“What did you tell him?”
“That it was our case,” McQueen said, “and when the time came that I thought it was his I’d send it over.”
“You can do that, right?” Sommers asked. “I mean, you can make that decision, right? As long as you’re the lead detective on the case?”
“I don’t honestly know,” he said. “I never tried to do this before.”
“Well, then,” she said, starting the engine, “I guess we’re going to find out, right?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “Right. Let’s get back to the house.”
By the time they walked into the squad room, the word had already gotten around. In fact, McQueen had the feeling that it had spread to the precinct level, and that they were being watched as they walked in the front door to the elevator.
“The lieutenant wants to see you, Dennis,” Velez said.
“I figured.” He looked at Sommers. “Wait here.”
He stuck his head into the lieutenant’s office. “You want to see me, Loo?”
“Come in,” Jessup said. “Shut the door.”
McQueen did both, fidgeted uncomfortably. He really didn’t want to get into it with his own lieutenant, not after he’d managed to hold it together with Campanella.
“I got a call from Lieutenant Campanella from Brooklyn North,” Jessup said. “He wants me to take your badge and shield.”
“You want ‘em?” McQueen asked.
“Don’t be such a fucking smart-ass with me, Dennis,” Jessup said. “You should have used that on him.”
“Yes, sir. What did you tell him?”
“I told him I had complete confidence in my men to know when they should refer a case,” the lieutenant said.
“Did he buy that?”
“Did he buy it?” the man asked. “Shit, I don’t even buy it. But I do have confidence in you, Dennis.”
“Thanks, Lo—”
“Confidence not to fuck me while you’re trying to fuck him,” Jessup added.
“I’m not tryin’ to fuck anybody, Loo,” McQueen said. “I’m trying to solve a case.”
“Yeah,” Jessup said, “he told me you said that to him, too. Luckily, I believe you.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Work your case as long as you can,” he said.
“And how long will that be?”
“As long as nobody above my head comes down on my head, Dennis,” his boss said. “I’ll cover for you, but I won’t give up my career for you. Not over this.”
“Don’t worry,” McQueen said. “I’m not gonna give up my job over this, either.”
“Good,” Jessup said. “As long as we both keep things in their proper perspective.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you better get moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s goin’ on with this case?” Velez asked Sommers.
“I’m not really sure,” she said, but told him everything she knew. Then she asked, “Why’s he doing this? I mean, why’s he fighting for this case?”
“I don’t know why Dennis does anything,” Velez said. “I guess we’ll all have to just wait and see.”
They both turned toward the door of the lieutenant’s office as McQueen came out.
McQueen saw the two detectives waiting for him.
“So?” Sommers asked.
“You still got your badge and gun?”
“Both,” McQueen said. “Campanella’s just another fuckin’ lieutenant.”
“What happens when somebody higher up takes a hand?” Velez asked. “Then what?”
“Then I’ll hand the case over,” McQueen said. “I’m not crazy enough to lose my job over one case.”
Sommers didn’t know McQueen well enough to know if that was true.
Ray Velez knew him only too well.
Chapter 18
While Sommers was at her desk, Ray Velez walked over to McQueen’s and perched his hip on the edge.
“Don’t get stubborn about this, Dennis.”
“Stubborn?”
“Don’t tell me you never get stubborn,” Velez said. “I know you too well.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it, Ray.”
“What, then?” Velez asked. “Why do you want to hang onto this case?”
McQueen shrugged and said, “It’s interesting.” He didn’t bother to tell Velez that he’d promised the victim’s mother that he’d catch the killer, and that the victim’s sister—his very attractive sister—told him they were going to hold him to that promise. That was the kind of statement that had made Ray Velez shake his head more than once over the past few years.
“Interesting.”
“Yeah,” McQueen said.
“Okay,” Velez said. “Okay.”
“How are you and Frankie gettin’ along?” McQueen asked.
“We’re not talkin’ much,” Velez said.
“What cases are you workin’?”
“We had that suicide,” Velez said. “We put the report on your desk.”
“Nothin’ else?”
“Not right now.”
“I may have you do some interviews for me, then.”
“Sure, why not?” his once-and-future partner asked. “Just don’t have us do them together.”
“Don’t worry,” McQueen said, “I’ll give you separate assignments.”
Briefly, McQueen told Velez what he wanted him to do. Canvas the area of the fire, find out who saw what. Also, find out who saw the victim last.
“What are you gonna have Frankie do?”
“Sommers and I didn’t finish re-interviewing the Polar Bears,” McQueen said. “I’ll give him that.”
“Well,” Velez said, “you give him the news, and I’ll go out and get started.” He started away, then turned back. “What do I say if I get called for being off my patch?”
“Refer ‘em to me,” McQueen said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Velez gave McQueen a small salute and headed out. McQueen walked over to Cataldo’s desk and gave him his assignment.
“I’m on my own?” the man asked.
“That’s right.”
He thought about that, shrugged, then smiled and asked, “Why don’t you send the broad with me?”
“I would,” McQueen said, “but if you called her a broad she’d probably smack your face. Here are the addresses. Get goin’.”
“Sure, Sarge.”
Cataldo grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, and went down the hall to get his coat from his locker.
McQueen walked over to Sommers’s desk as she was hanging up the phone.
“What’ve you been doin’?”
“I made some calls, checking to see if there were any other bodies found in the city that might’ve matched ours.”
“And?”
“There was one in Central Park that was found frozen to death,” she said, “but he was a homeless guy. They figure he just . . . froze in his sleep.”
“Any others?”
“No,” she said. “I’m waiting for some callbacks, though. I called some precincts with ponds and beaches and ocean access—even Rockaway.”
“That was good thinking,” he said.
“Where’d everybody else go?”
“They had no cases of their own, so I’ve got them canvassing and doing follow-ups.”
“And what are we going to do?”
“I think I’d like to take a look at where the victim lived, check his room,” McQueen said. “Also, have a look at where the brother-in-law lived, check his home office, if he has one. Might find something that’ll lead us to the torch.”
“Wanna split up?” she asked.
“Since we’re short on time,” he replied, “that’d make sense.”
“So I guess I’ll go talk to the mother,” she said, “get her to show me her son’s room.”
“Okay,” McQueen said. “I’ll go and have another talk with Mrs. Dean.”
“Forget what?”
“Lydia,” Sommers said. “Her name’s Lydia.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
She turned to grab her jacket from the back of her chair, then looked at him and said, “I meant to ask earlier.”
“Ask what?”
“Do you think it was a good idea to promise the mother you’d find her son’s killer?”
“Making a promise like that is never a good idea.”
“Then why’d you do it?”
He shrugged.
“I just wanted to get her hand off my arm.”
He shivered again at the thought of the woman’s hand clutching him like a claw.
Chapter 19
McQueen had gotten Lydia Dean’s address from her when they were in the hospital cafeteria. He’d told her he might need to come to her house for further information. What he didn’t tell her was that it would be so soon.
Lydia and Victor Dean lived in an expensive condo in Brooklyn Heights. When she answered her door and saw McQueen standing on her doorstep, her surprise was obvious.
“Detective,” she said.
“Sergeant, actually.” It was the first time he’d corrected her.
“McQueen, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Well . . . you did say you’d be stopping by, but I had no idea it would be so soon.”
“Actually, neither did I,” he said, “but it turns out to be the next logical step. I’d like to look at your husband’s things, if it’s not inconvenient.”
“Well . . . all right,” she said. She stepped back to allow him to enter, then closed the door. They were in a hardwood floor foyer. There were doorways on either side, and a stairway leading up.
He turned to face her. She was as expertly made up as she had been at the hospital. Her lipstick was dark red, her eye makeup did not make her eyes look brittle, as it did with most women her age that he met. She seemed to know how to use cosmetics to play up the benefits of her features—high cheekbones, a prominent nose, full lower lip, but thin upper. He liked that she didn’t use lipstick to widen that upper. He always thought that looked silly.
She was wearing an expensive-looking purple sweater and black pants. Her feet were bare, which he found odd. The floor they were standing on was some kind of tile, and must have been freezing.
“Cold feet,” he said.
“What?”
He pointed.
“You must have cold feet.”
She looked down and wriggled her toes. He found it a playful thing to do, and so an odd thing.
“The rest of the house has rugs,” she said. “I like to keep my feet bare.”
“Well,” he said, “we should move into another room so they can warm up.”
“That’s very considerate,” she said. “Please . . . come this way.”
She led him to a warm living room, furnished with overstuffed sofa and chairs. The heat wrapped itself around him and he opened his coat.
“I keep it hot in here, I know,” she said. “Can I take your coat?”
“Thanks.” He took it off and handed it to her.
“I have some coffee made,” she said. “Can I offer you a cup?”
“That’d be great,” he said. “Thanks.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He was surprised that she was being so hospitable. It was not what he would have expected after talking with her at the hospital.
When she returned it was with a mug of coffee in each hand. He’d expected her to come back with a tray and china. He was liking her better than when they first met. He wondered what she thought of him, and suddenly he felt . . . big and clunky, and clumsy.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I didn’t know what you took in it,” she said. “I could get some sugar or milk—“
“Black is fine,” he told her truthfully. “It’s how I usually take it.”
“Please, sit down.”
They each sat in an armchair, the sofa an empty line of demarcation between them.
“I came to ask you some more questions about your husband,” he said, “and to ask if I can have a look around.”
“For what?”
He shrugged.
“Something that might tell me where he went. That is, unless you know, and want to tell me.”
“Detec—Sergeant,” she replied, “If I knew where he was I would tell you.”
“You’d turn your husband in?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s because of him our business went bust,” she said. “Because of him the building was burned down, and because of him my brother is dead.”
“Were you close with your brother?”
“No,” she said. “He came late in life to my parents. There were too many years between us. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—didn’t love him. I’m sorry he’s dead.”
He studied her face, but there were no tears forming in her eyes.
“You’re looking for tears,” she said, surprising him. “You won’t find them.”
He didn’t comment.
“It’s not because I don’t want to cry,” she said. “It’s the . . . anger. The . . . the absolute rage I feel for my husband. It’s keeping the tears at bay.”
He hesitated, took a moment to taste the coffee. Again, surprised that it was good.
“I don’t know if that’s good, or bad,” he said.
“I don’t either,” she said.
They drank their coffee in silence for a few moments, then she said, “I suppose you’ll want to start with his office.”
“Yes,” McQueen said. “Does he have a lot of business records there?”
“Some,” she said, “but most of them were lost in the fire.”
“That’s . . . too bad.”
“Well,” she said, placing her coffee mug on an end table. He looked for a coaster, didn’t find one, and followed her example. “This way.”
Chapter 20
Victor Dean’s home office was on the second floor. McQueen followed Lydia up the stairs. Her butt swayed so much as she ascended that he thought she must have been doing it deliberately. No woman could have that much motion naturally, could she? He also found himself wondering if she was wearing clothing she had designed herself.
“This is Victor’s office,” she said. “It’s small, but he spent a lot of time in here.”
“Did he close the door when he was in here?”
“Yes.”
“Lock it?”
She hesitated, then said, “Sometimes.”
So there were times when he was doing something in the office he didn’t want his wife to see. That could have been something illegal, or if could have just been Internet porn.
McQueen entered, looked around. The walls were lined with bookshelves, but only half were filled with books. On the small oak desk was a Gateway computer.
“Do you know how to use that?” he asked.
A small smile came to her lips. “I can turn it on and play solitaire, but that’s it.”
He turned to face her.
“Did you do that while he was out of the house?”
“Yes,” she confessed.
The desk top was remarkably clean, as if it had been recently dusted. Even the screen of the computer. “Do you have a cleaning woman?”
She nodded and said, “She comes in three times a week. My husband hates dust.”
McQueen frowned. If there was anything incriminating in the room Dean wouldn’t want anyone messing around there, not even to clean. In fact, a cleaning woman would probably be even more thorough than somebody searching the place.
“I’m going to do downstairs and take the mugs into the kitchen,” Lydia said. “Can I bring you another cup of coffee?”
“No, I’m fine,” McQueen said.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “I don’t
suppose I should have asked for a warrant?”
“Only if you have something to hide,” he told her. “I can get one.”
“No,” she said, “I have nothing to hide. Go ahead.” After she left, he went through the desk, found remarkably little in the drawers other than some office supplies. In one of the bottom drawers he found a few copies of Playboy, Penthouse and Maxim.
The books on the bookshelves were mostly non-fiction reference books, some computer books and some novels he’d never heard of. The room did not look like one that anyone ever did work in. There were no ashtrays, no glass rings, no paper clips lying about, or Post-it notes. He was starting to think that all Victor Dean might have done in here when the door was locked was read men’s magazines.
He pulled out the ergonomically correct chair, sat down in front of the computer, found the ON button and pressed it. The machine whined into life and, slowly, the monitor glowed. He waited until Windows launched and a bunch of icons appeared, but he didn’t know what to do with them. Then he remembered that one of the books on the shelves was a yellow one called Windows for Dumbbells, or something like that. He stood up, took the book down from the shelf and in a few minutes was able to negotiate the icons. He stayed away from the ones that were for the Internet—apparently, Victor Dean had accounts with more than one provider—and found the ones that the man would have used for business. By the time Lydia Dean reappeared, McQueen had gone through some of her husband’s accounts. He didn’t really understand them, but by using the book he was able to transfer them to a disk, which he put in his pocket. Lucky for him Dean had a box of blank formatted disks on the desk.
He was standing, had turned the computer off and returned the book to the shelves by the time Lydia returned.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Fine.” He didn’t mention the disk he had in his pocket, because he actually would have needed a warrant to remove it from the house. “I’m done in here.”
“Did you find anything helpful?”
“I’ll tell you what I didn’t find,” he said, as he followed her out into the hall.
“What’s that?”
“A phone book,” he said, “or address book of your husband’s. Did he have one?”
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