Free A Christmas Killing by Richard Montanari Page B

Unit processed the scene, Byrne and Sheehan crossed the street, checked the angles. None of the stores were open, only a few people were home. As expected, no one saw anything.
    The trail of blood leading to the store—a handful of droplets, all but dissipated in the gray slush on the sidewalk—led them almost to the corner, then stopped.
      
    After a quick cup of coffee at a diner on Lombard, the two detectives compared notes. Byrne called Graduate Hospital, and was told that there was no change in the status of the young woman.
    “I have an idea,” Sheehan said.
    Byrne knew enough not to question the man’s process. He buckled his seat belt, put the Taurus in drive.
    “Where to?”
      
    Ten minutes later, with Frank Sheehan having gone into a few bars, and made a few inquiries, they turned onto South Street.
    “Pull over,” Sheehan said.
    Byrne slid the car to the curb, put it in park, kept the engine running.
    Sheehan pointed to a pretty young woman standing in the doorway of a three-story row house. “See her?”
    “Hard to miss.”
    “She’s good people,” Sheehan said.
    It was PPD code—probably PD everywhere—for soft hands.
      
    Ava Mills was about twenty-eight, maybe a little younger. She wore a short sheepskin jacket, black jeans, white cotton gloves.
    Not enough for the cold winter wind, Byrne thought. The temperature was dropping fast.
    They strode onto the sidewalk. Sheehan hugged the young woman. When they broke the embrace Sheehan stepped back, looked at Byrne.
    “Detective Kevin Byrne, this is Ava.”
    Ava took a moment, smiled. She had light blue eyes, raven black hair. Her earrings were small, sparkling garnets. Byrne felt something stir inside him. Some of it was her beauty. Some of it was her plight. He didn’t choose.
    “May I call you Kevin?” she asked.
    “I insist.”
    “Nice to meet you.”
    Ava held their handshake a coquette’s moment. Byrne knew she was working him, but it was not the first time, not by a margin. He returned the smile.
    “A pleasure.”
    “Ava and I go way back,” Sheehan said.
    Ava laughed. “ Nobody goes as far back as you,” she said. “Moses, maybe. Maybe his daddy.”
    “How’s your little one?” Sheehan asked.
    “Not so little anymore, papi. She’s thirteen.”
    Sheehan made the sign of the cross. “I’ll say a novena for you.”
    Ava playfully wagged a finger, but her smile was gone. “I know that face, Detective. Something’s not good.” She gestured to the twinkling lights on the street. “All this Christmas, and something’s not good.”
    “Not good,” Sheehan said. “I need to show you something. A picture.”
    A pause, followed by a deep, vaporous breath. Then: “Okay.”
    “It’s not pretty, Ava. I just want to warn you about it.”
    Ava looked at Byrne, as if he might be able to soften whatever blow was headed her way. Byrne wanted to offer her quarter, but there was none to be had.
    Sheehan took out the Polaroid, the photograph of the victim taken by the responding officer. He tapped it on his left palm a few times, turned it over, showed it to Ava.
    “Oh God.” Ava raised one hand to her mouth, one to her heart. “No, no, no.”
    “Do you know her?” Sheehan asked.
    “Is she…?”
    “She is not,” Sheehan said. “She’s at Graduate. Vitals are good.”
    Ava took a few moments, wiped a tear from her cheek, nodded. Sheehan put the photo away.
    Byrne took out his notebook.
    “What’s her name?” Sheehan asked.
    “Miranda,” she said. “Miranda Sanchez. She goes by Misty on the street.”
    “Do you know where she lives?”
    Ava shook her head. “No.”
    “When was the last time you saw her?”
    “What’s today?” she asked.
    Sheehan looked at Byrne, back at Ava. “Today? It’s Christmas Eve, Ava. How could you not know?”
    “I mean what day? ” she asked. “What day of the week is today?”
    Cops and ladies of the evening, Byrne thought. You work the 24-hour clock, you lose