Page 2 of Crosshairs

“Hey, Harry,” I kept my voice low even though I knew the ring itself would’ve woken Mary Catherine.

“Sorry for the early call, Mike.” Somehow his voice didn’t sound quite as gravelly as it did during the day.

“What’s up?”

Harry said, “This may shock you, but I’m calling because of a homicide.”

“No, really? I thought you might want me to meet for you breakfast or maybe go for a walk.”

I sat up in bed, then reached into my nightstand drawer and pulled out the little notebook I always keep there. “Where am I heading before breakfast?”

Harry gave me the address. I said, “Wait. Where?”

“I know. It’s close to your apartment,” Harry said. “You could probably walk there. We got a problem, though. The body was found a few hours ago, but someone screwed up, patrol got overwhelmed, and no one called us immediately. There’s already media on the scene.”

“That does make things trickier. I can’t believe too many reporters are at the scene of a homicide. Even if it is probably some rich guy based on the address.” I stopped and thought about it for a moment. I was careful when I said, “Harry, why is there already media there at this time in the morning?”

Harry said in a flat tone, “It’s another victim of the sniper.”

CHAPTER 3

THE ONLY KID I encountered during my attempt to escape the apartment quietly was Jane, who often got up early to study. Even by her standards, though, this was a little excessive. I gave her a kiss on the top of her head and headed for the door. A cop’s kids know not to ask questions when they see their mom or dad leave early or in a hurry.

Just as I was passing through the door, Jane called out, “Be careful, Dad.”

It put a smile on my face.

It took me longer to walk across the street and up to the parking garage where I park my NYPD Chevy Impala than it did for me to drive the few blocks to the crime scene. But the entire trip gave me a little time to think. The media had been playing up the story of two people shot from long range almost a month apart. I think it was theBrooklyn Democratthat came up with a catchyname: the Longshot Killer. It was easier to appreciate a good nickname for a killer before you met the victim’s family. For now, I respected someone’s poetic license.

This was the only victim in Manhattan. The first, Marie Ballard, had been a single grandmother in Queens. The next one was Thomas Bannon, a fireman who lived on Staten Island. I was already racking my brain, trying to find a pattern to the killings.

Every homicide detective tends to note homicides with similar details. You never know when it might reveal a serial killer. I wasn’t even sure if I was up for another major investigation after my past few months. But I learned a long time ago that neither the NYPD nor the public cares one bit how tired I am or what kind of mood I’m in.

I pulled up next to a parked patrol car. I recognized the patrol officer but couldn’t think of his name as he waved to me. After a dozen steps, I stopped for a moment. I sucked in a deep breath like a free diver attempting a hundred-foot dive. Then I listened to the sounds of the city just waking up. I never know how frantic my life might become as soon as I dive into a homicide investigation. I like to savor my last moments of relative calm.

I noticed half a dozen reporters and three cameramen hovering near the entrance to the building. A young female patrol officer stood by the door, blocking the media people.

One of the reporters stepped right up to the officer, trying to intimidate her. He said in a loud voice, “I live in the building. I demand you let me in.”

The young cop let a smile slide across her face. She said, “I’m sure you do. In your mind. But I expect it’s more likely you live in a studio somewhere in Queens. I’m just basing that on what reporters at your shitty station are paid.”

I let out a laugh.

Before I got any closer, I heard someone call my name. It was Lois Frang from theBrooklyn Democrat. She had a decent reputation among the cops for honest reporting and being a straight shooter. I knew she’d worked at one of the big newspapers years ago but left under a cloud of some kind. She seemed to get a charge out of racing around the city, writing about some of the more lurid crimes. She also seemed to love working for the small Brooklyn newspaper. Even if the little paper had more ads than articles.

Lois said, “Must be big if they brought you in on this, Detective Bennett.”

“C’mon, Lois, no one’s bringing in anyone. It’s a homicide in Upper Manhattan. If you’ll recall, my assignment is to the Manhattan North Homicide unit. I’d get called no matter the circumstances.”

“Can you give me any insights?” Lois had pulled a small pad from her purse, which looked more like a duffel bag.

“The best insight I can give you is that cannabis stocks might be a good investment.”

“Very funny. Anything about this homicide?”

“Technically, we don’t know it’s a homicide yet. Until I get up there and look around it’s still a death investigation.”

“Cut the shit, Bennett. We all know he was shot at long range. Why do you think everyone’s out here at this ungodly hour? We want to pick up details about the latest victim of the Longshot Killer.”

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