Murder in Paradise Read online

I pilot Amelia into a kind of hover mode up in the sky. I don’t want to get too close and spook the people.

  Keeping Amelia steady, I zoom in with her camera to take a better look. Are they punks, here to tag the construction signs along the viaduct? Or perhaps they’re lovers who have snuck away for an early morning tryst?

  Standing on the rock-strewn ground is a woman in business attire…and a few feet away, there’s a man on his knees. If this is a tryst, it’s clear who’s boss in this relationship.

  “Steady, girl,” I tell Amelia, as if she can hear me. I zoom in closer, which pixelates the image a little. “I promise, if things get racy, I’ll pull you out of there. Don’t want you scandalized.”

  But things do not get racy.

  Instead the man lifts his hands, as if he’s pleading with the business woman. The woman walks toward him, lifting her left arm like she’s pointing a remote control at a TV set.

  Then something flies from her hand so quickly, it barely registers on the camera. But a second later, I see it clearly, because it is sticking out of the man’s chest.

  An arrow.

  And the man keels over.

  Chapter 4

  Target Diary—Day 7

  Subject Number Four falls down quickly.

  But when I press my fingers to the side of his grimy, disgusting neck I find a weak but insistent pulse.

  Disappointing.

  Of my four in-field experiments thus far, only two have died immediately with a single shot—subjects Two and Three.

  Death for Number One, like Four here, required a bit of extra effort.

  I pull up my sleeve and load another arrow into my gauntlet. The wires bite into my fingertips as I pull them taut. I ignore the pain and enjoy the callusing effect. There’s a sharp click.

  I’m ready to go.

  Number Four’s eyes flutter open. At best, he’s probably sixty seconds away from death. But you never know. Some human beings have been known to survive extreme body trauma for shockingly long periods of time. Number Four may be an indigent in poor health, but there’s no accounting for his genetic stock. He may be one of those people who survive.

  “Please,” he’s stammering now, his voice hushed. One of his lungs has most likely collapsed. “You don’t have to do this, I’m a nobody, lady, nobody…”

  “Shhhh,” I tell him.

  “I thought you wanted to help me!”

  I take careful aim, again, wondering how I’d miscalculated the first shot. The tip of the arrow is supposed to slip past the protective rib cage and strike the portion of the heart that will cause the organ to fail within seconds. I’ve done my homework. Had consultations with three different cardiovascular surgeons. Used a half-dozen cadavers from a black market medical supply concern for target practice early in the mission.

  There is no substitute, however, for a live target.

  “Please please please….”

  Especially one who is squirming around like a maggot.

  “Shhhh,” I tell him, then take a few steps back. I want to perfect this shot at the proper distance. No sense cheating it now. The more practice I can log, the better my chances of success for the Big Day.

  Now that he sees that I’m aiming, his writhing becomes even more erratic, as if he can somehow twist himself out of harm’s way. This amuses me. A laugh bubbles up out of my throat, much to my own surprise. Number Four gawks at me, insulted, and stops twisting for a moment.

  And that is exactly when I take my shot.

  This time it’s a perfect hit. A second after impact, the life visibly fades away from his rheumy eyes.

  I take a moment in the silence to allow the last few seconds to imprint themselves onto my nervous system. So much of this profession is about the visualization and coordination of my muscles and brain.

  Dilettantes waste those glorious moments after a successful hit. To me, they’re everything.

  But nevertheless, I am distracted. Because there’s something out of place. A sound.

  A buzzing sound.

  Chapter 5

  Okay, now I’m freaking out.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was pretty much freaking out the moment I watched a business lady shoot a freakin’ arrow into the chest of a poor homeless man.

  But then, just as the guy was begging for his life and wriggling around like a worm on a fish hook…she shot him again! With another arrow!

  And this time, it worked. He stopped wriggling.

  Part of me is praying that what I’ve watched is some kind of elaborate form of street theater, a pretend assassination for the delight and amusement of commuters. Then I remember that no one can possibly see these two people, except if you happen to be flying a drone at a specific angle, high above the blocked-off viaduct.

  This is no street theater. I’ve just witnessed a murder.

  I’m frozen in place, my thumbs trembling as they hover above my phone screen. Amelia hovers, too—almost impatiently. What are we going to do next, boss?

  “We’re going to retreat, Amelia.”

  I pilot her straight up into the air, not wanting to bang her on the railings of the viaduct. But at the same moment, the business lady turns around, and for a fleeting moment, it’s as if we’ve locked eyes.

  Oh no.

  She saw me.

  Go go go go go, Amelia!

  My thumbs do a desperate dance and poor Amelia is spinning and the image on the screen is chaotic and confusing.

  Don’t flake out now, Tricia, says a voice in my head. Not when it counts.

  Because even in my panic, I’m formulating a plan. And the plan is this: take Amelia to a safe height, and then wait for this business lady and her arrows to emerge from the viaduct. There are very few ways in and out. Once I have a fix on her at street level, I call the police, and they can go scoop her up. As long as she stays in the quarter-mile range, I can follow her and lead the cops directly to her.

  Miraculously, I’m able to stabilize Amelia. She’s hovering above 20th Street, just up the block from those safe and familiar bastions of urban life—the hipster coffee shop, the organic grocery store. You know, civilized places, where people don’t go around shooting other people with arrows.

  But when I hold down the right button and spin Amelia around, I see a large white object coming right at us at approximately sixty-five miles per hour…

  …and it’s the top of a white delivery truck.

  My thumbs go ballistic as I struggle to put as much distance between Amelia and the speeding truck as possible.

  And I would have been successful, had it not been for this pesky building nearby.

  Amelia crashes on the edge of the roof, right smack into an old metal frame that used to hold an ancient sign.

  “No no no,” I murmur as I futz with the controls. “Please don’t be stuck…”

  Good luck with that.

  And the voice inside my head is right; it’s no use. In my haste to escape, I somehow impaled poor Amelia on that old, rusty sign. She’s pinned like a butterfly in a collection.

  “I’m so sorry, honey,” I say as I give up and power her down.

  I’ll have to mourn her later, though. I close out the app, then push 911 on my cell. This is the first time I’ve ever done such a thing in my life.

  It’s also the first time I’ve ever said the words:

  “Hello? Um, I think I’ve just witnessed a murder…”

  Chapter 6

  Target Diary—Day 7 (continued)

  I turn to look, but the sun temporarily blinds me. After shielding my eyes I’m able to make out a blurry shape rising out of view. The buzzing sound fades away.

  It’s entirely possible the two are unrelated. The buzzing may have been an echo of nearby traffic. The humming of a motorbike, for instance.

  But I don’t think so. My senses are finely tuned to notice any sights or noises that don’t fit the usual patterns. This is also something a dilettante will ignore. But if something is coming for you, the enviro
nment will give you plenty of warning.

  From my perspective, however, all seems normal.

  I slip on a pair of latex gloves and prepare for the grunt work.

  There’s a fairly deep pit approximately a hundred yards from my current location. It is the current resting place of Numbers One through Three.

  I grab Number Four by his wrists and begin to drag him toward it. I would usually pull the legs, but he’s not wearing any shoes and the stench is already disgusting enough.

  Yet, the disadvantaged are perfect for my needs, and abundant here in Philadelphia, especially near the Parkway. Many of them are wary, but it’s easy enough to find the few who are willing to believe a perfect stranger is offering a hand up.

  Some are even willing to believe that there might be more than a warm meal on offer.

  Perhaps even a real personal connection, and a way out of a desperate situation.

  I can spot the tiny flicker of hope in their eyes, and I’m just the person to fan it into a proper flame.

  It helps, too, that my appearance is homely. This works to my advantage, because nobody trusts a gorgeous face.

  Finally, I reach the edge of the pit. I can smell the others, decaying there. I crouch down and roll Number Four into the darkness with the rest of his kind. Thank you for your services.

  Still, when I ascend back to street level, the mysterious buzzing sound that I heard continues to vex me. I walk around the neighborhood, searching for its possible source. I’d like to be able to put this out of my mind.

  I head down Hamilton Street and watch the construction crews assemble yet another condominium. I stroll toward the Parkway, where tourists blindly flock to the museums, pay their entrance fees, and look at objects they are told are beautiful.

  But they have no real appreciation for beauty. They possess neither the mental capacity nor the imagination for it.

  The bodies in the pit. They are beautiful.

  Nobody pays me any particular mind as I wander around. My garments are that of any workaday Philadelphian, on her way downtown for a pointless office job.

  Which, frankly, is the whole point.

  Chapter 7

  The knocking is so loud that I think my door’s going to pop off its hinges.

  I’m not surprised the cops have shown up, but I am a little disappointed. Aren’t phoned-in murder tips supposed to be, you know, anonymous?

  Because I don’t want to be involved. I don’t want my name in a report. I just want to be a good citizen, even if I spend my days locked away from the general population.

  “Ms. Celano?” one of them asks, butchering my surname. It’s sell-AHH-no, but this one, weirdly, is asking for “Miss Kell-AYE-no.”

  I look through the peephole at both cops, and the glass morphs their bodies in carnival funhouse dimensions. Big heads, little legs and feet.

  “We’re here about your phone call,” one of them says. “Can you open the door, please?”

  My hand rests on the lock and I take a deep breath. I can’t remember the last time someone’s actually set foot in my apartment. Whenever there’s a delivery, I accept it in the relative safety of the building’s hallway. If I look through the security doors and feel uneasy, I simply head back inside my apartment.

  But where can I hide from these guys? My tiny bathroom?

  “Miss Kell-AYE-no?”

  “Uh, one minute please!”

  I take another deep breath then flip the lock and open the door. The two cops slowly make their way inside, their eyes expertly scanning the interior of my apartment. I wonder what they are thinking. Perhaps they’re looking for telltale signs of crazy?

  “You’re Miss Kell-AYE-no?”

  “It’s Celano,” I say.

  “I’m sorry?” the taller of them says.

  “Apology accepted.”

  My peephole view didn’t prepare me for the sight of these two land monsters in the flesh. The tall one is seriously tall. He’s at least six three, but has a baby face that he tries to hide with a little chin scruff. He would be sort of adorable if I weren’t terrified of him and everything he represented.

  His partner is almost as tall, and is also nearly double his width. He had to practically step through my doorway sideways.

  All of which makes my studio apartment feel all the more claustrophobic. As they look around, I see the place through their eyes and I’m ashamed. My entire world is a dark box subdivided into a tiny galley kitchen, a bathroom, a messy living room with a desk shoved into the corner, and a loft space where I sleep on a single twin mattress. One look at this place and you’d agree: I’m pretty much failing at being an adult.

  Baby Face, whose name tag reads YATES, tries to hide his amusement. “Can you tell us what you saw?”

  “There was a lady who shot an arrow at a man down by the old viaduct,” I say. “And now he’s dead.”

  I basically sound exactly like Dr. Seuss. All I can say, in my defense, is speaking to a person in real life, with my actual voice, is not something I do very often.

  “Exactly where was this, ma’am?”

  “You know, the viaduct, by Callowhill Street. The old train tracks?”

  Yates glances over at his partner, whose nametag reads SEARS, just like the company that makes huge appliances. In fact, this guy reminds me of one of them. I wonder if he comes with a warranty.

  “So you were over there with them?” Yates asks. “Or were you just walking by?”

  “Neither, I…uh….” And here’s what I was dreading. The part where I incriminate myself in the process of trying to do the right thing. I force myself to spit it out. “I saw them from the camera feed from my drone.”

  “Your camera on what?” Sears asks, speaking at last.

  “Um, my drone. I use it to look at the city. I was flying it down by the library when I saw two people on the viaduct, which you never see—”

  “A drone?” Sears asks.

  Yates taps his partner on the shoulder. “You know, man, those flying things kids send up by remote control, to shoot videos from the sky.”

  Sears finally gets it, which only makes things worse. “So basically, you spy on people?” he asks, leveling a frosty glare at me.

  “No, I don’t—I swear, I just look at the city.”

  The cops look at each other with a “get a load of this” expression on their faces. Even I know I’m lying. So I give them a brief rundown of my medical history, which is none of their business. They look at me like I’m crazy, and then, as if I hadn’t said anything, they continue.

  “Those things are a public nuisance,” Sears says. “I’m sure your neighbors don’t appreciate you looking through their windows or into their backyards.”

  “I think my neighbors would be more concerned about the crazy lady who’s been walking around killing people with arrows!”

  Officer Yates sighs. “Look, we checked the viaduct. There’s nobody over there. No signs of anything.”

  “I’m telling you, I saw a woman. She was maybe in her late forties or early fifties. She pulled up her sleeve and…”

  “A lot of homeless congregate there. You’re looking down at the scene through your computer—”

  “Through my cell phone.”

  “Yeah? Even worse. I think your eyes were playing tricks on you.”

  Sears interrupts. “Where’s this camera drone now?”

  “It crashed.”

  “Into what?”

  “Um, it impaled itself on a sign on top of a building.”

  “So,” Yates says, “if we pull the camera out of it, we should be able to see what you saw, right?”

  “No,” I tell them. “It only transmits live.”

  “Look, lady,” Yates says, handing me his card. “Take my information. If you have something concrete to give us, give me a call. Because unless you have some sort of tape…”

  “But my drone doesn’t have any recorded footage.”

  “So in other words,” Sears says, “you do
n’t have any proof.”

  Chapter 8

  Target Diary—Day 8

  In the early dawn hours Friday morning I patrol the length of the Parkway, searching for Subject Number Five.

  “Would you like some lunch?” I ask. “Blessings to you.”

  I pull a rolling suitcase behind me. It is full of dry socks, bottled water, soap, toothpaste, and other sundries. Each item is gathered in an individual plastic Ziploc bag to make them easier to dispense.

  I also have packed individual lunches. Turkey and cheese on wheat, as well as tuna salad for the individuals who are missing too many teeth. Each sandwich is paired with condiment packets and a small treat, such as a shortbread cookie.

  “Are you hungry? Blessings to you.”

  I am posing as the Ultimate Do-Gooder, selflessly giving up her busy morning to tend to the needs of the less fortunate here in the nation’s birthplace.

  It only took me a few days to establish this pattern and achieve a level of acceptance among the indigent population.

  The police have an unofficial understanding with the homeless here on the Parkway. You can stay after 10 p.m., when the museums are closed, but you have to move to somewhere that’s out of sight by 7 a.m.

  So I do my hunting on the tail end of that curfew, as the unwashed masses stretch out the stiffness in their limbs and seek their daytime shelter.

  “Would you like a lunch bag? Can I give you some clean socks?”

  All morning long.

  As I pull my bag, I match their pace and try to engage them in conversation so I can look them in the eye. This is vital to my operation. I’m looking for that flicker of hope, that small spark of intelligence. Any small amount of fuel that I can use.

  That said, I also don’t want someone who can look directly into my eyes. Some of the sheep are very adept at spotting a wolf, and those are the ones to be avoided at all costs.

  But as I search and hand out gifts this morning, I can’t help but be distracted. The mysterious buzzing sound from yesterday continues to trouble me. I find my eyes flicking skyward at odd moments, as if expecting judgment from somewhere above.