Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

"You sell your bread?"

"That's what we're in business to do," she said.

"I'd like to buy a fresh loaf," Danny said.

She turned her head slightly trying to decide if he was trying to be funny.

"What kind?" she asked.

"Whatever kind Guista delivers," Danny said.

"We have eight different kinds of bread," she said.

"One of each," said Danny. "I'll pay retail."

"Wait here," she said and moved quickly down the corridor toward the bakery doors, her flat heels clicking on the well-worn tile.

The office door was to the left of the two men. Dario Marco's name was on it in gold letters. Danny looked at Martin, who nodded and opened the door. The two men walked in and found themselves in a small wood-paneled reception area/office. On the desk was a name plate: Helen Grandfield.

Behind the desk was a door. From behind the door came the voice of man. Danny and Martin moved to the door. Danny knocked and went in without waiting for a reply.

Dario Marco, lean, wearing slacks and a white shirt open at the collar, stood in front of his desk talking on the phone. They had interrupted his pacing. He stopped suddenly, looked at the two men, and said, "I'll call you back."

He hung up the phone and turned to face Danny and Martin.

"I don't remember saying 'come in,' " he said.

He was in his early sixties, hair obviously dyed. He had probably been darkly good looking as a young man, but the weight of whatever he had done with his life wore heavily on his sagging features.

"Sorry," said Danny.

"What do you want?"

"When did you last talk to your brother?" asked Danny.

Marco looked at the beat cop, whose eyes met his. Martin won. He was better trained. Marco blinked and turned back to Danny, indicating by looking the CSI investigator up and down that he wasn't impressed.

"Which one?" asked Marco.

"Anthony."

Marco shook his head.

"Anthony's the black sheep in the family," Dario Marco said. "We don't talk. I haven't even visited him in prison."

The look he gave Danny was a challenge. There were lots of ways to communicate with someone in prison.

"Check his phone calls, the visitors log," said Dario.

"We did," said Danny.

"So what else you want?"

"Steven Guista," said Danny.

"He's off. His birthday. I gave him two days. Had to lay off seven bakers and cut production in half since this low carb shit started. Bread's the bad guy now. You imagine? Staff of life. Right in the Bible for Christ's sake. What do you want with Stevie? He done something?"

"We'd like to talk to him and take a look at his delivery truck," said Danny.

"He's driving it."

"I know. Your secretary told us," said Danny.

"Helen's my assistant," he said.

The door opened and the woman came in with a large white paper bag.

"I'm sorry," she said to Marco.

She didn't sound sorry. Marco shrugged it off. She handed the bag to Danny.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to go to the bakery and pick out my own bread," said Danny.

"You think I ran out and bought bread on the street?" she asked.

Danny shrugged and couldn't resist the urge to adjust his glasses.

"It's okay," said Marco. "Show the gentlemen the bakery and then show them the door."

Turning to Danny he added, "No more questions. You come back, you come with a warrant."

Helen Grandfield turned and led the two men out the door. They followed her down the corridor and through the doors to the bakery. The smell of baking bread was strong, good and comforting.

"Take what you like," Helen said as about a dozen bakers and bakers' assistants in white aprons and white disposable paper hats glanced at them and kept working.

Danny collected rolls and bread in another white paper bag, then placed both bags on the floor while he scooped up flour from a table where cords of unbaked loaves sat waiting for the oven. He dropped the flour into another bag.

"Thanks," Danny said, handing his evidence kit to Martin and picking up the two paper bags.

Martin noticed that the CSI officer held the bags with his fingers across the top. Danny Messer was preserving Helen Grandfield's fingerprints.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's it," Danny agreed.

He moved to the bakery door with Martin at his side. Helen Grandfield didn't follow them. On the way out, Danny automatically scanned the walls, the floor, listened, smelled. They were a few dozen feet down the corridor past Marco's office in front of another dark office door when Danny stopped and looked down. Martin followed his eyes and watched as Danny went to one knee.

There were two dark lines about a foot long and about six inches apart. Opening his kit, Danny took photographs of the marks and then carefully took scrapings of the material of which the smudges were made.

When he was almost finished, the bakery door at the far end of the corridor opened. Danny and Martin looked back at Helen Grandfield.

Her eyes met Danny's across the distance. He didn't mind being the first to blink. His mind wasn't on outstaring the cat. It was about dark smudges that might, just might, from their color, touch, and smell, be heel marks.

MAC HIT THE STREET IN TIME to see the small white truck with MARCO'S BAKERY printed on the back pull out of a loading zone in front of a deli.

He hurried, almost slipped on the ice under the layer of snow, and got to the loading zone in time to see the white truck make a wobbly right turn at the corner about a hundred feet away.

Stella was at his side now. Neither of them were panting but the cold air bit into their lungs. They both knew that by the time they got back to their car and gave chase, Guista would be gone.

Mac looked down at the street about where the driver's side entrance of Guista's car would have been. The splotch of blood was about the size of the top of a Pepsi can. Guista was bleeding more now. His run to the truck had made his wound worse.

Stella had a small kit in her pocket. She knelt next to the splotch of blood, took out a swab, collected and bottled a blood sample. She did the same with a second swab and bottle and then put the samples back into the kit and her pocket.

A few people walking by paused to watch, but only for a few seconds. It was just too damned cold.

"Now?" Stella said, getting up, trying not to show the ache in her arms and legs.

"We call hospitals," Mac said as a car with illegal snow chains rattled past them. "We call for a lookout on the truck."

"He's bleeding badly, deep," Stella said, looking at the dark red blood. "He may not make it to a hospital."

"He may not try," said Mac. "Flack?"

"Broken ribs. Guista sat on his chest. He should be fine," said Stella. "I called an ambulance."

"I'll go back to him," Mac said, heading back toward the apartment building. "You go back to the lab, make the calls. I…"

Mac's phone was ringing. He took it from his pocket and pushed the talk button. Stella hurried ahead of him toward the car parked more than a block away.

"Yes," Mac said.

"Found the bullet in the shaft," said Aiden. "You were right."

"I'll be in as soon as I can get there."

"That's not all," said Aiden. "Danny's got something you'll want to hear."

"Tell him I'm coming in," Mac said.

They met almost two hours later. It was close to seven. Aiden hadn't had her shower. Two bags of rolls and bread from Marco's Bakery in the Bronx sat untouched on the table.

After taking Flack to the hospital for X rays and to have his ribs taped, Mac had picked up gyros and drinks from a nearby Greek restaurant.

They ate slowly except for Stella, who nibbled at the crust of her pita bread.

"Heel marks in the hall at the bakery definitely came from Collier's shoes," said Danny. "I checked. He must have been strangled at the bakery."