“I’ll need a ride back,” he said.
“We can do that.”
“Great. I’ll only be a minute.” He disappeared inside, letting the door close and leaving them on the porch.
Lou looked at Sherri. “Renovations?”
“Odd sort, isn’t he?”
“He didn’t want us inside. That’s for sure.”
True to his word, Bruce returned a few minutes later. “I’m ready if you are, but I decided I’ll follow you to the station.”
“You’re welcome to ride with us,” Sherri said.
“No, thanks. I have errands to run afterward.”
The whole way to the station, Lou fidgeted with a cigarette, and once Sherri parked, he had it lit before the door was all the way open.
“You go ahead,” Lou said. “I’ll be in when I finish.”
Sherri waited for Stewart to park, and then she took him upstairs to the interview room. “Would you like something to drink? Coke, coffee, tea?”
“Tea would be wonderful, thank you. I take it with lemon, no sugar.”
“Be right back,” Sherri said.
Lou was in the room when Sherri returned with the tea. He sat in a chair next to Stewart, an unlit cigarette in his mouth rolling from side to side.
Stewart looked at Lou, then Sherri. “What can I help you with, detectives?”
“We’re looking at Ms. Parnell’s case again,” Lou said. “That means we have to re-verify alibis, so how about you tell us again what you were doing when Ms. Parnell was killed.”
“I understand. As I told Detective Donovan…by the way, how is he doing?”
Lou scooted his chair closer. “Just answer the question, Mr. Stewart. And please, don’t give me that bullshit about browsing the Internet. Anyone can fake that.”
Bruce sipped his tea, made a frown. “Tea in a paper cup isn’t quite the same.”
“Getting back to that night,” Sherri said. “Where were you?”
He looked at Lou. “I wouldn’t know about faking the browsing, Detective, but I was on the Internet. And I do have an alibi for the first murder.” He put his finger to his chin. “What are they calling them…the ‘couples murders’? I said that right, didn’t I?”
“Where were you on the first murder?”
“At the opening of a new art gallery.”
“Witnesses?”
Stewart put his index finger to his chin and cocked his head. “Ten, possibly a dozen people, both friends and acquaintances. We left around 10:00, then went to dinner.”
“I’ll need those names,” Lou said.
“Of course,” Stewart said, and sipped more tea. “Is that all?”
“A couple of other things,” Sherri said. “We matched your DNA from Ms. Parnell’s apartment to hair found at Detective Donovan’s. How do you explain that?”
“First of all, I’m shocked that you could get DNA processed so quickly. But assuming that’s correct, I have to ask how you know it’s mine? I never volunteered my DNA. And I won’t fall for your tricks of drinking coffee or Coke while I’m here and then leave my cup.” He wiped the rim of his cup with a napkin. “In case you’re wondering, I’m taking this with me.” A smile followed his statement, a smirk really, kind of a fuck-you smile. “So while I don’t doubt you have someone’s DNA, you cannot prove it’s mine. Not legally.”
“And how did it end up at Detective Donovan’s house?”
Stewart looked hurt, then agitated. “Detective, I volunteered to give you my DNA earlier, but Detective Donovan didn’t take me up on the offer. Now I’m a little pissed at the insinuations. And as far as my DNA being in Detective Donovan’s apartment, let’s speculate. He was at my house the day he was attacked, and he drove me home from the station in his car. I remember his jacket being on the seat when I got in the car. If he laid it back on the seat after I left, I’m sure trace evidence transferred to the jacket.” Another fuck-you smile followed.
Lou fought to control himself. He wanted to smack the smug look off Stewart’s face. The son of a bitch planned it. He invited Frankie to his house for an alibi. And he attacked Chad Benning to get his hairs and skin. Then he used Frankie’s own knife so there was nothing to trace or catch him with.
Stewart drained his cup and stood. “If there is nothing else…”
“We have more questions,” Sherri said. “Take a seat.”
“I don’t think I will. I have wasted enough of my day. If you need anything else, I’ll give you my attorney’s name.”
“Attorney?” Lou moved into his space. “Why do you need an attorney?”
Bruce laughed. “Perhaps I have watched too many TV shows, Detective. I find I’m not as trustful as I once was when it comes to New York’s finest.” He motioned for Mazzetti to move aside. “If you’ll excuse me, I have groceries to purchase.”
Sherri squeezed the back of the chair until her knuckles turned white. When Stewart left, she kicked the chair aside, then another one, knocking over the waste can. “That son of a bitch is guilty. I know it.”
Lou nodded. “We said the same thing about Benning.”
“Benning at least was believable. When we told Stewart that his DNA was at Donovan’s house, he didn’t flinch. He had an answer prepared.” Sherri pounded her fist on the table. “Goddamn, I’m pissed. And did you see the look on his face? He was screwing with us.”
“And doing a damn good job,” Lou said. “I was about ready to pop him, and I’m not a violent guy.”
Carol walked into the room, taking note of the chairs and the trashcan. “All I know is that if Lieutenant Morreau sees this shit, somebody’s ass will be on a desk.”
Sherri reached down to pick up a chair. “Lost my temper.”
“I understand, and you’re young so it’s almost forgivable. I’m just saying…Morreau will drop you like a bad habit if he sees something like this.”
Lou put the other chair back in place. “Listen to her, Miller. She’s been here longer than this building.”
“You know where you can stuff that, Mazzetti. Anyway, I see it didn’t go so well with Stewart. Anything you need me to check on?”
“I’d love to get a warrant,” Sherri said, “but it’s not gonna happen.”
“It would be nice to see what he’s got inside his house.” Lou pulled out his cell phone. “Be right back, Miller.”
“Where you going?”
“To take a piss. Is that okay with you?”
Lou stepped out and dialed a number. It rang twice. “Hello.”
“Fusco, this is Mazzetti.”
CHAPTER 45
Watching
I was parked a block away from Stewart’s house when I spotted Mazzetti and Miller pulling up. What the hell are they doing here? Maybe I didn’t give them enough credit. If they had gotten this far with the investigation they were doing a good job. Last I talked with Mazzetti he was fixated on Benning.
Stewart came to the door but didn’t let them in. Soon afterward he disappeared for a minute and then got in a car and followed them. I presumed he was going in for questioning, which left me with two choices: Follow them and wait, or have a look inside Stewart’s house while he was being questioned. I opted for the peek. I promised Angie I’d stay out of trouble, but that wasn’t to say I couldn’t help the cops do their job.
I looked at my watch and frowned. Sixteen hours left. You need to hurry, Fusco.
It didn’t take long to get inside. I could get in most houses in less than a minute. Another benefit of a prison education. The house was undergoing renovations, but a few things struck me about it. The place was a mess—but a perfect mess. The tape covering the woodwork had been applied perfectly, and the dropcloths fit the furniture like custom slipcovers. The lamps looked as if they were wrapped for shipping, and the sheet covering the TV fit so nicely it resembled an old drive-in theater screen. I found more of the same in the kitchen. Glasses perfectly aligned in the cabinets, the boxes and cans in the pantry arranged by size, left to
right. The Tupperware labeled, matching tops and bottoms. And the glass top on the kitchen table didn’t have a smudge on it. Bugs’ notes said the killer was a clean freak. Stewart’s house fit the bill.
I searched everywhere I could think of for the gun—taped to the toilet tank, in the access slot for the plumbing, taped to the bottom side of the box spring, closets, oven—nothing. I didn’t overlook the obvious either—drawers and coat pockets. The backyard consisted of a large stone patio surrounded by a patch of perfect green grass, cut to the perfect length. The patio had a few chairs, two wooden benches, and half a dozen life-sized sculptures. One was a man walking a dog on a leash. Another was a waiter with a serving tray. The oddest was a woman lying on the ground holding a cat in her arms. She was naked.
I went back inside to finish searching. Next to his computer lay an iPod. I quickly searched for the song Alex said the guy was singing. I looked under artists—Young Rascals—then looked under songs for It’s a Beautiful Morning. It wasn’t there. I couldn’t imagine a guy singing a song while he’s waiting to kill someone not having it on his iPod, so I looked some more. Maybe he made a mistake and spelled it wrong. Maybe he was a moron. I searched for “beautiful” and for “morning” but it didn’t come up even under a few alternate spellings just in case he’d made manual changes.
The missing song puzzled the hell out of me, but I figured Mazzetti couldn’t keep him much longer, so I got out of the house, making my way to the station. I waited half a block away, hoping Stewart was still there. Five minutes into the wait, my phone rang. At first I thought it might be Mazzetti, but it was my regular cell. I looked at the caller ID; it showed Kate Burns. My heart raced.
“Everything okay, Kate?”
A whisper answered. “It’s me, Rat. Alex.”
“Is Bugs okay?”
“Yeah, he’s the same. I was just checking to see if you knew anything yet.”
“Knew anything?”
He lowered his voice even more. “Yeah, I know you’re workin’ this.”
I damn near laughed. This kid was something else. “You’re right. I am working it, but that has got to stay between me and you. Got that?”
“I got it.”
“How’s Bugs? Any better?”
“Nothin’ yet. I keep talkin’ to him but he doesn’t hear. The doctors won’t say anything. Even Kate won’t say much.”
There was a long pause, then a few sobs. “Hey, Rat. What am I gonna do if FD dies? I got nowhere else to go.”
“You know any prayers?”
“A few.”
“Say them every night. Every day.”
Another pause. “You think that shit helps?”
“I wouldn’t call it shit in case somebody’s listening, but…yeah, I think it helps.”
“You do it?”
I laughed. “I’m not laughing at you. I was just thinking that if you only knew how many times I prayed, you’d be surprised.”
“For real? No shit?”
“No shit. So get busy. And don’t worry about Bugs. If anything happens—and it won’t—but if anything does, you can live with me.”
“FD told me you’d say that.”
“When did he say that?”
“One night when we talked. You know, about death and stuff. He said if anything ever happened I’d have a place with Kate or with you. It’d be my choice.”
“He was right. Now get your ass busy praying.”
“Thanks, Rat. I feel better.”
I hung up wearing a smile.
My other phone rang. On the second ring I picked it up. “Hello.”
“It’s Mazzetti.”
“Yeah?”
“Listen, I—”
“Whatever it is, just ask, Detective.”
“I need a favor. We just had a guy in here for questioning. I know this isn’t your place, but I’d appreciate it if you could follow him.”
“This guy happen to be named Bruce Stewart? If it is, I’m already on him.”
“How the fuck…”
“Leave the hard work to me, Detective.”
“Yeah, sure. But before you join the force, let me fill you in. Benning has an alibi for the joggers. Rock solid. He was on a plane with his boss. And Stewart has an alibi for the first murders at the hotel. We haven’t checked on it yet, but he seemed confident.”
“Work on busting that alibi, Mazzetti. Stewart did it.”
“You think?”
“I know,” I said, and hung up.
Stewart walked out of the station and got in his car. He didn’t look the least bit disturbed. I followed him to his house, parked down the block and waited. After an hour, I decided he might be staying put for a while. It seemed like a good time to check out Parnell’s apartment. I would have loved to inspect the first murder scene, but the hotel was out of question. Debbie’s apartment would have to do.
I parked down the block, taking in the surroundings as I walked toward her apartment. A bodega sat across the street and half a block down, and a decent amount of cars passed by. Not much pedestrian traffic, but it was a good mix—suits, joggers, moms, kids—the perfect opportunity to blend in. The doorman for Parnell’s building seemed busy. More accurately, he kept himself busy gossiping and chatting up the women. Panning for tips. I couldn’t blame him for it. Might mean a bottle of Brunello on Friday night instead of Chianti.
The case files said the doorman—Jack—swore that no one got in without him noticing. Furthermore, he swore that Stewart wasn’t there that night. I didn’t necessarily believe Jack, but following Sister Thomas’ rules, I had to check it out. If that proved wrong, which I figured it would, then I had to work on proving Jack wrong.
With that in mind, I walked around the building, inspecting all the bottom floors and any window that had access. I was about to give up when something caught my eye. One window was noticeably cleaner than the others. It was so damn clean it looked as if they used it for a TV commercial. I went back and looked at the others to double-check myself, but there was no doubt this window was ultra clean. I risked being reported and checked it. It was locked. I checked the next one and found it open. I closed the window, stood back, and looked.
What the hell is going on?
People in Brooklyn didn’t leave their windows open. I decided to really tempt fate, and knocked on the window. When no one came, I knocked harder. Still no sign of life. I thought I had it figured out, but I needed to verify it. First, I finished checking the other apartments. Then I headed back to see Jack the doorman.
I put a dealer’s button I carried with me for good luck inside my wallet. It was a two-ounce piece of silver that, at quick glance, looked like a giant silver dollar. With the right attitude it might pass for a badge. I walked up to Jack, flashed the wallet open, then closed.
“Detective Mazzetti sent me. I have a few questions about the broken window out back.”
The look on his face told me everything I needed. The lies that followed told me more.
“Broken window? We haven’t had any broken windows.”
I looked him in the eyes, held him. “No broken windows. You’re sure?”
“I told the other officers everything. There were no broken windows. And nobody came in that night that wasn’t approved.”
I nodded. “That’s what I needed to know. Thanks.”
I walked down to the bodega and talked to the guy behind the counter. He turned out to be the owner’s brother, and he was working the night Parnell was killed. I showed him a picture of Chad Benning from the file. I didn’t have one of Stewart—an oversight on my part—but he didn’t seem interested in remembering anything, let alone an ID from almost a week ago. Common sense told me to go back to Bruce Stewart’s house and watch him, but I wanted to talk a little more to good old Jack. I waited for him to get off, and followed him home.
I gave Jack about half an hour to get settled in then went inside and knocked on his door. Fortunately Jack lived in an apartment without a door
man. He opened the door, a surprised look on his face.
“What do you want?”
“Just the truth, Jack.”
“I told you earlier—”
I pushed my way inside, shoving him back against the wall. “Anybody home?”
“I live alone.”
“Good.”
“Good? Who are you? Let me see your badge.”
“I don’t have a badge. And I said it’s good because if you live alone no one will hear me kill you.” I quickly scanned the apartment. “I’m thinking of how your blood will look on that powder-blue carpet.”
Jack half-laughed, the kind of laugh when you hope the person is kidding, but you’re not sure, maybe even think he isn’t.
I shut the door behind me. Pulled out the Beretta. “I don’t fuck around with people who lie to me. And I have no time for bullshit. Tell the truth or say your prayers.”
Jack told me the story of how the little kid came to him with the broken-window story and how he’d get in trouble.
“For Christ’s sake, he gave me two hundred dollars to get it fixed.” Jack looked at me, like…What the hell was I supposed to do?
“And you never wondered where the hell this kid got two-hundred dollars?”
He shrugged. “I guess not.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. You just called insurance and got them to do it.”
“This will stay between us, won’t it?”
“Maybe. Are the people in that apartment away?”
“For three weeks.”
“Who knew?”
He took a moment. “I don’t know. Probably half the building. They were socializers.”
There was no sense asking him any more questions. I had what I needed. I stared at him long enough for him to know I was serious. “You know how in the old movies, the bad guy leaves and says ‘Forget I was here’? Well, forget I was here.”
“I will.”
I walked out of his apartment and headed back to the car. I knew how the killer got in. So this guy, whoever he is, planned this pretty far in advance. This was definitely not an act of passion. And the guy was clever. Not only busted the window but had the foresight to get it fixed in advance. And was smart enough to get a kid to say he broke it. He knew the doorman would pocket the money, and the kid probably didn’t know him. Smart. Real smart.
Murder Takes Patience Page 23