On the Rocks: A Dana Cohen Mystery

At forty-two, Dana Cohen has retired from her twenty-two-year career as a detective in the NYPD and moved back home to the rocky cliffs above Long Island Sound to take stock of her life. Her drinking has become problematic, and she increasingly relies on it as her life becomes more complicated. Her estranged husband, Pete Fitzgerald, surprises her at her house, armed with flowers and promises to finally be faithful. Although Dana sends him packing, when he’s later accused of murder, she jumps to his defense. He swears he’s innocent, and she wants to believe him. But with all the evidence pointing directly at him, reasonable doubt is getting very hard to come by.

KUDOS FOR ON THE ROCKS

In On the Rocks by Rebecca Marks, Dana Cohen is a retired police detective for the NYPD. When her father gets Alzheimer’s and is placed in a nursing, Dana goes home to Long Island to take care of his affairs, house, and winery. Dana’s estranged husband, Pete, follows her. He’s a detective with the NYPD, but he isn’t in Long Island long before he is charged with murder. Dana knows that Pete is a lousy, unfaithful husband, but he’s not a murder, so she inserts herself into the investigation, trying to prove his innocence. But the harder she works, the more evidence is discovered that points straight at Pete. Between her drinking problem and Pete not being able to keep it in his pants, Dana has her work cut out for her. But the mystery goes much deeper than she realizes, with some dark secrets just waiting to be uncovered. This is a well-told story with realistic characters; complex mysteries; and a strong, well-thought-out plot. It will catch and hold your interest from the very first page to the very last. ~ Taylor Jones, Reviewer

On the Rocks by Rebecca Marks is a contemporary mystery/suspense set in Long Island. It’s told in present tense--which I personally don’t care for, especially in a mystery--but that is minor and easy to get past once you get into the story. Our heroine, Dana Cohen, has come back to her hometown to take care of her father’s business after he has to be put in a nursing home due to advanced dementia. She also wants to take stock of her life now that she’s retired from the New York Police Department, separated from her unfaithful husband, and drinking too much. Dana hopes that the peace and quiet of the rural country village will help her put life in perspective. Unfortunately, that peace and quiet doesn’t last very long. She isn’t even settled into her father’s house when her estranged husband, NYPD detective Peter Fitzgerald, shows up at her door, wanting her back. Dana still loves him but she knows she can’t trust him, so she sends him packing. Problem is, he doesn’t stay sent. In no time at all, he’s back at her door, only this time, he’s gotten himself into a mess of trouble, starting with a dead body. Of course, Pete didn’t really commit the murder, did he? Dana doesn’t think so and sets out to clear his name, even though all the evidence screams that she’s putting her faith in the wrong man, again. I really like that Marks’s characters are flawed and human. No super-heroes or legendary detectives in this one. Just a good solid plot, very believable characters, a complicated and intriguing mystery, and plenty of edge-of-your-seat action. ~ Regan Murphy, Reviewer

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Without help and support from the following people, this book might not have happened:

Jimin Han and Patricia Dunn, my two fierce and brilliant writing profs from the Sarah Lawrence College Writing Institute, who never lost faith in me, even when they were throwing out ideas so fast I couldn’t think straight; and the great people in my writing group, all working hard on their own books, who took the time to read my stuff carefully and provide honest, supportive, critical feedback.

My three most dedicated and reliable readers, all great friends, all with busy lives of their own, who read this book and provided insights that helped make it better: Dr. Matthew Schneiderman, my dear and super-smart cousin, who helped so generously and thoughtfully with amazing suggestions; Elaine Lansky, a friend for decades, who could have a career as a proof-reader any time she wanted it; Sue Machler, my crossword-puzzle-solving buddy, who gave me constructive criticism even when it was uncomfortable for her to do so.

My buddies who were so happy to read the book, even before it was in final form, and to cheer me on: Sheila Schonbrun, Starr Siegel, Diane DeScisciolo. And my dear sister-in-law Pat Gallagher and her daughter-in-law Margot DuBois.

My talented nephew, artist Jim Gallagher, who designed the beautiful cover.

The cool team at Black Opal Books: Lauri Wellington, who decided this was a book she wanted to publish; the great editing staff whose work made this a much better book; the legal team, who were always there to explain what was going on.

My heartfelt gratitude to all of you--it takes a village.

ON THE ROCKS

DANA COHEN MYSTERIES

BOOK 1

REBECCA MARKS

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Marks

Cover Design by Jim Gallagher

All cover art copyright © 2015

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626943-78-0

EXCERPT

My estranged husband’s troubles are going to get me in hot water too, especially when the cops find my gun...

As I make my way toward the front of the house, I see three cruisers parked in a neat row outside the garage. Six uniformed policemen are standing on the stoop. Now Charlie, who has bounded toward the door in front of me, is barking like a banshee. I call out to the cops that I’ll open the door as soon as I let the dog out the doggie door in back and, when I go to do that, I almost collide with Pete, who is flying down the stairs. I didn’t even hear him going upstairs when I went to open the front door. He shoots me a look, puts his index finger over his lips as if I was going to say something to him, rushes out the back door, and goes running through the yard toward the stairs to the beach. I’m still feeling furious with him, pissed off that he has once again managed to throw my life into a frenzied mess. I open the dog door, and Charlie runs through it and after Pete. The last I look, both of them are out of sight.

Coming! Stop banging on my door. I open it, and the cops are all jammed on the stoop.

The first one thrusts the warrant at me. Search warrant, ma’am. Any weapons in here? The guy who handed me the warrant seems to be the leader of the pack.

I’m retired from the force. I turned in my sidearm. I know my little handgun fell on the floor next to my bed last night, and I could kick myself for not putting it in my pocket. I don’t even know how I’ll handle it when they find it. I’d been planning to apply for a permit to carry out here, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. What will I say? Gee, I didn’t know I had one. Sure. And there’s no way I could get past them and into my room now. They’d be all over me like white on rice.

DEDICATION

To my late husband, Frank Tipping, Jr.--the best detective in the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Department and the best patrolman in the Boston Police Department--without whose constant encouragement, support, and love, I might not have continued to pursue this dream. I wish you were here to see it come true.

CHAPTER 1

Every time I need a little peace, a little time to recover from a small or large or imagined crisis, I sit on my sofa, staring out the massive picture window at the Long Island Sound, which ripples more or less along the coastline, lapping at the rocks and calming my brain. There’s an indentation on the couch that matches the size and shape of my ass, and I’m sinking into that now. The events of yesterday continue to zigzag through my head, like one of those old cassette tape players set on auto-repeat, doomed to go on forever until someone pulls the plug or the batteries die. No one’s pulling the plug, and I keep replaying the entire scenario, until I think my head is about to explode. It all started last night with a knock at the door...

***

Who’s there? I’d been puttering around the house, fixing it up in case I decided to sell it, now that Pop was in the nursing home and wouldn’t be leaving there.

I love this house and haven’t been able to make up my mind whether to keep it or sell it, but one way or the other I know I have to be here to figure out what to do with the wine business Pop can no longer run. And getting rid of a bunch of stuff Pete had left here over the years would make it a little more comfortable for the dog and me. The place is daunting, though--so big I have trouble taking care of it myself.

The knock at the door happened yesterday, Saturday, mid-afternoon, a nice early-fall afternoon, when I wasn’t expecting anyone. In fact, I was feeling sorry for myself that, on a great weekend when everyone else was out, I was inside, alone, dusting.

No answer, but another set of raps, louder this time. I put down the Swiffer and went downstairs. Whoever it was had knocked at the back door, and only people who know me well come to the back door. Charlie wasn’t barking, so I figured it was someone whose smell he recognized. As I got to the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the back of the house, I saw the dog, almost jumping out of his skin, his tail beating back and forth so quickly it was creating a small wake behind him. Who is it, Charles?

When I rounded the corner of the kitchen, I saw him through the window--Pete. Standing there at the door, looking well dressed, like a little kid whose mother had spiffed him up for the first day of school, his hair neatly trimmed and brushed back, his face scrubbed, so sexy I wanted to take a bite out of him. I stopped short, brushed the sweaty hair away from my eyes, and looked down at the faded pink tracksuit with a hole in the knee. I wasn’t wearing a bra, and my legs needed shaving.

Shit! Pete, what the hell are you doing here? I still hadn’t opened the door, and I saw he was shuffling back and forth from leg to leg. Even I had to admit I sounded pretty shrill.

Are you going to open the door, or do I have to wait here all day and freeze my ass off?

I opened the door, and he walked right in, Charlie jumping all over him and squealing. You have a key. Why did you stand out there shivering?

I’m trying to be on best behavior here.

I’m sure I rolled my eyes.

Aren’t you going to say anything?

I’m too stunned to say anything, I said, regaining my composure a little.

Not glad to see me? He pushed Charlie away gently and tried to grab me with his free arm, but I twisted away. I dressed up just for you. He thrust a bouquet of yellow roses at me. These are the color you love, right? I took the bouquet and dropped it on the counter. Don’t you want to put them in water?

I thought we agreed not to see each other for a while. After the...last time.

I missed you so much, Dana. And I missed this place.

I had to look twice to make sure, but there was no question he was pouting, his bottom lip thrust outward the slightest bit. Did something happen? You always miss me when some woman dumps you and you’re not getting any.

You always say things to hurt me. Danni, I missed you. I love you. That never changes.

I look like hell. Probably smell like hell too. I hired a cleaning lady, but she’s better at tolerating the dog than getting the place clean and, besides, I have no idea what happened to her. She stopped coming.

Pete is the only one who calls me Danni, and I hate to admit it’s endearing, as much as I want to be offended. That’s part of the problem with Pete. He does something obnoxious that makes me want to hate him forever, and then he calls me Danni and I melt.

Yesterday’s scenario continues replaying in my head...

You look beautiful. You always look beautiful to me. Can’t I just stay here for a couple of days? Can’t we just talk about things?

He reached out to me again, but I snaked away behind Charlie, who was still wagging his tail and trying to jump up on Pete.

Why do we have to go through this all the time? No. I’m getting this house ready to sell, and you’re going to have to get all your stuff out of here. You agreed to give me some space for a while. Every time I back down, I end up in therapy.

I didn’t really agree. I just didn’t say anything. So you wouldn’t be mad. Until I couldn’t stand being away from you anymore. And I thought you were moving in here so you could help with the winery. Why would you leave? We have so many awesome memories in this house.

I was hoping you’d respect my wishes for a change and do what I want.

Can I get a cold drink? Got a beer or something?

How about some water?

One of the problems with Pete is that he’s beautiful--really gorgeous--and sexy as hell. It sounds like a cliché, but his features are rugged, handsome. He has hair a twenty-year-old would be proud of, full and wavy, sandy brown with just a little tinge of gray along the temples. His eyes are steel blue, the shiny, dark lashes longer than mine. His nose is small and straight but not too small for his face. His lips are still full and naturally red so he can pout with the best of them and kiss with the best of them. He works out, so his body is hard and sculpted, his shoulders broad, his waist small. He has washboard abs and strong, muscular arms. You can even see it when he’s dressed like this, in dress slacks and a button-down shirt. His shoes are even shined so I can see my reflection in them.

Really? Water? You don’t have anything stronger?

Well, are you thirsty, or are you just trying to get me to socialize? Now he was the one not answering. I turned to open the refrigerator, and he tried to grab my ass as I walked away. Shit, please don’t do that. I jerked myself away from his hand, grabbed a half bottle of water, and handed it to him, extending my arm a long way so he couldn’t reach me.

Then he’d put the bottle on the counter next to the flowers, and left. Just like that. Not another word. I thought maybe this time I’d gotten through to him, but history said it couldn’t be that easy.

And then, my mind tracks back again to Who’s there...

***

So now it’s ten o’clock Sunday morning. It’s really starting to look like fall around here. The trees in the back are beginning to turn color just a bit, and it’s the time in early autumn when some of them are still completely green, and others half yellow, half orange, but all breathtaking. Nothing brown yet, or dead and crumbling. I could probably sit here a long time, doing not much of anything, except that it’s been such a weird twenty-four hours. I can’t stop thinking about Pete. I took the flowers, which was my first mistake, and let him in, which was my second. Now he’s back, and I’m dealing with his shit all over again and rehashing the past twenty years ad nauseum. I wish I could give my brain a time-out, but that bad song keeps playing in my head, over and over.

The divorce that should have--but never--happened remains complicated. Dana Cohen versus Peter Fitzgerald. Mom hadn’t approved of my marrying him, but young love trumps good sense and, at the time, I figured it was just a mother being overprotective of her daughter. Plus, she was upset I was marrying a shagetz, although Jewish guys are pretty few and far between on the NYPD. Mom was disappointed I decided not to go to college and marry a lawyer or a doctor.

Pop, on the other hand, had embraced Pete the minute I brought him home. He was the son Pop never had, determined to be a great cop like Pop, interested in all the manly things Pop admired. I admit I’ve been jealous of the bromance between Pop and Pete. Pete and I had both grown up in this town, but we never really got together until the academy class--I was twenty-two and Pete twenty-five. I was dazzled by his looks and his charm.

And he was always a tiger in bed.

Our Long Island upbringing is pretty much the only thing we have in common, but for some reason, once we reconnected in the academy, it was boom--fireworks and shooting stars. He said he couldn’t keep his hands off me, that he was fatally attracted to redheads with brown eyes and real boobs, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed me in high school. I’m still pretty sure it was lust, not love, and within a couple of weeks we were sleeping together. The sex was incredible and a great escape from the grittiness of the job. Within six months I was pregnant. Pete’s Catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow him to hear of an abortion, but I told him my parents would be horrified I got knocked up, so we went to City Hall and did a quickie wedding. Then I lost the baby, and it was as if Pete never forgave me for making him get married. After that, I was careful never to get pregnant again. I couldn’t imagine having a kid and doing the police job, and I still consider the job the best thing that ever happened to me. Until the day she died, I don’t think my mother got over the fact that I didn’t pursue a professional career, but all I ever wanted to be was a cop in the big city, and I made that dream come true.

The marriage was passable for a couple of years, but the job kept us on different schedules, and I started hearing rumors about Pete’s womanizing. I tried to ignore it until I couldn’t anymore--some young Puerto Rican police cadet he jilted left a typewritten exposé in my mailbox detailing all of their sexual encounters down to a description of the birthmark under his right ball. So I finally admitted to myself Pete was just uncontrollably attracted to pussy, no matter what color the hair was. For him, looking was just not enough, and one woman just couldn’t keep him satisfied, no matter how good the sex.

I hired this hotshot divorce lawyer, but thousands of dollars and unmentionable heartache later, Pete just wouldn’t sign the papers. That’s when I moved out of our two-bedroom in Boerum Hill and rented a studio on the lower East Side, but every so often he’d sweet-talk me into believing he still loved me and wanted to try again, and we’d pop off to the house on Long Island and have a romantic weekend, rekindling all of the old lust. The sex was always incredible, and I made myself believe that this time it would work. But the old pattern always emerged, and he’d be off with another girl, having another affair. I tried a couple of times to meet other guys, but I was always so caught up in the job, I never really had the time to nurture a relationship. I don’t think I could ever have the great marriage my parents had. Besides, I really don’t trust men after Pete. But that doesn’t stop him from trying to get me back or at least back into bed. I convinced myself that, this time, I was ready to cut the cord once and for all. Selling this house would seal the deal for me.

After I kicked Pete out yesterday, I finished my housekeeping, showered, went to visit Pop at the nursing home, grabbed a burger and fries at Mickey D’s in Riverhead, and went home to crash. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, Charlie splayed out on the bed next to me, and I was dreaming about something pleasant, although I have no idea what it was, when I heard the storm door slam.

What the fuck-- I said it out loud to the dog, who was now standing in front of the closed bedroom door, growling. I glanced at the clock on my bureau, its red LED flashing 4:19 a.m. I grabbed my pistol from the drawer in my nightstand and crept down the stairs without turning on a light, Charlie right behind me. The banging was coming from the back door. The dog tore to the back of the house and stopped barking. There, on the other side of the door, was Pete, trying to get his key into the lock. I turned on the porch light, and he squinted and put his hand over his eyes.

Jesus, what the hell are you doing here? I demanded. Where have you been?

Dana, could I just sleep on couch? Pliz? He was stumbling drunk, and his words were beyond garbled.

I opened the door, and he looked as if he’d been in some kind of fight. His shirt was hanging half in, half out, of his slacks. His hair was messed up, and his nose was bloody. He reeked of beer and booze, and he was holding up his pants with one hand.

Where the hell have you been? I repeated. What happened to you? You look like crap.

I’n’t know, I kind of gut in fight at this place. Not zackly sure what happen. I got out of there and I didn’t have any place to go.

Out of where?

Some dive in Riverhead.

Some dive, Pete?

Not sure what the place is.

My first thought was to call the police and report the attack, since he looked so beat up, but his obvious state of inebriation made me rethink it. Did you drive like that?

Pete shrugged. Of course he had. He was lucky he didn’t wrap his car around a tree. Please, Dana! Don’ make me go out there again.

He was so pathetic that, as usual, I took pity on him and let him in. He grabbed the bottle of water that was still on the kitchen counter and took a long drink. The flowers were still there, wilting. He smelled so bad that my kitchen started smelling.

Do you want to take a shower?

Can’t make it to bathroom.

I can’t believe you drove fucked-up like that. I was pissed.

I’m still pissed, and it’s hours later. The conversation continued--

Don’t be angry with me, honey, I made’t okay.

Was there a woman involved in all of this?

No answer.

Why didn’t you go home last night? Why did you have to go to a bar and get in a brawl?

I’ze depressed you wou’n’t lemme in.

Oh Christ, Pete, here we go again.

Honey, c’n I pee, please? He swerved past me--and I was grateful he didn’t try to touch me--and then he lurched into the bathroom on the other side of the kitchen.

Aim. Don’t mess up the floor, I snapped at him.

Be nize, he slurred, as he slammed the door shut. I had every intention of making him leave after that, no matter how drunk he was, but he somehow managed to slip into the family room and collapse on the couch. And then he passed out. I shook him--tried to wake him up--but either he was unconscious, in a drunken stupor, or he was acting. Either way, he wouldn’t move, so I decided to let him sleep it off and throw him out in the morning. Charlie and I did go to bed, but I couldn’t sleep, tossed and turned, and finally I went downstairs to the living room and turned on the television. I nodded off in a chair after one TV evangelist screamed about the fires of hell and another hawker pushed his course about getting rich in real estate. I slept until the sun rose and the light coming in the window woke me up again, and I’ve been dozing and waking since then.

Now it’s morning and I’m sitting here, half awake, some raucous person yapping on the TV about a deal for $19.99 that will fix everything wrong with my life. At eight o’clock, I let Charlie out and went into the kitchen to make myself a pot of the fair-market organic coffee I splurged on at Whole Foods. Mom would be proud. After I drank the coffee, I dozed off again--coffee doesn’t have any effect on me after all those years as a cop.

So I’m still in my pajamas, on the couch, dozing on and off, trying to erase last night’s catastrophe, looking out the picture window at the Sound, which is gorgeous today--kind of small, fluffy whitecaps playing on ice blue water--thinking of what I’m going to do about Pete and this house and the business. I’m not sure how long I sit here, but the sound of the phone jangles me out of my semi-conscious state. I get a little chill, like I used to get when I was on the NYPD and something bad was about to happen--a sixth sense or something. And then, before I can reach over and get the phone, my cell phone starts ringing too. Jesus, it doesn’t rain but it pours. I don’t know which one to answer first, but the cell phone is closer, so I pick it up. What?

Oh God, Dana. Marilyn Jackson is the floor manager of the winery my father bought after he retired from the police chief job here in town. She’s been with us ever since, probably at least ten years now, and she’s been a good friend to me, one of the few I have here, but we haven’t been out together much, because I lived in the city. She’s steady, reliable, a real problem solver, just an all-around good person. She doesn’t wait for me to respond. Something awful happened here. Marilyn’s voice is staccato and panicked, as if she