The Chemistry of Death

Chapter 7

Vivian petted the warm nose of a draft horse named Hercules. The horse and carriage were waiting at the Fifth Avenue entrance to Central Park for tourists who would pay for a ride through its leafy precincts. If she’d had the money, she’d have done it herself.

It was a fantastic day — blue sky, bright sun, the bite of autumn in the air, and the leaves had started to turn yellow and orange. Fall was her favorite time of year, and New York was her favorite place to be.

She nodded to Mac, the carriage driver. He’d retired from the post office about ten years before and turned to driving carriages so he could stay outside all day. She’d seen him about once a week since she got kicked out of the Army and moved home.

“May I give Hercules a carrot?” she asked.

“Like I could stop you, girlie.”

The horse grabbed the proffered carrot with his warm lips and tucked it into his mouth. The carrot crunched as he chewed. Vivian stroked the horse’s neck, then checked her phone.

“Off for a run?” Mac asked.

“Almost late, too.” She tossed him a wave and jogged north into the park. She’d be at the reservoir in five minutes or so. Sun warmed her shoulders, cool wind fresh against her cheeks. She could run all day in these conditions.

A man in blue sweatpants and a gray hoodie caught up to her. Dirk. They jogged along together.

“You’re the last jogger under fifty who wears sweatpants.” She tapped her sleek, black leg. “It’s all about spandex.”

“I couldn’t fight off the women if I wore spandex on these fine legs,” he said. “I’m wearing this for your protection.”

“Always the altruist.” She grinned. “And always deluded.”

Dirk was actually a pretty good-looking guy — light-blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled chin. And he would look fine in spandex, but she’d never let him know that. He was unbearable enough already.

“Denial,” he said. “Want to bet I can beat you in the first loop?”

“How about an easy loop to warm up?” she asked. One loop around Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir was a little over a mile and a half. “I want to talk.”

She and Dirk settled into an easy rhythm. They’d been running together since their Army days. They’d probably logged a thousand miles in Afghanistan and New York. She preferred running next to the calm blue lake here than out in the hot deserts where she had to worry that the ground might explode, or a sniper might drop her.

“Mr. Kazakov likes you,” Dirk said. “Says you’re steady.”

Light glinted off the blue surface of the pond. “Katrinka says you’re a blond god.”

“Smart kid.”

“Maybe Hephaestus.” He was the ugly god. She wondered if Dirk knew that.

“A god’s a god,” he said. “Immortal and badass.”

“Remember that purse I told you about?”

“Prada. Expensive. Dug up by a dog.”

Dirk sounded out of breath. She slowed. “Not just expensive, really expensive, even for Prada. That arm ornament could put Lucy through college.”

“She still waiting to hear about her student loans?”

Vivian didn’t want to get into that. “I called Prada and found out who bought the bag.”

“Yeah?”

“An investment banker named Sandra Haines.” She wondered if Sandra had run this very path. Lots of people did.

“Bet she was glad to hear from you.”

“She might have been.” Vivian skirted an uneven patch in the trail. “Except she’s dead.”

She practically saw his ears prick up. Dirk was a cop, and he had cop instincts. “Natural causes?”

“Not unless you count being hit by a train as natural.”

“Can be,” he said. “Depending on the circumstances.”

“About a year ago, she allegedly jumped in front of a subway train.” Vivian looked out across the shining water at the sky and the gray trees dazzling in their autumn finery. So sad to think of people throwing away any chance to be part of the good things in life. A tragedy to instead choose to die alone underground. She sighed at the thought that Tesla was making that choice every day.

“Guess Prada bags don’t buy happiness,” Dirk said.

“I dug a little deeper—”

“Course you did.” He kicked his running up a notch, as if he wanted to run away from her findings.

“A lot of folks jump in front of trains in New York. About one a week.”

He whistled. “That many?”

“New York’s a big place. Lots of sad people and trains.” The leaves floating on the water looked like tiny gold boats.

“Why do I think you didn’t invite me out here to talk about what a big, sad place New York is?” he asked.

“How’d her purse get buried in a tunnel over two miles from where she was hit?”

“Rats? Cats? Crazy homeless trannies?”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

They finished the rest of the lap in silence. Both sped up at the end because they were too competitive not to. Dirk won by half a length and settled back into a comfortable jog for the second lap.

He flashed a victor’s grin. “You’re losing your touch, Viv.”

“Distracted,” she said.

“Sure,” he said. “Sun was in your eyes. Perfectly understandable.”

She punched him in the shoulder. “If it were just this purse, maybe I’d buy your theory, but the lipsticks, too?”

Dirk’s blue eyes looked thoughtful. He had a damn adorable thoughtful look. Part of his blond god persona. It kept his private life too complicated for Vivian to follow. “Rats collect things. So do people. Maybe someone or something liked the smell.”

“The items were behind a locked door.” Of course, if Tesla had a key, who knew who else did.

“A locked door might deter your average homeless person, but rats can find a way into just about any place. Like your toilet.”

“I’m trying to pretend that rats in the toilet is an urban legend,” she said. “But you’re right. The purse and lipsticks are probably nothing.”

Dirk laughed. “Yeah. You let me win the first lap for nothing.”

“You won fair and square,” she said.

“Like I didn’t notice your fake zombie-girl stumble at the end?”

Vivian laughed. She hadn’t stumbled on purpose, at least not consciously, but maybe he was on to something. “I’m going to look into it more. If it turns into something, be ready for me to dump it in your lap.”

“Don’t be surprised if you don’t find anything but a sad jumper,” he said. “Sometimes, we’re our own worst enemies.”

Vivian had found pictures of Sandra Haines online. She hadn’t looked sad. She’d looked young, rich, pretty, and blond. A lot like Katrinka actually. What did someone like that have to worry about? Plenty, she guessed. Dirk was right. Prada bags really didn’t buy happiness.

Dirk kicked into higher gear and started a flat-out run. Vivian stopped worrying and took off after him. The second lap went a lot faster than the first and, at the end, she didn’t stumble.