TUESDAY CHAPTER 1 The ringing of her cell phone ruptured the early morning silence. McGowan cleared his throat right in her ear. âeoeReillyâe(tm)s got a body in his precinct and only a rookie detective to catch it. Some guy named Muñoz. Itâe(tm)s your old stomping ground, Codella. Why donâe(tm)t you skip the morning briefing and give him a hand? nothing like hitting the ground running, right?âe No hello. No how you doing? No good to have you on board again. Was he happy to have a body to keep her out of his morning meetÂing so he wouldnâe(tm)t have to rally the team for a big welcome back? Well, she didnâe(tm)t want one any more than he wanted to give one. âeoeSure. Iâe(tm)ll head right over.âe Claire Codella swung her feet off the bed, skipped the shower, and stepped in front of the sink. Who would she see at the scene, she wondered, and what would they say when they saw her? She stared into the medicine cabinet mirror and imagined what the CSU guys would notice. The hair, of course. The hair was the dead giveaway. It was still so goddamn short. But at least it was black again. The first growths sprouting from the damaged follicles had been rusty colored, coarse, and kinky. They had capped her scalp like the tight ringlets on the sculpted bust of an ancient roman emperor. At least the ringlets had relaxed, and now with a little styling gel, she could make her hair look spiky. Maybe she would even fool a few people into thinking she was some wannabe punk rocker instead of a cancer victim. She splashed cold water over her face. Her eyes were as blue as ever, and her skin still as pale and smooth as bone china, but she knew she wasnâe(tm)t exactly attractive with hair like this. AttracÂtiveness had been irrelevant for the past ten months, of course. During her illness, she had not given one thought to looking good, and she had not once thought about sex except as someÂthing distant and abstract, something that existed in the world but didnâe(tm)t directly touch her daily life, like the Taliban, the state of the economy, poverty, or famine. Even now, she felt no sexual desire. Like her extremities, that ultimate private zone of her body was numb. Months of vincristineâe"one of the six toxic chemicals makÂing up the hyper-CVAD chemotherapy cocktailâe"had deadened her nerve endings. The tips of her fingers now tingled morning, noon, and night as if she had recently suffered frostbite and were stillâe"and perpetuallyâe"in a state of partial thaw. âeoeHow long will this numbness last?âe she had asked her oncoloÂgist, Dr. Abrams, at her first posttreatment exam. He had shrugged. âeoeIt could last several months, or it could never go away,âe heâe(tm)d conceded matter-of-factly. He was a say-itÂlike-it-is-but-donâe(tm)t-panic-about-things-you-canâe(tm)t-change guy, and she liked that about him. She preferred the truth to gentle fanÂtasy landings. During investigations, she always gave the truthâe"as sensitively as possible, of courseâe"to the families of the violently murdered. She could deal with lifelong neuropathy, she supposed, so long as it didnâe(tm)t prevent her from pulling the trigger and passing her periodic shooting exams. She could endure the lack of interest from the opposite sex right now, too. And she had even suspended her vanity for months. But apparently, that was now returning. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of a taxi on west 112th Street. âeoeHey, where ya been, Detective?âe the skinny uniform in front of the building called out. âeoeAnd whereâe(tm)s your latté? You always have a latté.âe âeoeNot anymore.âe Codellaâe(tm)s eyes darted up the treeless block of grimy tenement buildings. In the pre-rush-hour calm of early morning, she could feel the nervous pulse at her neck as she ducked under the crime scene tape. Everything about this scene felt familÂiar and yet it was different tooâe"or maybe she was just different. âeoeYou must be Muñoz,âe she said to the towering dark-skinned detective who approached her. âeoeEduardo Muñoz.âe He smiled. âeoeFollow me, Detective,âe she said, and he fell into step behind her like a six-foot-five lost dog. At least he wasnâe(tm)t Brian Haggerty. At least she didnâe(tm)t have to face him yet. They entered the lobby of the yellow brick walk-up, and the heel of her left boot landed in a sticky spill in front of the aluminum mailboxes. It made a crackling sound as she peeled it off the tiles. She took the stairs two at a time, just in case Muñoz or anybody on the landing above doubted her stamina, and the movement of her arms made her shoulder holster jiggle uncomfortably. She hadnâe(tm)t adjusted it properly to her new weight, and the Glock pounded annoyingly against her ribcage. On the fourth floor, her lungs were screaming, and she had to will herself to take even breaths as she approached the familiar, smiling uniform outside the apartment. The reddish-haired officer stared at her intently as he held out a clipboard and a pen. âeoeNice to see you, Detective.âe Her foggy brain wouldnâe(tm)t cough up his name so she glanced surreptitiously at his nameplate. Oâe(tm)Donnell. Then she rememÂbered. âeoeGood to see you too, Joe.âe She took the pen and signed in. Then she handed it to Muñoz. As he signed his name, she slipped on Tyvek booties. âeoeHow long you been in the 171st, Detective?âe âeoeFour days.âe âeoeBefore that?âe âeoeNarcotics. Undercover.âe âeoeSo this is your first homicide case?âe He nodded. âeoeHere, put these on.âe She handed him booties like a mother dressing a small child. A year ago she might have been annoyed having to do this, but now she found she didnâe(tm)t mind. Playing mother was a far better alternative than playing the child, and she had been the dependent one far too often recently. She watched Muñoz stretch the booties around his very long leather shoes. Surely this big guy who looked like a knicks guard had been to death scenes before. He must have seen ODs and stabbings and shootings, she thought. But that didnâe(tm)t mean he knew what to look for. âeoeStand here,âe she ordered as she stepped through the door. âeoeright against the wall. Iâe(tm)ll call you when I want you.âe The clapping began with one pair of nitrile-gloved hands, slow and deliberate. Then the other crime scene investigators joined in. It took Codella a few seconds to realize they were applauding her. âeoeOur genius returns!âe announced Banks, the lead investigaÂtor. He was a thin, gangly man, with arms and legs that looked disproportionately long for his torso, and apparently, he still wasnâe(tm)t letting her live down the New York magazine article that had called her a âeoegenius of deductive reasoningâe after the wainright Blake case last year. âeoeFuck off.âe She smiled good-naturedly. âeoeYouâe(tm)re the one whoâe(tm)s been fucking off.âe They all laughed. âeoeOh, right. Thatâe(tm)s what I was doing.âe Muñoz waited and watched by the door as she turned her attenÂtion to the body on the living room floor. âeoeHowâe(tm)d he go down?âe âeoeNo blood. no marks on the body,âe said Banks. âeoeThe medical examinerâe(tm)s on his way.âe Codella studied the corpse like a masterpiece at the Met. The victimâe(tm)s neck tilted unnaturally to the left so that his chin touched his left shoulder. His arms were outstretched at ninety-degree angles from his body and his palms were facing up in what could only be a deliberate pose. He was wearing a pair of cotton boxersâe"a muted blue-and-green-plaid version of a loinclothâe"and his torso was bare. As in most depictions of Christ, he had scant chest hair. But the ripple of well-toned arm and stomach muscles made him conspicuously more buff than a medieval Christ. The placement of his legs confirmed the intentional symbolism. They were bare, bent slightly at the knees, and the right foot had been carefully placed over the left. Only nails piercing flesh were missingâe"and a crown of thorns and cross. now, due to the muscular contraction of rigor mortis, this man was frozen into a Christlike statue, and he would remain this way until putrefaction freed him from his virtual cross. She stared at his thick hair, as coal-black as her own. She noted his refined Latin features, his five oâe(tm)clock shadow, his prominent Adamâe(tm)s apple. She snapped his photo with her iPhone. Who are you? she wondered silently. What the hell happened to you? Banksâe(tm)s eyes were on her as she lowered her phone. She could read his mind like a tabloid headline. And now she wondered if she could. Having focused so intently on eluding her own death for the last ten months, did she still have the unwavering resoluteness and cool rationality required to focus on someone elseâe(tm)s? She wondered if Banks or any of these other crime scene detecÂtives ever stopped to analyze why they had chosen their particular vocation. Before now, she hadnâe(tm)t dwelled on the deeper implicaÂtions of her work either. But sitting hour after hour in a hospital bed and walking the halls attached to an IV pole had provided her with abundant time to reflect on all the unpleasantness of her childÂhood. She didnâe(tm)t need anyoneâe(tm)s help to see that choosing a career in law enforcement was her antidote to growing up with a violent and abusive father. A religious person might conclude that she was doing penance for the damage he had caused in the lives of the people around him. A psychologist might conjecture that she was still trying to save others from violence because she had not been able to protect her own mother. But even if those assumptions had once been true, did they still apply? Doctors had just saved her. And maybe it was time to move on in her life. Maybe it was a mistake to have come back for more of this grisly business. Her mouth was dry. She unwrapped a piece of the Biotene gum a chemo nurse had told her would help relieve her dry mouth, one of the lingering effects of so many toxic chemicals in her system. She kept her eyes down. She knew she was doing the worst possible thing, giving into self-doubt in front of others, and if she didnâe(tm)t find her footing fast, they would all smell her insecurity. of course it wasnâe(tm)t a mistake to be here, she told herself. This was her life. Getting back to her life necessarily meant getting back to other peopleâe(tm)s deaths. She gripped the sleeves of her soft leather jacket, hoping that this prized possession sheâe(tm)d bought on the day sheâe(tm)d joined the detective ranks could bring back all the confidence sheâe(tm)d had before sheâe(tm)d been tethered to a chemo pole so many times that it had begun to feel like anotherâe"albeit unwantedâe"appendage. She took a deep breath, raised her eyes, and turned to Oâe(tm)Donnell. âeoeWhat do we know?âe âeoeNot much. The dog was howling all night. The neighbor,âe he motioned toward a door on the opposite side of the tiled, five-by-five-foot hallway, âeoecalled the super and the super came up early this morning. This is what he found.âe âeoeWhereâe(tm)s the dog now?âe âeoeWith the super.âe âeoeWhat about him?âe She gestured to the body. âeoeHis nameâe(tm)s Hector Sanchez. Lived alone. Heâe(tm)s a public school principal.âe She turned back to the dead man. Okay, Hector Sanchez. Youâe(tm)re the dead one, not me. She moved farther into the apartment and snapped several more photos. âeoeHey, we already got him from every angle, Detective,âe one investigator assured her. âeoeDonâe(tm)t waste your breath,âe Banks told him. âeoeShe always takes her own.âe Then he looked at Muñoz. âeoeGood luck with her. youâe(tm)re about to get a real education.âe Codella stopped snapping. âeoeIgnore him, Detective. Get over here and take photographs. Your camera. Your eyes. Never rely on someone else.âe Excerpted from Silent City: A Claire Codella Mystery by Carrie Smith All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
