Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

The woman turned into the entrance of a large, one-story brick building that half a century had turned nearly black, with only a smudge of the ancient dirty yellow paint showing through.

When the woman disappeared through the door, the man moved forward. He knew where she was going, who she was going to see. He would have to witness it, tie off the thread.

He went through the wooden doors and found himself in a dark corridor with doors on both sides. The satisfying smell of what he was sure was bread baking filled the air and reminded him of some moment when he was a kid, some holiday, maybe more than one that smelled like this.

The woman was nowhere in sight. He walked forward, working out his story, feeling the comforting weight of his holstered weapon against his chest under his arm.

Then it happened. No time to go for his gun. No time to do anything except reach up for the arm of the man who had stepped out of the open door of a dark room and circled his thick forearm around the man's throat. When the man reached under his jacket, the big man choking him swatted the hand away and gave a final neck-breaking tug.

The body of Detective Cliff Collier slumped to the floor. The killer looked around and then easily lifted the nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight. He carried the dead man into the darkened office, pushed the door closed, and went to the window.

He opened it and looked around. He really didn't have to look. He knew the alleyway was empty, that only the small truck stood there with open doors.

He dropped the body into a small bank of snow and climbed after it, closing the window behind him. As he lifted the body through the open back doors of the truck, he glanced at the gun in the man's holster, which made him go for the man's wallet.

He was a cop. He hadn't been told he was going to be killing a cop, not that it made any real difference, but for an instant he felt that it would have been right to tell him he was going to be killing a cop.

He closed the truck doors and got into the driver's seat.

Big Stevie had never killed a cop before. No regrets, not really, but it would have been nice if he had been told. He drove slowly out of the alley, trying to decide where he was going to dump the body.

Mac had left Stella and Don to track down Big Stevie and went as quickly as weather and traffic would allow to the upscale apartment building where Charles Lutnikov had been murdered.

Aiden had called him after sending the typewriter ribbon back to the lab so the text could be printed by someone in the NYPD typing pool. She knew a call from Mac would speed the work but it would still be a while, perhaps a day or more, till she had a disk with the contents of the typewriter ribbon on it. Mac had made the call to the office, assuring the office manager that the job was urgent.

Aiden was waiting for him in the lobby. He stamped the snow from his boots before entering and received a nod of thanks from Aaron McGee, the doorman.

"People asking lots of questions," McGee said. "I've got no real answers. What should I tell 'em?"

"As little as possible," said Mac.

"That's what the lady said," McGee said, nodding at Aiden who stood next to her evidence box. "Not much I know anyway."

Aiden led the way to the elevator. There was still a crime-scene tape across the open door. They ducked under it and Mac looked at Aiden, who said, "Every inch dusted. Prints of almost everyone in this part of the building."

Mac pushed the button that would take the elevator up to the penthouse. As the elevator rose, Mac knelt and examined the thin metal strip at the front of the elevator. There was a small space, perhaps an inch, between elevator rim and the door on each floor. He looked up.

"It's possible," Aiden said, knowing where this was going.

"I'll go with you," Mac said.

They had both seen stranger things than a spent bullet sliding into a small space and getting lost or stuck.

It could be a dirty job.

Aiden hid a sigh and wished for a cup of coffee. The elevator came to a slow gentle stop at the penthouse floor and the doors opened silently.

Mac stepped forward and used the knocker.

Both Aiden and Mac could sense a presence behind the door looking at them through the peephole. The door opened.

"Have you caught him?" asked Louisa Cormier. "The man who shot that poor Mr. Lutnikov?"

"Might have been a woman," said Aiden.

"Of course," said Louisa Cormier with a smile. "I should have said that. Please come in."

She stepped back.

The woman wasn't quite as fashionably chic and casual as she had been earlier. Her hair was almost perfect, but a few of the coiffed curls were slightly out of place and her eyes looked tired. She wore a pair of designer jeans and a white cashmere sweater with the sleeves rolled up revealing a bejeweled watch.

"Please," she said, showing perfect white teeth and pointing palm up at a small wooden table by the window. There were three chairs around it, all with a panoramic view of the city.

"Coffee? Tea?" she asked.

"Coffee," said Aiden. "Thanks."

"Cream? Sugar?"

"No," said Aiden.

"Cold water," said Mac.

"I let Ann have a few days off," she said as the two police officers sat. "She was really disturbed by the shooting. I'll go get the coffee. I've got a fresh pot started. Frankly, I think she's afraid to come here till the killer is caught. Ann's a gem. I'd hate to lose her."

Louisa Cormier hurried out of the room.

"Anything on the Alberta Spanio killing?" Aiden asked.

"There's always something," Mac said, looking out the window.

Monet had done London, bright and glittering, misty from fog, damp from rain, he thought. Had he ever done New York? What would Monet have seen had he looked out of this window on this day?

Before Louisa Cormier returned, Aiden told Mac that she had re-searched Lutnikov's apartment.

"No sign that he wrote any fiction," she said. "No manuscripts, no sheets in drawers, just what's on the ribbon."

Mac nodded, his mind taking in what he was being told but also wandering out across the rooftops toward the gray skyline.

Louisa Cormier came back with the coffee and a glass of ice water. She had nothing for herself. When she sat, she ran a hand through her hair.

"Long night," she said. "I have a deadline on a new Pat Fantome novel.

"If you read any of my books, you'll see I'm nothing like Pat unless I'm writing. I leave Pat in my office when I get up from my computer and I become Louisa Cormier everywhere else unless I'm doing a book signing or a talk. Then, I think I let a lot of Pat Fantome take over. I'm grateful to Pat, but she's difficult to live with, driven. I, on the other hand…" and she dismissed the rest of the sentence with the wave of her hand.

Aiden sipped the coffee. It was hot, good, exotic. Mac swirled the water in his glass, watching the ice cubes.

"Oh, no," said Louisa Cormier with a laugh at their expressions. "I'm not delusional. There is no Pat Fantome, not really. It's just a mode of thinking I adopt when I write. There are a few similarities between Pat and me, but there are far, far more differences. But you didn't come here to talk about me or Pat. You have questions about poor Mr. Lutnikov."

Mac finally took a drink of water and paused before going on.

"Do you own a gun?" he asked.

Louisa Cormier looked startled and put her right hand to her neck, touching a thin gold band.

"A… yes," she said. "A Walther. It's in the office in my desk. You want to see it?"

"Please," said Mac.

"You suspect me of killing Mr. Lutnikov?" she asked, amused.

"We're checking everyone who uses the elevator," said Aiden.

"What more could a mystery writer ask than for material to knock at her door?" said the woman. "I'll get it."