Chapter One: Death Delights

All I could think about was the snowy-white envelope Mr. Stone held in his perfectly manicured hand. That piece of paper, a vestibule that held my fate, contained everything I had worked for in my young life. Nothing else mattered.

If only Mr. Stone would quit stalling. A man known for grandstanding; I knew he would wait until the crowd focused solely on him. He wouldn’t have become the youngest president of the newspaper division if he didn’t know how to draw attention to himself. I wanted to snatch the envelope from him.

Mr. Stone stood on the second-floor walkway of the open three-story newsroom. Behind him stood a red wall covered with bright award plaques. But the golden light that shone through the glass exterior appeared to shine only for Stone.

Apparently satisfied that all eyes were upon him, he addressed the crowd. “Good afternoon to the best of the best.” Catcalls and shrieks of “Damn straight,” and unintelligible cries filled the air.

Mr. Stone, wearing a broad grin, clapped his hands together, then bowed before the crowd. Thunderous laughter and chants of We Are the Champions exploded at once. I flinched and covered my ears with my hands, but nothing could defeat the crowd’s deafening roar. He had them, and judging by his superior air, he knew it. I felt the glaring of an evil eye. I turned and sought the source of the malignancy. With his rumpled suit and droopy jowls, Charles from Metro sneered when his pale gray eyes met mine.

What the hell is your problem?

I grinned like I didn’t give the slightest damn and waved my hand. He turned away, but not before I glimpsed his face turn red. Victorious, once again, I focused my attention on Mr. Stone, who opened the unsealed envelope and retrieved the crisp white paper. Silence filled the room.

“The winner for excellence in Breaking News Reporting is… Jack White, for his coverage of the shooting massacre downtown. Jack, stand up and take a bow.” By his reaction, Jack must have been confident he would win. He popped up from his chair, and climbed on top of his desk, both arms in the air, and fingers signaling V for victory. The roar of laughter, along with an occasional disagreeing boo, shook the room. Mr. Stone waved his arms, and the crowd that came to see gladiators die fell silent.

Isabella reached out to clasp my hand and gently squeezed it. “You’ll be next. I’m proud of you,” she whispered.

I glanced at Isabella, whose eyes glowed with excitement. Like a stone piercing the clear waters of a mountain lake, the tenseness left my body. How would I manage without her by my side? She was more than my best friend, but the loving sister for whom I had yearned.

“Thank you,” I whispered as I straightened my onyx-color dress and tan suit jacket. I wanted to appear perfect.

Mr. Stone continued. “The winner of distinguished investigative reporting is—Mike Wilson for his story about the McAllen Pyramid Scheme. Everyone, give him a hand. He helped honest people get their money back.”

This time, there was near silence. You could hear a spider walking on the wall. I stood, unable to move. Two middle-aged men from the crime department stared at each other with disbelief in their expressions.  

“Oh, no!” Sharon exclaimed.

I gasped, and my heart pounded against my ribcage. Someone was speaking to me, but all I could hear through the noise in my head was a gargled sound. Pressure on my shoulders pulled me back and forth.

Isabella tried to soothe me. “Jules, come on. I’ll take you to your desk. Come on, sweetie.”

I focused my eyes and watched her clasp my hand in hers. Anger welled up, and I pulled away. “That ass! Stone did this. I’ll make him pay, damn it.” I could hear my blood pressure rise. It sounded like the roar of the sea.

“Jules, everyone is staring at you,” Isabella said, her voice trembling.

Livid, I scanned the newsroom and read the emotions on my co-workers’ faces. Shock, surprise, outrage, mixed with a few sneers. It was too surreal. The clock behind Mr. Stone ticked slowly, as I focused all my willpower on making the hands go backward. The desperate belief that I could make that happen and correct this cruel joke surged throughout my body.

It must be a mistake! I worked so hard to free those poor children. This time it would be my name.

Isabella took my hand as I stumbled to my desk, which was in the far corner of the open office.

“Just sit and relax until you’re ready,” she whispered.

I nodded as I watched her take her place next to me. But I could not think about anything but Mr. Stone’s words.

How could this be happening? Why did Stone take the award away from me? Mike is one of the worst reporters here, and he received all his information from a damn anonymous phone call. He only had to confirm the information. The son-of-a-bitch. The undercover horror I endured to get my story was hellish.

Mike’s long, gorgeous hair was his pride. I had a mental image of taking a razor to it and shaving his head bald.

I took a deep breath and put my headset on. My hands trembled. Without warning, I felt the need to vomit, but contained it.

The ringtone on my headset sounded, so I tapped the touch sensor control twice rapidly. “Julie Albright. Reporter White Collar Crime.”

“It’s unfair, isn’t it, Miss Albright?” A male voice, pleasant but raspy.

I didn’t know this person because I’d remember him. How can you know? The stranger’s question unnerved me, but somehow, I awaited a comment like this.

“Yes, it is. I risked my life, and what did Wilson do?” I asked bitterly, as I looked around, but I couldn’t tell to whom I was speaking. I wanted to ask for a name, but decided to let him continue.

“Do you want to know why you didn’t win the excellence award this year?”

“Because Mr. Stone is an ass?”

The man’s laugh was pleasing. I heard music in the background, but I didn’t recognize the tune.

“While that is true, it’s only part of the reason. He’s been embezzling funds from the Light.” He paused, perhaps to get a reaction out of me. “With your investigative skills, he’s afraid you’ll discover what he’s doing. Mr. Stone hopes to encourage you to leave.” The building darkened as clouds moved in, casting a foreboding feeling.

My senses told me to shut up, but I couldn’t contain myself. “What? Are you positive? Do you have proof?” My only goal by now was to punish Stone. I’d had visions of kicking him in the balls, tracking him to the suntan booth he patronized regularly, and locking him in until his golden skin was a deep-fried burnt color. And I was just getting started.

“While your questions are to be expected, they won’t get you what you want. The award.”

“That’s not why I did the story. The prostitution ring used underage girls. Some were as young as ten. An award was the last thing on my mind.” Each word had become louder until I realized some of my co-workers gaped at me. I tucked my head and wrote a note to myself. Don’t be an idiot! My handwriting was even worse than usual.

Isabella leaned over. She had rolled her office chair closer to me. She spoke to me in a quiet tone. “Are you okay?” she asked, offering a smile. I could smell the fragrance of her perfume: Christian Dior.

I covered my mouthpiece with one hand. “Yes, I’m fine.” I clasped her hand and squeezed it gently, then let go. As I turned my attention back to the stranger, I heard Isabella’s chair squeak as she returned to work herself.

“I have information I believe you’ll find most interesting.” The soft-spoken man sounded sincere, but as a journalist, I knew better than to get my hopes up. I often fielded calls from people who made the same claim. Unfortunately, few of them panned out.

“I’m listening.” I tucked a strand of long hair behind my ear, a habit I reserved for times of frustration. Like now. I had a deadline to meet and a story that required additional research. The last thing I needed was a distraction.

“What if I told you the location of a woman’s body?” His silken voice was like a caress a mother gave to her child, making his question sound absurd. It could only be an inappropriate joke. My irritation returned.

“Do you want obituaries or the crime desk?” I asked, in a light-hearted manner, to provoke more out of him.

Another kook. What would happen if I accidentally terminated the call?

“Miss Albright, I’ve followed your exceptional journalistic talent since you began writing for the New York Light. Six years ago, I believe.” He paused a moment, leaving me wondering what he would say next. “You haven’t received the credit you deserve, even after the expose you did on High Noon Investments and their pyramid scheme. I want to help.” Again, his silky-smooth tone lent credibility to his words. His voice, a hint of accent, Boston perhaps?

His over-eager sincerity almost convinced me. But a woman’s body? Whose? What’s there for me?

Someone at a nearby desk chewed bubblegum. I glanced around until I spotted Adam, a large pink bubble coming from his mouth. The loud pop that followed was more than my jangled nerves could take. I locked eyes with him and enjoyed watching the color drain from his face. He exaggerated his movements as he spit the foul gum into the nearby trash bin. I turned my head away, not willing to respond to his weak attempt to smile. Everything annoyed me lately.

“Allow me to turn you over to—”

He cut me short. “Excuse me, Miss Albright, but I know you’re more than capable, and I can detect your interest.”

“Would you be willing to go on the record?”

“My apologies, but no, it cannot be that easy. Not if you want to hush those naysayers forever. I’ll text you the address. You must tell no one and come alone.” Another deep breath and something which sounded like paper rustling. Some people fidget when they’re trying to concentrate. “If you don’t, there will be consequences. You need this story, believe me.”

The bubble of his charm deflated, leaving me facing a stark reality of what? “I don’t think so. Goodbye.”

After I disconnected the call on my headset, I` went back to writing a story about insider trading.

I noticed a speck of dust on my dress. I removed it and stared at the blank screen for a while. Isabella coughed, then took sips from a pink water bottle she always carried. throughout the tightly knit community. Heads turned everywhere she went, but she appeared impervious to the lust exuding from the men, and sometimes women she glided by. My momentary lapse caused me to reel as my mind returned to the stranger.

His words lingered, and it took significant effort to push them aside.

Why did I tell him so much? What’s his agenda? Can he hurt me if he knows who I am and where I work?

I let out a sigh of disgust. “I swear if I have to write one more story about white-collar crime, I’ll jump out the sixth-floor window.” I thought for a moment, then said with a disconcerting feeling, “With my luck, I’d live and stay stuck at this desk forever.”

“Talking out loud again?” Isabella sat at the desk adjoining mine. We often joked that our desks were so close to each other that we could share the same chair. A stunning beauty, stylish clothes, and a body that never ended, her long, shiny midnight tresses partially covered the perfection of her heart-shaped face. She was at the top in the cut-throat, high fashion world when she took a job at the Light, causing shockwaves among the elite group that revolved around her.

I grinned. “Caught again. A real nut job just called me.” I pretended to gag, but then laughed to show her I’d gotten over losing the grand prize. I just wanted Isabella to know that her support helped.

Isabella wrinkled her nose. “You get some real winners, that’s for sure. What are the men you date like?”

“They’re even worse.” I jested, but inside I felt it was anything but funny. There were some things I didn’t dare say out loud.

My headset rang; I touched the call button.

“Julie Albright.”

“Watch Howard,” said the same soft-spoken man. The hairs on my neck stood.

I glanced in Howard’s direction. He wrote the obituaries, and as a caring person, he always knew what to say to comfort the deceased’s loved ones. Now, involved in an animated conversation with someone I didn’t recognize, he couldn’t have looked healthier.

“He looks fine to me. I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait, please.”

“Wait for what?” I didn’t like cat-and-mouse games; my words lacked patience.

“My dear Miss Albright, “he said with the air of a schoolmaster who knows he can educate a bright but disobeying pupil, “I hope to never cause you grief. But I must. Watch.” 

I knew I should end the call, but a sense of foreboding grew with every second. Minutes passed; I remained vigilant. Howard had crumpled to the floor. Violent, rapid-fire convulsions whipped his body about while he gasped for air. “No!” I cried out. I leaped to my feet, then froze, uncertain of what to do next. I couldn’t end the call now.

“No! I’ll do what you want. Please. Tell me how to save him.” I didn’t have to fake the urgency because the headset magnified my quickened breathing.

“I’m delighted to. Inform Isabella that the paramedics need to give him pancuronium intravenously. As soon as you are done, leave. I’ll be watching your every move, so try nothing.” Aversion sprinkled his harsh words.

Quick on my feet, I knew I must leave a clue. “Yes, pancuronium. I got that. But what should I call you?”

“Why, The Tick Tock Man my dear.” Then there was silence on the other end and the click signaled he’d hung up.

Pull yourself together!

As calmly as I could, I wrote the name of the medication, his instructions, and then circled below—The Tick Tock man — with a hurried movement of the pen. I handed Isabella the piece of paper and grabbed my bag.

“Jules, what’s going on?” Isabella’s worry was clear.

I didn’t respond. I had to block Isabella out. My feet moved on their own and it didn’t take me many seconds to reach the lobby. The elevator sat on the twelfth floor. I pressed the down button ten times and watched its descent. The lights signaling each stop were slower than usual. I cursed in my mind and was relieved when the doors opened. I dashed inside. Worrying about Howard left me feeling helpless and guilty. My heart sunk into my stomach, and I felt like I was wading through water. Time slowed down. When the elevator stopped on the fourth floor to let on two of the executives, I knew I must play it cool and hoped aloofness would discourage conversation.

Of course, it didn’t work.

“Jules, how’s my girl from the obsolete division of the business?” Steve, with his $200 haircut, and custom-made suit that most likely cost $5,000, wore his arrogance with pride. He made that remark every time he saw me. It never failed to anger me, but today I had more pressing concerns. Still, I must respond. I put on a fake smile before answering.

“Our numbers are higher than ever,” I lied.

We reached the lobby, and I exited first, bumping my shoulders. Tempted to run, I forced myself to walk at a casual pace. To gain control of the situation, I needed to be cool and collected. I hoped the Tick Tock man, whatever that meant, was watching; I wanted him to know I wasn’t afraid when the horror of the situation made me weak in the knees.

What if he’s timing me? I can’t be late.

When I tried to flag a taxi, they zipped past me. A few minutes went by until someone called my name. I turned around. It was George, the pastry vendor. I bought a cruller from him every morning. Even now, wonderful aromas wafted toward me.

“Hi, George. Busy morning?”

“You bet, Miss Albright. I still have two of your favorites left.”

“When will you call me Jules?”

He smiled and glanced at his cart. His earnest expression was too much for me to say no. Besides, I needed to appear casual.

“Okay, you win. I’ll take a cruller. You’ll ruin my figure yet.”

“Not you, Miss Albright. You’ll stay young and lovely forever.”

I smiled. “I bet you say that to all the women.” Faking hunger, I consumed the cruller so fast I almost choked. After a brief wave, I acted composed and strolled back to where I had stood before. Again, no luck.

A school bus stopped and out poured a seemingly endless sea of children. They looked excited as they lined up to take a tour of the newspaper. Their innocence and naivete shone in their bright eyes.

If only they could stay that way.

Saddened by the thought, I moved to get away from the bus, and this time, a taxi stopped in front of me. I acted unconcerned when I got in, then looked at the cab driver’s license.

“Amir, I need to go to 2920 Duncan Avenue in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.” I watched him turn on his meter, and without a word, he took off. Effortlessly, he glided into the mass of vehicles, impressing me.

It had been a while since I visited that part of Manhattan. I knew the development of the area had brought an array of improvements and an influx of residents. Some claimed it was one of the coolest cities in the world. I wondered why someone had chosen such a busy location to leave a body.

I hope I’m not next.

I swallowed hard, gathered my courage, and thought about what I must do. My priority meant figuring out who The Tick Tock Man was and what kind of game he was playing. A deadly one, I already knew. “Why me?”

“Did you say something, miss?”

I gave him what I hoped was a charming smile. “What? Oh sorry. I talk to myself a lot.”

Amir didn’t respond, but I saw his expression in the rearview mirror. Working at The Light taught me how to read people. I knew he was thinking, Not another kook. I ignored it and thought about what the man who called himself Tick Tock had said.

I’ll be watching. I must keep up appearances. Taking my notepad and pencil out of my oversized bag proved tricky because my hands wouldn’t cooperate. It required a magnificent effort, but I retrieved them. I didn’t know how he watched me, but I took him at his word.

Forget him for now and do your damn job.

I made some telephone calls, looking for something I felt was newsworthy. Even though the creep had promised he was watching me, I would not let that slow me down.

Most of my follow-up phone calls were a waste of time since they didn’t interest me. Those leads I would give to Jimmy, my managing editor, so he could pass them on to other journalists at the paper.

I found two promising leads and made notes to myself about the best angles to pursue. Known for top-quality stories, regardless of the situation, I wouldn’t let my readers down. That’s if I lived long enough to write them. I should have told Jimmy, but I had no choice. He would have already noticed my absence and would worry about me.

I should have told someone, despite what the Tick Tock man said.

I glanced out my window at the sea of cabs, whose drivers’ constant pounding on their car horns, caused a cacophony of noise.

As a New Yorker, I was used to the traffic. As a reporter, I found the situation to be untenable. I would have to do something about it.

“How far of a walk is it to the address I gave you?”

“At a brisk pace, fifteen minutes.”

“How much do I owe you?”

He looked at his meter. “That’ll be $28.67.”

I gave him two twenties.

“Thanks,” Amir told me as he handed me his business card. I put it in my bag, where it became lost among everything else.

Today was one of those days where I was glad I was wearing sensible flats. I grabbed my notebook and pen and put them in my bag.

Since it was lunchtime, the local restaurants and pubs struggled to keep up with the steady stream of patrons, most of whom were dressed in business attire. There were a few people on the streets where I headed. It was quiet, except for the lewd comments hollered at me by the city crew working on the water lines. I ignored them but quickened my pace. When I arrived, I checked my watch, and for a moment, thought the cab driver must be psychic. It had taken me fifteen minutes, as he had predicted, to arrive at the address the “creep” had given me over the phone.

“This could be nothing,” I told myself, although my gut said the opposite. My gut was never wrong and there was a knot inside my stomach.

I retrieved my camera from inside my bag and took pictures of the surrounding area. I snapped what I deemed necessary, which meant a lot of images. I could delete some of them later. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but I hoped to capture The Tick Tock man on my digital camera. Taking my time, I scanned every potential hiding place for the mystery man. Identifying him would strip the mystery and maybe lessen the fear.

Blonde or dark-haired? Short or tall—aren’t all villains tall and imposing? Are you disheveled, or obsessively neat? How does a voice like that look?

Reluctantly, I turned to face the building. I recalled the pleasure in the caller’s voice and could picture his anticipation of the event. He had called himself The Tick Tock Man, but why? And was he the killer? What kind of trap could I be walking into?

A faded green awning marked the front entrance of the vacant office building. Its tattered fabric whipped around in the powerful gusts of wind from the waterfront, snapping menacingly, like a bullwhip when it hits its target. Something crunched beneath my feet, and I glanced down at the shattered glass. The front doors were the source, and now weather-worn plywood covered the openings. Given how crooked they were, they appeared hastily attached. As edgy as I was, I wondered if whoever hung them had been in a hurry because they found the building as foreboding as I did. I had to swallow. My mouth was dry.

Stop this nonsense; You’ve got a job to do. You’re a professional.

I reached for one handle and pulled, but what happened next didn’t surprise me. He wouldn’t have called me if he hadn’t wanted me to see what was inside.

The door opened with ease. I looked for a light switch. Since the building had been vacant for a while, there shouldn’t have been any power, but my instinct once again told me that The Tick Tock Man would have ensured there were no obstacles. I located a set of switches just inside the entrance and flipped them all on. Fluorescent lights glared overhead, revealing most of the first floor of the ten-story building. The dust made me cough.

The interior was like the exterior, bleak. Left behind was a gray metal desk with a missing leg, causing it to tilt to the right, and some well-worn chairs scattered about. Satisfied with the snapshots which documented the first floor, I took a long look at what lay in front of me. I imagined the space divided into tiny cubicles where workers had spent their time watching the clock, waiting for their day to be over. I found that image drearier than the current rundown appearance.

A musty, rancid odor assaulted me. Tears blurred my vision as I sneezed repeatedly. I removed a facial tissue from my bag and wiped my eyes until my sight was clear once more. My mask from the COVID-19 pandemic remained in the side-pocket of my bag and I removed it, placing it over my mouth and nose. A sigh of relief escaped my parted lips when the fashionable cloth blocked the foul scent and kept the dust that coated the room at bay.

Based on the number of phone lines, this place could have been a call center. One chair faced me, and it didn’t look aimlessly abandoned like the others. In fact, it appeared deliberately placed in the middle of the cement floor. It was difficult to tell, but someone appeared to be sitting in it. A sense of dread encompassed me, constricting my lungs. I fought an internal battle until the reporter in me took over. My mouth was dry as I forced my body to move forward.

“Hello, I’m Julie Albright from the New York Light. Are you the person who called me?” I tried to sound official but failed. My voice broke.

Several of the overhead lights in that location were dead. The closer I got, even with the lack of illumination, the more I could make out the silhouette of a long-haired person slumped in the chair. I shivered, as if caught in a blast of freezing air.

The Tick Tock Man’s words rang in my ears, “a woman’s body.” I approached a few steps and halted to look around.

The thought that The Tick Tock Man had lured me here for a reason left me shaken. It crossed my mind that I might wind up dead. I put the thought aside with a determined fierceness. But no matter how hard I tried; I couldn’t stop my next thought—that I would wind up in the obituaries.

I couldn’t help imagining how Isabella would identify my mutilated body at the mortuary.

As I approached the chair, I hesitated, then gathered my wits and took a good look. My breath caught in my throat. I could feel adrenaline running through my veins.

I jumped backward and almost dropped my camera.

“What the hell, your eyes… “

The woman’s eyes had a clock face covering her entire orbs. Forced to look away, I struggled to contain my fear of the freakish sight. Her face still held its natural color, but those eyes were wide open—staring at nothing and they rattled me to the core. Looking at the eyes of the dead person was always difficult for me.

I recognized the fake contact lenses from sites on the internet. They had appeared harmless, even fun, but now they were ominous appearing.

Tears of bright ruby blood, arterial blood, streamed down her face, onto her top. I shivered, but gathered my wits as I fought the urge to run.

Striking, young—words that came to mind first. Her long blond hair was clean and straight, like someone had just brushed it. Had he cleaned it? Was this a rite of some sort?

And her eyes that had seen great horror, what color were they and why had he covered them? Who was the poor woman?

How long did it take for you to die? Did he do something else which is still hidden under your clothes?

What kind of sick person would not only kill her but leave her looking like a broken, discarded doll? The woman was pretty in an Instagram-shot way: like a doll pictured from the best of perspectives. Only the blood and the strange work on the eyes deviated from perfect.

How can your skin look so perfect?

I had to pull myself together. I reached out and squeezed her shoulder, to make sure she wasn’t somehow still alive.

This could be the beginning of a much bigger story, and The Tick Tock Man had chosen me to cover it. I could think about what it all meant for my career later because now I had things to do. I straightened my posture to get a grip on reality. I didn’t turn my head, but scanned the location again. No lurking shadows, no movement. I was alone with the dead woman. But I couldn’t shed the feeling of being watched.

As an investigative reporter, I learned a lot about crime scenes, though not this kind. I had watched enough television crime shows to know how to approach a scene. I knew not to contaminate the area, so I took pictures from every viewpoint. I regretted touching her.

Crime Scene Investigators would thoroughly scour the area in their search for clue. My shoes prints were easy to follow. But what else had I left behind?

 The images of the woman’s face were important, but I would never need to look at photos to refresh my memory. They were etched in my mind forever.

What had I gotten myself into? Who was this man who had reached out to me, wanting me to see this sickly sight? Then I thought of something worse. Like a spider, he had lured me into his web, and I had walked into it.

Would he ever let me go?

I needed to call Jimmy. My phone, in a separate pocket of my bag, I found with ease and hit speed dial. The call didn’t go through until the third try.

“How’s Howard?”

Please, please, please, let him be alive.

“He’s in the hospital, but the doctors are confident he’ll pull through. How did you know the antidote?” asked Jimmy.

I quickly filled him in.

“I don’t like it, I. What on earth were you thinking? You investigate white-collar crimes. I’ll turn it over to Dom. He covers murders in the city. Get out of there now and call nine-one-one.” His demanding voice shook, and I knew it must be because of his concern.

“He almost killed Howard to get my attention. I don’t want to think about the consequences of not following through. He’s had plenty of opportunities so far to hurt me, so whatever his game, he needs me alive.” I almost said, for now, but caught myself in time. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“That’s how reporters get themselves killed, damn it. But I know that’s not enough of a deterrent for you. Cover this case, but bury it, and don’t respond if the man calls again. Forward it to Dom so he can follow up. I’m serious.”

“No, my best bet is to cover the story and work with the police to catch the person responsible.”

“I—”

“No, Jimmy. I promise I’ll be careful. Let me follow through.”

“All right. But you notify me immediately if he calls again. And if this creep says or causes even one hair to stand up, you let me know! Are you listening?”

I glanced up before answering. “Of course.” I did not attempt to mask my frustration.

“Then do what you must, but keep me updated.”

“I’ll make the call.”

“You—” I ended the call before he could finish and called 9-1-1. I looked at my watch—it was noon.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“I’d like to report a murder.”