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Dead of Winter (CSI: NY)

Page 19

by Stuart M. Kaminsky


  The first sip burned. She had a slight retching sensation, but it passed and she drank some more.

  “How bad is it?” she asked.

  “You’ll be fine,” Mac said. “You blacked out. Danny and Hawkes brought you here. Hawkes’s friend got you started on glucose and antibiotics. He found an expert on leptospirosis in Honolulu, called him and…here you are.”

  “How long will I be here?”

  “A few days. Then a few days at home,” said Mac. “If you’d had a culture when you first started to get sick, you wouldn’t have to be here.”

  “I’m a workaholic,” she said with what she hoped was a smile.

  Mac returned the smile. Stella looked around the hospital room. There wasn’t much to see. A window to her left and one in a corner looked out at a red building across the street. On the wall was the reproduction of a painting she thought she recognized, three women in peasant dresses in a field, stacks of hay behind them. The women were leaning over to pick up something — beans, rice — and drop it in baskets on the ground.

  Mac followed her eyes.

  “Woman on the right,” said Stella. “She’s in pain. Look at the deformed C-shaped curve of her back from years of bending. When she stood up, she’d be in pain and bent over. She’s not far from being unable to bend like that.”

  “You want to run some tests on her?” asked Mac.

  “Not unless someone kills her or she kills someone else,” said Stella, still looking at the painting. “How old do you think the original painting is?”

  “Jean François Millet,” said Mac. “The painting’s called The Gleaners, 1857.”

  Stella turned to look at him and said nothing.

  “My wife had some prints of his work,” said Mac. “One of the highlights of our trip to Europe was to see Millet’s Angelius in the Musée d’Orsay.”

  Stella nodded. It was more information about Mac’s dead wife than he had ever given up before.

  Mac’s smile was broader now.

  “She saw beauty in that painting,” he said. “And you see a woman with a medical condition.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Stella.

  “No,” said Mac. “You’re both right.”

  “Mac,” she said. “I know who killed Alberta Spanio, and it wasn’t the Jockey.”

  When Don Flack answered his cell phone, Mac told him what Stella had said.

  “I’ll go right there,” said Flack.

  “You want backup?” asked Mac.

  “I won’t need it.”

  “Anything new on Guista?”

  “I’ll find him,” said Flack, touching the tender area of his broken ribs.

  Flack closed his cell phone and kept driving, but instead of heading for Marco’s Bakery, he now headed for Flushing, Queens.

  The temperature was up to fifteen degrees and the snow had stopped. Traffic moved slowly, and after almost four days of frigid snowstorm tempers were on edge. Road rage at a snail’s pace was ever ready to break out.

  Don checked his watch. The phone rang. It was Mac again.

  “Where are you?” Mac asked.

  Don told him.

  “Pick up Danny at the lab. He has the crime-scene photographs and Stella just briefed him,” said Mac.

  “Right,” said Flack. “How is she doing?”

  “Fine, doctors say she’ll be back at work in a few days.”

  “Tell her I asked,” said Don, signing off again.

  Danny was waiting behind the glass doors wearing a thick knee-length down coat and a hat with flaps that covered his ears. He held a briefcase in one gloved hand and waved at Don with the other to let him know he was coming out.

  As soon as he opened the door, his glasses clouded and he had to pause to wipe them with his scarf.

  “Cold,” he said, getting into the heated car.

  “Cold,” Flack agreed.

  Danny Messer told Flack everything that Stella had told him on the phone as they drove to Flushing. Flack looked for holes, alternatives to Stella’s conclusions, but he couldn’t come up with any. He turned on the radio and listened to the news until they pulled up in front of Ed Taxx’s house.

  Taxx answered the door. He was wearing jeans and an open-collared white shirt with a brown wool sweater. He had a cup of coffee in his hand. The word DAD was in bright red with a blue border.

  “Anyone else home?” asked Don.

  A television set was on somewhere in the house. A woman in some show was laughing. The laughter sounded insincere to Don.

  “All alone and getting bored,” said Taxx, stepping back to let the two men in and closing the door behind them. “I’m still on leave till the department finishes its investigation.”

  Taxx led the way into the living room, asking over his shoulder if he could get either of them some coffee or a Diet Coke. Both men declined.

  Taxx sat in an overstuffed chair and Don and Danny on the sofa.

  “What brings you here?” asked Taxx, taking a sip of coffee.

  “A few questions,” said Flack.

  “Shoot.”

  “When you knocked down the door to Alberta Spanio’s bedroom, you immediately went to the bed?”

  “Right,” said Taxx.

  “And you sent Collier to the bathroom?” Flack continued.

  “I wouldn’t say I sent him. We just did what we had to. What…?”

  “Collier said you told him to check the bathroom,” said Flack.

  “Probably,” Taxx agreed.

  “Did you go into the bathroom after he came out?”

  Taxx thought and then answered, “No. We went into the living room and called in the murder. Neither of us went back in the room. It was a crime scene.”

  “Collier said he stood in the tub and looked out the open window,” said Flack.

  “I wasn’t in there with him,” said Taxx, looking puzzled.

  “Danny, show him the photographs,” said Flack.

  Danny opened the briefcase and took out the stack of crime-scene photographs he and Stella had taken. He selected four of them and handed them to Taxx. All four photographs were of the bathtub and the open window. Taxx looked at the photographs and then handed them back to Danny.

  “What am I supposed to be seeing in those pictures?” Taxx asked, putting down his coffee mug.

  “There’s no snow, no sign of snow or ice in the tub,” said Flack. “It was too cold in that room for the snow to melt.”

  “So?” asked Taxx.

  “If someone came through the window to kill Alberta Spanio, he’d have to push in the snow that had piled up against the window.”

  Taxx nodded.

  “Maybe he swept the snow out with his arm or leg instead of pushing it in,” said Taxx.

  “Why?” asked Danny. “Why let go with one hand or reach in with a foot and pull the snow back outside. It wouldn’t help cover the crime. The window was open. It makes no sense to do anything except swing through the window, pushing or kicking the snow in, climb in and out of the tub, murder Spanio and go out the way he came in.”

  “Someone inside the bathroom pushed the snow out,” said Flack.

  “Why? And who? Collier? Alberta?” asked Taxx.

  “Alberta Spanio was knocked out from an overdose of sleeping pills,” said Danny, “and even if she weren’t, why open a window to let in zero-degree air and snow?”

  “Collier?” asked Taxx.

  “We think whoever killed Alberta Spanio pushed that snow out, wanting us to think someone had come through the window,” said Flack. “Because if the murder wasn’t committed by someone coming through the window, that leaves only two possible suspects.”

  Taxx said nothing. His tongue pressed against the inside of his right cheek.

  “Collier?” he repeated.

  “When and how?” asked Danny. “The door to the bedroom was locked all night.”

  “And the bathroom window was closed,” Taxx reminded them. “Both Collier and I confirmed that. We left the bedroo
m together.”

  “But in the morning you broke down the door and one of you went to Spanio’s bedside while the other went to the bathroom,” said Danny. “That was the only time Spanio could have been murdered. You were the one who went to the bed, pulled the knife out of your pocket, and stabbed the unconscious Spanio in the neck. You could have done it in five seconds. A CSI investigator timed it.”

  “The woman,” said Taxx, looking out the window.

  “Stella figured it out,” confirmed Don.

  “Dario Marco hired Guista and Jake Laudano to get that room at the Brevard Hotel,” said Flack. “They were supposed to be seen, a big strong man and a tiny one. We were supposed to think they had murdered Spanio so the real killer, you, wouldn’t be suspected.”

  “Guista was there to pull the window to the washroom up by dangling a chain down and hooking it onto the hoop you had screwed into the bathroom window.”

  “Far-fetched,” said Taxx.

  “Maybe,” Flack agreed, “but we’re pulling Jake Laudano in and when we have both him and Guista, the DA starts dealing and they start talking.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Taxx asked softly.

  “You are about to be,” said Flack.

  “I think I should call a lawyer,” said Taxx.

  “Sounds like the thing to do,” said Flack.

  The detective rose with a sudden sharp sting from the broken ribs in his chest. He took the four steps to Taxx and handcuffed the man’s hands behind his back.

  Don adjusted his glasses and put the photographs away while Flack began the Miranda. Don said the words slowly, and for some reason it sounded like a well-memorized prayer.

  Aiden examined the bolt cutter and the broken lock. She had done a magnified close-up photograph of both the edges of the bolt cutter and the ridges and scars where the lock had been cut.

  She sat in the lab now comparing the two.

  The small ridges of the blade were almost invisible to the naked eye, but close up they were as good as fingerprints. There was no doubt in her mind. There would be no doubt in the minds of jurors. The lock Aiden had found at the firing range had been cut by the bolt cutter Mac had found in the basement of Louisa Cormier’s apartment building.

  She picked up the phone, called Mac and told him what she had found.

  “It’s enough,” said Mac.

  “Enough for…?” she said, letting the question hang.

  “An arrest,” said Mac. “I’ll meet you at Louisa Cormier’s with someone from homicide.”

  Aiden hung up. All the evidence against Louisa Cormier was circumstantial. There were no eyewitnesses and they had not found the smoking gun. But most cases were won in court with a preponderance of compelling circumstantial evidence. Smart defense lawyers could attack it all, create alternative scenarios, explain mistakes, confuse the issue, but Aiden, who was on her feet and heading for her coat, didn’t think any obfuscation would override the evidence.

  The bolt cutter used to open the lock to a box in which a .22 caliber handgun was kept, a handgun Louisa Cormier used to practice with; the manuscript with two bullet holes Louisa had taken from the dead hands of Charles Lutnikov and which she had frantically been copying; the evidence that Lutnikov was writing Louisa Cormier’s novels.

  Aiden put on her coat and headed for the elevator, thinking, We still don’t have the murder weapon and we still don’t have a motive and Louisa Cormier has Noah Pease.

  Maybe they should wait, keep gathering evidence, find the gun and a motive. But Mac had said they had enough, and Aiden trusted his judgment.

  “This is harassment,” said Louisa Cormier when she opened the door.

  Aiden noticed that Louisa was holding her hands together to try to keep them from shaking. Louisa’s eyes fell on the man in a blue suit with the two CSI investigators.

  “I’m not inviting you in,” she said. “And I’m calling my attorney. I’ll get an injunction against you and the entire —”

  “We don’t want to come in,” said Mac.

  Louisa Cormier looked puzzled.

  “You don’t? Well I’m not, under advisement from my attorney, answering any of your questions.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Mac. “But you do have to come with us. You’re under arrest.”

  “I…” Louisa began.

  “And if you would, we’d like you to bring your Walther with you. This detective will go with you to get it. We do have the papers for that.”

  Mac reached into his jacket pocket and removed a tri-folded sheet of paper.

  “You can’t,” Louisa Cormier said. “I showed you that gun. You know it hasn’t been fired.”

  “We think it has,” said Aiden.

  Louisa Cormier began to collapse. Aiden stepped forward to catch her and caught a whiff of the author’s perfume, a gardenia scent exactly like the one Aiden’s mother used.

  Stevie worked his way slowly up the dark stairwell, dragging his reluctant leg behind him. When he hit the main-floor landing, the bakery smells came through the doors to his left.

  Stevie liked the bakery, the smell of fresh bread, driving the truck, talking to the customers on his route. He knew it would all be gone in a few minutes, that he would, one way or another, be gone. It was unfair, but his mistake had been in forgetting that life was unfair and putting his trust and loyalty in the pocket of Dario Marco.

  Before he reached the last two steps and stepped into the corridor, he stood in the shadows and looked both ways. No one stirred.

  Dario Marco’s office was only three doors down on the right. Stevie did his best to hurry and to be quiet. He had to settle for being quiet.

  If Helen Grandfield was there when he opened the door, he would probably kill her. He could do it quickly, not give her time to react. She had been part of the set-up. Daughter of Dario Marco, niece of Anthony Marco, she had been part of what he knew now was a plan to make Stevie, Stupid Stevie, Loyal Stevie, the fall guy.

  He paused at the door to the office and listened. He heard nothing. He opened the door ready to pounce on a startled or off-guard Helen Grandfield. But there was no one in the outer office.

  Stevie wondered if Dario was out, possibly for the day. It wouldn’t be like him to miss a day, but the last few days had been like no others.

  Stevie went to the inner door, listened again, heard nothing and slowly opened it. The lights were dim and the blinds closed, but Stevie could see Dario Marco behind his desk.

  Dario looked up. Stevie was not prepared for what he saw, a calm Dario Marco who said, “Stevie, we’ve been waiting for you.”

  Out of the corner stepped Jacob the Jockey and Helen Grandfield. The Jockey had a gun in his hand, and it was aimed at Stevie.

  The table in front of Joelle Fineberg’s desk was crowded. She had the lowest seniority, actually none at all, so Joelle had the smallest office.

  She had opted for a very small desk, a small bookcase, and room enough for the table around which six people could fit with reasonable comfort. She used the table as a work space, clearing it off for meetings like this one by simply gathering papers and books, placing them in a black plastic container, and slipping the container behind her desk and out of sight.

  “You don’t even have enough for a grand jury,” said Noah Pease, his hand on the shoulder of Louisa Cormier, who sat next to him and looked straight ahead.

  “I think we do,” said Fineberg, who sat across from them with Mac on one side of her and Aiden on the other.

  A neat pile of papers and photographs sat on the table like a deck of oversized cards waiting to be cut for a hard game of poker, which was close to what they were playing.

  Fineberg looked at Mac and said, “Detective, would you go over the evidence once more?”

  Mac looked down at the yellow pad in front of him and went step-by-step over the evidence. Then she looked up at Aiden, who nodded her agreement.

  Pease’s face remained blank. So did Louisa Cormier’s.

  �
��Would it surprise you to know that Detectives Taylor and Burn found your client’s fingerprints on seven different items in Charles Lutnikov’s apartment?” said Fineberg.

  “Yes,” said Pease. “It would.”

  Fineberg went through the pile of papers in the stack and came up with seven photographs. She held them out to Pease.

  “Perfect match,” said the assistant DA. “A cup, a countertop, the desk, and four on bookshelves.”

  The fingerprints were a perfect match to Louisa Cormier’s.

  Louisa Cormier reached for the photographs.

  “Circumstantial,” said Pease with a sigh.

  “Your client lied to us about ever being in Lutnikov’s apartment,” Fineberg said.

  “I’ve been there once,” said Louisa. “Now I remember. He asked me to pick up…something.”

  “You have a reason why we’re here?” asked Pease.

  “Negotiation,” said Fineberg.

  “No,” said Pease, shaking his head.

  “Then we go before the grand jury asking for Murder Two,” said Fineberg.

  She turned to Mac and said, “Detectives Taylor and Burn will testify. He’s convinced by the evidence the CSI unit has gathered and so am I. A jury will be too.”

  “Ms. Cormier is a highly respected literary figure with no motive,” said Pease. “Your case stands on the argument that she did not write her own books. She did.”

  “Detective Taylor?” said Fineberg.

  “Convince me. Convince my expert,” said Mac.

  “How?” asked Pease.

  “Have her write something,” said Fineberg.

  “Ridiculous,” said Pease.

  “She has four days before we go in front of the grand jury,” said Fineberg. “Five pages. That shouldn’t be impossible, especially when a murder charge is involved.”

  “I couldn’t write under this pressure,” said Louisa Cormier, handing the photographs of the fingerprints back to her lawyer, who placed them neatly on the table and slid them across to Fineberg.

  “You’re counting on a jury having sympathy for a famous and much-loved celebrity,” said Fineberg. “How quickly we forget Martha Stewart. You could, of course, counter with O.J. Simpson, but…”

 

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