Authors: John Cutter
“Now, the sun’s coming up”—he added, pointing out the window to the Boston skyline, glowing with the day’s first light—“and I, for one, am ready for breakfast. Obviously, Galipoli’s going to do a walkout for the news people—”
“Yeah, little shit’s off doing his hair for ’em right now,” scoffed Rivera.
“—but I think I’m going to skip that, head out the side door, and get a bite to eat before we hit the road. I’ve heard good things from our Boston friends about the chicken and waffles over at the Hen House on Massachusetts Avenue. Anyone want to come with me?”
As one, the whole room rose.
“Well then,” Morrison said, smiling, “let’s get going.”
27
Bill Morrison rode back to the city alone. Uncharacteristically he left the AM/FM and police radios silent, and let the hum of the highway keep him company for a change. Despite how well his team had handled it, the bittersweet ending to the Rutherford-Anderson arrest had left a decidedly bad taste in his mouth, and it had taken his second phone call to lift his mood.
His first had been to Louise Donohue, making sure she’d be home for his visit; he wanted to thank her in person for her help with the BPD. Unfortunately she’d been on her way to the airport, heading out to see her daughter, so Bill had given her the good news and his thanks over the phone.
The second call was to Claudia, and just hearing her voice was enough to lift his spirits. It was euphoric, talking to her; the only dark feeling was the doubt that she could possibly feel the same. He told her about their success with the case, and now it really
felt
like a success; she made him feel heroic, appreciated, right with the world. She was free tonight—she was
always
free for him—and so glad he was coming back.
He’d hung up and driven in elated silence for fifteen minutes, his foot heavy on the gas and his mind racing with excited possibility. It seemed the world had turned around for him, as it always did after he
spoke with her; it seemed he was ready for anything. The world he wanted would come to
him
—and as if on cue, his phone rang again.
“Bill,” the voice said when he picked up. “James Fernandez here.”
“Hi, Jim—guess you heard the news?” Morrison said.
“I did! Congratulations on your arrests. That’s not what I’m calling about, though. I have the results from the DNA screening.”
“Great—we get a match on our guys? Tell me you have good news for me, Jim!”
Fernandez laughed. “Well, let’s just say the DNA samples your guys recovered from these two in Boston tested out to be some of the best numbers
ever,
as far as probability goes. Anderson tested out 1 in 150 million, and Rutherford’s 1 in 175 million.”
“You’ll have to translate for me—what are you telling me?”
“I’m telling you that for three of these homicides, you’ve got a better chance of hitting the lottery two times in the same week than these not being your perps.”
“Terrific!” Morrison caught himself. “Wait—you said three? Not four?”
“That’s part B,” Fernandez admitted. “Sorry to tell you, but neither of these guys’ samples match any of the evidence from number four.”
“All right,” Morrison sighed. “I’m not too surprised, but I’d held out hope for the city’s sake. Thanks for the update, though, Jim—sounds like we’ve really got a rock-solid case here. I’m going to have Sergeant Rivera come by your office first thing to pick up those results.”
“No problem, Bill. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Morrison just had time to reach Rivera before he pulled into Claudia’s driveway.
It was the first time he’d been to her Stamford home, a good-sized one with a neat front lawn and a deck just visible out back, overlooking the water. The other details of the place were quickly lost beside the little blue note he found taped to the front door, with lipstick lips imprinted across the fold, and several small hearts scribbled across the front. He
opened it, and his heart jumped at the three words he found there:
Come to me.
Trying the door, he found it open. Just inside, he found a trail of rose petals strewn across the floor, leading up the stairs. He smiled, tossing his jacket across the railing and loosening his tie as he went up toward the second floor. He could hear music playing softly down the hall, and followed it.
He pushed open what was obviously the bedroom door, letting his tie drop to the floor as he did. The room was half-darkened, with an enticing smell of jasmine in the air.
Then he saw Claudia, and he felt his heart jump in his chest.
She was sitting in a large armchair in the far corner, wearing a black leather corset, thigh-high stockings, and what had to be five-inch black stiletto fuck-me pumps. Neither of them said a word as she rose from her seat slowly and came toward him. Morrison had already begun to unbutton his shirt, and stripped it off without taking his eyes from hers. Her eyes screamed to him what she wanted, and he knew he wanted it too.
He kissed her passionately, and as she closed her eyes he grabbed her by the throat, suddenly dragging her across the room towards the bed. Pushing her down roughly, he flipped her onto her stomach, pulling his belt from his pants in the same motion. He slipped one end through the buckle and tightened it around her wrists. Slipping the loose end through a notch in the headboard, he slid down her supine body, kissing up the back of one leg, then the other, purposely avoiding her bare skin as he moved from her thigh-highs to her corset. She moaned softly against the bedspread as he moved up her back, kissing against the laces and blowing through them against her skin. He propped himself up on his elbows and slipped his hands beneath her to massage her breasts through the leather of the corset, his weight pressing down on her. She arched up against him and turned her head to speak to him, her voice rough with desire.
“Please,” she begged, “take me now, Bill—I need you inside me—”
He reached one hand up to grab her hair gently, but firmly; and pulled her head back to whisper in her ear. “All in good time, my love,”
he said. “But I want to savor you before I devour you, and right now, I’m getting what
I
want.”
His words surprised and sent shivers through her; and with the thrill of having found the perfect partner for her deepest desires, she gave herself up to his control.
Bill Morrison awoke to find the bed empty.
How long had he been asleep? He checked his phone for the time—it wasn’t late. Thankfully, tired as he was, he hadn’t slept through to the next morning. His clothes were missing, and there was a soft terrycloth robe hanging from the hook on the back of the bedroom door. He wrapped the belt around his waist and headed downstairs, a strange, delicious smell wafting up to meet him.
Walking into the kitchen, he found Claudia there in a matching robe, just closing the oven.
“I was wondering where you’d gone to,” he said, smiling.
Claudia smiled and came up to kiss him on the lips. She softly bit him as she pulled away.
“I thought you might be hungry when you woke up,” she said. “Please, sit—I’ve just taken it out.”
“You’re amazing,” he said, laughing in disbelief. “You didn’t need to cook for me—we could have gone out.”
She put her hands on her waist in a mock pout. “No
way
am I making you take me out for dinner, when I am perfectly capable of feeding my man.”
“She’s beautiful, sexy, understands me—
and
can cook?” He laughed again. “What did I do to deserve this? Thank you—I don’t know what it is, but it smells wonderful.”
“It’s a traditional Greek dish called
pastitsio
—consider it Greek lasagna. And if you love me like I love you, that’s all the thanks I need.”
“Well, I’m head over heels in love with you, so I guess I pass.”
“Right answer,” she smiled, pouring each of them a glass of wine.
“Let’s eat.”
They sat side-by-side at the table, their legs touching as they ate. The food was incredible, and Morrison realized as he ate that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a home-cooked meal. Kathleen hated cooking, and had long since given up on making the effort for him.
“You know, Claudia, I could get used to this,” he said when they’d finished. “You might be in trouble.”
She laughed. “I was counting on it!” she said. “My mother always said, feed a man with love, and he’ll love you for your lifetime.”
“Well, I can’t make any promises for
your
lifetime,” he joked, “but I can sure imagine loving you for mine.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck to hug him close. He felt a wetness against his cheek, and realized her eyes had teared up with happiness.
“I trust you, completely,” she whispered. She picked up her wine glass and refilled it with the last of the bottle. “Come out to the deck with me—it doesn’t seem too cold tonight.”
They stepped out onto the deck, and nestled into a chair together, sharing the glass between them. There was no conversation—just touching, kissing, closeness. When the glass was empty and they’d gotten cold, Bill rose with her in his arms and carried her in, her arms wrapped tightly around him, her breath hot against his ear.
As he carried her back up the stairs again, their hearts beating faster together, Bill Morrison had the strange realization that he felt closer to normal than he remembered ever having felt. It was indeed a feeling he could get used to.
Who knows?
he thought.
Maybe I’ll make it all the way back.
28
The following day passed in a blur.
It started off with an early call from Arndt, and it was a testament to Morrison’s newfound good mood that it only made him roll his eyes to talk to the man. Arndt, who hadn’t heard the news about their third murderer likely still being on the loose, was again ready and eager to have Morrison off the task force; but being informed of this little hitch in things, was equally quick to retrace his steps before hanging up in a huff.
After his second wonderful home-cooked meal in God knew how long, Morrison left Claudia and drove back to the city. He stopped quickly at the stationhouse to make sure their case’s follow-up materials were being handled properly, then went out on the rounds to thank the first responders from each of their crime scenes in Manhattan and Queens, and let them know the news of Rutherford and Anderson’s arrest. The bond between the patrol division and the detective squad was indispensable; and no one knew better than Morrison how crucial such positive reinforcement and follow-up was in keeping that bond tight and morale strong. Every officer appreciated being appreciated; and if the principle was lost on some of the force’s higher-ups, it had never been lost on Bill Morrison.
Later in the evening, once he’d finished for the day with his errand of gratitude—it would continue until he’d visited each of the relevant precincts’ late-night roll calls as well, but that could wait for now—he and Sergeants McNamara and Simmons headed over to Kelley’s to join the rest of the team for a small celebration. He’d called the owner earlier to ask him to put the team’s drinks on his tab for the night; they’d more than earned it already, and with a potential copycat killer on the loose, would continue to earn it for the foreseeable future.
Kelley’s was too small for the whole team to sit together at one table, so they all intermingled throughout the night. Galipoli, predictably, was nowhere in sight. It occurred to a few of the team that no one had ever seen him out with
any
of the cops he’d worked with.
At one point in the evening, Morrison made his way over to a table where Sergeants Rivera and McNamara were sitting with Detectives O’Dell and Garriga and another longtime cop named Timothy Morality, the irony of whose name had never escaped him. Morality, who’d been McNamara’s longtime radio-car partner, was regaling the others with stories from back in the day, before McNamara had made the big time.
“This guy was always the foil,” Morality was saying, laughing. “It was just too easy to get his back up. I remember this one fishing trip that we went on, when we were both new recruits. Tommy Burke—”
“Oh, come on, Timmy,” McNamara groaned, putting his head down. “Not that story, man.”
“No, no, Timmy,” Morrison said with a smile, pulling up a chair at the end. “By all means, go on.”
“Gotta obey the superior officer, eh, Pat?” Morality laughed. “Well, as I was saying, before I was so
rudely
interrupted: Tommy Burke—he was precinct club president back then—he told us about this great fishing trip out of Captree Piers on Long Island. May 2
nd
, 0500 hours—we were going for flounder, as I recall.
“So the morning of the 2
nd
, Pat picks me up at 0300 for the drive out to Captree, we grab a coffee and a bagel, and hit the road. It’s a long drive, and when we finally get to the slip where the boat’s supposed
to be, it’s empty. Pat asks some old-timer standing off to the side if he knows where the boat’s at, and the guy just laughs and says
That boat ain’t been here in ten years!”
The others laughed.
“Some good old-fashioned rookie hazing, huh?” Garriga asked.
“Well, sure,” Morality said. “At least, that’s what Pat’s thinking. And man, is he
pissed!
He gets himself real worked up, ranting and raving, cussing up a storm about Tommy Burke messing with us, pacing back and forth on the edge of the dock. And just then, the boat next to us in the slip blows their air horn, and
this guy
gets so startled, he falls right off the edge of the dock into the water!”
The others cracked up, slapping McNamara on the back good-naturedly.
“Well, that’s when Tommy and damn near the whole precinct come out onto the dock,” Morality went on, “everyone hooting and hollering while Pat’s trying to climb back onto the dock. I put my hand out to help him up, and he looked up at me with the most
priceless
face—”