Dig 2 Graves

By Sylvia Burnside

Death will rush and roar into a crowded, New York City subway station to snatch a life. It will leave behind unspeakable rage, overwhelming regret and a paradoxical desire for revenge.

Sydney Stone, a private investigator, takes on two simple cases -- a missing person and a case of possible adultery -- 'piece of cake', Sydney thinks. But, early in her investigations, Sydney's leg man is stabbed; then, Sydney learns that one of her clients has been targeted for murder. The plan to stop a killer may save her client's life; but, will her client be left with a life worth living?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sylvia Burnside
• Release date: Jan 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463811887

Sylvia Burnside

Sylvia Burnside is a native New Yorker, born and raised in Harlem. She recently moved to upstate New York. Raised in a big family with seven sisters and brothers by parents who were somewhat strict and kept their kids close to home, Sylvia ventured out into the world through books. She was and still is an avid reader. When she was about 12, her father brought her about thirty old Agatha Christie paperbacks -- a lover of mystery and a desire to be a writer were born. Sylvia has two children and three grandchildren. When she is not writing, she's reading, knitting and enjoying the company of family and friends.

Book preview

dedication

This book is dedicated to my parents, Lula Mae and Robert Burnside. Although they are gone, they are never forgotten. I owe all that I am to their love, encouragement and old fashioned, common sense parenting. Thank you, Ma. Thank you, Daddy.

acknowledgements

To my sister, Linda Burnside, who rolled up her sleeves, read and edited my manuscript, line by line, showed me the value of the visual in writing, supported and encouraged me with love.

To my daughter, Ntozage Morgan who designed the fabulous book cover, who is my sounding board, and who encouraged me and kept my spirits up throughout this book project.

To James Buckley, who read and completed a line-by-line review of my manuscript and provided support, encouragement and advice.

To my sister, Jeannette Daniels, who, with love, has been relentless, in pushing, shoving and cajoling me toward the completion and publication of this book.

To my sister, Marjorie Jones, who imbued value to my writing and value to me by keeping so much of my early writing. Thank you, Marjorie Jones.

To my like-a-daughter friend, Stacey Howard, whose matter of fact, off-hand, you got this attitude got me through to the end game.

To Gregory Christie, my neighbor and friend and the first reader of my manuscript, whose excitement, enthusiasm and positive feedback magnified my confidence in my craft.

chapter 1

monday evening, new york city

Katherine Chapman sat on her sofa sipping scotch and soda and savoring the peace-filled silence of the oncoming evening that would soon be shattered by talk of murder. After she had picked up her children from their after-school program, they had begged to spend time with their friends next door. Katherine had showed them her reluctance but finally agreed, knowing she welcomed some time alone.

As the sun disappeared from the New York City horizon, one of its rays shot across the city placing a spotlight on Katherine’s ringing phone. Katherine moaned, hesitated, sat up, put her drink on the coffee table and finally picked up the phone. Unknown caller appeared on the display. Unknown caller my ass, these damn telemarketers, Katherine said to the phone. Son of a bitch. Ready to cuss the caller out, Katherine hit the talk button.

Stop calling my house and take my number off your damn list.

No response.

Hello?

No answer.

Hello? Katherine said again. She heard two men talking, ignoring her. After Katherine’s third hello, the men continued to ignore her, but she could hear, quite clearly, what was being said.

Is it all set, Mr. Boxer?

Yeah.

Friday?

Yeah, Friday at 5:30.

Where?

You don’t want to know.

I’m gonna know.

Silence.

Where, Mr. Boxer?

Times Square.

Don’t play with me, Mr. Boxer.

In the subway station.

Subway station? Fifty for a hit and…

Careful.

Why the subway station?

I told you before, I don’t do layaway, but I took your small down payment as a favor -- a favor that does not entitle you to play twenty questions.

Katherine could hear the edge of impatience and anger when the other man said, Why the subway station?

A few seconds of silence, then the man breathed a heavy sigh into the phone and said, Sometimes people have terrible accidents in the subway. Do we have an agreement or not?

More silence. Then, All right.

Second installment when?

Tomorrow, Mr. Boxer.

How?

Same arrangement as before.

A dial tone replaced the conversation. Katherine stared out into the room as she slowly moved the handset back to its place, missing it several times before setting it down properly. Her lips parted slightly, she turned her head to the side, then turned it back and looked at the phone. Her eyes blinked repeatedly as if they could help her process what she had just heard. Pieces of the conversation flashed into her head. Accident. A hit. Times Square. Katherine’s body stiffened. Her arm jerked and her hand shook as she reached for and picked up her drink. The ice cubes clattered loudly against the glass. She placed her other hand on the glass to steady it, brought it, finally, to her lips, took a sip and swallowed; but, the liquid did not force her heartbeat out of her throat and back into her chest. It did not clear her head of the thoughts she did not want to think. She looked out across the room again, looked down at her trembling hands, sat her drink back on the table, entwined her fingers, leaned back, took a long, deep breath and closed her eyes.

A moment later, Katherine’s eyes popped open. She jumped up from the sofa and spoke out loud. Wait a minute. This could be a joke, a stupid joke. She smiled. Yeah, a joke. Some idiot putting a new spin on telephone pranks. Katherine laughed. A dirty trick, but effective. Not funny, but effective.

Katherine sat down again and picked up her drink. She shrugged off, so she thought, her initial reaction to the telephone call. Slowly and quietly, the thoughts snuck up on her. What if it’s not a joke? It must be. What if it’s not? Landlines don’t get crossed anymore, cell phones, sometimes, maybe. She pressed her lips together, her breathing became more rapid, her shoulders slumped, her body followed. She rubbed her forehead, ran her fingers through her hair. If it’s not a joke, I have to call the police. Visions of endless police interviews flew through Katherine’s head. I don’t want to get mixed up in this crap. And, if it is a joke, I’m going to look like a damn jackass. Why did I pick up that damn phone?

Katherine looked at the phone and smiled. I don’t have to give my name. She picked up the phone and dialed 911. Two rings and there was a dispatcher on the line.

911, where is your emergency?

Well, I don’t know where it is. Oh yes, yes I do, Times Square.

What is the nature of your emergency ma’am?

A murder.

Did you say murder, ma’am? Someone has been murdered?

Yes, ah, no. Someone is going to be murdered.

Ma’am, you need to contact your local precinct.

My local precinct? Can’t you just take down the information and give it to them?

Please hold, ma’am.

I can’t believe this.

The dispatcher returned to the phone seconds later. Your name and address ma’am?

My name and address, what do you need that for?

So that we can send a car, ma’am.

Why can’t you just take the information?

Ma’am, I am not allowed to take this kind of report on the emergency line. Would you like me to send a car, ma’am?

Witch.

Ma’am?

Damn. Katherine exhaled. Katherine Chapman. One West 72nd Street.

Apartment and telephone number, ma’am?

Apartment 9A. Katherine gave her the telephone number and hung up.

In her bedroom, Katherine took off her torn, work-at-home jeans and ragged tee shirt. She showered quickly. In her bedroom mirror, a 34-year-old woman with flawless, youthful skin, beautiful green eyes and meticulously cut, shoulder-length hair the color of a fiery sunset looked back at her. She walked over to the closet and pulled out an emerald green, casual pantsuit. She slipped the pants over a green thong and the top over a matching B cup demi-bra, ran her comb through her hair, pushed her tiny feet into a pair of kiwi-colored mules and walked out into the living room in time to hear her intercom sound.

Katherine walked up to the security monitor suspended above her door. When Katherine looked up into the monitor at the two police officers, she already felt as if they were looking down on her.

Katherine buzzed the officers in and settled back against the foyer table to wait. Her doorbell rang. She opened the door. One of the officers was an older cop, tall, with dark hair, handsome in his way with experience written on his face. The other was a bit shorter, a head full of blonde hair, slim and looking brand new to the business of policing.

Mrs. Chapman? the older officer inquired.

Yes. Katherine stepped back and opened the door wide. The officers entered. Katherine closed the door and walked into the living room toward the sofa. The officers followed.

Katherine turned toward them. I hope this only takes a few moments, I…

The older, more experienced officer cut her off. One moment please, Mrs. Chapman. I am Officer Jenkins and this is Officer Thomas. He waved his hand toward the younger officer who nodded, pulled a large pad, encased in leather, from his belt, opened it, removed the pen from inside and stood at the ready to take notes.

Officer Jenkins continued. Would you please have a seat, Mrs. Chapman?

Katherine sat. What I have to tell…

Looking around, Officer Jenkins asked, Is there anyone else at home?

No, my children are with my neighbor.

And your husband, Mrs. Chapman?

At work.

Just you and your husband and children live here? Officer Jenkins asked.

Katherine stood up and took a step toward the questioning officer. Instinctively, he stepped back but his face remained calm. Look, someone’s going to be murdered, on Friday, four days from now. There’s no time for all these questions.

I understand your impatience, Mrs. Chapman; but, the questions are routine when we enter a residence, Officer Jenkins said.

Katherine stared at the officer for an instant, her chest rose and she exhaled a long, hard breath then she turned back toward the sofa and reseated herself.

The junior officer, Thomas, also exhaled.

Katherine answered the last question, barely moving her mouth. Just my husband and I and our two children live here.

What do you do for a living, Mrs. Chapman?

I’m a free-lance writer.

And…

And my husband is an investment broker. My children are too young to work. The woman next door is a podiatrist, I think there’s a lawyer on the other side of her and the man who lives below me is a computer programmer, Katherine shot off rapidly.

Officer Jenkins pressed his lips together.

Katherine looked directly at Officer Jenkins, smiled, raised one eyebrow, then shot a glance at the younger officer, Thomas, who was also smiling.

Officer Jenkins looked over at Thomas who immediately wiped the smile from his face.

I understand you told the dispatcher that someone is going to be murdered.

Yes.

And how do you know this? Officer Jenkins asked.

I heard two men talking about it on the phone.

Officer Jenkins let the disbelief fly out of his mouth. They called you?

No, of course not. My phone rang. It said unknown caller. I thought it was a telemarketer.

Jenkins interrupted. So you usually…

Katherine cut him off. I picked up the phone to give them a piece of my mind; no one would answer me, but I could hear talking.

Sounds like a crossed line, but it’s not very likely in this day and age. Are you sure about this, Mrs. Chapman?

Well, you know, Officer, it’s possible the voices were really all in my head. I just thought the telephone rang, just imagined I had picked it up.

Officer Jenkins ignored the sarcasm. Did they know you were on the line?

Well, let’s see, now. I think if they had known I was on the line they would have started yelling, ‘lady, get off the line, we’re trying to plan a murder here’. Ya think?

Officer Jenkins took a long, deep breath.

While Katherine continued with her story, Officer Jenkins moved his eyes around the huge living room as he stood facing her. It was a corner apartment with views to both Central Park West and 72nd Street. Each view held two wide, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto tiny balconies. The walls were a deep tan color. Cream-colored drapes matched the carpet and the sofa, started at the ceilings above each window and fell to the floor. Between one set of windows there was a long, thin, mahogany bar with three stools padded in black leather. In the wall to the right of the bar, a tall, wide archway probably led to the kitchen and bedrooms, Jenkins thought. To Jenkins surprise, there was a modern fireplace. This was his first time in the Dakota and he had pictured gingerbread moldings everywhere and fireplaces out of the 1800s. Deep, comfortable looking chairs, upholstered in royal blue, sat in front of the fireplace. Royal blue seemed to be the only color in the room -- in the glasses housed in the cabinet behind the bar; in the huge, glass vases that sat near the windows; in the glass figurines in the cabinets on either side of the archway; in the thick, high-sheen, throw pillows on the sofa and in the short, rock glass on the coffee table, half-filled with some amber-colored liquid.

Katherine finished her story.

Officer Jenkins asked, How many drinks you have had today, Mrs. Chapman? I hope you don’t mind me asking.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed. The one drink I started with is still on the table. You know what. This is bullshit. I told you not to get involved. I told you. Gentlemen, Katherine said as she glanced at her watch, I trust you have all of the information you need from me. She stood up and started walking toward the door.

The officers turned toward Katherine but did not follow.

Mrs. Chapman, Officer Jenkins said, "I’m not being judgmental. We have to include our observations and impressions in our report.

Katherine continued toward the door.

A devilish smile appeared on Jenkins’ face. Well, it really doesn’t matter anyway. Off the record, Mrs. Chapman, this report, in all probability, won’t be investigated.

Katherine stopped and turned abruptly.

Jenkins hid the smile.

She walked quickly back over to Jenkins. Why not?

Well, Jenkins said, as he shrugged his shoulders, the crime you say is going to be committed will supposedly take place in a crowded public place where it would be impossible to find the perpetrator before and probably even after the crime has been committed.

Katherine stepped back. She looked Jenkins up and down, moved her eyes all over his face and finally stared straight into his eyes.

Jenkins fiddled with his hat, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looked down at his shoes, then looked back up at Katherine.

Katherine had not taken her eyes off him. She stared for another few seconds and then stepped up to Jenkins so quickly that, this time, he did not have a chance to step back. Your poker face is slipping, Officer, but since you want to play games, how about I raise, call your bluff and call your Captain?

Jenkins’ mouth dropped open. He quickly closed it and prepared to speak but before he could, Katherine turned, headed back toward the door and threw a good night, gentlemen, over her shoulder. This time, the officers followed, mumbling their good nights.

Katherine closed the door behind them, turned, wandered over to one of the windows and stared down onto 72nd Street. She saw the two officers get into their squad car. As they pulled away, a flurry of dead leaves followed them. Katherine turned from the window and looked around the room. Her eyes rested on first one object then another, as if she were waiting for one of them to speak. They all remained silent. Katherine sucked her teeth in disgust, moved over to the sofa, sat down and folded her arms. Well, isn’t this something?

She jumped up from the sofa and stomped through the archway to her bedroom. She made a quick call to her neighbor, Sheryl, to ask if the children could stay a while longer. She turned from the phone and kicked off her mules. Wasting my time. She found her boots, put them on, pulled her down jacket out of a closet and hurriedly shrugged it on. I use up my time and energy and this cop wants to play games. She stomped out of her room and into the foyer. Off the record. She took her door and car keys from the blue bowl on the foyer table. Well, maybe we’d better put some things on the record, Officer Jenkins. We’re talking about murder, here, you jackass. She tossed the car keys back into the bowl. I’ll walk. Her door banged shut behind her."

chapter 2

The 20th Precinct lived on tree-lined, eighty-second street between Columbus and Amsterdam Avenues. It wasn’t nestled; it was too different to be nestled, so instead, it stood out, between a long row of beautifully renovated brownstones on one side and on the other side a seven-story building that was so old it made the precinct look ultra modern. It wasn’t. It was a plain rectangular building, the length of which receded away from the sidewalk, as if it were trying to get away from the very public it was there to serve. The wide precinct parking lot between the precinct building and the older building housed police cars, unmarked cars, one would suppose, and parking for visitors. The long, exposed wall of the precinct building showed rows of screened windows on each floor. The entrance at the front of the precinct was announced by two tall, heavy doors. Dark-red brick lay on one side of the doors. On the other side, a child-like mural was planted on the wall on a huge, flat, chocolate brown, metal type background. It looked as if it had been stamped, with great force, with large geometric shapes that seemed to form no pattern or have any particular meaning. The building’s cornerstone that wasn’t in the corner but just to the left of the door declared its year of birth -- 1972. The two floors above street level were facaded in smooth, blue-gray stone.

Inside the precinct, Officer Jenkins and Thomas tried to report in to desk sergeant Abrams who was on one phone line while several others continued to ring. After a moment, he hung up the phone. What ya got? Officer Abrams asked as his hands hovered above his computer keyboard.

Officer Thomas smiled. A Times Square murder mystery.

Abrams looked up. What? Look, just give me the who, what stuff, Thomas.

Abrams’ brusqueness wiped the smile from Thomas’ face. Thomas pulled out his pad, flipped to the Chapman interview and started spitting out the details. We interviewed Chapman, Katherine, Dakota Apartments at One West 72nd Street, Apartment 9A.

Give me the time first, rookie, Abrams demanded.

Thomas nervously flipped back a page and continued. Five forty-five p.m. Thomas repeated the name, address and details then went on, Mrs. Chapman reportedly overheard on the telephone, the planning of a murder that is to take place on Friday at 5:30 p.m. in the Times Square subway station.

Abrams’ head