Dead of Winter

by Stuart Melvin Kaminsky

  She sat in the lab now comparing the two.

  The small ridges of the blade were almost invisible to the naked eye, but close up they were as good as fingerprints. There was no doubt in her mind. There would be no doubt in the minds of jurors. The lock Aiden had found at the firing range had been cut by the bolt cutter Mac had found in the basement of Louisa Cormier's apartment building.

  She picked up the phone, called Mac and told him what she had found.

  "It's enough," said Mac.

  "Enough for…?" she said, letting the question hang.

  "An arrest," said Mac. "I'll meet you at Louisa Cormier's with someone from homicide."

  Aiden hung up. All the evidence against Louisa Cormier was circumstantial. There were no eyewitnesses and they had not found the smoking gun. But most cases were won in court with a preponderance of compelling circumstantial evidence. Smart defense lawyers could attack it all, create alternative scenarios, explain mistakes, confuse the issue, but Aiden, who was on her feet and heading for her coat, didn't think any obfuscation would override the evidence.

  The bolt cutter used to open the lock to a box in which a.22 caliber handgun was kept, a handgun Louisa Cormier used to practice with; the manuscript with two bullet holes Louisa had taken from the dead hands of Charles Lutnikov and which she had frantically been copying; the evidence that Lutnikov was writing Louisa Cormier's novels.

  Aiden put on her coat and headed for the elevator, thinking, We still don't have the murder weapon and we still don't have a motive and Louisa Cormier has Noah Pease.

  Maybe they should wait, keep gathering evidence, find the gun and a motive. But Mac had said they had enough, and Aiden trusted his judgment.

  * * *

  "This is harassment," said Louisa Cormier when she opened the door.

  Aiden noticed that Louisa was holding her hands together to try to keep them from shaking. Louisa's eyes fell on the man in a blue suit with the two CSI investigators.

  "I'm not inviting you in," she said. "And I'm calling my attorney. I'll get an injunction against you and the entire- "

  "We don't want to come in," said Mac.

  Louisa Cormier looked puzzled.

  "You don't? Well I'm not, under advisement from my attorney, answering any of your questions."

  "You don't have to," said Mac. "But you do have to come with us. You're under arrest."

  "I…" Louisa began.

  "And if you would, we'd like you to bring your Walther with you. This detective will go with you to get it. We do have the papers for that."

  Mac reached into his jacket pocket and removed a tri-folded sheet of paper.

  "You can't," Louisa Cormier said. "I showed you that gun. You know it hasn't been fired."

  "We think it has," said Aiden.

  Louisa Cormier began to collapse. Aiden stepped forward to catch her and caught a whiff of the author's perfume, a gardenia scent exactly like the one Aiden's mother used.

  * * *

  Stevie worked his way slowly up the dark stairwell, dragging his reluctant leg behind him. When he hit the main-floor landing, the bakery smells came through the doors to his left.

  Stevie liked the bakery, the smell of fresh bread, driving the truck, talking to the customers on his route. He knew it would all be gone in a few minutes, that he would, one way or another, be gone. It was unfair, but his mistake had been in forgetting that life was unfair and putting his trust and loyalty in the pocket of Dario Marco.

  Before he reached the last two steps and stepped into the corridor, he stood in the shadows and looked both ways. No one stirred.

  Dario Marco's office was only three doors down on the right. Stevie did his best to hurry and to be quiet. He had to settle for being quiet.

  If Helen Grandfield was there when he opened the door, he would probably kill her. He could do it quickly, not give her time to react. She had been part of the set-up. Daughter of Dario Marco, niece of Anthony Marco, she had been part of what he knew now was a plan to make Stevie, Stupid Stevie, Loyal Stevie, the fall guy.

  He paused at the door to the office and listened. He heard nothing. He opened the door ready to pounce on a startled or off-guard Helen Grandfield. But there was no one in the outer office.

  Stevie wondered if Dario was out, possibly for the day. It wouldn't be like him to miss a day, but the last few days had been like no others.

  Stevie went to the inner door, listened again, heard nothing and slowly opened it. The lights were dim and the blinds closed, but Stevie could see Dario Marco behind his desk.

  Dario looked up. Stevie was not prepared for what he saw, a calm Dario Marco who said, "Stevie, we've been waiting for you."

  Out of the corner stepped Jacob the Jockey and Helen Grandfield. The Jockey had a gun in his hand, and it was aimed at Stevie.

  * * *

  The table in front of Joelle Fineberg's desk was crowded. She had the lowest seniority, actually none at all, so Joelle had the smallest office.

  She had opted for a very small desk, a small bookcase, and room enough for the table around which six people could fit with reasonable comfort. She used the table as a work space, clearing it off for meetings like this one by simply gathering papers and books, placing them in a black plastic container, and slipping the container behind her desk and out of sight.

  "You don't even have enough for a grand jury," said Noah Pease, his hand on the shoulder of Louisa Cormier, who sat next to him and looked straight ahead.

  "I think we do," said Fineberg, who sat across from them with Mac on one side of her and Aiden on the other.

  A neat pile of papers and photographs sat on the table like a deck of oversized cards waiting to be cut for a hard game of poker, which was close to what they were playing.

  Fineberg looked at Mac and said, "Detective, would you go over the evidence once more?"

  Mac looked down at the yellow pad in front of him and went step-by-step over the evidence. Then she looked up at Aiden, who nodded her agreement.

  Pease's face remained blank. So did Louisa Cormier's.

  "Would it surprise you to know that Detectives Taylor and Burn found your client's fingerprints on seven different items in Charles Lutnikov's apartment?" said Fineberg.

  "Yes," said Pease. "It would."

  Fineberg went through the pile of papers in the stack and came up with seven photographs. She held them out to Pease.

  "Perfect match," said the assistant DA. "A cup, a countertop, the desk, and four on bookshelves."

  The fingerprints were a perfect match to Louisa Cormier's.

  Louisa Cormier reached for the photographs.

  "Circumstantial," said Pease with a sigh.

  "Your client lied to us about ever being in Lutnikov's apartment," Fineberg said.

  "I've been there once," said Louisa. "Now I remember. He asked me to pick up… something."

  "You have a reason why we're here?" asked Pease.

  "Negotiation," said Fineberg.

  "No," said Pease, shaking his head.

  "Then we go before the grand jury asking for Murder Two," said Fineberg.

  She turned to Mac and said, "Detectives Taylor and Burn will testify. He's convinced by the evidence the CSI unit has gathered and so am I. A jury will be too."

  "Ms. Cormier is a highly respected literary figure with no motive," said Pease. "Your case stands on the argument that she did not write her own books. She did."

  "Detective Taylor?" said Fineberg.

  "Convince me. Convince my expert," said Mac.

  "How?" asked Pease.

  "Have her write something," said Fineberg.

  "Ridiculous," said Pease.

  "She has four days before we go in front of the grand jury," said Fineberg. "Five pages. That shouldn't be impossible, especially when a murder charge is involved."

  "I couldn't write under this pressure," said Louisa Cormier, handing the photographs of the fingerprints back to her lawyer, who placed them neatly on the table and slid
them across to Fineberg.

  "You're counting on a jury having sympathy for a famous and much-loved celebrity," said Fineberg. "How quickly we forget Martha Stewart. You could, of course, counter with O.J. Simpson, but…"

  Pease was looking at Fineberg now with an irritation that might well have already turned to open hostility in a less-experienced lawyer.

  "We get to that grand jury," said Fineberg, "and our case comes out, at least enough of it to get a True Bill."

  A True Bill, as both lawyers knew, is a written decision of the grand jury, signed by the jury foreperson, that it has heard sufficient evidence from the prosecution to believe that an accused person has probably committed a crime and should be indicted.

  "And damage my client's reputation," said Pease. "As will any plea bargain."

  "We have the gun," said Fineberg, looking at Mac.

  "We're testing the gun in Ms. Cormier's drawer," he said.

  "Which you've already determined has not been- " Pease began.

  "It matches the bullet we found at the bottom of the elevator shaft," said Mac. "Ms. Cormier shot Charles Lutnikov, put on her coat, dropped her gun and the bolt cutter, which she'd probably had in her trophy case, into her tote bag, locked the elevator on her floor, and hurried down the stairs in time to take her usual, morning walk. It was eight on a snowy blizzard-like weekend. It wasn't likely anyone in her section of the building would be up and trying to get the elevator for hours. Besides, she planned to be gone only about thirty minutes."

  "And where does your fanciful story assume my client went?" asked Pease.

  "To Drietch's firing range, four blocks away," said Mac. "Even in the snow and ice she could make it in fifteen minutes. I just did by walking fast. She knew the range wasn't open for another three hours on a Saturday. She opened the outer door with a simple credit card. Her detective in three of her books has done the same thing. Ms. Cormier had probably checked that it could be done."

  "Premeditation," said Joelle Fineberg.

  "Your client went to the room where the guns are stored," Mac went on. "She cut the bolt on the box containing the gun she used at the range, took the gun out, dropped it in her purse and replaced it with the murder weapon. Then she threw the cut lock onto the firing range. She knew someone would eventually notice, after she switched the guns again, that the range Walther would be found, that any competent detective would know it hadn't been fired recently and she knew an examination of the gun and bullet would show they didn't match, but she didn't think it would come to that. If Drietch or anyone checked the box even before the switch was made again, they'd think they were seeing the gun that was normally kept there. Ms. Cormier was reasonably confident that they wouldn't check, but it really didn't matter."

  "How far-fetched can-?" Pease said.

  "I suggest you read one of your client's first three novels if you want to see how far-fetched a story she can come up with."

  Pease shook his head wearily as if listening to Mac was an undeserved punishment he would have to endure.

  Mac ignored the lawyer and went on.

  "Ms. Cormier went back home quickly, put the bolt cutter in the basement, went up the stairs, released the elevator so it would go down to the first floor, and put the gun she had taken from the shooting range into her drawer."

  "And then?" Pease asked, shaking his head as if he were being forced to listen to a fairy tale.

  "She waited for us to come and readily showed us the gun, practically insisted on it. It was the gun she had taken from the range, not the one she always kept in her drawer. When we were gone, she went back to the range, said she wanted to practice and switched the guns again, leaving the one that was usually in the box. Officer Burn went to the range, examined the gun, and determined that it wasn't the murder weapon."

  "Your client hid the murder weapon in plain sight," said Fineberg. "In the drawer of her desk. She did it thinking that CSI wouldn't examine it a second time after determining that it hadn't been fired."

  "The bullet is going to match your gun," Mac said to Louisa Cormier. "You made the whole thing too complicated."

  "It almost worked," whispered Louisa Cormier.

  "Louisa," Pease warned, leaning over to whisper to his client before sitting up. "Self defense," he said. "Charles Lutnikov came to my client's apartment after threatening her on the phone. She had the gun out to protect herself. He tried to wrestle it from her. It went off. She panicked."

  "And then thought out the elaborate cover-up on the spot," said Fineberg.

  "Yes," said Pease. "She's a writer with a very active imagination."

  "Who didn't write her own books," said Mac.

  "We'll see what a jury thinks about that," said Pease.

  "Why would Lutnikov threaten Ms. Cormier?"

  Neither lawyer nor client spoke.

  "Involuntary manslaughter," said Pease. "Suspended sentence."

  "No," said Fineberg. "The evidence these officers have gathered shows intent, premeditation, and cover-up."

  Pease leaned over to whisper in Louisa Cormier's ear. A look of horror came over her face.

  "Murder Two," said Fineberg.

  "Manslaughter," said Pease. "Nothing goes public. You pick a judge who will seal the record. Say what you like to the media."

  Fineberg looked at Mac and then turned to Pease, shaking her head.

  "Off the record?" Pease said, patting his client's hand.

  "Off the record," said Fineberg.

  "Louisa?" Pease said, hand on her arm ready to guide her with gentle pressure.

  "I can't," Louisa Cormier said, looking at Pease.

  Pease cocked his head and said, "They can't use it unless we let them."

  Louisa Cormier sighed.

  "I shot Charles Lutnikov. He was blackmailing me," she said, looking at the table, hands folded white-knuckled in front of her now.

  "You had been paying him for writing your books," said Fineberg.

  "It wasn't about money," Louisa said. "It was about writing credit. He wanted all my future books to bear both of our names as author. I offered him more money. He wasn't interested."

  "So you shot him?" asked Fineberg.

  "He said he was bringing up the manuscript of the new book and that he would give it to me only if I had a notarized statement saying that the book would bear both of our names. I couldn't have that. People, editors, reviewers would start to think about my previous books, and Charles couldn't be counted on to keep from telling about his helping me with the previous books."

  "And…?" Fineberg said after a long pause by Louisa Cormier.

  "When he came up, I stopped the elevator. The manuscript was in his hands, clutched to his chest like a baby. He wanted it to be our baby. I tried to reason with him, told him that if we continued the way we were I'd help him get his own books published. He wasn't interested. He reached over to the elevator buttons and pressed a button when it happened."

  "You shot him," said Fineberg.

  "I didn't mean to," she said. "I just wanted to threaten him, warn him, frighten him, have him hand me the manuscript. The elevator door closed on my hand. He grabbed for the gun. He was enraged. The gun fired. The doors opened again. I could see he was dead. I hit the button to stop the elevator and took the manuscript from him."

  "Unfortunate accident. No. Self defense," said Pease with a broad smile.

  "Then why hide the gun," Fineberg said. "Why make all of this up?"

  "My career, my… I was frightened," Louisa Cormier said.

  "You didn't plan to shoot him, but you immediately thought of a plan, a very complicated plan, as soon as you shot him. You were on your way to the firing range with the gun and a bolt cutter minutes, maybe seconds, after you shot Lutnikov," said Fineberg skeptically.

  "Make an offer, Ms. Fineberg," Pease said. "Make it a good one."

  17

  "SORRY ABOUT THIS, STEVIE," said Dario Marco, seated behind his desk. "You're a good worker, a loyal employee, a good guy
."

  Stevie stood on a leg that threatened to give way and looked dumbly and open-mouthed at the man behind the desk who had been his boss, his protector.

  "Problem here, you see," said Marco, sitting back and adjusting his jacket to get rid of the wrinkles, "is that we need to give the police someone. They've been all over the place. They've got evidence against you on the Spanio killing and you killed a cop and shot another one. Big problem is you killed the cop right outside the door you just came through. So, what can I do? I mean, I ask you?"

  Stevie said nothing.

  Marco shrugged to show again that he had no choice. "Besides which, you really are one dumb bastard and you're getting old."

  Stevie looked at Jake, who had betrayed him, and then at Helen Grandfield who had no expression.

  "Dad," Helen said. "Let's just do it."

  "I owe Stevie an explanation," Dario said patiently.

  "He came here to kill you," she said.

  "That's so," Dario Marco agreed. "And he broke in, and it was fortunate that we had a gun."

  "The Jockey doesn't have a permit," said Stevie, trying to think.

  "That's right," said Marco. "He's a convicted felon. You're dumb, but not that dumb. The gun is mine. I've got a permit. Jacob picked it up from the desk where I had just finished cleaning it when you…"

  "Why?" asked Stevie. "You set me up, right from the start. You wanted the cops to come for me. Why?"

  "Back up," said Dario. "Believe me, I wanted you to get away. Why would I lie now? But in business you cover your ass. You're getting old, Stevie. You're going to slow down. Shit, you're already slowing down. Look at yourself. Now you've broken into my office and said you were going to kill me. In front of three witnesses."

  Dario Marco nodded at Jacob, who looked at Stevie and hesitated.

  "He set you up too, Jake," said Stevie.

  "Shoot the old fart," said Marco.

  The leap across the desk by Stevie was a surprise to everyone in the room, probably even Stevie. When his stomach hit the table, all feeling left his wounded leg. He reached out for Dario's neck and found it. He was doing what he was good at now, dumb or no dumb.