Martelli got down on his hands and knees and felt under the dresser. Moving his hand from right to left, he was just about to give up when he felt a thin object that appeared to be a manila envelope. Gently, he pulled it away from the dresser’s pressboard bottom to which it had been taped and withdrew his hand. What’s this all about? he thought.
He bagged and tagged the evidence, which he put in his briefcase. Then, pushing himself off the floor, he moved into the bathroom. Good luck on finding any prescription bottles, Lou! There were pills scattered all over the floor as well as feminine sanitary products, bars of soap, a bottle of shampoo, mascara, several containers of headache medication, and myriad other items. But even if what he found had been in its rightful place, it would not have provided one iota of new evidence. The fact was, if there had been anything of value to the NYPD in the apartment, except for the envelope he had found—and even that was of questionable value at this point—it already had been taken by either Nicole Davis’s killers or the FBI.
Martelli took one last look around, went to the front door, opened it a crack, and satisfied no one was in the hall, made good his exit.
Twelve
‘Did you find anything?” Sean asked as Martelli opened the back door of his car and threw his briefcase onto the back seat.
Martelli slammed the back door, opened the driver’s door, and eased himself behind the steering wheel. “I found something, but exactly what it is, I don’t know. It was taped to the underside of the dresser in the vic’s bedroom. It’s in my briefcase. Let’s get down to 1PP and see if CSU can make do a quick workup on it. If anyone can help us unravel this mess, it’s Reynolds and his people.”
“Aren’t you going to log this into the Evidence Room before we take it to him?”
“There’ll be time for that later. No one will know whether the envelope was opened before or after I found it, so for now, we’ll just go directly to CSU.”
O’Keeffe nodded.
Martelli drove from the curb and placed a call to Dugan. She picked up instantly.
“I must say, I am honored to be called by The Great Martelli, Magician Extraordinaire. Even Houdini never made a dead body disappear.” It was obvious Antonetti had already contacted Dugan and apprised her of Martelli’s wishes regarding Nicole Davis.
“Cute! Listen, darlin’, do you still have that nerdy friend who works for the phone company, the one who competes in multiplayer computer games?”
“You mean Joel Blumberg? Sure.”
“Can you ask him to get a dump of all calls made to and from Nicole Davis’s phone in the last year? You’ve got the number. Once you’ve got the data, give it a once-over and tell me what you see. I don’t expect you’ll find calls to or from the FBI . . . they’re too smart to trust a land line. If she was working for them, I’m sure they would’ve given her special cell phones, with encryption. But who knows what we might find among her other calls.”
“Sure, I can do that. Joel owes me. I just rebuilt his entire computer system from the operating system up after one of his competitors installed a virus on his system using a Trojan horse embedded in an e-mail.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Yeah, and after I was done with that, I went back into his competitor’s system through an e-mail and installed a virus that makes the Israeli’s Stuxnet virus—the one they used on the Iranians—look like child’s play. That little puppy will degrade the guy’s gaming software so slowly he won’t know what hit him—sorta like boiling a frog in water. Over time, his rank will drop to the bottom in their division. The embarrassment will be devastating.”
“Your parents must be so proud, Dugan.”
Thirteen
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Mrs. Martelli’s wunderkind, Sergeant Louis Martelli, and his partner, Pretty Boy Floyd,”2 chortled CSI Robin Peterson as the two detectives walked into CSU’s Manhattan headquarters. Peterson, a flirt who wore her flaming red hair long, stringy, and parted in the middle, tormented the two men much in the same way as did Dugan and paid a similar price. Peterson once carried a torch for O’Keeffe, as did most of the women in 1PP, and they all were devastated when he proposed to Dr. Susan Allerton of Lake George, NY. But Peterson loved him still, and she could not help but show her affection, albeit in awkward ways.
Sean winked at her. “You’ll always be my first love, Red.” He blew her a kiss, which caused her to blush.
“So, what can CSU do for the First this morning,” she stammered, recovering a bit from the unexpected show of affection.
Martelli opened his briefcase and pulled out the evidence from Davis’s apartment. “We need your expert help, Red, and I’m afraid it’s a rush job.”
“Scheesch, Martelli, what is it with you guys? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am! Everything has to be done yesterday.”
“I know, but we have a situation here that has us at our wits’ end. And frankly, the only clue may lie in this evidence bag. Do you think you and Reynolds might be able to take a moment and look at this?”
Peterson picked up the phone on the counter and punched in some numbers. “Adam, Martelli and O’Keeffe are here. Do you have a minute?”
It was only five seconds before Sergeant Reynolds, head of NYPD’s CSU, appeared. “Lou, Sean, how the hell are you? To what do we owe the honor?”
“We have a tough one, Adam, and this evidence is just about all we have to hang our hat on. We’re wondering if you might be able to do a quick workup on it . . . you know, fingerprints, identification of the contents, and so forth. For now, however, we’d like to keep this confidential, for reasons I’ll explain to you over a beer someday.”
“Sure, Lou. You’ve done me a lot of favors over the years. This is the least I can do. Come on back to the lab. We’ll have a go at it now. Peterson can assist.”
Martelli, O’Keeffe, and Peterson followed Reynolds into the CSU lab, where Reynolds and Peterson donned latex gloves. Reynolds then opened the evidence bag and withdrew the paper envelope Martelli had found taped to the underside of Davis’s dresser. Using a surgeon’s scalpel, he carefully slit one edge and withdrew its contents, a small, heavy, cream-colored envelope of the type banks use to hold safe deposit keys. He handed the larger envelope to Peterson.
“Red, please dust this for fingerprints and tell me anything you can regarding the paper.”
Peterson took the envelope and moved off to another work station.
Reynolds continued. “Well, as you can see from the printing on the small envelope, whatever’s in this came from the First Brooklyn Bank and Trust Company. The branch is yet to be determined.”
He opened the envelope and dumped the contents into the palm of his left gloved hand—two keys for safe deposit boxes. The number 137 had been handwritten on the inside of the lid. Martelli made a note of this in his spiral notebook.
Reynolds laughed. “I don’t think there’s much of a mystery here, guys. What we have here are two keys to safe deposit box 137 in some branch of the Brooklyn Bank and Trust Company. Anything else I can do for you?”
“I am impressed, Adam,” said Martelli, slapping him on the back. “I can’t recall ever seeing such an awesome display of forensic science in my entire career with the NYPD.”
The men laughed. “I suppose you also want me to tell you who might have handled this little envelope and the keys, and, perhaps, in what branch the safe deposit box might be found.”
“Gee, does CSU do those sorts of things?” Martelli asked, playing along.
Reynolds winked as he started to dust the envelope for fingerprints. He found several, which he gently lifted, processed, and submitted to IAFIS. He then turned his attention to the keys, which he also dusted. Prints were found on both, which he lifted and after processing, submitted to IAFIS.
“Have you got anything yet, Red?” Reynolds shouted to Peterson.
“Some prints on the envelope, Adam. I submitted them to IAFIS. No hits yet. The manila envelope itself is nothing special. They c
an be purchased at any drug or stationery store.”
“Thanks. I was afraid of that. I’m sure the envelope the keys were in will tell much the same story. Come on over here and keep your eyes on the IAFIS screen, if you would.”
Peterson moved back to where Reynolds and the detectives had been working on the keys.
“Well, guys, I think we’ve done about as much as we can for now. If we get any hits on the prints we’ve lifted, I’ll give you a shout. I can’t tell you when that might be . . . it could be measured in minutes or in hours. But you’ll know as soon as I do.”
Martelli put out his hand. “Thanks, Adam. You and Red are the best. I don’t know how many times you’ve pulled our fat out of the fire.”
“Always a pleasure to help the First, Lou.”
“Come on, Sean. Let’s take the envelopes and keys downstairs to the Evidence Room.”
Fourteen
‘Lou, it’s Adam.” More than two hours had passed since Martelli and O’Keeffe had left the CSU lab, gone downstairs to the Evidence Room, and returned to the First Precinct.
“Yes, Adam. Any success?”
“I think you’re going to be pleased, my friend. As you know, we found a number of prints on the envelopes and the keys. Some were partials, which is always problematic. But we had enough to identify two people, both of whom, as best I can tell, work for the Brooklyn Bank and Trust Company branch on Flatbush Avenue.”
“Can you give me their names, Adam?”
“Sure. Joseph Mann and Ardith Edleman. I’ll send you their pictures when we hang up.
“Frankly, I’m surprised we didn’t get a hit on the person who rented the safe deposit box, whoever he or she might be. But the reason for that could be the renter may have simply handed the key envelope to a bank employee when access was requested, so the renter’s prints were covered up.”
“It is a bit strange, all right. But then, nothing about this case makes sense right now, Adam.
“Anyway, this is a start. Just what we need. Give my best to your wife. We’ll have to do dinner one of these days.”
“Absolutely, Lou. My best to Steph.”
Martelli replaced the telephone handset on his console, waited for the e-mail from Reynolds containing the pictures, which he forwarded to O’Keeffe, then stood and walked down the hall to Sean’s office. O’Keeffe had already opened the e-mail by the time Martelli appeared at his door.
“I see Adam was successful in identifying two people from the prints he lifted.”
“You bet! He believes they work at the bank’s branch on Flatbush Avenue. Now the problem is, how the hell do we get into that safe deposit box and get our hands on its contents? Ordinarily I’d go to an ADA and attempt to get a court order to have the box opened based on the contents potentially having relevance to an ongoing murder investigation. But if Bishop gets wind of that, I’m sure the Bureau would exert whatever power it could to take over the murder investigation and push us out completely. And that’s the last thing we want.”
“So, what do you propose?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll think of something. Meanwhile, see if you can learn whether Mann and Edleman still work at that branch—sometimes our databases are out of date—and if so, on what days and at what times.”
Fifteen
Monday morning dawned bright and sunny and, as usual, to the sound of Tiffany Martelli’s hair dryer straining mightily in the upstairs bathroom. Martelli, Stephanie, and their teenage son Rob were already seated at the kitchen breakfast table.
Martelli looked at his watch. “Well, by my reckoning, she’s going on ten minutes at this point. Not quite a record, but certainly among the Top Ten.”
Rob laughed. He liked nothing better than a good joke at his older sister’s expense. “Well, at least she’s not tripping the bathroom breaker anymore, Dad,” Rob observed, “which is certainly an improvement over what’s happened most mornings over the last few years.”
“You men are all alike,” Stephanie said, feigning anger as she poured Lou’s coffee. “Just like you to pick on the weaker sex.”
“‘Weaker sex’ my a—” Martelli caught himself before committing the First Deadly Sin of the Martelli household: swearing. On the counter to his right stood the Swearing Jar. Affixed to it was a sign: VEGAS OR BUST! Vegas was the place the Martellis usually spent their children’s spring break, mostly because it’s where Martelli and his Iraq War buddies enjoyed getting together to play poker and tell war stories while their families took in the shows on the main drag. Given Lou’s proclivity for using less than stellar English on occasion, Stephanie determined years ago that fining her husband for breaches of verbal etiquette was an exceptionally rewarding way to cover vacation expenses. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as the case may be—the fines had little impact on Lou’s often-colorful use of the English language, and he continued to fund trips with abandon.
But he did have a point when it came to asserting skepticism regarding women being the weaker sex, Stephanie being a case in point. Mrs. Louis Martelli was tough! Self-taught, she managed the HVAC shop where she worked with an iron fist. More than one sheet metal worker found himself bounced onto the street—’You know what you can do with your union!’—when he dared to show up late for a job or challenge her authority by bringing in his union boss.
Louis worshipped her. At five-seven, she still weighed 130 pounds, the same as on the day they met back in high school. With long, wavy brown hair and hazel eyes, she turned heads wherever she went. This was especially the case if she and Lou were out on the town for an evening. Then, she usually dressed in a tight sweater that challenged everyone’s imagination, skinny black jeans that accentuated every curve, and black boots that complemented everything else.
The quietude that suddenly descended on the Martelli dwelling signaled the end of the Tiffany’s morning hair preparations. But it was another 15 minutes, time in which she applied her makeup, before she bounced down the stairs and took her seat at the table. Martelli appeared stunned at her beauty. “My gosh,” he said softly, “what’s happened to my little girl?”
“What?” she asked, almost too embarrassed to look at him.
“You’re absolutely beautiful, honey. I don’t know what you’ve done with your makeup, but it’s just perfect.”
“Thanks, Daddy. It’s all because of Missy and Nephertarie Roumain, her friend who works in the City’s Department of Finance. You said if you saw Nephertarie on the street, you’d easily mistake her for a model on her way to the Garment District for a photo shoot. Well, Missy and Nephertarie took me to the International Beauty Show in the City this year. We saw all the new products—you know, foundations, blushes, lipsticks, eye shadows—as well as some awesome makeup tricks. I bought a ton of stuff, too. And then we came back here, where Missy and Nephertarie showed me how to apply foundation and makeup like a professional. Oh, Daddy, we had so much fun!”
“Well, you certainly seem to know what you’re doing.”
“I need to practice a lot more, though, because we’re going to have a Halloween ball in college this year, and I want to look like Marilyn Monroe, the same way Missy did a few years ago. Remember, you showed me the picture someone took of her talking to the guy dressed as Clark Gable. It was taken at a Halloween party in Soho. I’m going to our Halloween ball dressed the same way Missy was dressed.”
Martelli remembered that Halloween and the photograph all too well. He had pulled Dugan away from the party to work on the homicide of the international banker in Times Square. From what Missy told him, she said a quick ‘good-bye’ to her host, grabbed her fake fur stole, took the elevator to the ground floor, and ran to the curb on Hudson Street, waving her silver lamé clutch purse. A cab driver on the other side of the roadway, spotting what he perceived to be a buxom, statuesque platinum blonde in a tight-fitting white evening gown, did an immediate U-turn, almost colliding head-on with another vehicle. He pulled to the curb in front of her, jumped out, wheeled arou
nd the front of the cab, and opened the back door. The guy couldn’t keep his eyes off her ‘girls’. Dugan could have picked his pockets and he wouldn’t have known, much less cared!
Suddenly, Martelli’s eyes grew as large as silver dollars.
“Is something wrong,” Tiffany asked.
“On the contrary, Sweetheart. You just solved one of my biggest problems.”
Sixteen
‘You’re out of your mind, Martelli. We’ve done some crazy things together, my friend . . . hacked into the FBI’s servers in Quantico, pulled the mayor’s bank accounts and tax records from his financial institution’s and accountant’s computers . . . things like that. But now, you want what?”
“I want you to dress up as our victim, Nicole Davis, go into her bank, and empty her safe deposit box. It’s very simple. No one has to know. Hell, only four of us know she’s even dead, much less where her body is. And if you can dress as Marilyn Monroe and fool people, this little caper should be a walk in the park. We know the identity of the last two people who helped her at the bank when she accessed her safe deposit box. Reynolds found their prints on her keys last Friday afternoon. Once O’Keeffe learns their schedules, we can time your visit to avoid them. The plan is to get you dressed up like Davis, show a little cleavage to distract the men and make the women envious, and voilà, we’ll have the box’s contents in no time. I’ll bet Nephertarie will even help with your makeup, though I don’t think we want to let her in on the plan . . . plausible deniability and all that stuff.”
“Why don’t you just go to an ADA and get a court order to have the safe deposit box opened and the contents turned over to NYPD? That sounds so much more efficient . . . and legal!”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. However, there is this one little problem.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, Ron Bishop of the FBI appears to be involved in this case. How, I’m not sure. But we caught him coming out of the vic’s apartment building minutes before we were about to enter. Talk about timing!”
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 4
