AVENGING ANGEL: Love and Death in Old Brooklyn by Charles S. Isaacs
Prologue
“Just my type,” he thought, barely a hundred yards into his morning Prospect Park jog. “This must be my lucky day.” He reached into his pocket, fingering a small bag filled with fresh tulip petals, and smiled.
She was petite, with short, curly blonde hair, and probably half his age. He picked up his pace until he drew even, and gave her his most winning smile.
“Mind some company?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she replied. “People say it can be dangerous for a girl out alone at this hour.”
“Well, you can never be too careful. We can keep an eye on one another.”
As they ran, he continued chatting her up. That was what he did. He learned she recently moved to Brooklyn from a small Midwestern town.
“This one,” he thought, “was going to be so easy.”
He veered onto another path and beckoned her to follow. “You gotta see this part of the park,” he said. “It’s out of this world.”
She complied. After a few minutes, she glanced back over her shoulder. He followed her gaze, to see a young Black woman, tall and athletically built, about fifty yards behind, effortlessly keeping pace.
“Anyone you know?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I just got a little nervous. I heard some girls were murdered here.”
“Yes, the Yellow Tulip Murders. But just stick with me, and you’ll be fine.”
Soon, the Black woman blew past them, disappearing around a curve. As if on cue, “Blondie,” as he mentally named her, suddenly pulled up short, bent over and rested her hands on her knees.
He placed a comforting hand on her back. “Are you all right?”
“It’s a stitch in my side. I just need a few minutes to rest. You go on. I’ll try to catch up.”
“Nonsense,” he responded, taking her hand. “I know just the place. Come along.”
He led her into a thick forest just off the path, where a waterfall drowned out the sounds of the city.
“This is what I wanted to show you anyway,” he said. “Isn’t it wonderful? Here’s a big flat rock, a good place for you to rest.”
As she moved ahead toward the rock, he withdrew the garrote from his back pocket. Suddenly, a strong arm wrapped itself around his neck. He dropped to his knees, struggling against a chokehold. His attacker told “Blondie” it was time to leave, and she did.
His assailant abruptly released the chokehold. He staggered back, then turned to face the tall Black woman who’d been trailing them on the path.
The woman spun around and shot her foot into his solar plexus. He doubled over in agony. She watched and waited. Gathering himself, he grabbed a branch and charged. She sidestepped and tossed him into a tree. As he fell, she sent a karate chop into his neck, and then went to work on him.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the forest and resumed her jog. He did not.