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CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later…

Rav is perched on the edge of his partner’s desk, tossing an apple from hand to hand. It’s not his apple. He avoids fruit wherever possible, unless you count fermented grapes. Will, on the other hand, nearly always has an apple or an orange on his desk, and Rav finds these to be an acceptable substitute for those little rubber balls some of the other officers bounce off the walls to blow off steam. Will finds this less acceptable, but Rav figures if it really bothered him he’d stop leaving fruit lying around where any inconsiderate arsehole can grab it.

“I’m saying ,” Will is saying, snatching the apple out of the air, “a little healthy competition is well and good, and you have every right to be proud of your clearance rate. But if you keep rubbing Jobs’s nose in it, he’s gonna break your nose. He’s thought about it, trust me.”

“We’ve all thought about it,” Ayalew puts in without looking up from her paperwork.

“What?” Rav laughs. “Aida, what have I ever done to you?”

“I’m just trying to help you out. You’re a little too pristine there, pretty boy. A crooked nose might give you some credibility.”

Rav glances at Will. “Is she suggesting I lack gravitas?”

“In a polka-dot suit? Nah .”

“It’s pin dot , you Philistine. As for credibility, may I refer you to the case board.” He gestures airily at a whiteboard on the wall, where a brand-new line in erasable red ink marks the Gordon case as closed .

They put it to bed yesterday, and he’s still high on it. The perp they locked up is a genuine menace, a serial offender who’s been preying on his community for years. Victories like that are few and far between, and well worth savoring. And if it happens to put Rav at the front of the pack in terms of cases closed this year, that’s a bonus. Maybe now his colleagues will start taking him seriously. He’s the youngest on the squad by nearly a decade, and they never tire of reminding him of it. Boy Wonder, they call him. The Little Prince. Or his personal favorite, Doogie Howser, PD. (He had to look that last one up, because the reference is older than he is.) The ribbing he can handle, but not all of it is good-natured. The older guys, in particular, seem to think his promotion to Homicide was more about politics than merit. Rav figures the best way to prove them wrong is to keep putting cases away. So yeah, when he wins one, he’s going to celebrate it.

The lieutenant sticks her head out of her door. “Trivedi. My office.”

She’s got a file folder open on her desk when Rav comes in. “New case?” he asks hopefully as he settles in.

“We’ll get to that. First, I’ve completed your performance evaluation.”

Ugh. It’s only his second since joining the squad, and the first was… frank. One line in particular sticks out in his mind. Prone to obsessive behavior and an occasionally smug attitude.

Which, come on. Obsessive? There’s nothing obsessive about him. It’s obviously absurd, and he really ought to put it out of his mind, but for some reason he can’t stop thinking about it.

Howard perches her reading glasses on the end of her nose and proceeds to quote from the page. “ Trivedi is a diligent and resourceful investigator. His greatest strength is his ability to strike an immediate rapport with witnesses and suspects. He is highly personable and possesses remarkable poise for someone of his youth, allowing him to command respect in challenging situations. ” She pauses and eyes him over the top of her glasses, and he feels the but whistling down from overhead like a cartoon anvil.

“ He is also a perfectionist, and his drive for results sometimes comes at the expense of being a team player. He has a tendency to over-rely on his own instincts instead of benefitting from the experience of senior colleagues, and his attitude can occasionally be characterized as— ”

“Smug,” Rav finishes with a sigh.

“Smug,” Howard confirms, removing her glasses. “You’re a talented detective, Trivedi, but if you want to keep moving up the ladder the way you have so far, you need to learn to play well with others. That includes knowing when to step back and let someone else take charge. You can’t be pulling stunts like you did at the Concord the other night.”

Rav plucks some imaginary lint off his trousers. “It was a 10–13.”

“In one of the most policed areas of the city. You could have trusted your colleagues to do their jobs. Maybe if you had, the suspect would be in custody right now.”

Ouch.

“Part of being a team player is recognizing you are not always the best man for the job. It also requires a little diplomacy. That means not letting yourself get drawn into petty squabbles in the squad room. I know Jobs and the older guys give you a hard time, and you absolutely should not take any shit from them, but you don’t need to go looking for it, either. As my kids would say, don’t feed the trolls.”

Rav scowls and glances away. “What’s his issue with me, anyway?”

“You’re the psych major. I’m sure you can come up with a few theories.”

“Maybe he feels threatened by me.”

“Whether he does or not, it’s not your problem. You don’t need his approval. Just do your job—and at the end of the day, go home and have a life .”

This is strange advice coming from a woman who almost never leaves her office. Rav can’t count the number of weekends he’s come in bright and early, expecting the place to be deserted, only to find the lieutenant sitting at her desk, office door closed. If Angela Howard has a life , she does a damned good job disposing of the evidence.

Maybe the thought shows on his face, because she leans back in her chair and eyes him steadily. “Do you know what I do when I get home from work? After my kids have gone to bed, and Marvin has fallen asleep in front of the TV?”

“Er…” Is this a trap? It feels like a trap.

“I color.”

“Sorry?”

She yanks open a drawer, takes out a coloring book, and drops it on her desk. Stained Glass Sensation , Rav reads upside down. There’s a dragonfly on the cover. “It’s extremely relaxing,” she informs him.

Rav has a hard time imagining this. He has a hard time imagining her with any sort of hobby. Hobbies require a personality, and Howard doesn’t have one of those. She’s like a female Captain Holt from Brooklyn Nine-Nine , minus the sparkling sense of humor.

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Detective?”

“Get a life?”

“Find some balance. Because I promise you, if you keep running it into the red the way you do, you will burn out. This case”—she taps the folder with a beautifully manicured nail—“will be high profile. Media attention, possibly political pressure. More sensitive than anything you’ve handled so far, the sort of file that’ll eat you alive if you let it. So.” She arches an eyebrow. “Are you up for it?”

Up for it? He’s only been waiting for a case like this forever. A chance to prove once and for all that he really belongs here, that he earned his place like everybody else. “Balance,” he says soberly. “Diplomacy. I hear you, LT, and I’m ready.”

“Good. Now get Shepard in here.”

Rav motions his partner in, and they both flip open their notebooks.

“Richard Vanderford.” Howard pushes the folder across the desk. “Music executive, found dead in his apartment this morning.” She gives them a quick rundown of the basics. “Jobs and Jiménez are there now, along with the guys from the local precinct.”

“Er…” Rav exchanges a glance with Will. “At the risk of sounding ungrateful, if Jobs is already there, why isn’t he on lead?”

“Because you are.”

Rav sighs inwardly. Jobs has been on the squad since dinosaurs roamed the Earth. He is not going to like taking orders from a junior detective he can hardly stand.

This must be some sort of test. Either that, or Howard is trying to make a point. Maybe both.

“That’ll be all, gentlemen.” They’re halfway out the door when she adds, “And Trivedi. Don’t let this turn into a media circus. If I catch you preening for the cameras, I will tear you a new one right through that designer suit. Understood?”

Rav’s back teeth come together, hard. He turns away and closes the door behind him.

“That pissed you off,” Will says once they’re in the car. “That thing about preening for the cameras.”

Rav just shakes his head, staring at his reflection in the passenger side window. Where is it written that if you take pride in your appearance, you must be vain and shallow? Well… all right, he might be a little vain, but that’s hardly his fault. His mum is an ex-model; he’s genetically programmed to be vain. But he’s not shallow. He takes pride in his appearance because it’s part of the image he puts out there in the world. That perfectionism Howard mentioned? That poise? Those things didn’t come about by accident; they were drilled into him from birth. His Lordship had to make sure his kid was the smartest in the room. Eva wanted him to be the belle of the ball. Rav spent his entire childhood trying to live up to someone else’s idea of perfect. Stand up straight. Speak clearly. Smile . Then he joined the force, and that came with a whole new set of expectations, ones that would be impossible to live up to even if he wanted to. You can always study more. Smile more. But you can’t change who you are, and Rav is nobody’s idea of a typical cop—unless he somehow missed all the other Ivy League–educated gay Brits on the force. Maybe there’s a Facebook group.

Shepard peels off the BQE and heads toward the waterfront. The vic’s building is one of those posh new condos in Williamsburg, the kind with glittering glass exteriors and a lobby that looks like a bomb shelter furnished by West Elm. The sidewalk outside is filled with rubberneckers snapping photos and keeping their video screens open in hopes of catching something interesting for their social media. The hashtag #DickEatsIt is already trending on Twitter (Rav refuses to call it X), and a camera crew from NY1 is unloading their gear from a white van parked at the curb. The LT wasn’t kidding about the profile of this case.

“Our victim was not a popular man,” Rav remarks as he scrolls through Twitter on the elevator. He taps a link to an article titled NO WONDER THEY CALL HIM DICK and raises his eyebrows. “Well, well. Do you remember the band that was playing at the Concord the other night, when that armed protester shut the place down?”

“The Nicks? Sure.”

“It seems most of the internet vitriol directed at Mr. Vanderford comes from their fans.” Before he can elaborate, the elevator dings , and they head down the hall to a five-thousand-square-foot penthouse with views to eternity. Will whistles softly, and even Rav is impressed. He’d kill for a place like this.

The scene is already a few hours old; he can tell by the discarded latex gloves and little numbered placards everywhere. The victim’s feet peek out from behind the sofa, and a bunch of guys from the Crime Scene Unit are clustered around him, doing their thing. A big camera on a tripod does a slow three-sixty of the room, digitizing the scene, while a fan hums near the body, sucking up trace particles from the air. Jiménez is over by the window, speaking in low tones with the detectives from the local precinct, while Jobs hovers over the CSU guys—looking, as usual, like he just stepped out of a noir film. Brimmed hat, rumpled trench coat, toothpick sticking out of his mouth in place of a cigar. Like somebody’s cliché idea of a detective brought to life. “Oh look,” he says as Rav and Will walk up. “His Lordship is here.”

“Not a lord,” Rav says, looking the victim over.

“You will be, though, when Daddy kicks it.”

He won’t, actually, but he has no intention of trying to explain the difference between life peers and hereditary peers to a man who looks like a character from Who Framed Roger Rabbit . “I assume Howard filled you in on the latest?”

“You mean the fact you’re taking lead?” Jobs grins around his toothpick and thumps him on the shoulder. “You’re welcome to it, junior. This case has all three Ps. I make it a policy to avoid the three Ps if I can.”

Rav knows he’s going to regret this, but… “The three Ps?”

“Politics, press, and pricks. Right up your alley.” He winks, in case anyone missed the double entendre.

It’s been like this since Rav joined the squad. Cops like to bust each other’s balls, but with Jobs there’s always an edge to it, a kidding/not kidding vibe that lets Rav know he’s an outsider and always will be. He doesn’t let it get to him. He’s got thick skin and a sharp tongue, and if they were back at the squad room, he’d be quick with a comeback. But there’s a dead man at their feet, and he’s a fucking professional, so he focuses on the job at hand. “What do we have so far?”

“Double GSW,” Jiménez says. “One to the head, one to the chest. Doorman saw him come in around 10 P.M. last night, so they’re estimating time of death between then and about 2 A.M . No sign of forced entry. Haven’t started canvassing the neighbors yet, but the doorman says he saw someone in a dark hooded sweatshirt and jeans exiting the building at around 11 P.M. , looking”—he makes air quotes with his fingers—“shifty.”

“Male or female?” Rav asks.

“Doorman couldn’t tell. Swears up and down he didn’t let whoever it was in, though.”

“Who found the body?”

“The PA, at around seven this morning.” Jiménez gestures to an adjoining room, where a young woman sits on a sofa, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Right. Well, let’s get started knocking on doors.”

“As you wish, Your Lordship.” Jobs gives him a mock bow and heads for the elevator.

“Asshole,” Will mutters.

Rav considers their vic through a moving screen of CSU bodies. It’s definitely the guy from the online photos, minus the smug grin. Midfifties, expensive clothes, flashy jewelry. “One to the head, one to the chest,” he murmurs, half to himself.

“Execution-style,” Will says. “Our guy was trained.”

Rav thinks back to his experience at the Concord, how shaky he was with all that adrenaline in his veins. He’d have been hard-pressed to make two perfectly placed shots, even at close range. “Not just trained. He was dispassionate.”

Will grunts. “Premeditated?”

“Looking that way. Plenty of people had issues with him, if social media is anything to go by.” They’re interrupted by the PA hovering nearby, looking lost. “Will, would you mind?”

“Sure.” Shepard heads over to review her statement while Rav continues his perusal of the flat.

The victim got home around 10 P.M. , the doorman said. Working late? Out for dinner, perhaps? He was still wearing his sport jacket when he died, suggesting he hadn’t been home long. That, or… Rav spots a bottle of wine on the coffee table and goes in for a closer look. It’s unopened, but the foil wrap has been removed, and there’s a corkscrew sitting beside it. He raises his eyebrows when he sees the label. A 2012 Petrus. Rav knows his wines, and this one’s worth at least three grand. An awfully expensive bottle to be drinking alone on a Tuesday, even for a man of Vanderford’s means. He turns to one of the precinct detectives. “Was he expecting company?”

“Doorman didn’t know.”

No sign of forced entry, Jiménez said. That, and the disposition of the body, suggests Vanderford knew his killer.

Will rejoins him, fresh from speaking with the PA. “You were right about the long list of enemies. But only one of them was seen arguing with Vanderford in his office the day before yesterday. A real barn burner, apparently. Security called and everything. You’ll never guess who it was.”

“Someone affiliated with the New Knickerbockers, perhaps?” When Will raises his eyebrows, Rav smiles. “Don’t be too impressed, I’m just doing the maths. That article I mentioned in the elevator? Apparently, Vanderford purchased Flashpoint Records a couple of years ago. That deal included buying the master recordings of the Nicks’ first two albums, right out from under the band’s noses. Worth millions, apparently.”

“Sure. They’re one of the biggest acts of the last few years.”

“Presumably, the band is unhappy about this. So, with whom was our victim burning barns? The band’s manager?”

“Better. Jack Vale himself.”

“Who?”

Will shakes his head. “Wow. The front man, Rav. The lead singer. You really don’t…? Wow.”

“I told you, I’m not up on these things.” His acquaintance with pop culture is pretty limited. He knows a bit about the fashion world, thanks to his mum, and he follows the occasional well-dressed celeb: Rami Malek, David Beckham, Mahershala Ali, and of course his sartorial idol, Tom Hiddleston. Musicians? Not his thing. Which is handy, because it means there’s pretty much zero chance of him being starstruck while trying to do his job. He scrolls through some numbers on his phone and cradles it in the crook of his neck. “Aida, can I ask a favor? We’ve still got a couple of hours here, but I need to get the ball rolling on something. Can you set up an interview for Will and me? The person we need to talk to is a celebrity, and I’m guessing his people will throw up all sorts of roadblocks…”

It takes three hours to get past all the gatekeepers, but Ayalew gets it done. She’s resourceful, and failing that, downright mean. “Never doubted you for a second,” Rav says on the phone, giving Will the thumbs-up as they make their way across the lobby of Vanderford’s apartment building. “Seriously? How would that conversation go? Well, Mr. Vale, you’re looking quite good for this murder, but before we lock you up for life, could I trouble you for an autograph? My friend Aida down at the station is SUCH a fan.… Rude. I’m hanging up.”

“She asked for an autograph?”

“She did. And when I declined, she had some helpful suggestions for how I might spend some quality alone time.”

Will laughs. “Sounds about right. So where to?”

“The Palace Hotel.”

There’s a cluster of TV crews outside, and they swoop in when they spot the detectives. Rav is good with the press, and normally he wouldn’t hesitate to offer a few bland words, but he’s still stinging from Howard’s comment about preening for the cameras, so he keeps walking. The uniforms keep the scrum at bay, and Rav and Shepard almost make it to the car before a familiar voice hails them.

“Come on, Trivedi, are you really going to do us like that?” Rav turns to find Carrie Campbell from the Times smiling at him, pocket recorder in hand. They have a good rapport—she even brings him coffee sometimes—but she’s still press, so he never really lets his guard down. “Just one little quote? I promise I’ll make you look good in the article.” Her eyes trail down the length of him, and she gives a little shake of her head. “Not that you need my help.”

He smiles. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Ms. Campbell.”

“That hasn’t generally been my experience.”

“Fair enough, but I can’t give you anything right now. It’s too early.”

“But the NYPD is calling it a homicide?”

Rav’s gaze falls meaningfully to the glowing light on her recorder.

“Fine.” She flicks it off with a cherry-red thumbnail. “What’s up with you? You’re usually more fun to play with.”

“And I hate to be a killjoy, but we’re not ready to go on the record.”

“How about off the record?”

“Off the record, we’ll let you know as soon as we have something.”

“Boring,” she says, spinning on her heel and walking back toward the scrum.

Will pops the car door. “If this thing is as high-profile as Howard says, we’re not going to be able to put them off for long.”

“I’m aware, believe me.” Rav slides into the passenger seat, his brain already racing ahead to the interview they’re about to have. He types New Knickerbockers into the search bar on his phone and brings up the first photo he finds—an album cover, from the look of it. Terribly broody, of course, black-and-white with a vaguely distressed filter. Four twentysomethings, two men and two women, stare unsmiling at the camera. The album is called Apple Pie , the words wrapped in barbed wire. “Political, are we?” he murmurs.

“Very much so,” Will says. “The bass player, especially. He’s the angry-looking one.”

They’re all angry-looking. And pretty. The boys, especially, dark-haired and slight, each intense in his own way. Brothers, maybe? Rav pulls up another photo—older, from the look of it, with five members instead of four. “This third man. Did he leave the band?”

“Yeah, that’s a sad story. He was the original front man, but he died in a motorcycle accident a few years ago. I think this is their first tour since it happened.”

“You seem to know a lot about them. Are you a fan , William?”

“I guess I am,” he laughs. “But it won’t affect my work.”

Rav keeps flicking through pictures as they head uptown. He finds one of Vale from Hot Wax Magazine , a full-page spread, and oh my . He pinches the screen out. The face looking back at him isn’t just pretty; it’s film-star, double-take-on-the-street pretty. Vale straddles a chair, arms draped across the back, holding the neck of an acoustic guitar posed in front of him. What Rav had taken for dark brown hair is actually black, short and wavy and tousled in a way that manages to be both casual and stylish. An understated grayscale tattoo climbs his left forearm in a flowing organic pattern. Quite beautiful, really. Pale eyes gaze into the camera. They’re the color of a swimming pool, somewhere between blue and green, a striking contrast to his dark hair.

Rav pinches the photo back in. It’s from a feature story called “Behind the Vale: A rare interview with rock and roll’s most elusive prodigy.”

Will glances at Rav’s phone out of the corner of his eye. “Is that Vale? Hey, don’t you think he looks a little like that guy from Magic Mike ? Not Channing Tatum, the yoga one. Ken, I think his name was?”

Rav starts to answer, and then he snags on something. “You’ve seen Magic Mike ?”

“What? Straight guys aren’t allowed to watch movies about male strippers?”

“No, absolutely, you are. You should . Expand your horizons.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Anyway, he looks more like a model than a murderer, is all I’m saying. Not that it means anything.”

“Especially since he’s a professional performer. He makes his living getting up in front of thousands of screaming strangers night after night. It takes a special kind of narcissist to do that, don’t you think?”

“Guess we’re about to find out,” Will says, and he pulls into the loop at the Palace Hotel.