Steven Henry - White Russian

The Erin OReilly Mysteries

Black Velvet

Irish Car Bomb

White Russian

Double Scotch (coming soon)

The Clarion Chronicles

Ember of Dreams

Copyright 2018 Steven Henry

Cover design 2018 Ingrid Henry

Cover photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Bruno Passigatti/Shutterstock)

NYPD shield photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Stephen Mulcahey/Shutterstock)

Author photo 2017 Shelley Paulson Photography

Spine image used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Alexandr Guzenko/Shutterstock)

All rights reserved

First publication: Clickworks Press, 2018

Release: CP-EOR3-INT-VE-1.2

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ISBN-10: 1-943383-42-1

ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-42-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

White Russian

Pour 5 parts vodka and 2 parts Kahlua into an old fashioned glass filled with ice. Shake 3 parts fresh cream to thicken it. Pour cream on top of drink. Stir slowly and serve.

Erin O'Reilly was facing one of the toughest challenges of her career. She was a detective in the NYPD. She'd been in gunfights, helped disarm explosives, fought desperate criminals, and had her hands stained with the blood of a dying man. But that was nothing compared with finding an affordable apartment in Manhattan.

The commute from Queens was killing her. The subway wouldn't have been too bad, but she had a take-home squad car. She could leave the car at the precinct, but then she'd have no good way to transport Rolf. He was a great partner, the best she'd had, but he had special needs, most of them having to do with his being a ninety-pound German Shepherd. She'd taken him on the subway a couple times, but it wasn't something to make a habit of.

Erin liked Queens. It was where she'd been born and where she'd spent most of her eleven years as a cop. She loved the blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth feel of the place. She knew the streets like an old friend, and could pick up on anything out of the ordinary the moment she saw it.

But she was a downtown cop now, working an experimental Major Crimes unit. She'd stuck out her neck to catch an art thief, and it had brought her to the attention of the big boys. It was more glamorous, maybe, but she sometimes missed walking a beat. Even showing up to work in slacks and a civilian blouse still didn't feel normal. In any case, she had to find a place to live on the other side of the East River.

Initial scouting wasn't promising. In the whole United States, only San Francisco had a more insane real-estate market. After looking up some pretty small apartments, and comparing their rent with her monthly salary, she just about gave up. And then there was the need to have Rolf there, plus parking for her Charger. It was hopeless.

Then she'd figured out what she was doing wrong. She was trying to crack the case on the weight of hard evidence alone, when there wasn't enough of it to go on. She needed an informant, and that meant talking to the locals. She started with the other cops at Precinct 8.

It was Bob Michaelson, a veteran Patrol sergeant, who gave her the best shot at a break. Yeah, I know a guy, he said. Runs a place near Columbus Park. Just a few blocks from here. Has a view of the park and everything. Couple nice bars real close. Lemme give him a call, see what I can find out.

Erin didn't think too much of it at the time, but Michaelson dropped by the following day, just as she was starting to pack up for the night. Hey, O'Reilly, here you go, he said, dropping a folded piece of paper onto her desk. There was a Bayard Street address penciled on it. I know the landlord. Tell him Bob says hi.

Now, at the end of a long workday, she stood outside an apartment in south Manhattan, Rolf's leash in one hand, wondering if it was even worth asking. She shrugged and buzzed the super's intercom.

Yeah? Whaddaya want? a surly voice demanded.

I'm looking for an apartment, she said. Then, feeling a little silly, she added, Bob told me to talk to you.

Okay, sure, the super said. His tone changed at once. C'mon in. The door clicked open.

The superintendent was a jowly, beefy guy. Preston Harris, he said, offering his hand.

Erin O'Reilly, she said, shaking. Then she added, out of force of habit, NYPD.

Her police instincts caught the sidelong look he shot her as he led her inside. But he didn't say anything. Maybe he'd heard of her from the news. She'd made the papers with the art heist in Queens, and again not long ago when she'd solved a bomb plot while managing not to blow up a sizable chunk of Manhattan.

Here ya go, he said, opening the door to the apartment. Third floor, one-bedroom, full bath. Have a look round.

Erin knew right away it had been a mistake to come here. She wanted it too much. There was easily twice the square footage of her studio apartment in Queens. The carpet was fairly new and didn't have any significant stains. The kitchen was clean with recently-installed fridge and microwave. Even the bathroom was spotless and well-kept.

I've got my K-9, she said, twitching Rolf's leash. Is that gonna be a problem?

Nah, no problem, Harris said. Hey, it's good having a cop in the building. Keeps petty crime down. And two cops, even better, right? Drives up the property values.

How much you asking? Erin asked, bracing herself.

Twelve-fifty.

She hadn't heard him right. That was the only possibility. No way, she said.

Hey, Harris said, putting his palms out. I gotta make a living here. I can maybe go down to twelve even, but that's it.

Something was fishy. Twelve hundred dollars? The average cost of a southeastern Manhattan apartment was more than twice that. Erin put her hands on her hips and stared at Harris, trying to figure him out. You got a lot of gang activity around here? she asked. That would explain both the low asking price and his desire to have a cop in residence.

Well, not so's you'd notice, Harris said. You'll be fine here. Look, is there a problem? Something you don't like?

No, no, it's fine, Erin said.

Then why don't I draw up the papers, just so they're ready, Harris said. Hey, I dont wanna put pressure on you. But I think this is the place you wanna be.

She shrugged. Sure. But she promised herself she'd take an extra-careful look around the place, just to make sure there weren't any broken pipes, meth labs, or angry ghosts before she signed a lease agreement. It still didn't add up, but Erin was coming off a long day at work and she was ready for something to go her way.

Now it was a week later, Thursday evening, and she was moving in, just like that. She didn't have too much stuff, but it was more than a one-person job. Fortunately, like Michaelson, she knew a guy. The guy was Vic Neshenko, the biggest, strongest man in Precinct 8 and a fellow detective on her squad. The Russian was glad to help carry her stuff up from Queens. As he put it, Friends help you move. Partners help you move