Dead of Winter

by Stuart Melvin Kaminsky

  "Need the body anymore?" asked Hawkes.

  Mac shook his head and Hawkes gently rolled the table toward the bank of drawers holding the dead.

  "We still need the gun and the bolt cutter," Aiden reminded Mac as they left Hawkes laboratory. "And she's probably gotten rid of them."

  "Probably," Mac agreed. "But not definitely. We have three important things on our side. First, she knows where they are. And second, she doesn't know how much we know or how much we can discover at a crime scene."

  "And third?" Aiden asked.

  "The bolt cutter," he said. "She used it in one of the first three novels, one she wrote. All the trophies in her library are from the first three novels. She'd probably want to keep the bolt cutter."

  "Probably," said Aiden.

  "Possibly," said Mac. "She doesn't know we can match a bolt cutter to whatever it cut."

  "Let's hope not," she said. "Even if we find it, we still need the gun."

  "One piece of evidence at a time," said Mac.

  * * *

  Getting away was not an option. Big Stevie knew that. He didn't have the money or the smarts for it, and both the police and Dario's people were looking for him.

  The cab driver kept eyeing him in the mirror. Stevie didn't care.

  Stevie had picked up the cab at a stand near Penn Station. The driver had been sitting behind the wheel reading a paperback novel. He had looked over his shoulder when Stevie closed the door and saw more than he wanted to see.

  If Stevie had hailed him on the street, the driver, Omar Zumbadie, would not have picked him up.

  The hulking old white man needed a shave. He needed some fresh clothes. And he reeked of something foul. Omar prayed that the old man would not throw up. He didn't look drunk, just tired and in a head-bobbing trance.

  The cabbie took Riverside Drive north to the George Washington Bridge, toward the Cross Bronx Expressway. Big Stevie counted his money. He had forty-three dollars and he was bleeding again through the make-shift bandage the Jockey had wrapped tightly around his leg.

  If Stevie were a vindictive man, he would have killed the detective who had come to the Jockey's apartment. It would have been easy. The detective, whose name was Don Flack, according to the card he had given to the Jockey, had shot Big Stevie. Birthday greetings from New York's finest, a bullet in the leg. The bullet wasn't there anymore, but it hurt, and the hurt was spreading. Big Stevie ignored it. It would be over soon, and, if he were lucky, which he probably wouldn't be, he'd have some money and get Dario Marco off his back.

  Life was unfair, Stevie thought as the cab got off at the Castle Hill exit. Stevie accepted that, but Dario's betrayal of him by sending the two bakery hacks to kill him was beyond unfair. Stevie had been a good soldier, a good truck driver. Customers on his route liked him. He got along great with kids, even Dario's grandkids, who at the ages of nine and fourteen looked like their father and trusted no one.

  Forget unfair. Now it was about making things even and maybe staying alive. The other option was calling the cop whose card he held, calling him, and imagining hours, days of grilling, betraying, putting on a suit and going to Dario's trial, being made to look like an idiot by one of Dario's lawyers. And then prison. It didn't matter how long. It would be long enough, and he was already an old man.

  No, the way he was going was the only way to go.

  "Mister," said Omar.

  Stevie kept looking out the window. He had put the detective's card back in his pocket and now had his hand wrapped around the small painted animal Lilly had made him.

  "Mister," Omar repeated, being careful to not sound in the least bit irritated.

  Stevie looked up.

  "We're here," said Omar.

  Stevie refocused and recognized the corner where they had stopped. He grunted and reached into his pocket.

  "How much?"

  "Twenty dollars and sixty cents," said Omar.

  Stevie reached through the slightly fogged, supposedly bulletproof slider which Omar slid open and handed the driver a twenty and a five dollar bill.

  "No change," said Stevie.

  Omar stared at the bills as Stevie got out of the cab. It wasn't easy. His remaining good leg had to do all the work along with his hands. But Stevie's hands were strong.

  "Thanks," said Omar.

  The bills in his hand both had bloody fingerprints on them, fingerprints that looked fresh.

  Omar waited till Stevie had cleared the cab and shut the door before he sped away. He placed the two bills on top of the paperback novel in the seat next to him.

  The smart thing to do, Omar thought, was to clean the bills as best he could and forget the big man. He was sure most drivers would do that, but Omar had seen blood on men's hands in Somalia, and in Somalia there had been almost no one willing to stand up and denounce the slayers of women and children, and there had been, really, no one to denounce them to. To seek justice, he thought as he drove, one risked his own and his family's death.

  But this was America. He was here legally. Things were not perfect, not always safe especially for a cab driver.

  Omar was a good Muslim. He did what he was sure a good Muslim should do. He reached for his cab radio and called the dispatcher.

  * * *

  "Were your shoes on or off?" asked Stella, sitting with eyes closed behind the desk, a cup of black coffee in front of her. She held the phone to her left ear, her right hand on the coffee cup. She had a chill.

  "Off," Ed Taxx said into the phone in his living room. "We had just gotten up, pulled on our pants and shirts and socks."

  "You're sure?" asked Stella.

  "Are you all right?" asked Taxx.

  Everyone was asking her that now.

  "I'm fine," she said. "Thanks."

  "That's it?" Taxx asked. "That's all you want to know?"

  "For now," said Stella.

  "Fine," said Taxx. "Take fifteen aspirin and call me in the morning."

  "I will," said Stella flatly.

  "I was joking," said Taxx.

  "I know," said Stella, "but it was almost good advice anyway."

  She hung up the phone.

  15

  NOAH PEASE, Louisa Cormier's new high-profile lawyer, reminded Mac of one of Edgar Lee Masters's Spoon River characters, clean-shaven and imperially slim.

  Pease was about fifty, roughly good-looking with a deep voice that, in addition to his record representing high-profile corporate figures, athletes, and actors in criminal cases, made him perfect for Court TV.

  Next to Pease, lean, nattily dressed in a well-pressed suit, on the sofa, her back to the window with the broad panoramic view of the city, sat Louisa Cormier. Across from them sat Mac Taylor and Joelle Fineberg, a green-suited petite woman, who had been with the District Attorney's office for a little over a year. She looked as if she was young enough for a Sweet Sixteen party.

  The total practical legal experience in Louisa Cormier's living room was twenty-seven years. One of those years belonged to Joelle Fineberg.

  "You realize, Ms. Fineberg," said Pease slowly, "Ms. Cormier is cooperating fully. At this point there is nothing that compels her to talk to you unless you are prepared to bring charges."

  "I understand," said Fineberg, her voice and smile indicating that she appreciated the cooperation.

  "No one knows about your investigation or that of the police and…" Pease said, looking at Mac. "Your Crime Scene unit. Detective Taylor's accusation that my client didn't write her own books cannot be made public. If it is, in any way, we shall bring suit against the City of New York and Detective Taylor for eighteen million dollars. And I'm confident we can get that figure. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "Perfectly," said Fineberg, hands folded atop the briefcase in her lap. "Your client is more interested in her reputation than in the fact that we are building a murder charge against her."

  "My client murdered no one," said Pease.

  Louisa, obviously under orders from her atto
rney, said nothing, didn't react to Fineberg's accusation.

  "We believe she did," said Fineberg.

  "Fine," said Pease. "Let's go over your evidence. A tenant of this building is shot and killed by a.22 caliber weapon. No weapon found. No witnesses. No fingerprints. No DNA evidence."

  "The dead man ghost-wrote your client's novels," said Fineberg. "He has two bullet holes in him that left holes in the manuscript he was carrying and that Detective Taylor and his people found in this apartment."

  Pease nodded.

  "Let's suppose," said Pease, "and it's just supposition mind you, the first explanation that pops into my head. The gun belongs to Mr. Lutnikov or someone who is on the elevator with him. The two people have a fight. The other person shoots Mr. Lutnikov and gets away. Mr. Lutnikov, now dead, goes up to this floor. He or his murderer had hit the button. My client has been waiting for him to deliver the manuscript. The elevator door opens and she sees Lutnikov dead, manuscript clutched to his chest. Horrified but desperate she takes the manuscript after being certain the poor man is dead and sends the elevator back down to the lobby where she knows it will be discovered. Bad judgment, perhaps, but a jury would sympathize and, let me remind you, you have no murder weapon."

  "I'm innocent," Louisa Cormier said suddenly.

  There was no sign of indignation nor an appeal for sympathy in her words. They were simply stated.

  Pease touched his client's shoulder and looked at Joelle Fineberg. "And remember, that is only the first possible scenario I could think of," said Pease.

  Both Fineberg and Mac didn't doubt that.

  "We have enough to take to a grand jury," Fineberg said.

  Pease shrugged.

  "Publicity, trial, loss for the District Attorney's office, and a lawsuit on behalf of my client," he said. "My client did not kill Charles Lutnikov nor did he ghost-write her books. The manuscript Charles Lutnikov copied from my client's original and most recent novel was a one-time favor to a fan who had been quietly harassing Ms. Cormier for years."

  "So," said Fineberg. "She gave him a printout of a completed book so he could copy it?"

  "No," said Pease. "So he could read it before anyone else. She had no idea he was copying it until he called her and told her. She insisted that he bring his copied manuscript to her, which he did. He was clutching it close to his chest when he was shot by whoever shot him."

  "That's what happened," said Louisa.

  "You told us yesterday that you were still writing the book," Mac said.

  "Re-writing," Louisa said. "You misunderstood. I was working on the second draft."

  "May I ask you a question?" asked Mac.

  Louisa looked at Pease who said, "You may ask, but I may tell my client to decline to answer. We want to cooperate with the police, to help find Mr. Lutnikov's murderer."

  Fineberg was not surprised by Mac's question. He had proposed it to her on the way to the apartment.

  "Can you define any of the following words?"

  Mac had removed the small notebook from his pocket.

  "Mufti, obsequious, tendentious."

  Louisa Cormier blinked.

  "I don't…" she began.

  "Those words appear in your books," said Mac. "I've got seventeen others I'd like to ask you about."

  "Do you use a thesaurus, Louisa?" asked Pease calmly.

  "Sometimes," she answered.

  Pease raised his hands and smiled.

  "And our expert witness who'll testify that Charles Lutnikov wrote Louisa Cormier's novels?" asked Fineberg.

  "I've got five expert witnesses who will say she did write her own books," said Pease. "All with Ph.D.'s. Where do we go from here?"

  "We find the murder weapon," said Mac. "And the bolt cutter your client used to open the lock at Drietch's firing range."

  "Good luck," said Pease. "According to your own report, the gun found in the box at the firing range is not the one used to kill Mr. Lutnikov."

  "It's not," said Mac, his eyes on Louisa, "but I think I know where the one that did kill Lutnikov is."

  "And the elusive bolt cutter?" asked Pease.

  Mac nodded.

  "A bluff," said Pease. "Where are they?"

  "Right out in the open," said Mac. "That sound familiar Ms. Cormier?"

  Louisa Cormier shifted slightly and did not return his look.

  "I think we're finished here," said Pease. "Unless you are prepared to arrest my client."

  Joelle Fineberg rose. So did Mac and Pease. Louisa Cormier remained seated, her eyes fixed on Mac.

  In the elevator going down, Joelle Fineberg said, "'Right out in the open?' Where did you get that, Poe or Conan Doyle?"

  "From one of the Louisa Cormier novels," said Mac. "I don't know where she got it."

  The elevator arrived at the lobby and the doors opened.

  "Call me when you have something," she said.

  Mac nodded.

  In the lobby they passed McGee, the doorman, who nodded and smiled. It was snowing again, not much, but it was snowing. The temperature had dropped to five above zero.

  "The gun is in this building," said Mac. "She can't get rid of it."

  "Why?"

  "Because we know she owns it," he said.

  "You examined her gun," said Fineberg. "It hasn't been fired."

  "The gun she showed us hadn't been fired," he corrected.

  It was the lawyer's turn to nod.

  "And the bolt cutter?" asked Joelle Fineberg. "What if she did get rid of it?"

  "She thinks she's smart enough to pull it off."

  "What?"

  Mac smiled and walked toward the stairwell. Joelle watched him for a few moments and then buttoned her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and put on a pair of dark earmuffs she took out of her pocket.

  When she looked back over her shoulder, Mac was no longer in sight. McGee opened the door for her and she stepped out into the bitter, biting cold.

  * * *

  "Where did you get this?" asked Hawkes.

  "Tissue in the garbage," answered Danny. They were sitting in the tile-floored box of a room in the basement of CSI headquarters where the coffee-, soda-, sandwich-, and candy-dispensing machines lined the walls like slot machines in Las Vegas washrooms. Above them, one of the bank of florescent lights sputtered softly.

  Sheldon Hawkes put his tuna fish sandwich with too much mayo on the paper plate in front of him and took the slide from Danny.

  "Come up and take a look at it under the microscope," said Danny.

  "You've identified it?" asked Hawkes, handing the slide back and picking up his sandwich.

  "Rare, but not all that rare," said Danny.

  "You tell anyone?"

  "No one around," said Danny. "Stella called. She said she was on her way in, asked me to have all the Spanio crime-scene photographs out."

  "How did she sound?"

  "Sick," said Danny.

  Hawkes finished his sandwich, downed the last of his Diet Dr Pepper, threw his trash away, and got up.

  "Let's take a look," he said.

  * * *

  On the table in front of Stella were neatly arranged photographs of the bedroom in which Alberta Spanio was murdered and the bathroom adjacent to it. It was the bathroom in which she was interested right now.

  She selected four photographs and scanned them, her head bent close to each image. Her recollection proved to be right. Leaning over increased the pain in her head and the threat in her stomach.

  Stella reached for the tea she had been trying to sip in the hope of it settling her stomach. The tea was not inviting. She changed her mind.

  She was sure she was right. She was reasonably sure she knew what had happened and who had killed Alberta Spanio and maybe even why Collier had been murdered. If it weren't for the flu, which she now acknowledged, she would have figured it out much sooner.

  Someone came through the laboratory door behind her. Stella stood up and turned. She felt light-headed but de
termined.

  Hawkes came in with Danny.

  "I figured it out," she said, wondering what Hawkes was doing here. He seldom left his corpses except to eat and go home.

  "What?" asked Danny, approaching with Hawkes at his side.

  "The Spanio murder," she said.

  "Great," said Danny.

  "I've got to call Mac," said Stella.

  "I've got some slides I want you to look at right away," said Danny.

  Hawkes held up two slides.

  "Can't it…?"

  Hawkes was shaking his head, "no."

  "What's going on here?" she asked.

  "Look at the slides," said Danny.

  Stella sighed and moved to a microscope, switching on the light and taking the slides from Danny. She sat down, the two men looming behind her. She adjusted the focus on the first slide. The microscope was multifunctional and powerful. With a few adjustments, she had the slides lined up next to each other so they could be compared.

  "Virus," she said. "Same on both plates."

  "You know what it is?" asked Hawkes.

  "Don't recognize it," said Stella.

  "It's leptospirosis," said Hawkes.

  Stella blinked, going through the catalogue of diseases in her mind.

  "It's rare," Stella said.

  "One to two hundred cases a year in the United States," said Danny. "Half of those in Hawaii. It's a tropical-climate disease normally."

  "We have an exception," said Hawkes. "What do you know about the disease?"

  "Bacterial infection usually caught from animal urine," she said. "One of our cases? Lutnikov, Spanio, Collier, one of Dario Marco's men?"

  "No," said Hawkes. "It's you. Danny got a sample of your mucus from a tissue you threw away. You don't have the flu. What do you know about leptospirosis?"

  "Next to nothing," said Stella, leaning back and closing her eyes.

  Hawke's hand touched her forehead.

  "Fever," he said. "Headache?"

  "Yes."

  "Chills, muscle ache, vomiting?"

  "Nausea, no vomiting."

  Hawkes gently turned her in the chair and looked at her face.

  "Slight jaundice, red eyes," he said.