The Stray. Alessio Chiadini Beuri

Police Line Do Not Cross

      The seals fell.

      Some doors just need a little encouragement sometimes. Mason had the magic touch: when he leaned his full weight against it, the old, moth-eaten jamb crumbled like shortcrust pastry.

      The Perkins lived in a turn-of-the-century council block: the flat wasn't big enough for a family with children, but they hadn't had any. Perhaps they hadn't had time. Elizabeth was still so young.

      There was that feeling in her chest. It was as if, ever since he'd seen her, lying on that cold morgue bed, Elizabeth had crept under his skin.

      Mason rubbed his eyes. He'd been up for two days. He needed coffee. The air in the flat was stale and the autumn sun had taken a holiday in the living room.

      It was not difficult for him to imagine the confusion of the investigation after the body had been found he could still breathe in the sweat of all the blue-collar workers who, back and forth, trampled on evidence and confused clues; he could smell the forensic flashes; the palpable excitement of some rookie; the stench of Matthews' cheap cigars; the chalk dust traced where Elizabeth had fallen.

      The neighbours had heard nothing: not a sound, not a laugh, not a cry. Regular in a neighbourhood like that, where the more you keep your mouth shut the better. A taxi driver and a secretary couldn't afford a better life.

      The bedroom was tidy, the thalamus untouched.

      Where are you, Samuel Perkins?

      Elizabeth had not screamed. Maybe she didn't think she was in danger. Maybe it had been a sex game gone wrong. There were too many questions in that story. It was like trying to catch the dark.

      He searched the house one more time, even though Matthews' team had turned it upside down at least a dozen times and maybe left him with nothing. He checked the best places to hide liquor bottles. That habit had outstripped all others in the last ten years. He found nothing. He searched the bedroom, dug in the wardrobe, rummaged through the cupboard, tore out the drawers looking for notes of clandestine love that would lead to a fatal outburst of anger, nothing.

      All he found in the boiler was a pile of ashes.

      He sat down on the arm of the armchair, right in front of the chalk outline on the floor. He took the packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped them. Too hard: two came out. He managed to catch one but the other rolled under the wall cupboard. He imprinted and, with one cigarette out of the corner of his mouth, bent down to retrieve the other. His fingers easily recognised its outline, but next to it they found something else: small, light, with square edges.

      Mason grabbed that too. He pulled out a box of matches. Anonymous but not cheap. Opening it, he discovered that of the thirty-six sticks in the sulphur hat, only one was missing. It had not been plucked from the side, a habit that usually connotes systematic use, control, planned action. That one had been taken from the centre: a distracted gesture, of someone who does not think about what he is doing, who perhaps must hurry, who has no time.

      He put the box in his pocket and headed for the entrance.

      "Hey, what are you doing? Freeze and hands above your head!" they ordered him. Two men in uniform had emerged from the corridor. The boy who had ordered him, in a trembling voice, not to move, held him at gunpoint.

      "Easy boy, or you'll get a shot off. This is a new coat."

      "Do as I say and no one gets hurt," he retorted, his grip on the gun trembling.

      "Jones, it's all right," his partner said, making him lower his weapon to the floor. Mason nodded to his senior colleague, who nodded back, and disappeared through the doorway.

      "We should have arrested him."

      "If you want my advice, son, stay away from that man."

      "Why?"

      "He's dangerous. Like one of those dogs that's been in the sun too long."

      Nocturne

      Kenney was busy consulting with his partner, Mason could see him gesticulating nervously in the streetlight, his rain-soaked black curls drawing arabesques on his forehead. Behind them, a sergeant kept the team in line. The officers Mason had brought in ended up there too: two freshmen and two veterans with an easy right and wasted patience. It was the best he could get.

      There were too many crimes in New York for Martelli to deprive himself of his best men.

      The heavy rain drummed on the cars, on the thick fabric of the caps, on Kenney's restrained expletives.

      Handicott, the partner, noticed Mason and nodded to him. A copious trickle slipped from the brim of his hat. Only then did Mason Stone get out of the car.

      "Good evening, gentlemen." he ignored the puddles and the water.

      "Stone." merely said Kenney. Given the joy it was clear that the reinforcements, consisting of Mason and his people, had not been asked for by him.

      "Nice night for an outing," Handicott greeted him, giving him a comforting pat. Splashes rose from his jacket, which were immediately confused with rain.

      "My favourite."

      "Who did you bring us?"

      "Santos, Koontz, Peterson and Cob."

      "Santos? But that's great! As long as that one doesn't stop the discipline, he's a hoot!" Handicott was half polemic for its own sake and half sarcasm.

      "See if you can rein him in, Stone. I don't want any messes tonight," Kenney cut Kenney short.

      "How do we go about this?" asked Mason.

      "We'll split into three teams: me and five of my guys go in the front; Kenney and five others go through the back while you and yours watch the perimeter," Handicott explained.

      He had gone all that way to hold up the snot.

      "Who's the stockman?" he asked. There was a little boy in a mackintosh and hat, strutting beside one of the patrol cars, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

      "Oh, that one? That's Clarkson, or Chalkson. He works at the Daily. There's an air of scoop about this investigation and you know how it is: the bosses don't want to miss a chance." replied Handicott.

      "Does he come in with either team?"

      "We've been clear on that: he can't get near it until it's all over."

      "Do I have to vouch for him?"

      "Just try not to shoot him."

      Stone rolled up the lapels of his raincoat and went to the sergeant who, with an iron fist and a grim look, held the troops. He asked to confer with his officers: he wanted to calm the minds of the most violent and investigate the state of mind of the other two. For Peterson and Cob it was their first night-time operation. They were usually assigned to traffic and neighbourhood watch. The recruits were never given an area that was too dangerous, they were always given the less hot areas. Not that there were many in those years, not even that warm. There was Washington Square, Gramercy Park and Grand Central, oases of comfort in the midst of endless deserts of misery. Koontz and Santos, on the other hand, had been in Homicide with Mason for about two years, and they had done their homework. Perhaps too much: Santos had hardened himself to such a point that, with difficulty, he could be distinguished from one of those individuals he was hunting. They called him the 'hound', because of his boxer's grunt and his bull-like size. Koontz, on the other hand, was a cold-hearted tough guy who never stopped before the end, cunning and quick of thought, sharp and fleeting in his features.

      "Shall we go, boss?" asked Santos, anxiously. "I'm freezing. I need to get some exercise."

      "Not tonight, sorry."

      "How?"

      "We're here in support."

      "Not operational?" intervened Koontz.

      "That's right."

      "Can't