Dead of Winter (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Do you own another gun?” asked Mac.

  Louisa Cormier looked mildly amused. “No.”

  “Have you ever fired a gun?”

  “Yes, as part of my research. My character Pat Fantome is an ex-police officer with a very good aim. I think it helps to know how it feels to fire a gun. I go to Drietch’s Range on Fifty-eighth.”

  “We’ll find it,” said Mac. “One more question. Do you have any idea how Lutnikov’s blood got on the carpet outside your elevator door?”

  “No. I’m really a suspect, aren’t I?” She seemed pleased by the possibility.

  “Yes,” said Mac. “But so are all your neighbors.”

  Original novels in the CSI series

  CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

  Double Dealer

  Sin City

  Cold Burn

  Body of Evidence

  Grave Matters

  Binding Ties

  CSI: Miami

  Florida Getaway

  Heat Wave

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  A Pocket Star Book published by

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 CBS Broadcasting Inc. and Alliance Atlantis Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  ALLIANCE ATLANTIS and the stylized “A” design are trademarks of Alliance Atlantis Communications, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

  CSI: NY and related marks are trademarks of CBS Broadcasting Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-2390-1

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  With thanks to Bruce Whitehead and the Crime Scene Investigation Unit of the Sarasota, Florida, County Sheriff’s Office; to Lee Lofland, Denene Lofland, and Dr. D. P. Lyle for their forensic knowledge and willingness to share it with me; and to Hugo Parrilla, retired Detective N.Y.P.D. 24th Squad, for sharing his knowledge of New York City.

  Prologue

  IT WAS A NIGHT FOR DREAMING.

  It was the beginning of February, the coldest time of the year in New York, always the coldest. Don’t let them tell you about the storms of January or the surprise downfalls and frigid blasts from Canada that come down sometimes as early as early November and as late as late March.

  No, you could count on February being the most unforgiving month of the year. And this one was particularly spiteful.

  The temperature teased thermometers at the zero level. The winds played angrily, howling through ghostly empty streets in the five boroughs. The snow fell steadily, relentlessly, siltlike, no good for packing or making snowballs when Saturday morning came in a few hours.

  City plows chugged steadily, in convoys and alone, trying to keep pathways open on the streets. The garbage had not been picked up. The plows shoved mounds of snow over dark plastic bags, burying them till something resembling a thaw came so that garbage trucks could make their way through hundreds of miles of slippery streets.

  Four in the morning.

  Mac Taylor turned to his left in bed. He had an alarm clock but never turned it on. He always awoke within a few minutes of four in the dark morning. For another hour he would put his hands behind his head and look up at the ceiling, watching the light from passing cars, stars, and the moon vibrate on his bedroom ceiling. Tonight there was no traffic, no stars or moon through the snowy sky. He looked up at darkness, reasonably successful at not thinking, knowing he would get up in an hour, hoping that hour would pass soon.

  Stella Bonasera had a feverish dream. She had just fallen back to sleep after having gotten up to take two Tylenols and have a glass of microwaved tea. In her dream, the huge bloated body of a woman hovered above a bed like a Thanksgiving Day float. Stella felt it was up to her to keep the body from floating out of an open window nearby, but she couldn’t move. She hoped the body was too large to fit through the window. Atop the woman’s body sat a cat, a gray cat, looking solemnly at Stella. Then the dream was gone and Stella slept peacefully.

  Aiden Burn had fallen asleep at about two in the morning trying to remember the name of her second-year high school math teacher. Mrs. Farley or Farrell or Furlong? She could see the woman’s face, remember her voice. In what was a dream, or possibly just a reverie, Aiden heard the voice of that teacher reminding the class for the five hundredth time that it was the little mistakes that brought you the wrong answers. “You might see the big picture, but one small mistake, one careless moment, and everything that follows will be forever wrong.” Aiden had remembered that more than anything else from any high school class. She had tried to live by it, but still it haunted her, especially when the wind tickled the windows and a deep chill overcame the hissing radiators.

  Danny Messer reached for his glasses and checked the red illuminated numbers on the bedside clock. It was a few minutes after four. He touched his face. He would need to shave when he got up. He would do it in the shower. He would think about it later. He rolled on his left side in search of a comfortable position, found it instantly, and fell into dreamless sleep.

  Sheldon Hawkes lay on a cot in his laboratory reading a book about an archaeological find in Israel. There was a photograph of a skull located at the site. The text, by someone whose name he didn’t recognize, said that the skull was about three thousand years old and had been damaged by some natural disaster. Hawkes shook his head. The hole in the skull was the result of a blow with a rough-edged rock. It was the only damage to the specimen. No scratches, no bruises. The skull was almost perfectly preserved. If the hole had been caused by nature, there would be other signs of lesser trauma. Hawkes needed the original skull or a good set of photographs. There was no doubt the long-dead man had been killed by a blow from a rock, and, since it was assumed from artifacts discovered near the body that the dead man was royalty, Hawkes was curious about who might have murdered him and why. When he finished the book, he would send an E-mail to the archaeologist. Hawkes kept reading. He had already had the four hours of sleep he needed. He was near the bodies in the drawers. The wind was going wild in the streets. He had a good book. He was content.

  Don Flack may have dreamt, but he didn’t remember his dreams, which was just as well because the detective had seen much that could cause him nightmares. The alarm would go off at seven, and he would be awake instantly. It had been like that since he was a boy. He hoped it would be like that the rest of his life.

  The brothers Marco slept half a city apart. Anthony, in holding on Riker’s Island, only floated around the edges of sleep. Jail was not a place for comfortable slumber. Jails at night were a disgusting antisymphony of hacking coughs, snoring, people talking to themselves in their slee
p, guards walking. Jails were places where you had to stay just this side of awake so nothing and no one would sneak up on you. Not that Anthony thought someone might be coming for him, but you never knew who you might have slighted or insulted without realizing it. Outside, the name Anthony Marco meant something. Inside, he was just another old, white fool. In the morning he would be back in court. If things went well, the course of the trial would change in his favor. He didn’t exactly count on it, but felt it should happen.

  Anthony’s brother Dario was awake. Insomnia. His wife’s snoring. His bad stomach. He got up and went to the bathroom where he sat and read Entertainment Weekly. He was nervous. Tonight, close to right now, it was happening. He had made a call five hours ago to change the plan. His daughter had convinced him that it was the best way to go, and since he was thinking along those lines anyway, he made the call. Things could go wrong. When you counted on dumb people, you took a chance, even when the dumb people were loyal. Marco had a theory. Only dumb people could truly be counted on to be loyal. Smart people thought too much, looked out for themselves. Marco knew. He was one of the smart people. Hell with it. He went back to bed and nudged his wife, hoping she would turn to the side and stop snoring. She grunted and turned, but the snoring got louder. He put a pillow over his head and told himself that if he didn’t fall asleep in the next four or five minutes he would get up.

  Stevie Guista dreamt of water, just water, a broad expanse of water. He knew it was cold and he didn’t want to go in, but it looked beautiful and all he wanted to do was keep watching it. Then he had the feeling. Something was coming up behind him. He wanted to turn and look at it. He didn’t want to turn and look at it. He wanted to plunge into the water. He was afraid of plunging into the water. He stood frozen at the bank of the lake or whatever it was and wished he could wake up.

  Jacob Laudano, damn it, was on a horse again. He knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t wake up and he couldn’t get the horse to stop or slow down. He crouched over, hanging on, knowing from the position of the other horses around him that he was going to lose or, worse yet, that he was going to fall. He had been a jockey for eight years and hated every day of every diet, every moment on top of the stupid animals he could barely tolerate. He didn’t like them. They didn’t like him. He had been a lousy jockey. He was an average thief. If he could wake up, he could get a glass of something, water, rye, something. Then he could go back to sleep. He had gotten to his apartment less than an hour ago. He had done what he had to do. It had been easy. He got his money. So why the hell was he having bad dreams. This dream in particular, putting him on a damned horse, knowing he was going to lose. He made the effort, called out in his sleep, struggled, and burst into darkened wakefulness. The roar of the crowd was the whirling of the wind. The breeze on his legs was from the cold that seeped in through badly insulated windows. The sweat on his forehead wasn’t from the exertion of the race but a sense of waking fear. Jacob the Jockey was afraid to go back to sleep.

  She had three names, the one she was born with, the one she had taken when she married the hedgehog who had slunk away one night when she was asleep, and the name she used for her job, her professional name, her respectable name.

  Helen Grandfield was born at the age of thirty, having put behind her identities as a stripper and lap dancer who had failed to become popular and whose tainted reputation had failed to drive her father into a rage. The old man had simply ignored her. As long as she didn’t use the family name, he didn’t care. He had other children who didn’t try to drive him crazy and he had too much on his mind, like staying alive and away from the law, to worry about one daughter. Then she had changed. Just like that. All of a sudden. Took business courses at Fordham after learning accounting. She had practical value to her father now, and was not only appreciated but listened to. She was content. She slept well. Things were going on tonight. Important things. Things that could mean a great deal for her father, for herself. Deep inside she even considered that if things went as well as planned, she’d find her hedgehog husband and have his throat cut — if possible while she watched. Helen Grandfield slept peacefully.

  Ed Taxx and Cliff Collier had not slept. They had not tried to sleep. They were not supposed to sleep. They sat in the hotel room, Ed reading a mystery novel by Jonathan Kellerman, Cliff watching a taped rerun of a hockey game played hours earlier. He had avoided watching the news or ESPN so that he wouldn’t know how the game turned out. At the moment, the Rangers were ahead 3-1 at the start of the third period. Cliff worked on a Diet Coke. Ed had a Dr Pepper. Neither man was really tired. Too much on their minds. However, a jolt of caffeine short of coffee or Mountain Dew wouldn’t hurt. Taxx looked at his wristwatch. Two hours or so till dawn. He was having trouble concentrating on the book. Cliff had offered to watch the game without sound, but Ed had said he didn’t mind. He didn’t like hockey, but he knew he could tune it out. Ed adjusted his shoulder holster and lay back with the book on his chest.

  The girl’s name was Lilly. She was eleven, a little short for her age but not much. Something woke her. She looked over from her bed to her mother who was breathing the way she did when she slept. Lilly was reasonably sure it was the wind that awakened her.

  She got out of bed and moved into the living room where she turned on the lamp on the table in the corner. It was there, the dog. It wasn’t a bad-looking dog, but it wasn’t a beautiful one either. She wondered if she should have painted it brown and gold instead of black and white. It wasn’t too late. But she knew she wasn’t going to do it. She was tired. She might make a mistake, make it worse. It would have to stay black and white. She hoped he liked it even though it wobbled when it stood. She had made one rear leg too short. Lilly got a glass from the kitchen shelf and the chocolate milk from the refrigerator. She sat with a glass of milk and a chocolate chip cookie and continued to examine the dog. She decided to call him Spark. Or maybe something else.

  Lilly finished her cookie and milk, put the empty glass down on the table in front of her, and leaned back. She could see the snow hitting the window, not wanting to get in but simply being lazy. Lilly fell asleep.

  1

  THE DEAD MAN SAT SLUMPED against the rear wall of the small, wood-paneled elevator. His head was resting against his left shoulder, his hands were folded against his chest. Just above his right hand was a blotch of blood. His left leg lay out of the elevator door.

  The slippered foot was the first thing Detective Mac Taylor saw as he walked quickly across the marble-tiled lobby of the apartment building on York Avenue near 72nd Street.

  Mac moved past two uniformed officers and stood in front of the open door next to Aiden Burn, who was clicking away with her camera at the corpse and the elevator. The dead man was wearing a gray sweat suit with two holes chest high leading into bloody darkness.

  “Still snowing?” asked Burn as Mac checked his watch. It was a few minutes after ten. He pulled on a pair of white latex gloves.

  “Three more inches expected,” said Taylor, kneeling next to the body. There was just enough room for the two Crime Scene Unit investigators and the corpse inside the small elevator.

  “Who is he?” Mac asked.

  “Name’s Charles Lutnikov,” Burn said. “Apartment six, third floor.”

  Lutnikov was about fifty, had thinning dark hair, and a paunch.

  “No pockets in the sweat suit,” said Mac, gently rolling the body first right and then left. “Who IDed him?”

  “Doorman,” said Burn, glancing back at the uniformed patrolman who was clearly admiring her rear end.

  “You married?” Burn asked the cop, camera in one latex gloved hand.

  “Me?” the cop said with a smile, pointing to himself.

  “You,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “A man is dead here,” she said. “Probable homicide. Look at him, think about him, and not my ass. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” said the cop, no longer smiling.

  “G
ood. The kit out there next to the door. Move it just where I can reach it.”

  “Bad night?” Mac asked.

  “I’ve had better,” said Aiden, continuing to snap away as the cop moved Aiden’s equipment box.

  Mac’s eyes were focused on the dead man’s chest. “Looks like two bullet holes. No powder burns.”

  Mac looked at the walls, the floor, the ceiling of the small wood-paneled elevator and then leaned over and carefully pulled the corpse forward.

  “No sign of exit wounds,” he said, letting the body slump back.

  “Then the bullets are still in him,” said Burn.

  “No,” Mac answered, removing from a leather packet in his pocket a thin steel probe that looked like a dental tool.

  He carefully lifted the dead man’s shirt to get a better look at the wounds.

  “One shot,” he said, touching each hole with the probe and talking as much to himself as to Aiden. “This one is an entry wound. Small caliber. It’s almost closed. This one is an exit wound, broader, rougher, skin erupted outward.”

  “Then there should be some blood spatter in front of the body,” she said.

  “And there they are,” said Mac, looking down at dark tear-shaped spots on the floor.

  He stood up, put the probe away, took off his latex gloves, dropped them in a bag in his pocket and put on a fresh pair of gloves.

  When blood was present, you changed your gloves every time you touched something. No contamination. Criminalists across the world knew that. It took foul-ups in the O.J. Simpson case to make it gospel.

  “No gun?” he asked.

  “No gun,” answered Aiden. “No bullet.”

  “Body temperature?”

  “He’s been dead for less than two hours, probably less than an hour. Doorman found the body and called 911.”