My body ached. I was tired. I desperately wanted a good night’s sleep, but I had to watch Stewart. I called the guy I rented the car from, offered him a nice piece of change if he’d drive my car and park it a block or two from Stewart’s house, knowing I might need it. And then I changed into my jogging clothes and parked my ass where I could see Stewart coming or going.
No way this fucker is killing someone else.
CHAPTER 46
Digging Through Trash
When the killer thought about Cantaloupe Girl he shivered. He knew he should let it go, forget about it, go on with his life, but she was sooooo special, with such a fine body. He could only imagine how ripe she would be, like that first bite of cantaloupe, the one just below the seeds. Sweet and juicy.
He popped a couple of cherry tomatoes in his mouth and poured a glass of water. If he decided to kill her, he would have to make sure it was perfect. Even more perfect than the others. The cops would be watching his every move. So, if he did it, should he use the detective’s gun or the same one as all the others? Which would confuse them the most? After eating a few more tomatoes he decided to stew on it.
***
I knew there was only one way to find out about the killer. Watch him. It might take a while, but I learned patience long ago. It was one of Johnny Muck’s most important rules—murder takes patience. The fact that Dominic Mangini would probably sic Fabrizio on me in a few hours complicated matters, but I decided to give patience a try. For now.
I parked down the block from Stewart’s house, rolled down the windows so I didn’t miss anything, and put both cell phones on the seat beside me, making sure they were on vibrate. I couldn’t start the car or he might see the exhaust, and I couldn’t afford a mistake. If anything went wrong it would be easy to get caught up in the moment, forget about my promises, so I kept reminding myself that I was here for observation only.
I promised Angie I wouldn’t kill anyone, and, almost as bad, I promised God. With that in mind, I forced calmness through regulated breathing. Closed my eyes and pictured the path of the air—in through the nose, down the back, curl at the bottom of the stomach, then back out through the mouth. Slowly. Very slowly.
I had a good view of the house but from this far away I couldn’t see much, other than whether he went in or out of the door. I raised the binoculars and zoomed in. Lights were on in the living room—the one under construction—and a light shone in the kitchen. Nothing upstairs. I ran the layout through in my mind, wondering what he was doing. I doubted he was painting. Maybe he was peeking out the windows. He had to suspect the cops were on to him.
I wanted to go inside, shove a gun down his throat, and make him talk. If the gun didn’t work I had other ideas. I shook my head to clear it. Prison hardened me, sure, but I couldn’t blame this on the system. Maybe it was genetics performing at its best. My father was a killer, ergo…Ergo? That bit of bullshit I could blame on Sister Thomas. I sure as shit didn’t learn words like that in the neighborhood.
I sat up straight, thought I saw a window blind move. My pulse quickened, heart rate increased. I could make him talk. That would be no problem. I’d made men a lot tougher than Stewart talk. Made them beg. And cry.
***
Stewart cracked the blinds and looked out the window for the fifth time, wondering if the detectives followed him. The look on their faces had been priceless when he’d said he was taking the cup with him. They were counting on his DNA.
Lot of good that would do.
The gun was another matter. He couldn’t be caught with that. It would be incriminating as hell. That thought settled his dilemma regarding Cantaloupe Girl. He would not do her. Too risky. All he had to do was get rid of the gun and then he could hibernate. Home free. But he had to clean it first. He couldn’t risk DNA on the gun. DNA in Donovan’s apartment was something he could explain—DNA on the detective’s gun was another thing entirely.
He grabbed a flashlight but didn’t turn it on. He went to the basement, then made his way to the crawlspace. After hoisting himself up, he got on his back and slithered in fifteen or twenty feet, using the joists to pull himself along. The concrete was rough, scratching his back.
The things I have to go through to be perfect!
When Bruce figured he was in the proper position, he turned on the flashlight. The gun was right above him, tucked into the braces of the joists. Could I be any better? He got the gun, tucked it into his waistband alongside the flashlight and began inching back out. Moving this way was more difficult, with nothing to pull on.
Back in the kitchen, he initiated the cleaning process. A baby diaper worked well for things like this. He wiped the barrel, frame, and trigger. Paid special attention to the grip and the magazine. He didn’t think he had touched the bullets, but just in case…He emptied the magazine and wiped each bullet clean.
He thought about dumping the gun empty, but that might not work as well. If a junkie or gangbanger got it and shot someone, they would be tied to Detective Donovan. That would work much better for him. After checking everything again he placed the gun in a Ziploc bag and sealed it. He tucked the gun behind the refrigerator, taped it to the coils, then settled in for the night with a bottle of beer. A small celebration was in order.
Needing to get rid of the gun bothered him. A feeling like he’d lost something came over him, almost like when he’d quit smoking and had thrown out that last pack of cigarettes. Still…now that he had a plan he could sleep.
Bruce got up at exactly 6:00 AM, as he always did, put on his coffee, and wished he was at his other house. He couldn’t risk that right now, though. First he had to determine if the cops were trailing him. A morning jog would take care of that. No way could the old detective keep up. The woman looked as if she could, but he’d spot that black bitch anywhere. She was too sexy to miss.
Maybe I should do her. As he slipped his jogging pants on he mulled the idea over, wondering how she’d taste. Like a chocolate bunny, he thought, and laughed.
He rinsed his coffee cup, washed it, dried it, and put it away. Then he took the gun from behind the fridge and placed it into a small bag he carried—that matched his gray jogging suit. He peeked out the blinds, up and down the street. Waited a few minutes and peeked again.
Guess it’s time to see if I’m being followed.
***
Somehow I heard the door open on Stewart’s house. I don’t know how, because I was damn tired, surviving the night on a few twenty-minute naps. I ducked, low enough so he couldn’t see me, and waited thirty seconds before poking my head up. He was halfway down the block, jogging at a good pace. Shit. I’d have preferred to follow him in the car, but it was difficult to track a jogger that way.
Stewart turned left at the corner. Now I had a decision to make. Do I trail him right away and risk being seen? Do I give him some space and risk losing him?
One thing was sure, he didn’t know me and that gave me flexibility. I opted to see how he was playing it. I started the car, slowing as I approached the corner where he turned. Fortunately it was a stop sign. I looked both ways, saw him watching from a position a few houses down. So he is watching.
Once I got through the intersection I gunned it, raced three blocks and then turned left, heading the same way Stewart did. When I hit the first block I looked left. He was just crossing the street, heading north. I kept going, hoping to get ahead of him, park, and then fall in behind him as a jogger from another direction. I zigzagged, staying three or more blocks from him until he turned onto Ninth Street. I figured he might stay there for a while. That was good.
I drove five more blocks, turned left and passed Ninth Street, finding a parking spot halfway down the block. The next move was risky but if it worked he wouldn’t suspect a thing. I jogged back to Ninth Street. He was still a few blocks south of me, so I turned north and kept a slow pace. If he stayed on this street he’d pass me soon. If he turned, I was screwed.
I passed the industrial area and w
as coming up on a bunch of row houses, mostly old two- or three-story brick, with an occasional stone front. A lot of them had the front door raised four or five feet off the street. I kept going at the same pace, and soon passed St. Thomas’ at Fourth Avenue, praying he was still with me.
I didn’t have long to wait. He passed me at a decent clip and never looked once. I had him. When he got to Seventh Avenue he turned right, stopping a few blocks later to get a coffee at the Park Slope Deli. I was still a ways behind him. I slowed down more, then passed the deli without looking in. I kept going on Seventh for almost two blocks, ducking behind a delivery truck so I could watch without being seen. It didn’t take long.
Stewart came out carrying a bag. He looked both ways down the street, then walked across and dumped the bag into a trashcan. Once again he checked to see if anyone was watching, then he took off down Twelfth Street heading toward Prospect Park. I thought about cutting him off, but something bugged me about him dropping that bag.
Why didn’t he use the trashcan inside the deli? Why walk across the street to dump a bag?
I thought for a moment more, trying to decide what to do when it hit me.
Because the bag has something else in it!
That made up my mind. I had to risk losing Stewart if I wanted that bag. I waited a good five minutes, making sure he didn’t double-back to check on a tail, then I walked to the trashcan. The bag sat right on top. I pretended to toss something in the can then pulled the bag out. It was heavy. Definitely not the last bite of a bagel in there. When I opened the bag I saw a gun. Using a napkin, I pulled it out by the grip, careful not to mess up any prints that might have been on there, but from what I’d seen of this guy, there wouldn’t be any. I recognized it as Bugs’ gun by the small nick on the handle.
Son of a bitch! You’re dead, fucker.
I slipped the gun into the pocket of my hoodie and started a slow jog back to the car. I wondered why Stewart kept the gun so long, but I knew most people had problems getting rid of guns. For some strange reason they got attached to them. I got rid of mine after every job. If I used it, I disposed of it, and I made damn certain it wouldn’t be found. Afterward, I’d buy a new one. Still, I had to give this guy credit, he’d gotten rid of it a lot sooner than most people would. It reinforced my impressions—he was smart. I had to be careful. I made a mental note to tell Mazzetti about the gun. I didn’t know if there was anything he could do about it, but it would at least confirm what he was now thinking about Stewart.
The church bells rang as I passed St. Thomas’. Eight o’clock. That left me about six hours. Not nearly enough time. A bit of poetry the nuns had drummed into our heads came to mind.
Never send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.
How appropriate, I thought, and kicked it up a notch.
CHAPTER 47
Checking Alibis
Lou grabbed a fresh pack of smokes, his lighter, and a book of matches in case he ran out of butane. Sherri stood at the top of the steps, hands on hips.
“Mazzetti, Williamsburg is only ten minutes from here. We’re not going on a damn trip.”
“Never can tell how long we’ll be, and I hate to be caught without cigarettes.”
Carol handed Lou a note as he passed her desk. “Lieutenant Morreau said for you to see him before you go home.”
“What’s he want?”
“I don’t know, but I’d bet it has something to do with the chief being here.”
“When was he here?” Sherri asked.
“Left about thirty minutes ago,” Carol said.
“Tell Morreau we’ll be back,” Lou said. “We’ve got to break Stewart’s alibi.”
Sherri got in the car and pulled out of the lot, heading toward Williamsburg. “Where was the gallery?”
“Off Metropolitan. Not far from the bridge.”
“You have the list of names?”
“All ten of them,” Lou said. “Which makes me think this is a waste of time. If the guy has ten names to use as alibis, we’re screwed.”
“Ten is a lot.”
“I don’t have ten friends, let alone ten who would lie for me.”
Sherri laughed. “I don’t think I’ve had ten friends in my whole life.”
Lou nodded. “Hard to come by. You got me and Donovan, though.”
“I got you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Frankie doesn’t like me.”
“Bullshit again.”
“He doesn’t. He as much as told me.”
“Learn to listen, Miller. I have a feeling I know what Frankie said to you. What you have to understand is that he’s scared.”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Of losing Kate.”
“Got nothing to do with me,” Sherri said.
“Yeah, well listen, I know you haven’t had the best life, but Frankie hasn’t either. I’m the only one that’s perfect.”
That didn’t even draw a small laugh; instead, she flipped off the driver of the car she’d been trying to pass. “Learn how to drive, asshole.”
“You can ignore me, Miller, but ever since you’ve been back it seems to me as if you’re cozying up to Frankie.”
“Now who’s full of shit? You’re an asshole, Mazzetti.”
“At least I’ve got company with the driver you flipped off.”
Sherri slowed down as she turned onto Metropolitan. “You really think that?”
“Ask Carol.”
“Why didn’t somebody say something? I can’t show my face now.”
Lou put his hand on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about it. And don’t ever think Frankie doesn’t care for you. He fought like hell to get you back.”
She turned and looked at Lou. “No shit?”
“Ask Morreau.”
“Where’s the gallery?”
“Turn left two blocks up.”
She put her signal on. Slowed down. “Thanks, Mazzetti. I owe you.”
“Tell Frankie when he gets better.”
She pulled into a parking spot not far from the gallery. “I will.”
***
Three of the people on the list worked at the gallery. The first name was John Davis. He turned out to be as plain as his name, but he vouched for Stewart. The next guy, Karl York, seemed right out of the seventies—long hair, headband, and funky shades. Sherri half expected to find him wearing bell-bottom pants and platform shoes. She showed him the badge.
“We’ve got a few questions about the night the gallery opened.”
He stared at her. Just stared. Sherri wondered if he was partaking of other party favors from the seventies. “Were you here that night?”
“All night.”
“Who was with you?”
He looked as if he had to think, then, “Everybody. The place was rockin’.”
She sighed. “Okay, let’s be more specific. Was Bruce Stewart here that night?”
“Stew? Oh yeah, he was here, all right.”
She looked at Mazzetti, a wrinkle in her brow. “What does that mean? Was he messed up?”
“Stew? No way. But he was here.”
“What time did you leave?”
“When it closed?”
This was like pulling teeth. “What time was that?”
He held out his hand. “I don’t wear a watch, but after it closed we all went to eat.”
“Who is we?”
“I don’t know. Maybe eight of us. And no, I don’t know what time we left.” He held his arm out again. “No watch.”
Sherri handed him a card. “Call us if you think of anything.” Like what your name is.
She turned to Lou when they were out of earshot, but he beat her to the comment.
“Brain is fried. Seen lots of ’em in my day.”
“I don’t know if it’s fried or boiled, but sure as shit, it’s gone.”
“Who’s next on th
e list?”
“Abby Maines.”
Abby Maines was all style—in her mind. A big floppy hat covered blonde hair streaked with orange, red, and deep purple. She wore the hat cocked heavily to one side, so heavy that it appeared to be falling off her head. Her glasses were industrial, held together on the sides with stylish colored bolts, interchangeable to match the wearer’s outfit—or in Abby’s case—her hair. She proved to be as vocal as she was colorful.
After hearing about the gallery opening and the amazing array of upcoming artists, she confirmed what the other two already said. That Bruce Stewart was at the opening and stayed until it closed. Afterward, they all, including Abby, went for dinner and drinks, not finishing until after 1:00 AM, perhaps later.
“And he was here all night?” Sherri asked.
“I can’t vouch for every minute. I mean, we weren’t glued to each other, but yes, I kept bumping into him throughout the evening. He was sponsoring several of the artists.” She spread her hands. “And as you can see, it’s not that big.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sherri said. Then to Lou, “This is bull. We’re wasting our time.”
“Doug Wilkins is next. He’s an artist who lives down the street.”
Doug told the same story as the others. “Bruce came early and stayed until they closed. Then he took us all to dinner. He paid, of course.”
“Does he do that often? Take everyone out and pay?”
Doug laughed. “I guess you don’t know Bruce. He does it all the time. At the last gallery opening he took about forty people to a club for the night. All on his tab.”
“Must be nice,” Sherri said. “Where did he get his money?”
Doug shook his head. “No idea.”
“What else can you tell us about him?”
“Not much. He’s a nice guy. Always supporting the artist community. Very involved.”
“What about his personal life? Did you know his fiancée, Ms. Parnell?”
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