Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

She put down her kit, carefully unloaded the contents she needed, placed them next to the microscope, and then went in search of a cup of coffee.

She could get decent coffee from Adelson in firearms but she'd have to politely endure at least five minutes of feeble jokes. She chose the machine instead. With plenty of cream and one of the packets of Stevia in her bag, the coffee was tolerable.

She carried it back to the lab table, carefully placing it several feet from where she was working. No spills. She would move when she wanted a sip.

First she wanted to look at the typewriter ribbon from Lutnikov's apartment, which she did by placing it over a built-in light box in the laboratory table.

She drank some coffee. It was still hot but not burning.

Aiden gently, slowly, rewound the ribbon. It took her a little less than five minutes to get back to the beginning. She laid the ribbon flat and slowly began to wind it again, reading the words that showed through as clear indentations in the black ribbon.

… the third door, the last one, the only one left. He, it, had to be behind that door. Peggy had two choices. Run or, fireplace rod in hand, open that last door. It was almost dark, but not quite. Some light came through the window in the hallway of the small house. She had no idea how much light there would be inside the room. She had more than an idea of what she would find, a killer, the person who had brutally dissected three young women and one gay transvestite. The killer would be holding his working tool, a very sharp knife or a scalpel. The killer could be behind the door ready to attack her. Peggy knew she could use the rod. All she had to do was remember the photographs she had been shown of the victims, particularly of her own niece Jennifer. Rod held high in her right hand, Peggy reached for the doorknob. There was still time to turn and run, but if she did that the killer known as The Carver would get away, get away to kill again. There was no point in being quiet. He knew she was in the house, had certainly heard her footsteps on the wooden floor. Peggy turned the knob and shoved the door open.

A hand shot out and caught her wrist as she swung.

"He's dead, Peggy," Ted said releasing her wrist.

His face was bleeding from a cut above his right eye.

She dropped the rod on the floor and fell into his arms.

The End

She looked up, had some more coffee, which was now tepid, and reached for her phone to call Mac. There was still plenty of ribbon to read. Mac picked up the phone after two rings.

"Yes," he said.

She explained what she had found, and he said, "Have it put on a computer and leave it on my desk. I'll pick it up later."

"I'll go to the library," she said.

She hung up.

Stella and Mac got to Steven Guista's apartment just before three o'clock. They had picked up sandwiches at a corner deli and eaten them in the car on the way to Brooklyn. Mac had chicken salad. Stella had egg salad.

"Didn't we have the same thing for lunch yesterday?" she said.

He was driving.

"Yes," he said. "Why?"

"Variety is the spice of life," she said, taking a small bite of her sandwich.

"We get enough variety," he said.

Mac's wife, he remembered, had liked chicken salad, which was probably why he had been eating it. The taste, the smell, reminded him of her. It was something like pinching a taste bud to remind him, though he took no great pleasure in it. He had not been eating well for weeks. Tonight he semi-planned to pick up a couple of kosher hot dogs and a large Diet Coke. The date was coming soon, a few days. As it grew closer, Mac Taylor felt it deeper and deeper inside him. The sky was dark and he sensed more snow coming. He would check the Weather Channel when he got home. He considered calling Arthur Greenberg, then decided against it.

Mac knocked at the door to apartment 4G in the pre-war, three-story brick building. The hallway was dark, but reasonably clean.

There was no answer.

"Steven Guista," Mac said. "Police. Open up."

Nothing.

Mac knocked again. The door across the corridor opened. A lean woman in her fifties stood in the doorway. Her hair was dark and frizzy, and she wore a waitress's uniform with a coat draped over her arm. Next to her stood a girl, very much her mother's daughter, every bit as serious. She couldn't have been more than eleven.

"He's not home," the woman said.

Mac showed his badge and said, "When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday, morning some time," the woman said with a shrug.

"He wasn't home all night," said the girl.

The mother looked at her daughter, making it clear in that look that she wanted to give the police as little information as she could. The girl didn't seem to notice.

"He checks on me at ten," the girl said. "He didn't check last night or this morning."

"I work the evening shift and sometimes nights," the woman said. "Steve is good enough to check on Lilly."

"Sometimes we watch television together," Lilly said. "Sometimes."

"He say something about going to a party or being with relatives or friends today?" Stella asked.

Both girl and woman seemed surprised at the question.

"It's his birthday," said Mac.

"He didn't tell us," the woman said. "I would have gotten him a cake. Maybe I should pick up a present. Steve's been good to us, particularly Lilly."

"He looks scary," said the girl, "but he's very gentle."

"I'm sure he is," said Stella, remembering Stevie Guista's criminal record.

"I've got to go," said the woman, leaning over to kiss her daughter's forehead.

"Lock the door," the woman said.

"I always do," said Lily.

The mother smiled and turned to the two Crime Scene Investigators. "You want us to tell Steve you're looking for him?"

Mac pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to the woman, who handed it to her daughter.

"Did he do something?" asked the girl.

"We just want to talk to him," said Stella.

"About what?" Lilly asked.

Murder, thought Mac, but he said, "He may have witnessed a crime."

"What kind of-?" the girl began, but her mother cut her off.

"Lill, time to go inside. Time for me to go."

The girl said good-bye to Stella and Mac, went inside, and turned the dead bolt.

When the door was closed, the woman said, "I know about his past. Steve is a good man now."

Mac nodded and handed her a second card saying, "Please give this to him when you see him and ask him to give me a call."

The woman took the card, glanced at it, and put it in her coat pocket.

The woman with platinum hair and a fur hat got on a Number 6 subway train at 86th Street with the man following her in the next car. The weather had increased the afternoon crowd, which was fine with the man who could, through the window between cars, see the woman holding onto a steel pole. In spite of her tightly pressed lips, the woman was pretty. The man thought there was something about the way she moved that made him think she was older than she looked, that it was likely her looks had been helped by plastic surgery.

He was a trained, experienced observer and he was out to save his ass and his job. He would not lose her. The man had followed her to Woo Ching's, had seen the woman passing something to the man next to her. He was too far away to know what it was. But one thread connected to another, and now he was following the thread of the woman. He hoped it would be tied at the other end to someone else. If he was lucky, that would be the end of the line. If not, he would have another thread to follow. He had to keep telling himself to be patient, though patience had never been one of his virtues.

When she got off the train at Castle Hill in the Bronx, he followed her from far enough back that he was certain he would not be spotted. Now he had an idea of where she might be headed. He almost smiled with satisfaction. Almost, but it was too early to be satisfied.