Smoke, p.1
Smoke, page 1
Smoke
A Thriller
P.J. Parker
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-218-52049-6
E-book ISBN: 978-0-9986856-9-4
Copyright © 2024 by P.J. Parker
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by US copyright law. For permission requests, contact P.J. Parker.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, corporations, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Edited by Hayley German Fisher.
Cover Design & photo modification by P.J. Parker
Original: London Photographer | András Stefuca
Man Running along Road Through Forest in Summer Sunlight
pexels-andras-stefuca-17843096
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Cast
About the Author
Novels by P.J. Parker
Dedication
This is for Steven.
Because he’s always been the one.
2 ounces rye whiskey
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Garnish: brandied cherry
― Classic Manhattan
Chapter One
Thomas Smoke had been inside twenty-three people in the moments before each was dead. There’d be two more before the day was over.
He slowed to a stop beside a twisted maple to catch his breath. The ten-mile run through the streets of Riverdale was not as gentle as his usual route down the west side of Manhattan. Sweat slicked his bare chest and saturated his running shorts, making them cling, nothing left to speculation. He breathed the sweet suburban air deep into his lungs and sluiced the perspiration from his flesh as he ran, before dropping to tighten his laces, then continuing along Palisades Avenue. This was his favorite part of New York City. His favorite avenue. It was cool beneath the broad canopy of trees, with glimpses of the Hudson River glistening through the dense undergrowth. Stately homes hid behind manicured foliage.
His stride was easy, his legs honed by a decade of marathons, every muscle in his frame toned and strong, but built more for endurance than speed. With short buzzed hair topped with a thatch of blonde curls he had to grease down for work, he was considered boy-next-door handsome by those who knew him—and those who wanted to. A man with a ready smile, who loved to kiss, and who did it often and well.
Excitement shivered down his spine as he approached the Taylor tree. It had grown majestic since his teenage years. Great boughs extended out over the pavement, leaves green, almost to the far side of the avenue. His heart thumped, and an intense heat burned through him. He felt light-headed. Euphoric.
He’d been barely seventeen, not yet able to grow a beard when he had scratched out the sod with his bare hands and buried Taylor there, the body to be embraced within the maple’s roots. It had followed an unexpected and passionate weekend spent on the dance floors of subterranean and rooftop Manhattan clubs, and amongst the ripped and rumpled sheets of Taylor’s bed in a Spuyten Duyvil studio. Thoughts of their time together still made him hard. He pushed the growing bulge in his shorts to the side and continued along the pavement, passing the tree without slowing his pace.
Another two blocks and he passed the Hayden tree, and then the one whose roots cradled the bones of Morgan—a poetry major he’d picked up in a dive bar near NYU in his early twenties. They’d both been enamored by the words of Emily Dickinson. “Hope” is the thing with feathers. Over a decade had passed since their encounter, yet he could still envision the rapture on Morgan’s face as the blood gushed from the gaping slash across the neck.
Such a beautiful human being.
Such a beautiful experience.
Chapter Two
Smoke slowed as he ran up the incline of Spaulding Lane, but returned to full speed before veering north onto the familiar stretch of Independence Avenue. A schnauzer barked at him through a white picket fence, its muzzle tight between the palings. Otherwise, the street with its morning breeze was quiet. By his reckoning, he was exactly where he needed to be. In less than a minute, he’d be at his destination.
It was a home belonging to a couple; he’d observed the husband several times, stepping into a midnight-blue Mercedes convertible to drive the three blocks down the steep road to the Riverdale Metro-North train station. A Wall Street type. Martinis and cocaine. Both with a twist. His suits were expensive, and he filled them well. They’d exchanged glances twice, each time with a nod and a knowing smile. Smoke had glimpsed the wife only once, but it was enough to take his breath and confirm they were the ones. Today was Sunday. They’d be on their broad front verandah, finishing breakfast. Croissants and scrambled eggs seemed to be their go-to.
He slackened his pace as he neared the hand-stacked, dry-stone wall fronting their single-story home, stopping to stretch at the entrance to their gravel drive. The grit crunched beneath his runners as he lunged deep, reaching down to grip his ankle.
And there they were, watching him in silence over the last of their breakfast.
“That coffee sure smells good,” he called across the hedgerow.
The woman laughed. “You look like you need a shower more than a coffee.”
Her husband stood and leaned against a pillar, his mouth spreading into an appreciative smile framed by rusty designer stubble. He wore a robe, loosely sashed at the waist, an open invitation to gaze upon the clipped hair of his chest.
“That sounds pretty good, too,” Smoke said.
He wondered which one of them, husband, or wife, was the strongest. Which one would help him kill the other.
Chapter Three
Standing beneath the rain shower, the water cold and stinging, Smoke’s skin was still hot and flushed. He ran a handful of body wash across his chest and abdomen, under his pits. Angi and Daan had a luxurious bathroom.
Veined white marble covered the walls and floor, and the entire outer wall was a set of wrought-iron and beveled-glass French doors opening onto a stone courtyard where at least a dozen fat koi were splashing in a lilied pond. A chandelier in the center of the vaulted bathroom ceiling shimmered with droplets of crimson crystals. Smoke chuckled when he realized it wasn’t blood.
He luxuriated under the flow of water, his thoughts lost in the pleasant morning he’d spent with the couple in their lounge, their kitchen, their hallway, and bedroom, and now their bathroom. The taste of their mouths was something he’d not soon forget.
The blood washed easily from the muscled length of his body, pooling about his feet before slipping down the drain. He wiped a swathe of condensation from the shower wall and smiled at what he saw through the glass. Angi, lounging in the carved, white onyx bath, gloriously naked, one leg up on the rim of the tub. She held his gaze, a genuine lover’s bond, her smudged lipstick almost as garish as the seeping gash across her throat, and the blood glazing her perfect, eight-thousand-dollar breasts. A lump rose in Smoke’s throat as he relished how stunning she was.
Enigmatic.
Shampooing his hair, the water ran pink, then clear.
He skimmed the soap over his buttocks and thighs, then scrubbed his groin, legs, and feet with a surgeon’s efficiency. Hunkering down on the marble, he scraped stubborn remnants of blood from beneath the smooth front edges of his toenails.
Huddled on the floor beside him, naked and shaking, was Daan. He stared at his wife through the rivulets of water cascading over his face, holding a cut-throat razor in his lap.
Smoke touched the tips of his fingers to Daan’s chin and turned his face toward him. They were alike, the two of them, though Daan would never have known it if he hadn’t caught Smoke’s eye. Smoke rubbed the pad of his thumb over Daan’s fleshy lower lip.
“It’s all right, baby. Just one more thing we need to do. Okay?”
Resting back on his haunches, Smoke tenderly laced his fingers with Daan’s so they both were holding the blade. Daan’s eyes hovered close to lifeless and he put up no resistance as together they sliced deep into the flesh of his throat, hesitated, then dragged it further through the muscle and sinew. Daan’s blood pumped a brilliant crimson across the glass, across the marble, across their naked flesh. It was warm and pungent. Salty on Smoke’s lips and tongue.
Intoxicating.
Chapter Four
He tipped the shell and slid the oyster onto his tongue, savoring the sweet brininess of plump flesh in his mouth before swallowing. Attuned to the dim light of the room, Smoke peered out the windows of Bar SixtyFive and drained the last of his chilled Manhattan. The vista from the Rainbow Room and its well appointed watering hole atop Rockefeller Center was improbably spectacular, lifted further by the dramatic strains of Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue.” The Empire State Building rose squarely in his view, its upper tiers cascading through the spectrum from red to violet, as the rest of New York City shimmered behind and below the imposing skyscraper, indistinct pin-pricks of silvered light in the late evening. He wiped at his eyes and checked his watch. It was almost eleven.
“Sir,” the waiter said as he slid a fresh Manhattan onto the crisp white tablecloth toward Smoke’s knuckle. “The lady at the bar has paid your bill and recommended I refresh your glass.”
“Thank you.” Smoke glanced up at the waiter and then past him toward the bar.
Tall and ebony-skinned, her dark hair in a pixie cut, and her bearing worthy of the waiter’s honorific, a lady was weaving around the tables, her movement feline in a body-hugging illusion dress. Givenchy couture and confidence attracted the attention of many in the room. He stood as she approached, appreciative of her slender strength and poise beneath the play of barely-there gauze and crystal. A killer in every way. Her perfume was recognizably Chanel. She pressed her cheek to his in greeting, placing her hand firmly at the back of his hip.
“Raw silk,” she said, impressed, skimming her fingers down the blue fabric that hugged the tight curve of his glutes.
“Tom Ford’s summer collection.”
“And no undergarments?”
“Why ruin the cut of a good suit?”
“Why indeed?” She nodded. “May I join you?”
“It’d be my pleasure.” He pulled a chair from beneath the table as the waiter positioned a dirty martini.
“Do you often dine alone?” she asked.
“I appreciate my own company. More so when agreeably interrupted,” he said.
She tilted her head and smiled. Smoke considered the crooked arch of her lips and thought it beguiling.
“Thank you for dinner. And this,” he said, lifting and sipping the Manhattan. The sparkle of decolletage distracted him before he settled his gaze on the soft caramel of her eyes. “Are you going somewhere?”
“A private salon at the Peninsula. A stuffy work affair, really. Paunch-stretched suits and age-spotted wrists dripping with unapologetic blood diamonds.” Again, that crooked smile.
“Then why are you here?” he asked.
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his. Her nails were champagne polished, their length lethal compared to the trim, manicured buff of his own.
“An Aperitivo. And...” She stirred the skewer of olives through the shimmer of Grey Goose and vermouth.
“And?” Smoke beckoned.
She drew in a deep breath before slowly blowing it out through pursed lips. She glanced at the room in the window’s reflection, palpably collecting her thoughts, then returned her attention to him.
“Okay.” She smiled softly. “The medical examiner has determined the Stuyvesants’ deaths as a murder-suicide. All good on that account. She signed off the paperwork twenty minutes ago. NYPD Homicide still has several administrative hoops to jump through, but they should close the case without further incident or lines of inquiry.”
Smoke recalled the gentle pleasure of Angi pressing into his nakedness, the fullness and warmth of her breasts against his chest, and the tender love and wonder on Daan’s face as he kissed her. One last time.
“Media attention should be minimal since few would be aware of the Stuyvesants’ connection to the House or Family, which is tenuous at best. The story should disappear by the next news cycle.”
Smoke nodded, pulling his hand from beneath hers.
“Why are you here?” he asked again.
She managed a quick taste of her martini, barely a touch of her upper lip to the liquor. Revlon’s Fire & Ice imprinted the edge of the glass.
“I wanted to tell you myself.” She hesitated, then locked her gaze on his. “There was a discrepancy. A mistake. They were the wrong target.” She watched him, searching for his reaction, no doubt.
Smoke held himself steady, though the room and his handler became hazy, his thoughts obscuring. The perfume of Angi’s skin, the perspiration and stickiness of gratified thirst, the tender caress of her lover as he sliced the blade across her neck. He breathed in, Bar SixtyFive snapping back into sharp focus, pulling him from something that had once been wonderful.
“How is that possible? The brief gave the exact address. It included photos of...” He hesitated for a single beat of his heart. “It included photos of them. They were the ones.”
“The House has assured me it won’t happen again.”
Smoke took a long draught of his cocktail, emptying the glass down to the rocks.
She stood, and he followed, reaching to lightly grasp her wrist with the tips of his fingers. “Gabrielle, how do we know it won’t happen again?”
“I told you. The House has assured me.” She touched her hand to his jawline. “I like the new look. The stubble suits you.” She flicked her attention toward the bar. “Your contact is here to pass the peripheral containing the next assignment. This one’s a slow burner. No rush. I’d have delivered the documents myself, but...” Gabrielle motioned toward her curve-hugging couture. “No pockets. Of course.”
That crooked smile again. She turned and made her way out of Bar SixtyFive toward the elevator lobby, and Smoke’s gaze followed in her wake. His vision was a blur as his thoughts drifted not to the hours and days to come, but to the veined white marble of the Stuyvesants’ bathroom, and the blood cast across it.
Chapter Five
Sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Art Museum, Smoke chewed on a Nathan’s famous hotdog from a nearby food truck. Waiting. The noise, heat, and stink of Manhattan were pervasive, hardly subdued by a fragrant breeze that crept around the museum from Central Park. He picked up and sipped his Coca-Cola. It was nice and sweet. Nice and cold in the heat.
Traffic crawled and honked along Fifth Avenue in front of him. This was always a decent location to read people and hone his observation skills. A confluence of Midtown suits, Upper East Side socialites, dog walkers, school groups, and tourists. Thousands of tourists. Locals pushed swiftly along the sidewalk in their sensible shoes, palpably aware of their surroundings and any slight opportunity to sidestep and outpace any idlers in their path. Tourists, on the other hand, gaped, pointed, and dawdled or stopped outright for selfies, or no apparent reason. The very best New Yorker vocabulary and brazen attitude invariably countered any obstruction or delay by the out-of-towners. To Smoke, the only thing that defined the greatest city on Earth more than that attitude was a Manhattan rat dragging a slice of 2 Bros cheese pizza pie down the steps into the subway.
He licked mustard off the side of his thumb and took another slug of Coke.
The hot afternoon sun felt good as he leaned back onto the steps. Still, he rolled the sleeves of his collared shirt up to his elbows and tugged the linen hem loose from his jeans to catch the breeze.
A black Lincoln SUV pulled to the curb almost directly in front of him, and his target stepped out. A socialite in her late fifties, or early sixties. Well over twenty years Smoke’s senior, with dark hair piled high over Chopard De Rigo sunglasses. Smoke savored the last of the dog, intent on the handsome arch of his target’s calves, the swing of her toned arms as she climbed the stairs to the main entrance of the Met with the bounce of a much younger woman.
