“It was horrible,” one of the other ladies cried out. “And he was so blasé about it. He even threatened us as he left.”
“Threatened you? What did he say?” Harper fixed her with a stare, but she didn’t retreat.
“I think he knew we were listening—I mean, we couldn’t help it—and as he walked by, he gave us a horrible grin and almost whispered to us, ‘Make sure you get home safely. In one piece.’ Or something like that. And then he laughed. Like it was a joke.” She shuddered. “I still have goose bumps.”
“He was definitely planning something. He talked about her house and how he knew what it looked like and what her routine was. But the worst was how he spoke about killing her. He joked that it was like squashing a bug.” Marianne wrapped her arms around her waist. “When we saw you were a policeman—detective—we figured we’d report it.”
Of all the gin joints…
Harper huffed out a sigh and asked them to repeat everything so he could take notes on his phone. They each gave the same story.
“You all said he mentioned an elderly lady…Mildred?”
“Millie,” a woman name Jackie stated with assurance. “Millie Johnson. She lives in a big brownstone with wooden doors on Willow Street. That’s only a few blocks from here.” She pointed, and he gave her a thin smile.
“Yes, I know the area.” He’d grown up near the Heights, across Atlantic Avenue, in the close-knit, mostly Italian neighborhood of Carroll Gardens. After David’s accident and insurance settlement, his parents had moved from the two-bedroom apartment they’d rented for years and bought a small house in the same area. It was immediate and necessary, as they’d lived on the second floor of a huge brownstone, and with David confined to a wheelchair, it had been impossible to get him up and down the steep stairs. Their new home had a walk-infront door and a backyard with a deck, where David could sit in the sunshine during good weather.
“Are you going to make sure everything’s okay?”
“Can you arrest him?”
“He was so scary-looking.”
Harper set his phone on the small round table. He had eight open cases and a stack of paperwork waiting to be filed. He should call it in and let the patrol officers swing by and check, but instead found himself saying, “Sure. I’ll go by and see if, first of all, there is actually a house like that.”
“Oh, there is,” Marianne attested with a sharp nod. “I lived on that block. Millie’s a fixture in the neighborhood. Everyone knows her.”
“All right. Thank you very much.” He put the phone into his pocket, indicating the conversation was over.
Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to understand and didn’t move. “Aren’t you going to go now? What if he’s there now, trying to kill her?”
“Yes, of course. I appreciate all of you being so diligent.”
He stood. He’d been sitting there for almost forty-five minutes before the women came over to talk to him and needed to get moving anyway. He’d swing by Millie Johnson’s and check on her, then head over to the precinct. When he’d made detective and requested a precinct closer to home because of David, he wasn’t made any promises, but the department had come through for him in a big way and assigned him to a squad only a mile and a half from his house. On his walk over, he did an online search for a Millie Johnson on Willow Street and found her listed at number 728.
The earlier rain had subsided, and an anemic sun peeked through the clouds. Willow Street was one of the prettiest inthe Heights with its grand brownstones and overarching tree canopies. He approached the house and whistled. It was huge—five stories and at least twenty feet wide—and boasted a well-tended garden and colorful flowerpots at the windows.
His senses started tingling a moment before he realized the large wooden door stood ajar. Harper drew his gun as he ascended the stairs. With his foot, he pushed the door open and crept inside.
“Ms. Millie Johnson, are you all right? This is NYPD Detective Harper Rose.”
Gun at the ready, he soft-footed it along the long hallway, peering into the front parlor and dining room, all immaculately kept and filled with gorgeous antiques. Several drawers were pulled out, and the glass doors of the china cabinets were wide open. A slight noise—more like a groan—sounded from the rear of the house, and with gun still drawn, he approached.
“Shit,” he swore at the sight of an elderly lady lying on the floor. Blood soaked through her dress, and an apple pie lay smashed on the floor around her. A knife, the blade streaked with blood, lay by her side. Harper holstered his gun and checked for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found one—weak and thready but there nonetheless. He took a dish towel and put pressure on the wound, then pulled out his phone and called for backup, an ambulance, and CSU. Nolan was his next call.
“Listen, I caught one on my way to work. Meet me at 728 Willow Street. An old lady stabbed in her home. Still alive, but I don’t know the extent of her injury.” Harper gave him a quick rundown. “I’m waiting for the ambulance and CSU. See you soon.” He ended the call. “Ms. Johnson, can you hear me? It’s Detective Rose. You’re going to be all right.” No answer, only a whimper. His hand looked so large against her small, pale face.
“Millie. Millie, where are you?” Harper heard footsteps quickly approaching and stood, gun raised.
“Freeze, police! Hands where I can see them!”
A man stood frozen at the arched entrance to the kitchen. A canvas bag dangled at his side. “Wha-what’s going on?” His bugged-out eyes found Millie Johnson on the floor. “Millie! Oh, my God.” He took several steps toward her.
“Don’t move,” Harper ordered.Well, damn.Itwasthe hottie from the coffee shop. Exactly like the women had said. He holstered his gun. “What’re you doing here? What’s your name?”
The man licked his lips. “I’m, uh, Millie’s neighbor. I helped her make a pie, and she invited me to come back with some ice cream.”
Harper’s gaze swept over him. The man had cleaned up some from when Harper had first seen him, which only enhanced his heart-stopping good looks. “Name and address, please.”
