by Harlan Coben
He examined the door and felt his heart sink. Even for New York the dead bolts were nothing short of impressive. Three of them stacked intimidatingly from six inches above the knob to six inches below the top frame. Top of the line stuff. Brand-new, judging by the gleam and lack of scratches. This was a tad odd. Was Sally/Carla the extra cautious type, or was there a more aberrant reason for such security? Good question. Myron looked at the locks again. Win would have enjoyed the challenge; Myron knew that any effort he made would be fruitless.
He debated kicking in the door when he noticed something. He moved closer and squinted into the door crack. Again something struck him as being odd. The dead bolts were not engaged. Why buy all these expensive locks and not use them? He tried the knob. It was locked, but that one would be easy to get through with the ’loid card.
He took out the card. He couldn’t remember the last time he had used it. It looked pristine. Maybe never. He jammed it into the opening. Despite being an old lock it still took Myron almost five minutes to find the right spot to push the lock back. He gripped the knob. The door began to swing open.
It was open barely six inches when the odor attacked.
The bloodcurdling stench popped out into the hallway like pressurized gas. Myron felt his stomach dive and swoop. He gagged a little and felt a weight on his chest. He knew the smell, and dread filled him. He searched his pockets for a handkerchief and came up empty. He blocked his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow, as if he were doing Bela Lugosi in Dracula. He didn’t want to go in. He wasn’t good at this type of thing. He knew that whatever image lay behind the door would stay with him, would haunt his nights and too often his days too. It would stay with him like a dear friend, tapping him on the shoulder every once in a while when he thought he was alone and at peace.
He pushed the door all the way open. The rancid smell permeated his meager protection. He tried to breathe through his mouth, but the thought of what he was sucking in made that option unbearable.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to travel far to find the source of the odor.
Chapter 12
“Whoa, Bolitar, new cologne?”
“Funny, Dimonte.”
NYPD homicide detective Roland Dimonte shook his head. “Christ, what a stink.” He was out of uniform, but you wouldn’t ever call him “plainclothes.” He wore a green silk shirt and jeans that were too tight and too dark blue. The bottoms were tucked into purple snakeskin boots; the color faded in and out with any angle change, like some psychedelic Hendrix poster from the sixties. Dimonte gnawed on a toothpick, a habit he picked up, Myron surmised, when he spotted himself doing it in the mirror and decided it looked tough. “You touch anything?” he asked.
“Just the doorknob,” Myron said. He had also checked the rest of the apartment to make sure there weren’t any other gruesome surprises. There weren’t.
“How did you get in?”
“The door was unlocked.”
“Really?” Dimonte raised an eyebrow and looked back at the door. “The door is set to lock automatically when you close it.”
“Did I say unlocked? I meant, ajar.”
“Sure you did.” Dimonte did a bit more gnawing, shook his head. He ran his hand through greasy hair. Ringlets clung to his forehead, refusing to give ground. “So who is she?”
“I don’t know,” Myron said.
Dimonte scrunched up his face like a closed fist. Displaying very skeptical. Subtle body language was not Dimonte’s forte. “Little early in the day to be pulling my hardware, ain’t it, Bolitar?”
“I don’t know her name. It might be Sally Guerro. Then again it might be Carla.”
“Uh huh.” Toothpick chew. “I thought I saw you on TV last night. That you were playing ball again.”
“I am.”
The coroner came over. He was tall and thin and his wire-rim glasses looked too big on the elongated face. “She’s been dead awhile,” he pronounced. “At least four days.”
“Cause?”
“Hard to say for sure. Someone bludgeoned her with a blunt object. I’ll know more when I get her on the table.” He looked at the corpse with professional disinterest, then back at Dimonte. “They’re not real, by the way.”
“What?”
He vaguely motioned toward the torso. “Her breasts. They’re implants.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dimonte said, “you fiddling with dead bodies now?”
The elongated face sagged, his jaw dropping to somewhere around his navel. “Don’t even joke about that,” the coroner said in a stage whisper. “You know what rumors like that could do to a guy in my business?”
“Get him promoted?” Dimonte said.
The coroner did not laugh. He gave Myron a wounded look, then Dimonte. “You think that’s funny, huh? Goddamn it, this is my career you’re fucking around with!”
“Calm down, Peretti, I’m just playing with you.”
“Playing with me? You think my career is some kind of fucking joke? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dimonte’s eyes narrowed. “Kind of sensitive about all this, Peretti.”
“You have to be in my position,” he said, back straightening.
“If you say so.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“ ‘The lady protests too much, methinks.’ ”
“What?”
“It’s Shakespeare,” Dimonte said. “From Macbeth.” Dimonte looked over to Myron.
Myron smiled. “Hamlet.”
“I don’t give a shit who said it,” Peretti protested. “You shouldn’t mess around with a man’s reputation. I don’t think any of this is funny.”
“Like I give a rat’s ass what you think,” Dimonte said. “You got anything else?”
“She’s wearing a wig.”
“A wig? No kidding, Peretti. The case is as good as solved now. All we need to do is find a killer who hates wigs and fake tits. This is helpful, Peretti. What kind of panties was she wearing, huh? You sniff them yet?”
“I was just—”
“Do me a big favor, Peretti.” Dimonte made himself a little taller, hitched his pants. Signaling importance. Again the subtlety. “Tell me when she died. Tell me how she died. Then we’ll talk about her fashion accessories, okay?”
Peretti held up his hands in surrender and returned to the body. Dimonte turned to Myron. Myron said, “The implants and wig might be important. He was right to tell you.”
“Yeah, I know. I just like busting his chops.”
“And the quote is, ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ ”
“Uh huh.” Dimonte changed toothpicks. The one in his mouth was frayed like a horse’s mane. “You going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or am I going to drag you downtown?”
Myron made a face. “Drag me downtown?”
“Don’t bust my balls on this, Bolitar, okay?”
Myron forced himself to look at the bloodied corpse. His stomach did back flips. He was starting to get used to the smell, the thought of which was nearly as bad as the smell itself. Peretti was back at it, making a small slit to get to the liver. Myron diverted his gaze. The homicide crew from John Jay was setting up, taking photographs, that kind of thing. Dimonte’s partner, a kid named Krinsky, quietly walked around and took notes. “Why would she make them so big?” Myron wondered out loud.
“What?”
“Her breasts. I can understand the desire to enlarge them. All the pressures in this society. But why make them that big?”
Dimonte said, “You’re shitting me, right?”
Krinsky came over. “All her stuff is in those suitcases.” He motioned with his hand to two bags on the floor. Myron had met Krinsky on maybe half a dozen occasions. Talking was not the kid’s forte; he seemed to do it as often as Myron picked locks. “I’d say she was moving out.”
“You got an ID yet?” Dimonte asked.
“Her wallet says her name is Sally Guerro,” Krinsky continued in a soft
voice. “So does one of her passports.”
They both waited for Krinsky to continue. When he didn’t, Dimonte shouted, “What do you mean, one of her passports? How many does she have?”
“Three.”
“Jesus Christ, Krinsky, talk.”
“One is in the name Sally Guerro. One is in the name Roberta Smith. One is in the name Carla Whitney.”
“Give me those.” Dimonte scanned through the various passports. Myron looked over his shoulder. The same woman was in all three pictures, albeit with different hair (ergo the wig) and different Social Security numbers. Judging by the amount of stamps, the woman had traveled extensively.
Dimonte whistled. “Forged passports,” he said. “And good ones too.” He turned more pages. “Plus she has a couple of visits to South America in here. Colombia. Bolivia.” The passports closed with a dramatic snap. “Well, well, well. Looks like we got ourselves a nice, neat drug hit.”
Myron mulled over that bit of information. A drug hit—could that be part of the answer? If Sally/Carla/Roberta was dealing drugs, it might explain her connection with Greg Downing. She was his source. The meeting on Saturday night was nothing more than a buy. The waitress job was a cover. It also explained her using a pay phone and maintaining powerful door locks—tools of a drug dealer’s trade. It made some sense. Of course, Greg Downing did not appear to be a drug user, but he would not be the first person to fool everyone.
Dimonte said, “Anything else, Krinsky?”
The kid nodded. “I found a stack of cash in the bedside drawer.” He stopped again.
Dimonte gave him exasperation. “Did you count it?”
Another nod.
“How much?”
“A little over ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten grand in cash, huh?” That pleased Dimonte. “Let me see it.”
Krinsky handed it over. New bills, held by rubber bands. Myron watched while Dimonte shuffled through them. All hundreds. The serial numbers were sequential. Myron tried to memorize one of them. When Dimonte finished, he tossed the packet back to Krinsky. The smile was still there.
“Yep,” Dimonte said, “it looks like things are coming together in a nice, neat, drug-hit package.” He paused. “Only one problem.”
“What?”
He pointed at Myron. “You, Bolitar. You’re messing up my nice, neat drug-hit. What the hell are you doing—?” Dimonte stopped himself and snapped his fingers. “Holy shit …” His voice sort of drifted off. He slapped the side of his own head. A small spark in his eyes expanded. “My God!”
Again note the subtlety. “You have a thought, Rolly?”
Dimonte ignored him. “Peretti!”
The coroner looked up from the body. “What?”
“Those plastic tits,” he said. “Myron noticed they were huge.”
“Yeah, so?”
“How big?”
“What?”
“How big are they?”
“You mean like cup size?”
“Yeah.”
“I look like a lingerie manufacturer? How the fuck would I know?”
“But they’re big, right?”
“Right.”
“Really big.”
“You got eyes, don’t you?”
Myron watched the exchange in silence. He was trying to follow Dimonte’s logic—a most treacherous trail.
“Would you say they were bigger than a water balloon?” Dimonte continued.
Peretti shrugged. “Depends on the balloon.”
“Didn’t you ever make water balloons when you were a kid?”
“Yeah, sure,” Peretti said. “But I don’t remember how big the balloons were. I was a kid then. Everything looks bigger when you’re a kid. A couple years ago I went back to my old elementary school to visit my third grade teacher. She still works there, if you can believe it. Her name is Mrs. Tansmore. I swear to God the building looked like a goddamn dollhouse to me. It was huge when I was a kid. It was like—”
“All right, moron, let me make this simple.” Dimonte took a deep breath. “Could they be used for smuggling drugs?”
Silence. Everyone in the room stopped moving. Myron wasn’t sure if he just heard the most idiotic thing in the world or the most brilliant. He turned toward Peretti. Peretti looked up, mouth open in fly-catching pose.
“Well, Peretti? Could it be?”
“Could it be what?”
“Could she stick dope in her boobs? Smuggle drugs through customs with them?”
Peretti looked at Myron. Myron shrugged. Peretti turned back to Dimonte. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.
“How can we find out?”
“I’d have to examine them.”
“Then what the fuck you staring at me for? Do it.”
Peretti did as asked. Dimonte smiled at Myron; his eyebrows did a little dance. Proud of his deduction. Myron remained quiet.
“Nope, no way,” Peretti said.
Dimonte wasn’t happy with this report. “Why the hell not?”
“There’s hardly any scar tissue,” Peretti said. “If she were smuggling drugs in there, they’d have to rip the skin open and sew it up. Then they’d have to do it again on this side. There’s no sign of that.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Dimonte said, “Shit.” Then he glared at Myron and pulled him into a corner. “Everything, Bolitar. Now.”
Myron had debated how to handle it, but in truth he had no choice. He had to tell. He couldn’t keep Greg Downing’s disappearance a secret any longer. The best he could hope to do was keep it contained. He suddenly remembered that Norman Lowenstein was waiting outside. “One second,” he said.
“What? Where the fuck you going?”
“I’ll be right back. Just wait here.”
“Like hell.”
Dimonte followed him down the stairs and out onto the stoop. Norman wasn’t there. Myron looked up and down the block. No sign of Norman. This was hardly a surprise. Norman probably ran when he saw the cops. Guilty or not, the homeless learn quickly to make themselves scarce when the authorities come calling.
“What is it?” Dimonte asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then start talking. The whole story.”
Myron told him most of it. The story almost knocked the toothpick out of Dimonte’s mouth. Dimonte didn’t bother asking questions, though he continuously stuck in exclamations of “Jesus Christ!” and “Frigging A,” whenever Myron paused. When Myron finished, Dimonte sort of stumbled back and sat on the steps of the stoop. His eyes looked unfocused for a few moments. He gathered himself together, but it took some time.
“In-fuckin-credible,” he managed.
Myron nodded.
“Are you telling me no one knows where Downing is?”
“If they do, they aren’t talking.”
“He just vanished?”
“That’s how it appears.”
“And there’s blood in his basement?”
“Yes.”
Dimonte shook his head again. He reached down and put his hand on his right boot. Myron had seen him do this before. He liked to sort of pet the boot. Myron had no idea why. Maybe he found the feel of snakeskin soothing. Reminiscent of the womb.
“Suppose Downing killed her and ran,” he said.
“That’s a pretty big suppose.”
“Yeah, but it fits,” Dimonte said.
“How?”
“According to what you said, Downing was seen with the victim Saturday night. How much you want to bet that once Peretti gets her on the table we find the time of death around then?”
“Doesn’t mean Downing killed her.”
Dimonte increased the speed of his boot-petting stroke. A man on Rollerblades skated by with his dog. The dog looked out of breath, trying to keep up. New product idea: Dog Rollerblades. “Saturday night, Greg Downing and the victim get together at some gin joint downtown. They leave sometime around eleven o’clock. Next thi
ng we know she’s dead and he’s vanished.” Dimonte looked up at Myron. “That points to him killing her and running.”
“It points to a dozen things.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe Greg witnessed the murder and got scared and ran. Maybe he witnessed the murder and was kidnapped. Maybe he was killed by the same people.”
“So where’s his body?” Dimonte asked.
“It could be anywhere.”
“Why not just leave it here with hers?”
“Maybe they killed him someplace else. Or maybe they took his body because he’s famous and they didn’t want that kind of heat.”
He scoffed at that one. “You’re reaching, Bolitar.”
“So are you.”
“Maybe. Only one way to find out.” He stood. “We got to get out an APB on Downing.”
“Whoa, hold up a second. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Dimonte looked at Myron as if he were something left unflushed in a toilet. “I’m sorry,” he said feigning politeness. “You must be mistaking me for someone who gives a rat’s ass what you think.”
“You’re suggesting putting out an APB on a major, beloved sports hero.”
“And you’re suggesting I play favorites because he’s a major, beloved sports hero.”
“Not at all,” Myron said, his mind racing. “But imagine what happens when you call out this APB. The press gets it. You start getting that OJ coverage. But there’s a difference here. You got squat on Downing. No motive. No physical evidence. Nothing.”
“Not yet I don’t,” Dimonte said. “But it’s early—”
“Exactly, it’s early. Wait a little while, that’s all I’m saying. And handle this one right because the whole world is going to look at everything you do. Tell those bozos upstairs to videotape every step. Leave nothing to chance. Don’t let anyone come back later and say you tampered or contaminated something. Get a warrant before you go to Downing’s house. Do everything by the book.”
“I can do all that and still put out an APB.”
“Rolly, suppose Greg Downing did kill her. You put out an APB, you know what happens? One, you look single-minded. You look like you got it in your head that Downing was the killer and that was it. Two, you got the press in your face—watching your every move, trying to beat you to the evidence, compromising and commenting on everything you do. Three, you drag Greg in here now and you know what bottom-feeders are stuck to him?”
