Dead of Winter (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “You going to say it or should I?” he asked.

  “Get rid of the ninja,” she said.

  “Check,” said Danny, and the ninja was gone.

  “Attach the end of the chain to the hoop,” she said.

  He was ahead of her and had it done before she had finished his sentence.

  “Guista hooked the hoop and then kept pulling till the hoop on the screw came out,” said Danny, showing it on screen as they watched. “That’s what happened. It also explains why he used a metal chain instead of a rope. A rope would flop in the wind. A chain with a hook would be easier to grab the hoop. And then he lowered whoever killed Alberta Spanio.”

  “Why couldn’t the killer just open the window and climb in?” Stella asked, looking at the computer screen. “Why go through this hoop and chain business? Maybe the killer didn’t come through the window.”

  “Why would someone go through all that to open a window they weren’t going to use?” asked Danny.

  “Maybe to bring the temperature down below freezing in the bedroom so we couldn’t pinpoint time of death?”

  “Why do that?”

  Stella shrugged.

  “Maybe they wanted to make it look as if someone had come through the window,” Danny said. “But the snow screwed that up.”

  “We’re still missing something,” Stella said, followed by a sneeze.

  “Cold,” he said. “Maybe flu.”

  “Allergies,” Stella answered. “We’ve got to find Guista and get some answers out of him.”

  “If he’s still alive,” said Danny.

  “If he’s still alive,” Stella repeated.

  “I’ve got some Vitamin C tablets in my kit,” Danny said. “Want one?”

  “Make it three,” she said.

  Danny stood, still looking at the image on the screen.

  “What?” Stella asked.

  “Maybe we’re wrong,” he said. “Maybe somebody did go down that chain.”

  “The little man the clerk saw with Guista,” she said.

  “Back to square one?” said Danny.

  “Database?”

  “Looking for the little man,” said Danny. “Let’s go home and start again in the morning.”

  Normally, Stella would have said something like, “Go ahead, I have a few things to clean up.” But not tonight. She was one large ache, and home sounded good to her.

  They both went home. When they came in the next morning, they would have information that threatened to throw their theory out of the window.

  The two black kids who stepped out of the bakery truck, hands in the air, couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

  The police officers, one a black woman named Clea Barnes, kept their weapons leveled at the driver. Her partner, Barney Royce, was ten years older than Clea and not nearly as good a shot. He was and always had been just average on the range. Fortunately, in his twenty-six years in uniform, he had never had to shoot at anyone. Clea, however, with four years in, had already shot three perps. None had died. Barney figured punks and drunks took Clea for an easy mark. They were wrong.

  “Step away from the truck,” Barney ordered.

  “We didn’t do nothin’,” the driver said in a surly manner both police officers well recognized.

  “No,” said Clea. “You didn’t do nothing. You did something. Where’d you get this truck?”

  The two boys, both wearing black winter coats and no caps or hats, looked at the truck as if they had not noticed it before.

  “This truck?” said the driver as Barney moved forward to check both of the boys for weapons. They were clean.

  “That truck,” Clea said patiently.

  “Friend let us drive it,” the driver said.

  “Tell us about your friend,” said Barney.

  “A friend,” said the driver with a shrug.

  “Name, color,” said Clea.

  “White dude,” said the driver. “Didn’t catch his name.”

  “You didn’t know his name but he let you take the truck,” said Barney.

  “That’s right,” said the boy.

  “One chance,” said Clea. “We bring you in, get your prints, check you out, let you walk if you tell us the truth. Right now. No bullshit.”

  The boy shook his head and looked at his buddy.

  The second boy spoke for the first time.

  “We were in Brooklyn,” he said. “Visiting some friends. On the way to the subway, we saw this big old white guy walking around. Limping around in front of a deli. It wasn’t a neighborhood where you’d expect to find a white guy walking around, big guy or not.”

  “So you decided to rob him?” Barney asked.

  “I didn’t say that. Besides, while we were talking, a cab pulled up. He got in. We checked out the truck when the cab was gone. Keys were in the truck.”

  “And you took it?” asked Clea.

  “Beats the subway,” the first kid said.

  “Where was this deli in Brooklyn?” asked Barney.

  “Flatbush Avenue,” the second kid told them. “J.V.’s Deli.”

  “Now,” said Clea. “Big question that’s going to maybe let you walk if you’re not wanted for something: What kind of cab was it and what time did the white guy get picked up.”

  The second boy smiled and said, “One of those car service sedans. Green Cab Number 4304. Picked him up a few minutes after nine.”

  Aiden had taken her shower, washed her hair, put on her warmest pajamas, and turned on the television in her bedroom. The Daily Show would be on in half an hour. Meanwhile she turned on CNN and lay back with a pad of paper, glancing up from time to time at the news scroll at the bottom of the screen.

  On the pad she wrote:

  One, call Cormier’s agent. Ask about .22 she supposedly gave her. Ask about the manuscripts she delivers. On disk? Printed out?

  Two, is there enough for a search warrant of Cormier’s apartment? Check it out with Mac.

  Three, more research on Cormier’s background.

  Four, check with all the tenants who use the elevator. See if they own .22s. Could be wrong about Cormier. Don’t think so.

  There hadn’t been much left of the bullet, but there was enough to match with a weapon if one could be found.

  She half listened to The Daily Show, trying to think if there was something she had missed. She made a few more notes when the show was over, switched to ABC to see what was on Nightline. It was about whether serial killers were evil. Guests were going to be a lawyer, an FBI profiler, a psychologist, and a psychiatrist.

  Aiden switched off the television with her remote. She knew that evil existed. She had witnessed it, sat across the table from it. There was a difference between someone being crazy and someone being evil.

  Evil was not an acceptable diagnosis for a killer. There was no clinical description for it, no number assigned it. There were dozens of variations, all psychological, in the reference books for serial killers, brutal one- or two-time murderers, child molesters, but none of them could cope with the reality of someone being simply, clearly evil.

  She didn’t want to go down that road before she got some sleep, didn’t want to go down through the death penalty arguments again. If someone was, indeed, evil, there was no cure, no treatment. You either lock them up forever when you catch them or you execute them.

  She turned off the lights and was asleep almost instantly.

  Big Stevie didn’t give the driver the exact address where he was going. He didn’t want him to write it down, remember it. He gave him an address a block away instead. He would have made it two blocks, but he didn’t trust his throbbing leg.

  It was a risk. Stevie had been repeating the address to himself and was afraid of losing it if he gave the driver a different address, but Stevie had to be careful. Mr. Marco would want him to be careful.

  When the car stopped, Stevie paid the driver and gave him a decent tip, not too big, not too small. Stevie made a painful effort not to limp or
wince, not to be remembered.

  The driver took off as soon as Stevie closed the door. He didn’t ask if he should wait. Stevie found himself in a vaguely familiar area of Brooklyn Heights. There was no one on the sidewalk, no cars passing by on the narrow street. There were tightly packed together three-story brownstones and granite buildings. Garbage was stacked next to mounds of snow. Both sides of the street looked fortified with makeshift walls of snow and garbage.

  Stevie was on the opposite side of the street from his destination. He limped along, growing weaker with each step, knowing the bleeding had started again, that he had probably left blood on the seat of the car. Couldn’t be helped.

  He was about to cross the street when he noticed another car. It was parked ahead of him on his side of the street. The windows were steamy. The motor was idling quietly.

  He thought he could make out two figures in the front seat but he wasn’t sure because of the steamy windows. Were they watching the entrance to the brownstone where he was headed?

  Cops? No, couldn’t be. Maybe they weren’t looking for him. Maybe they were just waiting for someone else or stopping to talk about something or…Stevie didn’t buy it. What had happened to him today made him think. He preferred to have others think for him, others he could trust, like Marco, but that was the problem. He was beginning to distrust Marco.

  Think it through, he said to himself as he stepped into the shadows of a dark doorway where he could keep his eyes on the two people in the car.

  I did the job at the hotel. I killed a cop. I busted up another cop. If I get picked up, Marco might worry about my talking. He should know better, but he might worry. Could I blame him? Yes.

  He couldn’t wait. Stevie had to get somewhere where he could be patched up. He was bleeding again, and not a little bit.

  Take a chance with Lynn Contranos? He didn’t know her. Think of someplace else to go? He had no real options. Well, maybe one, but he would avoid it if he could. He crossed the street and headed for the brownstone. He didn’t look back, but he heard the car door open and close behind him.

  He found the name on a plastic plate on the stone wall, LYNN CONTRANOS, MASSAGE THERAPIST. He pressed the button, sensing the two people approaching him. No answer. He pressed the button again and a woman’s voice came through the small speaker, “Yes?”

  “Steven Guista,” he said.

  “Be right there,” she said, her voice muffled, and clicked off.

  Did he recognize that voice? Stevie wasn’t sure. A few seconds later he heard a metal ping coming from the front door. He reached for the door handle sensing now that the two people were only a few feet behind him. Instead of opening the door, Big Stevie turned quickly, surprising them, two men, both of them much younger than Stevie, neither of them as large. One of the men had a gun in his right hand.

  Stevie recognized both of them. One was a baker’s assistant at Marco’s. The other was the bakery security guard. It was the security guard who held the gun.

  Stevie didn’t hesitate. His fist pounded deeply into the stomach of the man with the gun who doubled forward. At the same time, with his free hand Stevie reached out for the neck of the second man who was groping for something in his pocket.

  Stevie forgot about the pain in his leg and concentrated on simply staying alive.

  11

  “WHO?” asked Danny the next morning after Stella finished reading the E-mail message on the screen in front of her.

  Danny hadn’t slept well. He dreamt of a chain dangling in the cold wind and himself slowly sliding down it, trying to hold on, his hands slipping, knowing he would eventually run out of chain and fall into the darkness below him. It was a long dream. He remembered calling out for help below but no one could hear him at that distance in the darkness and the whistling wind. He had been happy to get out of bed at five and get to work.

  “Jacob Laudano,” Stella said.

  Danny looked over her shoulder at the screen and read out loud, “Jacob the Jockey?”

  “That’s what he’s called,” she said.

  “He’s a jockey?”

  “Was,” she said.

  “Which means…” Danny began.

  “He’s probably small,” said Stella. “Let’s…”

  She used the mouse and hit more keys.

  “The last time he was pulled in, that was last August, he stood four ten and weighed ninety pounds. Look at his rap sheet.”

  Danny looked. The list was long and included an arrest for stabbing a prostitute and five other arrests for bar fights, all involving knives.

  “Laudano is a known associate of Steven Guista,” said Stella.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “Attach a ninety-pound weight to that chain,” she said. “Lower it twelve feet and see if it holds.”

  “We’ll need more chain,” said Danny.

  “We’ll need more chain,” Stella agreed. “But that can wait. Guista’s bakery truck was picked up last night. It’s at an impound on Staten Island.”

  “So we’re going there first?” asked Danny.

  Stella shook her head “no” and said, “First we go to Brooklyn.”

  “Brooklyn,” Danny repeated. “Why?”

  “Guista took a car service from a location in Brooklyn last night,” said Stella, reaching for a report next to her desk and handing it to Danny. “We check the company. Find out where he went. Should be easy. One of the two kids who took Guista’s truck for a spin remembered Guista, the time and the car.”

  “It’s going to be a busy day,” said Danny. “What about Laudano, the Jockey?”

  “Flack is on it,” she said.

  “He should be in bed,” said Danny.

  “He should be in the hospital,” said Stella, “but he’s not. He’s on the street. Let’s go.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of hospitals,” he said. “You’re not looking any better.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your face is red,” he said. “You have a fever.”

  She ignored his comment and put the computer in sleep mode, dropped a small stack of reports in a file folder, and stood up.

  “The Jockey,” Danny said almost to himself. “Who would have thought? It makes no sense.”

  “Why not?” asked Stella, leading the way out of the lab.

  “A crooked union boss with mob connections hires a circus act to murder a witness? A strong man and a…” Don asked.

  “Little person,” Stella completed.

  “Why?” asked Danny. “They were sure to be noticed.”

  Stella picked up her kit in one hand and her file folder in the other. Danny took her place at the computer.

  “Maybe we’re supposed to think it’s a circus act,” she said.

  “Red herring?” asked Danny.

  “It smells fishy,” she said with a smile.

  Danny groaned.

  Stella left the lab, went to the elevator, and pushed the button for the lobby. Stella coughed, a raspy cough.

  “Why?” said Louisa Cormier’s agent, Michelle King, a twitchy woman in her late forties. Like Louisa she was well groomed, thin, and dressed for business in a black suit and white blouse. She did not have her client’s good looks, but she made up for it with a handsome, confident severity. The room smelled of cigarettes and a flowered spray scent.

  Aiden sat in one chair of King’s office on Madison Avenue. King played with a pencil, tapping it impatiently against the top of her mahogany desk.

  “Why?” Michelle King asked again.

  Mac looked at her for ten seconds and said, “We can go to our offices and discuss this. I don’t think you’d like it there. Dead bodies and evidence from things people don’t like to touch or even see.”

  “I did advise Louisa to get a gun and keep it loaded in her apartment,” Michelle King said, reaching for a cigarette in a packet in one of her desk drawers.

  “You mind?” she asked, unsteadily holding up the cigarette.

 
“We won’t arrest you for it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Mac said. Smoking was illegal in New York City buildings. “Besides, many of the people we have to deal with smoke,” Mac said. “We accept it. One of the hazards of the job.”

  “Second-hand smoke?” Michelle King asked lighting up with a silver-plated lighter. “It’s a myth created by anti-smoking fanatics who have nothing better to do.”

  “And first-hand murder,” said Mac. “Is that a myth?”

  The agent looked at Aiden, who said nothing, which seemed to unnerve King more than Mac’s questions.

  “All right,” King said. “I advised her to get a gun, even suggested the kind she might get, one just like mine.”

  “Can we look at yours?” asked Mac.

  “You think I shot that man?” she asked, blowing out a plume of smoke and pausing in her pencil tapping.

  “We know he’s dead,” said Mac.

  “Why on earth would Louisa or I want to kill this man, whoever he was?”

  “His name was Charles Lutnikov,” said Aiden. “He was a writer.”

  “Never heard of him,” King said, putting out her cigarette.

  “Your name and phone number were in his address book,” said Mac.

  “My —?” King said.

  “He called your office three times last week,” said Aiden. “It’s in his phone records.”

  “I never spoke to him,” King insisted.

  “Your secretary?” asked Mac.

  “Wait, the name does ring a bell,” said King. “I think that may have been the name of the person who kept leaving his number. The message from Amy, my assistant, was that he said he had something important to tell me.”

  “But you didn’t call him back?”

  She shrugged.

  “Amy said he sounded nervous, was very insistent and…well, I’m an agent. I’ve got lots of oddballs wanting to talk to me about their ideas for books. One of Amy’s jobs is to keep them away from me.”

  “But this oddball lived in the same apartment building as one of your biggest clients,” said Aiden.

  “My biggest client,” King corrected. “I was unaware of that.”