“This is rather fast,” Owl Man shouted.
The boat was at full speed, skimming over the top of the water. It shook over the hard, rippling water, vibrating and pounding. Suddenly, Kent swerved the boat one way and then the other. The motorboat cut wildly through the water, threatening to flip over. Kent spun the wheel, keeping tight control, and the boat slammed up and down over its own wake.
“Tell me I can’t run a boat now!” Kent screamed. “Stop freaking out, Owl Man — can’t handle a little fun in the ‘playground of the rich’?”
And then, out in the open part of the big lake, he saw the white lighthouse standing tall atop an outcropping of rocks. Kent coursed straight for it, ignoring Owl Man’s desperate cries.
Full throttle ahead.
Flying over whitecaps.
Kent’s skull and teeth chattering.
Straight into the lighthouse.
The engine tore off like a loose chip of paint on the outer rocks. The hull shred apart, the wreck careening into the side of the lighthouse in a horrific flash. The impact obliterated Kent.
A fatal boating accident in Muskoka, the newspaper reported a day later. The sole victim, a thirty-five-year-old office clerk named Kent Shrimpton, was renting a cottage with his family for the week. He was unfamiliar with Lake Rosseau and inexperienced in the proper operation of a pleasure craft.
Rizzo’s Gun Moll
by Lou Manfredo
Called “the most authentic cop in contemporary crime fiction” by Kirkus Reviews, Joe Rizzo (the protagonist of this new story) has appeared in three critically acclaimed novels and a number of short stories. His creator, Lou Manfredo, a twenty-five-year veteran of the Brooklyn criminal-justice system, has been compared to Joseph Wambaugh.
Sergeant Joe Rizzo gazed downward to the bloodied corpse prone at his feet. His brow furrowed as he glanced briefly at his partner, Detective Mark Ginsberg, then back to the corpse lying between them.
The man had been stabbed repeatedly and with great fervor, Rizzo surmised, based upon the numerous jagged puncture wounds on his upper chest, glistening scarlet against the pale grey of the man’s shirt.
“Somebody really tore into this guy,” Ginsberg said as he dropped to a squat beside the body. “Gotta be — what? — ten, twelve wounds?”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said, also lowering himself to the corpse. “At least.”
The detectives and victim were situated in the kitchen of a sprawling six-room apartment, the entry door behind them open, a uniformed officer standing guard. Detective Angela Paulson entered the room, notepad in hand.
“I’ve got the rundown, guys,” she said. “Ready?”
“Yeah, Angie,” Rizzo said, his eyes still scanning the body. “Shoot.”
“Victim is Benjamin Cornwal, forty-seven, divorced, lived alone. Been a tenant here almost eight years, currently in second year of a two-year lease. Emergency contact listed with super is his brother, lives in Dyker Heights.”
Rizzo stood slowly, looking to his left. The large living room, complete with wood-burning fireplace, commanded a panoramic view of lower New York Bay, bordering the predominantly Italian-American enclave known as Bensonhurst. He watched as sunlight twinkled on the still waters, flat and green this mild autumn morning. The lushly appointed apartment sparkled, immaculately kept.
Rizzo turned to Paulson. “This is one of Brooklyn’s priciest apartment buildings. What did Cornwal do for a living?”
“Owned a string of laundromats all over the city. Those gentrified ‘Fresh as Mom’s’ places the hipsters use.” She dropped her eyes briefly to the corpse. “Lucky guy, made a ton of dough. His luck seems to have run out.”
Ginsberg rose to his feet, adjusting the fit of his latex gloves. “Yeah. And from the looks of things, I’d say it was sometime today, earlier this morning. Place hasn’t been ransacked, probably not a gone-bad burglary.”
“Okay, Angie,” Rizzo said. “Me and Mark have done a look-around, we’ll do a thorough search. How many detectives are on scene?”
“Me, Bobby, Art, Nick, and Mo.”
“Get them on it. They know the drill. Gather security videos if they exist, talk to the doorman; any interesting neighbors, me and Mark will follow up later. And have the uniforms search this building and surrounding blocks. I imagine we’re looking for a knife. A big one. Maybe a Shun eight-inch carving knife with a black pakkawood handle.”
Paulson smiled. “Is that some kind of psychic vision, Joe?”
“No.” He gestured with a thumb to a wooden knife block on a corner countertop beside a Sub-Zero refrigerator. “It’s the only one missing, not in the sink or dishwasher or any of the utensil drawers. Maybe our killer used it, took it with him, and then tossed it somewhere.”
“Okay, Joe, I’m off and running. I’ll let you know what we find.” Paulson tore a page from her notepad. “Here’s the brother’s contact info. The precinct is handling notification. The earliest the M.E. can get here is about ninety minutes.” She turned and left the apartment.
“So, what do we have?” Ginsberg asked Rizzo. “No signs of forced entry, doorman on duty downstairs. We’re on the fifth floor; nobody coulda climbed in a window. Good chance the knife was a weapon of opportunity, not brought by the killer. So — most likely not premeditated.”
Rizzo nodded. “Maybe. That means we’re looking for somebody he knew, maybe another tenant.”
“Lover’s spat?” Ginsberg suggested.
“From the savagery of the attack, I’d say the doer was male. And strong.”
“We can verify, see if the vie was gay.”
“Yeah. But on our look around, I checked the bedroom. Walls are covered with paintings of naked women, and there’s a photo of him with a gal who looks like a movie star on some tropical beach — maybe a jealous husband?”
Ginsberg shrugged. “Okay.”
“Yeah. We’ll ask around. But I’m thinking the doer’s a straight male acquaintance the vic knew well enough to let in early in the morning. From the liquidity of that blood, he hasn’t been dead long.” Rizzo glanced at his Timex. “It’s only eleven-ten now.”
“I’m gonna start a detailed search, Joe. When is Crime Scene getting here?”
“Soon.”
“Okay. Time we start violating this guy’s privacy.”
Rizzo gave a small nod, looking down at the corpse once more. “Not to mention his dignity,” he said.
Later, in an interview room at the 62nd Precinct’s Detective Squad department, the partners discussed various possibilities.
“Probably a spur-of-the-moment thing,” Ginsberg said. “Some problem exists between vic and doer, doer stops by to discuss, it gets out of hand, he grabs a knife and goes berserk. M.E. says wounds consistent with the missing eight-inch Shun.”
“Okay. The victim’s watch and three hundred dollars cash were on his dresser, no random burglar would have missed that. The doorman reports no strangers entered the building all morning, just a few tenants. Crime Scene says the rear basement service door has double locks, a deadbolt and a latch that locks automatically, and both are always locked. When Crime Scene checked, only the auto lock was engaged, not the deadbolt.”
“So maybe the doer entered and left through that door.”
“Yeah,” Rizzo agreed. “Maybe. Crime Scene says there were a couple of internal markings consistent with somebody picking the locks. Possibility, not definite. So after the murder, the doer leaves through the door, but he can’t relock the deadbolt without the key.”