Brooklyn Blue: A Madison Knox Mystery (Book 1) Page 2

  I looked at my boss. “He’s out of his mind. I slipped on the ice and fell on top of him.”

  “She threw her body at me,” One-Eye said to the lieutenant. He then fixed his one eye on me. “Call me when I get out, so we can hook up.”

  “I’ll call you, alright. How about idiot, asswipe, and lunatic.”

  The lieutenant took my arm and led me away from our suspect, like a father marching his wayward teenage daughter back to her room after she’d snuck out. Along the way, I saw they had Stufflebeam’s body on a stretcher, getting it ready for transport. The alien and I might have had our issues over the past year, but I felt bad. Nobody deserved to drown in a grease pit. I then remembered our last conversation and quickly came to terms with his death, deciding it was some kind of greasy karmic justice that was beyond my paygrade to understand.

  “You’ve got a problem,” the lieutenant said when we were at the far end of the loading dock. “In addition to your suspect claiming you sexually battered him, the clerk at the convenience store, a Mr. Wong, said you didn’t properly cuff the prisoner.”

  “Mr. Wong is wrong. He’s also full of shit. One-Eye stomped on my toe while Stufflebeam had him at gunpoint.” I rubbed my foot against my other ankle. “It might even be broken.”

  “Wong made a complaint to the CCRB. He said you abused your police powers by not properly arresting the perp. Why didn’t you put him in a prone position on the floor, then cuff him?”

  “That was my intention, but…” My brows came together and I regarded the fat tomato. “Do I need to call a rep?”

  “I’m just gathering facts about what happened, so far. Answer the question.”

  So far. I knew from shooting the nut off my training officer that a superior’s question, however innocently answered, could sometimes lead to discipline. I was almost fired over the Prissy/nut-elimination incident, and I knew I was entitled to have a representative from the Policeman’s Benevolent Association, or PBA, present during any questions that could lead to discipline.

  “I think I want a union rep present before I answer any more questions,” I said.

  “You don’t get to make the rules here, Detective. I do. If you refuse to answer my questions, in addition to the other charges, you’ll be facing certain discipline for insubordination.”

  I’d never been someone to back down during a confrontation, and this wasn’t going to be an exception. “Other charges. It’s obvious to me you’ve made up your mind about what happened tonight, and I won’t stand for it. I know my rights. I’m calling a representative.”

  The big, mushy tomato locked eyes with me and cocked his head back and forth as he mimicked me. “You know your rights.” He brushed the sweat off his bald head. “Back in the day, this matter would have been handled off the books.” His gaze lowered, and he took in my grease covered breasts. “You would have learned your place in more ways than one.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Corker met my eyes again and raised his voice. “It means it’s your fucking funeral.” His shit-eater of a grin played on his red face again. “You look like a cat that fell into a sewer. Go clean up and have your toe looked at. You’ll be on suspension until we clear up what happened here.”

  “Suspension? What happened tonight was a freaking freak accident, nothing more.”

  He sniffed, turned up his nose, and smiled. “We’ll see about that. Maybe you should call that rep.”

  ***

  I drove myself to the emergency room at Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, where I checked in with Alice, an ER receptionist. Alice had frizzy red hair that stood on end. I was looking for an electrical cord to see if it was plugged into a wall socket when she demonstrated that she’d never heard of the concept of mercy.

  “You’re twenty-third in line,” she said, not bothering to look up from her paperwork. “So, if I was you, I’d lie low and find something to read.” Her gaze finally drifted up to me. “What’s that smell?”

  “I fell into a dumpster.”

  She grimaced, then went back to the paperwork without comment.

  I looked over at the crowded waiting room. I could tell at a glance there were half a dozen people here, either for drug overdoses or wanting drugs. One guy on a gurney in the hallway had pooped his pants. Another guy was exposing himself to an old lady, claiming he had some kind of rash, and asking for her medical opinion.

  I looked back at Nurse Zombie and lowered my voice. “I’m a cop. Can’t you give me some kind of priority here?”

  She blew out a lungful of sour air. Her voice reminded me of that Church Lady character from SNL. “You think you’re special, don’t you? Take a seat and wait your turn like everyone else, young lady.”

  Three hours later, after fending off two sexual assaults, an offer of Vicodin from a guy who said he was a pharmaceutical rep, and listening to a sermon from Jesus informing me that he’d chosen the emergency room to begin the End of Times countdown, I finally got my toe x-rayed and was able to see a doctor.

  “It’s definitely broken,” Dr. Cleo Cornelius said, looking at my x-ray on a monitor. “I’d stay off it for a few days and rest. Keep it iced.”

  Despite the fact that my doctor looked like a young Denzel Washington who I was having explicit fantasies about, I was pissed. “That’s it? Ice and rest? I spend three hours being sexually battered, with Jesus threatening to wipe out civilization as we know it, and that’s the best you can do for me?”

  Denzel smiled. “Don’t tell me. You want drugs.”

  “No, I don’t want drugs. I hate drugs.”

  His smile grew wider and I bit a knuckle, wondering what we could do in one of those hospital beds with the drapes closed around us.

  “How about breakfast then,” he said. “I get off in half an hour.”

  I caught a breath, now suddenly conscious that I’d had a bath in a vat of chicken grease a few hours ago. “You really want to take me to breakfast…” I tugged on my fat soaked hair. “…looking like this?”

  “I’ve got a thing for dirty girls.” There was another megawatt smile, more fantasies on my part. “I can let you use the employee’s lounge to shower. You can meet me here when you’re ready.”

  I released a breath. Was this really happening? Maybe Lucifer was hiding somewhere nearby, sharpening his pitchfork.

  “Okay,” I finally said, deciding this was some crazy time warp where the rules of logic didn’t apply.

  Luckily, I always keep a duffle bag with a change of clothes in my car. Forty-five minutes later, I’d showered, shampooed, changed, and was sitting across from Dr. Denzel in the hospital cafeteria, thinking about stethoscope foreplay, breast exams, and being wantonly taken advantage of.

  Dr. D then popped my fantasy quicker than a cherry in the backseat of a Chevy. Over coffee, he told me, “You clean up real nice. Something about you reminds me of my wife.”

  My fantasies were shot down in flames like Lucifer torching the Hindenburg. Oh, the humanity!

  “Your wife,” I muttered.

  “She’s also a doctor here. Gynecology.”

  “Oh…” I tried to compartmentalize what he said, given my earlier fantasies, but failed. I then asked him, “If you’re married, why did you ask me to breakfast?”

  “The truth?”

  “No, lie to me. I’m a cop. Everyone else does.”

  He smiled. I ignored the dimples. “I’ve got this situation. My brother’s gone missing.”

  “Missing, as in…?”

  “I think someone might have kidnapped him.”

  “Did you report what happened to the police?”

  “Yes, but that was a month ago. He’s still gone and…frankly, I don’t think they’re actively working the case.”

  I took a bite of my scrambled eggs, knowing what he said was likely. Missing persons cases were low priority, especially if the missing person continued to be missed. “How did he go missing?”

  “Billy, that’s his name, h
e was an art student at Columbia. He got into drugs and started hanging out with some bad people. He came to me wanting money to pay off some debts. I refused, and…” he sniffed, “…it was the last time I ever saw him.”

  “You think maybe they killed him over some drug debts?”

  He held his coffee cup between his hands. “I don’t want to believe that, but it’s possible. I don’t know any other reason why he would just disappear. It’s not like Billy.”

  “I’m sorry, but kidnapping is not…”

  “I’ll pay you…if you find him.”

  “Pay me, as in…?”

  “Twenty thousand.” He sighed. “I should have just given Billy the money when he asked. Maybe none of this would be happening.”

  My best friend, Amy, was a private investigator. I was having explicit fantasies again—this time about money. The thought of us finding Billy while I was on suspension and splitting the twenty grand with her persuaded me.

  I gave Cleo my phone number and told him about Amy being a PI. “Since I’m a cop, I can’t help you, but Amy can. Text me everything you can about Billy, his last address, names and contact information for his friends, acquaintances, girlfriends past and present, anything you can think of that might help us.”

  “I really appreciate this.” His eyes became heavy. “Billy and me…” There were more sniffs. “Finding him is…I would just be very grateful.”

  “So would I.” Twenty grand grateful!

  THREE

  I’ve long since given up on believing there are any normal people left in the world. My theory is that we are living in an age of complete insanity, brought on by chemicals in the air and the water, and made worse by the constant bombardment of our brains from social media. My domestic life is living proof of this theory.

  I got home around ten the next morning, just in time to catch a dress rehearsal of Twisted Mister and Little Sister. I’m talking about the strangest rock group in the known universe. My aunt and uncle had retired from the post office three years ago and decided to become tribute artists in their spare time.

  Uncle Marvin, when he wasn’t a heavy metal rocker with more makeup than a drag queen, was sixty and bald, with a big belly and skinny legs. Think Humpty Dumpty, with red lipstick, lots of eyeshadow, and a frizzy blond wig. Aunt Lucy, when she wasn’t Little Sister, a sexually ambiguous vamp, was a couple years younger than my uncle, with dyed brown hair and blue eyes. She was my surrogate mother, and when she wasn’t singing We’re Not Gonna Take It, she was preoccupied with finding me Mr. Right in a world full of Mr. Wrongs.

  “We got us a gig tonight,” Uncle Marvin said, after I came through the door. His gray brows came together above his heavily shadowed eyes. “Hey, how come you didn’t come home last night?”

  “Maybe Maddie got herself a guy.” Aunt Lucy said, brushing raspberry wig hair out of her eyes. She looked at me and smiled. “Did you, as they say, ‘shag a nasty’?”

  “The only thing I shagged was a broken toe, a grease bath, and a one-eyed pervert. That’s about as nasty as it gets”

  She giggled. “A pervert. Really? What’s his name?”

  “One-Eye.” I saw her confusion. “He’s only got one eye.”

  Lucy looked at Marvin, then back at me. “You’re not getting any younger, dear, but I know you can do better than that.”

  I explained about my evening, before hobbling over to the kitchen counter and pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  “You really broke your toe chasing this One-Eye guy?” Aunt Lucy said, following me. “I think your job is too stressful. Maybe you should see if the post office is hiring.”

  “Bennie Bobwhite just retired,” Uncle Marvin said, adjusting the buttons on his pink and black silk blouse. “He’s got a route over in Queens and told me he’s only been shot at three times in the past two years, and two of those were just coworker incidents.”

  “How many times have you been shot at, dear?” Lucy asked me.

  “About the same as Bennie,” I lied.

  They went on, telling me the virtues and benefits of working at the post office, before Aunt Lucy lowered her voice and said, “You’re probably gonna need a new mail truck, though. Bennie had that bowel problem.”

  I sipped my coffee, then looked at her. “I like my job, most of the time.” I remembered my conversation with Lieutenant Corker. “But I’m going to be on leave for a few days.”

  Uncle Marvin looked at Aunt Lucy. “I hope she didn’t lose her job.”

  “You didn’t lose your job, did you, honey?” Lucy asked me. “Because we need your rent money.”

  “No. There’s just…” I decided they didn’t need to know all the details. “The department needs to review the situation I was involved in last night. It’s standard procedure.”

  “The situation.” Lucy looked at Marvin. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Uncle Marvin was asking me for the details when I was saved by Mick Jagger. Before having his name legally changed, Mick was known as Bob Buzzel, but everyone just called him “Buzzie”. He’d been a fixture in my aunt and uncle’s house when I grew up. Buzzie had been a longshoreman, before retiring and pursuing a second career as an alcoholic. He’d been a regular in the 32nd Precinct jail before finally sobering up a few months back and joining my aunt and uncle’s tribute show, sharing the stage with them.

  Buzzie didn’t make a bad Mick Jagger, except for one small problem. No, better make that one small and one large problem. When he strutted around the stage in tight pants and wearing Mick hair, his knee sometimes locked up. He also had a habit of farting. A lot. Think of an old man, with a mullet, singing I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, punctuated by a Bronx cheer, and you’ll get the picture.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Uncle Marvin said, “but we’re doing a dress rehearsal in the garage this morning. We’ve got a gig at the Haven tonight at six.”

  “Never heard of the place,” I said, inwardly groaning, knowing that sleep would be out of the question because of the noise.

  Lucy filled me in. “It’s that retirement home in Hyde Park. Buzzie got us a limo.”

  “My cousin owns Lenny’s Limos now,” Buzzie explained, tugging on his fake Jagger locks. He looked at my aunt and uncle. “We’d better get started. I’m thinking maybe I should take my shirt off and do the splits when I sing Honky Tonk Woman.”

  Twisted Mister and Little Sister headed for the garage, followed by a strutting Mick, who looked back at me, waved, and farted. My previous theory about the insanity of the human race came to mind again.

  ***

  I spent the next three hours with a pillow over my head. I finally gave up on sleep when I heard Mick’s caterwaul, telling everyone in the neighborhood, “let’s spend the night together,” and he now needed us more than ever.

  “Sleep!” I screamed, tossing my pillow across my basement bedroom. “That’s what I need.”

  I got up and took my second shower, deciding this was just a continuation of one of the longest and worst days of my life. I remembered reading somewhere that somebody said sleep was the new sex. All I knew was that, in addition to being sex deprived, I was horny for sleep. A thought about inventing a sleep dildo came to mind, leaving no doubt that I was as insane as the rest of the world.

  After the cobwebs cleared a bit, I called my friend, Amy Ross, and told her I might have a job for us. Always in need of work, Amy agreed to meet me for a late breakfast at the Wild Goose to discuss Dr. Cornelius’s offer.

  The Wild Goose was located a few miles from my aunt and uncle’s flat. The place was renowned for its shootings and stabbings. The café was really just a bar, set in the middle of rival gang territory. I took note of the trademark sign above the Goose’s door as I entered. Instead of referencing the number of customers served, the sign read: 13 Shot and Counting. It was still early in the day, so I figured Amy and I had better than even odds of not upping the count.

  After saying hello to a waitress, I hobbled over and settled
in at a table across from my best friend in the world. Amy Ross and I had gone to elementary school together, before her parents moved to Jersey. We managed to stay in touch over the years, even attending the same community college—Rockport—for a couple years. Amy had red hair and blue eyes, and the disposition of a ninja warrior. I personally believed she’d invented the word cynic.

  “I get the picture,” Amy said, after I filled her in on everything. “This Dr. Denzel guy wants to find his brother and jump your bones.”

  “I’m not sure about the last part, but Dr. Cornelius—that’s his real name—he does want us to find his brother. And he’s married to a gynecologist.”

  “A gyno? How the hell does that work?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Your wife’s got a degree in vagina, and you try to get it on with her? You ask me, Dr. D wants women like us who only majored in Vag 101, stuff you learn in back seats, when your parents weren’t home, and in the school of first rate losers.”

  “I don’t know about any of that.” I paused, deciding maybe that wasn’t true. “Well, maybe I do. All I know for sure is the doctor said there’s twenty K in it if we can locate him.”

  Amy snapped her fingers at Gary, one of the Goose’s waiters, who was at the counter. “Two C-rolls and some coffee, George.” Gary treated us like royalty because Amy once told him he reminded her of George Clooney, and she usually stood real close to him when she wanted something. She looked back at me. “How you gonna work this ‘round your job? Last I heard, you was pulling OT, just to keep the brass off your ass.”

  “I’m on the beach for a while. I can’t work this on the books, but I’ll be there to assist you and, of course, split the reward money.” I took a few minutes and filled her in on my night with the dearly departed alien, One-Eye, my broken toe, and Lieutenant I Hate Women.

  “So, Conan finally got beamed up for good,” Amy said. “I hope they’ve got an asshole section in heaven.”

  “I’m not sure that’s where he’s headed.” I took a sip of the latte I’d ordered and yawned, doing my best to stay in a vertical position. “All I know is, I think they wanna blame me for Conan doing the grease backstroke and cracking open his noggin.”