Chapter 1
Artemis Shelter for Women
I have two black eyes, possibly a broken nose, and scrapes and abrasions over my face. I also have a loose molar and a cut lip that doesn’t seem to want to stop bleeding. A meat tenderizer hammer wrapped in a dish towel added three purple bruises to my thighs. “For good measure,” he said.
I get in my car, drive unsteadily to a parking spot on Northern Boulevard, and walk two blocks to the shelter. I lean against the shelter’s steel grille; behind it is a solid wooden door with a peephole. Above the door out of reach, there is a CCTV camera aimed at me. I ring the bell and count seconds to dull the pain. At thirty-one, the door opens. A woman looks at me and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, we’re full. We have no room.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor.”
I step closer so she can get a better look at my face. I see hers. It’s about sixty, unlined, with kind blue eyes behind granny glasses. She thinks for a moment, then says with gentle resignation, “We’ll give you a sleeping bag on a couch for now. I’m sorry I can’t promise more.”
It’s okay. I’m in.
Chapter 2
Long Island City Police Department Headquarters
Two months earlier
What the fuck?
I write it and cross it out.
There is no way I can enter these three words into my daily log—a thick loose-leaf folder, pages defaced with coffee stains, containing notes of interviews, arrests, observations, phone calls scrawled in ballpoint, Sharpie, and India blue-black ink. It is the record of everything related to my job as a Long Island City homicide detective: investigations, interviews, active and inactive cases, and most recently what I did on the first Thursday in October apart from my choice of lunch—a foot-long Subway Meatball Marinara with a bottle of iced tea. I ate six inches and saved the rest for later. The meatballs are still sloshing around in my stomach like wet towels in a washer. Not a good choice.
On that day, What the fuck? came in three visits. Before I get to them, my name is Nina Karim. I am a single thirty-one-year-old woman who likes cats, Ryan Reynolds movies, beautiful sunsets, and walking on a wintry beach holding hands with a tall, caring, lightly bearded third-wave feminist. Yeah, right.
Long Island City Police Log: Detective Nina Karim
October 6, 2017
10:35 a.m.: Interview with John and Melinda Steevers, 3600 Myrtle Drive, South Flushing. Their son Ronald failed to show up at the weekly Sunday-night family dinner and had not reported to his job at the Home Depot in Long Island City. There was no response to their phone calls, texts, or emails. On Monday Mr. Steevers drove to Ronald’s residence at Sunny Gardens Apartments, in Queens, and found his apartment empty. There was no sign of Ronald’s wife, Susan. Most of her clothes were gone. Mrs. Steevers said, “We’re not interested in the disappearance of Ronald’s wife as there was no love lost between us.”
Mr. Steevers: “It’s not our problem.” Mrs. Steevers intimated Susan was capable of murdering their son. I asked them to fill out a missing persons report and told them I would follow up with an investigative visit to the apartment.
11:45 a.m.: Interview with Lawrence McDermott, Caucasian male, 25 Lancelot Lane, Northport, New York. Mr. McDermott confessed to murder but had no knowledge or memory of the person he had murdered. Mr. McDermott appeared to be sane and well dressed, and works as a risk specialist at Chase Bank in Manhattan. As ridiculous as his story sounds, I have some memory of this man that I can’t quite place. I know it will come to me. (I noted his basics—see above.) After he left, I endured mild verbal abuse from my fellow homicide detectives. Apparently, Mr. McDermott has been here before. He is considered a nutcase. What the fuck? #2
12:15 p.m.: Interview with Arthur “Artie” Crews, Caucasian male, 365 Maiden Lane, Little Neck, New York. Crews is a weatherman on KCS TV Channel 7. He asks if he could employ me on a private basis to help his son Scott find his missing cat, Bonkers. What the fuck? #3.
Chapter 3
I consider finishing my Subway sandwich in the car on the way to the Sunny Gardens Apartments but instead rewrap it carefully and hand it to a homeless man zigzagging cars at the stoplight. At the Police Academy, we were taught the cautionary tale of Jack Salucci, a veteran cop who was forced by new regulations to report to the shooting range and take a proficiency exam on the .38 revolver he insisted on carrying. Officer Salucci arrived at the range, aimed his weapon at the target, and couldn’t pull the trigger. His gun was jammed. Salucci handed it over to the instructor, who discovered a cement-like material encasing the hammer. There was no way it could be fired. Salucci freaked, picturing himself facing an armed bank robber, hunched behind the open door of his patrol car, unable to return fire. Further analysis of his pistol revealed the cement-like material around the hammer to be hardened mozzarella cheese that had dripped down on the weapon from the hundreds of pizza slices Officer Salucci had consumed while sitting behind the wheel of his patrol car. My own weapon, a regulation Glock 22, is strapped to my hip under one of the two navy-blue JCPenney blazers I rotate, along with four white blouses, three pairs of blue slacks, and two pairs of black rubber-soled shoes that comprise my normal work costume. I also have a formal Long Island City Police uniform: a navy-blue suit with gold braids on the sleeves for my years of service, a medal for bravery, and an American flag patch. I am expected to wear a white shirt and a tie, completing the appearance of a man in law enforcement. For miserable Long Island weather, I own a series of blue sweaters, a blue raincoat, and, in winter, a down jacket, also blue. I am just a little girl blue homicide detective; that’s fine. My just-in-case weapon, strapped to my ankle, is a .38 Ruger LCR, the Lightweight Compact Revolver. I call it the NLF, Nasty Little Fucker. It’s about five inches long. Apparently, it kills as well as anything else. The point is, unlike Officer Salucci, when I need to fire my weapons there will be no cement-like mozzarella on either of them.
So far, I have never had to fire either weapon at any living thing. So far.
I don’t wear makeup. I have a serious interest in a man, Bobby Booth (Bobby B), the one I sleep with when our busy schedules allow—mine as a cop, his as a loan shark.
Sunny Gardens Apartments is a two-story brick building with white wood trim and flower-lined concrete paths. There is a smug no vacancy sign planted in the lawn. I park in a handicapped spot, place the blue badge with the wheelchair symbol on the rearview mirror. I confiscated the badge from a guy at my gym. As I passed him on my way to the treadmill, he said something unkind about my butt to his trainer.
Okay, a word about my body. Unlike Gaul, I am divided into two, not three, parts. Top is perfect: a twenty-two-inch waist, flat stomach, and Kate Moss breasts. South of the belt, the geography changes. My hips widen, and my thighs end in a bump that looks like it should be on someone else—on my best days, a modern dancer; on my worst, what my ex-fiancé Darren used to call “not a one hander.” But Bobby loves me, and that’s just fine. I say there’s something in me for every taste, just not all in one package.
I followed Mr. Unkind to the parking lot, showed him my badge, told him I’d heard what he said and asked to see his handicapped paperwork. Mr. Unkind mumbled apologies, said he had a bad heart and friends in the police department. I could see that his heart was encased in a buff body, and told him it was a bad idea to use the friends in the police department line.