Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

It was eleven in the morning on a Sunday, too cold for off-the-street customers except a few seeking respite from the weather over a cup of coffee or tea and a bowl of wonton soup or some egg foo yung.

The only other customers were a trio of women in a booth by the window.

The man didn't know who would be coming to talk to him, only that he was to go to Woo Ching's and have something to eat as soon as he was able to get away. No phones. When she did enter, he had recognized her.

"Details," she said, warming her hands on her cup, ignoring the small bowl of baked noodles in front of her.

He smiled and shook his head. There was no mirth in his smile.

"What's funny?" she asked.

Neither had looked directly at the other and they wouldn't for the remainder of the conversation. She had come in five minutes after he had ordered, sat across from him and ordered her tea.

"Snow," the man said.

"What's funny about snow?" she asked, checking her watch.

He explained how the snow created a problem they had not anticipated.

"But it's all right?" she asked emphatically.

"It'll be all right," he said, reaching for his pork fried rice, changing his mind and working on the egg roll. "The rest of the money."

"Here," she said removing a thick envelope from her purse and sliding it toward him. He slid the envelope to the edge of the counter, placed it in his jacket pocket, and drank some tea.

She didn't have to tell him what to do if things went badly or a warning call had to be made. He was a pro and he had everything at stake- his life, his family's safety.

She got up, pulled some bills out of her jacket pocket, selected a five dollar bill, dropped it near her cup, and walked toward the door. The man didn't watch her. He waited till he heard the door close before looking around quickly, pretending he was just glancing at the women in the booth and the traffic outside the window. Satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he suddenly felt hungry. He finished his egg rolls quickly, took big bites, savoring the taste even though the egg rolls had gotten just a bit soggy.

Across the street the man in the car with tinted windows had to make a decision, either follow the woman or stay with the man at the counter in the Chinese restaurant. He decided on the woman. He knew where to find the man later.

He flipped down his sun shade, got out of the car, locked it, and went after the woman who was walking slowly, collar turned up, hands in her pockets.

He figured she was heading for the subway station on 86th Street. He was right.

He was also certain that the man she had met in Woo Ching's and to whom she had handed something had something to do with this morning's murder. He meant to find out what it was before people started to pass out more blame, at least some of which would fall on him.

He buttoned his jacket, put on his ear muffs, and followed the woman down the street.

Stella stood over the table looking down at thirty one-foot-long, new metal chains laid out next to the wooden section of window sill that had been removed from the hotel room in which Alberta Spanio had been murdered.

Mac, arms folded, looked down at the display of chains. Danny stood at his side.

"Couldn't be a cable?" Mac asked, pointing at the groove in the wood and picking up a magnifying glass.

"Take a close look," she said.

It was her turn to fold her arms.

"See it?" she asked.

Mac examined the groove carefully and nodded.

"Cable would leave a smoother groove, neat, cleaner," Stella said. "The groove is half an inch across. All these chains are half an inch."

Mac straightened up and looked at her.

"If the killer came down a half-inch chain to the bathroom below, he or she would have to be really light," Stella said.

"Or really brave," said Danny.

"Or stupid or desperate," said Stella. "And he or she would have to swing through the bathroom window below without disturbing the snow. That, given the size of the space in the open window would mean a supermodel."

"Or a child," said Mac.

Stella shrugged, wondering just how small the man who had been with Stevie Guista when he took the room in the Brevard was.

"Still leaves a big question," she said. "Who was inside the room holding the chain?"

"It wasn't screwed into the floor or tied to any furniture," said Mac, picking up one of the chains.

"No. Danny tore up the floor. No holes. No chain marks or significant scratches in the furniture," she said.

"So, whoever was in the room held the chain."

"Or tied it around himself," Stella added.

"Even so, it would take a strong person to do it, lower someone down and hold steady while they swung into the bathroom window," he said.

"I tested the strongest chains that would fit marks on the window sill," she said. "Even a ninety pound person on the end of the chain would probably break it, especially if they had to swing through a small space."

"Sounds like a circus act," said Mac.

"Think so?"

"No," he said. "Database. Check for height and weight."

"Can we do that?" asked Danny.

"We can," Mac said.

"Can you see a man or boy dumb enough to let himself be lowered by a chain from a seventh-floor window during a snowstorm?" asked Danny. "Have to be awfully stupid or awfully brave."

"And have a lot of faith in whoever was holding the chain," added Mac.

"And what about that hole in the wood at the bottom of the bathroom window," Stella said. "It's not from a chain. It's from a big screw."

"So," Mac said. "What do we have?"

"A fingerprint belonging to Steven Guista," she said. "Also known as Big Stevie."

"Got an address?"

"He could be out celebrating," she said, handing Mac a fax sheet with Big Stevie's photograph and record on it. "Today's his birthday."

"I wonder what he was celebrating last night," said Mac. "Let's bring him a present."

It felt wrong. Flat. Detective Don Flack felt it. No evidence. Gut feeling. He had checked out the door to the bedroom in which Alberta Spanio had been killed. He had asked a maid to go into the room and scream after he closed the door. The maid was Mexican, a legal alien, Rosa Martinez. She didn't want to go into the room where the woman had died hours ago.

"You're not going to lock the door?" she asked.

Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. The door could only be locked from the inside.

Rosa went in the room, closed the door, and screamed. Then she opened the door.

"Go over by the bed, next to the bed and scream again," he said.

She definitely did not want to go over to the bed in which the woman had died, but she did, and Flack closed the door. She screamed again and then hurried to open the door and step into the outer room.

"OK?" she asked.

"One more thing," Flack said. "Go into the bathroom. Open and close the window and scream."

"Then I'm done?" she asked.

"Then you're done," he said.

Rosa returned to the bedroom, closed the door, moved to the bathroom, and opened the window. Then she screamed once, closed the window, and hurried through the bedroom and into the outer room where the detective was waiting.

"OK," he said. "Thanks."

Rosa left quickly.

The first time she had screamed Flack had heard her, but faintly. The second scream from the bedside was even more faint, and he heard neither the scream from the bathroom nor the opening and closing of the window.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Stella.

They had news for each other.

AIDEN BURN ENTERED THE LAB about five minutes after Mac and Stella had departed. She had the lab to herself. The refrigerator in the corner hummed and through the closed glass door she could see only an empty corridor.