Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

It took her four minutes to find the doorway. There were blood splatters on the door, not thick, but visible. There was blood on the doorstop and something yellowish-brown that looked like vomit. She took photographs, got a sample of the yellow-brown goop, and started to stand when she noticed a spot of white in the crevice of the concrete step. She knelt again. It was a tooth, a bloody tooth. She bagged it and rose to check the listing of the names of the tenants of the building lined up, white on black, near the right side of the door. The names meant nothing to her. She wrote all six down in her notebook.

Whatever had happened here had happened just before ten, according to the driver's log. It was possible someone inside had heard whatever it was that caused someone to vomit and lose what looked like a reasonably healthy tooth.

Stella rubbed her hands together and called Danny Messer at the lab.

"Check out these names," she said. "Got a pen?"

"You sound terrible," he said.

"I sound terrible," she agreed. "The names."

She read off the names slowly, spelling each one.

"Got it," he said.

"Check them all out. If you find something, call me back. Guista may have been on his way to see one of them last night when something went wrong."

"What?" he asked.

"I'm sending what I've got over to you with a cabbie," she said. "Pay my fare. I've already given him a tip."

Stella tried to hold back a cough. She couldn't do it.

"Stella…" Danny started, but she cut him off.

"Got to go."

She clicked off and went to the car where George Apappa sat, head back, eyes closed. She opened her kit, dropped the digital disk of photos, the blood samples, the bloody tooth, and the clump of vomit, all separately bagged, into a zippered insulated bag. Then she opened the driver's side door.

George awoke and had the bag in his hand before he could speak.

She gave him the CSI address and told him to put the bag directly in the hands of Daniel Messer, who would be waiting for it. Messer, she said, would pay whatever the charge was. She handed him a ten dollar bill on top of that.

There was a beat in which she saw George wanted to ask what this was all about, but he didn't. He placed the bag on the seat next to him as Stella closed the door.

This time when Louisa Cormier opened the door for Mac and Aiden she was not quite so bright and bubbling. She looked as if she hadn't slept and she was wearing what looked like an oversized flowered smock. Her hair was in place, as was her make-up, but not as perfect as the day before.

She stepped back to let them in.

"Michelle, my agent, called to tell me I should expect you," she said.

Neither Mac nor Aiden spoke.

"You suspect me of having killed that man in the elevator," she said calmly.

Mac and Aiden were expressionless.

"Please, let's sit," said Louisa. "Coffee? Good manners die hard. Unfortunate choice of words, but…"

"No, thank you," Mac said for both of them.

The three stood just inside the door.

"Well I was just having one so if you don't mind…" she said and headed for the kitchen. "Please, have a seat."

Mac and Aiden moved to the table by the window. A cold fog had settled over Manhattan. There wasn't much to see besides a few lights through the dense gray and the peaks of skyscrapers over the cloud.

"I'm sorry," Louisa Cormier said, cup of steaming coffee in hand, sitting at the table in the same seat she had been in the day before. "I've been up all night working. Michelle may have told you I have a book due by the end of the week, not that my publisher will do anything about my being late, but I'm never late. Writing for a living is a job. I think it's wrong to be late for work. Sorry, I'm rambling a bit. I'm tired and I've just been told I'm a murder suspect."

"Gun residue," said Mac.

"I know what it is," she said. "Bits, traces of powder left when a gun has been fired."

"It's hard to clean off," said Aiden.

Both CSI investigators looked at Louisa Cormier's hands. They were scrubbed red.

"You want to check my hands for gunpowder residue?" she asked.

"Gunpowder residue can be transferred from a person's hand to another object they touch," said Mac.

"Interesting," said Louisa, working on her coffee.

"When we were here yesterday, you touched a few things," Mac continued.

Louisa was alert now.

"You stole something from my apartment?" she said.

Mac ignored the question. He was giving her as little as possible. Neither he nor Aiden had taken anything.

"You fired a gun recently," Aiden said.

Mac thought he detected the hint of a smile on the author's face.

"You have no way of knowing that," said Louisa. "You've not examined my hands and I doubt you would take an item of my clothing without a warrant."

Aiden and Mac did not respond.

"However," Louisa said, "you may do so. I think you will find residue on my right hand. I fired a gun at a nearby range two days ago, just before the storm. I think I should call my lawyer," Louisa said with a smile.

"Press will find out," said Mac. "But you have the right to call a lawyer before you answer any more questions."

Louisa Cormier hesitated.

"I told you I did fire a weapon," she said. "I test all the weapons I use in my books. Weight, noise, kick-back, size. I was at the range two days ago. I told you. It's Drietch's on Fifty-eighth Street. I'll give you the address. You can check with Mathew Drietch."

"What was the weapon?" Aiden asked.

"A.22," she said.

"Like the one in your desk," said Mac.

"Exactly. I decided to write about a weapon like the one I own," she said.

"Lutnikov was killed with a.22," said Mac.

"I found the bullet at the bottom of the elevator shaft," said Aiden.

"We'll find a weapon," said Mac. "And we'll match the bullet to it. You said you didn't own any gun but the one you showed us yesterday," said Mac.

"I don't," Louisa answered. "Mathew Drietch has a gun just like mine. He has hundreds of guns. You can chose the one you want to use. Mr. Drietch was quite happy to let me do so."

"You wouldn't know where that.22 is now, would you?" asked Mac.

"I presume it's safely locked away at the firing range," said Louisa.

"You mind if we search your apartment?" asked Mac. "We can get a warrant."

"I do mind if you search my apartment," she said, "but if you get your warrant and do so, you'll find no weapon here other than the gun in my desk, which you know has not been fired recently."

"One more question," said Mac.

"No more questions," Louisa said gently. "My lawyer's name is Lindsey Terry. He's in the phone book. I'm sorry if I'm a bit edgy but I haven't slept and…"

"I read some of your books last night," Mac said.

"Oh," said Louisa. "Which ones?"

"Another Woman's Nightmare, Woman in the Dark, A Woman's Place," said Mac.

"My first three," Louisa said. "Did you like them?"

"They got better after those three," he said.

"I've always thought the first three were my best," said Louisa. "Did You read the others?"

"Two of them," said Mac.

"You're a fast reader."

"I did a lot of skimming. I'm asking a professor of linguistics at Columbia to take a look at your books," Mac said.

"What on earth for?" Louisa said.

"I think you know," said Mac.

"You have my lawyer's name," Louisa said somberly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to finish my book and get some rest."

When Aiden and Mac were in the small reception area in front of the elevator, Aiden said, "She did it."

"She did it," Mac agreed. "Now let's prove it."

They started toward the front entrance, footsteps a chill echo. In front of them, about twenty yards away, stood a lean man in his late twenties or early thirties. The expressionless, pale, clean-shaven man in jeans and a blue T-shirt and a down Eddie Bauer jacket had his hands folded in front of him as he watched Aiden and Mac approach.