LUNATIC is now available in paperback!
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EXCERPT from Lunatic (The Kensington Killers, Book One)
The darkened
sidewalk smelled of exhaust fumes and dank trash, which the brutal downpour
seemed to magnify, kicking up all kinds of odors.
Vehicles rushed
down the avenue in both directions, headlights blazing, tires bouncing over
potholes and splashing puddles. The swishing sound of never ending traffic in
concert with the dull hum of the city.
Danielle Foster
angled her flimsy umbrella against the stiff wind, its nylon canopy taking a
beating, as she shuffled along Caton Avenue, galoshes sloshing through puddles,
the plastic bag of diapers in her left hand slick with rain. The front of her
jeans were uncomfortably damp, but stealing twenty minutes to herself made it
worthwhile. She fought the urge to hunch her shoulders and instead embraced the
bad weather, as a sixteen wheeler growled by, the sound of its engine diluting
the usual street noises—intermittent honks, shouted disagreements billowing out
from the bodegas and five-and-dimes that kept their doors propped open despite
the thrashing downpour. The truck driver seemed anxious to find the interstate.
He was miles off course.
Though she felt
pathetically grateful for the walk, the sinister weather tugged on her mood.
The neighborhood
of Kensington, Brooklyn was a gritty, residential grid comprised of rowhouses,
pre-war brick apartment buildings, and detached one-family Victorians, the
latter of which seemed eerily out of place. Convenience stores, Chinese
take-out joints, and the occasional bar added to the hodgepodge personality of
nearly every intersection, though Danny had come to appreciate the esthetic. It
wasn't pretty, but neither was she.
As she came to
the curb, stopping at the crosswalk signal, asphalt rumbled beneath her feet.
The F train was barreling through the tunnel underground, a familiar sensation.
Trotting up
beside her, a pair of teenagers—sopping wet, hiding under hoodies, cackling at
the sting of chilly rain assaulting them—took turns pushing the crosswalk
button, an act of good faith they couldn't live up to. When they darted into
the street, eyeing oncoming cars and jogging in-between, Danny held her breath
until they had safely reached the other side.
No sooner than
they did, the crosswalk signal changed. It was an effort clearing the gutter
where grimy water rushed towards a storm drain. Hurrying through the
intersection, she came to another stream, but hopped onto the curb. As long as
the wind didn’t change directions and snap her umbrella inside out she wouldn't
grumble. At least she was stretching her legs, getting some air, no longer cooped
up in her apartment where her son’s cries—the ear splitting screams of a
tantrumming infant—had a way of blaring through the baby monitor moments after
she had put him down.
At the next
corner the wooden sign for O’Toole’s was swaying in the wind, rain spitting off
it. Guardedly, she slowed her pace, nearing the cloudy windows and spying the off-duty
cops inside, who were huddled around their favorite tables, pounding pints as
though they were one drink away from forgetting how rough it could be—serving
and protecting a city that considered them the enemy.
She felt naked
without her gun at her hip, an outsider in her own world.
Offering one
another feigned smiles, a consoling shoulder squeeze here, an arm jab there,
they exchanged monosyllabic remarks, but Danny looked past them to the man
behind the bar, though rain streaked down the glass, obscuring her view.
Without realizing
it, she wriggled her hand through the plastic bag's handle, the diapers inside
banging against her raincoat, and touched her stomach, watching him—the one who
had gotten away.
He threw a
dishrag over his broad shoulder, delivering another damp stain to his gray
tee-shirt, and plowed his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, his gaze
down, face in profile as though he couldn’t quite commit to the tale that one
of his buddies was telling him from across the counter. His deep-set eyes
narrowed curiously—the story was getting interesting —and when he glimpsed his
friend, his thick eyebrows shot up to his hairline, lip curling into a wry
smile.
Danny knew that
look. A booming laugh would come next, then his slate-gray eyes would liven.
Maybe he'd straighten his spine and fold his arms skeptically, making the most
of his six-foot height as if to challenge—you
serious?
He had the build
of a firefighter, because he used to be one; the busted nose of a bar owner who
had broken up his fair share of fights. The burn mark running down the side of
his neck was among her favorite battle scars. His body was a playground of old
cuts, bones that had healed badly, injuries that acted up when the air turned
damp and nasty like tonight. But that was as much as she knew about
him—physical intimacy, emotional alienation. Though a few details had slipped
out over the months. Divorced. No children. Born and raised in Brooklyn, and
hardened because of it, which summed up the extent of what she knew about him.
It hadn't been
enough.
She had missed
the signal more than once so when it flipped, she started through the
crosswalk, cutting up Ocean Parkway where brick rowhouses lined the block, hers
among them.
Rain bounced off
the stoop steps, as she lumbered up to the entrance door, her sopping jeans
giving very little at the knees.
With stiff
fingers, she clumsily fit her key into the lock and just as she pushed into the
dingy entryway, a sharp gust of wind snapped her umbrella inside out and a
sheet of rain sliced down the back of her neck.
She set the wet
plastic bag of diapers on the tiles in favor of collapsing her umbrella, as the
door slapped shut behind her.
On the opposite
side of the cramped lobby, the building super, Camil Usov—a cranky old Russian
who'd mastered the art of grumbling complaints under his accented
breath—loosened his hold on the mop he was gripping as if the water she'd
brought in with her had defeated him. Something Russian slipped out through his
frown.
He shuffled over,
carrying a yellow wet floor sign, which he set beside her, his way of
cautioning her about the slippery tiles, and commented, “Nasty out.”
As she picked up
her plastic bag, having wrestled her mangled umbrella into shape, she
commiserated, mentioning, “It’s not going to let up until May.”
“Good for the
baby, eh?” he said, mopping at her heels as she made her way to the stairwell
door. “Rain lulls baby right to sleep.”
Whipping the
steel door open, she smiled companionably and said, “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Camil scratched
his jowls, the pricks of stubble on his sunken cheeks, and asked her to be
careful on the stairs.
The door slammed
shut behind her, sending an echo through the stairwell. She clamped her
umbrella under her armpit and heeded his advice, holding the railing as she
climbed to the second floor where he had laid out mats so the tenants wouldn't
slip and break their necks.
When she entered
her threadbare apartment—weathered hard wood floors, wall paint peeling, sooty
windowsills, and tarnished appliances, though she cleaned regularly and kept
the place homey—her ears perked up, but by some miracle Gregory wasn't crying.
Her mother, Nora
wasted no time setting the baby monitor on the end table, springing off the
couch, and making herself useful, all the while her dainty features pinched
with marked concern.
“You didn’t take
any detours, did you?” she asked as she took the plastic bag from Danny.
It was a loaded
question, but she said, “No, Ma,” knowing that the truth would only incite an
argument, as she started towards the living room. Her galoshes snicked over the
wooden floor, which reminded her to kick them off.
“You went to
Kumar’s on Ditmas, right?” Nora went on, helping Danny out of her raincoat once
she'd rounded back. Gingerly, she shook it free of rain, holding the coat away
from herself so she wouldn’t sprinkle her cardigan or corduroys—Nora liked to
keep her clothes nice since, in her words, she didn’t have much. “Diapers are
fifteen cents less there, I told you that.”
“Yes, Ma, I went
to Kumar’s,” she lied.
After hanging the
raincoat on a rack, she straightened Danny’s galoshes against the wall like a
knowing chambermaid, and trailed after her into the living room, her every
criticism veiled in tender, loving care. “Your hair is damp. You should’ve let
me go out. Look at your jeans. They’re sopping.”
“I needed to
stretch my legs,” she reminded her, scrunching her mop of graying-brown hair
where it had grown out on top. She kept the sides short rather than covering
the worst of the gray.
Nora padded
around the islet and into the kitchen, set the wet plastic bag on the counter,
and began filling a teakettle, angling the spout under the sink faucet.
“I didn’t tell
you,” she said, shutting the water off and placing the kettle on the front
burner. She turned the dial and after the stove clicked, a flare of fire puffed
out and she went on, “Nance is free tomorrow night.”
“My hair looks
fine,” she bristled softly. Bickering would wake the baby not that she wasn’t
overdue for a trim.
“I want to treat
you,” she pressed, facing Danny with her most convincing smile. “What’s wrong
with getting the color done? She’ll give you a blow out and do your nails as
well.”
Same old song and
dance.
Danny's
appearance caused Nora almost physical pangs of remorse. She nagged constantly
about her daughter's lack of personal preening, a deficiency that Danny
attributed to, quite frankly, not giving a fuck about her looks, at least not
since Tommy had walked out of her life. Nora, by contrast, poured every last
penny she earned into sprucing up and maintaining her modest style, which came
as a strange sacrifice considering her babysitting wages.
“You deserve it,”
she went on. “And Nance will come here so you don’t have to leave Gregory.”
“I’ll think about
it.”
“I’d like to see
you grow out your hair, get some long layers framing those big eyes of yours.
Your such a pretty girl, but no one would know it the way you carry yourself
like a tomboy.”
“Thanks, Ma,” she
said dryly, as she pulled the diapers from the plastic bag. She liked her hair
short so perps couldn’t grab it, but that logic had never worked on her mother.
“And you could
dress a little nicer, too,” Nora added. “Your stomach will go down. You can’t
hide under that floppy sweater forever. There’s a big Spring sale happening at
K-Mart.”
Danny wasn’t
wearing the sweater because of her stomach, but because she had been lactating
at the most inopportune times and was tired of changing her shirt.
Feeling boxed in
to agreeing, she conceded, “Then let’s hit the sale,” and offered her mother a
tired smile.
It was worth it
just to see Nora brighten. She clapped her hands together then touched her
blonde, wavy hair, which was also in need of a trim since it brushed her frail
shoulders.
The kettle
whistled so she plucked it off the burner, asking, “Chamomile or...” She was
hunting through the cabinets now, her expression drooping at the slim options.
“Well, chamomile's all we've got. Lipton or Stash?”
Danny clamped the
diapers under her armpit, joined her mother at the counter, and hooked her free
arm around Nora's bird-brittle one, teasing: “These brands are terrible.”
At 5’10” she had
a solid five inches on her mother so she nuzzled the top of her head, as Nora
elbowed her, letting out a little laugh. “Oh, stop.”
“What would I do
without you, Ma?” she said, starting for the baby’s room.
“You know I love
helping out,” she called after her.
The room was dim
and quiet except for the sound of rain ticking against the window. As cars
drove along the street outside, the flare from their headlights crept across
the green walls. She stepped softly so she wouldn’t wake her son and placed the
diapers on the changing table then neared his crib.
He looked so
small swaddled under his fleece blanket. His closed eyes were as puffy as the
day he'd been born and in the three weeks since his birth he had lost the full
head of dark hair that he'd come into the world with. It was hard to imagine
this tiny creature would one day be a grown man, would one day tower over her,
challenge her and love her and drive her crazy at times.
At the risk of
stirring him, she gently caressed his bald head.
He felt cool.
It gave her
pause.
Angling over him,
she cupped his cheek.
He didn’t move.
His narrow mouth
looked slack and as her heart rate spiked she placed her finger under his
button nose.
He wasn’t
breathing.
Her mind whirled,
launching into sudden panic. She threw the blanket off and pressed her palm
against his chest. She couldn’t feel his heart thump.
“Mom!” she
yelled, scooping her son’s limp body out of the crib. He flopped against her
chest, as Nora rushed into the room.
“What?”
“Call an
ambulance!”
“What?” she
asked, the urgency in Danny’s tone disorienting her. She groped for the light
switch.
“Get the phone,”
she ordered. “Call 911.”
As Nora rocketed
down the hallway and into the living room, Danny began patting Gregory’s back
and gently bouncing him. Her mind felt paralyzed. A sob stuttered out of her.
This couldn’t be happening.
Her mother
appeared in the doorway, phone pressed to her ear, a look of stunned dismay on
her aged face, and in a confused frenzy she recited the address.
Danny shouted
over her, “He’s not breathing!”
“He’s a newborn,”
Nora relayed to the 911 operator then asked Danny, “Is he blue?”
“I can’t feel his
heart! What happened? When did you last check on him?”
Nora began
stammering, “He was quiet. I... I don’t know, not since before you went out.”
Into the receiver she demanded, “Send help!”
“What do I do?”
she pleaded, tone shrill and cracking, but when she locked eyes with her
mother, Nora had no suggestions.
Her mouth drifted
open. The phone slipped out of her hand and hit the floor, busting apart.
As Danny held her
infant tightly, sirens blaring in the distance, she knew it was too late.
***Author's note: all books in the Kensington Killers series can be read as a stand-alone.***
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