COPY (Alyssa Donovan Series #3)

By Tracie Gerardi

Alyssa Donovan is back, with her partner, Jack Keller. When a woman calls to confess to the murder of her husband, Donovan suspects she's lying to protect someone else. However, when Donovan gets word of another murder, and another confession, the case takes a sharp turn. The duo figures out that they're dealing with a dangerous serial killer. Because of his unique skills, he just might get away with murder. But not if Detective Alyssa Donovan can help it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracie Gerardi
• Release date: May 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476320519

Book preview

COPY

An Alyssa Donovan Mystery

By Tracie M. Gerardi

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COPY

An Alyssa Donovan Mystery

By Tracie M. Gerardi

Copyright 2012 BKMysteries and Tracie M. Gerardi

Smashwords Edition

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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To the man

Who never heard the love

In my applause:

I’m still clapping.

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Table of Contents

PROLOGUE Trigger

CHAPTER ONE Criminal Mind

CHAPTER TWO Repeat

CHAPTER THREE Number Two

CHAPTER FOUR Interlude

CHAPTER FIVE Connection

CHAPTER SIX ANTIVERBAL

CHAPTER SEVEN The Fourth

CHAPTER EIGHT Lock Up

CHAPTER NINE Misunderstanding

CHAPTER TEN Thank You

CHAPTER ELEVEN There He Goes

CHAPTER TWELVE Temporary HQ

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Performance

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Chat

CHAPTER FIFTEEN Apologize

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Confession

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Trials and Tribulations

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PROLOGUE

Trigger

Wednesday November 23rd 12:00 AM

Four bony fingers drummed along the surface of a splintered wooden table in a low rent, East Village apartment.

The man cleared his throat, hummed, and took a deep breath as he checked his watch. He stopped fidgeting and reached for the phone, knowing what he had to do.

Those bony fingers of his curled around the receiver as he dialed the number he'd memorized, and he spoke low and clear when the woman he'd called picked up. Confess, he whispered. One word.

He waited a moment before repeating it. Confess, he said again, louder and clearer, then hung up, slamming the phone down.

His head dropped into his hands then and he took a few short gasping breaths. Once he calmed down, he pushed the phone back into the corner of the table and stood up.

He paced back and forth, as if trying to make a decision of some kind, but then he stopped and turned his head, the twinkling city lights catching his attention. He moved behind his couch and looked out the window.

It was a beautiful night in the city, he thought, and it was a shame that Charles Cosgrove hadn't lived to see it. But then again, a man like Charles wouldn't have appreciated the beauty of a night like this, he mused to himself, pushing open the glass to let the cool night air into his place.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

He wasn't the bad guy, he told himself. He wasn't the one that loaded the gun, or aimed, no, he was just the one that pulled the trigger.

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CHAPTER ONE

Criminal Mind

Wednesday November 23rd 12:08 AM

Marla Cosgrove didn't know how she got in the bedroom, why she was covered in blood or how the large, sharp, kitchen knife ended up in her hands. She didn’t know why the memory wasn’t vivid, but she knew that it was somewhere in her mind. She knew that she killed him. For some reason, she just knew that he had come home from work reeking of alcohol, and he'd wanted sex. She hadn't been in the mood. He'd hit her and she'd snapped. That's when she blacked out.

She doesn't remember it at all. Not one bit, but she decided this is how it must have happened. She figured that she walked into the kitchen, grabbed a knife out of the block on the counter, and caught him as he was taking off his suit. She knows it had to have been her that stabbed him over and over again until he stopped breathing. It had to have been her because no one else was in her apartment.

She doesn't remember exactly when her vision came back, but when it did she was on the floor of her bedroom, drenched in blood. She looked around, shocked, and noticed that the beige walls were splattered with patterns of red, resembling a Jackson Pollack painting.

Several minutes later, as she held a bloody knife in her right hand, she picked up the phone with her left. Cradling it under her chin, she dialed 911. She heard the operator pick up and she said, very calmly, Hello. My name is Marla Cosgrove. I've just killed my husband. I'd like to be arrested now. Thank you.

She hung up the phone and walked into the Fifties-style kitchen. She put the knife down on the counter and started a pot of water, just in case the police officers that showed up wanted some tea.

Within minutes, four uniformed NYPD officers arrived at the door of the East Eighty-First Street three-story brownstone, accompanied by Detective Alyssa Donovan and her partner, Jack Keller.

Marla got up and answered the buzzer, smiling. She wasn't trying to hide anything or cover anything up. She welcomed the group inside. They stared at her, she assumed, because she had not changed out of the blood-soaked clothes or washed the still-moist blood off of her face, hands, or feet.

Donovan and Keller shot each other a curious look as they pulled disposable cotton booties on over their shoes and snapped on latex gloves. They instructed the uniformed officers to do the same and escort Marla to the huge, brown leather sofa in the living room.

Nodding to the other cops, they then made their way deeper into the house. Thought you said nothing like this ever happens in this neighborhood, Keller, Alyssa said, looking into the bedroom.

It doesn’t, Keller said as he jerked his head to the left, asking her to follow him. Not usually.

Alyssa rolled her eyes as she trailed behind him. Jack lived two blocks away, and she moved in with him a few months ago. The area was rich, in both culture and status, and the crime rate was lower than the rest of the city.

However, all that meant was when crime did hit the Upper East Side, it was brutal and complicated, and it kept the detectives very busy.

Jack led Alyssa into the kitchen, enjoying a brief moment of silence before looking at her. Swanky, he chuckled.

They looked around the room and noticed that the décor of the kitchen with red, retro cabinets, white countertops, and vintage kitchen table and chairs was marred by only one thing...a weapon. Donovan walked over to the counter and pointed to a sharp butcher's knife, which had left a deep red pool on the otherwise pristine white laminate.

Hiding in plain sight, she quipped. She turned and crooked a finger at an analyst and gestured to the space in front of her, making sure the man got a few photographs of the weapon on the counter before moving it at all. Anything yet? she asked, directing the question to her partner.

Keller grunted a response as he was opening a few of Marla’s carefully organized cabinets, giving a soft snort when he found what he needed. He pulled a Ziploc bag out of the box on a shelf and gave Donovan a shrug as he held it out to her. This’ll do for now, he told her, answering her questioning look.

She dropped the knife into the plastic bag, then zipped it closed with a firm nod. They shook their heads in utter confusion and moved back toward the living room to talk to Marla.

They stood side by side in front of her, looking down at the eerily calm woman. She was a petite blonde, no more than a hundred and eighteen pounds, with hazel eyes that now stared blankly into space.

Alyssa wondered for a moment why all of the female perps she’d dealt with lately were blonde, then quickly pushed the thought to the back of her mind. She exhaled slowly as she tugged a loose strand of her brown hair back behind her ear and cleared her throat to get Marla’s attention.

Marla turned her head at the sound. Hello, she said when she looked up at the detectives, smiling as though they were friends who’d just dropped in for tea. Their shocked faces didn’t faze her at all as she repeated the words she'd said to the 911 dispatcher. My name is Marla Cosgrove. I've just killed my husband. I'd like to be arrested now. Thank you.

Detective Donovan ran a hand down her face and heaved another sigh before she shook her head and looked around at the swanky furnishings. There was no way a woman with so much to lose would give it all up without a fight, and there was no way a woman like Marla Cosgrove would so calmly confess to a brutal murder. Something just didn’t add up.

That was easy, Officer Nichols, one of the street cops near the door said as he stepped toward the bloodied woman. Just as he was about to slap the cuffs on Marla, Alyssa stopped him.

Hold it, Nichols, she said. You don't think she was telling the truth, do you?

Everyone in the room, including her partner, turned to stare at her as the sly grin that had been playing at her lips finally appeared.

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CHAPTER TWO

Repeat

Wednesday, November 23rd, 1:15 AM

Crime scene analysts and a medical examiner whose name they hadn't even bothered learning, because they'd gone through three of them in the last two months, were now funneling their way through the apartment. Marla's bloody clothes had been photographed, bagged, and taken into evidence, and the body of Charles Cosgrove was being processed. Marla, too, was photographed, fingerprinted, and cleaned up before being questioned again.

Detective Alyssa Donovan, who was known as a professional bad-ass, was pacing across the living room carpet in front of Marla, who was now sitting in a rocking chair, drinking tea, wearing a white bathrobe and fuzzy slippers. She looked more like June Cleaver than Norman Bates.

Alyssa stopped pacing and held up a hand, trying to understand. Now, let's go over this one more time. Your name is Marla Cosgrove. You’ve just killed your husband. You’re asking us, very politely, to arrest you. And you’ve made us tea.

Marla nodded her head and offered a smile. She started to pour tea from the Lenox teapot into gold trimmed cups that were smeared with the blood from her hands, and then set it all down on the table for the detectives.

How do you know you're the one that killed him? Alyssa asked the woman, praying she'd say something besides the same few phrases she'd been sputtering for the last hour.

I've just killed my husband. Marla tilted her head, wondering what about the admission wasn’t clear. She pointed a steady finger at a plate of cookies.

Alyssa shook her head. A: The last thing she wanted now was cookies, and B: even if she did, she wouldn’t eat any, since they were iced with blood. For the last time, Marla, no you didn't, she spat, making it clear she was annoyed.

She didn’t like being dicked around, and hated when the perps played mind games. You called 911 while someone else was in your room. You were hiding in the closet, you used your cell phone, and you said that a man was hurting Charles. We have the tape. She was using her bad-cop voice.

Marla was protecting someone, now, Alyssa thought. Her story had changed and she was doing a damn good job of sticking to it, which was making her and Keller pretty damned irritated. Now, all of a sudden you can't remember any of that and you're convinced you're the one that killed your husband, Jack said, folding his arms over his chest. At this point, both he and Alyssa were baffled.

I'd like to be arrested now, Marla said, smiling and lowering her head coyly at Keller. If you didn’t hear what she said, you would swear she was flirting with him by the look on her face.

Women were constantly coming onto Jack because he was extremely good looking and gave off a very powerful, masculine vibe. But Marla wasn’t being flirtatious; she was digging her own grave.

Jack tilted his head and gave another soft grunt. That’s...that’s just...weird. he looked over at Alyssa, perplexed. That’s the most solid confession we’ve ever gotten.

Alyssa rolled her eyes, yet again, proof of her frustration. She was about to give up and arrest the woman, when she was struck with a thought. There was something wrong here; she decided she was going to try a different tactic to find out what. Okay, Marla, what's your favorite color?

My name is Marla Cosgrove, she said cheerfully. Then, as she realized what she said, a look of pure bewilderment slowly spread across her bony, hollow face. She couldn’t understand how those words had come out of her mouth.

What did you have for dinner last night? Alyssa asked, leaning over the back of Marla’s chair, ominously.

I've just... She struggled, trying hard to find the words in her mind. It was difficult for her, she made soft noises as her mouth opened and closed. She couldn't understand what was happening and her face was a blend of pain, confusion, and embarrassment. Killed my husband? It was a question this time, one with no answer. That was certainly not what she meant to say, and she was scared. She began to sob. What was wrong with her?

And, could you tell me what time it is? Alyssa asked, as though she was talking to a six year old.

I'd...like to, she said as she shook her head, Be arrested now. She shrugged and cried into her hands. Thank you? she asked with wide, panicked eyes, but no one knew what she was really trying to say.

What the hell? Officer Nichols asked, his pen held tightly in his hand, his notepad empty. How do I document that?

Jack scrubbed his hand over his face. Okay, he said. Explain, Donovan.

Alyssa turned to Jack. She's been drugged or, I don’t know, lobotomized or something. She can only say those five phrases, in order. It's like she's forgotten the rest of the English language, she has some kind of problem with her cognitive-verbal recognition, here. We need to have her checked out.

The nameless M.E came out into the foyer, then, and looked at the two detectives sheepishly. He was waiting for one of them to acknowledge his presence, give him permission to speak, or shoo him away.

M.E Number Three was a short, perpetually nervous man, his almandine eyes twitched constantly and his lips were flattened in a permanent simper. He was little wet behind the ears and was always afraid to piss one of them off or do something to disrespect them.

He didn’t know how things worked, yet, he wasn’t comfortable around the detectives, and he'd called Alyssa sir a few times. Accidentally, of course, but it was a good reason for her to hate him, which made him nervous as hell. When Alyssa Donovan hated you, you were in deep shit.

Um...Detective Keller, Sir? And Detective Donovan, Ma’am...Miss...because you aren’t old enough to b-b-be a M-m-ma’am, he stuttered.

She rolled her eyes at the anxious Asian man and tried to give him a smile that appeared genuine. Yes, she paused, trying to think of his name, You?

How strong does she look to you? he asked, gesturing to the woman on the couch.

Jack looked at Marla, and then turned back and compared her to Alyssa. Donovan could kill her with one punch, I think. Cosgrove over there is pretty damn scrawny.

Well, the weatherworn doctor replied, I think most women would look scrawny compared to our Detective Donovan. It’s obvious she works out. His small eyes grew large and he gasped. Not that I’ve been checking her out, or anything...I haven’t... He saw the way Jack and Alyssa were looking at him, and he cleared his throat. Yeah, I think, in this case, you’re right, Sir. Miss Cosgrove would be flattened by Detective Donovan.

Balking slightly at the backhanded compliment he’d just offered her, Alyssa stood a little taller and asked, "Why’d you ask