Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Read online

  Lucky Break

  Christine Gael

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  1

  Pay dirt.

  Mel Walsh scooted his chair closer to his desk and stared down at the sparklers he'd just bought. Once "John Smith" found out that he could've gotten twenty thousand for the diamonds he’d sold Mel, maybe he'd do a little research next time.

  Or maybe not.

  Mel didn't really give a shit. Because he was about to make enough cash on this score to give his granddaughter that sweet sixteen party she'd been begging him for, life-sized cake and C-list rapper included.

  The little bell on the door jingled and Mel looked up, irritated. He'd meant to lock up early, but had gotten distracted with his recent purchase.

  He tugged the jeweler's loupe off his head with a sigh and set it on the desk before pushing himself to his feet. In spite of the central air that was costing him an arm and a leg this brutal summer, the fabric of his suit pants still clung to the seat of his leather office chair, making a sticky snick as he stood.

  "Be right with you," Mel called through the open doorway. He carefully scraped the diamonds back into the velvet bag and then pocketed them before shuffling out to the front of the shop on creaky knees.

  "What can I do you for?"

  "Just browsing, thanks," the man on the other side of the counter murmured with a nod.

  Mel could've guessed that just by looking at him. He wore a scruffy beard, ill-fitting, threadbare clothes, his tattered baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Worst of all, though, was the overstuffed army rucksack he had slung on his back. It was oily and disgusting. Like he'd stolen it from a bum in the alley. Mel imagined it smelled like it, too.

  "Suit yourself," Mel replied, stuffing his hand in his pocket. "We close in ten minutes."

  The guy nodded and took his sweet time strolling along the perimeter of the store, peering into cases full of high-end jewelry he could never hope to afford. Time passed slower than a kidney stone and, eight and a half pointless minutes later, Mel coughed into his hand.

  "Sorry to rush you, but I've got an appointment to get to…"

  The guy looked up and blinked, like he was surprised to find Mel still standing behind the counter.

  "Yeah, sure. No problem.”

  He made his way to the door and then paused. Instead of exiting, though, he reached for the "open" sign and flipped it to "closed" before engaging the deadbolt. The sound of the locks tumbling into place made the hair on Mel's arms stand up.

  Pulse pounding, he sidestepped almost imperceptibly to the right, toward the cubby beneath the counter, where he kept his old revolver tucked away for emergencies.

  "What the hell—"

  Before the words had completely cleared his mouth, the guy was on him, leaping over the countertop so fast, it had Mel's tricky prostate failing. His fingers clawed helplessly at his attacker's shoulders, but he might as well have been trying to move a Buick. The bastard wasn't big, but damn, he was strong. All lean, wiry muscle.

  Mel toppled to the marble floor in a heap. Shredding heat shot through his shoulder as the bone popped from its socket. He opened his mouth to let out a howl, but his assailant's fist was driving into his solar plexus again and again, leaving him too breathless to make a sound.

  "Give it up, old man. The quicker you do, the less it's going to hurt," a low voice said in his ear.

  He was so calm, he could've been talking about the weather, which was the scariest part of all.

  "Frankie sent you?" Mel finally gasped, cold sweat popping out onto his brow as the grinding pain in his shoulder set its hooks in deeper.

  Frankie "Quarter to Ten" Lewis was a local loan shark and bookie who'd gotten his nickname after a fight had left his head cocked about forty-five degrees to the right, permanently positioning it like the hands of a broken clock, forever stuck at nine forty-five.

  The good thing about Frankie? He could always take a joke. The bad thing about Frankie? When it came to money, he was dead serious.

  Mel wet his lips and tried not to whimper. "I've been on schedule," mostly, "and he swore we were good so long as I didn't miss another payment."

  Now, though, as a pair of hands slid underneath Mel's arms, he was wishing he'd done things differently. His medical insurance was shit and resetting his shoulder alone was going to cost him a fortune. Probably Frankie's point with this. An in-your-face reminder of why it would be in Mel's best interest to pay his debt sooner than later.

  Point taken.

  "Look—" he managed in a rasp, the word lilting up at the end on a squeak as Frankie's henchman dragged him across the floor toward the office. The motion wrenched Mel's shoulder again and his eyesight flickered as bone ground against bone. He wanted to scream, but if he opened his mouth he'd surely puke. His piss-soaked pants were already leaving tracks behind him like a snail-trail on a cobblestone walkway, and a man had to have some dignity.

  Once Mel's feet had cleared the office doorway, Frankie's man lowered him to the floor and closed the door.

  "I've learned my lesson," Mel wheezed, watching as his assailant shrugged the pack off his back and began rifling through it. "I’ll get him the rest of his money by tomorrow night. Seriously, if I don't come home in the next ten minutes, the wife will get worried and come down here."

  It was bullshit. He’d talked to Phyllis less than an hour ago and she’d already been sauced. She was probably on the couch, snoring with her mouth open, TV blaring in the background by now.

  "Sh-she has a set of keys to the store," he added.

  But his attacker didn't react. He just kept rifling through his sack like he was picking through a laundry basket on a lazy Sunday morning. He was actually humming when he finally pulled something out of it. When Mel saw what it was, screw dignity.

  He screamed.

  2

  Andy took a swig of the lukewarm iced tea and swallowed hard, but it didn't do much to quench the burning of his throat. It was an unfamiliar sensation. One he'd only started feeling when he began watching Detective Ella Strickland a few months back.

  Whenever she was in his line of sight, he felt whole and filled up. And when he wasn't watching her, he felt like a balloon with no air.

  Flat.

  Squashed.

  Suffocated.

  And he wasn't a fan of that at all.

  This wasn't even supposed to be about her. Not at first. But somehow, as each day had passed and his need for vengeance morphed and grew like a cancerous mole, she'd slowly become the axis that his world spun on.

  Now, sitting across the street from the museum, surrounded by hipsters sucking down five dollar steamed lattes like it wasn't hot as balls outside, he wondered if this was what college kids meant when they used the word "thirsty”. He knew there was a sexual connotation t
o that bit of slang, and his feelings for Ella Strickland weren't that. Or, at least, not just that. But there was no question the pull he felt toward her was a kind of lust that, if left unfulfilled for too long, would consume him.

  He narrowed his gaze and tried to act natural as he craned his neck just a little, in hopes of getting a glimpse of her dark ponytail, or maybe, if he was lucky, her profile. Instead, all he saw was a row of police cars, lights flashing, and a couple of out of shape beat cops still patrolling the street.

  He settled back in his chair and tried to shake the growing sense of unease as he gave himself a mental pep talk. This was what he'd been waiting for, planning for, all these months. The game was finally afoot, and acting like a little bitch because he couldn't get his fix was only going to make him sloppy.

  Sloppy was dangerous.

  "Another iced tea?" the barista asked him as she made the rounds from table to tiny table. Her smile was pleasant enough, but the AM crowd was pouring in now and he knew he'd overstayed his welcome. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention. He shook his head and forced a smile in return.

  "All set, I'm on my way out."

  Cunt.

  He picked up his new knapsack, which was much lighter than the one he'd had to haul two blocks through Midtown just hours before, and tossed his mostly drunk tea into the trashcan. Luckily, Mel was the outlier. The rest of his victims would move where he wanted them to go before he killed them, as he relied on brains over brawn to get them there.

  He stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, the heat of the day slapped him in the face and he stopped short, stricken with crippling indecision.

  He should go left. No question.

  Walking past the crime scene to see if Ella was enjoying his little art project would be foolhardy to the point of recklessness. Especially with his disguise and the murder weapon stuffed in the bag he was holding. He was pretty sure she wouldn't recognize him, but Ella and that asshole partner of hers were both decorated detectives. There was no question they'd be scanning faces in the crowd, looking for anyone who seemed "off".

  And no matter how hard Andy tried, whenever he saw Ella, he was pretty sure he seemed off.

  Some days, he didn't know if it was that he loved to hate her that made his muscles tense and his ears go hot when she was around, or if, in some twisted sense, he actually loved her. Either way, he had to limit his interactions with her to the ones he'd had more time to plan and prepare for.

  His meds usually helped with that, but he'd made the decision to forgo them now that the mission had gone from the planning to the action phase. While the cocktail of antipsychotics and mood stabilizers tended to keep him calmer, they also clouded his thinking, and he needed to be as sharp as possible if he wanted to see this through to the end.

  And the end was really the only part that mattered.

  He tugged the baseball cap lower on his head and forced himself to go left, fastidiously avoiding the cracks on the sidewalk as he went.

  Away from the flashing lights.

  Away from the crime scene he'd orchestrated.

  Away from Ella Strickland.

  God, he loved that name. Ella.

  Pretty and neat, subtle but direct, with a hint of elegance, just like she was. The rest of those knuckle-draggers called her “Lucky”. Not him, though. Never him.

  It had taken him months of research and observation to finally figure out why she'd gotten the nickname that seemed better suited to a Vegas hooker. Digging into her past. Reading about her cases. Watching and listening as her colleagues talked shit about her while they slung their pencil-dicks around at the local watering hole.

  To his mind, it all came down to sour grapes. She blew into a crime scene and carefully, quietly, cut away the bullshit until she got to the heart of it. She had neither the time nor the inclination to share her process, and her instincts about people were almost uncanny. When everyone else zigged, Ella had no problem zagging. That combination of qualities had led her to be insanely successful in the time she’d spent at the precinct.

  Already at a disadvantage as an attractive female who didn't respond to the attentions of her male co-workers, professional jealousy had helped secure her position as the murder cop most of the other cops loved to hate.

  Her nickname was an intentional insult on every front. Meant as a constant reminder of her quick promotion to homicide detective due to nepotism.

  Meant to make her question her confidence.

  Meant to belittle her brilliance, like an algebra teacher punishing his best student because she didn't show her work.

  Lucky.

  Even her shit for brains partner, Figueroa, called her that. Probably too dumb to know that it wasn't meant to be a compliment.

  Not Andy, though. Never Andy.

  Despite the fact that his actions would ultimately break her, he refused to underestimate his opponent by calling her that, even in his mind.

  He lifted his new bag higher onto his shoulder as he continued down the street, trying to forget about her for just a few minutes, forcing himself to focus instead on the night to come. As he cut his way through the grid of Midtown streets, he let the precision and familiarity of the layout soothe him.

  It wasn't until he hit Lexington Avenue that the desperate urge to turn back and watch her—damn the consequences—faded. That thirsty feeling clawing at his throat finally faded some, too, and he could breathe again.

  By the time he stepped into his apartment ten minutes later, he was like a new man. He'd get a few hours of sleep and everything would be right with the world again.

  All that sawing and heavy lifting had fatigued him more than he'd anticipated, both mentally and physically. But he'd needed murder one to be a real showstopper. Something flashy that would all but ensure the A-team would be assigned the case. The fact that the gruesome nature of the crime would haunt Ella’s dreams was a bonus. And while her eye was firmly trained on that particular ball, he would be juggling the rest in the background, unnoticed. The longer it took for them to connect the dots, the better off he'd be.

  The next couple would be easier. Cleaner. Less stressful.

  He’d make sure of it.

  "Rachel? You home?" he called out. When there was no response, he let out a pent-up breath.

  It was one of his roommate's scheduled twelve-hour shifts at the hospital, but that didn't mean she couldn't have called in sick. The thought of having the day to himself, uninterrupted, dispelled the last of the tension gripping him.

  Quick shower, quick nap and he'd be back in control. On top and ready for his next move.

  Total domination.

  Because, no matter how smart Ella was, he was one hundred percent sure he was smarter. It would be days before she finally caught on, which meant their cheek-to-cheek slow dance was still a ways off.

  Until then, he'd have to be patient. Make do with what he had.

  And what he had was a planned series of murders so brilliant, so perfectly orchestrated, that Ella Strickland was going to recognize him as one of the criminal masterminds of the century…

  Right before he made his final move.

  He could hardly wait.

  3

  "You don't think it looks a little like a Picasso?" Carlos closed one eye and made a frame out of his fingers.

  Lucky Strickland peered at the scene on the sidewalk in front of the Museum of Modern Art, cocking her head this way and that before shrugging.

  "Sorry, I still don't see it."

  "Well if it isn’t ‘Los and Lucky. Lucky and ‘Los,” a hoarse male voice muttered behind her, sing-songing their nicknames but managing to make them sound more like curses. “A couple of cackling crows eyeballing the roadkill."

  She peered over her shoulder to see Patrolman Mike Flynn standing behind them, his puckish face a mask of disgust.

  "That's a fucking person, you know," he ground out.

  If the bloody arm stump with the foot nailed to the top of it had
n't been enough of a clue, the severed head perched on the arch of said foot would've been a dead giveaway. Lucky didn't even need her homicide training to figure that out, but she managed to keep the retort to herself in the spirit of team-building.

  "Hey, Luck,” Carlos said in a conversational tone. “Did you know that a flock of crows is called a murder?" He didn’t even spare a glance in Flynn's direction.

  Apparently, ‘Los wasn’t feeling the team-building spirit this morning.

  Her flimsier-than-tissue-paper resolve to take the high road disappeared and she nodded.

  "Actually, I did. Did you know that a flock of ravens is called a conspiracy?"

  "Ooh, that's a good one," ‘Los said, his dark eyes snapping with interest as he reached in his pants pocket and tugged out a miniature notebook with a pencil stuck in the spiral binding. "I'm going to write that one down."

  "Assholes," Flynn muttered under his breath. “You don’t even care.”

  He started to stalk away, but then stopped short.

  "Bisby called. He's on his way," he snapped, before continuing toward the row of police cars and sawhorses blocking 53rd Street, leaving ‘Los and Lucky alone again.

  Flynn had been first on the scene and, like always, he had his boxers in a wad because he'd had to hand it over to them after "doing all the work”.

  In spite of his attitude, he was a damned good cop. Methodical, detail-oriented and he cared about the civilians on his beat.

  He was also a petty bastard with a chip on his shoulder. If not for that and his refusal to work within the system and play politics sometimes, he'd have already been a detective himself. After five years of failing on that front, though, he'd stopped even trying. As a consolation prize, he took his anger out on the detectives he was forced to work with.