What the Fly Saw Read online

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  To the people in my life who remind me to laugh

  Acknowledgments

  As with any book, this one began in the author’s head and evolved with the help of many people. I would like to first offer my thanks to anyone I should forget to mention by name here. Your contribution was much appreciated even if my memory proved faulty when I was writing this.

  My thanks to my “first readers,” Joanne Barker, Angie Hogancamp, and Joycelyn Pollock. The observant reader will note that Joanne and Angie have minor, recurring characters named in their honor. Joy, I have plans for you in the next book. My thanks to the Sisters in Crime, Upper Hudson Chapter (the “Mavens of Mayhem”) and to the Capital Region Romance Writers of America chapter. The members of both chapters have provided me with ongoing support and friendship. The second and third of the month meetings provide me with a place to go where I know I will always find kindred spirits. I want to offer a special thank-you to the Mavens for helping to make my book launch party for The Red Queen Dies a success.

  Speaking of book launches, I want to thank Susan Novotny and her staff at The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza for serving as host. Thank you also for showcasing The Red Queen Dies.

  I want to thank Alice Green, executive director of the Center for Law and Justice and occasional writing partner on nonfiction books, for stepping into her kitchen yet again. I needed a recipe for the muffin that Hannah McCabe eats in The Red Queen Dies. Alice came to my rescue.

  Thank you to my colleagues in the School of Criminal Justice and my students for continuing to not only put up with, but support a mystery writer in your midst. As usual, a shout-out for fellow mystery lovers, Hans Toch and David Bayley.

  Thank you to the readers who have taken the time to drop me a note or to say a kind word about my books when we have met at one conference or another. A special thank-you to the anonymous man who, at a local service station, recognized me from my author’s photo and told me he was reading my book and enjoying it. It was great to hear from someone who was reading the first book while I was toiling over the second.

  Thank you to the Stanford University Virtual Human Interaction Lab for opening your doors for Friday afternoon tours by the public. It felt a little crazy to hop on a plane to fly to California and put on goggles, but I was glad I did it. My virtual world of avatars is much different—adult sex club, not research on how avatars might be used to help people improve their lives or treat the environment better—but the experience of virtual reality was useful as I thought about immersion and the other issues that I had begun to ponder.

  Thank you to the staff person at a local store who explained the use of a bow to me and helped me work on my stance. However, any errors that I have made about bows are completely my own.

  Thank you to Dr. Doug Lyle for answering my questions about the damage that might be done by a bow and my follow-up questions about cholera. Again, any errors that I have made were in my translation of what I was told, not the information that I was given. Thank you to my editor, Marcia Markland, and her editorial assistant, Quressa Robinson, for making this book better than it was when you received the manuscript. Thank you to Hector DeJean, Minotaur publicity manager, for helping me get my books and my name out there. Thank you to David Rotstein, executive art director, who designed an incredible cover. Thank you to my copy editor and all of the other production staff at St. Martin’s.

  Thank you to PJ Nunn of Breakthrough Promotions and to Cheryl and Gina at Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours.

  Thank you to the bloggers who have reviewed my books and will review this one. Thank you for inviting me to do guest posts.

  I am proud to be a member of Type M for Murder, a great blog about writing that I share with some of the best writers around.

  Thank you to my agent Josh Getzler and the other members of the HSG Agency team. And, finally, thank you to my family, particularly my brother Wayne, sister-in-law, Mae, and fabulous Aunt Kitty.

  A Note to the Reader

  The “world” of this book is not simply our world six years from now. It is a parallel universe that shares much in common with our world but is not a carbon copy. This world has its own unique past that parallels but also diverges from our own. The technology is inspired by the near-future possibilities being discussed and/or already in development in our world. However, aspects of this technology have developed more quickly than likely in our world. Albany, New York, is a real place, and this book does draw on the real Albany’s history, geography, and infrastructure. However, the Albany in this book is the Albany of the world in which it exists. That said, this book is a work of crime fiction, not science fiction. The reader will find a recognizable world with humans who share our strengths and weaknesses.

  Who killed Cock Robin?

  I, said the Sparrow

  With my bow and arrow.

  I killed Cock Robin.

  Who saw him die?

  I, said the Fly

  With my little eye

  I saw him die.

  —FROM “THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF COCK ROBIN” (AN ENGLISH NURSERY RHYME)

  1

  Saturday, January 18, 2020

  5:47 A.M.

  After the storm passed, in the chilly hour before dawn, the last of the “space zombies” found their way back to their nest in the derelict house.

  From his command post, the squad leader gave the signal: “Go!”

  A black van pulled up in front of the house. Albany PD vice cops wearing protective gear jumped out and stormed up the walk. They used a battering ram to smash open the wooden door.

  “Police! Albany PD!”

  “Police!”

  Their high-powered torches illuminated the grotesque horror movie creatures in the 3-D posters on the walls.

  One of the cops ripped down a dangling black plastic replica of the 2012 UFO. He tossed the boomerang-shaped object to the floor.

  Hippie freaks, he thought. Ought to make them all go live out in the Mojave Desert and wait for the mother ship to arrive.

  He kicked at the nearest mattress on the floor. “Police!” he shouted down at the long-haired occupant. “On your feet!”

  Blank eyes in an eerie white-painted face stared up at him.

  “Hands up! Hands up!” the cop yelled as the kid stumbled to his feet. He shoved the boy against the wall and patted him down.

  Upstairs, in a bathroom, another cop found a girl sprawled out, unconscious, on the dirty tile floor beside the toilet. She had vomited in the toilet bowl. Her jeans were stained with urine and feces.

  Reaching down, he shook her, and then rolled her onto her side to see her face beneath the mop of dark hair. A nasty bruise on her cheekbone stood out against the streaked white paint. He moved her red scarf aside to feel for a pulse in her throat. The scarf was damp, like her tee shirt and soiled blue jeans.

  “Whaddya have?” another cop asked from the doorway.

 
“Looks like an OD,” the cop inside the bathroom said. “Still breathing, but the wagon had better get here fast.”

  “Got it,” the other cop said, touching the comm button on his helmet.

  The cop in the bathroom spotted a smear of blood on the corner of the sink. That explained the bruise. She’d banged her face on the sink when she passed out.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, cops surveyed the debris of dirty dishes and rotting garbage—and an impressive array of drugs and paraphernalia.

  One lowered her weapon and observed, “With a stash like this, they could have stayed zonked out until the next UFO came to visit.”

  2

  Saturday afternoon

  3:17 P.M.

  Funeral director Kevin Novak stared at the Cupid and Psyche bronze clock on his host, Olive Cooper’s, mantel. He had allowed himself to become marooned on a conversational island with Paige, Olive’s great-niece.

  As Paige complained about the conversation and laughter filling the long room—the “rabble babble,” as she put it—Kevin found a name for what he had been feeling for the past forty-eight-plus hours. Grief.

  He was experiencing firsthand what he had often observed when relatives came into the funeral home after the unexpected death of a loved one: that first stage of grieving the experts described as denial, but he often thought of as amazement and disbelief. The stage of bereavement when family members spoke of their dead loved one in the present tense because they couldn’t yet believe their lives had been ripped apart.

  It seemed, in this state of mind, one went through the usual motions, saying what was expected. But the shell was thin. His was developing cracks. He could tell because he felt no inclination at all to warn Paige Cooper that he had glanced over her shoulder and seen her great-aunt Olive headed their way, and Paige had better shut up. So he must be moving into the next stage: anger.

  “Where in the galaxy did Aunt Olive find these people?” Paige said. “Look at them.”

  “Some of them are from the church’s community outreach,” Kevin said.

  True, Olive’s guest list for this celebration of her life reflected her eccentricities. An odd assortment of guests: old friends, relatives, church members and business associates, and other people who tickled Olive’s fancy or touched her big heart. But they had all cleaned up and put on their best in Olive’s honor.

  “It’s freezing in here,” Paige said. She pulled the belt of her hand-knit cardigan tighter and held her hands out toward the fireplace.

  “Feels fine to me,” Kevin said.

  “It really is annoying we have to come out for this farce when there’s a blizzard on the way. The least Aunt Olive could do is heat this mausoleum. Everyone here except her will come down with pneumonia, and we’ll still have to do this all over again when she finally does kick off.”

  “When I finally do ‘kick off,’ Paige,” her great-aunt said, right behind her, “you may feel free not to attend my funeral. In fact, if you die first—maybe of the pneumonia you expect to catch—you’ll spare us both that annoyance. And for your information, it was your father who insisted on including you in this shindig.”

  Paige flushed an unbecoming shade of scarlet. “Aunt Olive, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant. Get yourself a glass of champagne, now you’re actually old enough to drink, and make the best of the situation.”

  Olive’s sharp gaze fastened on Kevin. “And since you already know you’re going to get to bury me when I’m dead, you can relax and enjoy the party.”

  “I always enjoy your parties, Olive,” Kevin said.

  “Come with me,” she said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Aware of Paige’s suspicious glare, Kevin smiled in her direction. That would teach the little brat to say funeral directors reminded her of vultures without first checking for one of the species within hearing distance.

  Vultures sometimes exacted their petty revenge.

  “At your service, Olive,” he said, offering his arm to the woman, who was eighty-five years old and counting and might well live to be a hundred.

  “How have you been?” she asked him.

  “Fine,” Kevin said. “Never better.”

  “Don’t give me that. Anyone who knows you can tell you’re still taking Bob’s death hard.”

  “Having your best friend collapse with a heart attack while you’re beating him at tennis, and then die on the operating table, can have that effect.”

  “It’s been over four months since it happened. You should be coping with it by now.”

  “I am coping with it.”

  “You’re still off-kilter. Not your usual self. That’s why I want you to meet Luanne Woodward.”

  “Luanne? That medium or spiritualist or whatever she calls herself that you found somewhere?”

  “I didn’t find her ‘somewhere.’ She was the featured lecturer at a fund-raiser.”

  “Lecturer? Don’t you mean ‘performer’?”

  “She talked about being a medium and answered questions. She’s an interesting woman. I think you could benefit from talking to her.”

  “I don’t believe in that hocus-pocus, Olive.”

  “I don’t believe in most of it, either. I’m almost ancient enough to remember the Fox sisters and their flimflam. But, as I said, Luanne’s interesting. I invited her today so you could meet her.”

  Kevin noticed one of Olive’s guests filling his plate high with the urgency of a man who expected the bounty in front of him to disappear.

  “And do what?” he said in belated response to Olive. “Sign up for her next séance?”

  “That might not be a bad idea. Spiritual therapy, so to speak.”

  “I get my spiritual therapy at church on Sunday from our minister. You might consider doing the same.”

  “At my age, I take what I need from wherever I happen to find it. And the fact you’re going all righteous on me instead of laughing about my eccentricities, as you like to call them, proves you’re off-kilter. We need to get you put to right.”

  “Olive, I don’t think a medium and a séance will do the trick.”

  “You need an opportunity to confront your feelings.”

  “I have confronted my feelings. I confronted them after Bob died. I sought counseling from both Reverend Wyatt and Jonathan Burdett.”

  Olive stopped walking and glared at him. “Now, if you want to talk about hocus-pocus, psychiatrists are right up there. You lie on their couch spilling your guts. And they mumble an occasional Freudian pearl of wisdom while they’re thinking about how they intend to spend what they’re charging you.”

  “Burdett offers the option of sitting in a comfortable armchair, and, as you well know, his services are free to church members.”

  “The church pays his salary, so he’s not free. He’s full of his diplomas and his jargon, that’s what he is.”

  “And what about your medium? Is she one-hundred-percent jargon free?”

  “Not a chance. They all have their language, intended to impress, but she’s a hell of a lot more fun than Burdett. So come along and meet her.”

  “I suppose it would be a waste of time to say no?”

  “Yes, it would. You said you were at my service.”

  “Yes, I did say that.”

  Not much sleep last night or the night before. His moment of irritation with Paige had given way to weariness. No doubt he would feel the anger later. No chance he’d be able to skip over that stage. Not with the piper to pay.

  “Luanne,” Olive said to the plump, blond woman sipping from a champagne glass as she observed the people around her. “I’d like you to meet Kevin Novak, the friend of mine I was telling you about.”

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. Novak,” she said in a Southern drawl that suited her pleasant, round face. Her blue gaze met and held his.

  If he believed in such things, Kevin would have sworn she’d looked past his tailored suit and crisp white shirt straight
into his tarnished soul.

  He took a step back, and reached out to steady Olive, whose hand rested on his arm.

  “Sorry, Olive,” he said. “I just remembered something I need to do.”

  Luanne Woodward said, “It’s all right, Kevin, honey. You don’t have to run away from me.”

  But he did, Kevin thought. He had to run as fast as he could.

  3

  Saturday evening

  6:13 P.M.

  Detective Hannah McCabe glanced up from her ORB when Walter Yin walked into the bull pen.

  He dropped his hat onto the grinning Chinese dragon standing on his desk. It turned out the dragon, a gag gift from the cops in his old unit, made an excellent hat stand. His new hat, made of high-tech fiber, was a replacement for his battered fedora. His wife, Casey, bought it for him a few months ago. He seemed to have finally gotten it broken in to his satisfaction.

  While she was thinking about Yin’s hat, she heard Sean Pettigrew, Yin’s partner, say, “Was Todd okay?”

  Todd was Yin’s seven-year-old son.

  From her desk across the aisle, McCabe asked, “Did something happen to Todd, Walter?” She had come in a few minutes earlier to send a tag to Research about one of her cases. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to Pettigrew.

  Yin sat down at his desk. “He’s okay. But he gave Casey a scare. He was down the street playing with one of his buddies. They got into a tussle. The kid’s parents separated them and called Casey. When she got there, Todd was red in the face and crying, and he was having trouble breathing. She didn’t know what was happening, so she got the other kid’s father to drive them to the emergency room.”

  “What was wrong?” McCabe asked.

  “The doctor said he was hyperventilating. Probably caused by his temper tantrum, but we need to have him tested for asthma. The doctor gave him a shot, and we brought him home and put him to bed.”

  “Well,” Pettigrew said, “at least, you said he hadn’t drawn any more of those pictures since his sessions with the school psychologist.”