Dead of Winter (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Pease was looking at Fineberg now with an irritation that might well have already turned to open hostility in a less-experienced lawyer.

  “We get to that grand jury,” said Fineberg, “and our case comes out, at least enough of it to get a True Bill.”

  A True Bill, as both lawyers knew, is a written decision of the grand jury, signed by the jury foreperson, that it has heard sufficient evidence from the prosecution to believe that an accused person has probably committed a crime and should be indicted.

  “And damage my client’s reputation,” said Pease. “As will any plea bargain.”

  “We have the gun,” said Fineberg, looking at Mac.

  “We’re testing the gun in Ms. Cormier’s drawer,” he said.

  “Which you’ve already determined has not been —” Pease began.

  “It matches the bullet we found at the bottom of the elevator shaft,” said Mac. “Ms. Cormier shot Charles Lutnikov, put on her coat, dropped her gun and the bolt cutter, which she’d probably had in her trophy case, into her tote bag, locked the elevator on her floor, and hurried down the stairs in time to take her usual, morning walk. It was eight on a snowy blizzard-like weekend. It wasn’t likely anyone in her section of the building would be up and trying to get the elevator for hours. Besides, she planned to be gone only about thirty minutes.”

  “And where does your fanciful story assume my client went?” asked Pease.

  “To Drietch’s firing range, four blocks away,” said Mac. “Even in the snow and ice she could make it in fifteen minutes. I just did by walking fast. She knew the range wasn’t open for another three hours on a Saturday. She opened the outer door with a simple credit card. Her detective in three of her books has done the same thing. Ms. Cormier had probably checked that it could be done.”

  “Premeditation,” said Joelle Fineberg.

  “Your client went to the room where the guns are stored,” Mac went on. “She cut the bolt on the box containing the gun she used at the range, took the gun out, dropped it in her purse and replaced it with the murder weapon. Then she threw the cut lock onto the firing range. She knew someone would eventually notice, after she switched the guns again, that the range Walther would be found, that any competent detective would know it hadn’t been fired recently and she knew an examination of the gun and bullet would show they didn’t match, but she didn’t think it would come to that. If Drietch or anyone checked the box even before the switch was made again, they’d think they were seeing the gun that was normally kept there. Ms. Cormier was reasonably confident that they wouldn’t check, but it really didn’t matter.”

  “How far-fetched can —?” Pease said.

  “I suggest you read one of your client’s first three novels if you want to see how far-fetched a story she can come up with.”

  Pease shook his head wearily as if listening to Mac was an undeserved punishment he would have to endure.

  Mac ignored the lawyer and went on.

  “Ms. Cormier went back home quickly, put the bolt cutter in the basement, went up the stairs, released the elevator so it would go down to the first floor, and put the gun she had taken from the shooting range into her drawer.”

  “And then?” Pease asked, shaking his head as if he were being forced to listen to a fairy tale.

  “She waited for us to come and readily showed us the gun, practically insisted on it. It was the gun she had taken from the range, not the one she always kept in her drawer. When we were gone, she went back to the range, said she wanted to practice and switched the guns again, leaving the one that was usually in the box. Officer Burn went to the range, examined the gun, and determined that it wasn’t the murder weapon.”

  “Your client hid the murder weapon in plain sight,” said Fineberg. “In the drawer of her desk. She did it thinking that CSI wouldn’t examine it a second time after determining that it hadn’t been fired.”

  “The bullet is going to match your gun,” Mac said to Louisa Cormier. “You made the whole thing too complicated.”

  “It almost worked,” whispered Louisa Cormier.

  “Louisa,” Pease warned, leaning over to whisper to his client before sitting up. “Self defense,” he said. “Charles Lutnikov came to my client’s apartment after threatening her on the phone. She had the gun out to protect herself. He tried to wrestle it from her. It went off. She panicked.”

  “And then thought out the elaborate cover-up on the spot,” said Fineberg.

  “Yes,” said Pease. “She’s a writer with a very active imagination.”

  “Who didn’t write her own books,” said Mac.

  “We’ll see what a jury thinks about that,” said Pease.

  “Why would Lutnikov threaten Ms. Cormier?”

  Neither lawyer nor client spoke.

  “Involuntary manslaughter,” said Pease. “Suspended sentence.”

  “No,” said Fineberg. “The evidence these officers have gathered shows intent, premeditation, and cover-up.”

  Pease leaned over to whisper in Louisa Cormier’s ear. A look of horror came over her face.

  “Murder Two,” said Fineberg.

  “Manslaughter,” said Pease. “Nothing goes public. You pick a judge who will seal the record. Say what you like to the media.”

  Fineberg looked at Mac and then turned to Pease, shaking her head.

  “Off the record?” Pease said, patting his client’s hand.

  “Off the record,” said Fineberg.

  “Louisa?” Pease said, hand on her arm ready to guide her with gentle pressure.

  “I can’t,” Louisa Cormier said, looking at Pease.

  Pease cocked his head and said, “They can’t use it unless we let them.”

  Louisa Cormier sighed.

  “I shot Charles Lutnikov. He was blackmailing me,” she said, looking at the table, hands folded white-knuckled in front of her now.

  “You had been paying him for writing your books,” said Fineberg.

  “It wasn’t about money,” Louisa said. “It was about writing credit. He wanted all my future books to bear both of our names as author. I offered him more money. He wasn’t interested.”

  “So you shot him?” asked Fineberg.

  “He said he was bringing up the manuscript of the new book and that he would give it to me only if I had a notarized statement saying that the book would bear both of our names. I couldn’t have that. People, editors, reviewers would start to think about my previous books, and Charles couldn’t be counted on to keep from telling about his helping me with the previous books.”

  “And…?” Fineberg said after a long pause by Louisa Cormier.

  “When he came up, I stopped the elevator. The manuscript was in his hands, clutched to his chest like a baby. He wanted it to be our baby. I tried to reason with him, told him that if we continued the way we were I’d help him get his own books published. He wasn’t interested. He reached over to the elevator buttons and pressed a button when it happened.”

  “You shot him,” said Fineberg.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she said. “I just wanted to threaten him, warn him, frighten him, have him hand me the manuscript. The elevator door closed on my hand. He grabbed for the gun. He was enraged. The gun fired. The doors opened again. I could see he was dead. I hit the button to stop the elevator and took the manuscript from him.”

  “Unfortunate accident. No. Self defense,” said Pease with a broad smile.

  “Then why hide the gun,” Fineberg said. “Why make all of this up?”

  “My career, my…I was frightened,” Louisa Cormier said.

  “You didn’t plan to shoot him, but you immediately thought of a plan, a very complicated plan, as soon as you shot him. You were on your way to the firing range with the gun and a bolt cutter minutes, maybe seconds, after you shot Lutnikov,” said Fineberg skeptically.

  “Make an offer, Ms. Fineberg,” Pease said. “Make it a good one.”

  17

  “SORRY ABOUT THIS, STEVIE,”
said Dario Marco, seated behind his desk. “You’re a good worker, a loyal employee, a good guy.”

  Stevie stood on a leg that threatened to give way and looked dumbly and open-mouthed at the man behind the desk who had been his boss, his protector.

  “Problem here, you see,” said Marco, sitting back and adjusting his jacket to get rid of the wrinkles, “is that we need to give the police someone. They’ve been all over the place. They’ve got evidence against you on the Spanio killing and you killed a cop and shot another one. Big problem is you killed the cop right outside the door you just came through. So, what can I do? I mean, I ask you?”

  Stevie said nothing.

  Marco shrugged to show again that he had no choice. “Besides which, you really are one dumb bastard and you’re getting old.”

  Stevie looked at Jake, who had betrayed him, and then at Helen Grandfield who had no expression.

  “Dad,” Helen said. “Let’s just do it.”

  “I owe Stevie an explanation,” Dario said patiently.

  “He came here to kill you,” she said.

  “That’s so,” Dario Marco agreed. “And he broke in, and it was fortunate that we had a gun.”

  “The Jockey doesn’t have a permit,” said Stevie, trying to think.

  “That’s right,” said Marco. “He’s a convicted felon. You’re dumb, but not that dumb. The gun is mine. I’ve got a permit. Jacob picked it up from the desk where I had just finished cleaning it when you…”

  “Why?” asked Stevie. “You set me up, right from the start. You wanted the cops to come for me. Why?”

  “Back up,” said Dario. “Believe me, I wanted you to get away. Why would I lie now? But in business you cover your ass. You’re getting old, Stevie. You’re going to slow down. Shit, you’re already slowing down. Look at yourself. Now you’ve broken into my office and said you were going to kill me. In front of three witnesses.”

  Dario Marco nodded at Jacob, who looked at Stevie and hesitated.

  “He set you up too, Jake,” said Stevie.

  “Shoot the old fart,” said Marco.

  The leap across the desk by Stevie was a surprise to everyone in the room, probably even Stevie. When his stomach hit the table, all feeling left his wounded leg. He reached out for Dario’s neck and found it. He was doing what he was good at now, dumb or no dumb.

  “Shoot,” Helen shouted.

  Jake fired and missed. His hand was shaking, but Stevie’s weren’t. Lying on his stomach on the desk, he lifted Dario from the chair and snapped his neck.

  Helen was on his back now, clawing at his face, grunting, screaming. Jake looked for an open shot. Dario Marco’s body slipped down, eyes open in surprise, chin resting on the edge of the desk. Stevie threw Helen Grandfield off of him. She tripped backwards, going over a chair.

  Stevie tried to stand. He turned his head toward the Jockey, who had backed away trembling, two hands on the gun. No way Stevie could make the lunge before he was shot. He dug into his pocket and clutched the dog Lilly had given him.

  “Stop,” said a voice.

  Jake over his gun, Helen over the overturned chair she had fallen behind, Stevie over his shoulder, saw the uniformed cop, the one who Stevie had bypassed at the front door on his way in. The cop had heard the shot.

  The cop, whose name was Rodney Landry, was a bodybuilder with four years on the force. He knew what to do: aim his weapon at the tiny man next to the desk. From the description he had been given, Landry knew that the man with the bloody leg, who, for some inexplicable reason, was lying on the desk, was the one he had been told to look for.

  From where he stood, Landry, weapon in hand, did not see Dario Marco.

  “Put the weapon down on the floor very slowly,” Landry ordered.

  Jake wanted to hurry, but he forced himself to bend slowly and place the weapon on the floor. Stevie managed to turn his body and get up on one elbow.

  “He broke in here,” Helen Grandfield screamed, pointing at Stevie. “He killed my father.”

  Landry could see it now. It looked like a joke, a Halloween joke. The dead man’s head seemed to be resting on his chin behind the desk. His eyes were wide open and he looked surprised, very surprised.

  Stevie, feeling nothing in his leg now, reached into his pocket, clutched the painted dog, and smiled.

  Ed Taxx made the deal. States evidence against Dario Marco and his daughter in exchange for Murder Two minimum. He talked it through and then wrote it out. He knew the drill, followed it. He also had enough money hidden away to take care of his family and he didn’t want the police going into his life or looking through his bank accounts.

  “I take down Dario Marco and Helen Grandfield with me and you drop any further investigation of me or my assets,” said Taxx.

  “And whatever you have on Anthony Marco,” Ward said.

  “I don’t have much there,” said Taxx.

  “We’ll take what you can give us,” said Ward.

  Taxx sat across the table from Assistant DA Ward and CSI Investigator Danny Messer, prepared to tell his story.

  “So what do I get?” asked Taxx.

  “Depends on your story,” said Ward.

  “It’s a good one,” said Taxx.

  He had been approached by Helen Grandfield, who didn’t tell him how she knew he had been assigned to the Alberta Spanio protection detail nor how she knew he had prostate cancer that had spread to his other organs. Taxx really didn’t care how she knew. He hadn’t told his wife or family about the cancer. He had some money put away but it would have drained whatever his family would have to live on just to make his final months stretch into a less painful year. Now the irony was that the state would have to pay for his treatment.

  When he met with Dario Marco he had been offered one hundred and fifty thousand in cash to simply give Alberta Spanio an overdose of sleeping pills, and leave the bathroom window unlocked after screwing the hook into it.

  “Why?” asked Ward.

  “Helen Grandfield told me later that someone was supposed to be let down to the window from the room above, but the storm made it impossible. Then at three in the morning I was to have a coughing fit that lasted three minutes to cover the noise if there was any.”

  Taxx accepted, got the cash in advance.

  “So far,” he explained to Assistant DA Ward, with whom Taxx had worked for fifteen years, “no problem.”

  “And then?” asked Ward.

  “Night it was supposed to happen I got a call,” said Taxx. “Cell phone. Collier was in the room. I pretended it was my wife. It was Helen Grandfield. She told me what to do: break down Spanio’s door in the morning, send Collier to check the bathroom because there was obviously a window open, get to the bed fast, and stab Spanio in the neck. No problem again. I was careful with my words, saying something like, ‘No, honey, tell him it will have to be what we already have plus double.’ Collier was watching a basketball game on television, but I knew he heard. Helen put her hand over the mouthpiece I think, checking with Dario, came back and said it was a deal. I don’t think they ever planned to send anyone through the window. I think they counted on my killing Alberta from the beginning.”

  “And?”

  “Spanio was out from the pills and the cold when we broke the door down. I stepped in between him and the bed so he couldn’t see the body and nodded toward the bathroom. Collier went into the bathroom. I took the knife out of my pocket and stabbed Alberta in the neck. Four or five seconds at most. Collier came out of the bathroom. I had stepped back so he could see the knife in her neck. I watched him head into the other room to call for backup.”

  “And that’s when you had a problem?” said Ward.

  Taxx nodded.

  “I went into the bathroom. The window was open. “My first thought was, ‘Great, Collier saw that. He thinks the perp came in through the window and went back out through the window.’ That’s when I realized the snow was piled up on the sill. No one could have gotten through the w
indow without disturbing the snow.”

  “And that’s when you made your mistake,” said Ward.

  Taxx nodded.

  “I swept the snow out the window with my sleeve,” he said. “Instead of inside into the tub. I could hear Collier on the phone in the front room. I came out of the bathroom before he could come back in, saying we had a crime scene and should wait in the other room for CSI. I didn’t want him back in the bathroom seeing the snow gone.”

  “And?” Ward coaxed.

  “Yesterday I went to a Chinese restaurant and met with Helen Grandfield,” said Taxx. “Collier must have been suspicious. He followed me. I spotted him across the street. He could check with my wife and find out she hadn’t called me the night before. He could look at the crime-scene photographs and notice that the snow had been cleared from the bathroom window.”

  “So, you told Helen Grandfield, who told you that she would take care of it,” said Ward. “And she paid you the rest of the money.”

  “I have nothing to say about that,” said Taxx.

  “You knew they were going to kill Collier,” said Ward.

  Taxx didn’t answer for a beat and then said, “I didn’t want to think about that.”

  “Where’s the money they paid you?”

  Again, Taxx didn’t answer. In addition to the money he had put away and what he had gotten from Dario Marco, he had a million dollar life insurance policy.

  “I’ll tell Stella,” said Danny Messer.

  Aiden opened the top drawer in Louisa Cormier’s desk.

  “It’s not here,” she said, looking up at Mac.

  “Someone must have stolen it,” said Louisa.

  “You have a safe?” asked Mac.

  Louisa turned to Pease, who sighed.

  “Your client can open it or we can,” said Mac. “My guess is that it’s in this room, but we can…”

  “Open it Louisa,” said Pease. “Cooperate.”

  Louisa Cormier went to the bright-red painting of a flower by Georgia O’Keeffe and flipped it back. On the wall was the safe.

  Louisa looked at Pease who nodded at her to open the safe. She shook her head “no” but he urged her on.