Cold Blooded (Dennis McQueen 02)

by Randisi, Robert J.

  “Looks like it.”

  “So, now you have evidence that Mrs. Dean killed her husband?” Delaney asked.

  “No, sir,” McQueen said, “we have a prisoner who says he saw Mrs. Dean kill her husband.”

  “An eyewitness,” Delaney said. “That’s very good.”

  “Not so good, I’m afraid,” McQueen said. “The eyewitness is himself a confessed murderer.”

  “Confessed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he made this confession under proper Miranda conditions, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir,” McQueen said, “he was advised of his rights and waived the right to counsel.”

  “Is that a fact?” Delaney asked. “And then he confessed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why, I wonder?”

  “I wondered the same thing myself,” McQueen said, “but the fact remains we have a confession.”

  “But, as I understand it,” Delaney said, “we also have the offer of a deal?”

  “Allan Hansen, the man we have for killing a woman and her four-year-old daughter, claims he was in the Lydia Studios building on the day of the fire.”

  “And what does he say he was doing there?”

  “Setting the fire.”

  “Wait a minute,” the white-haired Dan Worth said. “This guy confessed to arson and murder?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead, please,” the D.A. said, tossing Worth a dirty look.

  “Well, he claims he saw Lydia Dean kill her husband by hitting him on the head with . . . something. A bat, a club, some blunt object.”

  “How does he know the man was dead?”

  McQueen opened his file and refreshed his memory from the printed version of Allan Hansen’s confession.

  “He says she hit her husband at least ten times. ‘There was blood everywhere,’ he says.”

  “And was blood found at the scene?” Delaney asked.

  “The scene was a burnt-out husk,” McQueen said. “No blood could be detected.”

  “What about a body?”

  “There were no remnants of a body found.”

  “Anything in the ashes?” ADA Kearny asked.

  “Both the fire department and our Arson Task Force—that is, our crime lab—sifted the ashes. They found nothing.”

  “But that doesn’t necessarily mean the body wasn’t there,” Kearney said. “Right? It could have been completely burned.”

  “It’s possible that the respective labs could simply have not been able to find any trace, yes,” McQueen said.

  “Or,” Delaney said, “it could be that she removed the body from the scene and disposed of it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now,” Delaney said, “you are investigating other murders that you think are connected to this case, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” McQueen said, “connected to the murder of Thomas Wingate.”

  “Are you prepared to present me with any evidence in those cases?” Delaney asked.

  “No, sir, not today.”

  “Then the question before us is this,” he said, wrapping things up. “Do we want to make a deal with one killer to catch another?”

  When no one responded McQueen said, “I suppose that’s where you are, sir, yes.”

  “All right, then,” the D.A. said. “Sergeant, if you’ll step out of the room, we’ll discuss the matter and call you back in when we’ve made a decision.”

  Chapter 65

  The Observer thought he needed another name. Here he was, transporting the fifth victim. He’d done his job in the beginning, finding this victim, staking him out. The Killer had done his job killing him, and the Ice Man had done his job keeping the body on ice. Now it was time for the body to be found, and here he was again, only this time not observing, but transporting.

  The Transporter. Yeah, that’s what he should be now, not the Observer.

  Okay, he thought, driving the van with the body in the back, now I’m the Transporter.

  He liked that better. He didn’t feel out of place, or out of control. Everything was as it should be again.

  Briefly, he had thought about dumping this one somewhere in Manhattan or Queens, but no, this was a Brooklyn thing. As a serial killer he was going to put not only himself on the map but Brooklyn as well. And one was almost as important as the other.

  When he came within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge he started to get excited—and as he got excited he started to think about victim number six. He’d already picked her out, and he knew the Killer was growing impatient to take her. The Ice Man, too, liked when he had them on a hook in the back. He often went back there, brought a stool with him, and sat and talked to them. They were almost like his friends, and as soon as one friend left, he grew impatient for more company.

  But right now he had to concentrate on victim number five. He was going to dump this one so that it was found sooner. He was impatient for this one to hit the newspapers. He wondered when the tabloids would catch on, when they’d first start talking about him as a serial killer. What he didn’t want to have to do was call them himself. That had been done before. He wanted them to catch on by themselves, with no help from him.

  He wondered who the police detectives were who were investigating this. They must have caught on by now that he was a serial. Three victims last winter, now two this winter. He knew he was smarter than they were, but for Chrissake, if they never caught on where would the fun be in that? He wanted it to come out in the open so he could discover who his adversary was.

  Or was he overestimating them? Were the cops in New York that stupid? That dense? The men and women who policed the greatest city in the world?

  It couldn’t be. At least, he hoped not. Without a worthy opponent, this would all go to waste.

  And he hated waste.

  Chapter 66

  McQueen thought he’d made a mistake.

  He’d made a lot of them in his life, but he thought that, like most mistakes, they went unnoticed, unidentified. This time he felt like he’d made a mistake, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Maybe he should have let all of this lie. Who else cared as much as he did? Bailey Sommers? She was just looking to make her mark, looking to work her first serial killer case.

  What about Mace Willis? She was just working one case, the Dean arson. What did she care about the other victims?

  Not the other guys in the squad. Not the Double Ds, or Sherman and Silver. They were just working for their paycheck—and there was nothing wrong with that. They—like McQueen—considered this a job, not a career. It was only a career to men like Bautista and Delaney, men who were on the way up and didn’t want to stop until they got to the top.

  McQueen also considered it a job, as he had told Bautista, but it was a job he enjoyed doing, one he often took home with him at the end of the day.

  The only part of the job men like Bautista took home with them was the political part. Parties, fundraisers, dinners at the homes of men who could do them some good.

  Right now Delaney and Bautista and the others were trying to decide what their most expedient political move would be. If they chose to issue a warrant for Lydia Dean’s arrest, it would be McQueen’s job to pick her up. If they decided there wasn’t enough evidence, it would be up to him to keep looking for more. Once Allan Hansen told him that Lydia had killed her husband, that became his case, as well. So he was charged with finding out who killed the four people with the scratches on their backs—and any future victims—as well as determining whether or not Lydia Dean actually had killed her husband. And as far as Kathy Stephens and her daughter Miranda was concerned, Allan Hansen’s confession would put him away for those murders.

  What McQueen needed to decide was, did he believe Hansen? If he decided he did not, then he was giving himself still more to do. If Hansen didn’t kill them, why confess? But no, he had the proof in his hands that Hansen had done it, so that was not in question. What was in que
stion was what Hansen said he saw at Lydia Designs.

  He was still mulling over his next moves when the intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed.

  “You can go in, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you.”

  He opened the door and entered. All four men were exactly where they had been when he left. “Have a seat, Sergeant,” Delaney said.

  He sat back down where he had been before.

  “All right,” Delaney said, “I’m issuing a warrant for the arrest of Lydia Dean. Suspicion of arson, fraud, and murder. It’ll be up to you and your squad to bring her in.”

  “Yes, sir. What about Allan Hansen?”

  “What about him?”

  “Will you be cutting a deal with him?”

  “That depends on what we find out about Mrs. Dean when we bring her in,” Delaney said. “If I’m convinced we have a case against her with his testimony then it’s very likely I will.”

  “But . . . he killed a mother and her little girl.”

  “He won’t walk, Sergeant,” Delaney said. “I guarantee that. He’ll just serve a lighter sentence.”

  “For murder?”

  “Manslaughter two, probably,” Kearny said.

  “And with good behavior he’ll be out in eight,” McQueen complained.

  “Come on, Sergeant,” Delaney said, “do we even know that he did it?”

  “He confessed.”

  “Still—”

  “And I have the proof here that he did it,” McQueen said, holding up the file on Kathy and Miranda Stephens.

  “What proof?” Worth asked, with interest.

  “The lab has matched the shoe print of Allan Hansen’s shoes with a clear footprint on Miranda Stephens’s side,” McQueen said.

  All the men fell silent for a moment, and then Delaney said, “That wouldn’t be the killing blow, though.”

  “Well . . . no. The killing blow was the kick to her head.”

  “And was there an identifiable footprint there?” the D.A. asked.

  McQueen hesitated, then said, “No.”

  “Well—”

  “But he still confessed.”

  “A confession he could recant at any time,” Delaney said, “if we don’t cut a deal.”

  “But . . . if she killed her husband—he was a grown man,” McQueen said, “This maniac killed a child and her mother.”

  “A good defense attorney could argue involuntary manslaughter,” Kearny said. “He could walk.”

  “What?” McQueen asked, not believing what he was hearing.

  “That’s enough, Sergeant,” Bautista said, speaking for the first time. “Either have your men pick up Mrs. Dean, or do it yourself. But get it done . . . today.”

  “But—”

  “There is no need of any further input from you into this matter,” the lieutenant said. “You’re dismissed.”

  McQueen sat still for a moment, trying to decide whether to argue or not. In truth, though, he wanted to talk with Lydia Dean. What these clowns decided to do could always be overturned later, depending on what he found out.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, standing up, thinking, we’ll see what gets recanted later on.

  Chapter 67

  “How did it go?” Sommers asked as soon as McQueen entered the squad room.

  “Let’s go,” he said. “We’re picking up Lydia Dean.”

  “We?”

  “You, me,” he said, then waved across the room at the Double Ds, “them. Let’s move, boys.”

  Both detectives got to their feet, grabbing their jackets from the backs of their chairs.

  “Separate cars,” McQueen said as they all went out the door.

  “Uniforms?” Sommers asked.

  “We don’t need any.”

  They took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

  “So, what happened?” Sommers asked again, as they went down.

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  “So they’re going to cut him a deal?” Sommers asked, in disbelief.

  “Looks like it.”

  “To walk?”

  “They say no,” he replied.

  “And you don’t believe them?”

  “Actually,” he said, “they can’t just let him walk. That would look too bad. They’ll work something out, though.”

  “Providing he’s telling the truth about Lydia Dean, though,” she pointed out.

  “Exactly.”

  “And do you think he is?”

  “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

  Because of the fire, and because the fire marshal’s office was still working on the arson, McQueen had agreed the night before to call Mace Willis if he was, indeed, to go to Lydia Dean’s house and arrest her.

  When they got out of their cars in front of the Dean house McQueen introduced Fire Marshal Willis to his detectives. They all stood there wrapped in their coats and scarves, their cold breath mingling.

  “How long have you been here?” McQueen asked.

  “Just a few minutes. I think she’s inside.”

  McQueen turned to Diver and Dolan and said, “You boys take the back in case she tries to run. I don’t think she’ll be armed, but you never know.”

  As the Double Ds made their way to the back of the house McQueen, Sommers and Willis walked to the front door.

  “You armed?” he asked Willis.

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t draw your weapon unless I do.”

  “Okay.”

  He could see that Bailey Sommers was puzzled about the presence of Mace Willis, but he didn’t have time to explain.

  When they reached the door he waited a few minutes until he was sure the Ds were in position, and then he rang the bell.

  When Lydia Dean opened the door she glanced at them coldly, then looked directly at McQueen. “Dennis,” she said, “can’t you take a hint?”

  “Lydia—”

  “I keep inviting you to visit me,” she went on, “and you keep showing up with other women. This time, two?”

  “This is Detective Sommers,” McQueen said. “You know Marshal Willis.”

  “And why are we all here?” she asked.

  “Detective Sommers?” McQueen said. He told Sommers in the car that he was giving her the collar.

  “Lydia Dean,” Sommers said, taking out her handcuffs, “I’m placing you under arrest.”

  “On what charges?” Lydia asked.

  “Conspiracy to commit arson, fraud, and murder,” Sommers said, “Turn around, please.”

  Lydia obeyed, without argument, which surprised McQueen.

  “You have the right to remain silent . . .” Sommers began, reading Lydia her rights while she applied the bracelets.

  When she turned the woman back around Lydia looked at Mace Willis.

  “I’ll bet this gives you a lot of satisfaction,” she said. “I’ve suspected for a long time that you and your husband started that fire, Mrs. Dean.”

  “But you couldn’t prove it.”

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  Lydia looked at McQueen.

  “And you think you can?” she asked. “You think you can prove I killed my own brother?”

  “You’re not under arrest for the murder of your brother, Lydia,” McQueen told her.

  For the first time since he’d met her, Lydia Dean looked totally confused.

  “Then . . . for what?”

  “You’re under arrest for the suspected murder of your husband, Victor Dean.”

  “Victor—that’s crazy. You can’t prove that!”

  “Maybe I can’t,” McQueen said. “But! have an eyewitness who says he can.”

  Chapter 68

  When Mrs. O’Brien entered the butcher shop on Sackett Street, Owen watched her approach the counter and was struck at once with an urge, and an idea.

  “Owen,” she said, “some of that wonderful veal again, please?” the old woman asked.

  Owen looked around the shop. As Mrs. O’Brien had e
ntered, another customer had left, and now he was alone with the old woman. This woman, who knew his father and constantly compared the two of them, would have nothing whatsoever in common with the other five victims. It made her the perfect sixth victim, but it was too soon.

  “And exactly how fresh would you like it, Mrs. O’Brien?” he asked her.

  “As fresh as your father would have given it to me, Owen,” she replied. “He was a wonderful man, you know. Everybody in the neighborhood loved him.”

  Yeah, Owen thought, especially the women. More than once he’d caught his father in the back room with one of the neighborhood wives. He’d grin at the little boy and say, “Full service, Owen. Don’t ever forget to give the customers full service.”

  Even now Owen wondered how his father knew that he’d never tell his mother what he saw.

  Then his father bought that big freezer for the back room. On sale, he said. Having the huge freezer would enable them to keep much more fresh meat on hand.

  It also gave his father some place else to take the ladies.

  “It was a shame how he and Mrs. Levinson got locked in the freezer that time,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “It was you who found them, wasn’t it, Owen?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was.”

  “Terrible accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Accident,” Owen said. “Yes, ma’am, that’s what it was.”

  “No one ever did figure out what Sadie Levinson was doing in there with him, did they?”

  Didn’t they? Owen thought.

  He looked at the shriveled-up face of Mrs. O’Brien and wondered how many times she’d been in the back room with his father.

  “What about that veal, Owen?” she asked.

  “Mrs. O’Brien,” he said, “I think you should come back to the freezer with me.”

  Chapter 69

  “I want to make a deal,” Lydia Dean said.

  McQueen looked over at Sommers, who stared back at him, shaking her head.

  Behind the two-way glass were Lieutenant Bautista, D.A. Delaney, and ADA’s Kearny and Worth. Bautista had been livid when McQueen brought Lydia Dean in with Bailey Sommers . . . and Fire Marshal Mason Willis.