Murderer's Row Read online

  MURDERER’S

  ROW

  The Vengeance Trilogy

  Book Two

  A Novel

  By Rashad Freeman

  Copyright © 2019 by Rashad Freeman

  www.rashadfreeman.com

  [email protected]

  www.facebook.com/rashadthewriter

  Twitter: @RashadFreeman

  http://ask.fm/writerrashad

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Acknowledgements

  I want to thank anyone that has ever read a single word of the garbled madness that I create. Thank you to anyone that has ever reviewed any of my work, regardless of whether you loved it or hated it. The bad reviews have made me a better writer and the good reviews have validated my belief, that even a broken clock is right twice a day. Thank you all for going on this journey with me, it has just begun.

  “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemingway

  CHAPTER 1

  A NEW RIVER

  “Another body has been pulled from the Hudson, bringing the count to seven, in as many weeks,” Henry, the aging news reporter said. He stared into the camera and spoke nonchalantly, his monotonous drone, dripping with cynicism. At nearly sixty, Henry Chambers’ tired face, silver hair, and red eyes were common place for his profession. These were the effects of watching your hometown erode before your eyes. He’d worked these streets for years and had come to know them like a close friend. Now, he hardly recognized the grimy underground that he reported on daily.

  He stood a modest six feet tall and was outweighed by most women. In his line of work eating came a distant second to chasing a good story, which he did occasionally enough to keep his job.

  Henry was standing near the road, his back facing the murky waters of the Hudson. A streetlight cast a hazy glow over him, illuminating the specks of rain that fell like mist. Yellow tape separated him from the flashing lights and buzzing policemen. But like most reporters, Henry didn’t care much for yellow tape.

  “Sal, give me something,” Henry pleaded as a stubby, bald detective dressed in a dark brown suit passed him and ducked under the tape. Henry tried to follow him, but an officer turned and stopped him with his hands.

  “No can do, Henry, not this time. It’s Rosario’s case,” Sal said apologetically.

  “Shit!” Henry griped then turned around. “Benny, pack it up, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Benny was young, no older than twenty-three. He was a short man with jet black hair and dark eyes. His denim jeans were riddled with holes and his t-shirt boasted a warning about the dangers of public restrooms.

  He’d been Henry’s camera man for the last six months. He was a snarky kid, with a tough stomach, that knew the New York backstreets better than anyone. He was born in China, but moved to the big apple with his parents when he was six. Now he knew more slang and hip-hop lyrics than his native tongue of Mandarin.

  “You got it, boss,” Benny said, pausing as a slim figured woman with brown hair and green eyes crossed his path.

  Henry stopped and ran after her. “Eve…come on, Eve, just a quick statement,” Henry pleaded. “You know you’re my favorite, sexy mamacita. And wow, you are wearing the hell out of that gray suit.”

  “Give it a rest, Henry,” Eve said in a thick, Puerto Rican accent. “I got nothing for you. You’ll get a statement the same time as everyone else.”

  “Oh come on, Eve, you scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

  “Like how you scratched my back with the Parkson investigation? You know what they say about burning bridges, Henry?”

  “You’re breaking my heart, Rosario.”

  “You better get out of here before I break something else,” Eve snapped.

  Benny let out a childish giggle and Henry shot him a warning look. Benny clammed up, dipped his head and quietly packed his camera into the black, hard case. He could still feel Henry’s eyes on him as he snapped the lid shut.

  Detective Eve Rosario was a firecracker. At five foot five and one hundred and thirty-five pounds she wasn’t physically intimidating, but she could hold her own with the big guys. She’d been on the force for eleven years and had done twice the work of her male counterparts just to make it to detective.

  Eve was a first-generation American. Her parents moved to the states a year before she was born, but continued to raise her in the original Hispanic culture. Part of that culture was the importance of family and as such Eve had done her part to gain employment for several of her relatives throughout the city.

  “She’s got your number, boss,” Benny blurted out as Henry handed him a roll of cables.

  “Shut it, kid. You gotta learn the way this game works,” Henry grumbled. He took the camera case with one hand and slid it into the back. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Benny loaded the remaining equipment and closed the barn doors of the white panel van. Hot News Channel 9, the stations logo, was etched across the side in bold red letters. Henry scoffed at the deplorable graphics before crawling into the driver’s seat and pulling off.

  In his glory days, Henry had been a primetime anchor. A drinking problem and a liking for prostitutes ultimately cost him his career. Now he was back on the street, working for a local station. He covered the dangerous stories that veteran reporters often avoided.

  Detective Rosario watched as the van drove away then turned back to the crime scene. A number of CSI techs were gathered together near the edge of the river. They were cloaked in matching blue jackets and latex gloves. Each of them studying every inch of the scene for potential DNA or clues.

  “What do we have, Tony?” Eve asked as she approached a middle-aged man with brown hair and thick bifocals.

  “Not sure, Detective.”

  “Come on, you gotta find me something,” Eve nudged him.

  “Well, here’s your card,” Tony said.

  He handed her a plastic bag with a single playing card, the seven of clubs. It was soggy and covered in mud, and there was something written across the front. Eve sighed and nodded her head.

  “At least we know how this is gonna play out. Thanks, Tony, good job as usual,” Eve replied.

  Tony blushed and then headed back towards the water. “We’ll keep looking.” He said confidently.

  Eve held up the small Ziploc bag and shined a light on it. She stared at the writing she’d become so familiar with. It read “Damn you Daniel.” The calling card they’d found with each body.

  Her thoughts drifted to the sea of nameless faces that had been pulled out of the river. Each one a middle-aged male, each one with their own playing card and story. How had they come to meet their end? At whose hands had they found themselves washing up on the rocky shore of the Hudson? Eve contemplated it all, cursing that she found herself no closer to an answer.

  “Some guy jogging with his dog called it in,” Sal yelled out, interrupting her thoughts. He grinned, clinching the last piece of a meatball sub between his fingers. “You’d think somebody would have this sick fuck by now. I’ll tell you what, Rosario, your man is getting bolder.”

  “What makes you think it’s a man?” Eve shot him a curious look.

  “Oh, don’t you start that women’s righ
ts shit,” Sal grumbled then stuffed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and marched off.

  Eve laughed then followed Tony down towards the river. He was standing over the dead body holding a UV light in his hand. A woman was kneeling next to him unbuttoning a soaked flannel shirt from the John Doe.

  The deceased was a tall, white male with shiny gray hair. His skin was chalky and waterlogged. It had an eerie glow under the moonlight. From the looks of it, Eve guessed he was in his fifties. He looked like he’d been in pretty good shape and his body didn’t show any physical signs of trauma.

  As Eve approached, Tony looked up and grinned. She stopped about ten feet away and crossed her arms. Tech guys had a thing about their personal space. Eve didn’t want to intrude.

  “There’s blood on his chest,” the woman announced. “Trace amounts.”

  “Cut those lights,” Tony yelled as he turned on the UV.

  The spotlights that had been set up to illuminate the dark shoreline were quickly shut off. The river was thrown into blackness, the blue and red flashes from the cars flickered in the distance.

  Tony waved his UV light over the body, slowly passing the beam back and forth. Like a flashing sign, smears of blood became visible on his chest and speckles of it down his jeans.

  “I think it’s writing,” the woman kneeling next to the body said.

  “What does it say?” Eve asked.

  Tony leaned over and squinted. “Keep it in your pants,” he responded.

  Sal and a few other officers moved closer. One of them was a cop named Harper. He was a thirty-four year old who’d been with the force for four months. He had fiery red hair and an equally hot temper. In his short tenure he’d pissed off just about everyone and since he was still considered the new guy he often got stuck with the short end of the stick.

  “Harper!” Tony yelled. “Come give me a hand.”

  “What do you need Tony?”

  “Get over here would ya. Something’s in his pocket.”

  Harper sighed. Reluctantly, he donned a pair of latex gloves and squatted next to the corpse.

  “Put your hand in there, he’s not gonna bite,” Tony said.

  Grimacing, Harper reached inside of the dead man’s pocket. He fumbled around for a moment then wrapped his fingers around something squishy and cold. Pulling his hand out, he held it under the UV light and unfolded his fingers.

  “Ha!” Harper gasped then started to laugh uncontrollably.

  “Harper, get your shit together. Act your age,” Sal yelled as he edged closer to the dead body.

  “It’s his dick sir.”

  “What?” Sal asked impatiently.

  “His dick…it was in his fucking pocket!”

  CHAPTER 2

  NEW TRICKS

  “Babe, you home?” Henry called as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and flicked the light switch on the wall.

  When no one answered he walked further into the 8th floor apartment and looked around. It was a decent-sized home, adorned with quirky but tasteful artwork. Paintings of cats hiding in trash cans were mixed with knock off Rembrandt’s and Monet’s. A copy of the serenity prayer etched on a golden plaque hung neatly over the door and a blue, sky-colored hue brought the walls to life.

  Henry made his way to the living room and glared at the empty couch. Fuzzy beige colored pillows were neatly placed in each corner. On the opposite wall a television flashed silently, displaying an array of news clips from the day.

  May 9th, 2006 8:35 PM, was stamped in the upper left corner of the screen. Not one mention of the story Henry had spent the last week covering. Seven murders in the span of seven weeks, right in the middle of the city and no one cared, no one aside from Hot News Channel 9.

  The big outlets were more concerned with the Iraq war and mid-term elections. It was all anyone could talk about. But it seemed like it was always the same story told a million different ways.

  Henry made a gasping sound. He loathed the unoriginality of network news. In fact, Henry hated the news in general.

  Grunting, he switched off the television and headed into the bedroom. He took a quick look around then walked out. “I guess I live alone now,” he groaned.

  As he made his way back towards the kitchen the front door suddenly swung open. A woman dressed in all black causally walked in. She was medium height and athletically built, but slender and graceful. Her long, red hair had tiny streaks of silver in it and was tied into a bun exposing her elegant neck.

  Henry stared at her for a moment, taking her in. She was nearly ten years younger than him, but had wisdom in her eyes that Henry could never achieve. He cracked a smile then stepped towards her with open arms. She moved forward and fell into his embrace.

  “Agnes,” Henry whispered. “Where’ve you been?”

  She pulled away slightly, so they were face to face. She beamed at him and ran her fingers lightly across his cheek. “Worried about me?”

  “People are dying you know? They just found another body tonight.”

  “Oh no,” Agnes responded. “I…I just ran to the university. There were some papers I wanted to go over.”

  Henry rubbed her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “Doesn’t matter, seems like this guy only likes to kill other men.”

  “Is that what they found tonight?”

  “Yep, another dead guy. This killer, he’s one sadistic bastard.”

  “Why does he have to be a guy?” Agnes asked, sounding slightly offended.

  Henry wrinkled his face and pulled Agnes closer. He took a deep breath, sucking in the scent of shampoo still in her hair. “Because women are sweet and smell good,” he laughed. “And because a woman could never be so cruel.”

  Agnes grinned and gave Henry a kiss.

  “So how’s the university anyway?” he asked.

  “The what?”

  “Your job,” Henry replied.

  “Oh,” she grinned. “Same as usual, red tape and road blocks.”

  Agnes had been working the past few weeks to get funding approved on an experimental drug. As head of the anesthesiology department at the NYU Medical Center, she led the charge to bring the college into what she called the new age of medicine. But many thought her ideas were too progressive.

  “One day you’ll have to explain it all to me. I was never big on science back in school,” Henry said bashfully.

  Agnes gave him a look between innocence and pity. “I like you just the way you are, simple and plain.”

  Henry grimaced and took a long pause before responding. “You should’ve called me anyway. I could’ve grabbed your paperwork on the way home, or sent Benny to get it.”

  “Benny,” Agnes repeated. “How’s he doing? He’s a good kid.”

  “He’s coming along. Kid’s a smart ass, with a hard-on for you,” Henry griped. “But he makes a good assistant, always eager to run my errands.”

  “Well, I was glad I went anyway. I actually ran into an old acquaintance. We caught up on a few things and then we walked down to the Hudson where I left him.”

  “The Hudson!” Henry said in shock.

  “Yeah, he was meeting his wife down there. Why?”

  “Agnes, they found another body down there, just an hour ago. Why on Earth would you head down to the river? You know it’s dangerous.”

  Henry had a protective quality that Agnes adored. He wasn’t a very physically intimidating man, but he thought he could shield her from the world.

  “It’s a big river Henry. I was only there for a moment and then I came home.”

  Henry shook his head. “Agnes you have to be more careful. It’s not safe at night.” He let out a breath of air and relaxed a bit as he walked to the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Who’s your friend?”

  Someone I used to work with back in New Orleans. Dan—Da…David Morgan,” she stuttered.

  “You never talk about New Orleans. Why’s that?”

  “I told you, Henry that was a different life for me.
I’ve moved on and I found you. I’m happy now.”

  “Well, it seems like New Orleans hasn’t moved on from you. Who is David?”

  “No one…no one at all,” Agnes said softly. “I’ll never see him again anyway.” She narrowed her eyes then took the beer from his hand and sipped. “It’s been a long day. I’m not gonna do this now.”

  Henry stared at the window, contemplating if his curiosity was worth the argument. “Go ahead and finish that one,” he jabbed. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

  Agnes stood in the kitchen and stared after him. Once he disappeared into the bedroom, she took a seat at the table and laid her face into her hands. She grumbled lowly and rubbed her fingers in circles over her temples.

  “Damn you, Daniel…damn you!” she mumbled angrily under her breath.

  In a gulp, she finished the rest of the beer then slammed her fists onto the kitchen table. Grunting, she pulled at her hair then stood up and slung her chair backwards. She paced the kitchen momentarily, mumbling to herself. Every word she sputtered out was gasoline on a pyre of frustration until she exploded.

  “Henry!” she shouted angrily and stormed after him.

  Steam floated through the cracked door and into the bedroom. The shower sounded like rain water, pitter patting onto the tile. Henry’s clothes were in a heap on the carpet, his shoes kicked off halfway to the closet.

  Agnes stared at the bathroom door and tried to compose herself. She’d worked for years on hiding her anger, burying it deep and only letting it out when she chose. There was a time and place she reminded herself.

  “We don’t do it, we don’t do it here,” she whispered. “You control yourself!” Swallowing the anger down, she clenched her jaw and took a slow, deep breath. “Henry,” she called softly and pushed the door open.

  Henry shut off the water and snatched the shower curtain backwards. He poked his head out and wiped water from his face.

  “Marcy called. I left my purse at the front desk. I’ll be right back.”