“John, you gotta check this out,” Thomlinson said, approaching Driscoll, crystal tumbler in hand.
“What is it?”
“The cognac of rums. Bermudez! From the Dominican Republic. One taste of this and you’ll think you’re royalty.”
Driscoll gave Thomlinson a sympathetic smile, for he knew his friend, a recovering alcoholic, would like very much to indulge. The Lieutenant took the glass, lifted it, and took a sip. The rum was suave, rich, and silky on his palate.
“Damn! That’s good stuff!” he said.
John Driscoll was the commanding officer of the NYPD’s Manhattan homicide squad. He carried his six-foot-two stature formidably, often intimidating adversaries without so much as a word. There was a swagger to his walk, not unlike Gary Cooper’s stride in High Noon. Precinct women found him irresistible, especially when they gazed into his enigmatic eyes. Colette, though, had found the key that unlocked their mystery. But after the automobile accident that sent her into a six-year coma, all agreed his eyes had become gray and lifeless.
The other notable feature of Driscoll’s face were his lips, which were expressive, even when he was silent. In them, Colette discovered Driscoll’s tenderness. They did not belong to his Celtic jawline. They were more Mediterranean, almost Middle Eastern, and responded to his emotional states: expanding when contented, contracting under stress, and vibrating when anxious. Colette had learned to read his heart and transcribe his thoughts by observing the tremors.
The Lieutenant was a snazzy dresser, often clad in a well-tailored jacket by Hickey Freeman or Hart Schaffner amp; Marx, with a pair of slacks by Joseph Abboud, a tie by Richell, and shoes by either Johnston and Murphy or Kenneth Cole. Halston 14, his wife’s favorite fragrance for men, had become his favorite as well. His fondness for upscale cologne and fine English tailoring had earned him the moniker Dapper John.
And with Dapper John before him now, Thomlinson said, “It’s time to get it on with the cuisine of Jamaica, Lieutenant. This here is roti. It’s goat meat cooked with potatoes in a sauce of turmeric, coriander, allspice, and saffron. It really hits the spot! Here, try some.” Thomlinson handed Driscoll a bowl and filled it.
Driscoll took a taste of the meal, inhaling its aroma. His friend was right. It was delicious. He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. When he turned, his eyes widened.
“Mary!”
“I’m sorry, John.”
He embraced the woman. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
“I decided this morning. This nonsense has got to stop. I’m your sister, for God’s sake!”
“Ssshh. Ssshh,” Driscoll whispered. He hadn’t let go. He continued to hold her, stroking her hair. “Ssshh. Ssshh.”
When Mary Driscoll-Humphreys pulled back, her gentle round face was slathered with tears. She tried to speak. Although her mouth opened, she couldn’t produce a sound.
“Come. Let’s sit.”
Driscoll escorted his sister to a corner, where a gentleman in a suit was seated. He immediately stood and extended his hand. “You must be Mary. Your brother and I have been friends since the academy. I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Driscoll placed a supportive hand on his sister’s back. “This is Leonard DeCovney, Mary. He kept me in line through training.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” she replied. She had regained her voice and unfortunately continued to use it. “John, I need to go now. I’ll call you when school lets out.”
The woman disappeared as silently as she had arrived, blowing her brother a kiss before the siblings lost sight of each other in the crowd.
“How’s she doing?” DeCovney asked.
“I don’t know,” said Driscoll.
“She still taking…”
Driscoll answered the incomplete question. “That’s what scares the hell out of me. I know she picks up her medication and that she refills it according to schedule because her pharmacist calls me. But does she take it? I honestly don’t know. Why don’t I know? Because, according to her therapist, she needs to be on her own as much as possible through what she describes as a phase. Nothing more. A phase. You wanna take a crack at what that means? I don’t.” Driscoll’s eyes narrowed. “I pray she knows what she’s doing.”
“The therapist.”
Driscoll nodded. “Mary changed the lock again. Added a couple more. I’m running up a tab at Ace Hardware having keys made. I should be the one on the medication.”
“I don’t know about that. For a man who buried his wife today, you look like you’ve got a handle on things.”
“I’ve had help. I think Colette’s been prepping me for Mary, who, inside her head, is finding it increasingly more difficult existing in the present. It tends to keep my feet firmly planted. It saddens me to think my sister will never feel a sense of prolonged attachment to anything.”
“On that, my friend, I’d say you’re wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because she has you.”
“But between the two of us, I’m the only one who knows it. By the time she gets home, she won’t remember she was here.”
“That may be so. But she knows how to find you. Which translates to-she has you.”
Driscoll was deeply touched and somewhat relieved.
“Come on, John. I’m buying.” Deputy Commissioner DeCovney led Driscoll over his bridge back to life and into a circle of friends.
“Thank you, sir.”
“My door’s always open.”
“I know.”
When Driscoll rejoined Thomlinson, his anxiety was in check.
Brooklyn’s borough commander, James Hanrahan, approached the two men with distraction in his eyes.
“You gotta try this,” Hanrahan said, handing Driscoll a fork with a chunk of meat on it.
“What is it?”
“Jerk pork. It’s Jamaican.”
Driscoll bit into the morsel.
“Wow! That’s a three-alarm fire,” he sputtered, waving his hand in front of his mouth.
“Give it a minute,” Hanrahan warned. “It’s got a helluva back draft.”
“This is no brisket,” Driscoll managed, his mouth ablaze.
A man in a dark suit walked up to the borough commander and handed Hanrahan a cell phone. “Chief, you’d better take this call,” he said.
Hanrahan took the cell phone, his eyes narrowing as he listened to the caller. He then spoke directly and quietly into the phone. His communication complete, he turned to face Driscoll.
“Looks like someone’s got it in for tourists.”
“How so?” Driscoll asked.
“Some kid spotted a dead Chinaman riding the Wonder Wheel in Coney Island while a second grader uncovered a second corpse at a dinosaur exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History. The body at the museum was set up to look like dinosaur dung. Her ID says she was from Berlin. Crime Scene thinks they may be linked because the cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma for both and their bodies were posed. And get this. Both vics were scalped.”
“Scalped? That’s a new one,” said Driscoll, still fighting the fire inside his mouth.
“Tell me about it.”
“Who caught the murders?”
“Elizabeth Delgado. Brooklyn South Homicide. And Frank Reynolds from Manhattan North.”
“Frank I know. Never heard of Delgado. She new?”
“Transfer from Robbery.”
“A homicide rookie. Glad I’m not on this one.”
“What’s that you’re drinking?” Hanrahan asked.
“Rum,” Driscoll answered, confused by Hanrahan’s sudden interest in his beverage.
“I’d have another one, if I were you,” said the borough commander.
“One’ll do fine,” said Driscoll, detecting an uncomfortable look on Hanrahan’s face. “Is there something you want to tell me, Jim? Who was that on the phone?”