Stuart Kaminsky - Dead of Winter

"It is," said the Colonel.

Anthony smiled at Stella, who tried to glare back but felt a feverish heaviness around her forehead and sinuses.

"What the hell," said Anthony. "Dario screwed up, on purpose or not. Doesn't make a goddamn difference. My son-of-a-bitch brother wants to take over my business operations."

"Which are?" asked Ward.

"Private," answered Marco. "That's part of this deal if we go that way."

Ward nodded his understanding.

"My brother, Dario, is a shrewd idiot," said Marco, who shook his head. "A dwarf or a jockey through a window. What kind of stupid idea is that?"

Stella held her peace, not just because she was sick and wanted to get out of there but because she was sure that no dwarf nor Jacob the Jockey had murdered Alberta Spanio. The truth was tricky on the surface, but easy to figure out when you had the crime-scene evidence.

Ward put his pocket tape recorder on the desk and sat upright with hands folded.

Anthony Marco began to talk.

Sheldon Hawkes had received the call from Mac gasking that the body of Charles Lutnikov be brought out of the vault.

When Aiden and Mac arrived, Lutnikov's naked, white body, skin flap pulled back to reveal his rapidly decaying organs, lay on the metal table that gleamed under the intense white light.

"Put the skin flap back," said Mac.

Hawkes put the skin flap back in place and Aiden produced the manuscript with two holes they had taken from Louisa Cormier's apartment.

She held the book open for Hawkes to see. He examined the book and nodded. He knew what Mac and Aiden wanted. There were two ways to go, at least two ways. He chose to remove a canister of clear, two-foot-long plastic trajectory rods from the cabinet, extract two, and put the rest away.

Then he inserted the rods into the holes in the body. The body had gone flaccid. He had to probe gently to be sure the rods were following the path of the bullet. It took him about three minutes, after which he backed up and let Aiden approach the corpse. "Can you clip off most of the rods without moving them?" she asked. He nodded, went to a cabinet, removed a large glistening metal clipper, and snipped the rods down so they protruded about an inch out of the body. Then, with Hawkes's help, she lined up the rods with the two holes in the manuscript. It was a match. She could have pegged the book to the dead man with a little exertion, but it wasn't necessary.

"Conclusion," said Hawkes, leaning over to remove the rods. "The gun that shot Charles Lutnikov was used to make the two holes in your manuscript."

"He was holding the manuscript up in front of him when she fired," said Mac. "Bullet went through the paper, bounced out, and when it exited, dropped down the elevator shaft."

"Sounds right to me," said Hawkes.

"But," said Aiden, "do we have enough for an arrest?"

"She'll need a good story," said Hawkes.

"She's a mystery novelist," said Aiden.

"No, she's not," said Mac. "Lutnikov was the novelist."

"Back to square one and her best defense," said Aiden. "Why should she want to kill the goose that was laying best-selling novels?"

"Back to the lady," Mac said.

"Need the body anymore?" asked Hawkes.

Mac shook his head and Hawkes gently rolled the table toward the bank of drawers holding the dead.

"We still need the gun and the bolt cutter," Aiden reminded Mac as they left Hawkes laboratory. "And she's probably gotten rid of them."

"Probably," Mac agreed. "But not definitely. We have three important things on our side. First, she knows where they are. And second, she doesn't know how much we know or how much we can discover at a crime scene."

"And third?" Aiden asked.

"The bolt cutter," he said. "She used it in one of the first three novels, one she wrote. All the trophies in her library are from the first three novels. She'd probably want to keep the bolt cutter."

"Probably," said Aiden.

"Possibly," said Mac. "She doesn't know we can match a bolt cutter to whatever it cut."

"Let's hope not," she said. "Even if we find it, we still need the gun."

"One piece of evidence at a time," said Mac.

Getting away was not an option. Big Stevie knew that. He didn't have the money or the smarts for it, and both the police and Dario's people were looking for him.

The cab driver kept eyeing him in the mirror. Stevie didn't care.

Stevie had picked up the cab at a stand near Penn Station. The driver had been sitting behind the wheel reading a paperback novel. He had looked over his shoulder when Stevie closed the door and saw more than he wanted to see.

If Stevie had hailed him on the street, the driver, Omar Zumbadie, would not have picked him up.

The hulking old white man needed a shave. He needed some fresh clothes. And he reeked of something foul. Omar prayed that the old man would not throw up. He didn't look drunk, just tired and in a head-bobbing trance.

The cabbie took Riverside Drive north to the George Washington Bridge, toward the Cross Bronx Expressway. Big Stevie counted his money. He had forty-three dollars and he was bleeding again through the make-shift bandage the Jockey had wrapped tightly around his leg.

If Stevie were a vindictive man, he would have killed the detective who had come to the Jockey's apartment. It would have been easy. The detective, whose name was Don Flack, according to the card he had given to the Jockey, had shot Big Stevie. Birthday greetings from New York's finest, a bullet in the leg. The bullet wasn't there anymore, but it hurt, and the hurt was spreading. Big Stevie ignored it. It would be over soon, and, if he were lucky, which he probably wouldn't be, he'd have some money and get Dario Marco off his back.

Life was unfair, Stevie thought as the cab got off at the Castle Hill exit. Stevie accepted that, but Dario's betrayal of him by sending the two bakery hacks to kill him was beyond unfair. Stevie had been a good soldier, a good truck driver. Customers on his route liked him. He got along great with kids, even Dario's grandkids, who at the ages of nine and fourteen looked like their father and trusted no one.

Forget unfair. Now it was about making things even and maybe staying alive. The other option was calling the cop whose card he held, calling him, and imagining hours, days of grilling, betraying, putting on a suit and going to Dario's trial, being made to look like an idiot by one of Dario's lawyers. And then prison. It didn't matter how long. It would be long enough, and he was already an old man.

No, the way he was going was the only way to go.

"Mister," said Omar.

Stevie kept looking out the window. He had put the detective's card back in his pocket and now had his hand wrapped around the small painted animal Lilly had made him.

"Mister," Omar repeated, being careful to not sound in the least bit irritated.

Stevie looked up.

"We're here," said Omar.

Stevie refocused and recognized the corner where they had stopped. He grunted and reached into his pocket.

"How much?"

"Twenty dollars and sixty cents," said Omar.

Stevie reached through the slightly fogged, supposedly bulletproof slider which Omar slid open and handed the driver a twenty and a five dollar bill.

"No change," said Stevie.

Omar stared at the bills as Stevie got out of the cab. It wasn't easy. His remaining good leg had to do all the work along with his hands. But Stevie's hands were strong.

"Thanks," said Omar.

The bills in his hand both had bloody fingerprints on them, fingerprints that looked fresh.

Omar waited till Stevie had cleared the cab and shut the door before he sped away. He placed the two bills on top of the paperback novel in the seat next to him.