There was no sign of indignation nor an appeal for sympathy in her words. They were simply stated.
Pease touched his client’s shoulder and looked at Joelle Fineberg. “And remember, that is only the first possible scenario I could think of,” said Pease.
Both Fineberg and Mac didn’t doubt that.
“We have enough to take to a grand jury,” Fineberg said.
Pease shrugged.
“Publicity, trial, loss for the District Attorney’s office, and a lawsuit on behalf of my client,” he said. “My client did not kill Charles Lutnikov nor did he ghost-write her books. The manuscript Charles Lutnikov copied from my client’s original and most recent novel was a one-time favor to a fan who had been quietly harassing Ms. Cormier for years.”
“So,” said Fineberg. “She gave him a printout of a completed book so he could copy it?”
“No,” said Pease. “So he could read it before anyone else. She had no idea he was copying it until he called her and told her. She insisted that he bring his copied manuscript to her, which he did. He was clutching it close to his chest when he was shot by whoever shot him.”
“That’s what happened,” said Louisa.
“You told us yesterday that you were still writing the book,” Mac said.
“Re-writing,” Louisa said. “You misunderstood. I was working on the second draft.”
“May I ask you a question?” asked Mac.
Louisa looked at Pease who said, “You may ask, but I may tell my client to decline to answer. We want to cooperate with the police, to help find Mr. Lutnikov’s murderer.”
Fineberg was not surprised by Mac’s question. He had proposed it to her on the way to the apartment.
“Can you define any of the following words?”
Mac had removed the small notebook from his pocket.
“Mufti, obsequious, tendentious.”
Louisa Cormier blinked.
“I don’t…” she began.
“Those words appear in your books,” said Mac. “I’ve got seventeen others I’d like to ask you about.”
“Do you use a thesaurus, Louisa?” asked Pease calmly.
“Sometimes,” she answered.
Pease raised his hands and smiled.
“And our expert witness who’ll testify that Charles Lutnikov wrote Louisa Cormier’s novels?” asked Fineberg.
“I’ve got five expert witnesses who will say she did write her own books,” said Pease. “All with Ph.D.’s. Where do we go from here?”
“We find the murder weapon,” said Mac. “And the bolt cutter your client used to open the lock at Drietch’s firing range.”
“Good luck,” said Pease. “According to your own report, the gun found in the box at the firing range is not the one used to kill Mr. Lutnikov.”
“It’s not,” said Mac, his eyes on Louisa, “but I think I know where the one that did kill Lutnikov is.”
“And the elusive bolt cutter?” asked Pease.
Mac nodded.
“A bluff,” said Pease. “Where are they?”
“Right out in the open,” said Mac. “That sound familiar Ms. Cormier?”
Louisa Cormier shifted slightly and did not return his look.
“I think we’re finished here,” said Pease. “Unless you are prepared to arrest my client.”
Joelle Fineberg rose. So did Mac and Pease. Louisa Cormier remained seated, her eyes fixed on Mac.
In the elevator going down, Joelle Fineberg said, “‘Right out in the open?’ Where did you get that, Poe or Conan Doyle?”
“From one of the Louisa Cormier novels,” said Mac. “I don’t know where she got it.”
The elevator arrived at the lobby and the doors opened.
“Call me when you have something,” she said.
Mac nodded.
In the lobby they passed McGee, the doorman, who nodded and smiled. It was snowing again, not much, but it was snowing. The temperature had dropped to five above zero.
“The gun is in this building,” said Mac. “She can’t get rid of it.”
“Why?”
“Because we know she owns it,” he said.
“You examined her gun,” said Fineberg. “It hasn’t been fired.”
“The gun she showed us hadn’t been fired,” he corrected.
It was the lawyer’s turn to nod.
“And the bolt cutter?” asked Joelle Fineberg. “What if she did get rid of it?”
“She thinks she’s smart enough to pull it off.”
“What?”
Mac smiled and walked toward the stairwell. Joelle watched him for a few moments and then buttoned her coat, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and put on a pair of dark earmuffs she took out of her pocket.
When she looked back over her shoulder, Mac was no longer in sight. McGee opened the door for her and she stepped out into the bitter, biting cold.
“Where did you get this?” asked Hawkes.
“Tissue in the garbage,” answered Danny. They were sitting in the tile-floored box of a room in the basement of CSI headquarters where the coffee-, soda-, sandwich-, and candy-dispensing machines lined the walls like slot machines in Las Vegas washrooms. Above them, one of the bank of florescent lights sputtered softly.
Sheldon Hawkes put his tuna fish sandwich with too much mayo on the paper plate in front of him and took the slide from Danny.
“Come up and take a look at it under the microscope,” said Danny.
“You’ve identified it?” asked Hawkes, handing the slide back and picking up his sandwich.
“Rare, but not all that rare,” said Danny.
“You tell anyone?”
“No one around,” said Danny. “Stella called. She said she was on her way in, asked me to have all the Spanio crime-scene photographs out.”
“How did she sound?”
“Sick,” said Danny.
Hawkes finished his sandwich, downed the last of his Diet Dr Pepper, threw his trash away, and got up.
“Let’s take a look,” he said.
On the table in front of Stella were neatly arranged photographs of the bedroom in which Alberta Spanio was murdered and the bathroom adjacent to it. It was the bathroom in which she was interested right now.
She selected four photographs and scanned them, her head bent close to each image. Her recollection proved to be right. Leaning over increased the pain in her head and the threat in her stomach.
Stella reached for the tea she had been trying to sip in the hope of it settling her stomach. The tea was not inviting. She changed her mind.
She was sure she was right. She was reasonably sure she knew what had happened and who had killed Alberta Spanio and maybe even why Collier had been murdered. If it weren’t for the flu, which she now acknowledged, she would have figured it out much sooner.
Someone came through the laboratory door behind her. Stella stood up and turned. She felt light-headed but determined.
Hawkes came in with Danny.
“I figured it out,” she said, wondering what Hawkes was doing here. He seldom left his corpses except to eat and go home.
“What?” asked Danny, approaching with Hawkes at his side.
“The Spanio murder,” she said.
“Great,” said Danny.
“I’ve got to call Mac,” said Stella.
“I’ve got some slides I want you to look at right away,” said Danny.
Hawkes held up two slides.
“Can’t it…?”
Hawkes was shaking his head, “no.”
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Look at the slides,” said Danny.
Stella sighed and moved to a microscope, switching on the light and taking the slides from Danny. She sat down, the two men looming behind her. She adjusted the focus on the first slide. The microscope was multifunctional and powerful. With a few adjustments, she had the slides lined up next to each other so they could be compared.
“Virus,” she said. “Same on both pl
ates.”
“You know what it is?” asked Hawkes.
“Don’t recognize it,” said Stella.
“It’s leptospirosis,” said Hawkes.
Stella blinked, going through the catalogue of diseases in her mind.
“It’s rare,” Stella said.
“One to two hundred cases a year in the United States,” said Danny. “Half of those in Hawaii. It’s a tropical-climate disease normally.”
“We have an exception,” said Hawkes. “What do you know about the disease?”
“Bacterial infection usually caught from animal urine,” she said. “One of our cases? Lutnikov, Spanio, Collier, one of Dario Marco’s men?”
“No,” said Hawkes. “It’s you. Danny got a sample of your mucus from a tissue you threw away. You don’t have the flu. What do you know about leptospirosis?”
“Next to nothing,” said Stella, leaning back and closing her eyes.
Hawke’s hand touched her forehead.
“Fever,” he said. “Headache?”
“Yes.”
“Chills, muscle ache, vomiting?”
“Nausea, no vomiting.”
Hawkes gently turned her in the chair and looked at her face.
“Slight jaundice, red eyes,” he said.
“You sound like you’re doing an autopsy,” Stella said.
“My patients don’t usually talk back,” he said. “Abdominal pain, diarrhea?”
“A little of both,” Stella said.
“Hospital,” said Hawkes.
“How about outpatient treatment?” she asked. “I’m really close on the Spanio murder.”
“Danny can follow through. You know what untreated or improperly treated leptospirosis can turn into? Kidney damage, meningitis, liver failure. I’ve seen one death from it. When did you start showing symptoms?”
“Yesterday,” Stella said, resigned. “Maybe the day before.”
“You remember being exposed to animal…?” Hawkes began.
“The cats,” said Danny.
“What was that?” asked Hawkes.
“Old woman died in her home on the East Side,” said Stella. “Cat woman, forty-seven we could find. We ran it as a crime scene because there were signs that someone had broken into the house, but she had a heart attack. Overweight, seventy-eight years old. Didn’t take care of herself.”
“Or her cats,” said Hawkes. “Where are they now?”
“Humane society took them,” said Danny.
Hawkes shook his head.
“See if you can round them up,” Stella said to Danny.
“If there are any recently dead ones,” Hawkes said, “I’d like to have them brought in.”
“My guess,” said Stella, “is that, except for a lucky few, they were all euthanised and cremated. Treatment?”
“Overnight in a hospital bed,” said Hawkes. “Antibiotics, probably doxycycline. I’ll call Kirkbaum and have a room saved for you.”
“How long?” asked Stella.
“If we caught it early enough, two or three days. If not, we could be talking a week or two. Judging from the viral load, it may just be that Danny saved your life.”
Danny grinned smugly and adjusted his glasses.
“I’m a stubborn ass,” she said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Danny. “And, yes, you are one major stubborn ass.”
Stella stood and said, “Danny, gather all these Spanio photos and tell Mac to come to the hospital as soon as he can get there.”
“You’ll be all right,” said Hawkes. “I haven’t had a complaint from a patient yet.”
“That’s because they’re all dead,” said Stella.
There was a uniformed cop at the entrance to Marco’s Bakery and another uniformed cop at the back exit on the shipping dock. This didn’t surprise Big Stevie.
The only question was: Were the cops there to keep Marco from getting out, or to keep Stevie or someone else from getting in?
It didn’t matter. Stevie knew at least two other ways into the building. He knew that the window to the men’s toilet was easy to open. Even if it was locked, the lock was just a small slide bolt he would have no trouble breaking with a firm tug. He wouldn’t even make much noise.
The problem with going through the toilet window was that he would have to find something to stand on, get leverage, and then climb through. Usually this would be no problem. But with his leg growing ever more numb, the task might be more than he could handle. Once inside the toilet he would have to go out the door past the bakers and their assistants. He was a familiar sight back there, at least normally. Normally, no one would have paid much, if any, attention to the big man, but today might be altogether different. He doubted that even in his weakened state, bleeding and walking like a mummy in those old movies, that anyone in the bakery would be able to stop him and most would probably simply pretend they had never even noticed him. They had all done time. D and D. Deaf and dumb. It was the stay alive philosophy of prison.
No, it would have to be the storage basement. He didn’t know if any of the opaque windows could be opened without making noise that would attract attention. He did know that he wasn’t seen by the cop on the loading dock. Window number one was firm, didn’t budge, probably hadn’t been opened in twenty years or more. Window number two had four sections. The dirty glass plate in the upper right-hand section of the window was loose and the window itself had a little give to it.
Stevie found a small chunk of concrete and knelt by the ground-level window. He tore off a piece of his undershirt, placed it against the loose pane, and struck the cloth with the piece of concrete, struck it gently. There wasn’t much noise, but the pane did not give way. He tried again, striking a little harder. Something cracked. There was now a hole in the glass about the size of his fist. He put down the concrete and took the torn piece of shirt from the window.
Stevie inched his thick fingers through the hole in the glass. He felt the cutting of the glass, ignored it and slowly worked the top piece of glass loose. He placed it on the ground.
He wiped his bleeding fingers on his already bloody pants and reached through the open space in the window. There was just enough room for him to force his hand and arm far enough to reach the lock. It was rusted shut, but Stevie was determined. He shoved. The rusted metal bolt came off. Using his right arm, sitting awkwardly, he reached in and put pressure on the window. The window resisted. Slowly Stevie began to feel the window losing the battle. Suddenly, the entire window shot up on creaking hinges.
Stevie knelt panting, waiting, listening for running footsteps, but none came.
He had finished the easy part of his task. Now came the hard part, getting his bulk through the open window. He knew it would be close. He took off his coat and placed it on the ground.
A cold wind drove through him and he realized that snow was falling again. He was growing weaker and he would have to move quickly while he was still able.
He eased his injured leg through the open window followed by his good one and started to push himself backward through the window. When he was inside as far as his stomach, it felt tight, but not impossibly tight. He kept pushing backward. His stomach scraped against the thin metal frame of the window, and he wasn’t sure if he would make it through. He was sure at this point that he would never be able to pull himself back out. He struggled, grunting, seeing the blood from his fingers against the snow and then, suddenly, he popped through the window and went sprawling backward into dusty darkness.
He lay on his back panting, out of breath, eyes closed. Big Stevie was in pain. He was cold. And he was bloody. But he was on a mission, and he was inside Marco’s Bakery.
The search perimeter around Drietch’s firing range had been widened. Two uniformed officers were helping Aiden search for the missing bolt cutter.
Aiden was sure that Louisa Cormier had simply cut the lock, wiped off her fingerprints, and thrown it on the firing range. Why hadn’t she done the same t
hing with the bolt cutter or dropped it and the lock in the garbage?
They should have found it by now.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and she answered it.
“Come into the lab,” Mac said. “I found the bolt cutter.”
“Where?”
“Basement of Louisa Cormier’s building,” he said. “She had it lined up with other tools. Building maintenance man has a bolt cutter but he said this one isn’t it.”
“She hid it in plain sight,” Aiden said.
“Right out of her fourth novel,” Mac said. “Or should I say right out of Charles Lutnikov’s first Louisa Cormier novel, only in that one it was a shovel.”
“Prints?”
“One,” said Mac. “Partial. Good enough for a positive identification. It’s Louisa Cormier’s.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Aiden, closing her cell phone and going in search of the two uniformed officers who were combing the area.
“I’m on my way to the hospital,” he said.
“Right,” said Aiden, who wasn’t certain how she felt about confronting Louisa Cormier again. Aiden wasn’t sure if the woman was cunning and manipulative or if she had simply been caught in a nightmare. Aiden Burn wasn’t ready to bet on either.
16
AWHITE, SAND-PEBBLED BEACH hovered over Stella when she opened her eyes. She could even hear the rhythmic beating of something that may have been surf.
Stella hadn’t had a vacation in, what was it, three years. She had never wanted one, had never wanted to get away. There was always a new case or one half finished.
The web of first waking passed in a second or two and she realized that the pebbled beach was the ceiling and the sound of the surf was a monitor whose thin tentacles adhered to her body.
Stella’s mouth was dry.
She turned her head and saw Mac standing to her left.
“How…?” she started to say, but it came out as a painful incoherent crackle.
She coughed painfully and pointed at a white plastic pitcher and a glass on the table next to the bed. Mac nodded, poured water, removed the wrapping from a straw, and inserted it in the glass.
“Slow,” said Mac, holding the glass for her to drink.
Dead of Winter (CSI: NY) Page 18