Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(48)

“You might be tempted,” she would say.

“Trust me, Ange, these are no Charlie’s Angels.”

These days, Ange is much more secure, and Rocky usually works his cases with Murph. But if his wife could see Detective Lisha Brandewyne, who’s working the Haines murder case in Murph’s absence, she’d certainly have instant peace of mind.

In her mid-thirties, with close-cropped dark hair, a stocky build, and nicotine-stained teeth and fingers, Brandewyne is no Charlie’s Angel. She’s not even a Cagney or Lacey.

But Rocky’s not that shallow. His main problem with her—aside from the fact that she’s a chain-smoker—is that she isn’t Murph.

He misses Murph, and he’s worried about him, and about Luke.

For the time being, though, he’s got to focus on the case, with Brandewyne’s help. She’s not inept, but she was only recently promoted to detective, and she’s still got a lot to learn, as far as Rocky is concerned.

Back at the scene of the homicide, they find Timmy Green stretching yellow crime scene tape across the doorway of Kristina Haines’s apartment. His last name suits him. He’s younger than Brandewyne, even younger than Rocky’s youngest son; he’s been on the job for less than a year.

After greeting him, Rocky ducks under the yellow tape. Brandewyne starts to follow suit, but her head grazes it. Green lets out a monster curse as the spool flies out of his hand, rolling down the hall, unfurling tape as it goes.

“Oops—sorry,” Brandewyne says.

Green growls something as he goes to retrieve the spool.

It’s not like him. Ordinarily, he’s a mild-mannered kid.

For a moment, Rocky and Brandewyne watch him attempt to rewind the tape. It keeps twisting. Green curses again.

“Give it here.” Rocky holds out his hand.

Wordlessly, Green puts the tape into it.

Brandewyne disappears into the apartment.

“Any word from the medical examiner’s office?” Rocky asks Green as he winds the tape.

“They’re still trying to get someone over here. They’re pretty overwhelmed, though—I don’t know when it’ll be.”

“Pretty overwhelmed,” Rocky echoes, shaking his head. “That’s one hell of an understatement, Green.”

“Yeah? Here’s another one for you, Rock: this has not been a good day for anyone.”

“Yesterday was worse,” Rocky returns. “For all of us.”

“Yeah, well . . . definitely for her.” Green gestures with his head toward the bedroom, where the victim awaits transport to the morgue.

Ordinarily, the M.E. would have been here already—and ordinarily, you’d have an army of detectives working the scene, the witnesses, the computers and labs . . .

The NYPD always taps into its significant supply of manpower to quickly solve an ugly murder like Kristina Haines’s.

But today, every available guy is down on the pile, or working to secure and protect the city, or to catch the mass murderers who brought down the towers.

Today, Rocky is juggling multiple duties and reminding himself that he owes it to Kristina and her family—if he ever manages to find any family—to give this case his full attention.

He hands the crime scene tape back to Green. “Here you go. Hang in there, kid. Things will get better.”

“You think? Really?”

“They always do, don’t they?” Rocky walks into the apartment, thinking about his own three boys, praying they’ll never have to see the things their father has seen today, thankful that he hasn’t had to endure what other fathers have today.

There are guys down there on the pile digging frantically for their own kids. Murph, with his brother who’s like a son to him, is one of them.

How do you survive something like that? How do you go on?

He pushes the thought from his mind. He has a job to do.

In the bedroom, he finds Brandewyne scribbling notes, and Andy Blake and Jorge Perez, the CSU guys, packing away their equipment. Kristina Haines lies dead on the bed between them.

Dead. Slaughtered.

Brown, dried blood is spattered and smeared everywhere—on the walls, the ceiling, the bed—all over Kristina herself.

She’s curled up on her side as if she’s asleep in the middle of a blood-soaked floral comforter, wearing silky black lingerie.

When Rocky first got to the scene, the song was still playing and the room was lit only by candlelight. There were candles all around the room, on every surface. Some had melted away and gone out; others still flickered around the bed, like fire surrounding a sacrificial altar.

Brandewyne looks up from her notes. “That sick son of a bitch really did a job on her.”

Another understatement. Beyond the savage knife wounds, Kristina’s right middle finger is missing. Missing—as in hacked right off her hand.

“Did the finger turn up yet?” Rocky asks the CSU guys.

“Nope. Guess he took it with him.” Perez shakes his head. “Something to remind him of the romantic evening.”

At first glance—judging by the victim’s clothes, the music, the candles—this looked like a late night date gone horribly wrong. Rocky guessed that the killer had come in through the door, invited by Kristina, and then, after he snapped and killed her, went out through the window and down the fire escape, as indicated by the traces of blood that were found there.