STAGE (Alyssa Donovan Series #4)

By Tracie Gerardi

Detective Alyssa Donovan and her partner Jack Keller are back, and this time there's more to the mystery than meets the eagle eye. The stage is set for a thrilling look into the world of New York City after dark, when the bright lights of Broadway shine and the curtain opens, and murder plays out in the spotlight. With a cast of characters worthy of Tony awards, and a twisting, turning plot, the case unfolds with tension and excitement. But Will Donovan and Keller be able to solve the mystery before their show closes for good?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracie Gerardi
• Release date: Feb 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301035243

Book preview

STAGE

An Alyssa Donovan Mystery

By Tracie M. Gerardi

STAGE

An Alyssa Donovan Mystery

By Tracie M. Gerardi

Copyright 2013 BKMysteries and Tracie M. Gerardi

Smashwords Edition

For Matt and Gina:

You inspire me, encourage me.

For Mom and Dad:

For your endless support and love.

For Dylan and Lucas:

You light up my world, my little men.

Semper Fi

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE Spotlight

CHAPTER ONE The Curtain Falls

CHAPTER TWO Cast and Cruise

CHAPTER THREE Deadline

CHAPTER FOUR All I Want For Christmas

CHAPTER FIVE Phantom Pains

CHAPTER SIX A Jolly Holiday

CHAPTER SEVEN A Lion in Winter

CHAPTER EIGHT Double Jeopardy

CHAPTER NINE Encore

CHAPTER TEN Necessary Roughness

CHAPTER ELEVEN Christmas Interruptus

CHAPTER TWELVE The Stage Is Set

PROLOGUE

Spotlight

He swept the dust off of the stage, pushing it into the wings. The swish of his broom created a rhythm, his footsteps, heartbeat and hard breathing provided the melody. He was a one-man orchestra performing for his invisible crowd.

He whistled as he swept, the glitter flying and sparkling in the glow of the lone spotlight.

David!

He stopped whistling, he stopped sweeping. What? he answered to his name being called.

We gotta go!

He heard the heels clicking toward him and he dropped the broom at his feet.

Were you…were you sweeping?

No…of course not…no, we have a stage crew for that, he waved a hand at the pretty redhead in front of him before he checked his watch. Go, he said. I’m right behind you.

The woman raised both eyebrows and shook her head, then turned, clicking her heels in the opposite direction.

David turned to the empty theater and sighed, then smiled as the spotlight went dark. He took a breath, then a bow. He had no idea it would be his final one.

CHAPTER ONE

The Curtain Falls

Wednesday, December 23rd, 4:30 AM

Beep...beep...beep...beep.

She tried to ignore the obnoxious high-pitched beeping by shoving her head under her pillow, but that didn’t work. Instead of drowning out the noise, it simply made it more annoying. She rubbed her eyes and reached over to grab the pager that had, so rudely, awakened her. She glanced down at the number, then over to her alarm clock.

Four thirty? Are you kidding?

She violently punched the digits into her cell phone and waited.

"Yo, kid."

This better be very important. And by ‘very’ I mean it should involve the President of the United States and Brad Pitt.

"Not so much. But it is important, and we need you on this one. We got a 420 in Manhattan. 46th street."

And you need me for this because...

"Because, you’re the best we got. High profile cases require the best and this is gonna be extremely high profile come daylight."

Politician? Socialite? Katie guessed into the phone while struggling to pull on her jeans. It was still dark. She wasn’t even sure if the jeans were hers. It was her first case as the new lead lab technician, and already she felt as if she was failing.

"Actor. David Fisher."

Katie’s mouth dropped. David....three-time-Tony-award-winning-Oscar-nominated-brilliant-gorgeous David Fisher?

"Well, he isn’t gorgeous anymore, but yes. That’s the guy."

Katie sighed audibly into her cell. A sigh that conveyed a mixture of annoyance, shock and confusion. She had to pick up her husband in two hours. Two hours; hardly enough time to process a crime scene this important. Okay, but you need to call Adam this time. Whenever I tell him why I missed picking him up at the airport, or dinner, or something he thinks I’m lying.

"Sure. I’ll make the call right now."

I’ll be there in twenty minutes, She said as she slapped her phone shut and grabbed her shiny metal tool kit, slinging the strap over her shoulder.

She was actually there in ten, having pulled on her NYPD standard issue tee and whipped her strawberry blonde hair into a ponytail. After applying nothing more than sunscreen and chap stick, she still managed to look picture perfect. The chilled night air smelled fresh and clean as she got out of her car, the bar she stepped into, though, smelled of beer, burgers and…she sniffed...what was it? Oh, iron. Blood. Enough to make the air thick with the metallic odor of iron.

A cursory glance around the place told her that there had been some kind of party. Black tie affair. At least two of the guests were smokers: the side door was ajar and there were two butts still burning in the ashtray on the patio table. One of those cigarette butts had red lipstick around the end.

She sighed and looked around the bar, noticing that Captain Langford and Officer Nichols had retained anyone who was here when it all went down.

Whatever it was.

Men in suits and ties, ladies in sparkly dresses that seemed to cost more that a whole year’s worth of tuition at Columbia University. They all chatted wildly, to anyone who’d listen, about what they’d seen.

As glamorous as they all looked, no one was paying any mind to fashion. They were all focused on the sticky, wobbly bar, and the cold body that lay hunched over it.

Katie took a few seconds to really look at every face, every stunned partygoer.

One guy instantly stuck out like a sore thumb. Behind the yellow crime scene tape, away from the cops and the witnesses, down a small set of steps, sitting in a bench next to a pool table he was all alone. A microphone stand and acoustic guitar were nestled in the corner behind him.

She noted that the microphone stand was empty. She had a habit of noticing what wasn’t there, which was a good habit to have when you were in her line of work.

Turning her head back to the lone man, she realized he looked nervous, clearly shaken by what had occurred. Why wasn’t anyone talking to him, she wondered. No one but her seemed to even notice him. She took a quick picture of the scene with the old fashion point-and-shoot camera around her neck.

She carefully examined the banister to her right as she was walking down the steps. It was loose, and the black paint was peeling. She chalked it up to old age, seeing as how the vic had died on the bar, nowhere near this banister. It was clearly not the murder weapon, and probably not involved at all.

Never ignore evidence, never overlook anything and never make assumptions.

She could hear the words of her friend, colleague and mentor, Detective Alyssa Donovan, ring through her ears as she smirked and reached for her camera. She photographed the metal banister and took a small sample of the peeling paint. She also took note, and a picture, of the loose bricks on the steps heading down to where the lonely guy sat.

Without acknowledging him, she walked over to the guitar and mic stand. She was snapping photos and was about to give it a more thorough examination when he finally spoke.

Do you mind? The flash …that’s an expensive guitar and the wood…please.

Actually, I do mind. Your very expensive guitar is plugged into a not-that-expensive amp. There’s no microphone in the stand, and you are a nervous wreck. If you can explain any of that, I’m listening, but right now your equipment is sitting in my crime scene and is, therefore, evidence. I process evidence.

She took a small cotton swab and bottle of clear liquid out of a silver toolbox. She squeezed out one drop of the liquid onto the swab, and swiped it against the neck of the guitar. The red, sticky substance came off clean and easy. She capped the swab, and hoped to God the lab would reveal nothing more deviant that strawberry jam.

I put the mic away. I was packing up when everything happened. Gig was over around two-thirty. The neighbors get pissed if I play beyond that. I went till two-thirty-five once and they called the cops. The musician tapped his fingers on the table to a beat that only he could hear. He took a deep breath and couldn’t help noticing the fruity smell emitting from Katie’s hair. He smiled, took another deep breath and relaxed.

Katie took a picture of the black Nike backpack on the floor. It was unzipped and there was a microphone with its wire coiled around it sitting inside, verifying the music man’s story.

Okay, so you said your gig ended at two-thirty, but according to the owner the incident didn’t occur until almost three-thirty. Did it take you an hour and a half to roll up a mic?

No, of course not. I stopped playing at two-thirty, like I said. I grabbed a drink and walked around the bar with my tip jar. It’s not a glorious profession, by any means. After that, I sat down and counted the tips. He simpered and rolled his eyes. Sixty-two dollars and seventy-five cents. I had another drink, then started packing up. I had just put my mic into the bag when everyone started screaming.

And instead of running toward the commotion to help, a grown man like you stayed down here and hid behind the pool table?

He stood up and yelled, I didn’t want to get involved, okay? I figured if I stayed down here, alone, no one would have anything to say to me and I could just get my stuff and go. I didn’t even know the guy was dead until those two showed up. He pointed to two decadently dressed people with shiny gold badges and high-end automatic weapons at their hips.

Katie cocked her head to the side as she stared at them and took a guess: his suit was about three thousand dollars, tie included. Hers must have been at least two grand, the shoes added another eight hundred bucks to the sum. She would be jealous if she didn’t like them so much.

I have no idea what happened, cried the musician, retrieving her attention. I didn’t touch anything and I certainly didn’t kill anyone.

Woah, woah, slow down. You haven’t been accused of anything, sir. She put her hands up and slowly eased him back into his seat. I only want to know if you saw what happened as it’s very odd, to me, that someone like you could stay away from the action like that, she said in a calm, rational tone. Tell me what you saw.

Nothing. I heard the screams and I hit the bench. You can’t see much of anything from back here. Especially if you’re sitting down. I stood up when the noise stopped. I turned around and that’s when the bartender told us that he’d called the police and they told him we couldn’t leave. So, I sat back down. That’s it.

Katie walked over to where he was, and sat on the bench. The only things that were visible were the fireplace, his guitar and a few tables and chairs. Her back was facing the bar and the crime scene.

Everything important would have happened behind her, and therefore, behind her witness.

Sighing, she asked for his name and address, and told him not to leave town for a few days. He nodded and cursed under his breath.

She walked back up the stairs, cursing herself for sounding like a cliché to the anxious guitar player. Shaking her head, she made her way beyond the parade of uniformed policemen and gussied up witnesses and finally reached the body. Less than four hours ago, he had been one of the most well-respected, and well-paid, actors in the business. Now his lifeless body was sprawled on a sticky, smelly barroom floor.

David Fisher gave his final performance in a grungy dive on a seedy New York street, and Katie, and her pals at the homicide unit, had to find out who closed the curtain too soon.

She started with the camera. She took photos of the body from every angle, taking close-ups and full-body shots before snapping a few shots of the area surrounding the body. There were no distinct footprints to speak of. Due to the thick, sticky film on the floor, she guessed that every foot that stepped on it since 1975 had left a print that was still partially visible. She collected blood from the gunshot wounds in his neck and chest, and scraped under his fingernails.

There was a dusty, blue substance in his hair, which she collected with clear, sticky tape. Her brow furrowed, and she began going over every inch of David’s body with a pocket flashlight to make sure nothing went unexamined. She noticed some things that were definitely not supposed to be there. There was a small, but prominent bruise on his right cheek. Possibly from a ring on the hand that punched him?

She pulled a tube of what seemed to be grey toothpaste out of her box, and spread some over the bruise. It would take a few minutes to dry so she continued her search. Greasy marks made their way from his left cheek to his chest. After swabbing the smudges, she found what she’d been looking for: a big, black fingerprint. She snapped a few photos of it, and then lifted it with the same clear tape she’d used on his hair.

Finally, she went back and pulled up the dried, rubberized paste from the victim's cheek. She flipped it over and grinned down. In her hand she held a very good 3-D impression of the mark. It was gonna be a good day in the lab.

Okay, Cooper, scene’s clear. Your customers can leave as soon as they‘ve given their statements, She said as she turned to an angry looking man, in his thirties, who stood with his arms folded next to the body. Al, your guys can get the body back to the morgue and hopefully, soon, you can tell us more about him. People started to move quickly, so she stepped back and got out of their way.

She took one last look around the bar, and saw Dean, the musician, putting his guitar in his case. She saw him rubbing his eyes, either due to his exhaustion or his fear, before lifting his head and catching her eyes, smiling. She smirked and shook her head. Not at the musician, but at the ominous presence she’d been feeling behind her for the past few minutes.

If you two are going to hover over me while I do my job, I get to hover over you while you’re screwing like rabbits tonight.

Katie, that is hardly a fair trade, Detective Jack Keller said, a bit appalled at the offer.

Yeah, Detective Alyssa Donovan agreed. We’d be doing something much more entertaining and it would take a hell of a lot longer.

Katie turned around to face the two detectives and smiled. I don’t doubt that.

What have we got so far? Jack asked.

Fiona is over there collecting samples from the floor and shoeprints. That guy, she said pointing to Dean, Is the first suspect-slash-witness who claims he didn’t see shit. I figure you two can scare him more than I can. She held up the greasy swab and the grey imprint of the facial bruise. Won’t know what the hell this crap is till I get it back to the lab. I assume you’ll want Alex up my ass?

Jack grinned. You know it. We know you’re good, Katie, but Homicide doesn’t take chances. Just keep her in your shadow.

Besides, you know if I don’t have constant updates on evidence analysis results I’ll hurt someone, Alyssa said as she sipped her coffee. You hate having to call me every ten minutes whereas I couldn’t pay Alex to stop texting me. She wins.

The spunky Lead CSU Investigator rolled her eyes. Fine. As long as she doesn’t step on my toes, try to pull rank or try to run my lab.

Just do what I do, and you won't have that problem, Alyssa suggested.

What’s that, Donovan?

With another sip of coffee and another sneaky smile she said, Threaten to tell Keller she slept with Halloran.

Jacks eyes widened and he choked on his hot java. She what?

Oh, calm down! She didn’t really do it! That’s why it works so well. She knows you’d believe it and think less of her, then you’d beat the shit out of Halloran.

Thanks for the tip, Katie said as she packed up her gear. "I’m gonna get started on this crap. You guys have a lot of people to talk to and a lot of ass to kiss. The new medical examiner’s name is Al, by the way. He doesn’t like being called Doc,