Hidden Vices

Copyright Information

Hidden Vices: A Megan McGinn Novel
© 2015 by C.J. Carpenter.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2015

E-book ISBN: 9780738745169

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Cover design by Lisa Novak

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Editing by Nicole Nugent

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For my grandfather John J. Daly and Joseph Chanecka,
the best bonus dad I could have ever hoped for.

This book is about surviving, and you both gave
me the strength to endure any circumstance.

With love.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my supportive family and friends. I could not have gotten through
Hidden Vices
without all of you. A special shout-out to Alexandra Cohen and Deborah Picone, two fantastic friends I don't get nearly enough time to share laughter and great food with!

Last, but certainly not least, to the readers of
Never Alone.
You took a chance on a new author and I am deeply grateful to you. Your support is just as important in the process as the words I put down on paper.

PROLOGUE

I plunged the knife
into his chest using both hands, hoping I hit his cold dead heart. There were two other wounds on retired Judge Monty Campbell: his neck was slashed and blood poured from his crotch. It was a damn mess. I knelt beside him and stared into his hazel eyes: just as lifeless in death as they were to me in life.

Not anymore.

If it weren't for the two diet sodas I'd drank last night, I might have missed this opportunity. I'd fought the urge, turned over in bed, silently pleaded with my bladder, “Don't make me get up and walk across the cold wooden floor.”

Two more pangs of pressure built and I was forced to concede. I kicked the comforter off and hurriedly tiptoed over to the bathroom. As predicted, it felt like the balls of my feet were inching over ice cubes.

Damn diet sodas.

I was going back to bed when a light flickering from the main house caught my eye. It came from the great room. I always thought that was a pompous name for a living room. Not that I was ever invited into that sector of the home even when I was living in one of the wings. My things were moved without my consent into the gatehouse a stone's throw away, only one day after the funeral of my mother. Grieving wasn't the Judge's strong suit. I didn't mind it so much, and, to be honest, I half expected it.

Judge Campbell walked past the window with something in his hand, most likely a glass of booze. A shadow roaming against the wall was what told me someone else was there with him. I looked down the driveway. Only the Judge's car was parked outside. Suddenly the Judge threw his glass against the window, leaving a watery blur. The most I could make out were two figures weaving around one another like boxers: one waiting for the other to launch the first punch.

Perhaps my grogginess was responsible for my next decision. Though, more likely, the malevolent events taking place one hour into the new day were the deciding factor that lured me back to Judge Campbell's house.

That's what I called him: The Judge.
Dad
seemed too intimate.

One

Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic
on the FDR allowed for far too much rumination over her decision to leave Manhattan. She turned the radio on, scanning for a weather report. The days' headline news had just started. When the announcer mentioned her by name, Detective Megan McGinn promptly turned the radio off. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. A wounded expression reflected back.

“Time to buck up, little soldier,” she said to the reflection. It was a sentiment her father, Pat McGinn, had expressed to her countless times, always accompanied with a shoulder squeeze and a finger pointing at her lower neck just to flick the end of her nose when she glanced down. The memory produced a reluctant smile, and a wink into the mirror reminded her of the strong Irish stock she came from.

With the radio off limits and frustration mounting due to the gridlock, she turned her cell phone on to check for any messages. It read three new voicemails, and one saved. She knew what the archived message was: the last message her father left her before he died. Sometimes in the middle of the night she'd play it. It soothed her the same way a closet light comforted a child at bedtime.

“Nothing there in the dark that isn't there in the light,” Megan's mother, Rose, would say to her when she was a little girl. If only Megan had known six weeks ago how inaccurate that statement truly was.

She switched her phone to speaker as the first message began to play.

“Ms. McGinn, this is Cheryl from the Woodlawn Cemetery. I just wanted to let you know that the headstone you ordered will arrive at your mother's site within the next two weeks. Everything is an exact match to your father's stone. And also, if you're interested, there is plot availability on both sides of your parents if you want to make any future arrangements for yourself or other family members. I can be reached at—”

“Un-fucking-believable.” Megan shook her head in disgust in response to the tacky sales pitch. Annoyed, she moved to turn the cell off when the second message began.

“Meganator McGinn. It's Uncle Mike. Haven't heard from you in a while kiddo, we're worried about you. Give us a ring. I know it's a few weeks away, but it's our place for Christmas this year. Your Aunt Maureen and me and the rest of the gang don't want you on your own. And for Chrissake, you have to come. Someone has to knock back a few shots with me so I can deal with Maureen's sisters. Love ya, kiddo.”

She smiled, happy she'd kept the phone on. She whispered back, “Love you too.”

Retired Homicide Detective Michael Murphy, Uncle Mike, was her father's partner on the job. The two were thick as thieves.
Besides Megan's brother, Brendan, who lived in the Midwest, Uncle Mike, his wife Maureen, and their large clan of sons and daughters were now the only semblance of family Megan had left.

It was the next message she should have deleted without listening to.

“Ms. McGinn, this is Peter Carr. I'm working on a story for
The New York P
—”

That was all Megan needed to hear. She punched the pound button, wishing it were her index finger poking out Peter Carr's retina and that of any other reporter attempting to score an interview with her.

All of them are assholes
, she thought to herself. She tossed her phone into the back seat.

The traffic started moving, albeit slowly, but any gesture forward was better than idling in the same spot for fifteen more minutes. She'd been concerned about having enough time for the last stop on her to-do list before leaving Manhattan. It was the most important item on the list, but hardly an enjoyable one.

“Hey, Ginty.” As in the past, Megan placed the can of Guinness on top of her father's headstone and knelt down. Her black leather gloves protected her hands from the wet snow as she cleared off the area covering his name. Patrick Joseph McGinn. Written below was
Fidelis Ad Mortem
, Latin for the New York Police Officer's motto: “Faithful Unto Death.”

“That's better.” Every time she visited his grave, Megan was unfortunate enough to find herself replaying the day she'd found her father at home, slumped over in his chair, his dog in a frenzy at his feet. Megan's mother had been staring out the window through her foggy Alzheimer's state.

Megan kissed the tips of her fingers and gently touched the stone. “Miss you, Gint. Miss you lots. Take good care of Momma, okay?” She sat a moment in awe of the fact that six months ago she'd never imagined the start of winter would include visiting both her parents in Woodlawn Cemetery. Some nightmares live into the daylight, and this was Megan's.

Moving over to her mother's final resting place, she knelt down, not caring about the dampness bleeding through her black jeans or the cold air blowing the ends of her auburn hair around from under her black knit hat. She tidied each corner of the plot as meticulously as her mother would have preferred. A reluctant grin emerged from the memory of the well-meaning, yet fruitless efforts toward a tutorial on bed-making etiquette.

Ten-year-old Megan stood next to the bed wearing purple high tops and ripped jeans, a softball glove on one hand, a ball in the other, smacking it into the palm while she protested Rose's instruction. “What the heck is the point of makin' the bed if I'm just gonna sleep in it again tonight? I mean, how am I gonna move my feet if the sheet is that tight under the mattress?” She pointed at the sharp-edged corner of her Bionic Woman sheet set. “My toes will fall off in the middle of the night!” She lowered her Yankees cap to emphasize her brooding mood.

After a deep breathe in which Rose surely wondered if her true daughter had been switched at birth and someone, somewhere had the doll-playing, dress-wearing,
yes, ma'am
child by mistake, she answered in exhaustion: “Just do it.” Which was followed by the
jeez
every parent hears a few thousand times during their tenure as provider and role model.

“All corners tight, Momma.” Megan placed the long-stemmed pink rose she'd brought along over her mother's grave. She sat in silence, one hand over the fresh plot, the other picking at the dead grass in front of her, flicking it in the air, indifferent to its direction or landing. As long as she could hear the rip of the grass, it was enough to keep her from breaking, for a minute or so. She blamed the chill of the wind for her watery eyes and continued yanking dead blades surrounding her so that they outnumbered the tears streaming down her face.

Then Megan stood, her back facing her mother's final resting place, and in a voice that began to tremble with each word said, “I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you, Momma. I should have done better. I should have known.” She shook her head. “But I didn't.”

She walked back to the Range Rover knowing it would be quite some time before she would be able to face their graves again.

She sat in the truck giving the engine time to warm again and herself a chance to regain her composure. She flipped the visor down to view the fallout of the cemetery visit. Her eyes were bloodshot, puffy. Her nose pink, both from the crying and from the cold air, which she attempted to convince herself was the root cause. Mascara smudges over her pale face gave her the heroin-chic look of the nineties. The only thing that didn't look like a train wreck was her long auburn hair, thanks to the black cap.

“So much for waterproof makeup.” She dabbed a tissue in the bottled water she'd brought with her for the trip and began the restoration. She could feel the vibration of her cell phone against the
seat belt. She checked the caller identification and forwarded the call to voicemail, waiting out a rush of guilt for not answering.

Damn Irish Catholic guilt.

“Hey, McGinn, it's Nappa. I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing. I haven't heard back from you and was getting a little worried. I stopped by your apartment, but I guess I missed you. Anyway, give me a call.”

She could hear the hesitation in her partner's voice. Or maybe she was confusing it with frustration. Either way, there was nothing she could do at the moment to remedy it. She'd made her decision the day they turned off her mother's life support.

Megan got on well with her partner, Sam Nappa. (One night they almost got on extremely well.) Right out of the gate they'd been a good team. And as a fringe benefit, it didn't hurt that he was easy on the eyes. Tall, dark, and built sure beat working with a balding potbelly all day long. They'd witnessed a lot in their time together in Homicide, but in recent months they'd seen too much that hit too close to home, and Megan needed space.

The frustration in Nappa's voice was now obvious.
“Listen, I didn't want to say this on a voicemail, but I guess I'm going to have to. I know you need time away. Take it. I'll be here when you come back. But, McGinn, you need to remember one thing: you are a cop. One of the best Homicide detectives I know. I still have your badge, so let me know when you want it back.”

Megan tilted her head back onto her seat. “Not any time soon, Nappa. Not any time soon.”