Chapter 1
She woke up, enveloped in a darkness that was almost tangible. The emerging light of dawn, timid and hesitant, made its way through the slits of the blinds, casting shadows like prison bars on the bed. Emma remained still for a moment, lying down, her mind still chained to the remnants of a dream that was slowly fading into oblivion. Even after ten years in the NYPD uniform, dreams still haunted her nights.
Just six hours earlier, she had been forced to take a man's life. In his eyes, she had seen the light of life extinguish. It wasn't the first time she had exercised lethal force, nor the first time she was tormented by it in her dreams. These acts, she had learned to accept, along with their repercussions. But what tormented her most deeply was the image of the child she hadn't been able to save in time. The desperate screams of this little being mingled with hers in her horrible nightmare.
Emma murmured, a glimmer of pain in her voice, "So much blood..." as she rubbed her face to erase the traces of sweat and night terror, her hands slightly trembling. Such a small life, yet so full. She forced herself to push away these thoughts.
Protocol required her to spend her morning in psychological evaluation. Every police officer involved in a death by firearm had to be deemed fit before resuming duty. For Emma, these sessions had always been a formality, a necessary bore to endure.
She knew she would be judged fit, as always.
As she got up, the ceiling lights gradually turned on, lighting her path to the bathroom with almost maternal gentleness. In front of the mirror, she examined her reflection, the marks of insomnia deeply scoring her face, her skin almost as pale as those of the deceased she entrusted to the coroner.
Refusing to give in to self-pity, she let the hot water from the shower engulf her, the steam fog momentarily separating her from the rest of the world. As the water ran over her skin, she replayed the previous day's events in her mind. She didn't have to be present for the psychological evaluation until nine o'clock, and she planned to use these few hours to free herself from the chains of her nightmares.
Any signs of doubt or regret could lead to a more thorough evaluation session. Emma was determined not to let that happen.
Putting on a robe, she headed to the kitchen. She prepared a black coffee, letting the noise of the morning traffic keep her company. This apartment, chosen for its lively location, constantly reminded her of the pulse of the city she loved so much. She browsed the news on her phone, her coffee slowly awakening her senses, when a beeping sound interrupted her. The image of her superior appeared on the screen of her smartphone.
"Commander."
"Lieutenant," he said, his brisk tone betraying urgency. "An incident at 27 10th Avenue, eighteenth floor. You're on it."
Raising an eyebrow, she replied, a slight shiver of concern in her voice: "But my psychological evaluation..."
"We've obtained a waiver. Your badge, your weapon, on the move. Make it quick, lieutenant."
"At your command, commander." As soon as his face disappeared, she remained frozen for a moment, the weight of the day already heavy on her shoulders. An emergency, requiring her immediate intervention, announced a day where every second would count.
Hell's Kitchen, with its constant bustle, resembled a perpetual carnival where the guests, noisy and carefree, ignored the time of departure. The traffic, a mix of pedestrians and vehicles, created a chaotic symphony, a cacophony of conversations and honking that filled the air. Emma, recalling her first days in uniform, knew this neighborhood was often the scene of petty thefts involving tourists captivated by the urban spectacle, their attention diverted at the expense of their safety.
Even at this early hour, life teemed around the food stalls, a culinary kaleidoscope offering everything from rice noodles to hot dogs to an insatiable crowd. Dodging an especially enterprising vendor, whose cart emitted a cloud of scented smoke, Emma accepted his too-bold gesture as an inevitable facet of her day.
Double-parked, she navigated around a man whose body odor rivaled that of his beer bottle, making her way to the building. Fifty stories of glass and steel rose proudly, anchored in a concrete base. Barely had she reached the sidewalk when two brief but vulgar altercations delayed her even before she reached the door.
In front of the building, located at the intersection of 49th Street and 10th Avenue, an elegance emerged, contrasting with the tumult of the street. Since the legalization of prostitution ten years ago, Hell's Kitchen had gained an ambivalent reputation, becoming a sanctuary for call girls. Flashing her badge at the stationed police officer, she introduced herself with an assured, yet tired voice: "Lieutenant Swan." The routine of this introduction had been polished by numerous repetitions.
"At your service, Lieutenant." With efficiency blending cutting-edge technology and well-practiced procedure, the officer granted her access. They headed to the elevator, their ascent to the eighteenth floor unfolding in an almost respectful silence, punctuated by the discreet murmur of their movements.
"Any details?" she inquired, her smartphone in hand, ready to capture every piece of information. "Homicide, apartment 1803, classified Code Five," the officer responded succinctly. "Who alerted the police?" "Unknown origin at the moment."
The elevator opened onto a corridor bathed in silence, security cameras slowly pivoting towards them. In front of apartment 1803, Emma didn't need formalities, her badge directed towards the security camera was enough to gain entry.
"Swan."
"Humbert."
The familiarity of their exchange, in the formal context of their meeting, added a layer of humanity to the charged atmosphere. Graham Humbert, with his imposing stature and penetrating gaze, symbolized both intelligence and empathy. "They called in the cavalry, I see."
"Only the best for delicate cases," she replied, her tone barely masking the tension of their task.
"The night has been long, hasn't it?" he asked.
"One could say that."
The apartment, a marriage of luxury and modernity, formed a striking contrast to the scene they had come to examine.
"Who is the victim?" Asked Emma.
"Ariel Gold. A complicated family history, but this is where she chose to live her life."
They advanced to the bedroom, where preparations for the scene examination were being made with almost medical meticulousness. "Found here, in her bed," continued Graham, gently opening the bedroom door.
The scene that revealed itself was a brutal reminder of their task. There, in this room where life and death had intertwined, human drama had left an indelible imprint.
Death, Emma had observed over the years, made no distinction between virtue and vice. However, the scene unfolding before her was of a kind specifically designed to trouble the soul, a combination of brutality and morose beauty that seemed almost artistic in its presentation.
The bed, one of those latest trends that rock you to sleep, was majestic and draped in ripe peach-colored satin; it captured the light in its glossy folds, becoming the epicenter of a macabre scene. At the center, the victim lay, a morbid embrace between splendor and defilement. Her naked body appeared almost in motion, rocked by a sinister melody that filled the space, the mattress moving beneath her with perverse grace.
Her beauty was preserved in death, her face evoking classical tranquility, framed by a cascade of red hair. Green eyes, fixed on the reflective ceiling, and her skin, a milky whiteness against the deep red of the sheets, created a tragic image reminiscent of the ballerinas in Swan Lake, although the pose imposed on her lifeless body exuded a brutal vulnerability.
The injuries, a triptych of violence, told a story of unimaginable rage: a gaping hole in the forehead, another piercing the chest, and a third, more tearing, between her spread legs. Blood had splattered on the satin, drawing macabre arabesques that testified to an exceptionally brutal assault.
"Recorded?" asked Emma, her voice muffled by the effort to keep her professionalism intact.
"Yes," replied Humbert, his expression somber reflecting the gravity of their task.
"Turn it off." A palpable relief passed through Emma as the music and the morbid movement ceased. Approaching, she observed the wounds more closely, "These wounds... surgically precise, yet devoid of any compassion."
That's when Humbert handed her a sealed bag, inside of which rested a revolver from another era. "Look what we found." A Colt Single Action Army (SAA), the iconic weapon of the legends of the Far West. "A Peacemaker," he commented, a hint of respect in his voice for the historical object. "Introduced in 1873, a piece of American history. Its condition is impeccable, as if it had been cherished, then used for this macabre ritual."
Emma took it in hand, its weight and presence evoking a tangible connection to the past. "It's incredibly heavy," she remarked, evaluating the weapon. "And so well preserved, it's as if history itself is intertwining with our investigation."
"Caliber .45," added Humbert. "I've only seen them in history books. Its value is priceless, especially for a collector. Or a murderer seeking to leave his mark."
They exchanged a look, both understanding that this discovery was not trivial. "Whoever did this wanted not only to kill but also to communicate. A signature, undoubtedly," concluded Emma, feeling the weight of their investigation grow heavier.
Humbert nodded, his gaze dark. "The second scene of this kind I've seen. The first, fifteen years ago, had left a similar imprint in my mind."
"Macabre games," murmured Emma. "We need to check collector circles. Maybe a Peacemaker was reported missing."
"That's a lead," Humbert agreed, "but the black market is likely more fruitful."
Their eyes settled again on the scene. Emma, thoughtful, added: "If she kept a registry of her clients, we might find our link." This death was not a mere act of passion but a message, a performance carefully orchestrated. "Who reported the crime?"
"The murderer himself," revealed Humbert, drawing her attention to a tablet positioned to capture the scene. "He left a video. No sound, but the staging speaks for itself."
"A narcissist who orchestrates his own morbid performance," concluded Emma, her disgust palpable at the evidence. "Before even committing the act, he must have already appropriated his victim, considering her as a canvas for his sinister work of art." She mimicked a shooting gesture with her hand, each count murmured, "One, two, three," a dark echo of the reality before them.
"Terrifying," murmured Humbert, the horror of the scene reflecting in his eyes.
"And chillingly precise," added Emma, scrutinizing the carefully arranged contours of the tragedy. "After his act, he methodically rearranged every element, the sheets aligned with almost obsessive precision. He positioned her body, not only to reveal, but to magnify his work, each wound a brushstroke on his macabre canvas. The deliberate abandonment of the weapon is the final signature of this crime artist, screaming his need to be seen, recognized."
"She had ties with clients of both sexes," Humbert tried, seeking to broaden the spectrum of suspects.
But Emma shook her head, "It's deeper. The elaboration of this staging transcends the bounds of a mere act of passion. Yet, the imprint is too marked, too theatrical to be the work of a woman. Still, let's remain vigilant to all leads." Her gaze turned to the laptop placed on the desk, a potential reservoir of clues. "Any findings on her computer?" she inquired, the urgency of the investigation palpable in her voice.
"Nothing yet. The scene is yours, Swan. My role is to assist," replied Humbert.
"Check her client database," suggested Emma, her fingers moving with surgical precision through the drawers of the dresser. Each item she touched, from delicate silk to luxurious perfume bottles, told a story of refinement and abundance. "She lived in a world apart, surrounded by luxury," she thought, the sparkle and perfect order of clothes and accessories evidencing a meticulously organized life.
"She left nothing to chance," confirmed Humbert, his gaze fixed on the computer screen. "It's all there: list of clients, appointment calendar, and even her visits to the most sought-after establishments." The names of clinics and beauty salons he listed were synonymous with luxury and extravagant spending.
"A friend told me she spent a fortune for a day at Paradise. That illustrates her universe well," Emma noted, her curiosity piqued by an icon on the screen. "What's this?"
"It's her directory. She frequented the high society. Look, this name stands out: Regina Mills," indicated Humbert, tilting the screen toward her.
"Regina Mills? The billionaire known for her collection of weapons and her vehement defense of the second amendment?" Emma's interest was piqued. "She navigated in considerable power circles."
"Indeed. Mills is famous for her art collection, but it's her passion for ancient weapons that sets her apart. Confronting someone of her stature will not be easy," warned Humbert.
"I like challenges," retorted Emma with a glimmer of determination in her eyes. Leaning back over the body for a closer inspection, she made the connection between the scattered clues. "If Regina Mills is involved, she could help us piece together the puzzle."
Humbert watched, a shadow of concern passing over his face. "Be careful, Emma. Mills' ramifications are extensive. Without concrete evidence, accusing her is risky."
"I'm aware of the risks," she assured him, her attention caught by an anomaly under the body of the victim. Gently, she moved aside a piece of paper. "What do we have here?" she whispered, carefully revealing a handwritten message.
ONE OUT OF SIX
"Handwritten," noted Emma, the note passing from Humbert's hands to hers. "Our suspect plays a dangerous game, convinced of his intellectual superiority. And he's far from finished."