In this action-packed, fast-paced thriller, follow Detective Cassandra Maldonado as she hunts for a brutal killer loose on the streets of New York. Fierce and controversial, Detective Cassandra Maldonado played major hardball to join New York's most elite homicide squad. But she's never seen anything like the hauntingly brutal murder of FYSHBone, a rap superstar and media mogul. Cassandra's instincts tell her that Sabio Guzmán, Bone's risk-addicted celebrity lawyer, is keeping secrets worth killing for. With the Feds, the city's biggest loan shark, and a vicious music tycoon all out to silence Sabio for good, the heat Cassandra feels for him is destined to bring explosive bad news. Soon their careers and lives are on the line. They're left with everything to lose, nowhere to hide -- and one deadly last chance to uncover the truth. This unforgettable new tale from Daniel Serrano takes readers behind the badge, where getting justice isn't just about who you trust. It's about what you do to survive . . .
Release date:
November 1, 2010
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
346
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Cassandra was an NYPD detective, an undercover assigned to stop a monster.
The newspapers called him the Marathon Slasher. He stalked female joggers at night. He shredded their faces with a scalpel.
Cassandra’s job was to lure the Slasher out of hiding. To act the part of a lonely jogger, unaware, reckless in her choice
of shadowy cinder trails at dusk.
Cassandra was nervous. Undercover work was always dangerous.
Plus she had seen the photos in the case files. The scars. The grief in the victims’ eyes.
Her department-issued semiautomatic was holstered inside her waistpack.
Two male undercovers shadowed her. Ghosts, they were called. Their job was to protect Cassandra yet stay out of sight. Each
pretended to be a lone jogger, one ahead, the other behind Cassandra, about a twentieth of a mile, approximately one city
block.
Compost in a nearby field mixed with the July heat to deliver a sweet, disgusting smell. That summer had been a scorcher.
Cassandra spoke up: “Jennings, what’s your twenty?”
They communicated using radios rigged to look like MP3 players.
“Behind you, Detective, about an eighth of a klick.”
“All clear?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Pace?”
“Ten-minute miles.”
Cassandra glanced at her watch. “Ten-zero exactly?”
That would put Jennings thirty seconds back.
“Ten point oh exactly, Detective. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on you.”
Tactical teams throughout the park monitored their transmissions and tracked them on satellite.
Each jogger had a GPS chip on his or her person. Cassandra’s was tied to her sneaker. A command post managed the entire set
from inside a fake Metropolitan Transportation Authority repair truck, parked on Broadway, under the number 1 train.
Cassandra radioed the lead ghost: “Jones? What’s your twenty?”
She envisioned Jones checking the GPS watch he had coaxed from Technical Assistance. “A block ahead of you, Detective. Ten-minute
miles.”
Six miles an hour. Fast for her, this late into the run. Sweat salted her eyes.
Jones called. “Approaching the bridge, Detective. Ready for Cemetery Hill?”
Runners talked about the Hill. They feared it.
It was called Cemetery Hill because the city’s first native-born mayor had been buried up there. It was known as a spirit-breaker for runners, but supposedly rewarded your effort with
a special view of Manhattan’s distant spires.
Previously Cassandra had always been too fatigued by this point to take the Hill and had stayed on the flats. This night she
wanted to push herself.
“Stick it.”
“Ten-four.”
Cassandra imagined the lead runner crossing the bridge that connected to the back hills. Thirty seconds later she came to
the span herself. She crossed it.
Trees on either side of the trail reached for one another with their branches like laced fingers. They formed a dark canopy
over the trail that enveloped all who passed beneath.
Cassandra pumped her knees. Her earphones radiated silence beneath her ghosts’ heavy breathing. She bopped her head and pretended
to listen to music to appear like an easy target. In her mind, she got to the Spanish part of “Diamond Girl.”
The first hill rose. It quickly became vertical. Like running in sand. With boots on.
Cassandra immediately regretted her decision to take the Hill.
She felt jumpy. It was dark. A raccoon scampered from a bush and she flinched. Cassandra’s heart rate was off the chart. She
labored to breathe.
She glanced back and saw only shadows. She glanced again and caught the flash of a man suddenly in, then suddenly out of sight
on the curved path behind.
A running man.
Cassandra’s heart skipped. Where did you go?
She slowed to let the running man round the bend. He didn’t.
Where are you?
She whispered into her mic. “Jennings?”
“Yeah?”
“You see him?”
“Who?”
“In front of you. John Doe running man.”
“Where?”
“Just ahead of you, maybe half a klick.”
Jennings cleared his throat. “Negative.”
“On the Hill.”
“The Hill? I thought you said, ‘Skip it.’ ”
“What?”
Jones cut in. He could see their locations on his special watch. “Detective, it looks like Jennings didn’t take the cutoff,
he stayed on the flats. I’m heading back—”
Cassandra stage-whispered, “Negative. Slow your pace and stand by. Tactical units stand down.”
A lieutenant inside the fake repair truck radioed.
“Detective, you have to abort. It’s too dangerous. Jones, turn around and rendezvous with her. Jennings—”
Cassandra cut in: “No, Lou, please don’t. If it’s him, he ain’t made me. Don’t blow my cover.”
“Detective—”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. I have my firearm.”
It got harder to breathe.
The lieutenant hesitated. “Ten-four.”
Cassandra didn’t waste oxygen thanking him. “Jennings, are you hauling back?”
“Fast as I can.”
“Floor it.”
Cassandra glanced behind. Nothing.
I saw you. I know you’re back there, running man.
Cassandra touched the cherished gold ring on the chain around her neck. She said a two-second prayer and quietly unzipped
her waistpack. She felt the gun and removed a small can of pepper spray.
“Jennings?”
Her feet were like buckets of wet cement.
“Halfway up the Hill, Detective. Don’t see nobody.”
How is that possible? The curvature of the trail was not so great; one of them should be able to see someone between them.
Cassandra glanced back.
Nothing.
When she turned to face forward the Marathon Slasher leaped from behind a tree with his scalpel out.
“It’s him!”
He swung.
Cassandra snapped her head back. The blade missed her throat by a whisper but sliced the earphone wires. The Slasher swung
his free hand and tore her necklace off.
Cassandra aimed the spray but the Slasher knocked her hand and the aerosol discharged into her face.
“Aaahhh!”
The sting exploded up her nostrils. It lit her eyes on fire. The can dropped from her hand.
Cassandra’s eyes welded shut. She threw a wild punch.
The Slasher slapped her with a hand like cast iron. He grabbed her ponytail and yanked her off the trail into some trees.
“No!” She kicked. “Stop!” She could not see.
Her sneaker with the tracking chip came off.
Cassandra plunged her hand into her waistpack.
The Slasher threw himself on top of her. They tumbled downhill, grabbing each other.
Suddenly he was above her, scalpel high.
Cassandra jammed the gun under his chin.
“Freeze!”
He froze.
She strained to keep her eyes open. “Toss the blade!”
He hesitated.
She flicked the safety and cocked the hammer. “I swear to God!”
The Slasher tossed the scalpel.
Cassandra pressed the muzzle to his carotid. “Off me! Kiss the dirt!”
The Slasher moved slowly.
Cassandra got to her knees and jammed the muzzle into the back of his head. She forced him face-down and scrambled for the
cuffs in her waistpack. She restrained his hands behind his back, then spun away to empty her water bottle into her eyes.
“Oh, God!”
She gagged, hands on knees.
There was something in her bra. She felt it.
Her special ring!
The necklace was gone, but the ring had fallen into her cleavage. Cassandra held back a sob.
The Slasher spoke to her in Spanish. “I will peel your face away and the world shall see who you really are.”
His accent was unfamiliar to her. He was not Puerto Rican, Mexican, or Dominican. Cassandra’s backups, Jones and Jennings,
called from the running trail.
Her eyes swollen almost shut, she bent and grabbed the links between the cuffs. She put her foot on the Slasher’s shoulder
and yanked. His rotator cuff popped.
“¡Ayy!”
She spoke Spanish. “Threaten me again and I’ll kill you.”
Her ghosts ran up with flashlights and guns drawn. Jones had a finger through the laces of her running shoe.
Cassandra snatched it and pointed. “Weapon’s in the bushes. Locate it for Crime Scene.”
Jones searched for the scalpel. The Slasher squirmed and moaned. Blue and white lights flashed through the trees. Sirens approached.
Jennings bent toward Cassandra. “Great work, Detective. You collared the Marathon Slasher.” He put his hand on her lower back.
“Wanna go for a drink after the paperwork?”
Mucus dripped from Cassandra’s nose. She looked into the man’s face. He had been assigned to protect her.
She thought of something sarcastic to say, but heaved on his sneakers before she could get it out.
The following morning Cassandra was in the kitchen of her house on Virgil Place, in Castle Hill, in front of the stove in her
robe and slippers.
She was sore. Her face stung as if she’d fallen asleep in the sun. Her throat was irritated. But she was alive, Praise God,
in one piece, and making breakfast for her son.
Yellow butter sizzled in the frying pan. The smell of it filled Cassandra’s kitchen. She poured pancake batter into perfect
circles.
“Jason, honey, I need you to clear the table.”
The boy was playing with toy cars, as he did every morning. He did not respond. He lined the cars side by side, counted them,
recited their colors in order. Then he scrambled the cars and lined them up again exactly as they had been. He counted and
recited their colors again.
Cassandra interrupted before he restarted the process.
“Jason.”
He stopped but did not look up.
“Please put your cars away so we can eat. Thank you.”
Her son’s eyes did not find hers. Cassandra stood in front of him, collected the cars, placed them in his hands.
“Go put them in your room. Wash your hands, breakfast is almost ready.”
Jason slid slowly off the chair and went to his bedroom. She grabbed the spatula.
Children with autism require routine. Cassandra had learned that.
What she had never imagined was how much she would need these mornings with her son. Nothing could take away her guilt and constant worry about how much work kept her
away from him. She was not there to attend or protect him for most of the day. That bothered her.
But their quiet time, when they ate together, that gave Cassandra great satisfaction.
Seven in the morning and already the heat was making the back of Cassandra’s neck sweat. Her mother returned from the corner
store with bananas and an armful of newspapers.
“Wait until you see!”
Cassandra had made front-page news.
The New York Post and the Daily News had run virtually identical full-page color photos of the Marathon Slasher as he was wheeled from an ambulance into the emergency
room, hands cuffed to the sides of his gurney like Hannibal Lecter.
In each picture Cassandra was escorting the prisoner in her running gear. The gold detective’s shield dangled across her chest.
Both papers featured the same headline: CAPTURED!
One ran a caption: NYPD Det. Cassandra Maldonado hauls alleged Marathon Slasher to hospital after daring Bronx foot chase.
Her mother read the news account. She stopped and looked up at Cassandra.
“That man tried to cut you?”
“Mom, reporters exaggerate. Want a pancake?”
“Too fattening.”
“You always say no, then end up eating one of mine.”
“Cassandra, you did not tell me this was gonna be dangerous.”
“Want some scrambled eggs?”
“Cholesterol.” Her mother went back to reading.
Cassandra told her mother that the commissioner’s office had called about a press conference with the mayor.
“The mayor? Think you can get a desk job?”
“I told you, Mami, I wanna go to HI-PRO.”
“What’s that?”
“High-profile crimes. Celebrities. Cases that make big news.”
“Out on the streets?”
“Sometimes. But not like before. No more buy-and-bust operations with drug dealers.” Cassandra pointed the spatula at the
newspapers. “I can’t do undercover work anymore. The whole world knows I’m a cop.”
“What about the hours?”
Cassandra knew her schedule had been a strain on her mother, who took up the slack in caring for Jason. It was only the three
of them now. Cassandra’s recent stint at Missing Persons had given her a predictable 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. schedule. No overtime, and she was home in the evenings to care for her son. Her mother feared a return to old ways.
“I don’t think I’ll work so much overtime when I get my promotion. It comes with a raise. I can still keep coming home at a decent hour. You’ll keep your evenings.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“I know, Mami. Egg white omelet?”
“Uy, no. Don’t taste like anything.” Her mother pointed at the Slasher on the front page. “How did he get hurt?”
Cassandra stacked pancakes on a plate.
“Slipped on a banana peel trying to escape.”
Cassandra peeled a banana, sliced it, made a smiley face on the top pancake out of it. She poured her son a glass of milk.
“Jason!”
He bounded into the kitchen, sat at the table, and picked up his fork.
Cassandra’s mother looked at Jason through the top part of her bifocals. “What, Grandma’s like a piece of furniture around
here?”
The boy climbed from his chair and went to her. She raspberried him on the neck and he giggled. She pointed at Cassandra on
the front page.
“You see who that is?”
He looked at the paper.
“Who is that, Jason?”
“Mommy.”
“Who?”
“Mommy.”
“That’s right. Your mommy’s famous. She stopped a bad guy. Now we don’t have to worry about him no more.”
Jason looked Cassandra in the eye and smiled. She smiled back.
Her mother patted him on the butt. “All right, Papito, sit down and eat.”
Jason sat and ate one bannana slice at a time. First the eyes, then the nose, finally the smile. Always in that order.
Cassandra poured pancake batter. She included an extra one for her mother. She spied her child from the corner of her eye
and felt the fullness of love.
Cassandra checked herself in the mirror of a musty ladies’ room at City Hall. She wasn’t exactly nervous, but anxious about
the press conference. She wanted to make sure she was ready for the cameras.
She removed lipstick from her teeth with a tissue and dotted the tiny mole over the left corner of her mouth with black eyeliner.
In high school they called her Cindy Crawford.
She examined her profile. The chocolate suit and subtle pumps hit the right note. Her curly hair was blow-dried straight,
silky, to its true length, halfway down her back. Her precious gold ring was on a strong new necklace, under the blouse.
Cassandra tugged the sleeves of her jacket to their length, shouldered the purse, stepped into the hallway. Her face stopped
at Deputy Chief Acosta’s decorated chest.
She looked up and saluted. “Sir.”
Acosta stood straight in his uniform, the full six-foot-three, his stomach flat as ever. “It isn’t a formal medal day, Detective,
but why didn’t you wear your uniform like you were told?”
“The dry cleaner misplaced it.”
Acosta paused to let her know he knew she was lying. “You showed a lot of courage on this case.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I knew when I pushed you, you were ideal.”
Cassandra knew that he pushed her because he wanted to sleep with her, despite the fact that his wedding band was as polished
as the stars on his shoulders.
“Some argued you couldn’t handle it,” he said.
Cassandra resisted the temptation to ask who.
“You made me look good, Detective. I won’t forget it.”
She did not like the sound of this. “Did you speak to the chief of detectives?”
“About?”
“My transfer to HI-PRO?”
Acosta’s eyes did not flinch. “Not gonna happen, Detective.”
Cassandra’s heart dropped. “What? Why?”
“HI-PRO’s an elite unit.”
“So? I’m decorated.”
“There’s a long list of personnel with more experience.”
Acid flooded Cassandra’s stomach.
“Also there are problems developing with the Salazar file.”
The Marathon Slasher had been identified as a Colombian national named Salazar. His lawyer had already filed an excessive-force
complaint against Cassandra.
“Why’d you have to tune him up like that? Salazar claims you popped his rotator cuff on purpose.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“He tried to run after I cuffed him.”
“Save it for the inquiry, Detective. This is still City Hall.”
“Meaning?”
“The mayor cannot be seen rewarding a cop, even a hero cop, who is facing a civil rights complaint. The way this city’s wired?
You realize we’re heading into a primary?”
Cassandra could not believe this. The reason she had accepted this crazy assignment was that she expected a transfer and a
raise if she were the actual decoy to lure the Marathon Slasher into the net.
“Chief, this isn’t fair. Politics already kept me out of Homicide.”
“Cassandra, things take time.”
“What about me making grade?” Cassandra had assumed she’d be getting a bump to second grade, a higher salary.
Acosta shook his head again.
The heat traveled up Cassandra’s legs. “You gonna let me get mugged? I delivered public enemy number one.”
“You are one helluva cop, Maldonado. But you’re young. Barely ten years on the job. Quit trying to move faster than is natural.”
Cassandra pictured the pile of bills on her kitchen table. She had counted on that bump in salary.
Acosta tried to soften it. “The mayor recognizes the public’s affection for you right now.”
“How big of him.”
“That’s not to be wasted. He wants to give you a commendation.”
“Another ribbon?”
“For your actions in apprehending Salazar.”
“What good will that do?”
“If it turns out you violated the prisoner’s rights after capture, the mayor has an out. The recognition was for actions prior to the actual arrest. This keeps you from becoming a
political liability.”
“A liability?”
“Yes. You might become one. One, by the way, who’d be due a bigger pension if she threw her papers in after getting bumped
up a grade.”
“Throw my papers in? Who said anything about retirement?”
“It could be worse,” said Acosta.
“How?”
“You’d be due nothing if you got fired.”
Cassandra swallowed.
“That wasn’t a threat, Detective. It’s just—”
“The mayor needs his cover.”
Acosta put his hand on her shoulder. “Mature of you to understand.”
A mayoral aide appeared. “His Honor has arrived. Everybody into the Blue Room.”
Acosta nodded. “We’ll be right in.” He turned to Cassandra. “Don’t look so glum. This is still a big day for you. We’ll take
a picture with the mayor.”
“Great. I’ll send copies to my creditors.”
Acosta did not react. They walked side by side toward the crowd that spilled into the hallway. Cassandra had just been robbed.
By the time Cassandra entered the Blue Room, ten seconds later, she was fuming.
Light applause broke out. Cassandra nodded half absentmindedly and joined people behind the podium, beneath a portrait of
Alexander Hamilton.
Politicians she had never met kissed Cassandra as if they were old friends. They shook her hand, slapped her back, maneuvered
around one another to get into the photo op with her.
The mayor walked in, trailed by the police commissioner. Each waved, pointed, and gave audience members the thumbs-up.
The mayor took the podium. He acknowledged nearly every elected official in the room but left a couple conspicuously out.
He smirked when he thanked the Bronx district attorney for coming, “all the way downtown.”
The mayor gave an update of where the case against Salazar stood.
Finally, he mentioned Cassandra.
“One of New York’s finest. A genuine Big Apple hero. The reason we are here and why women of this city feel safe again.”
The mayor invited Cassandra to stand next to him while he read the commendation. Cameras zoomed.
Acosta nudged her. “The mayor called you.”
Cassandra made her way to the podium. The mayor kissed both her cheeks. He smelled of stale cigar smoke.
“Detective, for your heroic actions during the capture,” he let the word linger, “of a dangerous individual, it is my privilege to bestow upon you this commendation.”
The mayor read an official statement. Cassandra did not listen. He handed her the commendation.
A reporter asked Cassandra how it felt to receive the ribbon.
“I have a lot of these in a drawer at home.”
Nervous laughter.
“Detective, tell us about yourself.”
She looked around the room.
“Well, I’m a mother. Early thirties. Been in the department for a decade. I was raised in the projects, the Mitchel Houses,
in the South Bronx. I own a house now. I won’t say where.”
“What was it like to come face to face with the alleged Marathon Slasher?”
Cassandra nodded. She flashed to her terror in the dark woods.
“They say the training kicks in. Frankly, this work is scary. Salazar tried to slice my face off.”
One reporter jumped in. “What about the allegation you attacked him after he was under arrest? His lawyer says he was already cuffed.”
“No comment.”
“You feel like a hero, Detective?”
Cassandra was already tired of the word.
“This is a job. You do it selflessly. To serve and protect. In the end it’s a way to pay the mortgage and feed my son.”
Cassandra scanned the room.
Newspaper writers, radio reporters, TV talking heads, cameras, mics, tape recorders. She got an idea.
Cassandra glanced at Acosta. He seemed clueless.
She turned to the media. “I struggle like everybody. Like all of you at home. That is why—”
She glanced again at Acosta. Alarm finally registered on his face.
Cassandra decided to gamble.
“That is why I almost cried, minutes ago, when I was informed the mayor ordered the department to promote me to detective,
second grade, which means a raise. Plus, he ordered me transfered to the HI-PRO Unit, effective immediately. This way I can
best serve the public and take care of my son.”
The cameras, microphones, tape recorders, and notebooks captured all of it.
The mayor looked suprised. The commissioner knotted his eyebrows. Acosta pressed his lips into. . .
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