Dead of Winter (CSI: NY)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Stevie pocketed Don Flack’s card and continued, “I gotta get out of here. Check the hall. See if he’s out there.”

  “Where you going?” asked Jake, moving to the door.

  “I’ve got something to do before he catches up to me,” said Stevie.

  The Jockey went to the door, opened it, looked down the hall, and turned to Stevie saying, “I don’t see him.”

  Stevie had come up to Jake’s apartment by the back stairwell, and that’s where he headed after pausing to thank the Jockey.

  “Sure, wish I could do more,” Jake said.

  Stevie limped toward the back stairwell.

  “Happy birthday,” said Jake.

  It was a stupid thing to say. He knew it, but he had to say something. He watched Stevie open the back stairwell door and go through it. Then Jake moved to the phone and punched in a number.

  When someone answered, he said, “He just left. I think he’s coming for you.”

  “Let me get this straight here. You want me to turn in my own brother?” asked Anthony Marco.

  The wire-meshed visitor’s room at Riker’s Island was crowded. Marco, in a modest dark suit and pale blue tie, hands cuffed in front of him, sat behind the table, his lawyer, Donald Overby, a high-priced member of the firm of Overby, Woodruff and Cole, sat at his client’s side. Overby was tall, slim, about fifty with a no-nonsense military haircut. His colleagues called him “Colonel” because that had been his rank when he worked in the JAG office in Washington during the first Gulf War. His client, in contrast, was called “Bogie” only behind his back because it was safe. He looked vaguely like Humphrey Bogart, and had the same sense of being in on the secret of human vulnerability. But Anthony had a dangerous edginess, a nervous impatient energy, which had brought him to the second day of his trial for murder.

  The assistant district attorney handling the case was Carter Ward, an African-American who was statesmanlike, in his late sixties, heavy, and deep-voiced. He talked to juries slowly, carefully, and simply and handled witnesses as if he were disappointed when they seemed to be telling lies.

  Ward and Stella sat across from Marco and Overby. Stella was feeling woozy. She had gulped two aspirin and a Styrofoam cup of tepid tea before they entered the cage, which, on one of the three coldest days of the year, seemed oppressively hot to her.

  “This is Crime Scene Investigator Stella Bonasera,” Ward said calmly. “I asked her to come to this meeting.”

  Which was, strictly speaking, true. Ward had asked her to come to Riker’s, but it was Stella who had suggested the plan, made refinements, and gotten it approved after she and Ward talked to the district attorney, who very much wanted Anthony Marco tied in a red bow and delivered upstate to prison. A death sentence would be nice, but given the vagaries of the system, the DA was willing to settle for whatever sentence the public would accept as long as it was long, very long.

  Marco nodded at Stella. She didn’t nod back. Ward opened his briefcase and took out a pad of yellow lined paper.

  “We all know,” said Ward, “that news of the murder of Alberta Spanio has been given prominent coverage in the media. We also know that the jury, now sequestered, was exposed to the news of the murder of our principal witness against you.”

  Neither Marco nor his lawyer responded, so Ward went on.

  “It would be foolish to assume that the jurors will not, have not concluded that your client was behind her murder, and though the judge and you will direct them to deal only with the facts presented in the case, every juror will believe Anthony Marco did on the afternoon of September sixth of last year murder Joyce Frimkus and Larry Frimkus. Killing Alberta Spanio was a nail in your coffin.”

  Ward was looking at Anthony Marco, who met his gaze.

  “Let’s try this,” Ward continued. “Whoever had her killed may well have known how much damage it could do to you. Alive and testifying, Alberta Spanio was a hanger-on on the fringes of organized crime. Your very able counsel might have, certainly would have, attacked her credibility. But now that one of the two men who was guarding Ms. Spanio, a police officer, has been murdered, murdered inside of the bakery belonging to your brother Mr. Marco…”

  “That murder is irrelevant,” said Overby.

  “Probably so, probably so,” said Ward. “But I’ll find a way to let the jury know about it before the judge rules it inadmissible.”

  “What do you want, Ward?” asked the Colonel.

  “Let Investigator Bonasera tell you what she has,” Ward answered.

  Stella told the story of her investigation, about the Spanio murder, tracking down Guista, the evidence of Collier’s murder in the bakery.

  When she finished, Stella wanted to find a washroom and sit with her eyes closed, waiting for the full-fledged nausea.

  “Give us enough evidence to squeeze your brother for a major felony,” said Ward. “And we’ll take the death penalty off the table.”

  Prisoner and his attorney whispered and when they were done, the Colonel said, “Murder Two, you ask for minimum sentence. Mr. Marco gets twenty-to-life, gets out in ten, maybe a lot less if you leave the door open.”

  “Agreed,” said Ward. “If the information your client gives us is true and incriminating.”

  “It is,” said the Colonel.

  Anthony smiled at Stella, who tried to glare back but felt a feverish heaviness around her forehead and sinuses.

  “What the hell,” said Anthony. “Dario screwed up, on purpose or not. Doesn’t make a goddamn difference. My son-of-a-bitch brother wants to take over my business operations.”

  “Which are?” asked Ward.

  “Private,” answered Marco. “That’s part of this deal if we go that way.”

  Ward nodded his understanding.

  “My brother, Dario, is a shrewd idiot,” said Marco, who shook his head. “A dwarf or a jockey through a window. What kind of stupid idea is that?”

  Stella held her peace, not just because she was sick and wanted to get out of there but because she was sure that no dwarf nor Jacob the Jockey had murdered Alberta Spanio. The truth was tricky on the surface, but easy to figure out when you had the crime-scene evidence.

  Ward put his pocket tape recorder on the desk and sat upright with hands folded.

  Anthony Marco began to talk.

  Sheldon Hawkes had received the call from Mac gasking that the body of Charles Lutnikov be brought out of the vault.

  When Aiden and Mac arrived, Lutnikov’s naked, white body, skin flap pulled back to reveal his rapidly decaying organs, lay on the metal table that gleamed under the intense white light.

  “Put the skin flap back,” said Mac.

  Hawkes put the skin flap back in place and Aiden produced the manuscript with two holes they had taken from Louisa Cormier’s apartment.

  She held the book open for Hawkes to see. He examined the book and nodded. He knew what Mac and Aiden wanted. There were two ways to go, at least two ways. He chose to remove a canister of clear, two-foot-long plastic trajectory rods from the cabinet, extract two, and put the rest away.

  Then he inserted the rods into the holes in the body. The body had gone flaccid. He had to probe gently to be sure the rods were following the path of the bullet. It took him about three minutes, after which he backed up and let Aiden approach the corpse. “Can you clip off most of the rods without moving them?” she asked. He nodded, went to a cabinet, removed a large glistening metal clipper, and snipped the rods down so they protruded about an inch out of the body. Then, with Hawkes’s help, she lined up the rods with the two holes in the manuscript. It was a match. She could have pegged the book to the dead man with a little exertion, but it wasn’t necessary.

  “Conclusion,” said Hawkes, leaning over to remove the rods. “The gun that shot Charles Lutnikov was used to make the two holes in your manuscript.”

  “He was holding the manuscript up in front of him when she fired,” said Mac. “Bullet went through the paper, bounced out, and when
it exited, dropped down the elevator shaft.”

  “Sounds right to me,” said Hawkes.

  “But,” said Aiden, “do we have enough for an arrest?”

  “She’ll need a good story,” said Hawkes.

  “She’s a mystery novelist,” said Aiden.

  “No, she’s not,” said Mac. “Lutnikov was the novelist.”

  “Back to square one and her best defense,” said Aiden. “Why should she want to kill the goose that was laying best-selling novels?”

  “Back to the lady,” Mac said.

  “Need the body anymore?” asked Hawkes.

  Mac shook his head and Hawkes gently rolled the table toward the bank of drawers holding the dead.

  “We still need the gun and the bolt cutter,” Aiden reminded Mac as they left Hawkes laboratory. “And she’s probably gotten rid of them.”

  “Probably,” Mac agreed. “But not definitely. We have three important things on our side. First, she knows where they are. And second, she doesn’t know how much we know or how much we can discover at a crime scene.”

  “And third?” Aiden asked.

  “The bolt cutter,” he said. “She used it in one of the first three novels, one she wrote. All the trophies in her library are from the first three novels. She’d probably want to keep the bolt cutter.”

  “Probably,” said Aiden.

  “Possibly,” said Mac. “She doesn’t know we can match a bolt cutter to whatever it cut.”

  “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Even if we find it, we still need the gun.”

  “One piece of evidence at a time,” said Mac.

  Getting away was not an option. Big Stevie knew that. He didn’t have the money or the smarts for it, and both the police and Dario’s people were looking for him.

  The cab driver kept eyeing him in the mirror. Stevie didn’t care.

  Stevie had picked up the cab at a stand near Penn Station. The driver had been sitting behind the wheel reading a paperback novel. He had looked over his shoulder when Stevie closed the door and saw more than he wanted to see.

  If Stevie had hailed him on the street, the driver, Omar Zumbadie, would not have picked him up.

  The hulking old white man needed a shave. He needed some fresh clothes. And he reeked of something foul. Omar prayed that the old man would not throw up. He didn’t look drunk, just tired and in a head-bobbing trance.

  The cabbie took Riverside Drive north to the George Washington Bridge, toward the Cross Bronx Expressway. Big Stevie counted his money. He had forty-three dollars and he was bleeding again through the make-shift bandage the Jockey had wrapped tightly around his leg.

  If Stevie were a vindictive man, he would have killed the detective who had come to the Jockey’s apartment. It would have been easy. The detective, whose name was Don Flack, according to the card he had given to the Jockey, had shot Big Stevie. Birthday greetings from New York’s finest, a bullet in the leg. The bullet wasn’t there anymore, but it hurt, and the hurt was spreading. Big Stevie ignored it. It would be over soon, and, if he were lucky, which he probably wouldn’t be, he’d have some money and get Dario Marco off his back.

  Life was unfair, Stevie thought as the cab got off at the Castle Hill exit. Stevie accepted that, but Dario’s betrayal of him by sending the two bakery hacks to kill him was beyond unfair. Stevie had been a good soldier, a good truck driver. Customers on his route liked him. He got along great with kids, even Dario’s grandkids, who at the ages of nine and fourteen looked like their father and trusted no one.

  Forget unfair. Now it was about making things even and maybe staying alive. The other option was calling the cop whose card he held, calling him, and imagining hours, days of grilling, betraying, putting on a suit and going to Dario’s trial, being made to look like an idiot by one of Dario’s lawyers. And then prison. It didn’t matter how long. It would be long enough, and he was already an old man.

  No, the way he was going was the only way to go.

  “Mister,” said Omar.

  Stevie kept looking out the window. He had put the detective’s card back in his pocket and now had his hand wrapped around the small painted animal Lilly had made him.

  “Mister,” Omar repeated, being careful to not sound in the least bit irritated.

  Stevie looked up.

  “We’re here,” said Omar.

  Stevie refocused and recognized the corner where they had stopped. He grunted and reached into his pocket.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars and sixty cents,” said Omar.

  Stevie reached through the slightly fogged, supposedly bulletproof slider which Omar slid open and handed the driver a twenty and a five dollar bill.

  “No change,” said Stevie.

  Omar stared at the bills as Stevie got out of the cab. It wasn’t easy. His remaining good leg had to do all the work along with his hands. But Stevie’s hands were strong.

  “Thanks,” said Omar.

  The bills in his hand both had bloody fingerprints on them, fingerprints that looked fresh.

  Omar waited till Stevie had cleared the cab and shut the door before he sped away. He placed the two bills on top of the paperback novel in the seat next to him.

  The smart thing to do, Omar thought, was to clean the bills as best he could and forget the big man. He was sure most drivers would do that, but Omar had seen blood on men’s hands in Somalia, and in Somalia there had been almost no one willing to stand up and denounce the slayers of women and children, and there had been, really, no one to denounce them to. To seek justice, he thought as he drove, one risked his own and his family’s death.

  But this was America. He was here legally. Things were not perfect, not always safe especially for a cab driver.

  Omar was a good Muslim. He did what he was sure a good Muslim should do. He reached for his cab radio and called the dispatcher.

  “Were your shoes on or off?” asked Stella, sitting with eyes closed behind the desk, a cup of black coffee in front of her. She held the phone to her left ear, her right hand on the coffee cup. She had a chill.

  “Off,” Ed Taxx said into the phone in his living room. “We had just gotten up, pulled on our pants and shirts and socks.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Stella.

  “Are you all right?” asked Taxx.

  Everyone was asking her that now.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “That’s it?” Taxx asked. “That’s all you want to know?”

  “For now,” said Stella.

  “Fine,” said Taxx. “Take fifteen aspirin and call me in the morning.”

  “I will,” said Stella flatly.

  “I was joking,” said Taxx.

  “I know,” said Stella, “but it was almost good advice anyway.”

  She hung up the phone.

  15

  NOAH PEASE, Louisa Cormier’s new high-profile lawyer, reminded Mac of one of Edgar Lee Masters’s Spoon River characters, clean-shaven and imperially slim.

  Pease was about fifty, roughly good-looking with a deep voice that, in addition to his record representing high-profile corporate figures, athletes, and actors in criminal cases, made him perfect for Court TV.

  Next to Pease, lean, nattily dressed in a well-pressed suit, on the sofa, her back to the window with the broad panoramic view of the city, sat Louisa Cormier. Across from them sat Mac Taylor and Joelle Fineberg, a green-suited petite woman, who had been with the District Attorney’s office for a little over a year. She looked as if she was young enough for a Sweet Sixteen party.

  The total practical legal experience in Louisa Cormier’s living room was twenty-seven years. One of those years belonged to Joelle Fineberg.

  “You realize, Ms. Fineberg,” said Pease slowly, “Ms. Cormier is cooperating fully. At this point there is nothing that compels her to talk to you unless you are prepared to bring charges.”

  “I understand,” said Fineberg, her voice and smile indicating that she app
reciated the cooperation.

  “No one knows about your investigation or that of the police and…” Pease said, looking at Mac. “Your Crime Scene unit. Detective Taylor’s accusation that my client didn’t write her own books cannot be made public. If it is, in any way, we shall bring suit against the City of New York and Detective Taylor for eighteen million dollars. And I’m confident we can get that figure. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Perfectly,” said Fineberg, hands folded atop the briefcase in her lap. “Your client is more interested in her reputation than in the fact that we are building a murder charge against her.”

  “My client murdered no one,” said Pease.

  Louisa, obviously under orders from her attorney, said nothing, didn’t react to Fineberg’s accusation.

  “We believe she did,” said Fineberg.

  “Fine,” said Pease. “Let’s go over your evidence. A tenant of this building is shot and killed by a .22 caliber weapon. No weapon found. No witnesses. No fingerprints. No DNA evidence.”

  “The dead man ghost-wrote your client’s novels,” said Fineberg. “He has two bullet holes in him that left holes in the manuscript he was carrying and that Detective Taylor and his people found in this apartment.”

  Pease nodded.

  “Let’s suppose,” said Pease, “and it’s just supposition mind you, the first explanation that pops into my head. The gun belongs to Mr. Lutnikov or someone who is on the elevator with him. The two people have a fight. The other person shoots Mr. Lutnikov and gets away. Mr. Lutnikov, now dead, goes up to this floor. He or his murderer had hit the button. My client has been waiting for him to deliver the manuscript. The elevator door opens and she sees Lutnikov dead, manuscript clutched to his chest. Horrified but desperate she takes the manuscript after being certain the poor man is dead and sends the elevator back down to the lobby where she knows it will be discovered. Bad judgment, perhaps, but a jury would sympathize and, let me remind you, you have no murder weapon.”

  “I’m innocent,” Louisa Cormier said suddenly.