wraps his arms around me, and I let my body relax into his hug. If anyone understood the relationship between me and my father, it was Simon. The two of them prodded me to excel through my youthful education, prepping me for my future. My father, though, was the backbone of my training. Growing up, I spent every single day with him, and not one of those days went by without me learning something from him. Without his intensity and skills as a profiler, I would not be the person I am today.
“Oh, that kid!”
I follow my uncle’s concerned look and spot a thin young man dashing out of the church with the sparse contents of the donation box.
“All the time, this kid taking from us!” My uncle’s voice trails into the background as I bolt after the offender.
Outside the church, the kid stumbles into the damp streets, and I chase him through an alleyway leading to a small neighborhood park. I can’t tell what he looks like or how old he is, as his hooded pullover conceals his face and the evening light is fading into darkness.
He treks down a sloped path, but I veer along the upper side of the bank, hoping to nab him from above. Darting past bushes and weathered trees, I kick into high gear and, when the timing is right, pounce down on him.
“Drop the money!” I yell.
The thief resists me, anxiously trying to slide away, but I place my booted foot on his chest and pin him to the cold earth.
I lean closer and with the barrel of my gun push the hood back from his face and see that he is just a kid. A teenager—maybe thirteen or fourteen—and obviously homeless. His skin is scaly with dirt, and his hair, apparently once greasy, is now dry and brittle.
“You think stealing from a church is going to help you?”
His eyes flicker back to me with fear and shame, and I don’t know if I want to cuff the kid or take him home and clean him up. “That’s not the way to do it, man.”
His silence is unnerving, so I reach out a hand and pull him up from the ground. When he stands, he is a few inches shorter than I am, and I see the wear his clothes have been through. This, at the start of a winter.
The boy holds his wrists out in front of him, but I pause. The obvious thing to do is take him in, but all that will do is punish him for looking after his own welfare.
Don’t get me wrong; stealing is anything but acceptable. But I know these kids. They’re not the ones who rob banks or assault people. They steal bread and blankets for their own survival.
He stares at me as I reach into my back pocket and hand him a tattered card detailing the services of a nearby shelter.
When I give him five bucks, I say, “This is your warning. I catch you stealing from anyone—and I mean anyone—ever again, you’re going in. Got it?”
He nods his head and a single tear rolls down his cheek. “Now get on over to the shelter and tell them Angie sent you.”
The kid’s sea-blue eyes barely make contact with mine as his timid voice speaks. “Is this a friend of yours?”
I pause, caught off guard by the personal question.
It wasn’t my intention to think of Denise. Not yet. But I guess by sending a needy kid her way, I guarantee she’ll be thinking of me.
“Friend of the family,” I say firmly, and then add, “She’ll look after you for tonight and give you something to eat. Go on, get out of here.”
The kid hightails it out of my sight, and I collect the loose change from the earth. There wasn’t more than twenty bucks in the box, yet the kid was willing to take his chances for such a small amount. Probably had little choice.
For a moment, I let the evening wind push fallen leaves against my feet, let my body and mind settle into New York soil. The constant sounds of city traffic, the mixed aromas of ethnic eateries…it all funnels into faded memories of my youth, enlivening the forgotten shadows within my heart.
Denise.
I haven’t given much thought to visiting her, but now that I’ve let her name enter my consciousness, I have no choice but to acknowledge her existence. The last time I saw her was at my father’s funeral, and even then I paid little attention to the proximity of this woman.
A buoyant plastic grocery bag slaps against my calf and alerts me to reality. As I unwrap the garbage from my leg, my cell phone rings and I focus on the present.
“David.”
“Angie,” Cain says in his age-worn voice. “Meet me at the men’s mission by St. Augustine’s. Have I got a body for you.”
Chapter 2
When the cabbie drops me off at the scene, Cain is standing outside the mission building with Detective Severo, who’s talking to a middle-aged woman. I wasn’t expecting to see him, and now that I do I’m curious as to why he’s here.
“Nice Thanksgiving?” he asks as I step up to the curb outside the mission.
I shrug my shoulders, not interested in small talk. “Fine,” I say. “Burned the turkey.” Regret for confessing my culinary taboo immediately follows. Severo doesn’t need to learn one of my flaws so easily, but it doesn’t seem to faze him much.
“How ironic,” he says, then lifts his cardboard takeout box of stale-looking nachos, offering me a sample.
Shaking my head, I step closer to Cain to see what’s going on.
“Angie, thanks for getting over here quick. This is the housekeeper for the mission.” I note her fearful eyes, desperate for answers to which I myself have no idea of questions. “She was checking on one of the resident spiritual advisors when she found him…. Hell, I’ll let you have a look for yourself.”
As I offer a meek smile to the lady, trying to provide comfort for something I don’t yet understand, I notice the many guests of the mission. People are lined up outside the building, food in their hands, protective of what is likely the best meal they’ve had all week—or longer.
The building itself is plain and camouflaged with its unassuming exterior, only now it looks like a disco with the strobe lights of emergency vehicles dancing across its concrete exterior in the darkening night.
We climb the narrow staircase to the upper level, and I take in the stink of kerosene mixed with something more potent.
Burned human flesh.
Inside the advisor’s room, dim in this evening light, I see the corpse propped upright in a wooden rocking chair.
One thing doesn’t make sense. The room has no fire damage.
“Matthias Killarney. Fifty-two. Caucasian. Dead.”
The monotone of Cain’s voice signals the beginning of a long shift and I step closer to the body, interested to understand. A few investigators are rounding up forensic evidence and I’m careful not to step across their boundaries.
“This is Severo’s deal,” Cain says to me as I lean closer to the
