Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  ‘‘Did this guy abuse her?’’ the cop asked.

  ‘‘I saw her once with a black eye, but she said she bumped into something. And like I said, she had a lot of men friends. I don’t know who she was with last night.’’

  Belinda couldn’t have known that Melissa would grab a knife (‘‘Put down the knife, Melissa! Put it down, I said! Are you crazy?’’), that he would slap Melissa, that she would fight him (‘‘Baby killer! You killed my baby. Why?’’). She couldn’t have known he would slam Melissa’s head against the wall (‘‘Shut up! Shut up, I said!’’), slam it again and again and again until Melissa was suddenly, awfully, quiet.

  How could Belinda have known any of that? How could she have stopped it?

  ‘‘You saw her get into a car,’’ the officer said. ‘‘Can you describe it?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Belinda sighed. ‘‘I wish I’d paid attention. It was a black car. Or maybe blue or dark gray. I’m sorry, I’m not good with cars.’’

  She hadn’t wanted Melissa dead. She had wanted to frighten her, to make her realize how reckless she was every time she left little Carrie alone, even for five minutes. Last night after Melissa left, Belinda had let herself into the apartment with the spare key the former tenant had given her in case she ever locked herself out or if there was an emergency, which most people would say this was. The baby had been asleep in the Pack ’n Play. Belinda had scooped her up, blanket and all, and taken her to her own apartment.

  ‘‘Did you see the license plate?’’ the cop asked. ‘‘Even the first few letters or numbers would help.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t think to look.’’

  The officer hadn’t asked about Melissa’s baby. Belinda had been in a near panic at first, wondering what she would do if neighbors mentioned Carrie to the police. But she had reminded herself that really, no one ever saw the baby. Melissa never showed her off, never took her out. And there had been nothing in the Times about Melissa or the baby.

  ‘‘What about the man? Can you describe him?’’ the officer asked.

  ‘‘I only caught a glimpse. I’m sorry,’’ she said again. ‘‘I’m not much help, am I?’’

  She had seen Carrie’s father more than once and could describe him accurately, and his car. He should pay for what he had done. He had taken a life. (She was surprised that he’d phoned the police—he was obviously the anonymous caller. Guilt, she decided.) But if Belinda helped the police find him, he would tell them about the baby, and how long before they would be back here, questioning Belinda?

  And what would happen to the baby then? They would put her in foster care, where she would never receive the love she deserved. Belinda had heard horror stories about foster homes and orphanages.

  ‘‘If you remember anything about this man, or about the car, or anything else, please call right away.’’ The officer handed Belinda a card.

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  She would never tell anyone how terrified she had been, waiting for Melissa’s boyfriend to leave, wondering if he would realize that the baby was next door. Her heart had pounded when she had entered the apartment, and she had truly prayed that Melissa was alive. But she had found Melissa on her bed, slumped against the wall, which was streaked with blood. Her eyes were lifeless, her skin was gray. Belinda knew without touching her wrist that there was no pulse.

  She had tried not to think about Melissa while she transferred the baby’s things. The Pack ’n Play, bottles, brushes, formula, diapers, receiving blankets, clothing, ointments, liquid baby aspirin. She had almost forgotten to empty the hamper, and the trash, which was filled with soiled diapers.

  She hadn’t touched anything of Melissa’s. She had taken only what belonged to Carrie.

  To Lilly. A new life deserved a new name.

  ‘‘It’s terrible what happened,’’ Belinda said, meaning it. ‘‘Just terrible.’’

  And really, could anyone say with certainty that if she hadn’t taken the baby, something horrible wouldn’t have happened? If not last night, then another time? Melissa had said her boyfriend didn’t like babies. . . . Sooner or later he would have grown tired of supporting Melissa and the baby.

  Melissa’s killer, not her boyfriend. Because that’s what he was.

  Belinda looked at the card and nodded. She had done the right thing, for the baby.

  It was for the best.

  Never Too Old

  by Linda Grant

  Sophia Diamante was worried about her mother. ‘‘You know how she frets,’’ she told her sister, Cara. ‘‘You should never have told her about the Russian. It’s just upset her.’’

  ‘‘Mother does not fret,’’ Cara said. It was the mildest retort she could think of.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Mother does not fret,’’ she repeated. ‘‘Doesn’t now, never has. When she’s worried, there’s a good reason.’’ Like the fact that a mafiya thug up for murder one has just told her oldest daughter she won’t live long enough to go to trial.

  Sophia’s sigh was audible, even over the weak cell phone connection. ‘‘I told you, he’s just blowing off steam. These guys don’t go after cops or prosecutors. You know that.’’

  Cara knew that the Italian mafia did not go after cops or prosecutors. She did not know what the Russian mafiya might do, and she was pretty sure that Sophia didn’t either. Still, she was sorry she’d told her mother. There wasn’t anything that she could do, and it just worried her. Not for the first time, she vowed to play dumb from now on when her mother grilled her about her sister’s life.

  ‘‘She doesn’t look well,’’ Sophia continued. ‘‘I’m worried about her. She doesn’t take good care of herself.’’

  It was Cara’s turn to sigh. This was a rerun of a conversation they’d had before. It was true that their mother had aged noticeably. When they were young, their friends had considered her the prettiest mom in their group. Now she looked at least ten years older than the other women. ‘‘Just because she doesn’t go to the gym or get her hair dyed doesn’t mean she doesn’t take care of herself,’’ Cara said. ‘‘She’s still plenty sharp.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. She’s getting forgetful. Remember that fancy orchid I bought her? She forgot to water it, and it died. And she makes appointments and forgets them.’’

  Cara could have pointed out that their mother did not like houseplants, especially ones that required special attention, and the appointments she forgot were weekly luncheons with Sophia. Cara suspected that her mother found it easier to ‘‘forget’’ than to deal with her eldest daughter’s inability to take no for an answer.

  ‘‘I think she’s acting rather erratic,’’ Sophia continued. ‘‘First she develops such a fascination with orchids that she has to rush off to a convention in Chicago, then she loses interest and forgets the one I got her. And how about that distant cousin in Denver she had to visit last month? She can’t remember whether the woman was related to Aunt Silvi or Uncle Phil.’’

  Cara had her own theory about her mother’s trips. She was fairly sure that there was a man involved. Their father had died when they were children, and while their mother had never admitted to having a boyfriend, there were always men happy to take care of household and automotive repairs. Of course, it helped that Tony Diamante had been a close friend of the local mafia don, and that that same don seemed to have a fondness for their mother, but neither factor explained why the men seemed anxious to hang around long after the job was done, or to drop by to see if anything more needed doing.

  She understood why her mother wouldn’t want to tell Sophia if she had a male friend. Her sister would drive them both wild with her suspicious nature. She’d probably run a background check on the poor guy and badger the local cops into checking him out.

  ‘‘She needs some outside interests,’’ Sophia said, ‘‘something to stimulate her mind and get her out of the house. I keep telling her you’re never too old to try new things.’’

  ‘�
��She’s fine,’’ Cara said. ‘‘You worry too much about her.’’ And too little about yourself, she thought. ‘‘What’s happening with the Russian, by the way?’’

  ‘‘He’s in lockup,’’ Sophia said. ‘‘There’ll be a bail hearing, probably Monday. It’s too late for them to get to him today.’’

  ‘‘Will he get bail?’’ Cara asked. ‘‘I mean, he’s up for murder and he threatened you. They won’t let him out, will they?’’

  Sophia laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound. ‘‘Depends on the judge. Whether they think he’s a flight risk. Whether they accept his apology about the threat. I don’t think he’s a risk. I doubt the judge will.’’

  ‘‘They might take it more seriously if you did,’’ Cara said. ‘‘You’re making it easy for them to dismiss the danger.’’

  ‘‘There is not much danger,’’ Sophia assured her. ‘‘I’d just look like a wimp if I made a fuss.’’

  There was no point in arguing, Cara realized. Sophia would rather put herself at risk than chance damaging her status as ‘‘one of the boys.’’ She’d worked hard to make her way in the DA’s office, and it hadn’t made it any easier that her father had had close friends in the mafia.

  If Sophia was worried about her mother, Bianca Diamante was even more worried about her daughter. She was taking the Russian’s threat entirely too lightly. Sophia was sure that a criminal wouldn’t go after a prosecutor, but that was naïve. When the stakes were high enough, anyone was fair game. And in this case the stakes were the highest. The Russian, one Yuri Reznikov, was up for murder one, and it was Sophia who’d convinced his girlfriend to testify against him. The girlfriend was in protective custody. What better way to convince her of the high cost of testifying than to kill the woman who’d promised her the cops could keep her safe?

  Bianca wasn’t about to gamble with her daughter’s life. If anyone had earned a trip to the boneyard, it was this guy. And no one was better equipped to punch his ticket than Bianca Diamante. While she’d always made it firm policy never to mix personal and professional matters, she was prepared to make an exception for the Russian.

  That’s what Tony would have done. He’d never have stood for a thug threatening one of his girls. A hit man does not have to put up with poor behavior.

  Tony had been a real pro, not a mob thug who blasted away with the biggest gun he could find. He’d worked freelance. The money had been good and he was his own boss. But there’s no retirement program for hit men, and when he got the cancer and knew he wouldn’t be there to see his kids grow up, he’d provided for them the only way he knew how. He’d taught their mom the family business.

  In the early days Bianca had let Tony’s contacts believe that his brother had taken over. Even now, only the man who acted as her agent knew her true identity. He hadn’t liked the idea of repping a woman, but she’d convinced him that she had unique assets that suited her for special jobs. When she was younger, she’d used her looks to gain access to powerfulmen. But in her late forties, she’d discovered an even better cover. Instead of trying to look younger, she’d aged herself.

  As an older woman, she was invisible. People paid no attention to her. A homeless woman talking to herself could stumble into a mobster without arousing suspicion. A nicely dressed church lady could chat up guys who’d never let a stranger get close.

  ‘‘You’ll need a niche,’’ Tony had told her, ‘‘something you do better than anyone else, so when a job comes up that’s right, they call you, and they pay extra.’’

  Bianca’s niche was the convenient accident, death by natural causes. Or unnatural ones that left no trace. She was an expert in poisons. It wasn’t a subject they offered at the local JC so she’d had to teach herself. Once she had the basic knowledge, it was a matter of locating experts who possessed information not found in books. It was surprisingly easy to get them to talk; they were delighted to find someone who shared their passion. Especially when that someone was a woman adept at flattering their egos.

  Could they send her a specimen of this or that poisonous mushroom so she might see it for herself? Did they know where she could get a small bit of that amazingly potent toad-skin toxin? In recent years, with the expansion of the Internet, just about anything was available if you knew where to look.

  The Russian posed several problems. The first was timing. Bianca needed to set up the hit before he got out of jail; then she needed to execute it before he could act on his threat. The chance that the cops would keep him under surveillance made things even dicier.

  The second problem was that she knew almost nothing about the thug. A hit that didn’t look like a hit required planning. You needed background on the victim if you were to design a proper exit for him. And research was the best protection against dangerous surprises. This was not a job she’d have accepted for any amount of money. But then, it wasn’t about money.

  She called Marty, the guy who handled her business dealings, and asked him to find out what he could. ‘‘I need quick and dirty here,’’ she said. ‘‘An address, whether he lives with anyone, if he uses drugs and which ones, anything you can get that might be useful.’’

  Marty whined when she told him she needed it in a couple of hours. ‘‘It’ll cost double,’’ he said. ‘‘And that’s whether I get anything or not, ’cause with so little time, I might not get much.’’

  Not much was exactly what he got—an address and word that the guy lived alone. ‘‘He’s midlevel,’’ Marty said, ‘‘and a nasty piece of work. I have to tell you that I thought you were being maybe a bit too worried. I mean, why hit a prosecutor? They just bring in a new one. But this Reznikov has a real temper, plus he don’t like women, and he really don’t like a woman taking him down.

  ‘‘You know you don’t have to do this one. I could get someone to take care of it for you. Guys like him have enemies. He gets whacked, no one’s gonna be too surprised.’’

  Bianca considered it. Hiring the job out was safer, but it was also less sure. She didn’t want to risk a screwup. While the cops might not look too hard for the killer, if Sophia decided the Russian was hit to shut him up, she’d start digging around, and Bianca didn’t want to think where that might lead.

  The best way to learn about the Russian was to search his house. And the time to do it was now, while he was safely locked away. The address Marty had given her was in a town about twenty minutes from her house. She wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood, so she took a drive to check it out.

  September had brought a break from the summer’s humidity, but the air was still warm in the late afternoon. Only a few trees showed the first signs of color. Otherwise, it was summer without the stifling heat.

  Reznikov’s home was a fairly new two-story brick on a quiet street in an affluent neighborhood. It was a family house, but Marty had said he lived alone. Bianca would have bet an ex-wife and kids lived in less spacious digs somewhere else. The street was deserted. Several garages had basketball hoops, but there were no kids banging balls off the backboards. Not for the first time, Bianca reflected that the more valuable the real estate, the fewer people you saw enjoying it.

  In neighborhoods like this, the easiest way in was the cleaning lady ruse. An older woman lugging cleaning supplies barely registered. No one got suspicious when she went into a backyard or fumbled with a lock. Most people forgot they’d even seen her.

  As she drove home, Bianca formed a plan. If she’d had more time, she’d have opted for an accident. But you couldn’t count on an accident to be fatal, and she needed to nail the Russian on the first try. That left poison as the weapon of choice. Something fast acting that would incapacitate him before he could call for help. A faked suicide, perhaps. Feed him the poison, let it do its work, then come back and leave a bottle next to the body. The police would figure he saved them the expense of a trial. If his friends suspected otherwise, they wouldn’t be talking to the cops about it.

  For faked suicides, she had a special cockt
ail of a barbiturate and a drug prescribed as a sleeping medication. Each magnified the effect of the other, and alcohol gave them an even bigger boost. Best of all it was colorless, odorless, and tasteless, and she had it in both liquid and pill form. It cost plenty, and she had to put up with its producer, Alvin, a brilliant chemistry student who was either bipolar, schizophrenic, or both. Conversations with Alvin were always trying since he assumed they shared the same paranoid universe and got agitated if she muffed her lines. But once she plugged into his fantasy, he was delighted to provide whatever she asked for and to tinker for months to get it to meet her specifications.

  The major problem with poison was targeting. You had to be sure to get the victim without exposing anyone else. You couldn’t just lace his favorite snack with poison because he might share that snack with a bystander. And one of Bianca’s cardinal rules was that you never hit a bystander.

  At home she donned her cleaning woman disguise— shapeless housedress, apron, sensible shoes, heavy support hose. She collected a mop, bucket, blue plastic gloves, and assorted cleaning supplies. Studying herself in the mirror, she decided to add a wig of tight steel gray curls and thick glasses.

  There was no way to know whether the suicide plan would work until she’d had a look inside the Russian’s house, but it was worth taking the poison with her, on the chance she’d get lucky. For that, and for the wig and glasses, she turned to the cabinet.

  Tony had built the cabinet when she pointed out that he couldn’t have guns around with children in the house. He’d closed off about eighteen inches at one end of their bedroom closet and installed the cabinet there. With the clothes pushed up against it, the opening was all but invisible. There were only two keys to the tiny lock hidden near the floor in the darkest corner. Bianca kept one and had given the other to one of Tony’s old friends who had promised to empty the cabinet if anything happened to her.