A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1) Read online

  A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1)

  A Black Deeper Than Death (Miki Radicci Book 1)

  Midpoint

  A Black Deeper Than Death

  (Miki Radicci Book 1)

  M.E. Purfield

  Copyright 2012 M.E. Purfield

  Cover design by Art of Works

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of pure fiction

  For Mom. The series she has been bugging me for.

  Also by M.E. Purfield

  Novels

  jesus freakz + buddha punx

  Breaking Fellini

  Angel Spits

  Delicate Cutters

  Miki Radicci

  A Black Deeper Than Death

  In A Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide

  Blood Like Cherry Ice

  Surly Girly

  Bawling Sugar Soul

  A Girl Close to Death

  Heart on the Devil’s Sleeve

  Sinking Stones in the Sky

  Lorelei Cox

  Party Girl Crashes the Rapture

  Sinking Stones in the Sky

  Collections

  In Heaven/Let Down

  Radical Adults Lick Godhead Style & Others

  Joy Rides For Shut-Ins

  NOT QUITE SO NUMB

  The bouncer shoves me out of the Frog Bar. I stumble down the concrete steps, pass the people waiting in line, and fall to the sidewalk. Although I land on my hands, I still hit my head. But with the three vodkas and cranberry juice from the bar mixed with my black market Lexapro and Xanax chaser, I don’t feel a thing.

  “Don’t let me catch you in here again,” the fat bald-headed bouncer in a bad wool pullover says. “Crazy bitch.” He walks back inside, rubbing his aching nuts that I kicked.

  I remain on the ground and inhale a few icy breaths. I slide my arms under my numb head and listen to the people talking. At first I’m pissed that I’m not going to be able to see the rest of Blonde Redhead’s set inside, but I’m also glad to be away from that guido Jersey Shore wannabe who thought I was going to blow him in the corner of the room. I mean really, what is a wife-beater wearing, tan-skinned, Jersey-accented asshole doing in a place like the Frog Bar?

  “Baby, you okay?” some guy asks.

  I roll over on my back and glare at the bohemian with a brown leather jacket, jeans, and…earmuffs? His twiggy girlfriend poses next to him and checks me out like I’m some kind of mutant that crawled out of the Hudson. I might as well be compared to her fur jacket and skin-tight black dress. I bet she’s not even wearing underwear.

  “Don’t I look okay?” I ask. “What’s wrong, never seen anyone lay on the freakin’ sidewalk? Fucking New York City, asshole. People all over laying on the sidewalk.”

  The guy holds his hands up and smiles. “Okay. Okay.”

  The fur coat bimbo laces her arms around his waist like he’s some kind of prize. Yeah, a prize that wears sandals in the winter? “C’mon. She’s probably some teenage, runaway hooker or something.” She pulls him away.

  “Doesn’t mean she don’t need some help,” he says.

  I sit up and mutter, “Runaway hooker my ass.” Do I look like a hooker in black pants, purple sweater, and my $900 leather jacket, bitch? If they knew who I really am they would probably be sucking my ass. Just as well, I’m so not in the mood for an ass-sucking.

  Two agonizing minutes later, I stand and join the rest of the downtown nightlife. Some people glare my way, most just ignore. When you get down to it, having someone thrown to the sidewalk is not that unusual.

  I check the time on my cell phone: 10:13 PM. Do I hit up another bar? Or should I go home?

  “Fuck,” I whisper. I pull my wallet out of my back pocket to make sure that the bartender gave back my fake I.D. It’s there. Going to another bar sounds like the next best move.

  I zipper up my jacket and stick my hands in my pockets as I walk Hudson Street. I curse myself for leaving my hat at home. The breeze funneling between the buildings windburns my ears and makes my nose drip.

  I continue down the streets and wonder if I should call Corey to see if he wants to hang out. Then, through my alcohol and chemical haze, I remember he has a date tonight with some rent boy he met in the Lower East Side. I so hate drinking alone, but I also hate crowds.

  Feeling dizzy, I stop for a moment on the dark street. Where the hell am I? The huge buildings look like warehouses, but since the windows aren’t boarded up to hide what’s inside, they could be converted condos. I don’t make out any storefronts or entrances to the buildings, just loading ramps, steel shutter gates, and skinny metal stairs. I must be way off course since cobblestone has replaced the asphalt. The average person should freak out a little, but I have my butterfly knife with me if some freak gives me trouble. I spot cars driving down the cross street ahead and decide to continue on. Where there’s traffic there’re bars, right?

  I walk to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid the dark alley on my right. Last thing I need…

  …the hand releases my hair…the knife slashes my face…and again…I scream and cover my stinging face only to have the knife serrate the back of my hands….stumble to my feet and lean against the brick wall of the alley….”Stop please stop,” I cry….the dark figure in a short dark coat and derby hat stands over me….knife in their hand….large dripping blade…”Little whore thinks she can do better,” the figure rasps….”Help me,” I scream….look down the alley and see no one coming…cold steel punctures my stomach…. Blood fills my mouth…liquid warmth down my neck…the blade penetrates…and again…the pain fades…and again…hot breath gasps in my face…and again…until all turns a deep black….

  END OF A SHIFT

  “Miss, can you hear me?”

  I open my eyes to see a cop and a woman standing over me. The name pinned to his shirt reads Ricco. The cop is young and kind of cute. He has one of those square-jaw faces that look like it will only stay cute with a crew cut. I wonder if that’s why he chose to be a cop. The woman is older with way too much makeup. She must have slathered on the pink eye shadow all the way up to her forehead with a paintbrush. Catching an odor of onions and shit off the breeze, I’d say she’s homeless. But her short black wool overcoat appears new, so you never know.

  “I can hear you,” I say. “What happened?”

  “I was crossing the street when I heard you screaming for help.” Crazy make-up lady leans over me and hugs her huge handbag as if the contents are going to rain out. “When I found you, you were laying right here on the street. I pulled you over to the side so that no one would run you over.” She smiles wide, revealing white bonded teeth.

  I fake a smile back for her. “Thanks.”

  “Were you attacked, miss?” Ricco the cop asks. “Are you hurt?”

  I suddenly remember what happened. I pat my face and stomach and find no wounds. “Holy Jesus,” I sigh. I have never felt anything like that before in my sixteen years of life. I can still feel the cold knife slicing through my gut like a paper cut that sends a shiver down your spine.

  “Right here I saw her.” Crazy make-up lady sniffles. “I didn’t touch her. No I didn’t. See?”

  “Are you hurt?” The cop sighs. The frustration of being with two crazy women finally getting to him, I suppose. “Do you need me to call you an ambulance?”

  I sit up and face the dark alley. “No. I’m not hurt. But someone else is.” I point to the darkness. “Someone was killed back there. A woman.”

  The crazy make-up lady’s eyes widen while the cop’s scrunch up with doubt.

  I glare at him. “What?”

  “Have
you had anything to drink tonight?”

  “I’m not playing with you and I am not drunk,” I say.

  Ricco the cop shakes his head in disbelief. He can probably smell my breath.

  “Listen, okay,” I say. “Please. I know what I saw.”

  Ricco helps me to my feet and I walk to the alley. He motions for the woman to hang back while he follows me inside. “Are you saying you saw a woman murdered?”

  The streetlights barely penetrate the darkness in the alley.

  “You got a light or something?”

  He removes the huge flashlight off his belt and shines it down the alley. I lead him in deeper and scan the area. Garbage bags and cans line the graffiti enhanced brick walls and send a horrid stench up my nose. A few metal doors lead into the buildings.

  “Listen, my shift is almost over,” the cop says. “I’ll be glad to help you if you need it, but I am not in the mood to be jerked around here. Were you or were you not attacked tonight?”

  I turn to the jarhead cop. “I’m not jerking you around. For fuck sake I saw a woman murdered in this fucking alley.”

  He stops and shines the light to my side. His face creases. “Step back.”

  I give him room and he walks past. I can see what he’s shining the light on: a foot in a green high heel shoe. I move up behind him and cover my mouth. Although she’s laying facedown in a puddle of blood, I know it’s the same woman from my vision.

  “I said, step back,” the cop’s nervous voice says.

  I obey him, never taking my eyes off the dead woman. Memories of the pain she felt when she died race through me, making me hug my shivering body.

  A DELICATE BALANCE OF TRUTH AND LIES

  I stand across the street from the alley and wait. Ricco the cop calls more of his co-workers in. Then the ambulance arrives, which is kind of a waste of time. The crazy make-up lady stands next to me and watches them section off the scene of the crime. I try to stand to her side so that the breeze doesn’t blow her noxious smell my way, but wherever I move she follows. At least she doesn’t talk to me. She just mutters about how terrible it is that the woman was murdered and what not.

  Ricco walks back to us and takes out his notepad. He asks crazy make-up lady how she found me on the street. It’s kind of weird hearing someone talk about you and what you did when you have no recollection of it. I guess this is what alcoholics go through when their families confront them after their binges. Crazy make-up lady recites the address for the YMCA on 23rd street, breaking down my homeless theory. When he finishes questioning her, the cop tells the crazy make-up lady to go home and that the investigating detectives will contact her if they have anymore questions. But she doesn’t leave yet, too into the lights in the sky.

  Now it’s my turn. After I give him my basic info like name, age, phone number, and address, I start my story. I craft my words and avoid saying “I was stabbed in the stomach”, which is exactly how it happened. Instead I say, “I saw the killer slice at her face and then stab her in the stomach until she died. Then I fainted, I guess.”

  Ricco raises one brow. He’s trying to keep that cold indifferent cop expression, but his eyes are giving away his suspicion. I don’t blame him. I would think I was lying too. But to tell him the truth would just drop me into a bigger hole.

  When we finish up, he asks me to wait here for the detectives. I nod my head and sigh, “Yeah, sure.” He walks off back to the scene. I notice the crazy make-up lady is gone and appreciate the cleaner air. By now there’re a lot more people standing around watching the scene from the yellow crime scene ribbon barricade. Some people are even taking pictures. I turn my back to the cameras and hope no one snapped a shot of my face. The last think I need is Sharon ragging me about bad publicity before a show.

  Two cigarettes later, one of those unmarked Sedans with a spinning red and blue light attached to the roof pulls up. Two guys in suits step out. One is a light skinned black man and in decent shape compared to his white partner who could afford to lose forty pounds and benefit from hair plugs. Ricco talks to the two men and then leads them down the alley. I assume after I repeat my story to the detectives I can go home and get some sleep. My alcohol deprived brain pounds against my skull and my eyes need toothpicks to keep them open. I so wish I could lie down on the sidewalk and close my eyes for a while.

  The two suits walk out of the alley and stare right at me as they move closer. Their faces sculpt into non-emotion. They reveal their badges. The light skinned black guy says, “I’m Detective Otto Sampson and this is Detective Jerry Hersh.”

  “Hello,” I say.

  They nod and put their badges away. Sampson takes out a notepad and pen.

  “Miss Michelina Radicci, right?” Hersh asks.

  “Yeah, that’s me. You can call me Miki if you want.” I light up my third cigarette in the last hour to keep my hands warm.

  “Had a rough night, Ms. Radicci?” Hersh asks.

  I study his smirk and realize that Hersh is the asshole of the pair. “I’ve had better. Not as bad as that woman in there.”

  “We understand that you found the body?” Sampson says, his voice is clear, no trace of that annoying New York accent like Hersh’s.

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  “Can you tell us about that?”

  I sigh and shake my head. Now I know why those actors on crime shows pretend to be pissed when talking to cops. It’s kind of annoying telling the same story over and over.

  “I was walking down the street here when I saw the woman get stabbed,” I say.

  “Show us where, exactly,” Hersh says.

  I walk them over to the curb just in front of the alley. “Here,” I say.

  The two cops look down the now illuminated alley, then back at me. “Go on,” Sampson says.

  “And I heard her scream and I saw the killer stab at her face. I think it was twice before she put her hands over it and he sliced her hands too. She fell to the ground, against the wall, and then the killer stabbed her in the stomach four times.”

  Sampson scribbles notes while Hersh glares at me like I raped his dog.

  “Four times?” Hersh asks.

  “Four times,” I say.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Um, yeah.” Based upon the jerk’s smile I wonder if I stepped into a trap.

  “Let me get this straight. From here to the placement of the murder way at the back, you saw all that in a dark alley?” Hersh asks.

  Stupidity washes over me. I nod and drag off my cigarette. “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Ms. Radicci, did you touch the body before the police officer found it?” Sampson asks.

  “No. I was unconscious on the street.”

  The two detectives exchange expressions. Detective Sampson puts his notepad away and breaks out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Whoa, what’s going on?” I ask.

  “Ms. Radicci, you are being arrested for the suspicion of murder,” Hersh says.

  Sampson swings me around and cuffs my hands behind my back. I look over my shoulder as Hersh reads me my rights and frown at the cameras flashing.

  “What’s this?” Sampson asks.

  He takes the butterfly knife out of my back pocket.

  He smiles and says, “Looks like a murder weapon to me.”

  I’m so screwed.

  TIMELINES

  After they enter my information at one of the desks, an officer escorts me into an interview room while the detectives check out my alibi. He helps me into a seat and opens one of the cuffs. I sigh in relief thinking that he’s going to free my other hand. But the cop just loops the three link chain around the back of the chair and recuffs my free hand, keeping my arms behind my back. When the cop finishes, he says, “Someone will be with you shortly,” like I should expect a waiter, and then he’s gone.

  My head continues to pound, but at least the nausea is gone. I try to relax as best I can even though the temperature in the room is way into the 80s and I’m still wearing my le
ather jacket. I check out the taxpayer-funded design of the room. The drywall is painted off-white to match the only door. Another chair sits across the table, in front of the two-way mirror. I stretch my head over my shoulder and spot a few more chairs in case anyone has plans to put me through a gauntlet. I still can’t believe that I’m here in the police station for no reason. They can’t honestly believe I killed that woman. Then again, knowing exactly how she was killed and having a weapon on me doesn’t help.

  The door opens and Detective Sampson enters. He closes it behind him and makes sure it locks. He places stuffed folders on the table and sits in the chair, his back to the two-way mirror.

  “Can I leave now?” I ask.

  “Not yet. We’re still waiting for a coroner’s report and checking out your alibi.”

  “I didn’t do anything. This is so fucked.”

  Sampson opens the files in front of him and studies the papers. I guess he doesn’t give a crap what I have to say.

  “Did you call your parents yet, Ms. Radicci?” he asks.

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Fat chance of that.”

  “You’re a minor.” Sampson looks up. “They’re the only ones that can bail you out, no?”

  “You guys didn’t do your homework yet?” I ask. “You don’t know who I am? I guess cops aren’t into the arts.”

  Sampson smirks. “I know who you are, Michelina Radicci. You’re an art genius. Discovered at the age of four and selling paintings for thousands of dollars by the time you were five. I’ve been to a few of your shows here in the city. You’re very talented. Although, I prefer your lighter stuff lately. This surreal business is too heavy on my little cop brain.”

  I laugh. Sampson flinches.

  “Yeah, well, it’s common knowledge that I’m emancipated from my parents. Press had a rave over that one. Surprised you missed it.”