Delayed Justice
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Shirlee McCoy
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13
Harlequin😊 Low Spice
HarlequinONE
Sasha Eastman had never been afraid to stand on a crowded street corner in Sheepshead Bay, New York. She’d waited at crosswalks hundreds of times, standing amid throngs of people all staring at phones or streetlights and then flowing like lemmings across the roads. She knew the ebb of city life—the busy, noisy, thriving world of people and vehicles and emergency sirens. Since her father’s death two years ago, she found the crowds comforting. Each morning she walked out of her quiet apartment and reminded herself that she wasn’t alone, that there was a city filled with people surrounding her. She didn’t need more than that. She didn’t want more. She liked being free of the emotional entanglement relationships brought—the highs and lows, joys and heartbreaks. She’d lost her mother at fourteen years old, lost her ex-husband to another woman after three years of marriage. She’d lost her father to cancer, and she had no intention of losing anyone ever again. Being alone was fine. It was good. She was happy with her two-bedroom apartment and the silence she returned to after a long day of work. She had always felt safe and content in the life she had created.
And then he’d appeared.
First, just at the edge of her periphery—a quick glimpse that had made her blood run cold. The hooked nose, the hooded eyes, the stature that was just tall enough to make him stand out in a crowd. She’d told herself she was overtired, working too hard, thinking too much about the past. Martin Roker had died in a gun battle with the police eighteen years ago, shortly after he had murdered Sasha’s mother. He was not wandering the streets of New York City. He wasn’t stalking her. He wouldn’t jump out of her closet in the dead of night.
And yet she hadn’t been able to shake the anxiety that settled in the pit of her stomach.
She had seen him again a day later. Full-on face view of a man who should be dead. He’d been standing across the street from the small studio where she taped her show for the local-access cable station, WBKN. She’d walked outside at dusk, ready to return home after a few hours of working on her story. The one she was finally ready to tell: the tragedy of losing a family member to murder and the triumph that could come from it. Her mind had been in the past, her thoughts dwelling on those minutes and hours after she had learned of her mother’s death. She’d been looking at her phone, wondering if she should visit the police precinct to ask for the case file on her mother’s murder. When she looked up, he had been across the street.
And now...
Now she was afraid in a way she couldn’t remember ever being before. Afraid that she would see him again; worried that delving into past heartaches had unhinged her mind and made her vulnerable to imagining things that couldn’t possibly exist.
Like a dead man walking the streets.
She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, determined to push the fear away. Martin Roker was dead. He had died eighteen years ago—a forty-year-old man who had forced the police to shoot him. He couldn’t possibly be stalking her. Even if he had lived, even if he had decided to hunt her down for some twisted reason, he wouldn’t still look like a forty-year-old man. He would have aged.
Her cell phone rang and she glanced down, dismissing the number as a solicitor’s. When she looked up again, the light had changed and the crowd was moving. She stepped off the curb, scanning the area, her heart jumping as she met cold blue eyes.
He was there! Right in her path, looking into her eyes as if he were daring her to come closer. Hooked nose. Blondish hair. Taller by a couple of inches than the people around him.
She turned away, heart in her throat, pulse racing. She glanced back, sure that he would be gone. He was crossing the street with long, determined strides, his cold gaze focused on Sasha. Hands deep in the pockets of his coat, shoulders squared, he moved through the crowd without breaking eye contact. Terrified, she ran back the way she had come, dodging the throng of people returning home after work. The studio was three blocks away. She’d go there and call for a cab, because she couldn’t call the police and say a dead man was stalking her.
Could she?
She glanced back again, hoping he had been a figment of her imagination and that maybe she was simply exhausted from too many nights thinking about the past and her mother’s murder.
He was still there! Moving quickly and gaining on her.
This was real!
He was real!
She ducked into a corner bakery, smiling at the man behind the counter as she ran to the display case and pretended to look at the pastries.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Just looking,” she murmured, her mouth dry with fear, the smile still pasted on her face. She knew how to fake happiness. She knew how to pretend everything was okay. She’d done it after her mother’s murder because she hadn’t wanted her father to worry. She’d done it after her ex-husband, Michael, had told her he was in love with another woman, packed his bags and walked out of their apartment. She’d put on her smiles and she had faked her happiness. She was ready to be more authentic. She wanted to be.
She wanted to tell her story and share her experiences. She wanted to hunt for the good in New York City’s crowded streets and boroughs and give people something to smile about.
Had her determination to do that caused the past to be resurrected?
She could think of no other reason for a man who looked exactly like her mother’s killer to be stalking her. The producer of the local cable news show she worked for had insisted she tell viewers about the two-day special report she was working on. The story of her mother’s murder and the aftermath of it. After all these years, Sasha was eager to let the world know that her mother had been a wonderful woman who had made a terrible mistake. A mistake that had cost her life. Following that tragedy, Sasha had become determined to fulfill the dream she had spent so many hours talking to her mother about. Even at a young age, she had known she wanted to be a journalist. Telling her story was part of that.
But had it put her in the crosshairs of a madman?
She shuddered, still staring into the case and wishing she didn’t have to walk outside alone.
The door opened behind her, the quiet whoosh making her skin crawl. She didn’t dare turn around. She was too afraid of what she would see. Her shoulders tensed as someone walked across the tile floor.
“Hey, Bradley! You’re in early tonight. You want the usual?” the man behind the counter called out cheerfully.
He obviously wasn’t seeing a ghoulish monster.
Sasha moved to the side and let her gaze drift to the figure that was stepping up to the counter. Suit. Button-down shirt. Shiny leather shoes. A dog on a leash standing calmly beside him, its dark brown eyes focused on Sasha.
She nearly sagged with relief.
She knew the dog, and she knew the police officer. Detective Bradley McGregor’s parents had been murdered in their home twenty years ago. Their four-year-old daughter, Penelope, had been left unhurt. Their fourteen-year-old son, Bradley, out on a sleepover at a friend’s apartment, had been the prime suspect. The double homicide had been a hot topic on the local news channels back then. Recently, it had become one again. Earlier this year, a copycat killer had murdered a couple, leaving their young daughter as the only witness. The similarities between the cases had been obvious enough to make people talk.
Sasha had listened.
She’d been young at the time of the McGregor murders, and the details had been blurry. After doing some research and realizing that stories of Bradley’s guilt had still circulated for decades after he had been taken off the suspect list, she had known she wanted to interview him for her show.
A local son raised by neglectful parents and suspected of their brutal murders becomes a well-respected K-9 police detective.
What wasn’t feel-good about that?
Last week, she’d visited Detective McGregor at the precinct, hoping he’d agree to an interview. She’d tried to talk to his sister, Penny, but the young woman, who was the front desk clerk at the Brooklyn K-9 Unit, had said No comment at least five times.
Sasha hadn’t given up.
She would return to the precinct and ask again, but now wasn’t the right time to try to talk Bradley McGregor into an interview. Not when he was watching her tensely, obviously braced for an onslaught of questions and requests.
“Detective,” she murmured, refusing to allow his lack of warmth to send her rushing from the bakery. Right now, this was her safe spot. She would hang around until McGregor left. Then she would walk outside with him.
“Ms. Eastman,” he responded, his gaze shifting to the man behind the counter. “I’ll take my usual, Jack. Throw in a couple of éclairs for my sister.”
“Won’t be long, she’ll be moving out, hey?” the man said. “Heard she’s getting married.”
“You heard right.”
“Can’t believe the little kid you used to bring in for muffins and juice is old enough to fly the coop.” He shook his head, his attention jumping to a point beyond Sasha.
He frowned.
“You got trouble, young lady?” he asked.
Startled, she turned and saw her worst nightmare staring in the storefront window. His cold eyes and dead expression were too familiar, his smile chilling as he pulled his hand from his pocket and pointed a gun in her direction.
She screamed, bumping Detective McGregor as she tried to duck away. The crack of gunfire echoed through the bakery, the window exploding into a million tiny fissures that crawled across the glass.
Detective McGregor shouted for her to get down, but she was already on the floor, scrambling for cover behind the counter. The door opened and closed, and she had no idea if McGregor had run outside or if Martin Roker had entered. She cowered behind the counter and waited as the sounds of sirens and people shouting drifted in from the street.
Detective Bradley McGregor raced down the crowded sidewalk, dodging pedestrians as he shouted for the gunman to stop. His Belgian Malinois partner, King, trained for protection but excellent at tracking and at suspect apprehension, loped beside him. Head up and ears pricked, King was waiting to be issued the command to attack. If the streets had been empty, if there weren’t dozens of people around, Bradley would have already given it. The perp was a half block ahead, dark coat flapping like bat wings as he sprinted past stunned onlookers. He had tucked his gun away or tossed it. Both his hands were free. Bradley could see the paleness of his skin and the long, thin length of his legs. Dark slacks. Black coat. Short blond hair.
Armed.
Dangerous.
He called for backup, his radio buzzing with life as officers responded. He could count on his team to be there swiftly, but he wanted the perp off the streets now, before anyone was hurt.
“Police! Freeze!” he yelled as he dodged a woman with a baby in a carrier who was desperately looking for an escape route. People were panicking, short high-pitched screams and anxious shouts creating a cacophony of noise that rivaled the normal raucous sounds of rush hour in the city.
The perp veered to the right, sprinting into one of the narrow alleys that opened between buildings. This was where things got dicey. No visual of the perp. No way of knowing if he was running or preparing an ambush. They were near Ocean Avenue, the busy thoroughfare surrounded by newer multifamily dwellings. Closer to the bay, older homes dotted the quieter streets.
He slowed as he reached the alley, staying close to the brick facade of an apartment building as he called in his location. Whoever this guy was, whomever his target had been, he needed to be stopped.
“Police! Come out or I’m sending my dog in.” He gave one last warning as he unhooked King’s leash. The Malinois was a mild-mannered, high-energy pet at home, but he became a fierce weapon out in the field.
King snarled, teeth bared, body tense. His scruff was up, his ears back. He was ready.
“Hold on, Officer. I’m coming!” a man yelled out from the alley.
“Slowly! Hands where I can see them!” Bradley responded, keeping hold of King’s collar. The dog was scrabbling at the pavement, barking wildly. King loved anything to do with his job, but this part of the game? When he was let loose to do what he had been trained to do? It was his favorite.
“I’m coming, man! Hold the dog!” Someone shuffled into view. A man in his fifties or sixties. Scruffy gray beard and pallid skin. Dark blue sweatpants that hadn’t been washed in a while. Oversize coat hanging from a too-thin frame. Not the perp. This guy had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Step to the side,” Bradley commanded. “You see a guy run through that alley?”
“Tall dude? Blond hair? Yeah. He ran past me. I said hello, but he didn’t give me the time of day otherwise,” the man said, his focus on King, his dark blue eyes wide with fear. “You’re not letting him go, are you?”
“No.” Bradley’s response was terse, his focus on the alley again. The perp was heading toward Sheepshead Bay and deeper into the quietest areas of the community. 1920s houses converted to apartments. Single-family homes on small lots that abutted one another. A nice residential community in Brooklyn, Sheepshead Bay wasn’t known for its high crime rate. Once a fishing town, it offered a more suburban feel for city dwellers who wanted it.
It also offered plenty of escape routes.
He hooked King back to his leash and ran through the alley, bursting out onto the next street as the sun ducked behind rows of brick apartment buildings. There was a chill of winter in the air that blew in from the bay, hinting at the holiday season that would soon envelop the city. Bradley dreaded it the same way other people dreaded trips to the dentist.
Thanksgiving first. The holiday where families and friends gathered to give thanks for their blessings and for each other. Then Christmas, where the same thing played out. It wasn’t that Bradley didn’t enjoy gathering with people he cared about, but holidays were a reminder of what life could have and should have been. He and Penny growing up in a loving home with loving parents. No murder to taint their memories. No need for a loving adoptive family to take them in.
There had been blessings that had come out of the pain, but Bradley couldn’t help wondering if there had been a purpose behind the struggles and trials. He had certainly learned a lot about life and about himself, but he had also had to work hard to overcome his rough beginning.
Aside from valuing what he had, loving deeply the people in his life, mostly he had learned to protect himself by building an impeccable reputation in the community.
Even that hadn’t been enough.
He had heard the whispers after a copycat murder had rocked the community—a husband and wife killed, their three-year-old daughter the only witness. Even after all these years, after all he had accomplished in his work as a police officer, people had still wondered if he was responsible for his parents’ murders.
Now that the perpetrator had been caught, there was no doubt of his innocence. The whispers had stopped, but the sting of them hadn’t left him. He loved New York City. He loved Brooklyn and Sheepshead Bay. He had served the people of the city faithfully for more than a decade.
And still they had doubted him.
He frowned, scanning the street, and spotted the perp dashing across the pavement, his black coat flapping behind him. There were still too many people to safely release King. Protection-and-apprehension dogs were trained to take down the threat. They were not trained to differentiate the scent of the threat from the surrounding population. A straight and clear path between the dog and the suspect was necessary for safe deployment.
Right now, Bradley didn’t have it.
He called in his location again as he sprinted across the street, dodging a bicyclist and several motorists who were surprised to see a police officer and dog darting through evening traffic.
Bradley knew the area well. The suspect ran through a packed parking lot, jumped a small retaining wall and kept going, ducking into a parking garage connected to one of the newer apartment complexes. He followed, moving more cautiously as he stepped into the dimly lit interior. There were too many turns and angles, too many cars, too many places where the gunman could be lying in wait. He kept a wall to his left shoulder and King to his right as he scanned the area. No sign of the gunman. No sounds of him fleeing. Bradley gave King the command to find and let the dog lead him through a maze of parked cars. There was a stairwell in the far wall, and King lunged into it, straining against the leash and barking wildly.
“Police! Come out with your hands where I can see them,” Bradley commanded.
There was a flurry of movement on the landing above. A door opened and slammed closed, and King scrabbled at the cement steps.
“Let’s go!” Bradley raced up the stairs, slamming his hand into the closed door and rushing out onto the third level of the parking garage. A car engine revved as he and King sprinted across the paved lot. King swung around, barking wildly as tires squealed and a small blue car sped around a corner and aimed straight for them.
Bradley shouted for the vehicle to halt, then pulled his service weapon, firing at the front tire of the vehicle as he dived for cover.
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