Chapter Two Holly
Chapter Two
HOLLY
There’s an oil and kerosene smell to the back alleys of New York’s Queens in the early hours. It matches the searing yellow slash of POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, and the steady white solar pulse of evidence photography.
A blare of police radios clouds the air as I approach; the orchestra of my working life.
As I slip quietly below the crime scene tape, an officer I’ve never seen before heads in my direction.
‘Excuse me. Miss? You can’t be in here.’
I flash him my ID. ‘I work for Liberation Law,’ I explain, politely. ‘You have our client under arrest. I’m Holly Stone.’
He blinks once. Twice. Matching my appearance to my words. My hair is deep blue, and my lipstick violet. The lacy cuffs of my black skull-print dress, its ribbon ties drawn around my curving frame, and a whole clutch of skull and pentagon silver jewelry.
‘You’re … A lawyer?’ he manages. His eyes sweep my lip piercing and the unnatural hue of my shoulder-length hair, before landing back to my ID.
‘I’m a freelance forensic,’ I explain. ‘And I’m really not a morning person,’ I add, ruefully, delving in my studded backpack and unearthing a breakfast Twinkie along with my crime scene coveralls.
The officer’s uncertain expression hasn’t wavered, but he lifts the tape, and begins explaining the scene as I put on my protective gear, while demolishing the last of the Twinkie in two short bites.
‘Whew,’ I say, yanking the coveralls up and over my waist, ‘they don’t make these for curvy girls, I’ll tell you that much. OK. Tell me what’s going on with the scene.’
‘The victim looks to have been stabbed,’ he says. ‘Your client was seen fleeing the scene by a reliable witness.’
‘No witness is reliable,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here to look at the data.’
The officer leads me to the remains. The victim is a young man in a hooded top, jeans and sneakers. His legs are splayed on the damp ground, blood soaking a wide pool underneath him. He hasn’t yet been loaded into the body bag laid out at his side.
I squat down. It’s a strange thing about death. The lifelessness of a corpse always cements in my mind the vibrancy of life. All those cells and vessels lying quiet hold a beauty that never fails to motivate me.
‘Whatever happened,’ I promise him quietly, ‘there’s evidence here somewhere.’
I tune out the background noise and let my attention rest on the key areas.
Knife wound to the chest. Something about his sneakers.
There’s a degree of blood-soaking that doesn’t correspond to what I can see of his socks.
A rusting iron fire escape just above us.
An arc of blood on the wall behind the body.
I stand and walk closer to this last detail, until I’m inches away, looking close at the blood droplets.
My finger traces the air. Left to right. Right to left.
‘Holly?’ A familiar voice breaks the spell. I twist to see Lieutenant Howard Green, his mischievous smile belying the age of his lined features. He used to take me on ride-alongs back when I was a kid. ‘What are you doing here? Doesn’t that hot-shot law firm keep you busy enough?’ He grins.
My smile wavers, and I rub the back of my neck. ‘I kind of quit.’
‘You quit working for Attorney Simone Walters?’ His face couldn’t channel more disbelief if he tried. ‘The two of you were inseparable.’
‘TV changes people.’ I can’t meet his eye. ‘Simone started choosing cases for publicity instead of justice.’
He frowns, unconvinced. ‘You sure you didn’t just want an excuse to miss the awards dinner last week?’
‘You know how I am with fancy dinners. All that cutlery.’
He sighs. ‘So buy a dress. Learn how to use a fork, already. Holly, you won two out of three categories in forensic breakthroughs, and you weren’t there to pick up your own trophy.’
I shrug. ‘I had work to do. You can never examine evidence too thoroughly.’
‘Spoken like a true forensic. And for the record, Holly, you might be locked in a basement, examining twenty thousand blood-stains in pursuit of truth, but not everyone in the private system is a purist.’ He levels an accusing stare.
To my immense relief, we’re interrupted by the same nervous-looking young officer who was reluctant to let me on the scene. ‘Miss Stone?’ he says. ‘There’s a delivery guy on the other side of the crime tape.’
‘For me?’ A million questions rise up. In my line of work I often get urgent documents, but delivered straight to the scene is a first.
‘Says he’s got a package he can only give to you directly,’ confirms the officer.
I turn to see a man in a liveried uniform looking in my direction. Tapping my lip piercing distractedly, I head toward him.
‘Any thoughts on the victim before you flee the scene?’ shouts Howard, cupping his hands and shouting after me.
‘Blood arc is oval,’ I shoot back. ‘High-pressure exit. Consistent with a left ventricle wound, right-handed killer. My client is left-handed. And the shoes were put on the victim after he died. Your perp probably stole the victim’s sneakers and left barefoot.
Get to Sneakerheads on Upper East today, you might catch them selling them on. ’
‘You’re wasted in a private law firm,’ Howard calls back. ‘When are you going to join the good guys, Holly?’
‘When you let me keep my piercings in and choose my own hours.’
The delivery guy wears a box-fresh tan shirt emblazoned with the crown logo of his company, and looks very out of place in the dark alley. The morning sun is coming up, lighting him from behind like an angel of destiny.
I recognize the branding on his shirt. His company delivers ultra-secure, ultra-valuable items, with a price-tag to match. My law firm uses them occasionally for State documents. But never to employees.
I swallow uncertainly. He’s holding a black cardboard box – the same size as one of the heavy legal books that form a jerry-rigged nightstand in my walk-up apartment.
Legal documents? They come in envelopes.
‘Holly Stone?’ he asks.
‘That’s me.’ My eyes drop to the box. ‘How did you know I’d be here?’
He looks uncomfortable. ‘I went to your apartment first. Your room-mate told me you’d been called out to a crime scene.’
‘But how …?’
‘My client was extremely clear, these must only be delivered to you personally. Would you mind looking into the display?’ he asks. ‘Face recognition.’
I wait motionless until he nods, then lowers the device.
‘Never seen such a high-tech security before,’ I say conversationally. ‘Couldn’t risk this falling into the wrong hands, huh?’ I add. His eyes follow my black-painted fingernails as I take the box.
‘Let me get you a tip,’ I tell him.
He raises his hands, appalled. ‘No. No. That’s all taken care of.’
I frown. I’ve never known a delivery guy to refuse a tip before.
‘Are you sure, because …’
He shakes his head so vehemently I wonder if I’ve offended him.
‘The tip is included in the delivery,’ he says, backing away. ‘And perhaps mention to your apartment block manager that there are some … drugs people … junkies … outside on the street. You probably don’t want them hanging around your building.’
‘That’s Burt and Emerson,’ I assure him. ‘They’ve been there forever. Never cause any trouble unless their methadone scripts get refused.’
He retreats, with an uncertain expression. I lever off the top of the box, taking extra care, since the contents could be valuable. Growing up in a shabby tenement, my quiet anxiety of damaging something expensive has never quite gone away.
But as the contents are revealed, I see to my surprise it isn’t documents.
There’s another box inside emblazoned with two names, picked out in foiled curling golden letters.
Adrianna & Mark
I stare at them for a moment.
Adrianna Kensington, famous nightclub heiress and her millionaire fiancé, Mark Li.
Must be a mistake. There’s no way in the world those people would be mailing me anything. As I peel back the lid, unease ripples through me.
It’s a wedding invitation.
The strangest wedding invitation I’ve ever seen.