OUT OF CONTROL
By
Sarah Alderson
Chapter 1
The policeman is looking at me, his head tilted to one side, a deep line etched
between his eyebrows. He taps his pen in a slow staccato rhythm on the edge of
the desk. ‘What were you doing on the roof?’ he asks.
I take a breath and try to unknot my cramping fingers, which are stuffed in
the front pocket of the NYPD sweater I’m wearing. ‘I was just getting some air,’ I
say. I sound like an automaton; my voice is toneless, lost. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
The policeman’s eyebrows rise. He scribbles something on his pad then
glances up, catching sight of someone or something behind me. He stands
quickly, tossing his pen on to the paper-strewn desk. ‘I'm going to get a coffee,’
he says, grabbing a mug from among the mess. ‘Can I get you anything?’
I shake my head and watch him walk away, scratching the back of his
neck. He stops on the other side of the room to talk to another detective, wearing
a jacket emblazoned with the word FORENSICS. They glance over at me as they
talk. I turn away and stare at the wall. I know what they’re saying. They’re saying
that I’m a lucky girl. That the fact that I’m alive is ‘a miracle’.
But if this is a miracle then I don’t think I want to know what kind of god
these people believe in. A shadow falls over me. I jerk around. The other
detective, the one in the forensics jacket, stands in front of me. My eyes fall to
the heavy-looking gun in the holster attached to his hip. I recognise it. It’s a Glock
19.
‘Hi Olivia, I’m Detective Owens. Do you mind?’ he asks, indicating the
empty chair beside me.
I shake my head and he pulls out the seat and sits down heavily, as
though the weight of a thousand dead bodies is piled on his shoulders. His shirt
is as heavily creased as his face. He rubs a hand over his eyes. He has saggy
grey bags under them but, now he’s closer, I can see he’s not as old as I first
thought; maybe thirty-five, with dark brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble.
‘So, what I’d like for you to do,’ he says in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘is to
walk me through what happened this evening.’
I grit my teeth. I’ve already done this. I’ve been through it three times;
once with the cop who answered the emergency call, and twice here at the
station.
‘Just one more time,’ Detective Owens says apologetically, trying for a
smile. ‘I know you’re tired, I know you’ve been through a lot, but we really need
your help, Olivia. You’re the only witness. If there’s anything you remember –
even if it seems like something trivial, we need to hear it. It might be the clue that
helps us find the people who did this.’ He pauses. ‘Because, if I can be honest
with you, there’s not a whole lot to go on right now.’
I nod OK.
‘So . . . you get out of bed. What time is it?’ he asks.
I frown. ‘Around one I think.’
‘Can you be any more precise?’
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture the room. There was a clock on
the bedside table. I glanced at it when I turned the light out. It was just after
midnight. I tossed and turned for at least an hour before I decided to give up on
sleep, but I didn’t check the exact time.
I shake my head at the detective.
‘Why’d you get up? Did you hear something? A noise in the house? Did
something spook you?’
‘No,’ I say, still shaking my head. ‘I’ve not been sleeping very well. I have
jet lag.’
‘Lucky for you, huh?’
I don’t answer. I just fix him with a stare. He holds my gaze for a second
and then looks away, down at the notebook cradled in his palm.
‘So you get up. Then what?’ the detective asks.
I close my eyes and try to remember . . .
I cross to the window. It’s sweltering hot, the night air torpid and thick as a quilt,
threatening to storm. I’m wearing only a pair of pyjama shorts and a thin camisole
top – the same things I’m still wearing now beneath the oversized sweater they
gave me at the police station. The house seems to be breathing. There’s a clock
ticking downstairs by the front door, the hum of an air conditioner, the ticking tink
of the plumbing and the occasional sound of a car sweeping past on the street in
front. Away in the distance a car alarm wails. My third-floor bedroom faces the
back garden, a thin band of manicured green, walls stretching high on either side,
trees blocking the view of neighbouring brownstones. Beneath my window is a
jutting ledge, just wide enough for a foothold.
I don’t think twice before I’m crouched in the window frame, my hands
gripping the wooden sill, my bare feet slipping through and finding purchase on
the crumbling brickwork. I take a deep breath, flattening my palms against the
walls, feeling the familiar tightening in my belly, the rush that feels like stars
shooting through my veins. I don’t look down at the ground four storeys below. I
look up, at the moon, a dishwater-dirty half-circle shrouded behind cloud, and
feel every cell in my body spark to life.
‘Keep going,’ Detective Owens says. ‘What happens next?’ he asks.
I edge slowly along the windowsill, carefully, towards a drainpipe screwed into
the wall. When I reach it I grasp it in both hands and then start shimmying up it,
using the brackets as footholds. It’s not as high as some I’ve climbed – maybe
ten feet before I reach the roof and scramble on to it, breathless, my legs
trembling slightly. I stand, wiping off the dust and dirt from my hands on my
shorts and then I balance on the very lip of the roof, my toes disappearing over
the edge, feeling the first patter of rain dance on my bare arms. I stare at the tops
of trees ink-stamped across the sky, at the water-stained clouds, and the thought
whispers through my mind that I’m insane, that if I fell from this height I’d die for
sure . . . but then the thought is swept away by a wave of pure adrenaline. I feel
light as air, perfectly poised. There’s no way I could ever fall.
And then I hear the tinkle of glass breaking somewhere far below.
My arms whirl frantically as I fight to keep my balance. I tumble backwards
on to the roof and crouch down low, my hands white-knuckled as they grip the
ledge. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself angrily that it’s just breaking glass,
that I’m stupid and just overreacting, and I’m forcing myself to my feet ready to
go and investigate when a thud comes from somewhere deep inside the house.
My stomach folds tight, all my instincts, everything I’ve ever learned from
my father and from Felix coming into play: Steady your breathing, don’t succumb
to panic, consider your options.
Maybe, I think to myself, Mrs Goldman woke in the night and spilled a
glass of water. Maybe one of them has fallen out of bed. They’re old. It’s possible.
I’m jumping to conclusions that it’s something bad. I’m in New York, for God’s
sake. It’s safe here. Safer, at any rate. I throw a leg over the ledge and reach for
the drainpipe, readying myself to shimmy down so I can go and investigate, and
just then I hear two muffled retorts. I freeze. I know that sound. I hear it in my
dreams. I force my leg back over the wall and I cower behind the ledge up on the
roof, wrapping my hands around my head, blocking my ears and shutting out the
sounds that follow, until, what feels like hours later, a police siren shatters the
night air.
Chapter 2
Detective Owens writes it all down in his little notepad.
‘So you didn’t see who it was that entered the property?’ he asks.
I sigh. Does he not think I would have told them already if I’d seen
anything? ‘No,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Like I said, I was up on the roof.’
Detective Owens leans back in his chair, chewing on his bottom lip. ‘
‘Why would someone do this?’ I finally ask, swallowing the lump in my
throat. ‘Was it a robbery?’
He glances at me. ‘Nothing was taken, far as we can tell. From the looks
of it, it was a professional hit job.’
I blink at him in shock, trying to block out the image of the black zippered
bags being carried out the house on metal gurneys. ‘Why would anyone want to
kill them?’ I ask.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, Olivia. Mr Goldman was a lawyer,
prosecuted a lot of criminals. Maybe someone bore a grudge.’
He hands me a tissue and for a moment I stare at it wondering why he’s
offering it to me, then I become aware of the tears sliding down my cheeks. I
wipe my face. How can they be dead? Just a few hours ago we were all having
supper together around their mahogany dining table. Mrs Goldman had made
Parmesan chicken. Mr Goldman drank several glasses of wine before heading
back to his study to finish some work. They’d been quizzing me about my final
year of school and my plans for going on to study dance. And now they were
dead. How was that possible?
My mind jumps ahead, another thought surfacing. If I’d been in bed, would
the killer have shot me too? If I hadn’t been on the roof, if I hadn’t had jet lag, if I
didn’t suffer from insomnia . . . I could be dead right now. That was a lot of ifs to
bet a life on.
‘Why were you staying with Mr and Mrs Goldman?’
I look up at Detective Owens. ‘They’re friends of my father’s. I mean, they
were friends of my father’s.’ The lump in my throat expands, threatening to choke
me.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he mumbles.
‘I didn’t really know them all that well,’ I say. ‘I was only meant to stay with
them a few days, until my dad got back.’ I’m rambling, trying to block out the
image of the bloodstained headboard and the crimson streaks all over the bed
sheets.
‘Your father is Daniel Harvey,’ Detective Owens asks, ‘is that right?’
I nod. He appraises me in what seems like something of a new light.
‘And he’s currently out the country?’
‘He’s away on business. I told your colleague. I think they’re trying to
contact him now.’ I glance around. There are several other detectives and police
officers in the room, all of them busy. The phones haven’t stopped ringing all
night. A blackboard on one wall is covered in chalk markings. At the top it reads
HOMICIDE in block letters. There are over a dozen cases listed and beside only
three are scrawled the words CASE CLOSED. I watch someone write
GOLDMAN in small neat letters in the final row.
’Where’s your father on business?’
I try to focus on the questions. ‘Nigeria. He’s working for the government.
He’s the head of the GRATS Task Force.’
Detective Owens smiles reassuringly at me, ‘What about your mother?
Have you tried calling her?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know her number. It’s on my cell, which is back
at the house.’
‘Where does your mom live? We can send a patrol car over so she can
come and collect you.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible. She lives in Oman.’
‘Oman?’ he asks, his eyebrows shooting up to meet his hairline.
‘It’s in the Middle East.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I knew that,’ he answers quickly. ‘So, both your parents are
out of the country and currently incommunicado. Any other next of kin we can
contact? You’re a minor. If we can’t find any next of kin we’ll have to contact child
services.’
‘No,’ I say, suddenly alert. Child services? ‘I’m almost eighteen,’ I argue.
‘I’ll be fine on my own. I can go to my dad’s apartment. It’s on the Upper East
Side. I know the doorman. He’ll let me in.’
Detective Owens shakes his head grimly at me. ‘Sorry. Rules are rules.’
He stands up. ‘Have a think if there’s anyone you can call to come and get you.
I’ll go check in with the crime scene folk, see if we can have one of them bring a
few of your things over to the precinct.’
‘OK,’ I nod dumbly. I sink back into my chair as he wanders off and try to
think of someone who I can call to come and collect me, but I can’t think of a
single person. I’ve only been in New York for a week. The only people I knew
were the Goldmans. I suddenly feel like resting my head on the desk and crying.
I want my dad. I want this nightmare to be over.
Chapter 3
‘Excuse me.’
A burly policeman with an enormous gut is trying to edge past the desk I’m
sitting at. He’s got his hand firmly locked around the arm of a boy wearing a dark
hooded sweater and jeans, who looks barely older than me. I edge over in my
seat to allow them to pass and turn to watch as the cop shoves the boy into a
chair just a few feet away from me. The boy’s jaw works angrily, his eyes dart
once around the room, taking me in with a narrowed look of suspicion before the
cop barks something at him that gets his attention. It’s only then that I notice the
handcuffs. He hunches over, almost as if he’s trying to hide them from me. I stare
at him more closely, wondering what he’s been brought in for. Then I remember
we’re sitting in the homicide department.
‘Name,’ the cop demands.
‘Jaime Moreno,’ he answers quietly, spelling it out. He says it with a slight
Spanish inflection so it sounds like Hay-may. As the policeman writes it down,
the boy looks over at me briefly and I see something flash in his eyes – pride or
anger, I can’t tell which. Maybe it’s both.
‘You’ve been read your rights,’ the cop says now. ‘You got one phone call,
Moreno. If I were you I’d use it to call your momma and tell her you ain’t gonna
be home for a while.’ He stretches, reaches for a pencil. ‘You know, you could
make this go a whole lot easier if you started talking.’
I watch the boy carefully. His face is turned in profile to me. His chin is
lowered and he glowers at the cop through the shield of his lashes but doesn’t
say a word.
The cop leans back in his seat. ‘Fine by me, if you don’t talk,’ he says,
undoing the top button of his shirt. ‘No sweat off my sack. I’m not the one who’s
facing twenty-five years in a New York State penitentiary. Maybe I wouldn’t be
talking either in your shoes. Those some crazy mofos you messing up with. Hell,
I’d probably be too busy shitting my pants too if I was the one sitting where you
are right now.’ He pushes back from the desk, freeing his belly, stands up and
stretches. ‘I’ll just go and see if a cell’s opened up.’
Once he’s gone, the boy stays sitting there, his shoulders slightly
hunched, his jaw working overtime. His lips are pressed together tightly and his
hands are clenched in his lap as if he’s praying. I almost feel sorry for him. Then I
see the board of open murder cases on the wall in front of me and my sympathy
magically evaporates. I hope if this boy’s guilty they lock him up and throw away
the key.
I sit with my back to the boy, my foot tapping, waiting for Detective Owens
to return. By the clock on the wall it’s nearly five a.m. I’ve been here three hours,
but I’m hoping the detective takes his time as I haven’t yet thought of anyone I
can call, and I’m still wracking my brains when I hear: ‘Pssst.’
I don’t turn around.
‘Pssst. Hey.’
I do a quick scan but the three cops left in the room are all busy and I can’t
catch anyone’s eye.
‘Please.’
I turn fractionally towards the boy behind me who’s trying to get my
attention. ‘What?’ I ask.
His eyes flit across the room before landing back on me. He keeps his
voice low as he bends forwards. ‘I need a favour.’
I raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief. What makes him think I’m about to
do him a favour? He’s a stranger. And he’s wearing handcuffs.
As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking – which admittedly, given the look
I’m fixing him with, wouldn’t be hard to guess – he raises his own eyebrows right
back at me. ‘What happened to innocent till proven guilty?’
I frown at him. He has me there. But still, there’s the fact he’s a stranger
and I have a feeling that whatever kind of favour he’s going to ask me it’s not
going to be legal.
‘You get to walk out of here. I don’t. I’m not going to make bail,’ he says.
I ponder this for a second. ‘How do you know,’ I finally say, ‘that I’ve not
just been charged with a triple homicide?’
His eyes – a bewildering dark green – light up with amusement. He holds
up his bound wrists and then nods at my free hands. ‘And besides,’ he says, ‘you
don’t really fit the profile. You’re wearing a snazzy NYPD sweater. They don’t
usually hand those out to murder suspects.’
I hold his gaze for a few seconds. His eyes burn into mine – pleading.
‘Listen, all I’m asking is that when you walk out of here you call someone for me,’
he says.
‘Why on earth would I do that?’ I ask, incredulous.
He considers me for a beat then sits back in his seat. ‘Because you look
like you got heart.’
I stare at him blankly. Heart? What’s that supposed to mean? ‘You get one
call, remember?’ I say.
‘I need that for someone else,’ he mumbles.
‘Too bad,’ I answer with a shrug.
‘Please,’ he begs, and I catch the waver in his voice and realise this is
hard for him to ask. That flare in his eyes – it’s pride, not anger. ‘I don’t want my
mom to worry,’ he says.
That gets my attention. ‘Your mother? You want me to call your mother?’ I
ask, somewhat sceptically.
He looks at me abashed, colour running into his cheeks. ‘I just . . . I want
her to know that I’m OK. And that I’m sorry,’ he adds.
I flinch back in my seat. Sorry? Isn’t that as much an admission of guilt as
waving a bloodied knife in my face? He scowls at me instantly, seeing my
reaction.
‘How do I know that you’re not just getting me to call one of your friends to
pass on some kind of message?’ I ask. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
The scowl vanishes. His expression turns deadly serious. ‘I give you my
word. I just want you to call my mom.’
I study him. He looks genuine. I’d go so far as to say desperate in fact. But
he’s a stranger. And as a rule I don’t break rules. If you discount climbing on to
roofs. Not even for friends. I learned the hard way. I glance over my shoulder at
the far door which Detective Owens disappeared through, hoping he’ll reappear
and give me a get-out clause.
‘If you do this for me,’ the boy says, leaning forwards, his hands clasped
together, ‘I will pay you back.’
‘When?’ I fire back. ‘In twenty-five years?’
He winces and sits up tall in his seat, and I immediately regret my
sarcasm. I take a deep breath. Would it really hurt to do this? But before I can
decide, the boy is out of his seat. He throws a quick glance around the room and
then he’s standing in front of me, pressing something into my hand. ‘Please,’ he
says, staring down at me, his expression begging.
I am too startled to do anything but stare up at him.
‘OK,’ I say quietly, kicking myself mentally as soon as the word is past my
lips.
He drops my hand and gives me a grateful nod, the relief rolling off him in
a wave that makes his whole body sag.
‘Moreno!’
The boy is back in his seat, wearing a smoothly innocent expression, by
the time the cop lumbers over to us. ‘He bothering you?’ he asks me.
I shake my head, my fingers closing around the small scrap of paper in my
palm.
‘Leave the pretty lady alone,’ the cop says with a growl. He unsnaps one
of the boy’s cuffs and locks it instead around the leg of the desk, which is bolted
to the floor. ‘And stay put,’ he tells him gruffly.
Chapter 4
The cop walks past me and the piece of paper scalds my palm. There’s a waste
paper basket right by my foot. I could easily toss it in and turn my back on the
boy. I know I should do this. But for some reason, possibly to do with the fact he
looked so relieved when I said I’d do it, I don’t. Instead, I slip the scrap of paper
into the front pocket of the sweater I’m wearing and then I stand up. I tell myself I
am going to find Detective Owens before this boy tries to get me to do anything
else for him. But really, it’s because I can feel his gaze burning the back of my
neck and it’s making me feel tense, like I’m sitting on an anthill.
I manage two steps before a gunshot from somewhere in the building jolts
me straight back into my seat. For a split second everyone in the room freezes,
all heads turned towards the door. And then three, four, five more shots ring out
in succession and the sound of screaming bursts through the walls; bloodcurdling
screams, screams that are cut terrifyingly short by another round of gunfire, this
time closer.
The three cops in the room go running past me in a blur, all heading for
the door. The first two pile out into the corridor, guns already in their hands,
shouting commands to each other. The third – the one who just cuffed the boy to
the desk hovers in the doorway. He looks over his shoulder. ‘Stay here. Don’t
move,’ he shouts at us, clearly forgetting that he just cuffed one of us to a desk,
and then he takes an uncertain step out into the corridor, following his colleagues.
He is blown instantly backwards, the force of the bullet throwing him
several feet across the room. Gunfire detonates all around. But I don’t notice. I’m
just staring at the body of the cop, lying on the floor not fifteen feet from me, his
face no longer recognisable as a face, just a crater foaming with red, with shards
of white poking out of it.
Everything funnels in that moment; the world reducing to a shattering hum
and the completely unreal image of this cop dead at my feet. And then, as if I’m
the epicentre of a bomb, reality explodes around me, everything sharpening,
noise and heat rushing back in as though filling a vacuum. I become aware of
someone yelling at me.
‘Get these off!’
I turn slowly. The air feels suddenly dense as tar, as though I’m wading
through it. The boy is shouting at me. He’s standing up, straining against the cuff
that holds him to the desk, the muscles in his neck are so taut they look like
they’re about to burst through his skin, and for a moment that’s all I can focus on.
‘Keys! Grab the keys!’ he yells. He’s pointing with his free hand in the
direction of the dead cop.
For a few seconds I sit there unmoving. I cannot move. Then his shouts
manage to break through my daze.
‘They’re in his pocket!’
I tumble out of my chair to my knees and start crawling towards the body,
ducking automatically as bullets roar over my head. The glass above the door
explodes, shards flying like daggers. On the far side of the room a police radio
crackles to life. A disembodied voice on the other end cries for help before a
storm of static drowns it out.
I reach the cop and my hand hovers in mid-air as I stare down at the mass
of red and grey pulp where a head should be. Oh God, my body starts to shake,
nausea rising in a solid block up my throat, hysteria gaining a foothold in my
brain. I breathe through my mouth and force myself to focus. Which pocket?
‘Hurry!’
The boy’s voice punches through the panic and my brain suddenly throws
a switch. It stops computing. Somehow I stop seeing the blood and the gore. I no
longer feel the sticky wet warmth beneath my bare knees. I stop noticing the
bullets. All I can hear is the gallop of my pulse thundering in my ears and Felix in
my head ordering me to stay calm.
Without thinking, I shove my hand deep into the front pocket of the cop’s
trousers and find the key. I tug it out and crawl as fast as I can back to the boy
through the carpet of broken glass which now litters the ground between desks.
The boy snatches the key from my outstretched hand and jams it into the tiny
hole. The cuff springs apart, freeing him.
Instantly, he throws himself on top of me. ‘Get down!’
A bullet smacks itself into a filing cabinet just behind us as we tumble to
the ground. His chest presses down on mine, my face is buried in his shoulder.
Quickly he rolls off me and pushes me towards a desk. I scoot underneath it,
banging the side of my head on the sharp metal corner of a drawer unit. I let out
a cry.
‘Shhh.’ His hand clamps over my mouth.
I tug his arm away. ‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’ I whisper.
Before he can answer me, the shooting stops and a silence falls that is
even more terrifying than the gunfire. The boy and I both freeze, staring at each
other unblinking, just a few millimetres between us. Together, enclosed in the
tight space beneath the desk, we strain to listen, and over the radio static and the
whir of the air conditioner overhead, I pick out faint cries coming from somewhere
in the distance; the unnatural keening howl of a wounded animal.
The boy shifts his weight. His back is pressed to one cabinet, his feet to
the drawer unit. Carefully, he peers around the edge of the desk then ducks
quickly back, breathing fast. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.
‘Shit,’ he murmurs, resting his head back against the cabinet and closing
his eyes.
‘Wh— ’ I begin, but stop when I hear the sly creak of the door being
pushed open. A boot crunches on glass. The boy’s eyes flash open and lock on
mine, holding me in place, silencing the scream that has risen up my throat and
is threatening to tear free. My legs begin to shake from holding still in a crouching
position. The boy’s right hand squeezes my knee hard – another warning, his
eyes wide and burning fiercely into mine, telling me: Do not move.
Something topples off a desk on the far side of the room and, over the
boy’s shoulder, through a gap between two filing cabinets, I glimpse the back of a
man’s leg. Whose? Is it a cop? Where is everyone else? What happened to the
cops who ran out into the corridor?
No. I shut off the thought, not wanting to go there.
The man in the room is standing stock-still with his back to us. What is he
doing? I can’t see. He’s facing the wall – the chalkboard with all the homicide
cases listed on it. The seconds seem to extend into whole hours, days, centuries,
and I’m holding my breath and the boy’s hand is still squeezing my knee and my
heart is bursting, literally bursting, as though too much blood is pumping through
it. My leg muscles are on fire and, without warning, my foot slips. Not far. But it
bumps the edge of the desk. The man spins instantly in our direction. The air
rushes from my lungs and the boy shifts beside me, a single word that I don’t
catch, falling from his lips like a dying man’s prayer.
The man starts to head in our direction, is almost on us, when someone
somewhere else in the building shouts something that’s instantly swallowed in a
storm of gunfire and the man rushes out into the corridor.
The boy darts his head out and then he’s out from under the desk and
reaching for me.
‘Move!’ he says, pulling me to my feet.
I glance around, holding on to the desk for balance. The room seems to
spin and dip as though it’s a fairground ride.
‘We gotta go now!’ the boy says, dragging me towards the door.
I dig my heels in, my grip tightening on the corner of the desk. The boy
yanks on my arm, ‘Come on!’
I shake my head at him. ‘This way,’ I say, pulling my hand free from his
and heading for a glazed door at the other end of the room; the way Detective
Owens went. The boy glances once over his shoulder towards the corridor and
then hurries after me. I weave between the desks, feeling adrenaline finally
cranking through my system, erasing all other thoughts from my mind except for
one: RUN!
By
Sarah Alderson
Chapter 1
The policeman is looking at me, his head tilted to one side, a deep line etched
between his eyebrows. He taps his pen in a slow staccato rhythm on the edge of
the desk. ‘What were you doing on the roof?’ he asks.
I take a breath and try to unknot my cramping fingers, which are stuffed in
the front pocket of the NYPD sweater I’m wearing. ‘I was just getting some air,’ I
say. I sound like an automaton; my voice is toneless, lost. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
The policeman’s eyebrows rise. He scribbles something on his pad then
glances up, catching sight of someone or something behind me. He stands
quickly, tossing his pen on to the paper-strewn desk. ‘I'm going to get a coffee,’
he says, grabbing a mug from among the mess. ‘Can I get you anything?’
I shake my head and watch him walk away, scratching the back of his
neck. He stops on the other side of the room to talk to another detective, wearing
a jacket emblazoned with the word FORENSICS. They glance over at me as they
talk. I turn away and stare at the wall. I know what they’re saying. They’re saying
that I’m a lucky girl. That the fact that I’m alive is ‘a miracle’.
But if this is a miracle then I don’t think I want to know what kind of god
these people believe in. A shadow falls over me. I jerk around. The other
detective, the one in the forensics jacket, stands in front of me. My eyes fall to
the heavy-looking gun in the holster attached to his hip. I recognise it. It’s a Glock
19.
‘Hi Olivia, I’m Detective Owens. Do you mind?’ he asks, indicating the
empty chair beside me.
I shake my head and he pulls out the seat and sits down heavily, as
though the weight of a thousand dead bodies is piled on his shoulders. His shirt
is as heavily creased as his face. He rubs a hand over his eyes. He has saggy
grey bags under them but, now he’s closer, I can see he’s not as old as I first
thought; maybe thirty-five, with dark brown hair and a day’s worth of stubble.
‘So, what I’d like for you to do,’ he says in a heavy Brooklyn accent, ‘is to
walk me through what happened this evening.’
I grit my teeth. I’ve already done this. I’ve been through it three times;
once with the cop who answered the emergency call, and twice here at the
station.
‘Just one more time,’ Detective Owens says apologetically, trying for a
smile. ‘I know you’re tired, I know you’ve been through a lot, but we really need
your help, Olivia. You’re the only witness. If there’s anything you remember –
even if it seems like something trivial, we need to hear it. It might be the clue that
helps us find the people who did this.’ He pauses. ‘Because, if I can be honest
with you, there’s not a whole lot to go on right now.’
I nod OK.
‘So . . . you get out of bed. What time is it?’ he asks.
I frown. ‘Around one I think.’
‘Can you be any more precise?’
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to picture the room. There was a clock on
the bedside table. I glanced at it when I turned the light out. It was just after
midnight. I tossed and turned for at least an hour before I decided to give up on
sleep, but I didn’t check the exact time.
I shake my head at the detective.
‘Why’d you get up? Did you hear something? A noise in the house? Did
something spook you?’
‘No,’ I say, still shaking my head. ‘I’ve not been sleeping very well. I have
jet lag.’
‘Lucky for you, huh?’
I don’t answer. I just fix him with a stare. He holds my gaze for a second
and then looks away, down at the notebook cradled in his palm.
‘So you get up. Then what?’ the detective asks.
I close my eyes and try to remember . . .
I cross to the window. It’s sweltering hot, the night air torpid and thick as a quilt,
threatening to storm. I’m wearing only a pair of pyjama shorts and a thin camisole
top – the same things I’m still wearing now beneath the oversized sweater they
gave me at the police station. The house seems to be breathing. There’s a clock
ticking downstairs by the front door, the hum of an air conditioner, the ticking tink
of the plumbing and the occasional sound of a car sweeping past on the street in
front. Away in the distance a car alarm wails. My third-floor bedroom faces the
back garden, a thin band of manicured green, walls stretching high on either side,
trees blocking the view of neighbouring brownstones. Beneath my window is a
jutting ledge, just wide enough for a foothold.
I don’t think twice before I’m crouched in the window frame, my hands
gripping the wooden sill, my bare feet slipping through and finding purchase on
the crumbling brickwork. I take a deep breath, flattening my palms against the
walls, feeling the familiar tightening in my belly, the rush that feels like stars
shooting through my veins. I don’t look down at the ground four storeys below. I
look up, at the moon, a dishwater-dirty half-circle shrouded behind cloud, and
feel every cell in my body spark to life.
‘Keep going,’ Detective Owens says. ‘What happens next?’ he asks.
I edge slowly along the windowsill, carefully, towards a drainpipe screwed into
the wall. When I reach it I grasp it in both hands and then start shimmying up it,
using the brackets as footholds. It’s not as high as some I’ve climbed – maybe
ten feet before I reach the roof and scramble on to it, breathless, my legs
trembling slightly. I stand, wiping off the dust and dirt from my hands on my
shorts and then I balance on the very lip of the roof, my toes disappearing over
the edge, feeling the first patter of rain dance on my bare arms. I stare at the tops
of trees ink-stamped across the sky, at the water-stained clouds, and the thought
whispers through my mind that I’m insane, that if I fell from this height I’d die for
sure . . . but then the thought is swept away by a wave of pure adrenaline. I feel
light as air, perfectly poised. There’s no way I could ever fall.
And then I hear the tinkle of glass breaking somewhere far below.
My arms whirl frantically as I fight to keep my balance. I tumble backwards
on to the roof and crouch down low, my hands white-knuckled as they grip the
ledge. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself angrily that it’s just breaking glass,
that I’m stupid and just overreacting, and I’m forcing myself to my feet ready to
go and investigate when a thud comes from somewhere deep inside the house.
My stomach folds tight, all my instincts, everything I’ve ever learned from
my father and from Felix coming into play: Steady your breathing, don’t succumb
to panic, consider your options.
Maybe, I think to myself, Mrs Goldman woke in the night and spilled a
glass of water. Maybe one of them has fallen out of bed. They’re old. It’s possible.
I’m jumping to conclusions that it’s something bad. I’m in New York, for God’s
sake. It’s safe here. Safer, at any rate. I throw a leg over the ledge and reach for
the drainpipe, readying myself to shimmy down so I can go and investigate, and
just then I hear two muffled retorts. I freeze. I know that sound. I hear it in my
dreams. I force my leg back over the wall and I cower behind the ledge up on the
roof, wrapping my hands around my head, blocking my ears and shutting out the
sounds that follow, until, what feels like hours later, a police siren shatters the
night air.
Chapter 2
Detective Owens writes it all down in his little notepad.
‘So you didn’t see who it was that entered the property?’ he asks.
I sigh. Does he not think I would have told them already if I’d seen
anything? ‘No,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Like I said, I was up on the roof.’
Detective Owens leans back in his chair, chewing on his bottom lip. ‘
‘Why would someone do this?’ I finally ask, swallowing the lump in my
throat. ‘Was it a robbery?’
He glances at me. ‘Nothing was taken, far as we can tell. From the looks
of it, it was a professional hit job.’
I blink at him in shock, trying to block out the image of the black zippered
bags being carried out the house on metal gurneys. ‘Why would anyone want to
kill them?’ I ask.
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out, Olivia. Mr Goldman was a lawyer,
prosecuted a lot of criminals. Maybe someone bore a grudge.’
He hands me a tissue and for a moment I stare at it wondering why he’s
offering it to me, then I become aware of the tears sliding down my cheeks. I
wipe my face. How can they be dead? Just a few hours ago we were all having
supper together around their mahogany dining table. Mrs Goldman had made
Parmesan chicken. Mr Goldman drank several glasses of wine before heading
back to his study to finish some work. They’d been quizzing me about my final
year of school and my plans for going on to study dance. And now they were
dead. How was that possible?
My mind jumps ahead, another thought surfacing. If I’d been in bed, would
the killer have shot me too? If I hadn’t been on the roof, if I hadn’t had jet lag, if I
didn’t suffer from insomnia . . . I could be dead right now. That was a lot of ifs to
bet a life on.
‘Why were you staying with Mr and Mrs Goldman?’
I look up at Detective Owens. ‘They’re friends of my father’s. I mean, they
were friends of my father’s.’ The lump in my throat expands, threatening to choke
me.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he mumbles.
‘I didn’t really know them all that well,’ I say. ‘I was only meant to stay with
them a few days, until my dad got back.’ I’m rambling, trying to block out the
image of the bloodstained headboard and the crimson streaks all over the bed
sheets.
‘Your father is Daniel Harvey,’ Detective Owens asks, ‘is that right?’
I nod. He appraises me in what seems like something of a new light.
‘And he’s currently out the country?’
‘He’s away on business. I told your colleague. I think they’re trying to
contact him now.’ I glance around. There are several other detectives and police
officers in the room, all of them busy. The phones haven’t stopped ringing all
night. A blackboard on one wall is covered in chalk markings. At the top it reads
HOMICIDE in block letters. There are over a dozen cases listed and beside only
three are scrawled the words CASE CLOSED. I watch someone write
GOLDMAN in small neat letters in the final row.
’Where’s your father on business?’
I try to focus on the questions. ‘Nigeria. He’s working for the government.
He’s the head of the GRATS Task Force.’
Detective Owens smiles reassuringly at me, ‘What about your mother?
Have you tried calling her?’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know her number. It’s on my cell, which is back
at the house.’
‘Where does your mom live? We can send a patrol car over so she can
come and collect you.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible. She lives in Oman.’
‘Oman?’ he asks, his eyebrows shooting up to meet his hairline.
‘It’s in the Middle East.’
‘Yeah, yeah. I knew that,’ he answers quickly. ‘So, both your parents are
out of the country and currently incommunicado. Any other next of kin we can
contact? You’re a minor. If we can’t find any next of kin we’ll have to contact child
services.’
‘No,’ I say, suddenly alert. Child services? ‘I’m almost eighteen,’ I argue.
‘I’ll be fine on my own. I can go to my dad’s apartment. It’s on the Upper East
Side. I know the doorman. He’ll let me in.’
Detective Owens shakes his head grimly at me. ‘Sorry. Rules are rules.’
He stands up. ‘Have a think if there’s anyone you can call to come and get you.
I’ll go check in with the crime scene folk, see if we can have one of them bring a
few of your things over to the precinct.’
‘OK,’ I nod dumbly. I sink back into my chair as he wanders off and try to
think of someone who I can call to come and collect me, but I can’t think of a
single person. I’ve only been in New York for a week. The only people I knew
were the Goldmans. I suddenly feel like resting my head on the desk and crying.
I want my dad. I want this nightmare to be over.
Chapter 3
‘Excuse me.’
A burly policeman with an enormous gut is trying to edge past the desk I’m
sitting at. He’s got his hand firmly locked around the arm of a boy wearing a dark
hooded sweater and jeans, who looks barely older than me. I edge over in my
seat to allow them to pass and turn to watch as the cop shoves the boy into a
chair just a few feet away from me. The boy’s jaw works angrily, his eyes dart
once around the room, taking me in with a narrowed look of suspicion before the
cop barks something at him that gets his attention. It’s only then that I notice the
handcuffs. He hunches over, almost as if he’s trying to hide them from me. I stare
at him more closely, wondering what he’s been brought in for. Then I remember
we’re sitting in the homicide department.
‘Name,’ the cop demands.
‘Jaime Moreno,’ he answers quietly, spelling it out. He says it with a slight
Spanish inflection so it sounds like Hay-may. As the policeman writes it down,
the boy looks over at me briefly and I see something flash in his eyes – pride or
anger, I can’t tell which. Maybe it’s both.
‘You’ve been read your rights,’ the cop says now. ‘You got one phone call,
Moreno. If I were you I’d use it to call your momma and tell her you ain’t gonna
be home for a while.’ He stretches, reaches for a pencil. ‘You know, you could
make this go a whole lot easier if you started talking.’
I watch the boy carefully. His face is turned in profile to me. His chin is
lowered and he glowers at the cop through the shield of his lashes but doesn’t
say a word.
The cop leans back in his seat. ‘Fine by me, if you don’t talk,’ he says,
undoing the top button of his shirt. ‘No sweat off my sack. I’m not the one who’s
facing twenty-five years in a New York State penitentiary. Maybe I wouldn’t be
talking either in your shoes. Those some crazy mofos you messing up with. Hell,
I’d probably be too busy shitting my pants too if I was the one sitting where you
are right now.’ He pushes back from the desk, freeing his belly, stands up and
stretches. ‘I’ll just go and see if a cell’s opened up.’
Once he’s gone, the boy stays sitting there, his shoulders slightly
hunched, his jaw working overtime. His lips are pressed together tightly and his
hands are clenched in his lap as if he’s praying. I almost feel sorry for him. Then I
see the board of open murder cases on the wall in front of me and my sympathy
magically evaporates. I hope if this boy’s guilty they lock him up and throw away
the key.
I sit with my back to the boy, my foot tapping, waiting for Detective Owens
to return. By the clock on the wall it’s nearly five a.m. I’ve been here three hours,
but I’m hoping the detective takes his time as I haven’t yet thought of anyone I
can call, and I’m still wracking my brains when I hear: ‘Pssst.’
I don’t turn around.
‘Pssst. Hey.’
I do a quick scan but the three cops left in the room are all busy and I can’t
catch anyone’s eye.
‘Please.’
I turn fractionally towards the boy behind me who’s trying to get my
attention. ‘What?’ I ask.
His eyes flit across the room before landing back on me. He keeps his
voice low as he bends forwards. ‘I need a favour.’
I raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief. What makes him think I’m about to
do him a favour? He’s a stranger. And he’s wearing handcuffs.
As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking – which admittedly, given the look
I’m fixing him with, wouldn’t be hard to guess – he raises his own eyebrows right
back at me. ‘What happened to innocent till proven guilty?’
I frown at him. He has me there. But still, there’s the fact he’s a stranger
and I have a feeling that whatever kind of favour he’s going to ask me it’s not
going to be legal.
‘You get to walk out of here. I don’t. I’m not going to make bail,’ he says.
I ponder this for a second. ‘How do you know,’ I finally say, ‘that I’ve not
just been charged with a triple homicide?’
His eyes – a bewildering dark green – light up with amusement. He holds
up his bound wrists and then nods at my free hands. ‘And besides,’ he says, ‘you
don’t really fit the profile. You’re wearing a snazzy NYPD sweater. They don’t
usually hand those out to murder suspects.’
I hold his gaze for a few seconds. His eyes burn into mine – pleading.
‘Listen, all I’m asking is that when you walk out of here you call someone for me,’
he says.
‘Why on earth would I do that?’ I ask, incredulous.
He considers me for a beat then sits back in his seat. ‘Because you look
like you got heart.’
I stare at him blankly. Heart? What’s that supposed to mean? ‘You get one
call, remember?’ I say.
‘I need that for someone else,’ he mumbles.
‘Too bad,’ I answer with a shrug.
‘Please,’ he begs, and I catch the waver in his voice and realise this is
hard for him to ask. That flare in his eyes – it’s pride, not anger. ‘I don’t want my
mom to worry,’ he says.
That gets my attention. ‘Your mother? You want me to call your mother?’ I
ask, somewhat sceptically.
He looks at me abashed, colour running into his cheeks. ‘I just . . . I want
her to know that I’m OK. And that I’m sorry,’ he adds.
I flinch back in my seat. Sorry? Isn’t that as much an admission of guilt as
waving a bloodied knife in my face? He scowls at me instantly, seeing my
reaction.
‘How do I know that you’re not just getting me to call one of your friends to
pass on some kind of message?’ I ask. ‘I’m not an idiot.’
The scowl vanishes. His expression turns deadly serious. ‘I give you my
word. I just want you to call my mom.’
I study him. He looks genuine. I’d go so far as to say desperate in fact. But
he’s a stranger. And as a rule I don’t break rules. If you discount climbing on to
roofs. Not even for friends. I learned the hard way. I glance over my shoulder at
the far door which Detective Owens disappeared through, hoping he’ll reappear
and give me a get-out clause.
‘If you do this for me,’ the boy says, leaning forwards, his hands clasped
together, ‘I will pay you back.’
‘When?’ I fire back. ‘In twenty-five years?’
He winces and sits up tall in his seat, and I immediately regret my
sarcasm. I take a deep breath. Would it really hurt to do this? But before I can
decide, the boy is out of his seat. He throws a quick glance around the room and
then he’s standing in front of me, pressing something into my hand. ‘Please,’ he
says, staring down at me, his expression begging.
I am too startled to do anything but stare up at him.
‘OK,’ I say quietly, kicking myself mentally as soon as the word is past my
lips.
He drops my hand and gives me a grateful nod, the relief rolling off him in
a wave that makes his whole body sag.
‘Moreno!’
The boy is back in his seat, wearing a smoothly innocent expression, by
the time the cop lumbers over to us. ‘He bothering you?’ he asks me.
I shake my head, my fingers closing around the small scrap of paper in my
palm.
‘Leave the pretty lady alone,’ the cop says with a growl. He unsnaps one
of the boy’s cuffs and locks it instead around the leg of the desk, which is bolted
to the floor. ‘And stay put,’ he tells him gruffly.
Chapter 4
The cop walks past me and the piece of paper scalds my palm. There’s a waste
paper basket right by my foot. I could easily toss it in and turn my back on the
boy. I know I should do this. But for some reason, possibly to do with the fact he
looked so relieved when I said I’d do it, I don’t. Instead, I slip the scrap of paper
into the front pocket of the sweater I’m wearing and then I stand up. I tell myself I
am going to find Detective Owens before this boy tries to get me to do anything
else for him. But really, it’s because I can feel his gaze burning the back of my
neck and it’s making me feel tense, like I’m sitting on an anthill.
I manage two steps before a gunshot from somewhere in the building jolts
me straight back into my seat. For a split second everyone in the room freezes,
all heads turned towards the door. And then three, four, five more shots ring out
in succession and the sound of screaming bursts through the walls; bloodcurdling
screams, screams that are cut terrifyingly short by another round of gunfire, this
time closer.
The three cops in the room go running past me in a blur, all heading for
the door. The first two pile out into the corridor, guns already in their hands,
shouting commands to each other. The third – the one who just cuffed the boy to
the desk hovers in the doorway. He looks over his shoulder. ‘Stay here. Don’t
move,’ he shouts at us, clearly forgetting that he just cuffed one of us to a desk,
and then he takes an uncertain step out into the corridor, following his colleagues.
He is blown instantly backwards, the force of the bullet throwing him
several feet across the room. Gunfire detonates all around. But I don’t notice. I’m
just staring at the body of the cop, lying on the floor not fifteen feet from me, his
face no longer recognisable as a face, just a crater foaming with red, with shards
of white poking out of it.
Everything funnels in that moment; the world reducing to a shattering hum
and the completely unreal image of this cop dead at my feet. And then, as if I’m
the epicentre of a bomb, reality explodes around me, everything sharpening,
noise and heat rushing back in as though filling a vacuum. I become aware of
someone yelling at me.
‘Get these off!’
I turn slowly. The air feels suddenly dense as tar, as though I’m wading
through it. The boy is shouting at me. He’s standing up, straining against the cuff
that holds him to the desk, the muscles in his neck are so taut they look like
they’re about to burst through his skin, and for a moment that’s all I can focus on.
‘Keys! Grab the keys!’ he yells. He’s pointing with his free hand in the
direction of the dead cop.
For a few seconds I sit there unmoving. I cannot move. Then his shouts
manage to break through my daze.
‘They’re in his pocket!’
I tumble out of my chair to my knees and start crawling towards the body,
ducking automatically as bullets roar over my head. The glass above the door
explodes, shards flying like daggers. On the far side of the room a police radio
crackles to life. A disembodied voice on the other end cries for help before a
storm of static drowns it out.
I reach the cop and my hand hovers in mid-air as I stare down at the mass
of red and grey pulp where a head should be. Oh God, my body starts to shake,
nausea rising in a solid block up my throat, hysteria gaining a foothold in my
brain. I breathe through my mouth and force myself to focus. Which pocket?
‘Hurry!’
The boy’s voice punches through the panic and my brain suddenly throws
a switch. It stops computing. Somehow I stop seeing the blood and the gore. I no
longer feel the sticky wet warmth beneath my bare knees. I stop noticing the
bullets. All I can hear is the gallop of my pulse thundering in my ears and Felix in
my head ordering me to stay calm.
Without thinking, I shove my hand deep into the front pocket of the cop’s
trousers and find the key. I tug it out and crawl as fast as I can back to the boy
through the carpet of broken glass which now litters the ground between desks.
The boy snatches the key from my outstretched hand and jams it into the tiny
hole. The cuff springs apart, freeing him.
Instantly, he throws himself on top of me. ‘Get down!’
A bullet smacks itself into a filing cabinet just behind us as we tumble to
the ground. His chest presses down on mine, my face is buried in his shoulder.
Quickly he rolls off me and pushes me towards a desk. I scoot underneath it,
banging the side of my head on the sharp metal corner of a drawer unit. I let out
a cry.
‘Shhh.’ His hand clamps over my mouth.
I tug his arm away. ‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’ I whisper.
Before he can answer me, the shooting stops and a silence falls that is
even more terrifying than the gunfire. The boy and I both freeze, staring at each
other unblinking, just a few millimetres between us. Together, enclosed in the
tight space beneath the desk, we strain to listen, and over the radio static and the
whir of the air conditioner overhead, I pick out faint cries coming from somewhere
in the distance; the unnatural keening howl of a wounded animal.
The boy shifts his weight. His back is pressed to one cabinet, his feet to
the drawer unit. Carefully, he peers around the edge of the desk then ducks
quickly back, breathing fast. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.
‘Shit,’ he murmurs, resting his head back against the cabinet and closing
his eyes.
‘Wh— ’ I begin, but stop when I hear the sly creak of the door being
pushed open. A boot crunches on glass. The boy’s eyes flash open and lock on
mine, holding me in place, silencing the scream that has risen up my throat and
is threatening to tear free. My legs begin to shake from holding still in a crouching
position. The boy’s right hand squeezes my knee hard – another warning, his
eyes wide and burning fiercely into mine, telling me: Do not move.
Something topples off a desk on the far side of the room and, over the
boy’s shoulder, through a gap between two filing cabinets, I glimpse the back of a
man’s leg. Whose? Is it a cop? Where is everyone else? What happened to the
cops who ran out into the corridor?
No. I shut off the thought, not wanting to go there.
The man in the room is standing stock-still with his back to us. What is he
doing? I can’t see. He’s facing the wall – the chalkboard with all the homicide
cases listed on it. The seconds seem to extend into whole hours, days, centuries,
and I’m holding my breath and the boy’s hand is still squeezing my knee and my
heart is bursting, literally bursting, as though too much blood is pumping through
it. My leg muscles are on fire and, without warning, my foot slips. Not far. But it
bumps the edge of the desk. The man spins instantly in our direction. The air
rushes from my lungs and the boy shifts beside me, a single word that I don’t
catch, falling from his lips like a dying man’s prayer.
The man starts to head in our direction, is almost on us, when someone
somewhere else in the building shouts something that’s instantly swallowed in a
storm of gunfire and the man rushes out into the corridor.
The boy darts his head out and then he’s out from under the desk and
reaching for me.
‘Move!’ he says, pulling me to my feet.
I glance around, holding on to the desk for balance. The room seems to
spin and dip as though it’s a fairground ride.
‘We gotta go now!’ the boy says, dragging me towards the door.
I dig my heels in, my grip tightening on the corner of the desk. The boy
yanks on my arm, ‘Come on!’
I shake my head at him. ‘This way,’ I say, pulling my hand free from his
and heading for a glazed door at the other end of the room; the way Detective
Owens went. The boy glances once over his shoulder towards the corridor and
then hurries after me. I weave between the desks, feeling adrenaline finally
cranking through my system, erasing all other thoughts from my mind except for
one: RUN!
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