He’s to Die for by Erin Dunn (Excerpt)

CHAPTER ONE

It’s 11:45 on a Friday night, and Rav Trivedi is cranky. It’s been a long day and a long week. He should be ordering dessert at his favorite restaurant, or sipping champagne at a gallery opening, or whatever it is normal people do on a Friday night in New York City, but instead he had to work late, and now he’s inching his way crosstown in the back of a yellow cab that reeks of cotton candy. It’s taken ten minutes to travel two blocks, and the pink air freshener swinging from the rearview is so overpowering it’s making him dizzy. He tries to lower the window to vent the sickly-sweet odor, but the button doesn’t respond. “Excuse me,” he says, leaning forward, “the window back here won’t go down.”

“I don’t open windows in traffic,” the driver informs him. “Exhaust fumes give me a headache.”

“Right.” Rav fades back into the seat and considers his options. As usual, his instincts are torn between the two sides of his upbringing, as if one of his parents is perched on each shoulder. On the left sits His Lordship, English to a fault, counseling his son to bear it in dignified silence. On the right is Eva, native New Yorker and consummate diva, quoting the yellow taxi passenger bill of rights and reminding Rav that he is the customer here.

He tries to split the difference. “Only the trouble is…” He leans forward again. “This air freshener is giving me a headache, so we have a dilemma.”

Dark eyes meet his in the rearview, sizing him up. Rav catches his own reflection in the acrylic divider: young, pretty, scrubbed and tweezed and carefully styled. Bespoke suit, high-maintenance haircut, Oxford English accent. He can guess well enough what it adds up to in the driver’s mind.

“Sorry to hear it, princess. You don’t like it, get a limo next time.” He punches the radio and turns it up loud.

Apparently, Rav isn’t the only one having a day.

He surrenders to his fate, tucking his fingers under his nose and letting the delicate cedar scent of his hand lotion do what it can against the smell. It’s going to cling to him like a bad cologne, isn’t it? Eau de Coney Island: cotton candy and grime, with subtle notes of despair.

A call comes in on his phone. It’s work, because of course it is. Rav hits decline, but before he’s even stuffed it back in his pocket, it buzzes with a message.

Pick up.

It’s vibrating again. This time, Rav takes the call. “You have reached the voicemail of Detective Rav Trivedi of the New York City Police Department. I can’t take your call right now, because I don’t want to. If you require immediate assistance, you can contact my partner, Detective Will Shepard. Unless you are the aforementioned partner, in which case you can kindly sod off, because it’s been a very long day and I have a date with a strapping fireman and some massage oil.”

In his dreams, anyway.

There’s a pause on the line. “Are you done?”

“It’s nearly midnight, Will. I’ve spent the past four hours canvassing every bingo hall in Brooklyn and I’m in a mood.”

“Cry me a river. I spent my day sifting through trash under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.”

Rav grimaces. “Touché.”

“Anyway, what’s so bad about bingo halls? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a bunch of harmless old biddies?”

“Harmless? Clearly, you haven’t spent enough time in the company of old biddies. Young men in well-tailored suits are like catnip to them. You wouldn’t believe the sorts of things that come out of their mouths.”

“Such as?”

“One of them called me a ‘sleek sports car’ she’d like to take for a joyride. Another had some engaging suggestions for how I might make use of my handcuffs.”

“Yikes.”

“My trouser pockets are full of Werther’s Originals.”

“The butterscotch? That’s not so—”

“I didn’t put them there.”

“Wow,” Will says, laughing. “And here I thought interviewing drug dealers was dangerous.”

“More guns, less inappropriate touching.”

“Where are you, anyway? Is that music I hear?”

“In a cab, and that last part is debatable.” Rav sticks a finger in his ear. “The worst part is that I got absolutely nowhere. Please tell me you had more luck.”

“Might have. Wanted to run it by you while it’s fresh in my mind. Nobody saw our vic, but they did see his car, and a witness claims—”

“Hold on, I can hardly hear you.” Rav leans forward in his seat. “I beg your pardon, but would you mind turning that down? Official police business.”

The cab driver meets his eye in the rearview again. Then he hits the up arrow on his stereo. Twice.

Rav can just make out Will’s laughter over the pounding of drums. “Saw that coming. Gotta love New York cabbies. Great tune, by the way. Nicks.”

“What?”

“The Nicks. The New Knickerbockers? You know, the band?”

“Sorry, I’m not up on what the kids are listening to these days.”

“You’re twenty-nine years old, Rav.”

“Don’t remind me. I turn thirty in precisely three months, whereupon my desiccated husk will most likely disintegrate into gold glitter and blow away.”

“Saves me having to buy you a birthday present.”

Rav snorts appreciatively. Though they haven’t worked together long, the two of them have found a comfortable rhythm. Shepard is always up for a little banter, and he’s got this low-key wit that Rav quite enjoys. They complement each other well, too. Rav can be a little intense, and Shepard’s more slow-and-steady approach balances that out. More important, despite being ex-army and built like an NFL quarterback, Will doesn’t feel the need to prove his masculinity at every turn, which is refreshing. As an openly gay cop, Rav’s had to put up with a lot of alpha male bullshit over the years, so it’s a relief to work with someone who’s safe enough in his own skin to let Rav be safe in his.

“Hey, you still there?”

“Sorry, my mind is wandering. It’s been a long one. You were saying about a witness?”

“Right. He claims to have seen a white female—”

The cab driver slams on the brakes, jerking Rav into his seat belt and sending his phone flying. “Did you see that?” The driver lays on the horn with both hands. “This woman just jumped in front of my car! Hey, lady, are you nuts?” Rav isn’t paying much attention, too busy fishing his phone out of the seat well. Then a chorus of honking goes up all around them, and the driver murmurs an ominous “Shit…”

Rav sits up and looks out the window. The street is swarming with scared-looking people running away from something.

“Rav?” Will’s voice floats up from the phone. “You there?”

He is very much there, his fatigue instantly evaporating in a jolt of adrenaline. “Something’s going down near Union Square.” He describes what he’s looking at and gives Shepard the cross streets.

“The Concord Theater?”

“Looks like it.” Rav opens an app on his NYPD-issued phone, but there’s no alert yet. “You in the squad room?”

“Yeah. Hold on, I’ll turn on the radio.” A police radio squawks in the background. Shepard listens for a second, and then he swears softly. “It’s the Concord,” he confirms. “10–13.”

10–13. Officer needs assistance.

Shit. Rav eyes the street. “I’m less than a block away.”

“You’re off duty, man.”

Rav hears the warning tone, and he knows his partner is right. Responding to a situation when you’re off duty can get messy.

“There’ll be a hundred cops converging on the place in five minutes,” Shepard says.

Already, sirens wail nearby, punctuated by the blasting horns of FDNY fire trucks, but the traffic is piled up for blocks. They’ll be a while getting through that mess. “That could be any of us in there, Will.”

“Yeah.” Shepard curses again. “Call me back when you can. And watch your ass out there.”

Rav bails out of the cab. The sidewalk is bedlam, and the street, too; nobody’s watching where they’re going, too busy gawking or running away or filming on their phones. “NYPD!” he shouts as he jostles his way through the crowd. “Coming through!”

He’s reached the theater now. It’s still emptying out, and though the faces he passes look scared, he doesn’t spot any injuries. He grabs his shield and hangs it around his neck.

“Officer!” A guy in a bright yellow shirt that says EVENT SECURITY runs up to him. “Hey, Officer, there’s a guy with a gun in there!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, man!” He points at the doors. “I already told those other cops! I saw it sticking out of the back of his pants. He was waving this big sign around and ranting and raving.”

Rav hesitates another precious second. Will is right: this place will be swarming with cops any minute, guys who are in a much better position to do some good in there. The smart thing would be to stand down. And Rav is smart, he really is, but he’d never forgive himself if something awful happened while he just stood there like a tourist, so he draws his weapon and goes in.

His mouth is dry, and there’s a metallic taste on his tongue. He’s trained for this, but training only goes so far. He’s never fired his weapon in the real. Now he’s charging after an armed suspect without backup, no vest, no tactical gear of any kind. At least his hands are steady, his sidearm pointed carefully at the floor as he rushes past the remaining trickle of concertgoers. “Hey,” he calls after one of them, a girl in a New Knickerbockers shirt. “Is anyone still in there?”

She shakes her head frantically. “I don’t know!”

“Did you see a—” But she’s already gone.

The doors to the auditorium are open. Rav presses himself against the doorframe. “NYPD! Is anyone in there?”

No answer.

Rav speaks three languages and can swear floridly in all of them. He does so now. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunges into the auditorium. The house lights are up, the stage lights still glowing. He pauses, listening. It’s eerily quiet, but he hears what sounds like a door squeaking on its hinges somewhere. Slowly, he makes his way toward the stage. The floor is sticky, littered with discarded plastic cups and reeking of spilled beer. There’s definitely noise coming from back there.

He pauses at the edge of the stage to listen, then vaults himself up. It’s hot under the stage lights, as if he wasn’t sweating enough already.

Something shifts in the shadows. Rav inches toward it. “Police! Identify yourself!”

“NYPD.” The voice sounds strained. Stepping beyond the glare of the lights, Rav sees a uniformed officer slumped on the floor, grimacing in pain.

“Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?”

The cop shakes his head. “Just sprained my ankle or something. Wiped out chasing the guy. Watch your step, there’s water all over the floor back here.”

“Where did he go?”

The cop tilts his head toward the dressing rooms. “White male, definitely armed. Some kind of protester, I think. Found his sign on the floor over there.” He points. Even from here, Rav can see the word in bright red letters.

MURDERED.

“Where’s your partner?”

“Loading dock. We heard a noise.”

“You’ll be all right here?” Rav starts toward the stage door.

“Hey, man, you sure you wanna go back there on your own? Backup’ll be here any minute.”

By which point the suspect will probably be long gone. You’ve come this far, Rav tells himself. Just get it done. Swallowing, he heads backstage.

He hasn’t gone far before he hears a door slamming—and then a voice, half-angry, half-scared. “Where are you?” More banging, as if someone is trying one door after another. “I know you’re back here! Come on, man, I just wanna talk to you!” A figure lurches into view at the far end of the corridor. He turns full circle, seemingly at a loss.

Rav raises his weapon. “NYPD! Get on the ground!”

The guy bolts.

So now Rav is chasing after him, but the suspect has a thirty-foot head start and he’s knocking over lighting stands and shoving wheeled equipment cases and doing everything he can to trip Rav up, and by the time Rav clears the obstacle course, the emergency exit at the end of the hall is slamming shut. He bursts out into the side street behind the theater to find it empty, and it’s anybody’s guess which way the guy went.

He starts left just as a trio of cops in tactical gear pour out of the emergency exit behind him. “Which way?” one of them snaps. Rav shakes his head, and two of them peel off. “Did you get a look at him?” the third cop asks.

“Not really. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt. White guy, built like a whippet. Runs like one, too,” he adds, still out of breath.

“You should’ve waited for us,” the cop says, looking him over. “You’re not even wearing a vest.”

“Yeah.” Rav sighs and holsters his weapon. “Well, it’s all yours now, mate.”

Forty minutes later, he’s slumped in the passenger seat of Will Shepard’s Volkswagen Golf, massaging his temples and dreaming of his queen-size bed. “Sounds like it was pretty intense in there,” Shepard says, glancing him over. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, really. You didn’t need to come all the way out here.” Rav tried to talk him out of it, but Will insisted. He brushes it off now, too.

“That’s what partners do.”

“Well, I owe you one.” Rav sighs. “You were right, I should never have gone in there. It was reckless.”

“I get it. You were looking out for one of your own.”

The anodyne music playing on the stereo fades out. “In the news, a bizarre and frightening incident at the Concord Theater when an armed protester tried to force his way backstage during a rock concert headlined by the New Knickerbockers. Witnesses describe a chaotic scene as concertgoers evacuated the venue shortly before midnight. No serious injuries have been reported, although—”


Copyright © 2025 by Erin Dunn