The Cigarette Killer

by Claudia Hall Christian

  “The NYPD are standing outside,” R.J. said.

  “Who?” Seth asked.

  “Just saw the shield,” R.J. said. “Held it up to the peephole in the door.”

  “Think it’s real?” Seth asked.

  “Looked real enough to me,” R.J. said.

  Seth nodded and pulled on a long-sleeved T-shirt. He was near the door when R.J. took out a revolver from the gun safe in Seth’s room.

  “For the girl,” R.J. said.

  Their eyes held for a moment. Neither had any idea why the NYPD would be outside his apartment this morning. Seth nodded at the possibilities in R.J.’s eyes. Seth shrugged and went out into the living room.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  “Open up, O’Malley,” a man’s voice yelled. “I brought donuts.”

  Shaking his head, Seth opened the door. He was looking at the deputy commander of the NYPD Forensics Investigation Division.

  “Detective,” Seth said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “That’s ‘Inspector’ to you, O’Malley,” Inspector Oscar Dekay said and held up the box of donuts.

  Seth stepped aside to let the man inside.

  “R.J. here?” Oscar asked.

  Seth nodded.

  “He going to shoot me?” Oscar asked.

  “R.J.?” Seth called R.J. from the other room.

  R.J. came out into the living room.

  “I shoulda known it by the smell,” R.J. said.

  Oscar grinned, and the men hugged. R.J. went to change, and Seth started making coffee.

  “You should have called when you got in,” Oscar said. “The ex-wife chewed me out for not telling her that you were here. Can’t tell her what I don’t know.”

  “I was on television all weekend for Big Daddy’s funeral,” Seth said wryly.

  “Oh, yeah?” Oscar said.

  Oscar gave Seth a false surprised look, and Seth laughed.

  “You were there,” Seth said.

  “Some asshole allowed anyone in the NYPD into the event,” Oscar said. “For free, if you can believe it!”

  “I thought it might keep the unfriendlies from killing each other,” Seth said.

  Oscar snorted at the word “unfriendlies.” Dressed, R.J. was putting away the pullout bed when they came out into the living room. Seth set the pot of coffee on the table and went back into the kitchen for cups. When he returned, R.J. and Oscar were seated at the table. Oscar opened the box of donuts, and they started in.

  “Wife’s in Denver?” Oscar asked after they’d eaten a few donuts.

  “Sequestered,” Seth said.

  “They are serious,” Oscar said.

  “Are you ever going to tell us why you’re here?” R.J. asked.

  “Can’t an old friend bring donuts to his buddies at four . . .” Oscar turned his watch over to look at his watch, “ . . . five in the morning?”

  Seth and R.J. looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “No,” Seth said with a shake of his head, and Oscar laughed.

  “You going to tell us?” R.J. asked.

  “Fran called,” Oscar said. “Well, her FBI handler called. She’s locked away, too. The handler said Fran wants some DNA for a Mob Princess.”

  “The one married to Hamnet Seurat,” Seth said.

  “Maybe,” Oscar said. “The handler said that you have an envelope that dates back to the murders outside the Savoy. I was sure to tell him that there was no way you’d have evidence and not turn it over to the NYPD.”

  Oscar gave Seth a pointed look, and Seth just raised his eyebrows.

  “What’s it to you?” R.J. asked.

  “There is a little matter of jurisdiction,” Oscar said.

  “What’s it to you?” Seth asked.

  “Jur-is . . .” Oscar said.

  “You want me to believe that you got out of bed, went for donuts, and arrived on my doorstep at five in the morning for some jurisdictional issue?” Seth asked. “Do I look that stupid?”

  “Yes,” Oscar and R.J. said in unison.

  The men laughed. When their laughter stopped, it was clear that Oscar was trying to decide something. After a moment and a chocolate donut, Oscar nodded.

  “Okay, but you didn’t hear this from me,” Oscar said. “You know this guy? The Cigarette Killer?”

  “Unfortunately,” Seth said.

  “You know, he married into the Panteli family,” Oscar said.

  R.J. blew a low whistle, but Seth shook his head.

  “They didn’t tell you last week?” Oscar asked.

  “They weren’t there,” Seth said. “I thought it was weird. They usually handle the book on this end of town, but they turned down the meeting. I didn’t beg.”

  “Why?” Oscar asked.

  “I just wanted it done,” Seth said. “The Feds were breathing down my neck. Bernice needed some income to carry her to the end of her life. NYPD task force was very . . . sincere about what they wanted to see happen. Big Daddy’s business efforts and the war that could come if it wasn’t handled well . . .”

  Seth gave a tired shake of his head.

  “People wanted to be there,” Seth said. “I was ready to negotiate. I wasn’t about to go looking for more interested parties. I sent an invitation; the Pantelis didn’t show.”

  Seth shrugged.

  “I’m an old piano player,” Seth said. “What do I care if they don’t show?”

  Oscar and R.J. watched Seth for a moment before he shrugged again.

  “Why?” Seth asked.

  “I got a guy. Informant,” Oscar said. “He says that the murder outside the Savoy — Delmer and Delilah — was done by the elder Panteli. He’s supposed to have fallen for Delilah, killed her when she wouldn’t leave the life for him, killed her brother just because he could.”

  Seth raised his eyebrows. R.J. watched both men with hooded eyes.

  “But?” Seth asked after a moment.

  “Doesn’t feel right,” Oscar said.

  “White dude beat a brother to death outside the Savoy?” R.J. shook his head. “After killing a sister? No way. It was a mixed crowd, sure. But . . .”

  R.J. shook his head.

  “According to a note in the envelope, Delilah was killed first,” Seth said. “So Panteli would have had to kill Delilah, get all the way through the Savoy, and kill Delmer outside in the street. I don’t see it happening.”

  “Exactly,” Oscar said. “Doesn’t feel right.”

  The men fell silent for a while.

  “You ever look at Seurat’s DNA?” Oscar asked.

  Seth shook his head. Oscar looked at R.J., who shook his head.

  “Fran’s handler says FBI lab found a change in Seurat’s DNA,” Oscar said.

  “He’s been planning this for a while,” Seth said.

  “Or you fixed the evidence,” Oscar said.

  “Like I could do that,” Seth said with a laugh. “The only thing I know about forensics is that Ava works there.”

  He put his hand on his chest.

  “Old,” Seth said. “Piano player.”

  “Don’t get all morbid,” Oscar said. “We know what you are.”

  Seth poured more coffee, and the men drank their coffee in thoughtful silence. Oscar eventually looked at his watch and pushed his way up.

  “You got that envelope?” Oscar asked.

  R.J.’s eyes flicked to Seth, and Seth gave an almost imperceptible nod. R.J. went to the couch and pulled the envelope from its hiding place in the springs underneath. Oscar looked at the envelope and nodded.

  “We’re exhuming them,” Oscar said. “Delmer and Delilah.”

  “Probably a good idea,” Seth said.

  “I know you like to investigate,” Oscar said.

  “Just play the piano now,” Seth said.

  “Stop,” Oscar said, holding his hands up. “No one believes that. Certainly, I don’t.”

  “It’s true,” Seth said.

  “Listen to me, O’Malley.” Os
car pointed at Seth. “This shit is an ugly mess. You’ve got a murderer who got away with the brutal murder of two people almost sixty years ago. You’ve got a little worm who wants out of prison to live happily ever after with his Mob Princess.”

  “And?” Seth asked.

  “Stay out of it,” Oscar said.

  R.J. held out the envelope, and Oscar took it. Oscar wrote out a receipt for the envelope and had Seth and R.J. sign it. They walked Oscar to the door.

  “You find something — bring it to me,” Oscar said. He turned to face Seth. “Trust no one. You don’t ever know who’s on the Panteli payroll or . . .”

  He shook his head and then walked out the door. Seth pressed the door closed behind him.

  “Don’t want the cat to get out,” Seth said.

  “Where is the cat?” R.J. asked.

  They both looked at Melissa’s room.

  “The girls aren’t awake yet,” R.J. said of Claire and Bernice.

  “I need a run to clear my head, anyway,” Seth said. “I’ll look for you at Claire’s when I get back.”

  R.J. nodded. Seth changed and left the apartment before R.J. could say anything else.

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  Ten

  The alarm blared with head-splitting noise in Ava’s bedroom. She stumbled into the other room to turn off the alarm. She longingly eyed the bed but forced herself through a heart-pumping yoga routine from a video on the Internet. Breathing hard, she took a fast, cold shower and dressed in comfortable clothes and her grey knit cap. She stopped at her bureau to take off her wedding ring. She usually didn’t wear it when she was in the lab. She’d taken it off her hand every single workday since Seth had placed it on her hand.

  Today, removing the ring felt like a betrayal.

  She left it on and went out into the hallway. She was standing in the hallway when Bob and Fran came out of their rooms with their grey caps in their hands.

  “You ready?” Bob asked.

  “For whatever comes next,” Ava said.

  Bob put his arm around Ava, and they started down the hallway. They picked up Leslie and Nelson at the elevator. Hung over and on edge, they went to the cafeteria for breakfast. They were just finishing when the FBI team leader they called “Spam-a-licious” appeared at the end of the table for Ava. She got up. Pulling on her grey cap, she followed him to an interview room.

  Spam-a-licious opened the interview room, and Ava saw what she’d expected — a polygraph technician and his equipment. Ava instinctively touched her head to draw power from the grey cap before stepping into the room. She shook the technician’s hand and sat down.

  “State your name,” the polygraph technician said, once she was hooked into his system.

  “Ava O’Malley,” Ava said.

  “I have your name down as Amelie Vivian Alvin,” the polygraph technician said.

  “Good for you,” Ava said.

  The technician made a note and looked up at her.

  “Which is it?” he asked.

  “Which is what?” Ava asked.

  The technician reached forward and pressed a button.

  “Ms. O’Malley,” the technician said, in a low voice. “We are all aware of the precarious nature of your involvement in this project. I’m here as an attempt to keep someone from looking over your shoulder the entire time.”

  “You could send me home,” Ava said.

  “If it were in my power, ma’am,” the technician said, in the same low voice. He added a shrug to complete the sentence. “I’d want to go home, too, but . . .”

  Ava nodded. The technician nodded and pressed the button again.

  “State your name,” the technician asked again.

  “Ava O’Malley,” she said, again.

  “I have your name down as Amelie Vivian Alvin,” the polygraph technician said.

  “I was named ‘Amelie’ after the song, ‘A Melody for Amelie,’” Ava said. “My mother used the song as her birthing song. It happens to be a song written by my husband, Seth O’Malley, when he was in high school. Of course, my mother knew of Seth at the time, but they weren’t friends or anything. ‘Ava’ is my husband’s nickname for me. After all of my father’s . . . uh . . . extracurricular activities became public knowledge, I took the name. That was before we were married. For a few weeks, I was just ‘Ava.’ Then we got married, and I took his name. I know it’s not very liberated, but I didn’t really have a last name anymore. My sister, Éowyn, doesn’t use the name anymore, either.”

  Ava shrugged.

  “Everyone calls me ‘Ava,’ now, even my mother,” Ava said. “It suits me. I did make it legal, so, if you have my name down as Amelie Vivian Alvin, it’s wrong.”

  The technician nodded his thanks for her answer. He asked her other basic questions such as: Where did she live? Could she lie about her favorite flower? How long had she been married? These simple questions helped him calibrate the equipment to her, so that when they asked her harder questions, they would know if she’d lied or not. After a half-hour of questions, the technician excused himself and left the room. Ava waited.

  If she’d still been a police officer, she would have insisted on having a union representative there with her. She had no such protection as a civilian team leader at the Denver Crime Lab. She knew that she could ask for a lawyer, but she wasn’t exactly sure who she’d ask or how. Mostly, she hoped this would be over as soon as possible. She closed her eyes and drifted into a kind of meditative state that was more like sleep than actual meditation.

  “Ava.”

  A hand on her shoulder shook her awake. She looked up at the clock. Forty-five minutes had passed. She looked up at the person who was waking her.

  The polygraph technician.

  “That took longer than I thought,” the technician said.

  Ava raised her eyebrows in agreement.

  “O’Malley turned an envelope into the New York Forensic Investigation Division,” the technician said.

  “It’s not coming here,” Ava said, evenly.

  The technician shook his head. Ava wasn’t sure why, but it made her happy that Seth hadn’t just followed along with what he was told. As the door opened behind him, he mouthed “Jurisdiction.” Ava nodded and looked up to see who was coming in. A middle-aged man in a poor-fitting blue suit walked into the room.

  “We’ve never met,” the man said. He held out his hand, and she shook it. “I’m Special Agent Sean Curtis.”

  “‘Special Agent’?” Ava raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

  At this man’s age, he would have to be incompetent to still be a Special Agent. Agreeing to her assessment, he shrugged. She nodded. He dropped a thick folder on the table and sat down.

  “I’m the only person in the building who doesn’t know you or your husband,” Special Agent Curtis said.

  “How did that happen?” Ava asked.

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Special Agent Curtis said. “You can call me ‘Curtis’ or ‘Sean’ — the luxury of having two first names.”

  Ava smiled. He took out a yellow pencil and opened a medium-sized journal. She looked at him for a long time.

  “Nickname?” Ava asked.

  She thought she recognized the man from the crazy New Year’s Eve parties thrown by some friends of Seth’s. The party was considered “secure,” so every agent throughout the world tried to make it. She was often introduced to people with bizarre nicknames to cover their real identities.

  “Uh,” Special Agent Curtis blushed to his ears. “I, uh . . .”

  Special Agent Curtis knew that he’d been introduced as “Squishy” at a New Year’s Eve party a year ago. Ava’s eyes flicked to the technician. His eyes stayed focused on his equipment, but his mouth outlined the letters “C-I-A.” Ava nodded.

  “I’ll call you ‘Curtis,’” Ava said. “You should probably call me ‘Ava.’”

  “Why is that?” Curtis asked.

  “‘O’Malley’ is wh
at everyone calls my husband, Seth,” Ava said. “Including me.”

  “Yes, I know,” Curtis said, in such a vague tone that Ava would have sworn that this man knew Seth. “We’re not here to talk about Seth O’Malley. You don’t go by ‘Alvin’?”

  “Was killed by sniper.” Ava’s voice went cold. “Along with my beautiful little sister, Bella.”

  She sniffed at the tears that always erupted when her sister’s name came up. Bella had been killed when her father was executed by an assassin. The emotion in Ava’s voice made Curtis look up at her. He gave her an assessing look before nodding.

  “If your point was to find my soft underbelly, you’ve found it,” Ava said. “My little sister was an amazing human being who was just starting to find her footing in life. She went to see our father out of sheer compassion and love. She was killed for the effort.”

  “Not your father,” Curtis said.

  “No, definitely not my father,” Ava said.

  “Even though he got you this job?” Curtis asked.

  “Hey, I freely admit that he gave me an opportunity,” Ava said. “But I used every bit of it to build a fantastic team. And, anyway, I lost that job and . . .”

  She stopped talking because Agent Curtis wasn’t listening. She cleared her throat.

  “I assumed that your soft underbelly would be your dog, Clara,” Curtis said mildly.

  “She is pretty great,” Ava said with a grin.

  “Shall we get started talking about O’Malley?” Curtis asked.

  “Besmirch Seth O’Malley’s name?” Ava asked. Her eyes caught Curtis’s. “I’d be surprised if you made it out of the building.”

  “Threat?” Curtis asked.

  “Warning,” Ava said. “Not from me. Everyone loves O’Malley. It’s a law of nature — like gravity or the laws of thermodynamics.”

  Curtis grinned in response.

  “Okay, enough,” Curtis said. “Spammy called me here to talk to you about your knowledge of the original trial.”

  Ava and the technician grinned at his use of the nickname “Spammy.”

  “The purpose of this trip down memory lane is to see if you can provide us with information that you might have gleaned from time,” Curtis said.

  “About O’Malley?” Ava asked.

  “Sure,” Curtis said. “But mostly about the case itself. You were there, right there, when the trial unfolded. We have a defendant who claims that he was railroaded by the justice system, starting with the Sheriff, who pulled him over for the broken tailpipe, to the detectives who worked the case for nearly four years, and finally ending in judicial misconduct.”