Angels & Sinners: The Motor City Edition (26 page)

Sunday dinner at my parents’; it’s the same thing week after week—my brothers being jerks, my mother riding me about my love life . . . or lack thereof . . . and me praying for a call. I swear I love my family, but I’m only able to handle them in small doses. And by small doses, I mean twenty minutes max before I’m mentally ripping my hair out in clumps.

“What about that lovely girl Jeanie you were dating?” my sister, Marianna, asks with a mischievous grin, because she already knows the answer. Lovely . . . yeah . . . okay . . . right. Jeanie’s a lot of things—lovely being the absolute last thing on that list.

“Things didn’t work out, she just wasn’t my angel.” I give her a look that says
shut up and stuff a piece of bread in your mouth.

“I saw her the other day with some big buff dude,” Matt smirks.
Fuck me. Why are these two trying to get on my last nerve right now?

“Can we just drop it, please? We broke up . . . end of story,” I plead.

“Fine,” they say in unison. I change the subject before either of my parents try to ask more about it. My mother already has that gaze in her eye, that longing to be a grandmother look, and I detest that look. I don’t want to talk about it, especially with my parents. My brothers and sister know what happened between us, and like the assholes they are, they’re just trying to start trouble for me—typical sibling bullshit.

Jeanie is nothing but a gold digging bitch that realized a homicide detective in Detroit didn’t earn enough to meet her needs, so she found the guy from the Planet Fitness commercial that “picks things up and puts them down.” They’re made for each other. I don’t really care that we broke up. A future with Jeanie would have been bleak and frustrating. So, much like her new beau, I picked her up and then finally put her down. Good riddance.

“Where’s Tony?” Marianna asks, glancing around the room, noticing he’s not here. She’s such a sweet girl, but she has her moments.

“He probably got held up at work. I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I answer, my mouth full of melted deliciousness.

“Angelo, don't talk with your mouth full,” Mama scolds, slapping the hand that holds my fork. My mom is a second generation Italian-American and very strict when it comes to manners.

“Sorry, Mama,” I say, looking down at my plate. I hate disappointing her, even as an adult.

My cell rings just as my pager vibrates on my belt, making me jump. I check my phone and speak of the devil, Jeanie’s name shows up.
Why the fuck is she calling me?
Swiping ignore, I look at my pager. Of course it would be my partner, Bobby, which usually means there is a decaying body in a ditch somewhere. Picking up my phone to call Bobby, Jeanie calls me again. Knowing that if I keep ignoring her she will just get more persistent, I answer the call as I get up from the table.

“Baldoni,” I growl. She doesn’t deserve a friendly hello.

“Angelo, Baby, Gigi’s gone!” Jeanie’s shrill voice squeals. Gigi is her extremely annoying Yorkie that lives in her purse. I don’t think the damn dog even knows how to walk. I loathe that dog.

“And what would you like me to do about it, Jeanie?” I snap. I don’t have time to be annoyed by her today or ever again.

“Come over and find her. The groomer took her and never brought her back. I bet that bitch took my Gigi baby.” I thank the heavens I dodged a bullet with this one and start to question my own sanity and choice in women.

Rolling my eyes and not hiding my irritation, I grind out, “Maybe the groomer isn’t finished with her yet, have you tried to call her or go to the shop?”
I really need to end this pointless conversation and call Bobby.

“I tried to call her, no answer. There is no shop, she comes here.” Jeanie’s whining sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

Talking to her like the child she is being, I ask, “Have you gone down there to see if she is still working on it?”

“Gigi’s not an
it
, she’s my baby. Of course I went down there, Angelo. She wasn’t there, so I thought maybe she took her for a walk, but that was hours ago. Come over and find her plllleeeaaasssseeee, baby.”

“First of all, I’m not your baby, and second, I am a homicide detective not animal control. I’m sure your groomer will show up with the dog. Goodbye, Jeanie.” I hang up before she can say anything else and call Bobby.

“Lewis.”

“What’s going on, Bobby?” I ask, wanting to get this phone call over with and get back to the torture going on at the dinner table.

“Sorry, Angelo, I know you’re at your folks, but we have a one-eight-seven in an abandoned house on Otis,” Bobby reports. one-eight-seven is code for a homicide and apparently, another life has been snuffed out. I make the sign of the cross for the victim.

“Text me the location and I’ll meet you there in twenty.” Not bothering to wait for a reply, I hang up and walk into the dining room. “Duty calls,” I say, kissing Mama and grabbing my coat.

“Be careful, Angelo.” Mama worries every time I get a call, but with her being the daughter, wife, and now a mother of a cop, it comes with the territory. She’s no stranger to violence herself being a retired medical examiner. She’s seen the grotesque hatred people inflict on each other first hand, and after twenty years, it’s bound to weaken even the strongest person.

“Always,” I promise her over my shoulder and walk out. I’m looking at the text from Bobby and run straight into my brother, Antonio, on the steps.

“Where’s the fire, bro?” Tony jokes.

“Got a call out and you’re late,” I smirk, stating the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, lost track of time at the gym,” he stammers, running his hands through his dry hair.

“Well, you better hurry before they put your head on a platter.” I smack him on the back and touch a wet spot on his shirt. “Gross, dude, did you forget to take a shower?” I wipe my hand on my pants and walk down the steps to get in my car.

Looking at my phone, I punch in the address Bobby sent me even though I already know the area. Otis has become just like all the other residential streets in the once beautiful city—dark and dirty. Detroit still has beauty, but it’s harder to find these days. If you just look at the surface, all you’re going to see is ghetto and horrific dilapidation. Turning onto the street and seeing all the police cars, I have no doubt I’m at the right place. A beat cop is wrapping crime scene tape around a crumbling porch post, marking off the area and letting outsiders know that something serious has taken place there. Caution tape is a reminder that the world is not a very nice place anymore. In this instance, someone else chose to end a life way too soon and it’s now my job to find out who and why. Parking the car at the curb, I look down at my hands and suddenly feel worn out. I’m tired of all the violence and anger I see on a daily basis, but there’s nothing more I can do. I’m called out after the fact, unable to be a step ahead of a cold blooded killer and save a life. But right now is not the time to dwell on the things I can’t fix, so I do what my very religious Catholic mother had drilled into our heads growing up—I bow my head and say a silent prayer.

CHAPTER 2

I put my gloves on as I walk up the cracked cement steps, and the first thing I smell as I enter this depressed house is death. Not necessarily the death of a human, but the death of humanity. Decrepit houses caused by big banks foreclosing on the little guy, then everything went to shit. What would have been a gorgeous house a decade or two ago is falling apart at the seams. I look around at what used to be the living room and see nothing but bad choices and disgusting objects that have been discarded like yesterday’s trash. That’s exactly what it was, too . . . garbage—couches that have seen better days, a rug that is so worn thin it has holes and you can see clear to the floor. Debris litters every surface there is in this place and CSI will have to bag it all. I’d hate to be them.

With so many people in my crime scene, I clear my throat and yell, “Really, guys, if you aren’t a first responder, do me a favor and hit the pavement. We don’t need to contaminate the crime scene, please and thank you.” After years on the force, I’m set in my ways—clean and by the book—and the entire department is well aware and respects this.

“Bobby,” I call out to my partner, passing other members of the DPD as they start to file out.

“Upstairs,” he answers. I walk up the dilapidated stairs that make me nervous I’ll fall through with how deteriorated they have become. As soon as I hit the landing, there’s blood as far as the eye can see. From the baseboards up to the original crown molding, making it drip down the walls like a horror movie, it’s enough to make a grown man’s knees buckle. Suppressing the urge to expel the contents of my stomach from the stench of copper, I continue with my investigation, no matter how overpowering the smell is.

“Damn, how many bodies are there, man?” I ask, walking into the room that has the most activity in it.

Bobby looks up at me with bloodshot eyes, “Just this one.”

Bobby Lewis has been my partner since I joined the homicide division seven years ago, but he’s been my best friend since we were ten. Coffee colored hair and dark eyes that if you looked deep enough, you’d see all the mayhem we’ve seen since becoming officers.

“Where’s Nate?” I ask, looking around.

Nate Brennan is the medical examiner that replaced Mama when she retired. He’s also in his thirties and has become one of the few people I trust with my life. With his no bullshit attitude he tells it like it is. He’s the redheaded step child that everyone jokes about, but you can’t help but love.

“Who knows, probably stuck in traffic,” Bobby snorts. Detroit traffic is horrendous, even on a Sunday, and if you hit the mixing bowl during rush hour, you’re fucked for at least an hour. If Nate did in fact get stuck, this Vic is going to become a bodysicle and we’ll lose important evidence.

Being very superstitious, I knock on the door jamb. “Shut up, don’t jinx it.”

Unable to touch the body until Nate decides to grace us with his presence, I look around the room. Having once belonged to a little girl, the faded pink flowered wallpaper is peeling in the corners and yellowed pictures of childlike drawings are disintegrating about thigh high. A pale pink colored rug is now a deep red, as the life drained out of this recent casualty of hatred. With all the blood in the hall, I’m surprised there was any left to pool in here. What I don’t see is a purse or wallet, something that may identify the victim.

“Sorry I’m late; I’ll never understand why everyone and their mother feels the need to go out in a winter storm. It’s Michigan, just stay home and wait twenty minutes; it will change, for fuck’s sake.” Nate shuffles through the door, body bag in hand. Better late than never.

“Who pissed in your Cheerio’s this morning?” Bobby chuckles, standing up quickly.

Pointing his gloved finger at Bobby, Nate barks, “You better not be messing with my body, Lewis. You got a death wish?”

“No way, Jose, I know better,” Bobby replies, hands in the air feigning innocence.

“All right, guys, enough. Let’s do this already.” I’m done with the bullshit and want to get this wrapped up.

Nate crouches down and slowly pulls down a dirty white sheet that is draped over the body. Long, jet black hair caked in blood which is not yet dry encircles the face of a young woman. Her eyes are now a pale blue, having lost their sparkle when she took her last breath. This isn’t my first time around the block; I know exactly what it looks like when someone’s gone. Her savagely beaten face is almost unrecognizable, which tells me the killer had rage in his soul.

“Victim appears to be twenty-five to thirty years of age, with black hair and blue eyes. Several contusions are seen on her face. She is naked from the waist up with her jeans down at her ankles. Multiple gaping wounds are strategically placed along her torso down to her pelvic area,” Nate speaks into a recorder, giving his initial findings. “There is bruising around the upper thighs and genitals consistent with sexual assault, a rape kit will be done.” Stopping the recorder, he plunges a liver thermometer into her abdomen to get a body temperature. “93.6 liver temp . . . placing time of death between noon and two pm. You have to add in the cold.”

Looking at my watch, I muse, “That was four to six hours ago.”

“Who did you say found the body?” Nate asks, looking between Bobby and me.

“It was an anonymous tip; we’re tracking it down. It was probably a homeless person trying to get out of this damn arctic winter.” Bobby shivers from the cold in the house. It’s just a bit warmer in here than it is outside, but this winter has been brutal, so it’s pretty flipping cold in here.

“What are the chances a bum would pick the one abandoned house that has a body? Come on, the killer called it in,” Nate sneers before getting back to work.

I squat down, getting my first good look at this woman. I know it’s cliché to say this is the worst I’ve ever seen, but I truly mean it. Nate has to describe a body with professionalism, but it doesn’t really paint the picture of what we’re looking at. It’s her face that really seems to draw me in, badly mangled and bloody, yet still very beautiful. Her eyes must have lit up a room because even dead they seem to talk to you.

“Earth to Baldoni.” Bobby waves his hands in my face, knocking me out of my trance.

“Why don’t you go check out the other room down the hall? I got this.”

“Yeah, okay.” Shaking off this odd feeling, I head out of the room, almost colliding with one of the CSI techs coming down the hall.

“Shit, sorry, you okay?” I stammer, steadying her with my arms.

“I’m fine, sorry, Sir,” a scared newbie mumbles to me, refusing to make eye contact.

Letting her go and giving her a nod, I walk away. I’m thanking the man upstairs for crime scene booties while heading toward the other bedroom, desperately trying to avoid all the blood but failing miserably. The second bedroom isn’t as cute and childish, having 70’s wood paneling on the lower half and dirty white cracked paint on the top. There’s bright fucking orange shag carpet, and it doesn’t matter how old and gross it is, it’s still bright. A revolting mattress lies in the middle of the floor, covered in a multitude of stains, some new but mostly old. Clothes are placed neatly in the center of the mattress, like they’re waiting to be put away. Taking in the rest of the room, a rickety chair that looks like it will fall apart if you so much as blow on it and a metal bucket in the corner make up the rest of the contents, but it’s what I
don’t
see that’s odd. There is not a single piece of garbage in this room. Either this room has been processed or we have a killer that’s a clean freak.