Dead Cold Read online

  Dead Cold

  by Simon Largo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Simon Largo. All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Bay Lake Media Limited, Kent, UK.

  Dedication:

  For my parents, Ernie and Barbara, for their unconditional love,

  and support over the years for my creative writing endeavors.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Central Park, Manhattan

  June 8th: 6.16 a.m.

  Senator Robert Ellison sat alone in Central Park. The park had officially opened at six a.m. He was in the Strawberry Fields area, adjacent to Central Park West, on one of the long green wooden-slatted benches that arced around a gray tarmacadam pathway. He was resting, quite still, against one of the trademark green wrought iron arm rests. No doubt reflecting on life and politics.

  The spot he had chosen was beautiful, the early morning sunshine peeking through the green-leafed boughs of the canopy of trees, which shaded him from above.

  A most perfect place indeed.

  About six feet away from where Ellison sat, was the large black and white tiled mosaic circle symbol, embedded in the pathway. There was one word displayed on it in black letters: ‘Imagine’. This was the late Beatle, John Lennon’s patch. A place where you could be at peace with the world. Meditate. And imagine.

  Only, Senator Robert Ellison was in no mood this morning to imagine anything at all. His cold blue eyes just stared into space. He was quite dead, in fact.

  Dead cold.

  * * *

  W. 11th St. West Village, Manhattan

  6.33 a.m.

  The corpse lay on the sidewalk, quite still, with lifeless eyes staring at nothing in particular. The warm early morning summer air was exacerbating the smell of death. The body lay at an awkward angle. Congealed blood formed a random pattern near the head and under the neck, which was broken. There was clear evidence of severe trauma over the entire body.

  It had been an accident. A hit and run. The vehicle had stopped momentarily after the impact. The driver, in shock, surveyed the scene and not seeing any witnesses about, had calmly got back in his vehicle and driven away, not stopping to see if his victim was alive or dead.

  * * *

  6.50 a.m.

  An elderly, white-haired woman, came walking slowly along W.11th. Her name was Ethel White; she used a walking cane to steady her feet. She passed by a small series of shops. A delicatessen was just opening up and the large-framed owner, Tony, his face ruby red with toil, opened the shutters and spotted his long time neighbor and customer, Ethel.

  “Hi, Ethel. How you doin’?” smiled Tony.

  It was then that he noticed Ethel was distracted, her eyes watery and looking left and right. Like she had lost something. Or was looking for someone.

  “Have you seen George?” she asked, the tone of her voice trembling.

  “No, sorry, Ethel, I haven’t.”

  “His memory is not so good these days. I have to watch him all the time you know.”

  “I know. You told me before. But I’m sure he’s okay.”

  “He keeps wandering off, Tony. I’m finding it so difficult to cope.”

  “Aw gee, that’s too bad. Say, I’ll be done in a few minutes. How about a coffee . . . on the house?”

  “Thank you, Tony, that’s very sweet of you, but I better keep looking. If I don’t find him soon, I’m going to have to call the police . . .”

  Tony reacted oddly when he heard the word ‘police’ mentioned. He looked at her in puzzlement, waved her goodbye and carried on opening the shop. His exertion had made him sweat so badly, he didn’t seem to notice that his shirt was soaked and sticking to him like glue. Tony thought about Ethel and George as he went about his chores and prayed to God that he didn’t end up like them and go senile too early in life. That would be too much to cope with.

  Outside in the sunshine, after another five minutes of walking along, Ethel paused. She looked ahead along the sidewalk, her old, worn out heart racing as much as it could under the circumstances. Then she saw something. Hoped it was not what she thought it was. But she knew deep down. It was a body.

  Ethel moved closer to her goal. Her steps labored and slow. As she narrowed in on the crumpled body, she slowly bent down as much as she could. Shaking her head in denial of the facts as she reached out with a frail, bony, wrinkled hand, and gently touched the deceased.

  “Oh, George, why did this have to happen?” she cried.

  She caressed his head and stroked the fur down the back of the bloodied torso. Her pet cat was dead.

  Dead cold.

  Chapter Two

  NYPD, 6th Precinct, West Village, Manhattan

  June 8th: 8.11 a.m.

  The aircon was being temperamental today in the Homicide unit and the cops inside were suffering. Sweating. Lethargic. Exhausted.

  And the day had only just begun.

  Sitting at his paper-strewn desk, and rubbing his eyes, Detective Mason Trent let out a slow, weird-sounding yawn. Shook his head, and brushed away the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. He stretched his back, arching his shoulders while doing so and looked up at his partner George Lopez, who sat opposite. Lopez was noisily munching his way through a second donut of the morning.

  Trent eyed his partner, privately wishing George would slow down on his eating habits and go on a diet. He feared for his buddy’s health. But what could he do?

  Lopez caught Trent looking at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Trent.

  “You think I should quit the donuts, don’t you?”

  “I never said that. Maybe just . . .”

  “Trent. Please don’t preach to me. I get enough of that from my wife.”

  Trent smiled, “How is Maria? The kids?”

  “They’re all fine. Doing great, and a lot thinner than me!” chuckled Lopez, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, as the last remains of the poor defenseless donut vanished into Lopez’s mouth.

  The shrill tone of Trent’s desk phone rang out. He picked up, with hope and anticipation that it would be an urgent call about a new homicide. Maybe. Something. Anything to cut through the boredom.

  No such luck. Just routine internal stuff. He ended the call and was about to say something rude and witty to Lopez, when he was cut short.

  Their boredom had a brief respite as Captain Gayle Karpelli breezed in and walked up to their desks. Lopez straightened up. Trent tensed, trying to second guess what she was going to say. Had they fucked up on some report? Were they in trouble, or was she going to praise them?

  Karpelli’s expression never gave anything away. She was good to them like that.

  “Morning, guys. It’s hot isn’t it?” said Karpelli. Her cheeks were flushed, make-up shining in the heat.

  Lopez was staring at her as normal. She was, after all, extremely attractive. For a cop. And especially for a police captain.

  “You certainly are . . .” said Lopez.

  “I am certainly, what?” asked Karpelli.

  “Hot . . .�
�� said George, immediately blushing.

  Trent rescued his buddy, as always, “ . . . he meant you’re hot, as in, it’s hot in here. We’re hot too. We’re all hot . . .”

  Karpelli was confused.

  “When’s the aircon gonna be repaired, Captain?”

  “Soon, I hope. And don’t call me hot in future, Lopez. You have a wife!”

  Lopez looked away sheepishly.

  “You wanted to see us about something, Captain?” Trent enquired, changing the mood, and subject, as quickly as he could.

  Karpelli was flustered. She stared intently at Trent. Her mind drifted for a second; boy, Trent’s eyes were so blue. He was the cutest detective in the whole precinct. In her view anyway. Karpelli almost drifted off the subject. But snapped back out of it before she became as embarrassed as Lopez.

  “I have a body for you to check out. I came here personally to speak to you both because it’s kinda sensitive . . .”

  “Sensitive?” enquired Trent, looking puzzled.

  “As in White House sensitive,” Karpelli announced.

  “The President?” Lopez excitedly chirped in.

  “No. Nothing to do with the President.”

  “Okay, Captain, what gives? We can take it,” said Trent.

  “You ever heard of Senator Robert Ellison?”

  Trent thought for a few seconds. Lopez just shrugged and shook his head.

  “Arms deals in Iraq . . .” prompted Karpelli, “Do you need any more clues?”

  Trent beamed. He remembered. “Ellison. Isn’t he under investigation by the FBI for allegedly accepting bribes from an arms company?”

  “He was, Trent. Not anymore. He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “He was found about an hour ago in Central Park, by one of the Parks Enforcement Patrol officers.”

  “Okay, why us, though? Can’t the Central Park precinct deal with this? It’s on their patch?” asked Lopez.

  Karpelli cleared her throat and quietly spoke, “This, guys, is a request direct from the mayor’s office.”

  “The mayor?”

  “Yes. He was impressed with your record, Trent, when you caught The Storm Slayer earlier this year.”

  “Really, wow.” Trent was proud of his record and assumed this must really be sensitive if the mayor was involved. “Okay, so where is the body exactly?”

  “Strawberry Fields. I want both of you there right away. And be careful. We don’t know what we’ve got here.”

  “Was it a mugging?” asked Lopez.

  “They’re not sure. But it wasn’t natural causes . . .”

  “They sure?”

  “His shirt was blood-soaked.”

  “What type of wound?” asked Trent.

  “You’re the detectives. Go figure . . .” and with that Karpelli spun on her heels and exited, leaving a waft of strong, intoxicating perfume as she went. She was definitely hot.

  Before they both headed out, Lopez dived into his drawer for another donut. Trent rolled his eyes and shook his head in despair.

  “Do you really need another donut, Big Man?”

  “Hey, this could be a long day. I need food fuel.”

  “You need a diet!”

  “And you need a wife!” snapped back Lopez, as they shared the banter and walked out of the homicide office.

  * * *

  When they reached the precinct lobby, Tent and Lopez overheard an elderly lady speaking to the desk sergeant. It was Ethel White, whose cat had been run over.

  “I want to report a murder!”

  “A murder?” asked the sergeant.

  “Yes,” said Ethel adamantly.

  “What was the name of the victim, ma’am?”

  “George.”

  “Last name?”

  “Just, George.”

  “Why would this victim only have one name?” asked the curious sergeant.

  “Cats usual only have one name, Officer.”

  The desk sergeant reacted and suddenly became less interested. He spotted Trent and Lopez in the background, both smirking and laughing.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am but we really don’t have time for dealing with animal deaths . . . have you tried Animal Welfare?”

  “But someone ran him over. A hit and run. It was murder, I tell you. Are you sure you can’t help?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just it’s not a police matter. Like I said, you need to speak to . . .”

  “Forget it. I’m just an old lady. And you can’t be bothered. The mayor will hear of this . . . wait and see!”

  The desk sergeant just shrugged his shoulders.

  Ethel was incensed. She gave up, huffed and puffed the air out of her pale cheeks, then turned around and walked out, her cane cracking the floor in protest.

  Trent and Lopez let her past, and then followed her through the doors. Lopez glanced back briefly at the desk sergeant, who was circling his right index finger in a motion near his forehead, signifying the old lady must have been loopy. He could have been right. New York was full of crazy people.

  Chapter Three

  Strawberry Fields, Central Park

  June 8th: 9.02 a.m.

  Trent parked his black Chevy Suburban on West Drive, one of the inner park roads, closest to Strawberry Fields. The heat was picking up now, mid eighties.

  As Trent and Lopez made their way along the gray pathway, the sun burned into their necks. Ahead of them they could see blue and white NYPD crime scene tape, hooked up to lamp posts and tied onto benches, near to the crime scene. A white pvc tent covered the body.

  They flashed their badges to the uniformed cops guarding the perimeter and then ducked under the tape, strolling slowly towards the tent. The sun shone through the tall elms, a gentle breeze occasionally bending the rays of sunshine as it filtered through the natural tree-top canopy. It was usually such a tranquil area, but today it was buzzing with nervous chatter of gathered cops and forensic teams. Keeping a safe distance, a couple of news crews were trying to edge in on the action and get updates, but they were quarantined outside the tape, about fifty feet back, towards Central Park West.

  “Showtime . . . “ said Trent, as he and Lopez peeled back the unzipped tent cover and entered.

  * * *

  The scene inside the tent was stiflingly hot. Perspiration dripped from the face of the Medical Examiner, Doctor Theodore Volger, as he attended the deceased. The late Senator Ellison sat there, right on the bench, quite patient and rigid in his post mortem state. Dried blood was showing on his blue collared shirt. Cream silk tie smeared with red stains. He looked like waxwork dummy. Trent and Lopez surveyed the scene.

  “Trent and Lopez. Homicide,” said Trent, eyeing the hot and flustered ME.

  “Hi. I don’t think he’ll be running for president anytime soon,” laughed Volger, at his own feeble joke.

  Trent ignored the humor and went straight for the facts.

  “What type of wound is that?” he asked pointing at the bloodstained chest area.

  “Knife. Looks like a single stab wound in the chest,” Volger offered without hesitation.

  “Christ. And I thought Central Park was a safe place,” commented Lopez.

  “It is, Big Man. Gotta be isolated,” replied Trent.

  “Or someone he knew,” added the ME, wiping salty droplets of sweat from his forehead and cheeks.

  “Could be, doesn’t look like any sign of struggle. I mean, look at the way he’s sitting,” said Trent, who was getting hotter by the second. He felt his face warming up in the claustrophobic tent. Beads of sweat sliding down his temples.

  “Did he have ID on him?” queried Trent.

  “Yes, just his wallet. But if there was any cash in there, it’s missing. But there are credit cards and driver’s license intact. Wallet’s been bagged up as evidence already,” said the efficient Volger.

  “You’re so good to us,” added Lopez with sarcasm.

  There was a thin light breeze, which did nothing to help the intensi
ty of the heat inside the tent. Not a place to stay too long, unless you happened to be dead. Lopez was also feeling uncomfortable, armpits sweating profusely. His large frame suffering. His belly ached for some more food. Dead people could wait. His stomach couldn’t.

  “I’ll fill you in later when I’ve done the autopsy, now if you’ll excuse me, guys, I have to finish up here, okay?” said Volger.

  “Sure, later, doc,” Trent said as he tapped Lopez’s shoulder and signaled for them to go.

  “Don’t call me Doc . . .” replied the ME immediately, without making eye contact. He ignored the two detectives and carried on taking DNA swabs.

  Chapter Four

  W. 11th St.

  June 8th : 1.07 p.m.

  Ethel was sobbing to herself. She sat alone at a large round wooden table, in the expansive kitchen of her brownstone home. The décor was a snapshot in time of the 1950s. It needed upgrading, but she preferred to keep it as it used to be. In its prime. All pale yellows and blues. Her favorite colors.

  She clasped her bony hands around an iced tea. Behind her, a tall free-standing electric fan oscillated slowly in an arc, cooling her. She didn’t care much for modern air conditioning, even though it was installed.

  Why did George have to die? She thumbed through a photo album, gazing longingly at snapshots of George, taken over the eighteen years of his life. It had been a long life for a cat. It had ended unnecessarily too soon and far too violently. The photos documented his life, from being a playful young kitten, to more recent times as a devoted companion and grand old man of her apartment. Ethel missed him so much. But she had her memories and the photos comforted her.