Author: Catherine Maiorisi
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/catherine-maiorisi/page,2,537229-the_blood_runs_cold.html
Corelli couldn’t fault Parker for expecting the worst of her. And as Parker’s superior, she should have been involved in the scheduling of her training. Also because she wasn’t allowed to work cases if Parker wasn’t there as her bodyguard, the training dates should have been cleared with the captain. But the blue wall punishes however it can.
Corelli flashed a gotcha smile. “We don’t assume, Parker, we work with facts. Didn’t you learn anything during your two weeks of detective training?” She gazed at Parker, pretending to consider the issue. “Okay, since you didn’t leak to Senator Daddy and you didn’t know about the training in advance, you’re staying. But your job description no longer says bodyguard and detective-in-training. You’re now just a detective-in-training.”
“Uh-uh.” Parker’s already tight jaw jutted out. “Until Captain Winfry or Chief Broderick tells me different, I’m watching your back.”
“If you want to work with me, you do what I say. Got it?”
Parker’s eyes sparked. Her face flushed. “Stop treating me like—”
“Corelli.” Detective Ray Dietz appeared at the top of the steps. “Potential homicide on West Twelfth Street and the captain says it’s yours.”
“Jesus, Dietz, Parker just came back, how can we be up already?”
“Look around, Corelli.” He waved his hand indicating the empty room. “We got ongoing investigations, we got vacations, we got sick leave, we got court appearances, and we got whatever. But we don’t got any warm bodies except you and the kid here, so you’re it.”
The anger always just beneath Corelli’s calm exterior bubbled up and nearly erupted before she caught herself. Screw the paperwork and the cold cases. Give her a homicide investigation any time. She grabbed her jacket. “I’m on it, Dietz.” As she started down the stairs, she turned back. “You’re with me, Parker. You can fill me in on what I can’t treat you like later.”
Chapter Two
Wednesday – 9 a.m.
Even in death, Leonardo del Balzo was gorgeous. He lay on his back on the sofa, wearing only pajama bottoms, hands folded over his bare chest, a rosary entwined in his fingers. Except for the small hole Corelli knew was at the back of his head, he could have been sleeping. Of course, if he was sleeping, two NYPD detectives wouldn’t be staring at him from the doorway of his living room.
The room was cool. The black glass beads of the rosary glittered in the dim light of the lamp on the end table near del Balzo’s head. The scent of incense lingered in the air, and a Gregorian chant played softly in the background. The phrase “may your soul rest in peace” echoed in Corelli’s mind along with the image of another beautiful young man, Luca, her adored older brother, in his casket with his confirmation missal and black-beaded rosary clasped in his hands. A sudden stab of loss took her breath away. Twenty years later and she still ached for Luca. She had been too young to find the man who killed him, but she would track down Leonardo del Balzo’s murderer, whatever the cost.
Aware of Parker waiting for instructions, Corelli forced herself to focus. The killer had obviously taken care and spent time setting up the scene. What did it mean? A religious fetish? A funeral fetish? Did the killer bring the incense and music or did he just take advantage of what he found? Were they dealing with a serial killer? “Parker, ask Dietz to find out whether we’ve had other vics posed like this.”
While Parker made a note, Corelli turned her attention to del Balzo, the “what” of him: curly sandy hair, tanned skin now drained of color, and a lean, muscular body, now flaccid, tall enough that his feet hung over the arm of the six-foot sofa. Like her, he had the blue-green eyes characteristic of Italians whose families carried the blood of the Norman conquerors of Southern Italy in their veins. The “who” of him they would learn by talking to family, friends, acquaintances, colleagues, neighbors, enemies—anyone who touched his life. And from those interviews, hopefully, they would identify the one person who wanted Leonardo del Balzo dead. A serial killer would be another story.
“Ready to go in?”
“Yes.” Parker sounded tense. Recently promoted out of uniform after saving a family in Harlem, she still wasn’t totally comfortable in her new role. And she was still wary of Corelli.
They donned the requisite protective gear, and placing their feet carefully, stepped into the living room. No sign of a struggle. No sign of a gun. A small incense burner filled with ash sat on the coffee table near an open bottle of San Pellegrino water and a half-empty glass. They circled the room slowly, touching nothing, observing everything.
When they stopped, Parker took out her pad and pen and started sketching the scene.
Corelli was pleased to see that Parker had learned the value of sketching as a tool to really seeing. “What do ya see?”
Parker chewed the top of her pen. “He’s laid out as if in a funeral parlor, though the smell of incense and the religious music suggest a church. He’s in his pajamas, let the killer get close enough to put a bullet in his head, and there’s no sign of a struggle. So probably the vic, um, Mr. del Balzo knew his killer.”
A burst of sound in the hall signaled the arrival of Detective Ron Watkins and other detectives who would work the case. The crime scene team crowded in behind them. The photographer greeted Corelli as she moved into the room and began to photograph the scene.
Archie Blockman, the Medical Examiner, appeared in the doorway. As usual, Archie’s clothes draped his elongated body perfectly. Today he wore a forest-green suit with a pale green shirt, a silk tie with green and brown and orange streaks and a matching handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket. “Ah, Chiara, I see I’m in the right place.” He suited up and pulled on gloves.
When the photographer signaled she was done, Archie picked up his bag and moved to the body. He grunted as he lowered himself to his knees next to the sofa. Then he was silent, his focus on the body. Corelli had never asked and he had never said, but she had the impression he said a prayer before examining a victim, that the prayer and the extreme elegance in clothes and manners he affected were his way of distancing himself from the dehumanizing aspects of his job.
He examined del Balzo, then waved Corelli over to help turn del Balzo on his side, revealing the hole in the cerebellum the EMTs had reported when Corelli and Parker arrived. He muttered to himself as he stepped through the process. Then he sighed and pulled himself to his feet.
“So what do we have, Arch?”
He removed his gloves and pushed his manicured fingers through his rust-brown curls. “As EMS reported, a single shot to the cerebellum with a small-caliber gun. No exit wound. Probably killed him instantly. Off the cuff, I’d say TOD somewhere between nine last night and three this morning. Probably killed here. No apparent defense wounds. Can’t say much more until we get him on the table. We’ll take him now.”
“When do you think—”
“Today, if I can, Chiara. If not, tomorrow morning for sure.” He waved his team in from the hall to remove the body, his thoughts already somewhere else as he removed the protective gear. The CSU moved into the room, energizing it with their sense of purpose as they began performing their assigned roles.
She supervised for a while, then turned to Watkins, watching from the hall. “Parker and I are going to take a quick look in the bedroom. Keep an eye out for a phone, address book, appointment book, or a computer. Also, get a team out to canvas the neighborhood. Let’s go, Parker.”
“Got it,” Ron said, opening his phone.
Corelli stopped in the doorway to the bedroom and Parker slammed into her.
Corelli threw up her hands. “Christ, Parker, I thought we already had the don’t get up my ass discussion.”
Parker staggered back. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were going to stop.”
“Don’t you remember what I said? Bumping into me irritates me, breathing down my neck irritates me, but apologizing irritates me worst of all. Suck it up, Detective. Concentrate. Observe. A homicide investigation is not th
e place to daydream.”
Corelli glanced over her shoulder. “And, don’t just say fuck you to my back and ignore what I say. You should know by now I always stop before entering a room to get an overview, and so should you.”
When she turned to survey the room, her eyes widened at the large crucifix hanging over the bed. Maybe it was the lack of a wedding ring, or something about the apartment, but she had assumed del Balzo was single. How did he have sex with that in the room? She could never do it. But then again, it wasn’t an issue for her these days. She was still mourning Marnie. So, despite her attraction to a suspect on their last case, the job was her life, twenty-four-seven. Some role model you are. You tell Parker not to daydream and here you are thinking about a woman instead of del Balzo. She shook her head and focused on the room.
The bed was neatly made, so probably no sex in bed with the killer last night.
Parker was already at work. “Have you ever seen a closet like this?”
She joined her in front of the closet. Suits, shirts, ties, pants, and jackets, hung by type and color, sporty on the right, more formal on the left.
Corelli snorted. “Not in my apartment.” She moved to the night table, opened the drawer and pulled out a wallet. “We can rule out robbery. His American Express, Master, and Visa cards are in his wallet along with nearly three hundred dollars. Driver’s license indicates he’s thirty-three, employee ID card indicates he works at the United Nations. Only other thing in the wallet is a business card for an attorney, Scott L. Sigler.”
Parker checked the pockets and linings of all the garments, taking care not to disturb the arrangement. “Nothing here. Just some change, a couple of paper clips, and a napkin from the FruFru Club on Bleeker Street. Sounds gay.”
“It is.” Corelli bagged the wallet.
Parker examined each of the ten boxes on the shelves and found only shoes. “Nice soft leather,” she said. “Italian, I guess. There’s nothing in the clothes or the shoeboxes. And nothing but a cardboard box on the floor, not even dust bunnies.”
Corelli searched the other night table. “Just some condoms, loose collar stays, and some change here.”
Parker rifled through the contents of the box. “Magazines and newspapers, all in a foreign language.”
Corelli took a look. “They’re Italian. I’ll check them later.”
“I’ve heard you speak Italian but I figured it was because your parents didn’t speak English when you were growing up. So you read too?”
“Yup. Gianna and I spent summers in Italy when we were kids and our cousins taught us to read and write. You impressed?”
Parker closed the box of magazines. “Let’s just say I’m surprised.”
“You think I’m just a dumb ass Italian from Brooklyn?” Corelli moved to the large dresser.
Parker spoke to Corelli’s back. “You used those words to describe yourself, not me.”
Corelli glanced over her shoulder. “Touché.” She turned her attention to the dresser. Like everything else, it was neat. A comb and brush, a bottle of cologne, and what looked like a family picture. A striking older woman, maybe his mother, a man who looked like him, probably his father, and two young women with del Balzo between them, maybe his sisters.
Corelli started going through the drawers. “You think his closet is neat, wait until you see his drawers.”
Parker started on the other column of drawers, whistled again at the neatly folded clothing separated by type—underwear, T-shirts, socks, shorts, handkerchiefs.
They moved back into the living room. Corelli stopped to talk to Ron. “We’re done in the bedroom. Nothing there except his wallet. Any luck with a phone or computer?”
“Not so far,” Ron said.
“We’ll be out back questioning the witness.”
On the way to the kitchen, they passed a small room set up for exercise with a Bowflex Home Gym, an elliptical trainer, a treadmill, a punching bag, and hanging on a wall, skis, rollerblades, and a mountain bike. Mr. del Balzo worked at looking good.
The sliding glass door in the kitchen opened out to the backyard where Officer Williams waited with the cleaning woman who had found the body. As she stepped into the sunlit yard, Corelli slipped on her sunglasses, then inhaled deeply, replacing the smell of death with the smell of newly cut grass and the fragrance of nearby flowering bushes. The backyard was quiet except for the drone of an electric saw somewhere in the neighborhood and the songs of the birds that seemed to be enjoying the late August morning.
Miranda Foxworth slumped in a chair at the picnic table, knees pressed tightly together, head in her large hands, a waterfall of long blond hair sheltering her face. She wore a tropical-looking yellow and coral blouse tucked into a solid peach skirt, and sandals with laces that crisscrossed her toned calves. Her nails were coral and looked recently done. She looked too dressed up to clean, but maybe she carried a change of clothing in the enormous bag on her lap.
Corelli sat at the table. “Ms. Foxworth.”
Miranda Foxworth looked up. She brushed the hair off her face. Lips quivering, red eyes brimming with tears, she hunched into herself. She clamped her shaking hands on the purse. She looked poised to run.
Was it finding del Balzo dead? Or fear? As Corelli studied the woman, the small pink, white and blue enamel pin on the strap of her purse caught her eye. She recognized the transgender flag. A trans woman? She wouldn’t have high expectations for any interaction with the police and many would have run rather than get involved.
Corelli removed her sunglasses, looked in Foxworth’s eyes, and smiled. “Thank you for calling this in and waiting to talk to us. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.” She tilted her head toward the purse. “Nice pin.”
Foxworth’s eyebrows shot up. “Um, thanks.” She seemed to relax at the acknowledgment.
“You clean for Mr. del Balzo?”
“Every Wednesday for the last two years.”
“Tell me about this morning.”
“I got here at eight thirty, same as always, and used my keys to get in. The alarm was off, the top was unlocked, and the bottom was locked but not double-locked. I didn’t think anything of it because he’s often late getting out and sometimes he forgets to lock up. But I was surprised to see him lying on the sofa when I walked past the living room door. At first I thought he was asleep, maybe hung over or sick, but then he looked…” She shrugged. “Not right. So I got closer. And I knew.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“No. I couldn’t breathe so I ran outside. Then I used my cell to call 911. Thank god Officer Williams got here so fast.” She smiled at the officer, who pretended not to notice.
Corelli turned to Williams. He didn’t wait to be asked.
“When we got here EMS was already with the victim—”
“Mr. del Balzo, Officer.”
He flushed. “EMS verified Mr. del Balzo was dead so me and Santiago checked the house to be sure the killer was gone. Then Santiago went out front to wait for the detectives, for you, and I took…um, the witness, um, Ms. Foxworth, back here so we wouldn’t contaminate the scene.”
“Good work,” Corelli said. “Was the sliding door locked when you came out here?”
Williams flushed again and glanced at the door. He cleared his throat. “I…I don’t remember.”
“It was locked.” All eyes shifted to Foxworth. “He fumbled with the lock. I was surprised he was nervous too.”
“Excuse us.” Corelli stepped away from the table, signaling Parker and Williams to follow. She spoke softly to Williams. “Is this your first murder scene?”
He nodded.
“I appreciate your honesty. Whether or not the door was locked is an important detail for our investigation. Make sure your report says you checked the door and found it locked. In the future, be more careful and more observant.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
She stepped back to the table and sat across from Foxworth. Parker and Williams followed. T
he conference seemed to make Foxworth anxious again; her face glistened with sweat and she was gnawing her cuticles.
“Ms. Foxworth, you told the officers Mr. del Balzo was the son of an ambassador at the United Nations. Are you sure?”
She tossed her hair and looked up at the tree. “Um. He never said, but you know, gossip around the clubs. And there were stories in the newspapers this week about the ambassador and the man in the newspaper was the same man in that picture on his dresser. Anyway, same name and Nardo was a dead ringer for him…oh, sorry, uh, spitting image.”
Corelli had also recognized the name and the face in the photograph. Last week Ambassador del Balzo was named as a possible replacement for Italy’s prime minister and the New York papers had been running stories about him. An angle to be considered. Could be the murder was politically motivated. Maybe a warning to Ambassador del Balzo? “He’s called Nardo?”
“Yeah. Short for, you know, Leonardo.”
“Do you know if Nardo had a cell phone or a computer?”
“Um, yes, an iPhone. I know because he advised me to get one.” She dug in her bag and pulled out her iPhone. “I have his number if you need it.”
Corelli nodded. Parker wrote the number Foxworth read from her phone.
“What about a computer?”
Foxworth hesitated. “He had a laptop.” She closed her eyes. “A MacBook, I think.”
“How did you come to work for him?”
“I only take referrals. A client must have given him my name.”
“Which client?”
She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples. “I’m sorry, it’s been two years. I can’t remember. Maybe later?”
Corelli handed Miranda a card. “Call me as soon as you remember. Did Nardo keep valuables or money in the house?”