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Also by McGarvey Black

Psychological Suspense

I Never Left

The First Husband

Without Her Consent

Romantic Comedy

The Fussy Virgin

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my childhood friend Marlene Scoville Pedersen—my partner in crime on many capers over the years. A constant supporter of my writing and one of my trusted readers, it’s amazing we never ended up in jail.

Epigraph

“You can’t be too old to spy except if you were fifty you might fall off a fire escape, but you could spy around on the ground a lot.” ― Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh

1

Monday—June 1, 2020

She told her husband she bought the high-powered black-and-gray binoculars to watch birds in Central Park. The truth was, thirty-one-year-old Zoe Brandt watched people—every single day.

Athletic and cute rather than conventionally pretty, Zoe tamed her overzealous, shoulder-length, wavy brown hair using numerous products, a round brush and a professional blow dryer. With warm hazel eyes and an infectious laugh, she was charming and approachable. A yet-to-be published mystery writer of short stories, she earned her living as a shift manager at Villa d’Luna, an upscale Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

When not at work, she’d spend hours reading mystery and conspiracy theory books or watching pedestrians stroll along Central Park West. From the third-floor picture window of her unusually gigantic New York City apartment, she scrutinized the clothing of passers-by, the produce stuffed in their grocery bags or the type of leash on their dog.

“There’s a man walking by who has a choke collar on his chihuahua,” Zoe screeched while peering through her binoculars during her daily FaceTime session with her best friend and partner in crime, Sean McAllister. “Choke collars are inhumane in any capacity but why would you put one on a dog that weighs less than four pounds? It makes no sense. Unless that man is running some kind of illegal dog fight? That’s a huge business, you know. They hold them in basements of abandoned warehouses.” Zoe adjusted the magnification on her binoculars. “The chihuahua man has dark, evil-looking eyes. I should call animal protection and report him.”

“Didn’t animal protection tell you to stop calling the last time you called?” said Sean softly.

“It’s my moral and civic duty. I see so many people not treating their pets properly. Somebody has got to stop this travesty.”

With her new high-powered binoculars Zoe’s world had expanded significantly, and she regularly reported to Sean on which women needed root touch-ups in their hair or a refresher on their pedicure. She might identify a possible carcinoma on someone’s face or comment on a particularly obvious comb-over. “I don’t understand it,” she would often say. “Don’t balding men know everyone else can see that their parting is halfway down their head and the hair that’s left is being hijacked to drape over their hairless dome?” Observing a person’s walk, physical appearance or the company they kept, she’d concoct intricate and detailed stories about their lives. When she saw someone particularly interesting, she’d jump in the elevator, race out of her building and follow them for blocks. Sean often joined her on the “investigations”. If Zoe took things too far, which she often did, he was there to reel her in. His best friend made the ordinary exciting and Sean enjoyed the ride, even if it sometimes got them both into hot water.

Because her husband Conner was in law enforcement, Zoe hid her voyeurism from him, convincing herself she only watched people as research for her writing. When the Covid-19 virus forced everyone in New York into masks, it nearly ruined everything. Now unable to see faces, everyone looked the same. For that reason alone, Zoe Brandt couldn’t wait for the pandemic to be over.

“It’s no fun with everyone covered up,” she said to Sean. “You can’t see what anyone looks like anymore. It’s just a sea of masks. If I can’t see people’s facial expressions, how will I know if they’re up to something?”

“Let’s go out on the street and resume our investigations on foot today,” Sean replied. “We can cover a lot more territory together.”

“I want to get a look in the back of the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” said Zoe, squinting her eyes as she looked at Sean on her screen. “Something strange is going on over there. When I walked around behind the building yesterday, there were a bunch of men in blue jumpsuits loading wooden crates into unmarked white vans. I think they were possibly stealing antiquities.”

“Maybe they were moving some art into storage,” said Sean. “You might be jumping to conclusions.”

“You sound just like Conner. All I know is, something looked funny. You know I have a sixth sense about these things; it’s like I have radar.”

“You must have had your radar turned off the day you called US immigration and blew the whistle on that Peruvian girl.”

“She didn’t know anything about Lima. How could you be Peruvian and know nothing about the largest city in the country? It was an honest mistake.”

“Tell that to the FBI,” said Sean.

“They already knew. Do you think I’m on a federal watchlist?” said Zoe. “Conner went completely ballistic that day, remember? I really thought my marriage might be over. How was I supposed to know she was the niece of the Peruvian ambassador? She said she didn’t eat ceviche. Ceviche is practically the national dish of Peru.”

“There was no way you could have known she was a legitimate exchange student,” Sean said in solidarity.

The incident with the Peruvian ambassador had gotten pretty sticky until her FBI special agent husband stepped in to smooth ruffled political feathers. After a solemn promise by Zoe that she would never ever visit Peru under any circumstances, and a formal apology in writing from the Mayor of the City of New York, the Peruvian debacle had been put to bed.

While chatting with Sean in her kitchen, Zoe heard someone struggling to open the front door of her apartment. The door’s lock hadn’t been working properly for months.

“Sean, I gotta go,” said Zoe in a half whisper. “Conner’s back from the store. We’ll FaceTime later.”

“Zoe? Where did these come from?” said Conner Brandt from their palatial though extremely cluttered living room. Holding up her pair of obviously powerful binoculars in his right hand and an overstuffed canvas weekend bag in his left, he stared at his wife through the opening between the dining room and kitchen. “These look like something we’d use down at the bureau for long-range surveillance of a drug cartel.”

Standing with her back to him at the sink, Zoe spun around. Damn. I didn’t put the binoculars away. “Oh, those… I bought them a while ago. Didn’t I show them to you? I thought I had.”

“And you have these because…?”

“I’ve taken up… bird-watching… in the park.”

“Bird-watching?” said Conner, staring at his wife, a dubious expression on his face. “You’ve never mentioned anything about birds before. You don’t even like birds. You regularly scream at pigeons on the street.”

“Are you kidding? I adore birds, especially pigeons with their cute warbling sounds.”

“You call them flying rats. When did all this bird-watching start?” asked Conner, narrowing his eyes.

Shit. “So… I saw this documentary… on PBS… about bird-watching and got completely hooked. Turns out, birds are really interesting… and loads of fun too,” said Zoe, a forced smile plastered across her face. “We should go together sometime. There are so many different species in the park. You’ll love it.”

“Okay,” said Conner warily, putting the binoculars back on the table. “Sure. We can do that. It’s just that you’ve never mentioned this new-found hobby before.”

“Great,” said Zoe, still smiling a little too much. “We’ll go on Saturday morning.”

“Hello?” said Conner, holding up his weekend bag. “I’m leaving today for five days for in-service training at Quantico, remember? I won’t be home until Saturday early evening. I’ve told you five times.”

“Right, I forgot.”

“We can go bird-watching on Sunday morning,” said Conner with a gotcha smile. “I can’t wait to hear all your new bird knowledge.”

“It’s a date. You’ll be really impressed with how much Audubon stuff I know.”

“What’s going on, Zoe?” said Conner, squinting and tilting his head.

“Nothing,” said Zoe, widening her eyes. “You insisted I stop all my, as you call it, ‘conspiracy theory stuff,’ so I took up bird-watching. I thought you’d be happy about that.”

“Why is my bullshit meter going off?” said Conner. “Remember our deal, no more crazy, deep-state plot stuff. You get way too obsessed and then that little narrative in your head takes over your world, and ultimately takes over mine. Even your therapist said, and I quote, your ‘morbid curiosity and convoluted conclusions affect our marriage in an unhealthy way.’”

“I told you, I’m bird-watching. Robins, blue jays, cardinals, bald eagles.”

“There are no bald eagles in Central Park.”

“There have been sightings.”

“Zoe, if you’re starting in again with the whacky stuff, I’m telling you right now, I’ve got a huge problem with it,” said Conner, tucking a few more items into his travel bag. “Sometimes, I think you married me only because I was in the FBI. You’re always pumping me for information which, by the way, I will never reveal. I don’t want to go down that crazy path with you again. When you get like that you become obsessive and impossible to live with. Let’s not forget how you’ve put my career in jeopardy.”

Zoe flew across the room to her husband and put her arms around him. “Now you’re the one with the conspiracy theory. Nothing’s going on. I’m just watching little woodpeckers peck.”

Conner gave her a look, kissed his wife on the forehead and let out a sigh. “Make sure if you go over to the park you wear your mask and gloves,” he said before he went into their bedroom to finish packing. “And, could you pick up all your crap that’s strewn from one end of this place to the other. Don’t you ever put anything away?”

Zoe let out a sigh of relief when her husband left the room. That was close. How could I have been so careless to leave those binoculars out? Bald eagles? Even I think that sounds stupid.

2

When Conner finally left for his five-day FBI training in Virginia, Zoe grabbed her binoculars and sat in her favorite surveillance spot; a navy-blue upholstered chair next to the picture window in the living room. Taking her good binoculars out of their case, she was about to start her long-range viewing when a FaceTime call from Sean interrupted her.

The two worked together at Villa d’Luna where Sean did a little bit of everything and the restaurant’s owner, Miranda, was totally dependent upon him. Part-time sommelier, purchasing agent, bookkeeper, and wait-staff psychologist, Sean even subbed in if one of the wait staff called out sick. He and Zoe had met three years earlier when she started on the night shift. From their first shift together, they had been hopelessly devoted to each other. When not working, they talked, texted or FaceTimed dozens of times each day.

“Hey,” said Sean as his freckled face surrounded by red hair and a closely-cropped ginger beard, popped up on her iPhone, “just finished watching The Golden Girls, the one where they get arrested for prostitution.”

“I love that episode,” said Zoe, still holding the binoculars up to her eyes, homing in on a family of three walking on the street below.

“Oh. My. God,” screamed Sean, looking down at the palm of his hand.

“What?” said Zoe, glancing over at her phone screen.

“There’s a brown spot on my palm. I’ve never seen it before. Do you think it’s a melanoma?”

“Show me.”

Sean held the palm of his hand up to the screen. Zoe picked up her phone and zoomed in so she could better look at Sean’s spot. “How long have you had this?”

“I don’t know, I just noticed it,” he said, touching it. “What if it has already spread?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“Said the queen of conclusion-jumping.”

“Don’t pick at it,” said Zoe, watching him scratch.

“Oh my God, do you think I’ll need chemo?” said Sean as he licked his finger and vigorously rubbed the lethal spot on his hand. A moment later he let out a yelp of relief. “It came off,” he said as he put his finger in his mouth. “Soy sauce. I had sushi last night.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thank you. Want to do something tonight since Conner’s out of town?” said Sean. “We could spy on that florist on 99th Street. Or what about the guy who owns the dry cleaners on 101st? You always say his Greek accent sounds fake and that he’s weird.”

“He strokes the clothes and rubs his fingers over the fabric when I drop stuff off,” said Zoe, narrowing her eyes. “He’s totally creepy. I could see him being someone who exposes himself. Not only that, when I went to the post office last week, I could swear his photo was in the ‘most wanted’ pictures posted on the wall.”

Since becoming best of friends, Sean had indulged Zoe’s obsession with sleuthing and solving crimes. While he knew it was all a game, he always had a good time whenever they went off on “assignment.” She was Sherlock Holmes and he, Dr. Watson.

Sean defended Zoe when his other friends questioned his relationship. “I know she’s a little out there,” he’d say, “but we have such a good time. What’s the harm?” While he considered their activities just for fun, she took much of what they investigated seriously, making their excursions even more fun and exciting for him.

“Let’s go over the West Side Strangler case again,” said Zoe. “Six women have been murdered so far, always on the fifteenth of the month and always on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It must mean the killer lives or works on the West Side.”

“How do we know it’s a he?”

“A female murderer might have gotten it over on one or two of the victims, but some of those women who died were really fit. Rosie Florio was a professional dancer and took kick-boxing. She would have been strong enough to fight off a woman. Plus, they were all strangled, which takes a tremendous amount of upper body strength. I definitely think it has to be a man. From what I can tell from the news reports, the police have nothing. They need our help, don’t you think?”

“Definitely. Let’s go over the facts,” said Sean, suddenly serious. “The first murder was on December 15th—Lisa Eng, mid-twenties, inside her apartment on West 95th Street.”

“Right,” said Zoe, still looking out the window.

“Next, Carly Faircloth, mid-thirties, on 104th Street in January, also strangled. Then, Nicole Barrett in February on West 96th Street, followed by Rosie Florio on West 97th in March.”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting that the pandemic and the lockdown hasn’t slowed our killer down. He stays right on schedule—the fifteenth of the month.”

“Good point,” said Sean. “Okay, the fifth killing in April was slightly different. Michelle Rothberg, was a little older than the others, in her thirties, and according to the police reports, she was temporarily disabled, having recently had foot surgery.”

“Right. They said on the news that she wasn’t supposed to be walking around. But, witnesses in the neighborhood said they saw her limping down her street the day she was killed,” said Zoe, still scanning the street below.

“Last but not least, victim number six, Katie Tierney on May 15th on West 100th,” said Sean. “The police believe all six women let the killer into their apartment because there was no forced entry. Why would a woman let anyone into their apartment when they know there’s a serial killer loose?”

“Maybe they all knew him?”

“Let’s walk around to all the West Side Strangler kill locations today? Maybe we can talk to a few locals. We might uncover something the police missed.”

“I can’t go sleuthing for a while,” said Zoe, sighing but still pointing her magnification glasses on the street below. “Before he left today, Conner found my new binoculars and gave me the third degree. He made me promise not to investigate anything. He gets so worked up over this stuff.”

“Things did get a little bit out of hand last year,” said Sean.

“Are you taking his side? I thought you were my friend,” said Zoe, still looking out the window while playing with the focus controls on the binoculars. “These new binocs are incredible, so much better than my old ones. I see a man reading a newspaper across the street in the park and I can read the headline. There’s an old lady walking down Central Park West with a stroller. She’s coming towards me. Bet you a million dollars she’s got a dog in the carriage. Let me see.” Zoe played with her focus controls again. “Well, it’s either a beagle or a very hairy baby.” She put the glasses down and looked over at Sean’s face. “Why do people walk dogs in strollers? Aren’t dogs supposed to get exercise? Isn’t that the point of ‘walking a dog?’”

Zoe turned back to the window and looked through her binoculars again. “I’ll tell you one thing; all these masks are ruining everything. I can’t see anyone’s face. Six months ago, most people had never tried one on. Now, they color-coordinate their masks with their outfits.” Zoe shook her head in disgust.

“I bedazzled mine,” said a smiling Sean, holding up a royal-blue mask decorated with faux diamonds in neat rows. Zoe glanced down at her phone.

“Nice, Sean. Make me one?” she said, turning back to her binoculars and screwing around with the focus controls again. “I’m still getting used to these but I think if I get it just right I can see even more detail. There. Oh my God! Wow!”

“What?” said Sean.

“Across the street on the edge of the park, there’s a man and a woman sitting on opposite ends of a bench with their backs to me. It looks like they’re talking to each other,” said Zoe, her voice getting higher. “I can’t tell if they’re together. The man’s wearing a NYC Fire Department hat, a red T-shirt, and gray sweats. He’s got on a NY Rangers mask and I think, Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses. The woman has on dark-blue leggings, a long-sleeved white T-shirt and a white baseball hat. She’s wearing a navy-blue mask with some kind of emblem on the side that looks like a white dress shirt with a red tie. She’s also wearing a pair of oversized blue aviator sunglasses. Those are seriously nice shades. Between her glasses, mask and hat, I can’t see her face at all. This masking thing totally cramps my spy style.”

“What brand of sunglasses is she wearing?”

“Wait a second, they’re both playing with their phones and… oh my God, I can see their phone screens. Sean, I can read what’s on their phone. I can see what they’re doing, what they’re saying.”

“Get out!”

“No seriously,” said Zoe, leaning closer to the glass in the window. “The man is bidding on a used lamp on eBay. His username is SlyDog303 and he just bid twenty-eight dollars for this incredibly hideous lamp. Why would anyone want that lamp?”

“You can really see all that from your window? Holy shit,” said Sean, laughing. “What’s the item number on the lamp, I’ll go to that page on eBay and bid up his auction.”

Zoe giggled. “Let me see what the woman is up to,” she said, shifting her gaze to the far end of the same bench.

“What’s she doing?”

“Hold on a minute. I think she’s texting. Yes, she’s texting.”

“Can you read it?” said Sean.

“Oh my God. I think so.”

“This is fantastic. It takes stalking to a whole new level.”

“Sean, I can read her texts,” said Zoe, squealing. “She’s typing.” Zoe read the first text to Sean. “‘When I got furloughed from T and C, I thought it would only be a few weeks. Now, they’re closing some stores. Rumor is they’re going to file for bankruptcy. Great! What am I supposed to do now?’”

“What do you think T and C is?” said Zoe, her eyes remaining on the woman’s phone.

“Town and Country?” said Sean.

“That’s a magazine, not a store,” she said, looking over at Sean’s face and giving him a disapproving look.

“Sorry. If it’s a store, it’s got to be Thayer and Company, the high-end clothing store.”

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

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