Page 7 of The Bridesmaid
I can’t match his flat voice and emotionless delivery to a man whose bridesmaid was recently murdered.
There’s something not quite right about Mark Li.
‘Mr Li—’ My phone pings as files arrive. I snatch a look andrecoil in shock. The images are close-ups of a gruesomely murdered woman. Her face is obscured, but I can see heavy injury detail to the head and temples. Her body has been displayed in a way that is grotesque, even to a person who routinely visits crime scenes. The forensic expert in me can’t help but be intrigued.
‘The police haven’t been able to remove the body,’ adds Mark. ‘They’re sending in a specialist team this morning, so we only have a few hours.’
‘The body is stillthere?’ My mind is whirring, wondering at what could possibly be preventing the police from removing it. I glance again at the pictures, but nothing gives it away.
‘I can tell you more,’ says Mark. ‘But it needs to be in person. Meet me at the New York Plaza, seven a.m.’ I glance at the time on my phone: 6.30 a.m. ‘Please.’ The word is heartfelt. ‘We don’t have much time. You’re the only one who can help.’
Defeated, ‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘But I can’t get there for seven a.m.’
There’s a pause and I hear keyboard tapping. ‘It’s a twenty-six minutes, drive to the Plaza from your location.’
‘Some of us use public transport,’ I explain to him.
‘I’ve sent a car,’ he says. ‘It will be with you in five minutes.’
He hangs up.
Chapter Five
HOLLY
True to his word, the car arrives within five minutes, the uniformed driver looking distinctly uneasy to be in the neighborhood. It’s a limousine, an actual limousine. Another first.
When the driver sees me in my fishnet leggings and lacy skull dress, with a studded backpack over my shoulder, he does an actual double-take.
‘It’s all right,’ I tell him, climbing in, tucking blue hair behind my ears. ‘I only drink blood at night.’
To my relief, he laughs, gliding away from the dingy backstreets and overflowing dumpsters.
I take in my surroundings, wondering if my day can get any weirder. The strange remains of the dead bridesmaid keep inserting themselves into my thoughts, macabre and disturbing. What kind of person could have done that?
I focus on my surroundings, letting myself sink into the soft leather seat. It’s the first time I’ve ever been inside a real-life limo. The interior is orange-blossom-scented, serene, and bathed in low ambient light. The rich wood door paneling has a complicated-looking array of buttons. I eye them suspiciously.
‘First time in a limo?’ The driver’s voice comes crystal clear.I track its direction from a small speaker just above my head, and try not to feel unnerved that he can see me back here, but I can’t see him.
‘First time in a chauffeured car of any kind,’ I admit. ‘Rich person etiquette is a mystery to me.’
He nods. ‘When I moved to New York, I thought I spoke perfect English,’ he says. ‘It took driving limos to teach me there’s more to language than just words.’
We pass a soaring billboard with an advertisement for Kensington’s New York Club, all red carpet and low lighting, with flashes of designer liquor bottles.
‘Guess that’s the thing about wealth,’ I say. ‘It’s as much about the story as it is about the reality.’
He considers this. ‘Well, you know what they say about truth, right? There’s yours, and there’s mine.’
‘I’m a forensic scientist,’ I tell him. ‘There’s only one way to present the truth.’
We pass by parks and wider streets of Queens, then into deep shade as the car swings under the elevated 7 line – a steel framework of interlacing metal beams, forming a soaring train track over the water to Manhattan. On the road, delivery drivers are making early morning drops. People are hustling to work. Already the city is waking up.
The driver clicks his tongue. ‘Traffic,’ he mutters, spinning the car down a side street I never knew existed. ‘I’ll take the lower bridge route.’
We break out of the oppressive underside of the train track, with its miles of peeling green paint, and glide up onto the elegant spine of Williamsburg Bridge. A sudden flash of deep-blue sky andelevation over the East River makes it feel as though we’re flying. In the middle distance, the iconic skyline of Manhattan never fails to make my heart lift. The glass skyscrapers flash blinding slices of early morning sun, and the Empire State Building and Chrysler Building, with their signature pointed tops, pierce the clouds.
As we descend onto the Lower East Side, the density of people on the street has quadrupled that on the far side of the bridge. The streets are closed in tight, dark between tall buildings.
