hours, unless we come up with her actual ID and can ID her from there,” Lucille interjected. Lucille wasn’t a big fan of Brice. In fact, she and Brice had had their fair share of ups and downs. Lucille was, by all means, a forensic genius, but she didn’t believe in letting detectives rush her or dictate how she conducted her examinations. Lucille also didn’t believe in letting Michelle play boss to her either, although Michelle was technically her boss.
“I’ll see how fast I can get something. Let’s see what kind of missing persons come in within the next few hours. Judging from the rings and nice clothing, she had a few bucks. Whoever did this wasn’t out to rob her. That rock alone would’ve made a thief very happy,” Michelle told Brice. She was simply repeating the things Lucille had just told her, but Michelle knew that Lucille was going to keep the information to herself, so she took the liberty of sharing. Michelle saw Brice as a collegial friend, unlike Lucille, who viewed Brice as a big pain in her ass.
“But why take the time to take all of her identification?” Brice asked.
“That’s a good question, Simpson. I guess you’ll be the one figuring it all out,” Lucille answered. “This one is all yours, right?”
* * *
Brice got the call a few hours after he left the crime scene. The woman had been identified as Desiree Turner, a nurse at Brooklyn Hospital. Brice turned to his computer and punched in the name. He squinted at the screen when the woman’s list of known associates and family members popped up. Brice sighed and pushed back in his seat.
“Big K,” he whispered. “Kevin fucking Turner. I remember you. How could I forget your reign over Brooklyn back then?” Brice mumbled.
He punched a few more keys and moved closer to the screen to make sure he was reading it correctly. “So, they let you out after all that time. I thought they gave your ass life,” Brice grumbled.
Once again, his street ties related back to his work. It was inevitable for Brice, who thought of himself as a simple Brooklyn kid turned cop. Brice wasn’t called the hood detective for nothing. He’d always kept one foot in the hood and one step ahead of criminals. He was known on the streets as Simp, and on any given day, a person wouldn’t be able to decipher a difference between Brice the detective and the local corner boy. It always worked to his advantage. Brice had the swagger of a rapper and the smarts of a genius. He had always been into fashion, so to say he was a snazzy dresser like most Brooklyn dudes was an understatement. He definitely didn’t subscribe to the NYPD detective–obligatory sand-colored trench coat, dress shirt, slacks, and a tie. Never. Not for Brice. He wore his name brand jeans, whichever sneaker was out, or Timbs in the winter. Brice wasn’t about to give up his street cred for the job.
Brice reviewed some more information and found out that his victim was the wife of former drug kingpin Kevin “Big K” Turner, who had recently been released from prison after serving sixteen years. Brice rubbed his chin and squinted his eyes.
“So, she survived amongst his enemies the entire time he was locked up, and as soon as he gets home, she’s shot dead with no apparent motive,” he mumbled as he flipped to the next screen on his computer and compared the information to a file he’d pulled from the archives.
“Hey, Cuomo. Come with me somewhere,” Brice yelled out to an older white detective that he sometimes took in the field with him to give him an edge in the hood. One thing about the bad guys in the hood—they never really fucked with white cops, especially the fat, balding, older ones.
Chapter 3
Cheyenne
When the landline phone in her apartment rang in the middle of the night, Cheyenne immediately knew something was wrong. Her mother was the only person who called her at the apartment she shared with a roommate in Austin, Texas. Anyone else contacted Cheyenne on her cell phone, which hardly rang during those days.
“Cheyenne,” Amber, Cheyenne’s roommate, called out in the darkness of her bedroom.
“Hmm,” Cheyenne moaned, although she was awake from the phone ringing anyway. She was cranky because she had already been tossing and turning, feeling like something was off. She’d chalked it up to pre-test jitters. They had an early start the next day with their first round of exams upon them, so Cheyenne had written off the feeling that had kept her up tossing and turning most of the night. Neither she nor Amber wanted to be up that late.
“The phone is for you. It’s your father,” Amber grumbled, annoyed.
Cheyenne flung her blanket off, wishing that they had spent the few extra dollars on a cordless phone instead of the stupid landline that plugged into the wall.
“Thanks,” she groaned out as she brushed past Amber, stomping her way to the living room. Cheyenne’s heart-rate sped up. Her father never called her, much less this time of the night. Within a millisecond, no less than five hundred thoughts shot through her mind.
“Hello?” Cheyenne huffed into the receiver, squeezing it so tight her knuckles paled. It was her father, for sure. Her heart stopped beating for a few seconds, and her legs had suddenly gone weak. He
