Four Walls

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  An older woman who was dressed up in a silk blouse and slacks, her face elegantly painted with makeup, opened the door. Lindsay instantly saw the family resemblance between her and Dina Rosengaus.

  Holding up her badge, she identified herself.

  "Come in, please," the woman said.

  Lindsay followed her up the wooden stairs through a door that led to a hallway that continued straight ahead, with a doorway leading to a dining room on the right.

  Seated there was an overweight man with a large nose, wearing only a white undershirt and shorts; Dina Rosengaus, whose cheeks were wet and puffy with crying; and Angell.

  In the center of the dining room table, on a white tablecloth, was a gold chain.

  Angell said, "Look what we found. Nobody's touched it since Dina came out-we were waiting for you."

  Wasting no time, Lindsay pulled a latex glove out of her back pocket-she always kept several there-and placed her case on the dining room table. Clacking it open, she pulled out a small evidence envelope, labeled it with a red Sharpie, and then put the glove on with a rubberized snap. Picking up the chain, she took a quick look at it. It was actually rather a nice necklace. She had already been told back at Belluso's yesterday that it was eighteen-karat gold, and so she handled it gingerly, as higher-karat gold was softer and more malleable. It was eighteen inches long, a standard length of braided rope chain, a beautiful butter-gold color typical of Italian eighteen-karat work, with a lobster-claw clasp. At a glance, at least, the clasp seemed to match the abrasion on the back of Maria's neck.

  Peering more closely at it, she saw a tiny bit of discoloration on one of the links. Praying that it was dried blood, she dropped the necklace into the envelope and sealed it.

  The older man said something in Russian. Dina muttered something back.

  Angell said, "So, Dina, you want to explain why you have Maria's necklace?"

  "I didn't kill her," Dina said, her voice breaking. "I just-" She swallowed. "Jeanie was calling 911. While she talked to them, I reached down and-and I took necklace."

  "Why?" Lindsay was horrified.

  "I-I never like Maria much. I know that is not right, but is true." Dina's English grammar was worse than usual, Lindsay noted, which was a normal sign of stress. "She was always talking about how wonderful her boyfriend was. I have not had boyfriend since coming to this country. When I did have boyfriend, Sasha was never able to buy me anything as nice as this. And the necklace-always the necklace. Never did Maria pass up opportunity to remind us that Bobby got her necklace."

  Angell shook her head. "So you took it."

  The man said more in Russian. The woman put a hand on his shoulder and said a single word.

  "It was stupid, I know, and I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, well," Angell said with a wince, "that's really not gonna cover it. You've opened yourself to criminal charges."

  "What do you mean?" the man asked, speaking English for the first time. His voice wasn't as deep in this language.

  "I mean she interfered with a murder investigation. And Detective Monroe here is going to take that necklace back to her lab, and she's going to see if there's anything on there that proves that your daughter committed the murder. And even if she doesn't, I could arrest her right now on charges of desecration of remains and obstruction of justice."

  The tears started pouring down Dina's cheeks now. "I'm-I'm sorry, I didn't-"

  Dina's father stood up. "Are you threatening my daughter, Detective?"

  "Alec, please, calm down," the mother said, still sitting, looking up at him with a pleading expression.

  "No, Raya, I will not calm down. My daughter came to you with this!"

  "She also took the necklace in the first place," Lindsay said in a gentle voice, hoping to play peacemaker. Angell looked like she was ready to go ten rounds with Mr. Rosengaus, and that wouldn't do anyone any good-least of all Angell.

  "I not kill her," Dina said in a small, sob-choked voice.

  Lindsay thought that tone sounded eerily familiar. "We'll find that out."

  Angell got up. "I'm not going to arrest anybody right now, but I will come back, rest assured. C'mon, Lindsay."

  Closing her case, Lindsay removed the glove and put it back in her pocket-she preferred to dispose of it back in the lab instead of in the Rosengauses' garbage-and followed Angell downstairs.

  "You were a little hard on her, weren't you?" Lindsay waited until they were outside to ask the question.

  "I barely got started," Angell said with a snort. "The father was giving me attitude before you got there. He wanted to know when the 'real' detective was showing up. And I'm not convinced that our girl didn't do it. She's tall enough, and she might have the strength."

  "Maybe," Lindsay said. "It's kind of a long shot, though."

  "Well, do your lab thing, then. If that little stain really is blood, then we may have our killer."

  "Keep in mind that it may be Maria's blood."

  Angell sighed as she walked down the outer staircase to her car, which turned out to be one of the ones in the driveway. "I hope not. I need something definite here. As long as Morgenstern has his shark on retainer, we can't do anything with him unless the evidence is a lot more solid than what we have."

  Nodding, Lindsay said, "I'll get right on this and get back to you."

  Angell nodded as she got into her sedan.

  17

  WHEN MAC ARRIVED AT RHCF, he went immediately to the arsenal and checked his weapon and his Treo. After being handed the key by the CO on duty, he went inside, signed in, and waited while the CO behind the bench looked over his large metal case. It wasn't the same CO who was at the bench yesterday-this time it was a short man with thick glasses resting on a small nose, which in turn was over a thick mustache. All he needed were bushy eyebrows to complete the Groucho Marx look.

  "What's this?" the CO asked, holding up Mac's Nikon.

  Thinking it might be a trick question, Mac slowly said, "It's a camera."

  "I don't think you're allowed to have that in here."

  Mac sighed. He understood that the officer was just doing his job, but he really wasn't in the mood for this today. "I'm a detective with the New York Crime Lab-I need my camera in order to do my job. When I was here yesterday, I had all this equipment with me."

  "Well, that's fine for yesterday, sir, but that was then and this is now. I can't allow you to take that camera in with you."

  Mac doubted he'd even need the camera, but he hated the notion of being without it-especially if he did need it for a reason he couldn't predict.

  After a brief pause, Mac said, "Call Captain Russell up here, he'll vouch for me."

  Peering at Mac through the thick glasses, the CO said, "Sir, this is policy-there's no need to bother the captain with this. I can't allow you to take the camera inside."

  Before Mac could object further, he heard the metallic hum of the outer door opening. Turning, he saw Ursitti walking through it, then waiting for the inner door to open.

  When it did, he stepped through and said, "Detective Taylor. What's the holdup?"

  "This officer won't let me bring my camera inside."

  Ursitti gave the CO behind the desk a pained look. Mac had the feeling he'd used that particular look on that particular CO many a time. "What the hell is your problem?"

  "LT, it's policy that-"

  "It's policy that people don't die in custody. Let him take the damn camera."

  With the utmost reluctance, the CO said, "If you say so, LT."

  "Yeah, I say so." As Mac collected his case, Ursitti added, "I'm sorry, Detective."

  Not wanting to create ill will, Mac said, "It's all right. The officer was just doing his duty."

  After Mac had his hand stamped, Ursitti took him through both sets of doors, had his hand checked under the black light between them, then led him to a part of the prison he hadn't been to the last time: the infirmary.

  The nature of his job was such that Mac had visited man
y hospitals, from various state-of-the-art facilities in the city where assorted victims had been taken, to the patch-'em-up makeshift field hospitals in Beirut when he served in the Marines. Involuntarily, Mac's hand went to his heart, where he was wounded in 1983; he'd been patched up in one of those field hospitals. The scar had faded, though it was still very visible, and it didn't twinge anymore when it rained, but he was always aware of it.

  The infirmary at RHCF was somewhere between those two extremes: not as fancy as Bellevue, Cabrini, St. Luke's-Roosevelt, or the other Manhattan places he frequented, but not quite as depressing as the field hospital. There were two rows of beds lined up, some with patients, others empty and neatly made.

  Ursitti brought him to a far corner, where a doctor was waiting, along with Russell. Lying on the bed was Jorge Melendez. Mac immediately noticed bruising on Melendez's jaw. He appeared to be asleep-Mac assumed he was on morphine, which had turned his lights right out.

  Russell introduced the doctor, whose name was Patel.

  "What happened?" Mac asked.

  "He was assaulted in the shower," Dr. Patel said as he pulled the sheet down to reveal multiple contusions on Melendez's chest, some of which were obscured by bandages. "Cracked three ribs. No internal bleeding, though."

  Mac nodded. "I'm not surprised. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing."

  "What do you mean?" Russell asked.

  "He was hit hardest in the solar plexus, right where the breath would be knocked out of someone, preventing him from calling for help. Based on those bruises, the blows were landed solidly, despite both the first and the target being dripping wet. This is the mark of an experienced pugilist."

  Russell shrugged. "Well, we already know who did it."

  This was news to Mac. "Who was it?"

  "El-Jabbar. He confessed to it an hour ago. Said he wanted to mete out justice to 'Brother Malik's' killer."

  "There's just one problem," Mac said.

  "What's that?"

  "Melendez didn't kill Malik Washburne."

  Russell's white mustache twitched. "What?"

  "Washburne died of anaphylactic shock. We're not sure from what yet, but Jorge Melendez isn't a strong suspect right now. Nobody is until we figure out what killed him." He looked at Ursitti. "What I want to know is how el-Jabbar knew that Melendez even was a suspect."

  Frowning, Ursitti said, "I was kinda wonderin' that myself."

  "I think we need to talk to Mr. el-Jabbar."

  "He's in the box," Russell said. To Ursitti: "Have him brought to the interview room."

  Ursitti's radio crackled, informing him that Flack had arrived.

  "Have him meet us at the interview room," Mac told Ursitti, who nodded to him and Russell.

  It took several minutes for Mac and Russell to get to the interview room, which was halfway across the prison. The walk was a much different experience today then it had been yesterday, when the place was in lockdown. Inmates walked casually through the corridors and outside. Most of them respectfully greeted Russell, and the captain gave them each at least a nod back. Some he talked to, asking how they were doing. A couple tried to engage him in conversation, but he politely put them off to another time. One even said, "This is about Malik and Vance, right?"

  Russell said, "I can't really say," even though it was obvious that it couldn't be anything else.

  Several more minutes passed after they arrived before Flack showed up, escorted by Ursitti.

  "Glad you could make it," Mac said with a wry smile as the pair entered.

  Shaking his head, Flack said, "Ran my damn siren on the BQE, and I still couldn't move more than ten miles an hour. I'm half-tempted to leave the car here and fly back with you."

  Mac felt Flack's pain. It was less of an issue for the crime lab, as they generally weren't needed until after everything was over, but New York City traffic had always been a major impediment to cops' ability to arrive at a crime scene in a timely manner. Mac knew that Flack felt that frustration keenly. It was even worse for FDNY, for whom time was always of the essence. Fire truck drivers, he knew, hated navigating the city streets with a passion.

  While waiting for el-Jabbar's arrival, Mac filled Flack in on Melendez's condition.

  Flack's eyebrows formed a V over his blue eyes. "How the hell did el-Jabbar find out about Melendez?"

  "We'll know soon," Russell said confidently.

  Mac hoped that confidence was warranted.

  Eventually, Officer Andros brought in Hakim el-Jabbar. The inmate wore a knit red-and-white skullcap on his head, but otherwise sported the usual prison dickies. Yesterday he had been one of Mac and Flack's many interviews, but he claimed not to have seen anything. He wasn't a very big man, but he had wide, expressive brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and a broad mouth surrounded by a thin beard.

  He spoke in a soft, insistent voice. "What can I do for you gentlemen today?"

  "For starters," Flack said, "why'd you beat the crap out of Jorge Melendez?"

  "Jorge was a pretender. He used the word of Allah for his own purposes. And when Brother Malik exposed his lie, Jorge killed him. He needed to pay for that." As he spoke, el-Jabbar folded his handcuffed hands neatly in front of him on the table.

  Mac stared at those hands while Flack continued the questioning.

  "What makes you think that Melendez killed 'Brother Malik'?"

  El-Jabbar smiled, showing a wide array of perfect teeth. "There is no need to be coy, Detective. I'm aware of the fact that he is your primary suspect."

  Flack leaned forward. "Fine. We'll drop coy. How the hell did you find out Melendez was a suspect?"

  "I prefer to protect my sources. Let us just say that information comes my way."

  Mac spoke up. "You're not a journalist, Mr. el-Jabbar, and you're not a lawyer. You're a prisoner. Privilege doesn't apply."

  "Perhaps not. But the punishment for nonco-operation would be solitary confinement-which I am already enduring."

  That elicited a snort from Andros.

  "So," Flack said, "when this information came your way, you took it upon yourself to take care of business?"

  "Brother Malik was a respected member of the community-both inside this prison and outside it. Jorge needed to pay, so I administered justice in the shower this morning."

  "Yeah." Flack leaned back and folded his arms over his dark tie. "Administering justice is kind of our thing." El-Jabbar was about to speak, but Flack unfolded his arms to raise one hand, cutting him off. "I know, I know, it's just 'white man's justice.' That doesn't really count for you, does it?"

  "Something like that." Again, el-Jabbar smiled.

  Mac decided he didn't like that smile and so was determined to wipe it off his face. "There's just one problem, Mr. el-Jabbar-you didn't beat anybody up."

  Sure enough, the smile fell, which gave Mac a measure of satisfaction. "I beg your pardon, Detective?"

  "Beg all you want, you're not getting it." Pointing at el-Jabbar's hands, still folded neatly, Mac said, "Your knuckles are smooth and clean. No abrasions, no calluses. Whoever attacked Melendez was experienced and would have evidence of that experience on his hands. Evidence doesn't lie, Mr. el-Jabbar-and in this case, neither does lack of evidence. Who are you covering for?"

  "I do not need to 'cover' for anyone, Detective. It was my wish that Jorge pay for Brother Malik's death."

  Mac shook his head. So now he was changing his story-he ordered the beat-down. "Unfortunately, you collected your debt from the wrong man." At el-Jabbar's confused expression, he added: "Malik Washburne died of anaphylactic shock. Jorge Melendez didn't kill him."

  "What? But I was told-" He cut himself off.

  Flack stared at him. "Who told you?"

  "It does not matter."

  "Yeah, it kind of does. See, info about suspects isn't something we like to have advertised in the middle of an investigation."

  "Probably one of the COs," Andros said.

  Russell drew himself up. "What mak
es you say that, Officer?"

  Andros shrugged. "Most of the other COs liked Washburne for whatever stupid reason."

  Defensively, Flack said, "He used to be a good cop."

  "Maybe-I don't know about that. I do know that everybody liked him."

  Pointedly, el-Jabbar said, "Except for you, Officer Andros."

  Ignoring him, Andros said, "The point is, I could see one of the COs telling 'Brother Hakim' here that Melendez was the suspect, 'cause they know just how he'd respond."

  "That doesn't make sense," Russell said. "And besides, if Detective Taylor is right, and el-Jabbar didn't do it, why take credit when it means going into the box?"

  "Please." Andros snorted. "For him, solitary's a vacation. It's quiet, he gets food brought to him, and he can meditate."

  Flack turned to el-Jabbar. "So how 'bout it, 'Brother'? Who gave Melendez up?"

  "Again, Detective," el-Jabbar said placidly, "I prefer to protect my sources."

  "And protect yourself," Mac said. "Assuming Officer Andros is correct, and you give up a CO, there might be retribution."

  Archly, Russell said, "That doesn't go on here."

  Mac didn't see any need to press the issue-though Andros did give another derisive snort. El-Jabbar wasn't going to talk. Mac wasn't thrilled, but it was also beside the point.

  And they were no closer to finding out how Malik Washburne had died.

  * * *

  Danny Messer just loved the NYPD Crime Lab's proprietary computer-aided design program, which they used to reconstruct crime scenes.

  The programming geeks had streamlined the whole thing, so all you had to do was enter in the height and weight of a person. If you wanted to add further details, you could, or you could just use the generic body. Then you entered the dimensions of the figure's surrounding environment.

  It was all pretty basic stuff, but the streamlining was what made the difference. In particular, Danny loved the fact that it could cross-reference with the autopsy records, so all you had to do was enter the case number and it would provide an image of the body right away.