Manhattan, NY

Autumn 2019

 

 

                                                           Chapter One

 

            A shaft of sunlight broke through shadows and found Detective Michael Pendridge sitting on his bed in his boxer briefs, his dark hair falling around his face, catching on to the scruff on his jaw. An empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey rested in his lap. A thin layer of sweat covered his body. His heart drummed loud in his ears, making his blood rush through his veins. His eyes were squeezed shut while his teeth bit down on the barrel of his gun.

            He didn’t have to think about all he’d lost since the day he put on the uniform eleven years ago. It was always there, fresh in his mind. This job had cost him his soul. It had taken everyone he’d allowed himself to care about. It made him a monster and robbed him of any woman he could have loved because of time, and danger, and his increasingly screwed up head. It wrenched compassion from his heart and replaced it with the hard shell of apathy. People were liars. They were capable of the worst crimes. He’d seen it all. It stopped turning his stomach and left nothing in its wake.

            But he couldn’t give it up. It was in his blood. His brother, father and grandfather were cops, and though he wasn’t their biological son or brother, he felt the need for justice and right to reign.

            There was only one way to stop being the deluded protector of the innocent.

            He gripped his gun in his hand and slipped his index finger to the trigger. He took a deep breath. What was left? Whiskey. Just whiskey. The gun was already cocked. He groaned and pulled back on the trigger.

            His phone rang.

He tossed the weapon onto the bed and picked up his phone. “What?” he demanded in a gravelly voice and raked his hand through his hair.

            “Micajah Pendridge?”

            He looked at the number. Private.

            “Who’s this?” he demanded. No one but his parents knew the real name left with him at the orphanage.

            “My name is Mr. Green of Green, du Lac, and de Maris. I’m an attorney for the estate of Lady Eleanor Pendridge, Duchess of Glastonbury.”

            “Did she leave me money?” Michael asked and adjusted himself in his briefs.

            “No. Detective, I—”

            “You keep it then,” he said and hung up. He tossed the phone over his shoulder onto the bed and stood up. He stretched his arms over his head then ran his hand over his prickly face. He needed a shower. And coffee.

            His phone rang again. He looked at the number. It was private. He ignored it while he popped open a jar of instant coffee, broke through the seal, and poured some into a cup.

The phone continued to ring.

            He muttered something unintelligible and snatched the phone. “Green—”

            “Detective. Someone is missing and the item that was left to you could help find him. We need your assistance.”

            “What?” Michael asked, a little thrown off. He was sure all the whiskey last night wasn’t helping his foggy head. “What are you talking about?” Did this have to do with the Kestrel Lancaster case he was working on? A young woman had gone to an office uptown and disappeared. Her friends, who were the only witnesses, said the fourth floor they’d been on had disappeared along with her. They said she’d received a letter and a phone call about an inheritance. They couldn’t remember who’d called her, who the letter was from, or who they met when they arrived at the office. Michael thought it was odd. But it was proof of nothing.

            “I cannot say much on the phone,” Green continued. “You must come to the office on West Twenty-second. I will explain everything there.” He gave Michael the address and hung up.

            This had to have something to do with the Lancaster girl. It was the same M.O., just a different address. She got a call to go uptown to pick up an object that had been left to her. What was the object left to him? Too many questions. Now he had to go find out. He wasn’t that far away.

            He headed toward the bathroom, leaving the coffee. He’d pick up some on the way.

            Ten minutes later, he exited the bathroom soaking wet with a yellow towel wrapped around his waist. He still didn’t feel clean. He never did. He never would.

            Jimmy Clements was twenty-two when he was gunned down by a perp robbing a bodega. Michael, Clements’ partner, killed the shooter only to find out later he was a sixteen-year-old kid.

It busted him up and broke him down. A kid. A kid! There were days he couldn’t deal with it. Days when he was close to putting bullets in the gun. He wished he hadn’t shot it that night.

He missed Clements. Jimmy was more than just his work partner, he was Michael’s closest friend, his brother, together every day for two years.

            Michael pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs. These were a little tighter. He was gaining weight. There was a bit more meat around the muscle. He’d stopped caring about staying in shape. For what? So he could chase people down?

            He found a bottle of whiskey with a mouthful left in the bottle and guzzled it down. He dressed in black jeans and a black, short-sleeved T that hugged his long, tattooed torso. On his feet, he wore white socks and beat-up, black leather combat boots. He clipped his badge to his belt and snapped a magazine into his empty gun.

            One day, one morning, it wouldn’t be empty. But he put that thought behind him for now.

He wasn’t worried about going to this address alone. It’s how he did things nowadays. If he couldn’t protect himself, then so be it. Whether he died at his own hand or someone else’s didn’t matter. But his instincts wouldn’t let him walk into a spray of bullets. They made him fight back.

            He’d be fine.

            He threw on a leather bomber jacket to conceal his gun, slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and walked out the door to his apartment.

            Should he walk the two extra blocks to the garage to get his car or walk the six blocks to Twenty-second? He should walk. He needed the exercise. He’d come back later for his car and stop at a liquor store for some whiskey. The thought of it comforted him.

            He thought about the cases he had to see to today. Files sitting on his desk, waiting for him. Why was he strolling up the street on his way to some address a guy on the phone gave him?

He should have taken the car. Why didn’t he? He wasn’t thinking right. Now he had to walk there and back. He shook his head at himself.

            Clements had been buried by his family upstate. Everyone from the precinct had been there. Michael had been a pallbearer. Everyone had been kind and considerate to his family and to him. They asked him if he was okay. He smiled and said yes and they left it alone. But he hadn’t been okay. First his brother, Geoffrey, rushing into the first tower on 9/11, and then Clements.

            It had taken him a while to get used to having another partner—and a woman partner at that. He wasn’t any chauvinist who thought women shouldn’t be cops. If she wanted to, let her do it. It was just hard for him to get used to being around a woman, the same woman, every day.

           But Kelly Harkin had been easy to get along with. She was married with a kid. She’d transferred from the Twenty-sixth Precinct after her partner had been killed. They had a lot in common. She was capable and tough as nails. They remained partners for another two years before she died in his arms, shot by a son of a bitch who’d shot some neighborhood kids.

           The ghosts haunted him. He’d seen a therapist twice a week for three months. Did nothing. He made detective by some miracle. At first, it was good, but it didn’t take too long to discover his third partner, Langsley Hicks was taking bribes. Hicks was caught after a year. Michael went through hell over it because Internal Affairs believed he was taking bribes as well. For two years, he couldn’t take a piss without someone looking over his shoulder.

           He started drinking six months ago. He didn’t drink during work, but when he got off, he could usually be found at Micky’s Pub. Lately though, he stopped wanting to be around anyone, so he went home alone and drank himself to sleep. Depending on his stupor, it kept the ghosts away until morning.

He reached the building and looked up. Four stories—just like in the Lancaster case. What was he walking into…alone? But if this had to do with her case, it could be the lead he needed. Double doors. He went inside and took in his surroundings. There was a doorman. An outside elevator in a cage design, four doors leading somewhere else, and a stairway.

          “Detective Pendridge?”

          Michael spun around to face a big guy with an even bigger smile.

          Michael looked him over with skeptical arch of his dark brow, and then followed him to the elevator. His heart pounded. Is this what they had done with Kestrel Lancaster? Was this guy a part of a human trafficking ring? When the cage door slammed shut, it jarred Michael’s thoughts. He fought to hold on to the present as his mind screamed, Shots fired! We need help! We need help!

          “Detective?” asked his escort. “Are you all right?”

          “I’m fine,” Michael answered.

          This obviously wasn’t the company strongarm. If anything, he offered his arm for help. And he hadn’t patted Michael down to see if he had any weapons. Maybe this was legit.

          “What’s your name?” Michael asked him.

          “My friends call me Luke.”

           Michael spared him a wooden glance. He didn’t like when people were overly friendly or when they considered him a friend after a few minutes. “What do people call you who aren’t your friend?”

            “Luke,” his escort said, his smile turning playful.

            Michael ignored him.

            They reached the polished wooden doors and Luke stepped forward, opening the door. He made way for Michael and held his arm out to an antique-looking chair.

            “Mr. Green will be right in.”

            Michael offered him a light nod and looked around the golden-hued room. “Does anyone else work here? I didn’t see any receptionist or—"

            “It is Friday. We have a skeleton crew on Fridays.”

            Michael sat in the chair and waited. In front of him was a large wooden table polished until it looked like glass. “How do you keep dust off this thing?” he asked Luke, but a door opened off to the side and another man stepped inside. He was older than Luke, and bigger. His shoulders were wider than a baseball bat. He wore a suit but there was a dangerous air about him, as if his patience only went so far and then he would break you in half.

            “Detective. I’m Mr. Green. We spoke on the phone. Let’s get right down to business, shall we?”

            “That would be nice.”

            “Your great-great-great-aunt Eleanor Pendridge left this for you.” He leaned over and picked up a small briefcase. He laid it on the desk and opened it with the inside facing him.

Michael slowly reached for his gun.

            “Detective, there are a few questions I must ask you before I can give this to you.”

            “What is it?” Michael asked, trying to look over the case to see the inside.

            “Are you Micajah Pendridge, adopted son of Albert and Mary Davenport? And were you adopted when you were six months old by the Davenports?”

            Michael held up his hand. “You’ve proven you know a lot about me. But what does any of this have to do with someone missing?”

            Green’s dark eyes shifted to the briefcase. He put both big, beefy hands in and lifted a small box so that Michael could see. “The contents of this box can lead us to a man we have been searching for for many years.”

            Michael narrowed his eyes on him. “How’s it going to do that?”

            “When you open it, you will see.”

            But when Michael reached for it, Green held the box away and slid a piece of paper and a pen to him with the other hand.

            “Just sign here, please.”

            He placed the box on the desk while Michael read the document. It basically said he swore he was Micajah Pendridge.

            “Would you prefer us to leave while you open the box?” Green asked.

            Michael looked at the etchings on the box. Deer and a castle. He shook his head at them and opened the box.

            He immediately felt drawn to the blackened brooch inside. He swallowed. He wanted to ask Green why someone had left him a charred piece of jewelry, but he didn’t want to stop looking at it. The room seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Something was happening. He felt as if he had no control over his own thoughts. He lifted the brooch out of the box. There was a long pin attached to the back of it. “What is…” His mind drifted. He rubbed his finger over the surface of the brooch. The blackened char began to fall away. A shape began to appear. A dragon curled around a yellow stone. The air shimmered around it, coming from a light within the stone.

There was a small name in the stone. Michael looked closer at it. “Pendragon,” he whispered.

            The ancient brooch fell to the carpeted floor when Michael disappeared from the office.

                                                            #

Beddington, London

October 1724

 

            The carpeted floor turned into a paved street. Outside. What? How did he get out here? He shook his head. Did he black out? How? He wasn’t drunk. Wait. He looked around in all directions, squinting under the sun. Where was he? None of this looked familiar. Where were the buildings, the skyscrapers in the distance? His heart began to accelerate.

            He heard the sound of people around the corner, for he was on a street in the city, just not his city.

His hands flew to his belt. His gun and his badge were gone. No! His phone, his wallet. Everything. This couldn’t be happening. All right, pull yourself together, man. You’ll figure it out and find your stuff.

He followed the sound of the people while lifting his hand to his head. Had Green or his bodyguard hit him?

            He turned the corner to find a crowd gathered around the middle of the street. All their eyes were set on the same thing. Some kind of traveling street show performing on a dais, with musicians and dancers. It looked medieval to Michael’s eyes…and the people in the crowd…they were dressed oddly, too. Women wore petticoats and riding habits with tricorn hats and gloves. Men wore riding habits, also, with hose and—no. No. What was going on? Had he stumbled onto a movie set?

            Someone—a woman, shoved her way past him and into the crowd. He watched her because it helped keep him from screaming that someone had better end this before he took them all in!

            He knew that it was only because he was so used to examining things so closely that he saw the woman stumble into a well-dressed man wearing a monocle over his eye and slip her daintily gloved fingers into his pocket. She was robbing the man! Just as she had probably robbed him!

He hurried toward her.

            He caught up to her, stopping her departure with his hand around her wrist.

            “Give me back my things!”

            She turned to face him.

            He swallowed and fought to keep his hold on her. She was…breathtaking, a natural beauty with sable-colored eyes burning like embers on him and deep brown waves falling over her shoulders to the small of her back.

            “Get your hand off me, you filthy swine,” she snapped at him, her small, dimpled chin tilting upward. “I have nothing of yours. Why, I doubt you even have one thing to take!”

            “You’re right, because you robbed it all. Now, hand it over.” He tugged on the small velvet pouch hanging from her wrist.

            Before he could react, she fisted her small, silk-gloved hand and punched him in the jaw.