Dead of Winter

by Stuart Melvin Kaminsky

  "A… yes," she said. "A Walther. It's in the office in my desk. You want to see it?"

  "Please," said Mac.

  "You suspect me of killing Mr. Lutnikov?" she asked, amused.

  "We're checking everyone who uses the elevator," said Aiden.

  "What more could a mystery writer ask than for material to knock at her door?" said the woman. "I'll get it."

  Louisa Cormier, now clearly interested, hurried off toward the closed door to her office.

  Mac's phone went off. He answered it, said, "Yes," and listened before saying, "I'll get there as soon as I can. Half an hour."

  He hung up as Louisa Cormier came out of the office, gun held by the barrel in one hand. She held out the gun to Mac but he told her to put it on the table.

  "I have a permit somewhere," Louisa said. "Ann could find it when…"

  "I don't think that will be necessary," said Mac.

  Aiden put on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for the weapon. Louisa Cormier watched in fascination. After examining the gun, Aiden said, "It's a Walther P22 with a three-quarter-inch barrel. Hasn't been fired recently."

  "I don't think it's ever been fired," Louisa said. "It exists in that drawer to satisfy a request from my agent who, I believe, likes me very much, but loves his fifteen percent even more."

  "A few questions," said Mac, as Aiden handed the gun back to Louisa Cormier after checking the magazine, which was indeed full. Louisa placed it on the table and sat forward eagerly, clasping her hands on her lap.

  "Have you ever been in Charles Lutnikov's apartment?" asked Mac.

  "No," said Louisa. "Let me think. No, I don't think so."

  "Has he ever been in this apartment?" Mac asked.

  "A few times. Actually, whenever a new book of mine comes out, he comes, or should I say came, up rather shyly and asked for an autograph."

  "Agent Burn found your books in Mr. Lutnikov's apartment," said Mac. "They were unread."

  "That doesn't surprise me," she said. "He was a collector. Signed, unread first editions. He bought another copy to read. He was quite open about that."

  "We didn't find any other copies of your books in his apartment," said Aiden.

  "He gave them away to other tenants after he read them. After all, he had untouched first editions. My God. This is fascinating."

  "Did Lutnikov ever show you any of his writing?" asked Mac.

  "His writing? I think he wrote catalogue copy. Why on earth would he show me that?"

  "No fiction?" asked Aiden. "Short stories? Poetry?

  "No. And to tell the truth, had he done so I would have politely told him I was far too busy to read his work and that I seldom read any fiction, not even that of my closest friends. If he had persisted, as a few do, I would have told him that my agent and editor had told me never to read an unpublished manuscript because I might be accused later of plagiarism. You'd be amazed at how many frivolous lawsuits are filed against me, which is why I contribute significantly to a lobby for tort reform."

  "You're working on a book now?" asked Mac.

  "Should have it finished in a week or so."

  "You work on your computer?" asked Mac.

  "I know writers, Dutch Leonard, Loren Estleman, who still use typewriters, but I don't understand why," Louisa said.

  "What kind of paper do you use?" asked Aiden.

  "In my printer?"

  "Yes," said Aiden.

  "I really don't know. Something good. Ann gets it at a stationery store on Forty-fourth."

  "May we have a sheet of it?" asked Mac.

  "A sheet of my computer… yes, of course. Is that all?"

  "Yes," said Mac. "We're finished for now."

  He rose, and so did the two women. Louisa Cormier, gun in her right hand, made another trip to her office and came back with several sheets of paper which she handed to Mac. The gun was gone.

  "You should know that I don't give my publisher a printed copy of my books," she said. "Haven't for God knows how many years. I just E-mail the finished manuscript in, and they print it and give it to the copy editor."

  "So you have all your manuscripts in files on your computer?" asked Mac.

  Louisa Cormier looked at him quizzically.

  "Yes, on my hard drive. I also keep a backup floppy disk copy which I lock in my fireproof wall safe."

  "Thanks," said Mac. "A last question or two. Do you own another gun?"

  Louisa Cormier looked mildly amused.

  "No."

  "Have you ever fired a gun?"

  "Yes, as part of my research. My character Pat Fantome is an ex-police officer with a very good aim. I think it helps to know how it feels to fire a gun. I go to Drietch's Range on Fifty-eighth."

  "We'll find it," said Mac. "One more question. Do you have any idea how Lutnikov's blood got on the carpet outside your elevator door?"

  "No. I'm really a suspect, aren't I?" She seemed pleased by the possibility.

  "Yes," said Mac. "But so are all your neighbors."

  "Thanks for the coffee," Aiden said, picking up her kit.

  "Come back any time," said Louisa, ushering them to the door. "I'd love to know how your investigation is going. I'm going to call my agent now and tell her about all this."

  When they were back in the elevator, Aiden said, "Basement?"

  "You're on your own," said Mac. "Stella just found Cliff Collier dead."

  "Collier? The cop who was guarding Alberta Spanio?"

  "Strangled."

  "Where?"

  "Alley in Chinatown."

  Aiden nodded and stifled a sigh with a stiff-lipped nod. She would have to go in search of the bullets by herself. She had been at the bottom of elevator shafts before. It was always interesting. It was never pleasant.

  Mac looked at the sheets of paper in his hand.

  He and Aiden were both thinking the same thing.

  "Search warrant?" she asked.

  He shook his head.

  Louisa Cormier had lied. Both Aiden and Mac knew it, but they didn't know what she had lied about- probably the blood traces. It was a rare suspect who didn't lie about something, even if they were completely innocent.

  "Not enough cause," he said.

  "We can ask her nicely," Aiden said.

  "And she can say 'no' nicely and call her lawyer."

  "So?"

  "We'll find more evidence," he said.

  8

  "DONE?" ASKED THE MAN.

  "Done," answered Big Stevie Guista.

  Big Stevie had made the phone call from a bar down the street from Zabar's. He had a shopping bag full of food- sausages, rolls, cheeses- a large slice of Gorgonzola, his favorite-flavored spreads, soft drinks, and powdered sugar cookies.

  His plan was to have a mini-birthday party with Lilly, the little girl who lived across the hall from him. Her mother would be at work.

  If Big Stevie had ever gotten married and had ever had kids, his grandchildren would be Lilly's age. Maybe. She was a good kid. He'd party with her, maybe watch a little television. Tomorrow he'd get laid. Happy Birthday Steven Guista. He wasn't complaining.

  "Good," the voice on the other end said.

  Both the man and Stevie knew better than to say any more. They hung up.

  Stevie's delivery truck was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant that was just barely sticking its top through a mound of snow. There was no ticket under the wiper when he got in. There never was. The police, the other people who saw the parked truck, usually thought he was making a delivery, which was what he would claim if someone confronted him. There weren't many people willing to confront Big Stevie about anything.

  Stevie backed out of the parking space carefully, looking back over his shoulder, which was difficult to do because he had very little in the way of a neck.

  The back of his small truck was empty, the wire racks clear. He had delivered the body of the cop to the alleyway more than two hours earlier. There was no smell of death, only the familiar diminish
ing scent of once-fresh bread.

  Stevie liked that smell. He liked it better when the bread was fresh. All in all Stevie liked his work.

  * * *

  The body lay behind a Dumpster in an alley behind Ming Lo's Dim Sum in Chinatown. What had once been Cliff Collier lay on his back, feet straight out, arms roughly folded across his chest, head at an odd angle as if he had been looking almost behind him.

  Stella had eaten at Ming Lo's at least a dozen times, always on Sunday mornings, always with some relative who came to New York wanting to see something of the city. Ming Lo's entrance, which was on the other side of the building on Mott Street, was brightly neon lit with a broad escalator inside the glass doors. At the top of the escalator was a massive room jammed with tables. Chinese men and women wheeled dim sum carts around for customers, almost all Chinese, who selected from dozens of choices, all of which were eaten with chop sticks or fingers. Stella's relatives were always impressed.

  She wondered how impressed they would be by the sight of the dead man in the alley.

  "This is what I do," she said, imagining a conversation with an aunt or cousin. "I ask dead people questions."

  The idea of dim sum, which usually made her hungry, now made her feel slightly nauseated. Her stomach was churning. Stella knelt next to the body. Danny had already taken photographs of the dead man, the wall, and the Dumpster.

  Don Flack was near the rear door of Ming Lo's talking to the kitchen worker who had discovered the body. The clearly frightened heavy-set man responded in Chinese, which was translated by a young woman in a silk dress who shivered as she spoke.

  Flack took off his coat and wrapped it around the young woman's shoulders. She nodded her thanks. The heavy-set man spoke rapidly, excited.

  "He knew the dead man wasn't homeless," the young woman translated. "He is dressed too well and his hair is cut."

  Flack nodded, notebook in hand.

  "Did he see anyone, hear anything?" Flack asked.

  The young woman translated. The heavy-set man shook his head emphatically.

  Flack looked back at the body. He had known Collier, not well but well enough to use first names and feel comfortable about asking each other about their families. Don remembered that Collier wasn't married but had a mother and father who lived in Queens. Collier's father was a retired cop.

  Danny, Stella, and Don all noticed the smell, a mixture of warm, salty and sweet Chinese cooking. Danny would have liked an order of fried wonton or something else that looked good. Maybe he could suggest to Stella that when they finished outside they might go inside, ask some questions, get something to eat.

  Stella gently touched the neck of the dead man and turned the body slightly. It was tight behind the Dumpster but she managed to reach back for her small hand vacuum and use it on the victim's jacket, neck, and hair.

  Flack wasn't thinking of Chinese food. Not that he didn't like it, but the dead man was on his mind and he was focused.

  "Thanks," he said to the young woman.

  She didn't have to translate. The heavy-set man glanced at the body and hurried back into the restaurant. The girl handed Flack's coat back to him. Their eyes met. There might have been something there, but he wasn't up to it, not now, not here, not with Collier lying there.

  When the girl went back in the restaurant, Flack turned and watched Mac Taylor coming down the alley, moving slowly, hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

  Mac stood next to Danny, looking down at the body and Stella kneeling next to it. Mac's lips were closed and tight, his eyes searching the narrow alley.

  "Neck's broken," Stella said.

  She turned the body on its side. It was a tight fit and the dead man was heavy. She could have asked for help, but she didn't want to contaminate the site any more than it had been already.

  "Alley's full of prints in the snow," said Danny. "At least six different people. I've taken footprints."

  Danny had first used an aerosol spray snow print wax to retain the details of the prints and stop the effects of melting. Then he had taken a casting of each print, using a pouch of casting powder mixed with water, which he kneaded and poured directly from the pouch into the print, adding a couple of pinches of salt to speed the setting of the plaster.

  "Any particularly large?" asked Mac.

  "One set," said Danny. "Clean one over here."

  Danny knew why Mac had asked about large prints. Collier was over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds. He was also in good shape, worked out. Hawkes would weigh him to get an exact figure.

  Whoever had killed Collier had been stronger and at least as big as the detective, if it was one killer. Again, Hawkes would be able to tell them more.

  Danny pointed to a trio of footprints heading toward the Dumpster and then at two more, approximately the same size, heading away. The ones heading away weren't as deep as the ones heading toward the Dumpster. The weight of Collier's body had been off of the shoulders of the man who had dropped the body.

  "Get a cast of the footprints moving away," said Mac. "Measure the snow density. We'll find a formula to be sure that he was carrying Collier's body. Check Collier's wallet. See what it gives as his weight."

  Danny nodded. There was no doubt that the footprints belonged to the bearer of Collier's body, but it might come down to evidence given in court and Mac wanted everything confirmed.

  Flack joined Danny and Mac and watched Stella work.

  The question didn't have to be asked, but all four members of the CSI unit knew the odds of the detective's murder being connected somehow to the murder of Alberta Spanio, the woman he had been protecting only hours ago.

  Stella was up now, taking off her gloves.

  Mac could see the places on the Dumpster that had been dusted for prints. There were plenty of them, but it wasn't likely that any belonged to whoever had dropped Collier's body here.

  "He wasn't killed here," Stella said.

  Mac nodded.

  "No footprints in the snow behind the body," she said. "If he was killed and pushed over, he'd have to be turned around. No sign of that."

  "No signs of struggle," said Mac.

  "That too," said Stella.

  "We've got footprints," said Danny.

  It was Stella's turn to nod. There was nothing more for them to do here. The rest would be done in the lab.

  Each of them had a theory, one they were ready to give up or modify with the next piece of evidence.

  Flack's first thought was that Collier had found a lead to Alberta Spanio's murderer, followed it and got spotted by the killer.

  Danny considered that Collier may have seen or remembered something about the murder and either told the wrong person, or the killer figured out that Collier knew something that might reveal who he was.

  Stella considered that Collier might have been involved in the murder of Alberta Spanio and had been killed to protect the killer or killers.

  "Ed Taxx," Mac said. "Bring him in. He may be on the killer's list. If Collier saw or knew something that got him killed, Taxx might know the same thing."

  Flack nodded.

  "And let's find Stevie Guista," Mac added, glancing at the body and nodding at the paramedics who had just arrived.

  Mac checked his watch.

  "Anyone hungry?" he asked.

  "Yeah," said Danny, rubbing his hands together and shifting his feet which were beginning to feel numb.

  "I'll pass," said Stella.

  Don shook his head and watched the paramedics move the Dumpster and zip the dead man into a black bag.

  The quartet didn't move. They watched silently until the body was well down the alley. Mac noticed a trio of wrapped fortune cookies lying in the snow where the Dumpster had been. He knelt and picked them up.

  Mac and his wife had been to Ming Lo's once. They'd had fortune cookies that night. He didn't remember what they said.

  After a few seconds, he dropped the unopened fortune cookies in the Dumpster and turned
to the others, saying, "Dim sum?"

  * * *

  Big Stevie knocked at the door and waited while Lilly said, "Who is it?"

  "Me, Stevie," he said.

  When she opened the door, he handed her the shopping bag from Zabar's. It weighed her down and touched the floor.

  "It's my birthday," he said. "How about a birthday party?"

  He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

  "I knew it was your birthday," she said, moving to the small kitchen and starting to lift out each of the goodies, pausing to savor the touch and smell of what was to come. "I made you a present."

  Stevie was caught off guard, touched. It must have shown on his face.

  "It's nothing much," Lilly said. "I'll give it to you after we eat."

  He took off his coat and removed his shoes, placing the coat on the chair near the door and the shoes on a mat next to the chair.

  "How about before we eat," he said, trying to remember the last time he had been given a birthday present. Not since he was a young boy. He had never been a "little" boy.

  "Okay," Lilly said, removing the last package from the shopping bag.

  She moved to the bedroom on the left, went in, and came back seconds later with a small package awkwardly wrapped in wrinkled red paper with a pink ribbon. She placed the small package in his huge hand.

  "Open it," she said.

  He did, carefully, not tearing paper or ribbon. It was a small, pocket-sized animal. Lilly had made it from clay or something and painted it white.

  "It's a dog," she said. "I was going to make a horse but it was too hard. You like it?"

  "Yes," he said, putting the dog on the table.

  It wobbled but didn't fall.

  "Can I name him?" Lilly asked.

  "Sure."

  "Rolf, like the dog on Sesame Street."

  "Rolf," he said. "Sounds like a bark."

  "I think it's supposed to."

  "So," he said. "Should we eat?"

  Lilly got plates, knives, forks, paper towels, and glasses.

  "Did those people find you?" she, asked unwrapping a package of sausage.

  "People?" Stevie asked.

  "A man and a woman, when Mom left for work."