The False Mirror Read online

Sharon held the stained letter in her hand and started reading, Nine days to go . . .

  She carefully inserted the note into the evidence bag she always kept in her pocketbook for unexpected incidents.

  “Did the letter come in an envelope?” she asked.

  “Yes, we left it at home,” answered Rebecca.

  “Good, any evidence can help.” Sharon figured it would be easier to dust for fingerprints from the envelope; fewer hands had touched it in comparison to the letter that had been passed around between Becky, Rebecca and Sharon’s mother, Jill.

  Maybe the crazy bastard even licked the envelope, the thought crossed her mind.

  “Well, I have to see the . . . package.” Sharon refrained from being too specific. “You don’t have to come with me. I can go by myself,” she reassured them.

  Rebecca handed her the keys with tensed hands.

  While she was walking next door, Sharon took out her cell phone and dialed.

  “Hello, Davis? Didn’t you have a family emergency?” asked Rob with a hint of surprise in his voice.

  “It turned out to be a police emergency,” she replied snidely. “It’s my neighbor, nothing to do with me,” she quickly added.

  “What do you need?”

  “Send a car and a forensic team to 1970 East 13th Street, Brooklyn.”

  ***

  While waiting for the forensics team, Sharon examined the contents of the cardboard box. The amputated finger rested peacefully at the bottom. The blood, which had already coagulated, stained the gold ring still embracing the severed organ.

  The procedure was to search for a match for the victim’s identity according to a blood sample or a fingerprint, which in this case were both available. However, the fact Becky had recognized her father’s wedding ring left very little room for doubt.

  The muffled sound of footsteps approaching broke the stillness that dominated the empty house. It must be the forensics team, she assumed as she headed for the door.

  “Becky!” called a masculine voice through the door, followed by continuous knocking.

  Sharon took a step back and became vigilant. She reached for her holster and pulled out her Glock.

  “Becky, let me in right now!” The voice grew louder, and the knocks turned into powerful blows.

  Sharon recalled Becky telling her about the phone call she’d received from the menacing stranger right after she’d gotten the package. Did he come here to fulfill his threats? After all, he knew exactly where to send the package.

  “If you don’t answer me in the next ten seconds, I’m breaking the door down!” she heard him roar. Despite the physical threat of breaking the door, Sharon thought she recognized concern in his voice.

  She tiptoed to the door and unlocked it. Then she immediately returned to her alert position, poised with her gun aimed forward.

  The door opened, and a large shadow swept in, followed by an even bigger man. Sharon immediately noticed to the gun he held in his right hand.

  “Don’t shoot!” she ordered him, maintaining a cool tone.

  The big stranger seemed both surprised and troubled to find Sharon waiting for him there.

  “Who are you? Where’s Becky?” he demanded, tightening his grip on the gun.

  “Don’t shoot,” she repeated, a little less calmly this time. “You don’t want the blood of a cop on your hands, do you?” she asked defiantly but felt her heart pounding.

  “What are you talking about?” he exclaimed, suddenly looking uncertain. “Show me your badge,” he demanded.

  “I can’t do that right now because you’re still holding your gun on me, but my name is Sharon Davis and I’m a homicide detective with the NYPD. My badge number is 0915.”

  “Oh, no!” His face turned pale as he automatically lowered his gun and put it back in his holster. “I’m too late!” He leaned forward, with one arm stretched over to the doorway, the other one on his waist. “Dammit!” he yelled and kicked the door.

  Sharon looked at him, baffled; he was panting, with his head hunched downward, toward his stretched arm.

  He took a long, deep breath and turned his gaze at her. “When?” he finally asked.

  Sharon glared at him, confused. “When what?”

  “When did it happen,” the man sighed, “when did she die?” he said in a low, desperate voice and shook his head in frustration.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she demanded, and then it hit her: “You mean Becky?”

  He gave her a speechless look as if he’d lost the ability to utter even a single word.

  “She’s okay,” Sharon assured him. “She’s in a safe place,” she quickly added after realizing she still didn’t know who this man was, and what if he were dangerous – although she started to question the latter in light of his genuine sadness.

  He raised his head as a smile of sincere relief came to his lips, “She’s okay? Really? When you said you’re a homicide detective, I just assumed . . .” His bright eyes flickered before they fixed their gaze on Sharon. “The worst,” he eventually completed the sentence.

  Sharon smiled at him understandingly, but then it struck her, once again, that she still had no idea who this man was.

  “Who are you?” she asked, half suspiciously, half curiously.

  “Jacob Stanton, United States Marshals Service,” he replied in a deep, impressive voice.

  Sharon watched his hands carefully as he took out his federal ID badge. She lowered her gun, but she was still very much confused.

  She gave him a long, inquiring stare, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  As the words came out of her mouth, she connected the bits and pieces of information Rebecca and Becky had told her beforehand. No one had “run away”, but rather, they were moved by the Witness Protection Program.

  “Becky’s family was in the Witness Protection Program,” Jacob explained what Sharon had already managed to figure out for herself. “I’m the marshal in charge of their case. Becky is in grave danger.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sharon blurted wryly, pointing with her gaze to the open package on the table.

  CHAPTER 26

  September 15, 2013. Manhattan, New York

  That night, Detective Davis came home late. She unbuckled her holster, and on her way to set it down on the dresser, she pressed the play button on the answering machine. Sharon was probably one of the few people who still had an answering machine at home – not necessarily as a collector’s item. Usually there were no messages: what with emails, chats, and texts, people don’t feel the need to leave voice messages any more. And still, she couldn’t completely abandon a habit so embedded in her daily routine.

  “You have one new message,” her answering machine announced. Sharon raised her head in surprise and hurried back to the living room.

  “Hey Honey, it’s me,” Chris’s voice filled the space. “I missed your voice, but you didn’t answer the phone, so I had to settle for the next best thing.”

  She could feel the warmth of color invading her cheeks as she was listening.

  “. . . You know, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re much nicer when you answer through a machine than in real life. And you’re also a terrific listener.”

  Sharon chuckled and dropped into the couch with satisfaction.

  “In any case, I’m guessing that by the time you get home, I’ll already be fast asleep. Wake me up!”

  She smiled again, a wide grin pushing her flushed cheeks upward. She glanced at her watch: it was already quite late. She decided not to call and wake Chris – although she really wanted to.

  Sharon planned to go straight to bed; she was exhausted. The long day began to take its toll on her. After the forensics team arrived and collected the evidence, she and Jacob formulated a plan. They both agreed that Becky couldn’t stay at Rebecca’s; it was no longer safe. Becky, on the other hand, adamantly refused to leave her grandmother. The final compromise was that Becky would stay at Rebecca’s and Ja
cob would sleep downstairs on the couch.

  Sharon and Jacob were scheduled to meet at Rebecca’s house the next day to check if a new package had come in and, more importantly, another phone call. Marshal Stanton had arranged for all calls to Rebecca’s house to be traced. Sharon didn’t expect to hear anything new from the forensics team since the existing pieces of evidence were in a far-from-ideal condition. If a new package arrived, she would make sure they got it right away.

  As if that weren’t enough, on her way home she got an email from the coroner who had carried out the postmortem examination on Tracy Navarro’s body. A tiny dot on Tracy’s chest aroused her suspicion, enough to conduct specific blood tests to identify substances that could mimic symptoms of an overdose. Indeed, traces of atropine were found in Tracy’s blood. Sharon arched an eyebrow. In her line of work, she was exposed to a variety of strange substances used for killing: mercury, rat poison, and even expired Aspirin. But atropine was definitely a first. To the best of her knowledge, it was used for treating arrhythmias. Her uncle on her mother’s side, Barry, took it.

  So, was this actually a murder? She sent Ivory, the medical examiner, a concise email containing only two characters: ?!

  Before putting the phone away, she added a reminder: visit Ivory’s office first thing tomorrow morning and get a better understanding of these results. The smartphone Chris had bought her was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it was full of various apps and tricks that helped her become more organized and efficient at work – sometimes, a quick search on Google right before you go inside the interrogation room could be more helpful than a polygraph. On the other hand, like an addict looking for their next fix, the workaholic in Sharon knew no limits; she always made sure to get caught up with everything happening, answered calls from work on her day off, and checked her inbox every hour so she – God forbid – wouldn’t miss any emails.

  It was awful.

  She turned off her cell phone and placed it on the coffee table. She closed her eyes and gave in to her fatigue, clearing her mind from the events of the day.

  She lasted three whole minutes.

  Sharon opened her eyes and immediately reached for her cell phone. She turned it on and dialed.

  “Hello?” answered Chris, his voice drowsy.

  “Me too,” she said.

  “Me too what?” he asked, still half asleep.

  “I missed your voice, too.”

  CHAPTER 27

  September 16, 2013. Manhattan, New York

  00:32

  Sharon still couldn’t fall asleep. The talk with Chris might have calmed her a bit, but now it was Tracy Navarro who occupied her thoughts. If she really was poisoned, they were looking at a murder. And with this type of suspects list, the press would have a field day.

  We’re dead meat, she began to type a text message to Rob but immediately erased it. It was past midnight; they would have more than enough time to discuss the case tomorrow.

  She made herself a macchiato from the espresso machine that had cost her a small fortune and sat on the bed with her laptop placed on her lap.

  “Know thy enemy,” she mumbled to herself while typing Tracy Navarro’s name on Google along with the words Little Black book. In just a few seconds, over seven-hundred and fifty thousand search results appeared – a database that should not be taken lightly.

  Sharon noticed a web article titled, The Clients Who Hoped She Would Keep Her Mouth Shut – The Hottest Names From Tracy’s Little Black Book. It reviewed twenty of the most recognizable listed names with a short biography for each. An excellent starting point, Sharon told herself; sometimes, the quality of research of a reporter craving a hot scoop did not fall short of that of a detective determined to solve a case. Ironically, the article had been published only two days before the death of the escort.

  I wonder if the editors of this website would have had the balls to publish this article after the fact . . .

  Sharon scrolled down with the mouse wheel and read the names in the article. She recognized a few of them: Dale Lansbury, an aging tycoon notorious for his Hugh Hefner-esque life style; William McKenzie, crowned last month at the top ten of New York’s most eligible bachelors; and, alas, Dan McCartney, the commanding officer of the narcotics division.

  With such a list of potential suspects, she was doomed to be the most miserable cop in New York.

  Well, at least the commissioner would stop pressuring her to release her duties as a homicide detective to become the new spokeswoman for the NYPD. She would no longer fit, not after investigating New York’s elite as persons of interest in a murder case. And she wasn’t sure anyone else would have the balls to do it.

  On the other hand, chances were that if she pursued this, the commissioner would become more determined than ever to relieve her of her duties as head detective, especially after she got on the nerves of some of his important and powerful friends – and this time for good, with no alluring spokesmanship position to soften the blow.

  Sharon recalled how she had gotten into a similar situation the previous year, when she’d interrogated the commissioner’s close friend about the serial murders of young and beautiful women. Even then, she had worked against all odds and the case had almost been taken out of her hands, until the killer had made a terrible mistake . . .

  If she could pull through all the vicissitudes of the Sleeping Beauties Affair – the dark secrets, the danger, and the surprising revelations, one after the other – she could survive anything. That case had almost cost Sharon her life, but since then, she’d learned to trust her gut. She hoped that, once again, her detective’s intuition would not let her down.

  Her eyes kept looking back and forth at the screen until she noticed she was blinking too much between each word. She took out a yellow notepad and a black pen and started noting to herself some relevant names and details, circling them, underlining for emphasis, and adding plenty of exclamation points. Perhaps tomorrow this poor page would find itself crumpled in the trash, but for now Sharon felt more assured. She pushed the laptop and the notepad aside, turned off the light, and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Good morning, Max.”

  Still strapped to the chair, reeking of sweat and blood, sat the fragile figure of Max Webber. He was dehydrated, his muscles had atrophied, and his exposed flesh attracted disgusting flies that circled around his wounds.

  Max could just barely elevate his neck to raise his head. He tried to focus his gaze on the man who stood before him. He felt dizzy.

  “Your daughter has a very sexy voice,” continued Helborgen. “I can’t wait to meet her in person.”

  A burst of adrenaline rushed through his body and made Max straighten up at once. He wanted to kill this scumbag, who had dared to come near his daughter, with his bare hands. He pictured himself crushing Ray’s filthy neck until it reached that blissful cracking sound, applying pressure until his evil eyes popped out of their holes and fell at his feet, crushed under the sole of his shoe.

  A vindictive grin began to appear on his lips, but then his gaze refocused on Helborgen’s dark eyes, resting safely in their place. He tried to spit at him, but all that came out was a faint breath of air.

  “Come on, Webber, look at yourself. You’re pathetic. If I didn’t still need you, I would have done you a favor and killed you already.”

  Max glared at him with a murderous stare.

  “. . . But since I would hate to disappoint your little girl, I only came for one little thing. After all, I did promise her a new one every day . . .” he smiled wickedly.

  Ray took a shiny silver-colored cigar cutter out from his pocket. He started to move his fingers, making the blades clash repeatedly.

  The metallic sound of friction jarred on Max’s ears. He could feel his stomach turn. Cold sweat covered his forehead. His throat was burning with dryness. Each heartbeat was painful. The sounds produced by the colliding blades penetrated to his bones. But he would never give
Helborgen the satisfaction of showing his fear.

  “I thought this time we should do this professionally, you know, for an even cut. After all, our Becky deserves the best . . .”

  Max clenched his teeth. He felt his nerves were about to explode whenever this piece of shit mentioned Becky’s name.

  “. . . So what finger will it be this time? Any preference?” he asked with a cruel sneer.

  “You’ll pay for this,” hissed Max.

  “You’ve got it wrong, Webber. You’re the one who’s going to pay me for everything you stole from us, plus compound interest. And now it’s time to collect.”

  He approached Max and began to sing while pointing at his fingers, “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe!” Ray pointed at Max’s right pinkie. He shoved the pinkie into the metal circle and pressed with all his might.

  Max bit his lips so hard they bled – but he didn’t make a sound.

  Helborgen let the severed finger land on the ground. “Great, Richie will come pick it up soon. I’d rather not touch filthy Jew organs.”

  Max’s eyes focused on a distant point again. He acted as though he didn’t hear him. Each breath of air was crucial for his survival. The same beads of sweat that had appeared earlier at the sides of his temples were now trickling slowly down his cheek. The burning sensation in his throat had subsided. His heartbeat slowed down to a steady pace. But the pain in his finger was excruciating.

  After Helborgen shut the door behind him, he wept silently.

  CHAPTER 29

  September 16, 2013. Manhattan, New York

  At 8:30 a.m., Detective Davis marched into Doctor Ivory Lambert’s office to discuss the details of the Navarro case. As the coroner stated, the bottom line was clear: Tracy Navarro had been murdered. The killer hoped that Tracy's death would appear to be caused by an overdose of cocaine so that the use of atropine wouldn’t be discovered. Both substances had similar side effects, including heart palpitations, nausea, and dizziness. The killer must have subdued Tracy – who was already high – and injected the drug directly into her heart, knowing that its effects would seem like a cocaine overdose. Sheer genius. In fact, if Ivory hadn’t noticed the tiny stab mark in Tracy’s chest, she wouldn’t have carried out the additional toxicology screen that eventually revealed the incriminating discovery. Sharon wondered what would have happened if Ivory Lambert hadn’t had such a keen eye.