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Dead of Winter

Page 15

by Stuart Melvin Kaminsky


  "It was her gun," said the judge.

  "No," said Mac. "It belonged to the range. She didn't have a key, but, according to the firing range owner, she did know where the box was."

  Aiden had said something else, something Mac didn't share with the judge, although he would share it if pressed. Aiden had just told Mac that the bullet from the elevator shaft and the firing-range gun were not a match.

  Why, Mac thought, had Louisa Cormier broken into Drietch's to get to a gun that was not the murder weapon? The problem, Mac concluded, was that his prime suspect was a mystery writer who knew how to make a straightforward investigation look like it was committed in the Land of Oz.

  Judge Meriman swiveled his chair and looked out at the gray day threatening fresh snow. Then he swiveled back and said, "I will issue a warrant for a search of the premises of Louisa Cormier for the purpose of searching for a.22 caliber weapon for the purpose of comparison with the bullet your investigator found."

  There was no way there could be a match with the weapon Louisa Cormier had shown them. Mac was certain it hadn't been fired in at least two or three days, probably much longer. The chances of there being a third.22 were very slight. If there was a third gun, the murder weapon, and he didn't rule it out, Louisa Cormier had almost certainly gotten rid of it by now. For now, however, Mac would take what he could.

  "Thank you," said Mac.

  "And I'll need forensic evidence that, should you find it, the weapon in question proves to have been fired. If the.22 at the firing range is not the murder weapon, you can then run gun fire tests on any.22 you find in Louisa Cormier's apartment to determine if the bullet that killed Charles Lutnikov came from that weapon."

  A look of conspiratorial cooperation passed between Mac and the judge.

  "If in search of the specific items indicated, you come up with further evidence that Louisa Cormier has been involved in the crime under investigation, that evidence must be discovered during a search for the gun. Is that clear?"

  "Yes," said Carasco, Witz, and Taylor in chorus.

  "Then it's done," said Meriman.

  Meriman picked up his phone and punched a button. He told someone to come into his office.

  "One more thing you should know, Your Honor," Carasco said. "We have a confession from another party."

  The judge sat back with an irritated sigh.

  "Detective Taylor believes the confession is false," Carasco added.

  "When you have evidence that the confession is false, then I'll issue the warrant for Louisa Cormier's apartment," Meriman said. "Now leave. You've wasted enough of my time."

  The three visitors left the office, hearing the click of a radio being turned on behind them.

  13

  "MR. MARCO HAS NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU," said Helen Grandfield when Stella and Danny entered the office with two uniformed officers behind them. "And this is private property so if you don't have a warrant- "

  "This is a crime scene," said Stella.

  The smell of baking bread had to be strong but Stella smelled nothing. She controlled her urge, her need to wipe her nose.

  "What crime?" Helen Grandfield said, rising.

  "We have evidence that strongly suggests a police officer was murdered in your corridor," said Danny.

  Helen Grandfield looked at Danny and the two uniformed cops who had come in with them and then glared at Stella.

  "This is bullshit," she said.

  "Mrs. Contranos," Stella said.

  "I use and prefer the name Grandfield," the woman said.

  "Except at the door to your apartment building," said Stella. "And you were born Helen Marco. Lots of names."

  Helen Grandfield tried not to glare. She failed.

  "We'd like to know if any of your bakery employees didn't show up for work this morning and we'd like to interview everyone working in the bakery and we'll have to insist on talking to your father again."

  The use of her real name and her relationship to Dario Marco stopped the woman who was about to launch another protest.

  "You live on President Street in Brooklyn Heights. Anybody from the bakery visit you last night?" asked Stella.

  "No, why?"

  "Someone bled on your doorstep," said Stella. "And someone vomited." Stella felt more than a little queasy. "We can match the blood when we find the bleeder. We can match DNA in the vomit when we find the person who threw up."

  The woman stood, arms at her side, quivering slightly.

  "Your cooperation will be appreciated," said Stella.

  "My father isn't here yet," she said. "I'll need his permission to…"

  Stella was shaking her head "no" before the woman finished.

  "Steven Guista," Stella said.

  "One of our delivery-truck drivers," Helen Grandfield said, pulling herself together.

  "We'd like to talk to him," said Stella.

  "I don't…"

  "He assaulted a police officer and is wanted in connection with the murder of Alberta Spanio, who was scheduled to testify today or tomorrow against your uncle," said Stella.

  Helen Grandfield said nothing and then, after a deep breath, spoke very calmly.

  "Steve Guista has the day off. Yesterday was his birthday. My father gave him two days off. I can give you his home address."

  "We've got that," said Stella. "Now, who else isn't here today who should be here?"

  "Everyone else showed up for work," said Helen.

  "We'll need a list of all employee names and a room where I can talk to them one by one," said Stella.

  "We don't have anyplace you can do that," said Helen.

  "Fine," said Stella. "We'll do it in the bakery." Stella could stand it no longer. She fished a thick tissue out of her pocket and wiped her nose.

  * * *

  Jordan Breeze once again sat across from detective Mac Taylor in the interrogation room. Both men had cardboard cups of coffee in front of them.

  Mac turned on the tape recorder and opened the folder in front of him. It was thicker than the last time the two men had talked.

  "You didn't kill Charles Lutnikov," said Mac.

  Breeze smiled and drank some coffee.

  "Your hand is trembling," said Mac.

  "Nervous," Breeze said.

  "No," said Mac, shaking his head. "Multiple sclerosis."

  "You had no right to get that information from my physician," said Breeze.

  "Didn't need your physician," said Mac. "We have one of our own who observed you. Jerky eye movements. Internuclear opthalmoplegia, lack of coordination between your eyes. You stuttered when I talked to you. Noticed you had trouble picking up your coffee cup, and your hands shook. You work hard and speak slowly and distinctly to keep from slurring your speech, but you can't completely control it. You can't sit up straight. You keep slouching. When I touched your hand it was abnormally cold. And twice when you were pacing your cell you almost fell. There's no way you could have walked to the river and back in the snow."

  Breeze slowly sat up.

  "Are you having double vision?" asked Mac. "Muscle weakness. Jerking and twitching muscles. Facial pain. Nausea. Incontinence?"

  Breeze went pale and put the paper cup on the table, trying not to spill it.

  "Memory problems?" Mac went on.

  "You can't get my medical records," Breeze said.

  "You confessed to murder," said Mac. "We put you in jail and have the prison doctor examine you."

  Breeze said nothing.

  "How much time do you have before full onset?" asked Mac.

  "A year, two," said Breeze.

  "Have a family to take care of you?"

  "No one," said Breeze, his right hand visibly trembling now.

  "You never had a gun," said Mac.

  Breeze didn't answer.

  "We found the trunk in the locker three doors to the left of yours," said Mac. "It was filled with books autographed by Louisa Cormier. You took them out of your apartment after you heard about the murder,
heard we were talking to Louisa Cormier, heard that she was a suspect."

  "She signed them for me," he said. "I'm a big fan. She's going to dedicate the next book to me."

  "You didn't kill Charles Lutnikov. He never harassed you."

  "I did."

  "Was Lutnikov carrying anything when you shot him?"

  "No."

  "No newspaper, books…?"

  "Nothing."

  "Is Louisa Cormier paying your medical bills?" asked Mac.

  Breeze didn't answer. He turned his head away. Mac thought he detected a hint of pain.

  "We'll find out," Mac said.

  "She's a good person," Breeze said.

  Mac didn't answer. Finally, Jordan Breeze looked down.

  "Everything I touch turns to shit," said Breeze.

  "Did Louisa gave you the details about the shooting?" asked Mac.

  "I think I want a lawyer now," said Breeze.

  "I think that's a good idea," said Mac.

  One hour later, after listening to the tape of the conversation between Mac and Jordan Breeze, Judge Meriman issued a search warrant for the apartment of Louisa Cormier.

  * * *

  Louisa Cormier offered Aiden and Mac no coffee this time. She was not sullen, surly, or impolite. In fact she was cooperative and gracious, but coffee and charm were clearly not on her agenda today for the CSI duo that came bearing a search warrant.

  She let them into the apartment looking a bit frayed, tired and red-eyed wearing a loose-fitting flowered dress.

  "Please wait," she said once they were inside.

  Mac and Aiden were under no obligation to wait for her to finish the call she made to her lawyer from the wireless phone on a delicately inlaid table just inside the doorway, but they did so anyway.

  "Yes," Louisa Cormier said into the phone, her eyes avoiding the investigators. "I have it in my hand."

  She looked down at the search warrant.

  "Shall I read it to you?… All right. Please hurry."

  Louisa hung up the phone. "Why are you here?" she asked. "I understand someone has confessed to killing Mr. Lutnikov."

  "We don't believe him," said Mac. "His name is Jordan Breeze. You know him?"

  "Slightly. My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes," she said. "I must ask you to put everything back just as you find it."

  Mac nodded.

  "I plan to watch," Louisa said. "Front-line research for my next book."

  "You finished your latest?" asked Mac politely.

  Louisa smiled and said, "Almost."

  Aiden and Mac stood silently for a moment, waiting for her to continue. Louisa put a hand to her forehead and said, "It may be my last, at least for a while. As you can see, it has taken a great deal out of me. May I ask what you're looking for? I might be able to save you some time and keep my carpets clean and my privacy intact."

  "Among other things, a.22 caliber pistol," said Mac. "Not the one you showed us yesterday. And a bolt cutter."

  "A bolt cutter?" she asked.

  "The lock on the box at the firing range where you keep a pistol was cut, probably some time yesterday."

  "And the gun from the box is missing?" she asked, her eyes meeting his.

  "No," said Mac.

  "I'm afraid you'll have to look," Louisa said. "You won't find anything. I should take notes about how it feels to be a murder suspect. I am obviously a prime suspect aren't I?"

  "Looks that way," said Mac.

  "A prime suspect without motive," she added.

  Neither Mac nor Aiden responded. They put on their disposable gloves and began with the entryway in which they were standing.

  * * *

  "They were going to kill me," Big Stevie said to Jake the Jockey.

  Stevie was sitting on the sofa, sunk deep, leg hurting, thinking not about his birthday or the pain in his leg but the betrayal by Dario Marco. That's all it could be, the only explanation. Stevie was a liability. He knew what had happened to Alberta Spanio. Marco couldn't take a chance on Stevie's being picked up and talking, so he had set him up at the apartment in Brooklyn.

  Stevie wouldn't have talked. He had little besides a small apartment, a job driving a bakery truck, some favorite shows on television, a bar he sort of liked hanging around in, Lilly and her mother across the hall, and Marco. Until yesterday that had been enough to make him content.

  "Want some coffee, a drink, something?" asked the Jockey, himself sitting at the table in the studio apartment.

  "No, thanks," said Stevie.

  Stevie and the Jockey had done jobs together, mostly for the Marco family. The Jockey did most of the talking when they were together, not that he was one of those can't-stop talkers, but compared to Stevie he was Leno or Letterman.

  "What're you gonna do?" asked the Jockey.

  Stevie didn't want to think about his options, but he forced himself. He could gather whatever money he could, which was not all that much, maybe twenty-thousand or so if he could get it out of the bank after checking to be sure it wasn't being watched by the police. He could turn himself in, testify against Anthony and Dario Marco, maybe duck the murder charge, go into witness protection. What did he owe them now? He had given them total loyalty and they had tried to kill him.

  No, even if he got a good lawyer and made a good deal, he would have to do some time. He had strangled a cop. No getting around that. Stevie was seventy-one years old plus a few hours. He'd die of old age in prison if the Marcos didn't get to him first.

  Stevie could more than hold his own now, but in a few years maybe, he wouldn't be fast enough to stop a prison shank from being plunged into his back. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be isolated from the population, live and die in a cell.

  No, there was really only one thing he could do. He could kill Dario Marco. Killing Dario had no reward other than making things even. He probably should have killed the two who had tried to trap him in the doorway of Lynn Contranos's apartment building. Maybe he did kill one of them, the one he had punched in the stomach. Maybe he was off somewhere or in a hospital dying of internal bleeding. He had broken the nose of the second guy. Stevie seemed to remember his name was Jerry. Stevie had taken the gun from Jerry and thrown it away. Maybe he should have kept it, but Stevie had never liked guns. Maybe he should also kill this Lynn Contranos. When he put it all together, there really weren't many options other than to be the last man standing.

  There was a knock at the door. The Jockey stood up suddenly, looked at Stevie, looked at the door.

  "Who's it?" asked Jake.

  "Police."

  Not many choices of places to hide. The closet or the bathroom. The Jockey pointed to the bathroom. Stevie got up. Jake whispered, "Get behind the door. Don't close it. Flush the toilet."

  Stevie struggled out of the deep chair and limped toward the bathroom while Jake went to the door. He glanced behind him as he moved, checking the floor for telltale drops of blood. There were none he could see.

  Stevie flushed the toilet and stood behind the open door.

  "I'm opening," the Jockey said, looking back to see that Stevie was inside the bathroom.

  He unzipped his pants and opened the door. Jake zipped his pants back up. The cop was alone, plain clothes, leather coat.

  "Jacob Laudano?" asked the cop.

  "Lloyd," the Jockey replied. "Jake Lloyd. Had it changed legal."

  "Can I come in?"

  Jake shrugged and said, "Sure, I got nothing to hide."

  He stepped back and Don Flack entered the small apartment. One of the first things he looked at was the partially open door of the bathroom.

  * * *

  There were eighteen employees at Marco's Bakery in Castle Hill. They were all at work except for Steven Guista.

  Stella had a list of names which she checked off as each man and woman came into the office supply room where the CSI investigators had set up.

  By the time they had talked to and gotten DNA and fingerprint samples from the first nine,
it was clear that every employee was either an ex-con or some kind of relation of the Marco family, or both.

  Jerry Carmody was number ten. He was big, broad, about forty, going to fat, and wearing a bandage on his nose. His eyes were red and swollen.

  "What happened to your nose?" Stella asked after Danny had taken a throat culture from the man.

  "Accident, fell," he said.

  "Fell hard," she said. "Mind if I take a look?"

  "Went to the doctor this morning," said Carmody. "He set it. It's been broke before."

  "You're lucky the bone didn't get driven back into your brain," Stella said. "You were hit hard."

  "Like I said. I fell hard," Carmody said.

  "You in Brooklyn last night?" she asked.

  Carmody looked around at Danny and the uniformed cop who had brought him into the supply room.

  "I live in Brooklyn," Carmody said.

  "Know a Lynn Contranos?"

  "No."

  "We'll need some of your blood," said Stella with a cough.

  "What for?"

  "I think Stevie Guista did that to you," she said. "You bled on Lynn Contranos's doorstep. We've got some of that blood."

  Carmody went silent.

  "You do know Helen Grandfield?" asked Stella.

  "Sure," he said.

  "She's Lynn Contranos," said Stella.

  "Yeah, so?" said Carmody without interest.

  "Where is Guista?" she asked.

  "Big Stevie? I don't know. Home, out getting drunk or laid. How should I know? It's his birthday. Yesterday. He's probably sleeping off a binge."

  "We'll talk some more about Stevie after we match your blood to the blood on the doorstep. Roll up your sleeve."

  "What if I say, 'no,' " he said.

  "Investigator Messer is very gentle," said Stella. "If you don't want to do it here, we go to our lab, get a court order. Who's on duty at the lab?"

  "Janowitz," said Danny evenly.

  "You don't want Janowitz," Stella said.

 

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