Seven Ways to Die

by William Diehl

  “Roger that.”

  Cody and Kate headed for the elevator.

  “Do you have wheels?” He asked her.

  “No. I rent when I need to go out of the city.”

  “Now is as good a time as any to pick up a chair and lamp and anything else you want for the office.”

  She smiled. “My lamp and chair are at my apartment. We’ve been together a long time.”

  “That’s on the west side, right? Ninety-fourth just off West End near Riverside Park?”

  “I see I have no secrets,” she laughed.

  “It’s on your application,” he said. “You’ll need transportation and a strong arm. I’ll get you one of the vans and one of the guys in the garage to help you.”

  “Thanks. Question?”

  “Fire away.”

  “I’m not sure I got everything you two were talking about back there.”

  “You mean about the bird?”

  “Well, yes. For starters.”

  “Ah, that’s just Si speak. You’ll catch on. Everybody in this squad has strong instincts. That’s one of the reasons we’re here. He was verbalizing his.”

  “Was he talking about the falcon?”

  “He didn’t know we saw the falcon,” Cody answered as they got on the elevator.

  14

  Police Commander Lou Stinelli was sitting in his office at One Police Plaza talking to himself. His lips moved silently as he scanned the speech he had to make in a few days. And he was in a crappy mood. He would have preferred walking through fire than address the Ladies Auxiliary of the Policeman’s Support Group or any other group for that matter.

  “Hey, why so grumpy?” his wife Valerie had asked as he got ready to leave that morning.

  “You know why,” he grumbled.

  “The ladies are going to drool all over you,” she said, smiling. “They always do.” She straightened his tie as he was on his way out the door. “You’re the best-looking guy in the NYPD.”

  “Hah,” he said walking toward the waiting car.

  “Hey!”

  He turned toward her.

  “I love hearing your talks. You always knock ‘em dead.”

  He gave her a look.

  She blew him a kiss and he finally smiled.

  “You could get a brick wall to smile,” he said. ”How about dinner tonight?”

  “Love it, Commander.”

  Δ

  At 61, the Deputy Chief of Police Bureaus was everything the public wanted in a top cop. He was straight and tall, gruffly handsome, his jet black hair streaked white at the temples, his voice tough and commanding. The only son of Italian immigrants, he had climbed up the bureaucratic chain of command the hard way, rising from the meanest streets of New York to a position that many felt put him in line to be the next chief of the best police force in the country.

  Stinelli was admired both as an innovative risk-taker and a devoted family man. His office was decorated with photographs of his family; his parents’ wedding photograph beside his own, his two daughters and son growing up, his mom always there in the background at first communions, high school graduations, weddings, frolicking with her seven grandchildren, standing beside her grandson, David, the day he was awarded his wings at the Air Force Academy.

  Lou’s first words upon entering the office every morning were, “Hi Pop, I love you.” His father had died on the beach in Omaha the day Lou was born.

  His last as he left the office for the day were, “Night Dave, sleep well.”

  Δ

  Stinelli was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, running the speech one more time. He did not see the red light blinking on one of his telephone lines or when it steadied as his secretary, Gloria, answered it. When his phone buzzed it startled him. He snatched it up.

  “I told you no calls, Gloria. Did I tell you that or was I dreamin’?”

  “Yes you did, Commander, but…”

  “I’m late for my first meeting already.”

  “Actually you have thirty minutes before you have to leave, sir.”

  “I’m still working on my speech.”

  “It’s Jake Sallinger at Metro Magazine. He says he only needs a minute or two.”

  “Since when did the press ever want a minute or two? What does he want?”

  “He said it’s a matter of importance.”

  Stinelli’s shoulders drooped. “It’s always a matter of importance with Sallinger. If the light’s on for five minutes cut in and tell me the car’s waiting.”

  “Yes sir. Line one.”

  He speared the button with his forefinger.

  “I got a meeting in fifteen minutes, Jake. Keep it short or call back later in the day.”

  “It’s no big deal, Lou. I’ve got a writer working on an article. He needs a little help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “It’s about a cold case…”

  “Cold case?” Stinelli cut him off. “What cold case?”

  “Remember a homicide about two years ago involving a woman named Melinda Cramer?”

  “Sure. A suicide that turned into murder.”

  “We’re doing an article on her.”

  “Why? That’s old news.”

  “It’s, uh, part of a series. You know how my fact finders are. They’re real bloodhounds and my writer can’t locate the homicide and autopsy reports. He wants to check some details.”

  Bells went off in Stinelli’s head.

  “What writer?”

  There was a pause. “Is that important?”

  “Is it some kind of secret? I’m curious. Call it the cop in me.”

  “Ward Lee Hamilton.”

  Stinelli rolled his eyes. “The smart alec who thinks he’s smarter than my cops? The one who dresses like a clown?”

  “He’s a trend-setter,” Sallinger said.

  “Trend for who, Barnum and Bailey? Nobody else in their right mind dresses like that.”

  “What’s the difference who the writer is, Commander? We’re talking about a homicide report. Public record. Hamilton is a meticulous researcher. He’s just trying to do his job.”

  “Why are you calling me?” Stinelli snapped. “Tell him to check the damn dead files.”

  “He’s checked everywhere. Maybe it got misplaced. It’s a freedom of information thing. I thought a call from…”

  “What the hell’s that mean? A freedom of information thing. That some kind of threat?”

  “No, no. But he’s very persistent and…is there a problem?”

  “Jake, I’m preparing for an important meeting at City Hall. After that I’m tied up for most of the afternoon.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It’s an ‘I don’t know.’ I’m not a micro-manager. I’ll put Gloria on it and get back to you.”

  “He’s on a tight deadline, Lou. Please don’t stonewall me on this…”

  “Stonewall hell. I said I’ll check into it.”

  “Hamilton’s going to Philly to accept some kind of award tonight and tomorrow’s Saturday. Can I expect a call back, say, Monday?”

  “I said I’ll check on it.”

  He slammed down the phone.

  “Gloria.”

  She stuck her head in the door.

  “It was only three minutes,” she stammered.

  “Has Captain Cody called in today?”

  “Yes, sir, but you said to hold your calls.”

  “Find him. Now. Then check with Manhattan North and South and the Cold Case Squad and see if they have the files on the Melinda Cramer case. And tell my car to come around.”

  Δ

  Cody and Charley were headed toward the Loft when Gloria caught up with him. A second later Stinelli was on his cell phone.

  “Where are you?” Stinelli asked.

  “Walking east on Canal. Charley and I are headed for the office.”

  “Head over to Broadway. I’ll pick you up in about two minutes. Put Charley up front with Berno.”

/>   “Okay.”

  Cody and Charley walked to Broadway and waited for a couple of minutes and then saw the black Cadillac a block away. He crossed to the far side of the street, waited until the Caddy pulled up, and opened the front door.

  “Hi Berno,” he said to the policeman assigned to the Commander.

  “Captain,” Berno nodded.

  “Hop in, Charley,” Cody said and the big shepherd jumped in. Berno Adashek smiled and rubbed his ears as Cody got in the back. Stinelli was sitting upright, his fingers drumming his knees.

  “Hi, kid,” Stinelli said. “Mind taking a drive down to City Hall with me? Berno will bring you back.”

  “Whatever you say, Chief. Gloria tell you I called?”

  “Yeah. Got something working?”

  Cody nodded.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. You’ve heard of Ward Lee Hamilton, right?”

  “I occasionally read the papers. Even a book when I have time.”

  Stinelli chuckled. “Has he called your office in the last coupla days?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ever met him?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Well, I don’t know a cop who’d shed a tear if he got run over by an eighteen-wheeler.”

  Stinelli laughed and said, “Guess what? You’re about to join the club.”

  “Already joined…Why?”

  “Jake Sallinger has hired him to do a series on cold cases for Metro Magazine. Melinda Cramer is on top of the list.”

  Cody’s expression didn’t change.

  “Where’d you pick that up?”

  “Sallinger called me. Hamilton’s whining because he can’t find any of the records on the case. Gloria checked with the 24th, Manhattan North and South, the detective bureau and the dead files. Hamilton has called them, all right. When he struck out he had Sallinger call me.”

  “And he wants you to produce the records?”

  “Probably. Or tell him where they are.”

  “I’ve got the files.”

  “I know that. Is it still active?”

  “It’s our only open case.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “It’s a work in progress. Whenever one of us has some free time we take a look at it. The reports are in the computer.”

  “And?”

  “It was cold when we got it. If we send it to the dead bureau that’ll be the end of it.”

  “Hell, Micah, it’s one case and it was already screwed up when it was dumped on you. He’s gonna write the piece anyway. Wolf did a great job on that second autopsy. Give Hamilton that to play with.”

  “I’m not willing to sign off on it yet.”

  “You’re being stubborn. He’s threatening to go to court. Invoke the Freedom of Information Act.”

  Cody thought for a moment. He tugged on his ear then shook his head.

  “Hamilton won’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “If he does the rest of the press will get on it. He wants an exclusive. The last thing he wants is The Times or The Post or Nancy Grace getting curious and jumping all over it.”

  “Huh. Good point,” Stinelli replied. “You say you have something on the plate?”

  Cody nodded. “As of seven a.m. So far it’s all verbal including Wolf’s initial autopsy. We’ll keep it that way as long as we can.”

  “High profile?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The Cadillac pulled up in front of City Hall.

  “We’re here, Commander,” Berno said.

  “How about I stop by the Loft later in the day so you can fill me in?”

  “Sounds good, sir. What’d you tell Sallinger?”

  “That I’d get back to him. Hamilton’s out of town ‘til tomorrow. It’s the weekend so we don’t have to screw with it until Monday.”

  “Sic Hamilton on me Monday.”

  “You don’t have time for that.”

  “Neither do you. We’ll make him chase his tail for a while.”

  “You sure? I can tell Sallinger it’s still under investigation.”

  “Nah. Have him call me to arrange a sit-down with Hamilton. Then let me fiddle while Hamilton burns.”

  “He can be a nasty son of a bitch,” Stinelli said as Berno opened the door for him.

  “Commander, that oughta brighten my day considerably,” Cody said. Then he smiled. “Have fun in there.”

  “Shit.”

  15

  Ward Hamilton sat at his desk, elbows angled, chin resting on intertwined fingers, his brown eyes converged intently on his computer screen. Smoke curled from a gold-tipped Sherman cigarette burning forgotten in an ashtray nearby as he scanned the innocuous internet report which had produced nothing he didn’t know already.

  On the wall behind the screen, tacked on a green felt bulletin board half the size of a pool table top, was an entropic collection of newspaper clippings, copies of web downloads, partially-written manuscript drafts, and notes to himself scribbled on notebook pages of every size and shape, fluttering idly in the gentle breeze from an antique ceiling fan. It served as his “hold file.”

  Otherwise, the office was a paradigm of a man of fastidious and eccentric nature with an insistence upon order and efficiency: his reference books lined up alphabetically on hand-crafted shelves; his Eames chair and ottoman positioned precisely to afford a perfect view of lower Manhattan through the floor-to-ceiling windows; unread magazines stacked neatly on a matching table in the order in which he would read them; signed first editions of great American novels set aside in a special niche in the corner and arranged chronologically based on the date they were published; a thirty-six-inch widescreen television set accompanied by an interlocked stereo and digital recording system, built into the wall and confined behind smoked glass doors, unobtrusive and silent unless he felt inclined to tape a program or play some music while he was reading.

  His two-foot wide desk was a rosewood semicircle designed so everything his daily routine required was close at hand. Pens were in one container, pencils in another; unedited drafts in one tray, finished manuscripts in another; answered mail in one tray, unanswered in another. The telephone, equipped with a warning light, answered every call robotically and was muted, recording every message, name, number, caller ID and all the conversations he made personally. The laser printer was on a shelf under the desk, an arm’s length from his chair, its only sound the hush the paper made when it fell into the tray.

  Only his own voice was permitted to intrude. Otherwise the room was as quiet as a mausoleum.

  Only two people were permitted to enter the sanctuary. One was the maid, who dusted and sanitized it before he got up in the morning.

  The other was Victoria Mansfield, his lover for the past decade, who shared the penthouse apartment with him but could enter his sanctum only when the small red light next to the door was switched off. Together, their brio was the stuff of dreams for gossip columnists and society writers. He was the flamboyant and curmudgeonly writer who had parlayed murder into a small fortune. She was the elegant, unpredictable, nonpareil heiress, about whom a columnist once wrote, “has so much dough, re, mi, she would have made Croesus look like a panhandler.”

  His focus was interrupted by a green light in the corner of his screen alerting him that someone was at the entrance to the apartment. He pressed a button and a small picture appeared in the upper corner of his main screen. A tiny video camera revealed Victoria at the front door, arms juggling shopping bags, a larger suit bag slung over her shoulder and the front door key clenched between her teeth as she swept the card key through the slot and, that done, tossed the card in one of the bags, opened the door with the other key, and entered the apartment. He turned the red light off and waited for her to come in to his office, his back to the door.

  He continued tampering at his computer and waited for five minutes before he heard her come in.

  “Hi, cutie pie,”
she said. “How was breakfast?”

  “Sallinger was as stiff as usual but he’s calling Stinelli to get the records I need. I’ll have them by Monday. Buy out the store, did you?”

  “Picked up a few things. Find out anything new about the cop?”

  “Same old crap. Half-breed Indian, father was a Nez Perce, war hero, died when the kid was young, mother was a Catholic school teacher on the reservation, moved to her hometown, Columbia, Missouri, when he was thirteen, opened a little restaurant near the campus of the University and did some teaching. He studied English and psychology at Missouri—there’s an anomalous mix—but, then again, maybe not. Did a year in the Army assigned to military intelligence. I’m still digging into that.”

  “Put away your shovel.”

  He whirled his chair around and looked her over.

  She was wearing a short, pleated sport skirt. Her amber hair was artificially disarrayed over a piquant face. Perfect nose, perfect lips, flawless complexion, smoky, inviting eyes. No shoes. Or bra, her nipples teasing her white silk blouse. She unbuttoned it as she walked over to him, straddled him, pressed his knees together and leaned forward, straight-arming the back of his chair, a hand on either side of his head. The blouse fell open, revealing lovely, tight breasts, nipples hard as pebbles.

  “Sorry you couldn’t make lunch,” she said.

  When he didn’t respond she nibbled his left ear. “I’m horny as hell,” she murmured.

  “You’d be horny during a root canal.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Willy’s going to pick me up in thirty minutes. We don’t have time for a quickie.”

  “You know I hate quickies. Just a little tease to hold me until you get back tomorrow. Set me up. Make believe they’re…ice cream cones.”

  He leaned forward and obliged. She pressed one hand against the back of his head, closed her eyes and swayed slowly from side to side, sighing.

  “Ummm.”

  A little later…

  “Thanks,” she whispered with a kiss, standing up with her knees still pressing his.

  “Any old time.”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “Really?”

  “Actually it’s kind of for me.”

  “You bought yourself a surprise?”