Cold Blooded (Dennis McQueen 02)

  “What the hell is she doing here?” he demanded.

  “She’s been workin’ this case for almost a year,” McQueen said. “I thought she deserved to be in on the end.”

  Bautista got real close to McQueen and said, “I did not wish to share this with anyone.”

  “I know,” McQueen said. “And that probably includes me, but then, here we all are.”

  The arrival of the D.A. had driven the two men apart, and McQueen had gone into the interrogation room with Lydia Dean, where Sommers had been talking to her. Off in another corner of the room Mace Willis just watched. She fully expected to be put out at any moment, and she considered every moment she was allowed to stay as gravy.

  “What kind of a deal, Mrs. Dean?” Sommers asked. “We have an eyewitness who saw you bludgeon your husband to death. Do you think you can deal your way out of that?”

  “I know who your eyewitness is,” she said. “An arsonist.”

  “He’s an arsonist, all right,” Sommers said. “And a murderer.”

  “He didn’t kill my brother.”

  “We know that, Mrs. Dean,” Sommers said. “He’s not being charged with the murder of your brother. His charges stem from an entirely different case.”

  “Then why is he—”

  “He’s giving you up to save his skin,” Sommers said.

  “I can give him up,” Lydia said. “Victor paid him to burn the building down.”

  “Victor did it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I knew nothing about it.”

  “That’s not what he says.”

  “You’ve just said he’s an arsonist and a murderer,” Lydia Dean said. “How hard is it to believe he’s a liar, as well?”

  “Mrs. Dean,” Sommers said. “You and your husband hired Allan Hansen to burn down your business, and then you killed your husband so you wouldn’t have to share the insurance money with him. We’ve got you. All you have to do to make things easy on yourself is confess.”

  And it was at that point that Lydia Dean said, “I want to make a deal.”

  Chapter 70

  In the end Owen killed Mrs. O’Brien because the urge was too great. It had become the Urge. He knew it was too early, but he also knew that she lived alone and had no family. It would take even longer for her to be missed than the others.

  He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to do it, and then it came to him. She should die someplace truly cold, the same place his father and his whore, Sadie Levinson, had died—and the same way.

  “Owen,” she said, as he opened the freezer, “why would I want to go in the—”

  “Just go in, Mrs. O’Brien,” he told her, “just go in,” and shoved her. She staggered forward and, because of her age and frail legs, fell to her knees. She cried out, but the sound was cut off when he slammed the freezer door on her. He looked through the rectangular window in the steel door, thinking he’d enjoy watching her freeze to death. He had just decided to go to the front of the store and turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED when suddenly the old woman, still on her knees, clutched at her chest . . . and died!

  “Nooooo!” he wailed. Not a heart attack! Where the hell was the fun in that?

  He opened the freezer door, rushed inside, turned the old biddy over and started CPR, but it was no good. The old cunt was gone. He stood up and kicked her in the side. He was angry—angrier than when he found out his first victim had already died from smoke inhalation by the time he reached him. Luckily he was not the type to panic. He went ahead with his plans for Thomas Wingate, even though he hadn’t actually gotten to kill him personally.

  And he was going to have to do the same thing now, with Mrs. O’Brien. Just put her on a hook and let her hang there for a while, until it was time to get rid of her. Of course, he was going to have to keep her longer, because he’d only just gotten rid of number five. He didn’t want the police to think his activity was escalating. That was too much of a serial killer cliché.

  But even as he stripped off her dress so he could lift her and hang her on a hook by her bra—scratching her back in the process—he was feeling very unsatisfied by this kill. His hands were shaking when he left the freezer and closed the door behind him. He realized he might need to go out and get another one. As long as they were on hooks and being kept fresh, why did it matter when he killed them?

  He heard the bell ring on his front door, indicating a customer had come in. With one last look at poor Mrs. O’Brien, still swaying a bit to and fro on her hook, he wiped his hands on his apron and went to wait on his customer.

  Chapter 71

  McQueen, Sommers and Willis stared at Lydia Dean. Her lawyer had arrived, and was seated next to her.

  “I don’t appreciate having my client questioned before my arrival,” he’d complained.

  “Don’t worry, Walter,” Lydia told him. “I didn’t say anything incriminating.”

  “The hell she didn’t,” Sommers said. “She said she wants to make a deal.”

  Walter Gibson, attorney-at-law, glared at his client. “What?”

  “Walter—”

  “I need to confer with my client,” Gibson said. “Do you officers mind?”

  “No,” McQueen said, “not at all. Ladies?” Sommers and Willis preceded McQueen out of the interrogation room and into the hall.

  “Sergeant,” Gibson said.

  “Counselor?”

  “You may have blown this one.”

  “You sayin’ there’s something to blow, counselor?”

  Gibson turned away. McQueen left the room and pulled the door closed behind him. No sooner had it snapped shut than another door opened and D.A. Edward Delaney came storming out, Bautista right behind him. McQueen was willing to bet that the two men had gone to the same college.

  “What does she have to deal with?” Delaney asked.

  “We didn’t get a chance to ask her, did we?” McQueen replied.

  “Her lawyer’s going to make her dummy up,” Sommers said. “He’ll never let her talk, now.”

  “She asked for a deal,” Delaney said. “That’s as good as a confession.”

  “In what state?” McQueen asked.

  “Sergeant—” Bautista said, warningly.

  “Look,” McQueen said, “this lady’s got a mind of her own. If she wants to deal, she’ll deal. Believe me, she’s telling her lawyer how it’s gonna go down, not the other way around.”

  At that moment there was a knock on the door of the interrogation room. Delaney and Bautista went back into the adjoining room to observe. McQueen opened the door.

  “My client wants to talk to you,” Gibson said.

  “Fine,” McQueen said. He stepped aside to allow Sommers and Willis to precede him, but Gibson blocked their path. “Just you, Sergeant. No other detectives. No fire marshal. No two-way glass.”

  “What’s on her mind, counselor?”

  “Like she said,” Gibson replied, “she wants to make a deal.” The man didn’t look happy, at all.

  “All right,” McQueen said. “Go on in. I’ll be right there.”

  As Gibson went back into the room and the door slammed shut Sommers said, “Dennis—”

  “She’s gonna deal, Bailey.”

  “Yeah, but for what?”

  “That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

  When McQueen entered the room the lawyer, Gibson, stood up.

  “Just for the record,” he said, “I’m against this.”

  He gave McQueen a look, and left the room.

  “Sit down, Dennis,” Lydia invited.

  He sat across from her.

  “Alone at last,” she said, “that is, if I take your word there’s no one on the other side of that glass.”

  “You’ve got my word, Lydia.”

  It had taken some doing. Delaney had wanted to remain, telling McQueen just to lie to her.

  “Not a chance,” McQueen had said. “This has to be on the up-and-up . . . sir.”

  “Okay if I turn on the tape re
corder now?” he asked her.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I want to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure what my best option is here, Dennis,” she said. “I thought you might help me figure it out.”

  “Isn’t that what you pay your attorney good money for?”

  “This is all . . . very convoluted, Dennis.”

  “Are we gonna talk deal?”

  “Are you authorized?”

  “What do you think, Lydia?” he asked. “I’m a sergeant of detectives. I’m not high on the food chain, here. We’ve got a D.A. out in the hall, chompin’ at the bit because he’s got an eyewitness that has you killing your husband. He wants to make headlines with you. And my lieutenant is out there, ready to take the credit if all of this goes right.”

  “Well,” she said, “your D.A. can have his headlines, and your lieutenant can have his credit, but it won’t be at my expense.”

  “The D.A.’s ready to file, Lydia,” McQueen said. “My advice is to cop a plea.”

  “I’ll admit to the arson,” she said. “Walter and I hired Allan Hansen to burn the business so we could collect the insurance.”

  “This has to be on tape, Lydia.”

  “Wait,” she said, putting her hand out to stop him. “I don’t want to go to prison.”

  “Then you better have a heckuva lot to deal with.”

  “I do,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

  He waited, and when nothing was forthcoming asked, “Well, what is it, Lydia? What’ve you got for me?”

  “Your serial killer,” she said. “I can give you your serial killer.”

  Chapter 72

  He sat with his back to the freezer door, the steel cold against his back. How had it gotten out of hand so fast? When he reached inside for that cool, calm, collected person who was always there for him, there was nothing.

  Where was the Ice Man?

  Where was the Killer?

  Was he alone now?

  He stood up and looked through the small window at the bodies hanging on the hooks—and then the bell above the front door rang as someone entered.

  He’d forgotten to turn the sign to CLOSED.

  Again!

  “Hello?” a man’s voice called out. “Is anyone here? Some service, please?”

  The impatience in the voice did something to calm him. His father always sounded impatient with him, all through his childhood, his teen years, up until that day.

  This time, he thought, as he headed for the front of the butcher shop, this time he had to remember to turn the sign on the door.

  Chapter 73

  McQueen stared at the tape reels going around as Lydia Dean told her story. Ed Delaney and Lieutenant Bautista were also in the room. The rest—Sommers, Willis, the ADA’s Kearney and Worth—were in the adjoining room, watching through the two-way mirror. Also in the room, next to Lydia Dean, and not looking happy, was her attorney.

  “It’s true. Victor and I hired Allan Hansen to burn our business. We needed the insurance money. But at the last minute I got cold feet. I drove to our building to stop it, but by the time I got there it was in flames.”

  “Had the fire department responded?” Delaney asked.

  “Not yet,” she said. “But I knew that both Victor and Thomas were in there.”

  “You knew your brother was in there and you still had Hansen set the place on fire?” the D.A. asked.

  “Victor was supposed to get Thomas out.”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to Victor. I—I always assumed he died in the fire.”

  “All right,” Delaney said. “Go ahead, Mrs. Dean.”

  “I was worried about both my brother and my husband, so I ran into the building.”

  “You ran into a burning building?” Delaney asked.

  “That’s right,” she replied. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Just continue, Mrs. Dean.”

  “The smoke was thick and I couldn’t find my husband. I kept looking and looking and finally, when I got to the third floor, I saw them.”

  “Saw who?”

  “My brother and . . . and his killer.”

  “You actually saw your brother’s killer.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I was frightened,” she said. “I thought if he saw me he’d kill me, too.”

  “What about Hansen, Mrs. Dean?” McQueen interjected. “Did you see him in the building, at all?”

  “Briefly,” she said. “Just long enough to know he was definitely there.”

  Just long enough to put a nail in his coffin, McQueen thought. The story was utter bullshit. He and Lydia Dean both knew it, but the D.A. allowed her to continue.

  “I’ll have to tell it my way,” she’d told him.

  “Your way meaning copping to hiring an arsonist, but not admitting you killed your husband.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you I didn’t kill my husband?” she’d demanded.

  “Too many times, I think,” he said, but he’d then let the D.A. into the room.

  “Mrs. Dean,” Delaney said now. “Who killed your brother?”

  “My client wants immunity on the arson charge, and the conspiracy charge.”

  “Conspiracy to commit murder?” McQueen asked.

  “Arson,” Gibson said, impatiently, “conspiracy to commit arson.”

  “So she’s not admitting she killed her husband?” Delaney asked Walter Gibson.

  “Not at all,” the man said.

  “But I know who your serial killer is,” Lydia said. “Don’t you want to catch him?”

  Delaney looked at McQueen, and then at Lydia Dean.

  “Did Sergeant McQueen tell you that we have a serial killer at work in New York, Mrs. Dean?”

  “No, of course not,” she said. “But he did show me a photo of a man he said was likely killed by the same man who killed my brother. I read between the lines, Mr. Delaney. You have a serial killer at work, and you want to stop him. I can help you.”

  “And in return you want immunity.”

  “Yes . . . but there’s more.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to have to fear Allan Hansen for the rest of my life,” she said. “I want him behind bars.”

  Delaney sat back in his chair and looked as if he were actually considering the request.

  “All right,” he said, finally.

  “What?” McQueen said. “You have an eyewitness that she killed her husband.”

  “And she can give you your serial killer, Sergeant,” Delaney said. “Which do you think is more important?”

  “But she killed her husband,” McQueen argued. “You were going to let a child killer go free to nail her. Now you’re willing to let her go to get someone else. Where does it end?”

  “Hopefully,” Delaney said, “with you and your people putting handcuffs on a serial killer, Sergeant.” He turned to look at Lydia Dean.

  “Mrs. Dean, who killed your brother, Thomas?”

  “His name is Owen Feinstein.”

  “And how do you know this man?”

  “He’s my butcher.”

  Chapter 74

  The sign on the front door said CLOSED.

  “Jimmy, Artie,” McQueen said.

  “Yeah, we know,” Diver said. “The back.”

  McQueen turned and looked at Sommers and Willis. The fire marshal’s chief had spoken with the chief of detectives and, after threatening to go over his head to the commissioner, it was decided that the FDNY and Marshal Mason Willis would be part of the arresting team—even though her connection to the case was “tenuous, at best.”

  They also had two uniformed teams from the local precinct.

  “Secure the block,” McQueen told them.<
br />
  Sommers was looking at the card taped to the door with the store’s hours on it. It was supposed to be open until eight P.M. but here it was almost four and it was closed.

  “Should be open,” she said.

  “I can read,” Willis said.

  The two women exchanged a hard look. They did not like each other. McQueen didn’t know if that was just NYPD/FDNY rivalry, or something else.

  Silver and Sherman were with them, also, since they were part of the team. The odd man out of the whole scenario was Tolliver, which McQueen admitted to himself wasn’t quite fair. But he was the last man into the squad, and McQueen really couldn’t afford to give him any more thought.

  “Okay, guys,” McQueen said to Sherman and Silver, “let’s get this door open.”

  Before either of them could move, though, Mace Willis slammed her shoulder into the part of the door nearest the doorjamb and it popped open, the bell above the door jingling.

  “Looked like a flimsy lock,” she said with a shrug, as the others stared at her.

  McQueen produced his gun and led the way in. The others drew their weapons and followed.

  The inside looked like an old-fashioned butcher shop. The bare wood floors and sawdust brought McQueen right back to his childhood. Glass cases filled with various cuts of meat, and a gleaming slicer or top of the cases completed the picture. All along the glass cases and on the wall behind were taped sale prices for different meats.

  “Wow,” Sherman said, “this takes me back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was owned by Abraham Feinstein for years,” Sommers said, reading from a computer printout she had gotten that morning, “but has been run by his son, Owen, for the past twenty years.”

  “Twenty years in the old man’s business,” Silver said, shaking his head.

  “What kind of name is Owen for a Jew?” Sherman wondered.

  No one commented.

  Abruptly, the bell above the door jangled as someone tried to enter.

  “Jack,” McQueen said.

  Sherman went to intercept the potential customer, who complained that he needed his round chuck. Ushering the man out with the suggestion that he go and buy some good fish—”Tuna almost tastes like steak”—he locked the door.