Cold Blooded (Dennis McQueen 02)

by Randisi, Robert J.

She shivered, not from cold or from fear, but because she could still feel the touch of Ernesto Bautista’s thumbs on her nipples. She shook her head to clear it, bent to her keyboard and went back to work.

  Chapter 52

  At that same moment Detectives Diver and Dolan were sitting in chairs at the crime lab, waiting to see Marty Cahill.

  “You the guys Sergeant McQueen sent over?”

  They looked up, saw a young guy, fit, good-looking, and they both took an instant dislike to him.

  “That’s us,” Diver said, He was approaching fifty, his partner, Artie Dolan, was mid-forties, and neither of them was in anything approaching the shape this man was in.

  “This is for you, then.” Cahill handed Diver a slip of paper.

  “That the address?” Dolan asked.

  “That’s it. I got it from the impression of the page that was beneath the one that’s missing. Of course, that page had a bunch of numbers on it, so it took some doing to separate the impressions.”

  “Are you sure this is accurate?” Diver asked.

  “Oh, it’s accurate,” Cahill said. “The address is, anyway. The phone number was a little harder. Lots of ohs and eights, which are hard to tell apart when you’re dealing with shapes. But the address was pretty distinct, and I checked the phone book to be sure it was an actual address.”

  Dolan took it from Diver. It was accurate, all right. He knew exactly where it was.

  “Let’s go, then,” he said to his partner.

  They both turned and left without another word to Cahill, who said to their retreating backs, “Hey, you’re welcome, any time.”

  The address was in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, a street of houses very similar to each other near Eighty-second Street. They parked in front and approached the door.

  “I’ll cover the back, in case he rabbits,” Diver said.

  “And if he does?” Dolan asked. “You gonna chase him?”

  “Good point,” Diver said. “You cover the back.”

  “I ain’t in as good shape as that guy Cahill, but I can still run,” Dolan said.

  “I didn’t like that guy,” Diver said.

  “Me, neither.”

  They’d said that several times to each other during the drive from the crime lab to Bay Ridge.

  “Okay, I got the back,” Diver said. “Gimme five.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Diver waited the five minutes and then rang the bell. He was about to ring it again when the door opened. A pretty young woman with choppily cut blonde hair stood there, leaning on the door, standing hip shot. She was about fifteen, but had developed early. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a tight top that showed off what Diver thought of as “bowling ball” tits. She stood about five eight and was what could only be described as a big girl.

  “A little cold out for that kind of outfit, ain’t it?” he asked.

  “The cold makes my nipples hard,” she said. He could see she was telling the truth. He could also see she had the kind of nipples his partner called “puppy dog’s noses.”

  Okay, he thought, get a hold of yourself. This is a kid.

  “I’m looking for Allan Hansen.”

  “He ain’t here,” she said. “You a cop?”

  “I am,” he said. “Wanna see my badge?”

  “Yeah.”

  He took it out and showed it to her.

  “Nice,” she said, touching it. “Blue and gold. I like those colors.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “Yeah,” she said, “but he ain’t here now.”

  “What’s he to you?”

  “My asshole brother. What’s he to you?”

  “An asshole suspect.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Suspected of what?”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “I dunno,” she said, with a shrug. “Days ago. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “Does anyone else live here?”

  “My mom.”

  “Has she seen him?”

  “Probably not,” she said, then added, “she’s been blind for years.”

  He didn’t know if she meant literally blind, or blind to the action of her brother.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Terry,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Detective Diver,” he said. “Would you mind if we came in to talk to you and your mother, Terry?”

  “We?”

  “My partner is out back.”

  “Out back?” She screwed up her face, then brightened. “Oh, you thought if Allan was here he might try to run?”

  “It had occurred to us, yes.”

  “Is you partner better-lookin’ than you?” she asked.

  “Tons,” he said, “and younger.”

  “Ohh,” she said, “well come on in and let’s go get him.”

  There it was, he thought, the invitation. He’d been afraid the kid might ask for a warrant.

  She turned and he followed her big, round ass into the house, shaking his head in both disbelief and admiration.

  Chapter 53

  Terry was thrilled with Artie Dolan’s appearance and, even though he was over forty, he was still younger than Diver, so she turned her considerable charms onto him.

  “Where’s your mother?” Dolan asked.

  “She’s out, at the center. She old, and blind, and they help her out, there. Give her something to do.”

  “How old?” Diver asked.

  “Like sixty,” she said. “I was a change-of-life baby.”

  “So you’re alone in the house?”

  “Well, no,” she said. “Duh. You guys are here. So, are you married or what?”

  She leaned forward in her chair and the move pressed her breasts together. Diver noticed his partner’s eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. He waved to get his attention, then made a circling motion with his finger, indicating he was going to have a look around.

  Terry was still asking questions of Dolan as Diver moved into the kitchen. He looked around a bit but didn’t find anything of interest, like a phone book or a note pinned to the refrigerator door with a magnet. He was about to leave the room when he caught a whiff of something odd. He sniffed around and finally came to a door near the back of the house. He assumed it led to a basement, opened it and discovered he was right. He looked around for a light switch, found it and flipped it on. One single bulb appeared at the bottom of the steps, and he went down.

  It was a tiny basement and it was musty and damp. There was that smell in the air, even stronger, the one he couldn’t identify. There was very little down there. A flimsy wooden table, a metal folding chair, an old sink and, off to one side, some boxes. Inside one of the boxes he found plastic bags, like baggies for sandwiches, but larger. They were all empty.

  The smell persisted and he searched for the source. There were more boxes on the floor piled under the staircase. The base of some of them was stained with dampness. He nudged one with his foot, wondering if there might be a dead mouse or rat inside. Briefly, a childhood memory intruded on the moment, a memory of opening a bread drawer in his mother’s kitchen only to have a mouse jump out at him. Actually, it hadn’t jumped at him, it had simply jumped out and run away, but at five years old he didn’t know that, and it didn’t keep him from yelling in terror.

  He pulled the box closer to the light, crouched down by it, opened the top—it was not sealed, the flaps had simply been folded to close it—and looked inside. The smell he hadn’t been able to identify came out at him full force. He reached in to take out a small, damp box, and read the name of the contents on the side.

  Mothballs.

  McQueen wasn’t getting much out of Lydia Dean except for some more flirting—which he decided she wasn’t very good at—coffee, and more of that feeling that there was just something wrong about her.

  He was about to leave when his cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “McQueen.”

  “Hey, boss,” Di
ver said, “Artie and me are over at Allan Hansen’s house.”

  “Is he there?”

  “No, but his sister is. She’s upstairs with Artie. Man, she’s about fifteen but what a set of—”

  “Upstairs with Artie? Where are you?”

  “In the basement.”

  “I hope she let you in, Jimmy,” McQueen said.

  “Don’t worry, we got invited,” Diver said. “In fact, she’s givin’ Artie a big invitation right—”

  “Why did you call me, Jimmy?”

  “Mothballs.”

  “What?”

  “I found mothballs.”

  “How many?” McQueen asked.

  “I’m looking at three cartons of mothballs,” Diver said into his cell phone.

  “At the Hansen house?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, maybe they’ve got lots of moths.”

  “Could be,” Diver said, “but amateur firebugs also use the stuff for fires. It’s got, whataya call it, naphthalene in it. It’s used in making homemade fire bombs.”

  “How do you know that?” McQueen asked.

  “I worked arson a few years, before they got all specialized. Didn’t that first case you’re workin’ on have somethin’ to do with fire?”

  “It did,” McQueen said, “but this is a stretch, Jimmy. That would connect my serial case to your homicide.”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Why don’t you keep looking around there and see what you can find that has to do with your case?”

  “Okay, boss. Just tryin’ to help.”

  “I know it. Where are you going from there?”

  “According to the case file, our girl had a job at some telemarketing place.” He gave McQueen the address. “We thought we’d talk to some of her coworkers. Maybe they know something about the boyfriend.”

  “That address is near here,” McQueen said. “Let me take that. Why don’t you check Hansen’s job?”

  “Okay,” Diver said. “I think he was a mechanic some place near here.”

  “Good,” McQueen said “I’m about done here, anyway.”

  “Well, I better go up and save Artie. She’s probably got his pants off by now.”

  McQueen closed his eyes and broke the connection.

  “Are we done here, Dennis?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been very helpful.”

  “Maybe you have,” he said, standing up. “I won’t know for sure until later.”

  She walked him to the front door.

  “It was nice seeing you again.”

  “Yes,” he said, “nice to see you, too.”

  “If you find out anything you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Or,” she added, “you could come and see me, anyway.”

  “Good-bye, Lydia,” he said, and went out the door without addressing her last words.

  Kathy Stephens had worked at a telemarketing firm near Utica Avenue. He found it without much trouble.

  It was a huge building that looked like it had once been a warehouse. He pulled into a parking area behind it, got out of the car and found a door. He wasn’t sure if it was the front door, but he went in, anyway. Now all he had to do was find his way to the personnel department and he’d be all set. He only needed to find a couple of people who worked with Kathy Stephens, who were either friends, or just wanted to gossip about her.

  He knew he wasn’t sticking to his own plan by crossing over to the Stephens homicide, but that was a failing he admitted to as a boss—he wasn’t very good at delegating. Also, he was already in the area, so what was the point of making the Double Ds drive all the way over here?

  It took him a while, walking down hallways, sticking his head in the doorways, fending off security guards with a flash of his badge—security guards who didn’t know where personnel was. Finally he stopped a pretty girl wearing white jeans and a tight purple top.

  “You looking for a job?” she asked, brightly.

  McQueen showed her his badge, thinking how very young she was. “No, I’m just looking for the personnel department.”

  She gave him a smile and directions.

  “Thanks.”

  When, he wondered, did businesses start hiring babies?

  Chapter 54

  He found personnel and approached a middle-aged woman seated behind a desk. She was attractive, in her forties, and much closer to McQueen’s age than the girl in the hallway had been. This one was wearing a sensible business suit, and was not flirtatious, at all.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, my name is Detective Sergeant McQueen, N.Y.P.D,” he said, showing her his badge and his ID. As he started to put it away she clamped her hand on his wrist, holding it there until she could examine both fully.

  “Are you interested in moonlighting, Detective?” she asked, releasing his wrist.

  “Not really,” he said. “I need to talk to someone about an employee.”

  “And who would the employee be?”

  “A woman named Kathy Stephens. Do you know her?”

  “I know Kathy,” the woman said, her attitude becoming warmer. “I hired her.”

  “When would that have been?”

  “Oh . . .” she said, frowning, searching her memory, “. . . had to be about two years ago.”

  “Have there been any problems with her?”

  “What kind?”

  “Boyfriend problems?”

  “That would be personal,” she said, her tone scolding, “not personnel . . .”

  “Very good,” he said, smiling.

  She gave him a sly look. “I don’t think I should be talking to you about this.”

  “Well then, who should?”

  “Probably my supervisor.”

  “Can I see him—or her—please?”

  “Wait here.”

  She stood up and left the room. There were several other desks in the room but none of the people occupying them looked up from what they were doing, or showed the slightest interest in him.

  After a few minutes the woman returned. “Will you come with me, please?”

  “Lead the way.”

  She did, taking him to a smaller office, on the door of which was the name: FRED HICKMAN, PERSONNEL SUPERVISOR.

  “Detective McQueen?” the man behind the desk asked.

  “That’s right.”

  The man stood up to his full height of about five-eight and said to the woman, “That’s all, Grace. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grace gave McQueen another sly look and left the room. He wondered if she thought there was some private joke existing between them that he wasn’t getting?

  “Fred Hickman,” the man said, sticking out his hand. McQueen shook it briefly. The man’s hand was clammy and unpleasant.

  “Now what can I do for you, Detective? Grace said something about Kathy Stephens. She’s not in trouble, is she?”

  “She’s dead, Mr. Hickman,” McQueen said.

  “Oh, my.”

  “Somebody killed her and her daughter.”

  “Oh . . . oh my!” Hickman said, looking very distressed. “That poor child.”

  “I really need to talk to some people who knew her,” McQueen explained.

  “I’m the supervisor of the personnel department,” Hickman said, “but I don’t know if I can help you.”

  “Then point me in the direction of someone who can.”

  “Well, that’s just it,” Hickman said. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll make it easy for you, Mr. Hickman,” McQueen said. “Send me to the department where Kathy Stephens worked. I’d like to talk to her coworkers, and possibly her boss.”

  “Well, her immediate superior would be whoever was on duty at the same time she was.”

  “How many people would that possibly be?”

  “There are three supervisors on the project where she
was working,” Hickman said.

  “So she must have worked with all three at some time or other, right?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And did she work the same shift each week?”

  “Well, yes—”

  “With the same people?”

  “One would assume—”

  “Good,” McQueen said. “I need to talk to them, also.”

  “Well—”

  “So just have somebody walk me over there,” McQueen went on, “and this problem is out of your hands.”

  McQueen could see that this solution immediately appealed to Fred Hickman.

  “All right,” the man said, “I’ll have Grace walk you over.”

  “And what’s Grace’s last name?”

  “Hoffman, Grace Hoffman—Mrs. Grace Hoffman.”

  “All right, then,” McQueen said, “why don’t you just put me back into Mrs. Hoffman’s capable hands and we’ll go from there?”

  Chapter 55

  “What department did she work in?” McQueen asked Grace Hoffman as she led him down a long corridor.

  “She handles—handled—incoming calls, specifically from people who want to purchase beepers.”

  “She only dealt with people on the phone?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did she give her name?”

  “If asked, yes.”

  Suddenly, Grace Hoffman slowed down and seemed to falter for a moment.

  “Are you all right?”

  She kept her back to him. “I’m sorry, it’s just that . . . well, I told you, I hired Kathy. It’s just a shock to hear . . .”

  McQueen put his hand on her shoulder. “You can go back, if you like. Just give me directions.”

  “No, no,” she said, “it’s all right.” She turned and smiled at him. “You’re very kind, but I’m fine. I’ll take you there.”

  They started off again.

  She took him into a room filled with partitioned cubicles, and behind each partition was a person sitting in front of a computer, talking on a phone.

  “Kathy worked there,” Grace said, pointing to one desk, behind which another woman was sitting and working.

  “Has she been replaced?” McQueen asked.

  “No,” Grace said, “that was her station when she was here. When she’s not—wasn’t—here, someone else would work there. The only thing that belonged to her was her headset. Everything else was shared.”