A Matter of Blood

by Catherine Maiorisi

  “Not a problem, auntie. The software I use is awesome. How much did you record?”

  “All day, every day for three months.”

  “You’re going to need a lot of paper.”

  “I have nine or ten reams. Show me how to do it, and if I don’t find what I need in the first batch, I’ll get more paper.”

  “You got it. Hey, you’re not still undercover are you?”

  “No, but some people are.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Going up in the elevator to Corelli’s apartment, Parker pressed her temples, trying to clear her head. After a restless night, she’d finally fallen into an exhausted sleep thinking about the good feelings at Gianna’s house and the love between Corelli and her sisters. But a few hours later, after dreaming about protecting Corelli in a shootout with the Mafia, she’d bolted upright covered in sweat. Over and over, she pulled Corelli to safety and, every time, Corelli dashed back into the line of fire. After a shower and a cup of tea, Parker dozed fitfully until finally at four thirty, she gave up the idea of sleeping. She showered, dressed, and sat at the table with a cup of tea. And obsessed about Corelli.

  She couldn’t figure her out. Was she brave or did she have a death wish? Was she honest or the rogue cop ostracized by her peers? Was she the loving sister or the daughter shunned by her parents? And, she couldn’t reconcile the brave, honest cop and loving sister, with the nasty, condescending Corelli, who harassed and insulted one of the few cops in the department willing to stand with her.

  When the elevator pinged the seventh floor, Parker pressed her temples again. She needed to focus. At eight, the elevator doors opened and she stepped into Corelli’s apartment. Corelli was at the table with the newspaper open, a cup of coffee near her left hand and an ice pack wrapped around her right hand. “Morning. Have you seen today’s Daily World?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Help yourself to coffee. Take a look. We made the front page. There’s a picture of us holding Petralia up. You look good, Parker. I look like a wet rag.”

  Coffee in hand, Parker looked over Corelli’s shoulder. There they were on the front page, one on each side of Petralia waiting for the locals to come and arrest him. Corelli was right. Her anxiety didn’t show. She looked serious, professional.

  While Corelli was getting ready, Parker sipped her coffee and read the article, which described how they had happened on the scene and saved the day. The article had some mistakes. It didn’t mention that the boy was Toricelli’s grandson, and it made it sound as if she and Corelli had saved the boy, but she hadn’t done anything. She thought about Corelli’s story about her brother. Would any fifteen-year-old girl growing up in that environment be crazy enough to threaten a Mafia don? She didn’t think so. But, then again, the grownup Corelli seemed crazy, so maybe it wasn’t the wars or the undercover assignment. Maybe she’d always been crazy.

  “Parker, I’m sorry. I need your help again.”

  Parker retrieved the holster and strapped it on with no thought for the closeness and touching involved. She held out the jacket but Corelli shook her head. “Later.” She picked up the ice pack and wrapped it around her hand again.

  “How’d your hand get so bad? I didn’t notice it last night.”

  “Toricelli’s grandson had a steel grip.”

  A loud ringing filled the apartment. “That’s Watkins. We’re meeting here today.”

  Corelli buzzed him in then went for a refill.

  Parker helped herself to a bagel and more coffee and wondered why they were meeting here. Her gaze roamed the apartment. She loved the light and the warmth. How could Corelli afford this huge apartment in one of the hottest neighborhoods in the city? Toricelli knew Corelli. Maybe she was connected.

  Indignation shot through her. She was an honest cop. She wanted homicide, but she didn’t want anything to do with the Mafia. She shivered. Then she caught herself. She had tried and convicted Corelli without any proof. Damn, why does this have to be so hard?

  Watkins bounded off the elevator waving the Daily World. “Hey, are you two giving autographs?”

  Corelli laughed. “No autographs. Coffee and bagels. Help yourself.” She waved him to the table and sat opposite Parker. “Did I see you shiver, Parker? Should I adjust the A/C?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Corelli wrapped the ice pack around her hand. “Why so glum? Good food and fun, followed by big-time action catching up with you? Or is it the sudden fame?” She smiled.

  Her parents snub her. Her Mafia connection is exposed. Nobody knows how many cops in the city are trying to kill her, and she’s joking. “I must have eaten too much because I didn’t get much sleep.”

  Corelli’s gaze lingered for a few seconds before she turned to Watkins. “Let’s work while we eat. It’s your meeting.”

  He put his bagel down, licked his fingers and sipped his coffee.

  “Unfortunately, the team’s search didn’t turn up the weapon, but I told Edwards they can have Winter’s office back tomorrow. Okay with you?” Corelli nodded. “We tracked down John Broslawski. He lives in Virginia, uh, no West Virginia, a small town called Hope Falls. A Detective Brown there checked him out and called me late last night to say he’s legitimate, so I made reservations for you to go to West Virginia this afternoon on the twelve-twenty-five. I also made a reservation at a nearby hotel. Detective Brown suggested you also talk to Clara Lipkin, the librarian, if she’s in town. I made your return late enough to give you time to see her tomorrow morning.” He filled them in on the details.

  “I’ll pack before we leave, Parker. Watkins will drive me to the station so I can meet with the captain while you go home and pack. You can catch up with me when you’re finished.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Good. Anything else, Watkins?”

  “One of Jenny Hornsby’s neighbors was walking her dog and saw her go into her house about midnight on Friday. So we have a discrepancy between what she told us and what the neighbor saw. Hornsby could’ve gone back to the office after she left the hospital around nine.” He turned a page in his notebook. “The Friday night doorman at Gertrude’s apartment building said he tried to ring her about ten o’clock to give her a package the day man missed. She didn’t answer, but he didn’t see her leave. Want me to talk to Gertrude?”

  “No. We should have time to see her and Hornsby this morning.”

  “No luck so far with the safe deposit box. JP Morgan didn’t have it, so we’re checking other banks in the Wall Street area. Also, Dietz and I went down to Princeton to check out Rieger. He’d just come home from a camping trip with his wife and two kids. One of the kids was sick during the week, so it wasn’t until seven thirty Friday night that they decided to go ahead with the trip. He went to Winter’s office about eight fifteen to tell her he wouldn’t be in until Tuesday and walked in on Brett Cummings sounding mad as hell.” He referred to his notes. “She didn’t say anything while he was there, but she paced the entire time, and as soon as he was out the door, she started again, not yelling, but cold, in-your-face aggressive anger. He heard Cummings say something about ruining people, but he couldn’t hear Winter’s response. He worked in his office until about eleven and got the eleven thirty train home. His wife confirmed his arrival.”

  “Interesting that he’s pointing us to Cummings. Did he have anything to say about Winter?”

  Watkins laughed. “He confided that all was not well in Winter land. She and Gus were having problems. Said Gus strutted around, acting like he was in charge when everyone knew she didn’t trust him…” He turned a page. “To order the toilet paper.”

  Corelli smiled. “He does seem like that kind of guy.”

  “What does Rieger look like?” Parker asked.

  “Short, skinny, lots of brown hair, mustache, kind of nerdy, I guess. Why?”

  Parker and Corelli exchanged a glance.

  “The cleaning woman described him but didn’t know his name. We hadn’t reali
zed he was in the office Friday night.” Corelli tapped the table. “Now he’s confirmed he was there when she was killed. How did he react when you told him she was dead?”

  “Shocked. Color drained, like he’d been punched. Said he hadn’t heard a radio or seen a paper since Saturday morning.”

  “Could be he killed Winter after Cummings left and is setting her up as the killer. Let’s find out what was so important that it kept him in the office until eleven o’clock on a Friday night. See if there was anything unusual about the finances. Maybe he was stealing. And talk to Cummings. See what she has to say about the argument and confirm that he told Winter he’d be out on Monday.”

  Watkins made notes. “I saw Bearsdon late yesterday. He has a solid alibi. He was at a retreat in a resort in Canada Friday afternoon through Sunday with his partners and their employees. And their wives accompanied them.”

  “I also talked to Paul Donaldson, the firm’s new attorney. Winter was still working on the terms of the divorce and a new will, so the old will is still valid. Also, Winter sent him pictures of Gus with other women to use in negotiating the divorce.”

  “Tess Cantrell was working for her. Did Donaldson get any pictures on Friday?”

  “I’ll check.” He glanced again at his notes. “Gus has been calling him a couple of times a day asking about the will, but Donaldson hasn’t returned his calls. Also, I have copies of the current will, the latest version of the new will, the divorce papers, and the prenuptial agreement. I thought you might want to read them on the plane.”

  Parker felt the blood drain out of her. “Plane?” She was phobic about flying.

  “Yes. It’s the fastest,” Watkins said. “Why?”

  “I guess I pictured a car or the train.” She felt Corelli’s gaze and forced herself to meet it.

  Corelli turned her attention back to Watkins. “Great work.”

  He smiled. “Thanks, boss.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One interesting thing. SOC found traces of Winter’s blood in the sink and on the floor in the men’s room.”

  “Which is closer?” Corelli asked.

  “The men’s.”

  “Hmm. Could mean our killer is a man, or it could be a woman trying to throw us off the track. Find out what time the cleaning woman did the bathrooms,” Corelli said. “It might help us narrow the time.”

  “I drove Gianopolus to the morgue. They cleaned Winter up and moved her hair around so she didn’t look too bad. He threw up afterward. While I was there, I picked up the autopsy report. And, by the way, the mayor’s office requested a copy.”

  Corelli raised one eyebrow. “Interesting. Go on.”

  He scanned the report. “Winter had pre-mortem bruises on her forehead consistent with being hit with that missing telephone handset. She was also hit by a heavier, pointy object from two different angles. The first blow was to the side of the head, probably bled like the devil and knocked her out. After that she was hit on the top of the head a couple of times, more direct and more than necessary to kill by a right-handed killer. There was a tiny pre-mortem cut on her left palm that came from a small, hammered-silver cross they found in her clothes, but no defensive wounds or signs that she fought. ME said the pyramid sounds like a good possibility for the weapon.”

  Parker pictured Winter’s body. She was almost certain there was a heavy gold necklace around her neck. “Did they find a chain or a ribbon with the cross?”

  Watkins ran his finger down the list of items. “The report doesn’t mention either. Why?”

  The intensity of Corelli’s gaze made Parker uneasy. Was her logic flawed? She braced for an attack but forced herself to continue. “As I recall, Winter was wearing a scooped-necked dress and a gold necklace. It seems unlikely she would also wear a silver cross. So I’m thinking the cross belonged to the killer. Do you have a picture of it?”

  Watkins handed her one of the photographs that had accompanied the report. Corelli leaned over. “It looks like something a woman would wear.” She sat back. “So you’re thinking the killer is a woman?”

  Parker shrugged. “That’s what the evidence suggests.”

  Corelli nodded. “Let’s find out if any of our suspects lost a silver cross. Go on, Watkins.”

  “Lots of stuff on the floor under the blood…four rubber bands, a green pencil, a ballpoint pen, a yellow pencil, four binder clips used to hold big reports together, some paper clips, and a few pieces of her American Express card, one with ‘Wint’ and one with the expiration date. Most of the bits of paper were too soaked to read and what they got didn’t make much sense. Her wallet contained another Amex card with the same expiration date, plus Visa, Master Card, and Diner’s Club cards, but no cash at all. Her checkbook was in her purse along with a lipstick, a compact, a comb, and a small mirror.” He turned the page, glanced at both of them and continued. “The ME found a couple of unusual things. There were a few horse hairs on her legs and her dress, and traces of horse manure and hay on the carpet.”

  Corelli tapped her pen on the table. “There’s lots of bullshit in the financial district, but no horses, so it’s unlikely there’d be manure on the streets. Find out if she, or anyone in her family, or anyone who works on the floor, has any connection to horses. You said a couple. What else?”

  “Are the kids adopted? The ME says she was never pregnant.”

  Corelli frowned. “No one mentioned adoption that I remember. Do you, Parker?”

  Parker sat up. “No. Think it’s important?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll ask Gus. I’m not satisfied with his story. And that reminds me Parker. Give Watkins the info on Gus’s East Hampton girlfriend so he can have someone check her out. Then, would you guys clean up while I throw a few things in a bag?”

  “Should I come and help?” asked Parker.

  “Thanks. I think I’m fine with the packing, but I’ll need your help with the jacket and my hair when we’re ready to leave. And Watkins, interview the cleaning woman at home and ask about the bathrooms and the cross. Check to see whether she’s right-or left-handed.”

  Corelli headed downstairs to the bedroom.

  Watkins looked up from loading the dishwasher. “How’s it going? Anybody pop yet?”

  “We still have more questions than answers but we’ve taken a few people off the list. Feldman’s alibi is solid.” Parker laughed. “I guess if you’re going to be a murder suspect it pays to piss off the delivery boy so he remembers you. Corelli thinks both cleaning people are cleared. I wasn’t sure about Agnieszka but I’m fairly certain she held the cup of water in her right hand during our interview. If you confirm she’s right-handed and never owned a silver cross we can cross her off the list. Oh, and Edwards’s alibi checked out.” She sponged the table. “If the damn building door was locked Cummings, Rieger and the illusive big blond cop have the opportunity. If the door was unlocked I think Gus and Gertrude are the most likely killers.”

  “I’m ready, Parker. The scarf and my jacket are on the chair near the elevator.”

  Parker tossed the sponge into the sink and moved toward the elevator. She helped Corelli into her jacket, pulled her hair back and tied the scarf.

  The three of them stepped into the elevator. “So how’s the brownstone coming, Ron?”

  Brownstone? Parker swiveled to face Watkins. “You own a brownstone?”

  “Yes, in Harlem. Couple more weeks I’ll be able to move in.”

  Parker looked from one to the other. Are you both connected to the Mafia?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The doorman conveyed Gertrude’s regrets, the message being that she had nothing more to say to them. Corelli asked him to convey her regrets to Ms. Gianopolus, the message being if she didn’t speak to them now, a squad car would pick her up and they would talk to her whenever it was convenient for them to get downtown. Maybe tomorrow evening.

  Of course, Gertrude invited them up. Looking nice in black slacks and a matching T-shirt, she
squinted from the smoke of the ever-present cigarette dangling from her mouth and voiced her annoyance. “Gawd, shouldn’t you two be interviewing the hordes of people who hated Connie?”

  Corelli controlled the urge to confront Gertrude. Dealing with the lies and evasions of people like her wasted police time. “That’s exactly what we’re doing, Ms. Gianopolus. We have a few more questions for you.”

  With a look of disgust, she led them down a long hallway lined with abstract paintings, all signed by Gertrude. Under all that nastiness is the soul of an artist, and a very good one at that. Sure enough, one of the seven rooms they passed was a studio with huge windows, furnished with several easels, shelves filled with paints, and paintings stacked in frames against the walls. They followed her into a comfortably furnished living room, alive with plants, the inviting warmth of book-filled shelves lining the walls, and a violin concerto blasting in the background. The apartment was neat, and except for the smell of cigarettes, pleasant. Gertrude was full of surprises it seemed.

  She lowered the music and plopped down into what appeared to be her chair. “For god’s sake, call me Gertrude. Sit. Now what?”

  Parker jumped in. “I see you’re an artist. Do you sell or is it a hobby?” Corelli shot her a dirty look. Waste of time. Irrelevant information.

  She knocked the ash off her cigarette and squinted at Parker. “I sell some.” She sounded shy. “But not enough to live on. That’s why I have to do mind-numbing work for my bitch of a sister-in-law.” Her anger bled through. She took a drag on her cigarette. “My nephew Gussie is also an artist, a very good one, and it made me nuts that with all her money Connie wanted to sentence him to the same kind of struggle. His life will be much better without her.”

  Parker’s question was right on the mark.

  Gertrude took a breath and switched her attention to Corelli. “But I bet you two busy detectives didn’t come here to discuss art.”

  “Where were you Friday night about ten o’clock?”

  She inhaled again and blew the smoke in their direction. “Here. I told you.”