"Who did they say they were?" he asked as Lilly carefully placed a slice of sausage on a roll she cut in half.
"I think they were the police," she said, handing him the sandwich she had made and then the card her mother had given her before she left.
Stevie was silent. He looked at the CSI card with Mac Taylor's name and number on it and handed it back to the girl. Then he took the sandwich and looked at it as if it were an unfamiliar object.
"I think one of them is in your apartment waiting for you," she said, working on her own sandwich.
Stevie pocketed the clay dog and turned in his chair to look at the door as if he could, with enough effort, see through it into his own apartment.
Stevie had to think. It would take time. Thinking was not one of his strong points. He took a large bite of the dry sandwich. The texture was dry, but the taste was satisfying, familiar.
* * *
Jacob Laudano was seriously starting to worry. It had all been too easy, and now he had a phone call telling him what to say if and when the police came looking for him.
Why the hell should the police be looking for him? Okay, so they had a reason to look for him, but he could get around that unless they were out to nail him. They didn't have evidence against him. They couldn't.
Jacob "The Jockey" Laudano stood four foot ten and weighed ninety-four pounds, five pounds more than his racing weight. Considering that the last time he had been on a horse was eight years ago, he had done a good job of keeping the weight off, putting food on the table, paying the rent for his one-bedroom East Side apartment, and having enough left over for clothes and drinks.
He didn't need money to get women, not like Big Stevie. Not many wanted to be crushed by Steve's bulk or look up and see Steve's face. Jake, on the other hand, held an appeal for some reason that was hard for him to understand, but which he accepted without question. He knew it had something to do with his size. He wasn't a bad looking guy, but the face that looked back at him in the morning mirror or the mirror at the back of Denny Kahn's Bar was no Tom Cruise. Jake was pale, nose a little sharp, eyes narrow. He was nearing fifty but could pass for younger. His size again.
He had never liked the horses except to bet, and that's what had gotten him into trouble. For awhile it had been good. He had bet on his own races and played all the tricks to see to it that the favorite didn't win. It was a little-appreciated skill, even less appreciated by the other jockeys who eventually turned him in.
Jake was through in the business by the time he was twenty-six, at which time he had put his agility and lack of regard for the law into the traditional family business, breaking and entering.
He had done fine at that for more then ten years and then, dumb luck, he was delving into the lower drawer of a dresser where people often hid something small and worth taking when the apartment door opened suddenly.
Dumb luck. Jake had gone for the window. The guy had beat him to it, blocked his way, and punched him in the chest harder than he had ever been punched before or than he would be while doing two years upstate.
The guy turned out to be a third baseman for the Mets. Dumb luck again.
Jake made contacts while on the inside, which led to connections when he got out, connections that got him work because he was still damned good at getting in and out of places the big, fat, and often old people who hired him could not fit into. The first time he had been offered a hit for ten thousand he had said, "Sure."
He had killed three others since then, all for the standard fee of $10,000. Jake the Jockey had a reputation. He didn't try to hold out for a bigger payoff no matter who he was hired to kill.
Jake's preferred tool was a long, sharp knife to the neck while the mark was asleep.
He was straightening his tie in the mirror and pulling the knot just right. Someone had once called him a "natty dresser." He had looked it up and liked it.
The phone rang. Jake kept working on his tie as he came out of the bathroom and picked it up.
"Yeah," he said.
And then he listened.
"Went just fine," Jake said. "Like I told you. In, out. No questions… Yeah, they saw me, not my face… If he does, I will, but he won't come here… Okay, okay, I'll call."
The phone went dead. He put it back down and looked at it for a few seconds. Had something gone wrong?
* * *
It was dark in the elevator shaft, but Aiden had a large lamp flashlight on its highest setting sitting in a corner on a metal beam.
She wore gloves and had a package of evidence bags atop her kit next to the flashlight. There wasn't as much garbage as she had expected, but there was still enough to make the job formidable.
It was a challenge.
There were crumbling sheets from newspapers dating back to the 1950s. One of them held the word "Ike" in what was left of the headline. She plowed through envelopes, all old, none from or to anyone whose name she recognized. She found a Baby Ruth candy bar wrapper, an assortment of screws, thumb tacks, and other pieces of metal. She found two dead rats under an unidentifiable moist mess in one corner. One of the rats was long dead and mostly skeletal. The other was still damp and all too fragrant.
She rummaged for forty-five minutes, finishing her search with a dried out condom wrapped in aluminum foil. So much for a high-class Manhattan apartment building.
There was no bullet at the bottom of the shaft. She was as sure of that as the fact that she needed a shower.
She started to climb out of the shaft into the basement. With one knee on the concrete floor, she took a last look back, shining her flashlight into corners and up at the stopped elevator, which she'd turned off before coming down here. It was then that she saw it. The bullet, what was left of it, lay dark and leaden, on a metal structural beam. It hadn't fallen all the way to the floor of the shaft.
Aiden scrambled down into the shaft with tweezers and a plastic bag, took three photographs, and retrieved the bullet.
9
HAWKES LOOKED DOWN AT COLLIER'S BODY, Mac and Stella at his side.
"The killer was taller than the victim," Hawkes said. "Look at the bruises."
He pointed to the dead man's neck.
"Pulled back and up to get leverage. Bruises start at the Adam's apple and work upwards. Like this."
Hawkes got behind Mac and demonstrated. Mac could feel Hawkes's loose grip moving upward.
"Probably lifted our victim right off the ground."
Hawkes stepped back and looked down at the corpse again.
"Dead man weighs two hundred and ten pounds and is six one and a half," Hawkes said. "Your killer is at least six five, maybe as tall as six six or even six seven and very strong. No fumbling around here, just one clean arm around the neck from behind and a powerful sudden pull. No struggle."
"And?" asked Stella.
"Killer's right-handed," said Hawkes. "Principal bruising and crushing of the esophagus is on the victim's right side."
"So if we find a left-handed giant, he's innocent?" asked Mac straight faced.
"Thus eliminating left-handed giants," Hawkes agreed.
"He's done this before," said Stella.
"He knew what he was doing," said Hawkes. "You like opera?"
"Never saw one," said Stella.
Mac had seen them. His wife had loved opera. And Mac had gotten used to the artificial, inane stories, the overacting, and the semi-pomp of dressing up. He had especially liked watching Claire dress for a big night out. She always smiled in anticipation. And Mac had gradually grown to appreciate the music and the singing.
"I've got two tickets for Don Giovanni tomorrow," Hawkes said. "Donatelli in Homicide gave them to me. He's got a cousin in the chorus. Donatelli's wife has the flu, which, he said, was one he owed God."
"You're not going?" asked Stella.
"I prefer CDs," said Hawkes. "You want to try?"
"No, thanks," said Stella.
"Mac?" asked Hawkes.
Mac considered and looked at Stella
.
Her cheeks were pink, but it was difficult to tell how pink under the surgical lights. Her eyes were moist and he thought she looked a little unsteady.
"Take them," she said.
"You all right?" he asked.
"A cold," she said.
Mac held out his hand and Hawkes produced two tickets from his pocket. Mac glanced at them. They were good seats, orchestra.
"Thanks," he said, pocketing them.
On the way down the corridor, with gray frigid light coming through the windows, Stella asked, "You really like opera?"
He almost said, "We did," but stopped himself and instead said, "Depends on the opera."
In the lab, Danny Messer stood in front of a large table on which lay a two-foot length of steel chain.
"Where do we start?" he said, looking at Stella and Mac.
Mac jerked his chin at the chain.
"Right," said Danny. "Standard stuff. Some of the links have tiny numbers indicating their manufacturer. One thing's for sure. This chain matches the fragments we got in that hotel room. I called the manufacturer. They guarantee the chain will hold a hundred pounds. The woman I talked to said that holding more than a hundred pounds on the chain out the window would probably result in one or more of the links opening."
"Collier's clothes?" asked Mac.
Danny smiled and walked over to a microscope. Alongside the microscope were slides neatly numbered. Danny put one of the slides in the microscope, focused, and stepped back.
"Tested the brown-white flecks," Danny said. "Flour. On the back of his jacket only."
Stella examined the slide.
"Collier's body was moved in a vehicle containing flour," said Mac.
"Almost coated in a thin layer," said Danny.
"Insect pieces in the flour," Stella said. "In the other samples too?"
"Yep," said Danny.
"Federal Drug Administration allows a low level of insect content in flour used in bakeries," said Mac.
"I'll remember that when I order a sub for dinner tonight," said Danny.
Stella moved aside and Mac gazed into the microscope saying, "Insects are different for each bakery."
"And," added Danny, "there are different kinds of flour, different additives. I'm tracing the producer of this flour. I'll get a list of their customers. Then we can match the flour and insect particles to a particular bakery."
"Maybe," said Stella, arms folded.
"Maybe," Danny agreed.
"Start with Marco's Bakery," said Stella.
They all knew why. The fingerprint in the hotel room above Alberta Spanio's bedroom had been left by Steven Guista, a man with an arrest record, a big man who drove a truck for Marco's Bakery, which was owned by Dario Marco, the brother of the man Alberta Spanio was supposed to testify against.
"Nothing from Flack?" asked Mac.
"Nothing yet," said Danny. "He's waiting at Guista's apartment. Judge Familia issued the warrant."
Mac looked at Stella, who held back a sniffle.
"I'll get my kit," she said.
It would take them twenty minutes to get to Guista's apartment. A lot would happen in those twenty minutes.
* * *
Don Flack carefully examined Guista's small apartment, listening for footsteps in the hall. A monk could have lived there.
There was a stained green recliner in the small living room just inside the door to the hall. The stained recliner had a hollowed-out indentation where Guista probably spent most of his time. A small color Zenith television sat on top of an old three-drawer dresser directly in front of the recliner. A remote sat on the arm of the recliner.
There was a Formica-covered table in the kitchen with aluminum legs and three matching chairs with blue plastic seats and backs. A refrigerator with little in it, a cupboard with three coffee cups, four dinner plates, a pair of heavy glasses. Under the sink were one pot and one chipped Teflon-covered pan.
The bedroom was tiny. A big neatly made bed with a green blanket and four pillows took up most of the bedroom space. There were no books or magazines on the night table. On the wall at the foot of the bed was a print of three horses eating grass in a broad rolling pasture.
The small bathroom had an oversized old tub with clawed feet and old porcelain handles.
What struck Flack most about the apartment was that it appeared to be immaculately clean, almost antiseptic, barely lived in. There weren't many clothes in the drawers or closet. Guista did seem partial to green in his socks, shirts, and few pieces of furniture.
Don went back in the living room/kitchen area and sat in one of the chairs at the Formica-covered table. The chair faced the door.
Don was prepared to spend the rest of the day and all night in the small apartment.
* * *
Across the hall, Big Stevie and Lilly partied, ate, and began to watch a rerun of a Gunsmoke episode, one of the ones in black and white with Dennis Weaver as Chester.
Stevie wanted to stay there. He had done enough for one day, more than enough. He hoped it would be appreciated. He didn't expect a bonus. A small sign of appreciation would do. And it was his birthday.
But right now he had to think. There was someone in his apartment, a man, waiting for him, going through his neatly stacked clothing, his evenly spaced pants, shirts, and jackets, his coffee cups and cereal jars.
Big Stevie knew he had to get away, but it felt right sitting with Lilly, eating the last of the cake, drinking orange-tangerine juice.
It was most likely the cops. But it was too soon for them to find him. In fact, he did not expect to be found at all, but here they were.
Then another thought welled up. He tried to push it down. What if it wasn't the cops? What if Mr. Marco thought Big Stevie might get picked up, might talk? What if Mr. Marco thought Big Stevie was getting too old for the work? No, couldn't be. Wouldn't happen. But maybe.
Stevie had to get into his apartment, find out. He had to get the few things he cared about in there and go somewhere, check in with Marco and go to Detroit or Boston. He knew Detroit and Boston.
"I'm not afraid," Lilly said.
"What?"
"That man inside the barn isn't going to kill Marshall Dillon," she explained. "The music says he might, but if he killed Marshall Dillon, there'd be no more shows and we know there were lots of them."
"You're smart," said Stevie, touching the top of her head with a broad palm.
"Smarter than the average bear," she said.
Stevie didn't get it.
The show ended. Marshall Dillon shot the bad guy in the barn. Stevie stood up. He had to know.
"You stay in here," he said. "You might hear some noise in the hall but you stay in here. Lock the door behind me."
"You have to go?"
"Business," he said.
"The man in your apartment," said Lilly.
"Yeah."
"Are you coming back when you're finished with him?"
"Not today," he said.
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the painted dog she had made for him.
"Thanks," he said, holding it up.
"You really like it?"
"Best birthday present I ever got," he said, putting the dog back in his pocket.
He turned down the volume on the television set, walked to the door, opened it slowly, quietly, while Lilly watched.
"Lock it," he whispered.
She nodded, followed him to the door, and locked it behind him.
In the hall, Stevie stood still for a few seconds and then moved silently to his apartment door. Did the man inside leave the door unlocked? Probably not. He would want to hear Stevie put his key in the lock, turn it, which was why Stevie instead threw himself at the door.
Don should have been ready, but the huge man who flew past the splintered door and lunged at him was moving too quickly for the detective to pull out his weapon.
He started to rise from the chair but the big man flung himself toward him, l
anding with his full weight on Don, sending them both toppling to the floor.
"Police," Don panted.
The big man was on top of the detective who was pinned to the floor, pain in his back from the metal leg of the chair digging into it.
Stevie was relieved. Marco had not sent someone to kill him. Stevie could deal with the police. He had his entire life. Anthony Korncoff, who had spent half his life in cells, said Stevie's survival was a direct result of Stevie's relative lack of intelligence.
"You're all animal instinct," Korncoff had said.
Stevie had taken it as a compliment. Stevie kept everything simple. He had to. Once Stevie told a lie, he stuck to it. He couldn't be, had never been rattled. He wasn't rattled now.
"What do you want?" said Stevie.
"Get off me and we'll go in for a few questions," said Don, trying to ignore the pain and the weight of the big man.
"Questions about what?" asked Stevie.
It was possible this man pinning Don to the floor had murdered Cliff Collier a few hours earlier. It was certain he had something to do with Alberta Spanio's murder. It was likely that if Don said any of this, the big man would kill him.
"Let me get some air," Don gasped.
Stevie considered and sat back. It was a mistake. Don got to his gun and was pulling it out of the holster under his jacket when Stevie's fingers found his throat.
Don could feel the thick thumbs digging into his neck, deeply, quickly. He fired. He wasn't sure where the gun was aiming. He hoped it was toward Big Stevie Guista.
Stevie grunted, his thumbs loosened slightly. Don hit the big man in the nose with the barrel of his gun and Stevie stood up on wobbly legs, blood coming from a wound in the fleshy upper part of his left leg, blood flowing from his broken nose.
Don skittered backwards on the floor. He still wanted to take the man in, but he wasn't going to take any chances.
He hesitated. Big Stevie kicked the gun out of the detective's hand. The gun rose and landed with a clatter in the kitchen sink.
Stevie had a choice. There had been a shot. People might have heard. Should he kill the policeman? Did he have enough strength to do it? Would it make the pain and bleeding worse? And what was there to gain from killing another cop?
Dead of Winter Page 9