Dead of Winter

by Stuart Melvin Kaminsky

  "You sound like you're doing an autopsy," Stella said.

  "My patients don't usually talk back," he said. "Abdominal pain, diarrhea?"

  "A little of both," Stella said.

  "Hospital," said Hawkes.

  "How about outpatient treatment?" she asked. "I'm really close on the Spanio murder."

  "Danny can follow through. You know what untreated or improperly treated leptospirosis can turn into? Kidney damage, meningitis, liver failure. I've seen one death from it. When did you start showing symptoms?"

  "Yesterday," Stella said, resigned. "Maybe the day before."

  "You remember being exposed to animal…?" Hawkes began.

  "The cats," said Danny.

  "What was that?" asked Hawkes.

  "Old woman died in her home on the East Side," said Stella. "Cat woman, forty-seven we could find. We ran it as a crime scene because there were signs that someone had broken into the house, but she had a heart attack. Overweight, seventy-eight years old. Didn't take care of herself."

  "Or her cats," said Hawkes. "Where are they now?"

  "Humane society took them," said Danny.

  Hawkes shook his head.

  "See if you can round them up," Stella said to Danny.

  "If there are any recently dead ones," Hawkes said, "I'd like to have them brought in."

  "My guess," said Stella, "is that, except for a lucky few, they were all euthanised and cremated. Treatment?"

  "Overnight in a hospital bed," said Hawkes. "Antibiotics, probably doxycycline. I'll call Kirkbaum and have a room saved for you."

  "How long?" asked Stella.

  "If we caught it early enough, two or three days. If not, we could be talking a week or two. Judging from the viral load, it may just be that Danny saved your life."

  Danny grinned smugly and adjusted his glasses.

  "I'm a stubborn ass," she said. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome," said Danny. "And, yes, you are one major stubborn ass."

  Stella stood and said, "Danny, gather all these Spanio photos and tell Mac to come to the hospital as soon as he can get there."

  "You'll be all right," said Hawkes. "I haven't had a complaint from a patient yet."

  "That's because they're all dead," said Stella.

  * * *

  There was a uniformed cop at the entrance to Marco's Bakery and another uniformed cop at the back exit on the shipping dock. This didn't surprise Big Stevie.

  The only question was: Were the cops there to keep Marco from getting out, or to keep Stevie or someone else from getting in?

  It didn't matter. Stevie knew at least two other ways into the building. He knew that the window to the men's toilet was easy to open. Even if it was locked, the lock was just a small slide bolt he would have no trouble breaking with a firm tug. He wouldn't even make much noise.

  The problem with going through the toilet window was that he would have to find something to stand on, get leverage, and then climb through. Usually this would be no problem. But with his leg growing ever more numb, the task might be more than he could handle. Once inside the toilet he would have to go out the door past the bakers and their assistants. He was a familiar sight back there, at least normally. Normally, no one would have paid much, if any, attention to the big man, but today might be altogether different. He doubted that even in his weakened state, bleeding and walking like a mummy in those old movies, that anyone in the bakery would be able to stop him and most would probably simply pretend they had never even noticed him. They had all done time. D and D. Deaf and dumb. It was the stay alive philosophy of prison.

  No, it would have to be the storage basement. He didn't know if any of the opaque windows could be opened without making noise that would attract attention. He did know that he wasn't seen by the cop on the loading dock. Window number one was firm, didn't budge, probably hadn't been opened in twenty years or more. Window number two had four sections. The dirty glass plate in the upper right-hand section of the window was loose and the window itself had a little give to it.

  Stevie found a small chunk of concrete and knelt by the ground-level window. He tore off a piece of his undershirt, placed it against the loose pane, and struck the cloth with the piece of concrete, struck it gently. There wasn't much noise, but the pane did not give way. He tried again, striking a little harder. Something cracked. There was now a hole in the glass about the size of his fist. He put down the concrete and took the torn piece of shirt from the window.

  Stevie inched his thick fingers through the hole in the glass. He felt the cutting of the glass, ignored it and slowly worked the top piece of glass loose. He placed it on the ground.

  He wiped his bleeding fingers on his already bloody pants and reached through the open space in the window. There was just enough room for him to force his hand and arm far enough to reach the lock. It was rusted shut, but Stevie was determined. He shoved. The rusted metal bolt came off. Using his right arm, sitting awkwardly, he reached in and put pressure on the window. The window resisted. Slowly Stevie began to feel the window losing the battle. Suddenly, the entire window shot up on creaking hinges.

  Stevie knelt panting, waiting, listening for running footsteps, but none came.

  He had finished the easy part of his task. Now came the hard part, getting his bulk through the open window. He knew it would be close. He took off his coat and placed it on the ground.

  A cold wind drove through him and he realized that snow was falling again. He was growing weaker and he would have to move quickly while he was still able.

  He eased his injured leg through the open window followed by his good one and started to push himself backward through the window. When he was inside as far as his stomach, it felt tight, but not impossibly tight. He kept pushing backward. His stomach scraped against the thin metal frame of the window, and he wasn't sure if he would make it through. He was sure at this point that he would never be able to pull himself back out. He struggled, grunting, seeing the blood from his fingers against the snow and then, suddenly, he popped through the window and went sprawling backward into dusty darkness.

  He lay on his back panting, out of breath, eyes closed. Big Stevie was in pain. He was cold. And he was bloody. But he was on a mission, and he was inside Marco's Bakery.

  * * *

  The search perimeter around Drietch's firing range had been widened. Two uniformed officers were helping Aiden search for the missing bolt cutter.

  Aiden was sure that Louisa Cormier had simply cut the lock, wiped off her fingerprints, and thrown it on the firing range. Why hadn't she done the same thing with the bolt cutter or dropped it and the lock in the garbage?

  They should have found it by now.

  Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she answered it.

  "Come into the lab," Mac said. "I found the bolt cutter."

  "Where?"

  "Basement of Louisa Cormier's building," he said. "She had it lined up with other tools. Building maintenance man has a bolt cutter but he said this one isn't it."

  "She hid it in plain sight," Aiden said.

  "Right out of her fourth novel," Mac said. "Or should I say right out of Charles Lutnikov's first Louisa Cormier novel, only in that one it was a shovel."

  "Prints?"

  "One," said Mac. "Partial. Good enough for a positive identification. It's Louisa Cormier's."

  "I'll be right there," said Aiden, closing her cell phone and going in search of the two uniformed officers who were combing the area.

  "I'm on my way to the hospital," he said.

  "Right," said Aiden, who wasn't certain how she felt about confronting Louisa Cormier again. Aiden wasn't sure if the woman was cunning and manipulative or if she had simply been caught in a nightmare. Aiden Burn wasn't ready to bet on either.

  16

  A WHITE, SAND-PEBBLED BEACH hovered over Stella when she opened her eyes. She could even hear the rhythmic beating of something that may have been surf.

  Stella hadn't had a v
acation in, what was it, three years. She had never wanted one, had never wanted to get away. There was always a new case or one half finished.

  The web of first waking passed in a second or two and she realized that the pebbled beach was the ceiling and the sound of the surf was a monitor whose thin tentacles adhered to her body.

  Stella's mouth was dry.

  She turned her head and saw Mac standing to her left.

  "How…?" she started to say, but it came out as a painful incoherent crackle.

  She coughed painfully and pointed at a white plastic pitcher and a glass on the table next to the bed. Mac nodded, poured water, removed the wrapping from a straw, and inserted it in the glass.

  "Slow," said Mac, holding the glass for her to drink.

  The first sip burned. She had a slight retching sensation, but it passed and she drank some more.

  "How bad is it?" she asked.

  "You'll be fine," Mac said. "You blacked out. Danny and Hawkes brought you here. Hawkes's friend got you started on glucose and antibiotics. He found an expert on leptospirosis in Honolulu, called him and… here you are."

  "How long will I be here?"

  "A few days. Then a few days at home," said Mac. "If you'd had a culture when you first started to get sick, you wouldn't have to be here."

  "I'm a workaholic," she said with what she hoped was a smile.

  Mac returned the smile. Stella looked around the hospital room. There wasn't much to see. A window to her left and one in a corner looked out at a red building across the street. On the wall was the reproduction of a painting she thought she recognized, three women in peasant dresses in a field, stacks of hay behind them. The women were leaning over to pick up something- beans, rice- and drop it in baskets on the ground.

  Mac followed her eyes.

  "Woman on the right," said Stella. "She's in pain. Look at the deformed C-shaped curve of her back from years of bending. When she stood up, she'd be in pain and bent over. She's not far from being unable to bend like that."

  "You want to run some tests on her?" asked Mac.

  "Not unless someone kills her or she kills someone else," said Stella, still looking at the painting. "How old do you think the original painting is?"

  "Jean Franзois Millet," said Mac. "The painting's called The Gleaners, 1857."

  Stella turned to look at him and said nothing.

  "My wife had some prints of his work," said Mac. "One of the highlights of our trip to Europe was to see Millet's Angelius in the Musйe d'Orsay."

  Stella nodded. It was more information about Mac's dead wife than he had ever given up before.

  Mac's smile was broader now.

  "She saw beauty in that painting," he said. "And you see a woman with a medical condition."

  "I'm sorry," said Stella.

  "No," said Mac. "You're both right."

  "Mac," she said. "I know who killed Alberta Spanio, and it wasn't the Jockey."

  * * *

  When Don Flack answered his cell phone, Mac told him what Stella had said.

  "I'll go right there," said Flack.

  "You want backup?" asked Mac.

  "I won't need it."

  "Anything new on Guista?"

  "I'll find him," said Flack, touching the tender area of his broken ribs.

  Flack closed his cell phone and kept driving, but instead of heading for Marco's Bakery, he now headed for Flushing, Queens.

  The temperature was up to fifteen degrees and the snow had stopped. Traffic moved slowly, and after almost four days of frigid snowstorm tempers were on edge. Road rage at a snail's pace was ever ready to break out.

  Don checked his watch. The phone rang. It was Mac again.

  "Where are you?" Mac asked.

  Don told him.

  "Pick up Danny at the lab. He has the crime-scene photographs and Stella just briefed him," said Mac.

  "Right," said Flack. "How is she doing?"

  "Fine, doctors say she'll be back at work in a few days."

  "Tell her I asked," said Don, signing off again.

  Danny was waiting behind the glass doors wearing a thick knee-length down coat and a hat with flaps that covered his ears. He held a briefcase in one gloved hand and waved at Don with the other to let him know he was coming out.

  As soon as he opened the door, his glasses clouded and he had to pause to wipe them with his scarf.

  "Cold," he said, getting into the heated car.

  "Cold," Flack agreed.

  Danny Messer told Flack everything that Stella had told him on the phone as they drove to Flushing. Flack looked for holes, alternatives to Stella's conclusions, but he couldn't come up with any. He turned on the radio and listened to the news until they pulled up in front of Ed Taxx's house.

  Taxx answered the door. He was wearing jeans and an open-collared white shirt with a brown wool sweater. He had a cup of coffee in his hand. The word DAD was in bright red with a blue border.

  "Anyone else home?" asked Don.

  A television set was on somewhere in the house. A woman in some show was laughing. The laughter sounded insincere to Don.

  "All alone and getting bored," said Taxx, stepping back to let the two men in and closing the door behind them. "I'm still on leave till the department finishes its investigation."

  Taxx led the way into the living room, asking over his shoulder if he could get either of them some coffee or a Diet Coke. Both men declined.

  Taxx sat in an overstuffed chair and Don and Danny on the sofa.

  "What brings you here?" asked Taxx, taking a sip of coffee.

  "A few questions," said Flack.

  "Shoot."

  "When you knocked down the door to Alberta Spanio's bedroom, you immediately went to the bed?"

  "Right," said Taxx.

  "And you sent Collier to the bathroom?" Flack continued.

  "I wouldn't say I sent him. We just did what we had to. What…?"

  "Collier said you told him to check the bathroom," said Flack.

  "Probably," Taxx agreed.

  "Did you go into the bathroom after he came out?"

  Taxx thought and then answered, "No. We went into the living room and called in the murder. Neither of us went back in the room. It was a crime scene."

  "Collier said he stood in the tub and looked out the open window," said Flack.

  "I wasn't in there with him," said Taxx, looking puzzled.

  "Danny, show him the photographs," said Flack.

  Danny opened the briefcase and took out the stack of crime-scene photographs he and Stella had taken. He selected four of them and handed them to Taxx. All four photographs were of the bathtub and the open window. Taxx looked at the photographs and then handed them back to Danny.

  "What am I supposed to be seeing in those pictures?" Taxx asked, putting down his coffee mug.

  "There's no snow, no sign of snow or ice in the tub," said Flack. "It was too cold in that room for the snow to melt."

  "So?" asked Taxx.

  "If someone came through the window to kill Alberta Spanio, he'd have to push in the snow that had piled up against the window."

  Taxx nodded.

  "Maybe he swept the snow out with his arm or leg instead of pushing it in," said Taxx.

  "Why?" asked Danny. "Why let go with one hand or reach in with a foot and pull the snow back outside. It wouldn't help cover the crime. The window was open. It makes no sense to do anything except swing through the window, pushing or kicking the snow in, climb in and out of the tub, murder Spanio and go out the way he came in."

  "Someone inside the bathroom pushed the snow out," said Flack.

  "Why? And who? Collier? Alberta?" asked Taxx.

  "Alberta Spanio was knocked out from an overdose of sleeping pills," said Danny, "and even if she weren't, why open a window to let in zero-degree air and snow?"

  "Collier?" asked Taxx.

  "We think whoever killed Alberta Spanio pushed that snow out, wanting us to think someone had come through
the window," said Flack. "Because if the murder wasn't committed by someone coming through the window, that leaves only two possible suspects."

  Taxx said nothing. His tongue pressed against the inside of his right cheek.

  "Collier?" he repeated.

  "When and how?" asked Danny. "The door to the bedroom was locked all night."

  "And the bathroom window was closed," Taxx reminded them. "Both Collier and I confirmed that. We left the bedroom together."

  "But in the morning you broke down the door and one of you went to Spanio's bedside while the other went to the bathroom," said Danny. "That was the only time Spanio could have been murdered. You were the one who went to the bed, pulled the knife out of your pocket, and stabbed the unconscious Spanio in the neck. You could have done it in five seconds. A CSI investigator timed it."

  "The woman," said Taxx, looking out the window.

  "Stella figured it out," confirmed Don.

  "Dario Marco hired Guista and Jake Laudano to get that room at the Brevard Hotel," said Flack. "They were supposed to be seen, a big strong man and a tiny one. We were supposed to think they had murdered Spanio so the real killer, you, wouldn't be suspected."

  "Guista was there to pull the window to the washroom up by dangling a chain down and hooking it onto the hoop you had screwed into the bathroom window."

  "Far-fetched," said Taxx.

  "Maybe," Flack agreed, "but we're pulling Jake Laudano in and when we have both him and Guista, the DA starts dealing and they start talking."

  "Am I under arrest?" Taxx asked softly.

  "You are about to be," said Flack.

  "I think I should call a lawyer," said Taxx.

  "Sounds like the thing to do," said Flack.

  The detective rose with a sudden sharp sting from the broken ribs in his chest. He took the four steps to Taxx and handcuffed the man's hands behind his back.

  Don adjusted his glasses and put the photographs away while Flack began the Miranda. Don said the words slowly, and for some reason it sounded like a well-memorized prayer.

  * * *

  Aiden examined the bolt cutter and the broken lock. She had done a magnified close-up photograph of both the edges of the bolt cutter and the ridges and scars where the lock had been cut.