Deluge (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You know I can’t read this,” she said.

  She was tired. She longed for the rain to return and set up a protective dark waterfall around the house. If someone had covered her eyes and said, “Quick, which dress are you wearing?” she wouldn’t have been able to answer with more than a vague guess.

  “He says her,” Waclaw said.

  “He says her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He held up both hands, fingers splayed. Then he made a fist and opened his fingers again. Then he pointed at the journal.

  “Page twenty?” she asked.

  He didn’t know the word twenty so he reached over and flipped pages. Alvin Havel had numbered the pages in the upper right-hand corner. Waclaw tapped the open page with a lean finger.

  “Hers,” he said.

  Waclaw knew he looked like a fool. In Poland, he was considered to be a fine speaker, a union spokesman, a man his son, when he was alive, had been proud of. Waclaw knew he should have made a greater effort to learn English, but Alvin spoke perfect Polish. Waclaw’s grandchildren spoke no Polish.

  “Dzieweczyna,” he said pointing to the page.

  “Dizwezna?” Anne repeated.

  Close enough, thought Waclaw. Dzieweczyna. He didn’t know the English word “girlfriend,” but her name was in Alvin’s journal. Well, not her name exactly, but the name he had given her in Polish. He pointed to the name.

  Nogi.

  “Her name is Nogi?” asked Anne.

  “Niech pomysle.”

  Waclaw pointed to his legs, then ran a hand down each of them.

  “Legs?” Anne asked. “Nogi? Legs?”

  Waclaw shook his head “yes” and sat back exhausted by his effort. “Legs.”

  Annette Heights was the first student through the door of the conference room. A tall man with hair as dark as hers stood behind her. She was still cute. He wasn’t. He wore a blue suit, carried a briefcase and had a face that did not promise a smile.

  It wasn’t Robert Heights, the concert pianist, who Danny would have been happy to meet. This man was all lawyer and no more than thirty years old.

  “John Rothwell,” he said, pulling out a chair for the girl who smiled up at him.

  Danny wondered if she thought Rothwell was cute too.

  No one shook hands. Rothwell and Annette Heights sat at the table. She looked at the metal box with the black cable and the orange goggles. Rothwell didn’t look. He had a very good idea of what they were.

  “What are you looking for?” Rothwell asked.

  “Glass,” said Danny.

  “Glass?”

  “Glass,” Danny repeated.

  “Why?”

  The girl seemed to be amused. Her lawyer wasn’t.

  “Evidence that would go a long way toward removing your client from any possible suspicion,” said Danny.

  “Clients. I represent all of the students on behalf of Wallen School. And if we say ‘no’?”

  “We ask a judge to step in,” said Danny. “Won’t look good. Could get out to the press.”

  “Cut it out, John,” Annette said with a sigh. “Let them do it and let’s get out of here. Where are you looking for the glass? You want me to undress?”

  “Not necessary,” said Lindsay. “Just your hands.”

  “All right,” said Rothwell. “But they’ll answer no questions.”

  And they didn’t, nor did Lindsay and Danny ask them any.

  It went faster with the other students in Alvin Havel’s chemistry class, James Tuvekian, Karen Reynolds, Cynthia Parrish. No trace of glass on any of their palms.

  “Let’s check the boyfriends,” said Lindsay after the students and their lawyer had left. “Someone was in that closet. Someone watched for security to come back when the tapes were being altered. Someone’s got glass in their palm.”

  Jim Park sat propped up in bed. A pretty woman with an Irish face and red hair, his wife, stood on one side of the bed. Stella and Mac stood on the other side. Park’s wife touched her husband’s shoulder. He winced.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot.”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone,” Park said. “I didn’t even know the knife was in my pocket.”

  “We believe you,” said Mac.

  “They believe you,” Park’s wife said reassuringly.

  “Good, then they can be witnesses,” Park said. “I’m suing the man who shot me. Sioban, get me a lawyer.”

  “What kind of lawyer?” she asked.

  “A mean one,” he said.

  “Mr. Park,” Mac said. “We’ve got a few more questions.”

  “I did not have a good morning,” Park explained.

  “We know,” said Mac.

  “Ask your questions.”

  “Any idea when the knife was put in your pocket?” asked Mac.

  “Yes, between nine-thirty and ten-seventeen. I was late for work. I reached into my pocket to check my cell phone messages at nine-thirty. I was on the train platform. The next time I checked was ten-seventeen in the elevator. That’s when I found the knife in my pocket.”

  “See anyone suspicious near you?” asked Mac. “Anyone bump into you?”

  “Everyone was suspicious-looking, even me, and everyone bumped into me. No one says ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Pardon me.’ Wait, one man on the platform who bumped into me did say ‘Sorry.’”

  “What did he look like?” asked Mac.

  “What did he look like?” Park’s wife prompted.

  Park looked at her with mild exasperation.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Just bumped into me, said ‘sorry’ and limped into the crowd.”

  “Which train stop was it?” Mac asked, looking at Stella who rubbed the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

  “Gun Hill Road, the Bronx,” Park said.

  “Gun Hill Road, Bronx,” his wife repeated.

  “Where’s your jacket?” asked Mac.

  “Over there,” said Park, gesturing at the closet a few feet away.

  “I’ll need it,” said Mac.

  “Keep it,” said Park. “It’s got a hole in it where that guy shot me.”

  “Blood too,” said Park’s wife.

  Mac nodded.

  Gary House was, more or less, Annette Heights’s boyfriend. He was, like her, a junior. According to Annette, Gary was her best friend.

  “He’s smart,” she said. “He’s quiet, except when he gets excited about computers, and he likes to be bossed around.”

  “And you like bossing?” asked Lindsay.

  “Love it,” she said.

  Gary House was pudgy, pink cheeked and straw haired. He was quite willing to put his hand out to be checked.

  “There’s a newer model,” he said, looking at the metal box. “Detects a dozen substances.”

  “Too expensive,” said Danny.

  “Technology is always ahead of forensic economics,” said Gary House.

  “Okay,” said Lindsay.

  He pulled his hand back and placed it in his lap.

  “You have chemistry with Mr. Havel?” asked Danny.

  “Everyone has chemistry with Mr. Havel. There’s only one chemistry teacher in the Wallen School. He had the market cornered.”

  “That all he had cornered?” asked Danny.

  “Gary,” John Rothwell warned.

  Gary House looked at Danny blankly and then at Lindsay, who said, “He corner any of the girls? Annette, for example?”

  “No,” he said emphatically. “She would have liked it if he tried though. She likes to flirt.”

  “I noticed,” said Danny.

  “Gary,” the lawyer said. “No more talking.”

  “Can I go now?” the boy asked.

  Lindsay nodded. Gary had no trace of glass in either palm.

  Karen Reynolds’s boyfriend, Terry Rucker, was not a nerd. He wasn’t a fool either. It took a little persuasion by Headmaster Brightman to get him into the conference room.


  “Hands,” said Lindsay.

  Terry reluctantly put out both hands. He was several inches over six feet tall and well built. His shirt was about half a size too small to show off his upper torso.

  “Palms up,” Lindsay said.

  He complied.

  Lindsay turned the light on his hands.

  “Is this dangerous?” Terry said.

  “No,” said Danny. “Where were you at ten yesterday morning?”

  “When Mr. Havel was killed, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Terry, you don’t have to answer any questions,” Rothwell said with a hint of resignation.

  “In Ithaca, at a basketball game.”

  Lindsay could see no sign of glass, but there was the residue of something on his palms.

  Cynthia Parrish did not have a boyfriend. She did, however, have a close friend, a very close friend, on the cross-country team. Jean Withrow was black, model lean and pretty. Her hair was pulled back and tied tightly. She wore a blouse and a skirt that revealed lean, powerful legs.

  “I’m not telling you anything,” she said, sitting and folding her arms across her chest.

  “We haven’t asked you anything,” said Danny. “But I am now. Please hold out your hands.”

  The girl looked from Danny to Lindsay, then at Rothwell, who nodded to show that it was all right. She shook her head and held out her hands.

  “You hurt me, my father sues,” she said.

  “Painless,” said Lindsay.

  “I know why you had me brought in here,” Jean said. “You think Cyn and I are suspects because we’re gay and Havel hit on me.”

  “Jean,” Rothwell warned.

  For someone who wasn’t going to talk, Danny thought, she was providing a whole lot of information.

  “And what did you do when he hit on you?” Danny asked.

  “Looked at him cold.”

  She showed them the look. It was very icy indeed.

  “Then I told him if he laid a hand on me again, I was going to scream ‘rape.’ And I also told him that if I got anything lower than the A I deserved, he’d be looking for another line of work.”

  “And what’d he do?”

  “Ceased and desisted.”

  “Didn’t threaten to ‘out’ you?” asked Lindsay.

  The girl smiled. Nice smile. “Everybody knows we’re gay. Even my family and Cyn’s. They are, to use their words, ‘cool with it.’”

  “Are they?” asked Lindsay.

  “No, but there’s not much they can do and they live in hope that it will pass like the flu.”

  “Yesterday, ten to eleven in the morning?” asked Danny. “Where were you?”

  “Spanish class. No lo creeo?”

  “We’ll check,” said Danny.

  When the girl had gone, James Tuvekian’s two closest friends were examined. Neither showed signs of glass fragments in the palm.

  The last three people called in were Bill Hexton and the other two security guards.

  Epidermal samples were taken from everyone. No glass fragments anywhere.

  “Looks like we’ll have to do the whole school, Montana,” said Danny, sitting back, hands behind his head.

  “Maybe not,” Lindsay answered, starting to pack the machine away.

  There was something. Lindsay wasn’t prepared to mention it, not till she got back to the lab. The palm of one of the hands they had looked at was puffy, slightly sore and had a slightly green residue. The other palm looked normal. She had taken a swab from the suspicious palm.

  14

  “WHAT HAVE WE GOT?”

  The question was put by Mac Taylor, who leaned back against his desk. Stella and Hawkes sat in front of him. Flack leaned against the wall. They were all beyond tired.

  “We’ve got someone watching his apartment,” said Flack.

  “He won’t go back,” said Mac.

  “No,” Flack agreed. He put his hand to his face. He needed a shave. He needed a shower, hot water beating against his aching back. He needed some sleep.

  “Evidence?” asked Mac.

  “The knife in Park’s pocket is the same one used to kill Paul Sunderland,” said Hawkes.

  “Man has a lot of knives,” said Flack.

  “He made a mistake,” said Hawkes. “There were traces of something interesting on the handle and in Park’s pocket. Paint. Green. Fresh.”

  “How fresh?” asked Mac.

  “Fragments are still pliable,” said Hawkes. “He wasn’t painting walls but he did lean against one that wasn’t completely dry. Paint is a blend. High end. Expensive. Mixture of three colors. It comes out mostly green. I talked to the manufacturer. It’s not used in homes much. Marketed to high-end office buildings, doctors’ offices, law firms, places like that.”

  Hawkes had taken the paint chips to the paint store, which had computer color-matching software. They had taken the paint chip, placed it in front of a small detection window on the computer that then identified the proper formula to make that particular color. It took no more than a few seconds. The formula was displayed on the computer monitor. With the push of the “enter” button, the clerk at the computer could have created a gallon of paint that exactly matched the small chip Hawkes had supplied.

  “The paint was purchased by Norah Opidian & Associates, Office Decorators,” said Hawkes. “I called their number. Answering machine says they’re closed, at a big office decorators’ convention in Philadelphia.”

  “Keep trying,” said Mac. “Call the convention hotel. See if you can find somebody who can help you find where that paint came from.”

  Mac pushed away from the desk, turned his head and looked out the window. The room went silent for a moment.

  “Everything’s connected,” Mac said finally. “We have to find out how. He put the knife in Park’s pocket at the Gun Hill station. What was he doing there? He doesn’t live there and neither did any of the people he killed.”

  “He’s not done killing,” Stella said, rubbing her eyes.

  “He’s not done killing,” Mac agreed.

  Pulling her thoughts from Custus was more than difficult and Stella knew why now. It had come to her a few minutes ago when Mac was looking out the window. Custus reminded her of Tom O’Brien, the administrator at the orphanage when Stella was ten years old. O’Brien and Custus had the same Irish accent, the same wit, though Stella had not been able to really understand it when she was ten. One day Tom O’Brien had simply been gone and no one would say where. The rumor was that he had been caught touching one of the girls.

  He had never touched Stella. Or had he? The image of a smiling Connor Custus came to her. Custus was reaching out to touch her.

  “Stella?” said Mac. “You with us?”

  “Yes, sorry. Yunkin may not be finished spelling,” she said.

  “The day is over,” said Hawkes. “He wanted to get his brother’s name carved into four child molesters.”

  “We’re lucky his brother’s name wasn’t Anthony,” said Flack.

  No one laughed.

  “But his brother had a last name,” said Stella. “And there was one other person in Paul Sunder-land’s therapy group.”

  “Ellen Janecek,” said Flack.

  “And his brother’s first name could be repeated,” said Stella. “There are a lot of child molesters out there.”

  “The anniversary of his brother’s death is over for this year,” said Hawkes.

  “He could be planning to spend another special day carving out a name for himself,” said Flack. “His brother’s birthday maybe.”

  “Birthday? When was Adam Yunkin’s birthday?” asked Mac.

  Flack took out his notebook, flipped through pages and stopped. He looked up and said, “Tomorrow.”

  “Irony,” said Hawkes. “The kid kills himself the day before his birthday.”

  “Ironic, but maybe not a coincidence. Adam Yunkin didn’t want to see sixteen,” said Stella.

  “It could be nothin
g,” said Mac.

  “Could be everything,” said Stella.

  “Gun Hill area,” said Mac. “While Hawkes is looking for an office decorator, see if you can talk to someone at the Gun Hill precinct who can give us a lead on an office being painted Vineland Green.”

  “I’m on it,” said Flack. “I know a couple of people in that precinct.”

  Mac heard something behind him. He looked over his shoulder at the window. It had begun to rain again.

  Anne Havel made the call and asked to talk to whoever was in charge of investigating her husband’s murder. She was put through to Danny Messer.

  While she waited, she glanced out the living room window, ignoring her father-in-law, Waclaw, who sat numbly on the sofa.

  The days of rain had taken her through many moods. At first, before Alvin had been murdered, she had welcomed the protective wall of the deluge that isolated her from the world. Even as a child she had welcomed the heavy, driving rain.

  After three days, the isolation had ceased to be comforting and had become confining. The house was not big; three small bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen. The rain kept the children home and Waclaw had sat watching television, even though he didn’t understand most of it, from morning till night.

  The house had become a confining trap. And now, with the cruel return of the rain, it had suddenly struck her as a good place to end her life.

  “Detective Messer,” said Danny.

  “This is Anne Havel.”

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Havel?”

  So much, she thought. Take that zombie of a man away. Sit with her children day and night for at least a week. Make the rain stop. Make it stop.

  “My husband left a diary,” she said. “It’s in Polish. He was having an affair with someone at the school.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t write the name, only called the person ‘Nogi,’ ‘Legs’ in Polish.”

  “We’ll need that diary.”

  “It’s yours,” she said, hanging up the phone and turning to her father-in-law. “Are you hungry?”

  If Waclaw understood, he gave no sign.

  Anne walked to the kitchen. She would do the easiest thing possible. She would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The girls would be fine with that. Waclaw wouldn’t care.