Another Regular Murder
Aiden's POV
The air in October is crisp, with a bite of winter for the first time. For the first time in what seems like a month, the sky is a clear, crystalline blue. The city feels all but aspirational.
"I'm telling you, the dude was in a full-on kangaroo costume," Dana says, her laughter reverberating lightly off the brick buildings.
I take a sip from the hot paper cup that I am holding. “A kangaroo. At 3 a.m. In the financial district. And you didn't arrest him?”
“For what? Marsupial misconduct?” she replies with a smile. We're walking down Lafayette toward our favorite hole-in-the-wall place. It’s a rare moment of levity, a pocket of normal in a job that’s anything but. The relentless pressure of the past few weeks — Marjorie, Greta’s near-miss, the phantom glove — eases for just a second.
“I mean I’m just saying,” I chuckle, “it’s a little suspicious. He could have had contraband in his pouch.”
“You’ve been a detective too long, Aiden. You see a conspiracy in a costume.” She nudges my arm. “Come on, be honest, you’re just envious you don’t have a pouch. I am about to return with a retort about her coffee addiction as a type of a pouch when my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s not a text. It’s a call. My work phone.
The laughter dies in my throat. I cease walking. Dana notices the look that comes over my face and her smile disappears immediately. The in-joke, the easy morning—it all goes up in smoke."
“West,” I answer.
“Detective.” It was dispatch. The voice was all-business. “We’ve had a 1-0-8 just came in. Potential homicide. 119 Prince Street, apartment 4B. Please send in the detectives, there are uniforms on site.”
My blood runs cold. Prince Street. It’s in SoHo, a labyrinth of cobblestones and high-priced boutiques. Not our stronghold.
“Who’s the victim?” I ask, already flat-voiced.
“Name is Paige Lang. Female. Located by her cleaning lady.
Paige. Prince.
PL.
I look at Dana. She’s watching me, her eyes wide, already knowing. She just mutters one word. “No.”
“We’re five minutes out,” I tell dispatch, and hang up. I toss my untouched coffee in a nearby trash can. The warmth is gone.
“Aiden, it could all just be coincidence,” Dana says, but her voice is thin. She’s already walking, moving fast toward our unmarked car two doors down.
“A woman lawyer named Paige on Prince Street? I don’t believe in coincidences, Dana. Not anymore.”
\---
The siren is a scream tearing up trendy quiet SoHo morning. Shoppers and tourists gawk as we climb the curb to avoid a delivery truck. Prince Street is precisely what you’d anticipated—historic cast-iron, high-end stores, a feeling of wealth so old it’s bored. It’s a world away from the grit we usually deal with.
Only today. The flashing lights are just as garish here as they are anywhere else.
We are at 119, a luxury loft building with a green marble lobby.
A uniformed officer, looking a bit pale and young, greets us by the elevator.
“Detectives. It’s... it’s a strange one. Apartment 4B. The cleaning lady found her. She’s pretty hysterical, we’ve got her in the hall.”
“Cut to the chase,” I say as we enter the elevator.
“Vic’s in the master bathroom. In the tub. At first I thought, you know, accident “It’s a Slip and Fall. But...” He trails off, swallowing hard. “You’ll see. It’s not right. The ME hasn’t touched her. Scene is secure.”
The elevator doors open onto a silent, carpeted hallway. We can hear a woman crying silently at the far end, another uniform beside her. We head the other way, toward 4B.
The unit is stunning.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, sparse furnishings and a view of downtown that must be worth millions. It’s spotless, sterile. The only thing out of place is the squad of blue uniforms bunched in the foyer.
And the silence.
“Where is she?” Dana asks.
The uniform directs us down a hall. “Master suite. This way. ”
The bedroom is just as immaculate as the living room. King-sized bed, perfectly made. A pile of case files sits neatly on a desk. I take a look at the top one. State v. Michaelson. Paige Lang was a prosecutor. A different kind of lawyer, but a lawyer nonetheless.
Then I see the bathroom.
Everything is white marble and glass. And in the middle of the room sits a big, standalone tub.
The water is high, to the brim, and still.
Paige Lang is in the tub.
My first thought is, 'The uniform was right.' It’s wrong.
She’s dressed in a navy-blue skirt and white silk blouse. Her work clothes. Her shoes, a pair of nice heels, are next to the bath on the floor, neatly together.Just a couple comments about the last scene Her head is reclined, black hair drifting “like seaweed” in the cold, still water. Her eyes are open, and she’s looking at the ceiling."
This is no accident. This is not a suicide. This is a show.
“The water’s cold,” Dana says, her voice a tense whisper. She’s at the threshold, at the doorway, too far to come closer.
“She’s been here a while,” I mutter as my eyes scan, take inventory. There’s no sign of a struggle. No water splashed on the floor. Not a thing overturned. He’s clean. He is always so clean. He put her here. He dressed her, or she was already dressed, and he took her in. He took a stance against her.
“Aiden,” Dana says. Her voice cuts like a knife.
I copy her eyes.
The bathroom mirror is enormous; it spans the whole wall above the two sinks. It’s fogged up, but not from steam. It’s fogged over from the contrast in temperatures – the cold water, the cold body, the warm, sealed room.
My stomach tightens. Paige Lang. Prince Street. He’s signing his work. He’s getting bolder. This is not a subtle hint. RELEASE. This is a taunt.
I creep closer, minding where I place my feet. I gaze up at Paige’s features. She’s pale, her lips blue. Then I spot it.
She has a tiny pearl earring in her left earlobe.
Her right earlobe is empty.
I turn the other ear and I found an SR
The small hole is clean, not torn. Just like Tessa. Just like Marjorie. He took it. He took his trophy.
Cuss in the labor Department "Goddammit," I hiss, slamming my hand against the doorframe. “He was here. He did this, he wrote on the mirror, and he walked right out.”
“This is a different, Aiden,” Dana tells me as she finally makes her way into the room. Her expression is grim. “The other scenes… they were precise, but they were quiet. Hidden. This is… loud. This is theatrical. He wanted us to see this, exactly like this.”
I’m telling you, "He’s changing his M.O." I say. “He’s evolving. He’s getting off on the publicity. The breathing on Greta’s phone, the glove, and now this.”
He’s proud of it.
We spend two hours at the scene. Forensics turns up nothing. No prints, nothing. no fibers, no foreign DNA. He’s a ghost. A ghost who likes to play games.
We’re back in the car, the silence heavy with defeat. The city is busy, people are eating lunch, going about their lives, totally unaware.
“Now the carving, now this,” Dana says, peering out the window. “He’s having fun. He’s running circles around us.”
“He’s not just running circles,” I say, my voice a whisper. “He’s leaving a map. And we’re too dumb to follow it.”
My phone vibrates. It’s not work. It’s a text notification from my personal calendar. “Dinner with Ruthie and Eliot - 7pm.”
I’d forgotten. Totally.
A wave of utter, paralyzing terror sweeps over me. Ruthie. My friend. A lawyer. Her husband, Eliot, whom I can’t stand, whom I can’t trust.
“Aiden? You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
“I have to make a call,” I murmur, my fingers trembling as I take out my phone.
I call Ruthie. My heart is pounding a sick beat against my ribs. Pick up, pick up, pick up.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Voicemail.
“Hey, Ruthie, it’s me. Listen, I… I might be late tonight. Call me back when you get this. Just… call me. Okay? I need to hear your voice.”
I hang up and look at the phone. The killer is getting bolder. He’s
leaving messages in lipstick. He’s taking trophies. And he knows we're watching. He’s watching us back.