Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

"STEVIE GUISTA," Don Flack said to Jacob Laudano, the Jockey.

From where he stood in the doorway to the apartment, Don could see the whole room and the toilet and sink behind the open bathroom door.

Don closed the door behind him.

"Haven't seen Big Stevie for months," said Jacob.

"He was at the Brevard Hotel night before last," said Flack. "So were you."

"Me, no," the Jockey said.

"You won't mind a line-up then," said Flack.

"A line-up? What the hell for?"

"To see if any of the staff at the hotel recognize you," said Don. "If they do, you move up the list to murder suspect."

"Wait a minute here," said Jake, going to the table and sitting. "I didn't murder anybody. Not night before last, not never. I've got a record, sure, but I've never murdered anyone."

"Never that we could prove," said Flack.

"Maybe I was at the Brevard," said Jake. "I go there sometimes, drop in. Between you and me and the lamppost there's a floating card game that rents a room there sometimes."

"Night before last?" asked Don.

"No action. Went somewhere else."

"Who runs this card game?" asked Flack, moving closer to Jake who backed away.

"Who runs it? Guy named Paulie. Don't know his last name. Never did. Just 'Paulie.' "

"I want Steve Guista," said Don. "If I have to step on you to get him, I'll just be leaving a small stain on the carpet."

"I don't know where he is. I swear."

"Right," said Don. "Why would you lie?"

"Right," agreed Jake.

Don was standing in front of the little man who may well have been lowered down to Alberta Spanio's window the night before last, swung in, and stabbed her in the neck.

There was no solid evidence. No fingerprints. No witness. There was just the Jockey's acquaintance with Guista, who had rented the room, and the Jockey's size and violent background that made him a good candidate for the crime.

Don took out a card and handed it to the Jockey, who looked at it.

"Call me if Guista gets in touch with you."

"Why would he?"

"You're friends."

"I told you. We hardly know each other."

"Keep the card," said Don, leaving the apartment and closing the door behind him.

When he felt reasonably sure the detective was gone, Jake looked up and watched Big Stevie limp out of the bathroom.

"He went too easy," said Big Stevie.

"He had nothing," said Jake.

Stevie took the card from the Jockey and read it.

"He could have leaned on you harder," said Big Stevie. "I busted his ribs. He should be mad as hell."

Stevie pocketed Don Flack's card and continued, "I gotta get out of here. Check the hall. See if he's out there."

"Where you going?" asked Jake, moving to the door.

"I've got something to do before he catches up to me," said Stevie.

The Jockey went to the door, opened it, looked down the hall, and turned to Stevie saying, "I don't see him."

Stevie had come up to Jake's apartment by the back stairwell, and that's where he headed after pausing to thank the Jockey.

"Sure, wish I could do more," Jake said.

Stevie limped toward the back stairwell.

"Happy birthday," said Jake.

It was a stupid thing to say. He knew it, but he had to say something. He watched Stevie open the back stairwell door and go through it. Then Jake moved to the phone and punched in a number.

When someone answered, he said, "He just left. I think he's coming for you."

"Let me get this straight here. You want me to turn in my own brother?" asked Anthony Marco.

The wire-meshed visitor's room at Riker's Island was crowded. Marco, in a modest dark suit and pale blue tie, hands cuffed in front of him, sat behind the table, his lawyer, Donald Overby, a high-priced member of the firm of Overby, Woodruff and Cole, sat at his client's side. Overby was tall, slim, about fifty with a no-nonsense military haircut. His colleagues called him "Colonel" because that had been his rank when he worked in the JAG office in Washington during the first Gulf War. His client, in contrast, was called "Bogie" only behind his back because it was safe. He looked vaguely like Humphrey Bogart, and had the same sense of being in on the secret of human vulnerability. But Anthony had a dangerous edginess, a nervous impatient energy, which had brought him to the second day of his trial for murder.

The assistant district attorney handling the case was Carter Ward, an African-American who was statesmanlike, in his late sixties, heavy, and deep-voiced. He talked to juries slowly, carefully, and simply and handled witnesses as if he were disappointed when they seemed to be telling lies.

Ward and Stella sat across from Marco and Overby. Stella was feeling woozy. She had gulped two aspirin and a Styrofoam cup of tepid tea before they entered the cage, which, on one of the three coldest days of the year, seemed oppressively hot to her.

"This is Crime Scene Investigator Stella Bonasera," Ward said calmly. "I asked her to come to this meeting."

Which was, strictly speaking, true. Ward had asked her to come to Riker's, but it was Stella who had suggested the plan, made refinements, and gotten it approved after she and Ward talked to the district attorney, who very much wanted Anthony Marco tied in a red bow and delivered upstate to prison. A death sentence would be nice, but given the vagaries of the system, the DA was willing to settle for whatever sentence the public would accept as long as it was long, very long.

Marco nodded at Stella. She didn't nod back. Ward opened his briefcase and took out a pad of yellow lined paper.

"We all know," said Ward, "that news of the murder of Alberta Spanio has been given prominent coverage in the media. We also know that the jury, now sequestered, was exposed to the news of the murder of our principal witness against you."

Neither Marco nor his lawyer responded, so Ward went on.

"It would be foolish to assume that the jurors will not, have not concluded that your client was behind her murder, and though the judge and you will direct them to deal only with the facts presented in the case, every juror will believe Anthony Marco did on the afternoon of September sixth of last year murder Joyce Frimkus and Larry Frimkus. Killing Alberta Spanio was a nail in your coffin."

Ward was looking at Anthony Marco, who met his gaze.

"Let's try this," Ward continued. "Whoever had her killed may well have known how much damage it could do to you. Alive and testifying, Alberta Spanio was a hanger-on on the fringes of organized crime. Your very able counsel might have, certainly would have, attacked her credibility. But now that one of the two men who was guarding Ms. Spanio, a police officer, has been murdered, murdered inside of the bakery belonging to your brother Mr. Marco…"

"That murder is irrelevant," said Overby.

"Probably so, probably so," said Ward. "But I'll find a way to let the jury know about it before the judge rules it inadmissible."

"What do you want, Ward?" asked the Colonel.

"Let Investigator Bonasera tell you what she has," Ward answered.

Stella told the story of her investigation, about the Spanio murder, tracking down Guista, the evidence of Collier's murder in the bakery.

When she finished, Stella wanted to find a washroom and sit with her eyes closed, waiting for the full-fledged nausea.

"Give us enough evidence to squeeze your brother for a major felony," said Ward. "And we'll take the death penalty off the table."

Prisoner and his attorney whispered and when they were done, the Colonel said, "Murder Two, you ask for minimum sentence. Mr. Marco gets twenty-to-life, gets out in ten, maybe a lot less if you leave the door open."

"Agreed," said Ward. "If the information your client gives us is true and incriminating."