Lisa Unger - Smoke

“Jesamyn, are you listening to me?” asked Dylan, still on the other line.

“What?”

“I said, what do you know about this?”

“Know about it? I don’t know anything about it. It’s complete bullshit. Matt Stenopolis is the most upright guy I have ever known. Honest, reliable, mature,” she said, turning the knife a little and hoping he was picking up on it.

“But he’s got a temper,” said Dylan.

She paused a second.

“Yeah, he’s got a temper but only when people act like assholes. Anyway, what are you saying? You think he did this?”

He didn’t say anything but she could hear him breathing on the line. Then, “Jez, I hear they have pictures of him entering and leaving her apartment. Fingerprint evidence at the scene, blood in his car. I mean, they’re not going to bring a cop in like that, humiliate him in front of his family, unless they’re real sure they’re dealing with someone capable of what they say he did to that pro.”

“What do you mean?”

“That girl was beaten to death. Someone beat her to death with his fists. Someone big.”

She squeezed her eyes shut tight and when she opened them, her vision had a white ring around it “You know him, Dylan. I know him. It’s not possible. It’s just not.”

He sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m coming down there,” she said. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

“They’re not going to let you see him,” he was saying as she ended the call. She started the engine of the Explorer and pulled out of the school drive.

A ghost of a thought was starting to form in her mind. She tried to push it down, but it wouldn’t go.

It was a rage killing. A rage killing that was followed by deep remorse. They knew that by the way Katrina Silvana Aliti had been beaten with big heavy fists, beaten until she died. She was a tiny woman, not five-three, not even a hundred and ten pounds. She never had a chance against a man that size, was likely unconscious after the first blow to her head.

When she was dead, the killer must have come back to himself. Realized fully what he had done. Then he covered her face and body with the pink flowered sheet from her bed. The man that the killer found her with had run, not even bothering to retrieve his clothes. He had wrapped himself in a blanket he found on the couch and fled. His dick was still hard and would stay that way for hours, since he’d taken a double hit of Viagra in anticipation of his evening with Katrina.

The big man had allowed the john to leave, barely even registering his presence. From the street outside where he called the police from a pay phone, the john said he heard the giant wailing like an injured moose. He hid himself in a doorway as the man ran from the building, climbed into an SUV, and sped off.

“I’ve never seen anyone that tall outside a basketball court,” he told the police when they arrived. “He came through that door like it was made out of cardboard. She called him ‘Mateo.’ ”

The surveillance camera from the livery cab company outside captured Detective Mateo Stenopolis arriving at Katrina’s apartment around midnight and leaving less than a half an hour later.

“He doesn’t look upset,” said Jesamyn after watching the tape for the fifth time. “He’s not upset. He’s not running.”

“That’s because he’s a stone-cold killer, Detective Breslow.”

“Bullshit. I don’t care what kind of evidence you have. You’ll never convince me of that.”

“We have an eyewitness account, a videotape, blood evidence in his vehicle.”

“What about his DNA at the scene? If he beat her to death, his DNA should be all over her body. His knuckles should be broken and bloodied. Or bruised.”

“Evidence suggests that he wore gloves.”

“Hair, then. Fibers.”

“It’ll take weeks for that to come back.”

The interrogation room was too cold. She found herself wondering if they knew that she hated the cold, that it made her feel vulnerable somehow and small, that it opened a strange place of sadness within her that she couldn’t explain. She folded her arms across her chest, tucked her hands under her arms.

“Just two days ago, we had a civilian complaint from a Jorge Alonzo. Alonzo claims that Stenopolis menaced and brutalized him, damaged his property.”

Jesamyn looked at the old cop, pushed a disdainful breath out of her mouth. “Give me a break.”

“Is it true?”

She remembered how mad Mount had gotten, how she’d turned her back so she wouldn’t see him put his hands on the guy.

“The kid was a punk, he had an attitude, he made some shitty comment about me and Detective Stenopolis raised his voice.”

Detective Ray Bloom looked at her with wise, moist eyes. She could see that he’d been handsome about a hundred years ago. She could see that he was smart and kind and a good cop. But she hated him anyway.

“He didn’t put his hands on Alonzo?”

“No,” she said. The lie stuck in her throat and she reached for the coffee they’d placed in front of her. It was bitter and cold.

“He didn’t put his hands on Alonzo,” repeated Detective Bloom. He knew she was lying, that it pained her, and he wanted to force her to say it again.

But Jesamyn didn’t say anything, just turned her eyes on Bloom.

“I heard you didn’t even let him put on his clothes,” she said quietly. “How do you people live with yourselves?”

His partner pushed himself away from the wall behind her where he’d been standing for a while and moved into her field of vision. He was a big guy, with a bodybuilder’s physique. Square jaw in square head on square shoulders, very little neck, heavy brow. He didn’t look very smart. Did he think he was intimidating her? Even the biggest of them fell and cried like little girls with a solid kick to the kneecap; hit hard and directly in just the right place it shattered like a china saucer beneath the wheels of a car.

“Let’s try to stay focused, Detective Breslow,” said Bloom. “Did you know he was seeing a prostitute?”

“No,” she said. “If it’s true, I didn’t know that. You still haven’t convinced me it’s true.”

“I don’t have to convince you of anything, Detective,” he said quietly.

She nodded. She’d been in with them for nearly two hours and she was getting tired. Dylan had been right. When she showed up at 1 PP, they wouldn’t let her see Matt. He was being processed and it would be twelve hours at least before she could even talk to him. She’d spent a few minutes with Mount’s family, his mother, father, and younger brother Theo. His mom had been crying and started again when Jesamyn approached them.

She’d embraced each of them and told them that it was all going to be fine, though she wasn’t sure of that at all. It was just a misunderstanding. A mistake, she assured them. Theo looked the least freaked out of the three of them, so she took him aside.

“What you need to do,” she told him, “is get in touch with Mateo’s PBA rep. Call the desk sergeant at the Ninth Precinct, he’ll know who it is and how to get in touch. They’ll know what to do and they’ll help you find a lawyer.”

He put a hand on her arm. “Just tell me the truth. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

She hesitated a second. Then, “Yes, Theo. It’s very bad. Get him a very good lawyer. The best you can afford.”

Theo nodded, looking stunned. She could relate. She felt pretty stunned herself. That’s when Detective Bloom approached her.

“You saved me a trip, Detective,” he’d said, coming up behind her. “I have some questions about your partner.”

They’d led her to an interrogation room, showed her the videotape. Once. Twice. Three times. As often as she asked them to rewind it and play it again.