First Kill by Lawrence Kelter Read Free Book Online

moved instinctively into his jacket pockets, one grasping a small bottle and the other grasping a brand-new folding knife. In the span of a second, he thought about the hooker he had stabbed. He had been driving through the Westside, leading her to believe that he was following her directions to the hotel when he first spied the construction site. This is where I want her, he’d thought, on the ground, in the filth. He attempted to chloroform her in the car but she was too quick and bolted out the door. She was running down the block, screaming, when he caught up with her and pressed the chloroform-soaked handkerchief to her mouth. He dragged her into the construction lot. She was on the ground behind the dumpster, groggy and helpless. He was ready to take her when he heard the police car rolling by. He’d panicked when it stopped—he stabbed her, something he had not planned to do until afterward.
    His mind cleared, and he focused on the woman returning to the office. “Good,” he whispered with glee. “I’ll do this one right.” He moved like a cat, out from behind the desk and into the shadows. He was ready for her with a plan set in his mind. This one, he mused, will not be found.

Chapter Ten
    It takes about sixty hours to run a DNA analysis under ideal conditions, and a teensy smudge on a twenty-dollar bill is anything but ideal. The DNA sample was so minute that it had to be painstakingly extracted from the paper before the analysis could begin. So give or take, I had about three days to kill … or not. The twenty-dollar bill had been collected at the Westside crime scene. It was one of five twenties that the streetwalker had folded and stuffed in her bra. I know that sounds cliché, but these things become cliché for good reasons. More importantly, the blood-smeared twenty was wrapped within the others. None of the other bills had been bloodied and her wounds were to the abdomen, nowhere near the location of her stash. Ergo, the blood was on the twenty-dollar bill before it was given to her. Was it her assailant’s blood? Maybe. Could be. As I said, we had about a three-day wait ahead of us. By the by, we had circulated photos of the aforementioned streetwalker and was able to identify her as Nadine Fey, an eighteen-year-old, high-school dropout from the East Tremont section of the Bronx. Ms. Fey had resided with her three brothers and … that’s it. There was no mother or father in the picture—a tragic story and all too commonplace.
    I took the stairs to the main level of the police precinct, pushed the doors open, and exited into the chill night air. I hadn’t gotten very far when I spied Quinlan and Hartley waiting for me. Their eyes were on me as I approached. Alrighty then, what’s this all about? I checked the position of the surveillance camera mounted on the precinct exterior wall. I stopped dead in my tracks and signaled for them to approach, drawing them within range of the camera. “This is interesting. I don’t suppose you’re here to make a donation to the PBA.”
    Hartley looked like Ichabod Crane, tall and gangly. He had a smallish head atop a spindly neck. His hair was plastered across his head and his ears were enormous. Quinlan was somewhat smaller in stature and less offensive to the eye. Hartley was once again dressed in his sable-trimmed overcoat, Quinlan in a short leather jacket, which didn’t look very warm.
    “Good evening, Detective,” Hartley began. “I hope you don’t object to this impromptu meeting.”
    “Don’t mention it. I do my best work out on the street.” I pointed to the surveillance camera drawing their attention to it. “Say cheese … Perfect. You’ve been forever immortalized. Now, what’s on your mind?”
    Hartley reached into his breast pocket and handed me an envelope. Judging by the thickness of the envelope, I’d say it looked very much like an alibi. “This should spare my client much unnecessary trouble. It’s a signed affidavit from the