Our story so far: NYPD Detective DJ Cantore, while mulling a perplexing murder case, stumbles into a lively celebration party at a Manhattan restaurant. He instinctively assesses people around him in the only way he knows -- that of a cop born and bred.

The server brought his meal and he attended to it with half his attention. The rest of his interest was captured by the happy party fifteen feet away. He unashamedly indulged his penchant for people-watching. Each of the women was easy on the eyes. The party appealed both for their animated beauty and because they seemed close to his age—late twenties. Save for one or two, all were dressed “city,” and looking pretty in cool summer clothing.
To his eyes, the pick of the bunch was the young lady at the very center. Far from the tallest woman at the do, she struck him as the most vivacious. Frequently a clear, bell-like laugh rang out from her. He chewed his burger without noticing its flavor while absorbing the apparent nature of the celebrations.
Five-one, max, maybe ninety-five or a little over, but not more than a hundred. Can’t tell how long the hair is, up in a tight braid like that. Dark blond with some sun highlights. Hazel eyes, maybe, can’t tell from here. A really pretty mouth, all curvy and no lipstick. Slender but fit. Almost Japanese, the way she’s built. A runner or a dancer, maybe. Not much up top.
And really beautiful. Did I mention beautiful?
Clearly, the petite blond at the center had something major to celebrate. From time to time one of the other women leaned over and murmured something inaudible to the guest of honor. At these moments she laughed more uproariously. Shots were poured and beers were downed. As he consumed his supper, DJ hoped sourly that each one had a safe way to get home—other than her own car.
He was just spooning up the last of the fresh fruit when the inevitable happened. A couple of guys ambled into City Vineyard, spotted the party, and did the hormonal thing. DJ drained his beer, focused, and waited them out.
Subject one. Six-one, maybe two hundred. Brown-brown. His eyes are the color of the harbor mud when the tide’s out. Subject two. Shorter, five-ten, two twenty-five but flabby. Black-brown and one silver earring. Geometric tat on left neck and poor dental hygiene.
The very look of the two louts told him they would become—well—loutish. He’d hold back, in his best conservative, by-the-book mode, until one of them actually offended.
Then he’d strike.





Modify Website

© 2000 - 2019 powered by
Doteasy Web Hosting