Dead of Winter

8

"DONE?" ASKED THE MAN.

"Done," answered Big Stevie Guista.

Big Stevie had made the phone call from a bar down the street from Zabar's. He had a shopping bag full of food- sausages, rolls, cheeses- a large slice of Gorgonzola, his favorite-flavored spreads, soft drinks, and powdered sugar cookies.

His plan was to have a mini-birthday party with Lilly, the little girl who lived across the hall from him. Her mother would be at work.

If Big Stevie had ever gotten married and had ever had kids, his grandchildren would be Lilly's age. Maybe. She was a good kid. He'd party with her, maybe watch a little television. Tomorrow he'd get laid. Happy Birthday Steven Guista. He wasn't complaining.

"Good," the voice on the other end said.

Both the man and Stevie knew better than to say any more. They hung up.

Stevie's delivery truck was parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant that was just barely sticking its top through a mound of snow. There was no ticket under the wiper when he got in. There never was. The police, the other people who saw the parked truck, usually thought he was making a delivery, which was what he would claim if someone confronted him. There weren't many people willing to confront Big Stevie about anything.

Stevie backed out of the parking space carefully, looking back over his shoulder, which was difficult to do because he had very little in the way of a neck.

The back of his small truck was empty, the wire racks clear. He had delivered the body of the cop to the alleyway more than two hours earlier. There was no smell of death, only the familiar diminishing scent of once-fresh bread.

Stevie liked that smell. He liked it better when the bread was fresh. All in all Stevie liked his work.

The body lay behind a Dumpster in an alley behind Ming Lo's Dim Sum in Chinatown. What had once been Cliff Collier lay on his back, feet straight out, arms roughly folded across his chest, head at an odd angle as if he had been looking almost behind him.

Stella had eaten at Ming Lo's at least a dozen times, always on Sunday mornings, always with some relative who came to New York wanting to see something of the city. Ming Lo's entrance, which was on the other side of the building on Mott Street, was brightly neon lit with a broad escalator inside the glass doors. At the top of the escalator was a massive room jammed with tables. Chinese men and women wheeled dim sum carts around for customers, almost all Chinese, who selected from dozens of choices, all of which were eaten with chop sticks or fingers. Stella's relatives were always impressed.

She wondered how impressed they would be by the sight of the dead man in the alley.

"This is what I do," she said, imagining a conversation with an aunt or cousin. "I ask dead people questions."

The idea of dim sum, which usually made her hungry, now made her feel slightly nauseated. Her stomach was churning. Stella knelt next to the body. Danny had already taken photographs of the dead man, the wall, and the Dumpster.

Don Flack was near the rear door of Ming Lo's talking to the kitchen worker who had discovered the body. The clearly frightened heavy-set man responded in Chinese, which was translated by a young woman in a silk dress who shivered as she spoke.

Flack took off his coat and wrapped it around the young woman's shoulders. She nodded her thanks. The heavy-set man spoke rapidly, excited.

"He knew the dead man wasn't homeless," the young woman translated. "He is dressed too well and his hair is cut."

Flack nodded, notebook in hand.

"Did he see anyone, hear anything?" Flack asked.

The young woman translated. The heavy-set man shook his head emphatically.

Flack looked back at the body. He had known Collier, not well but well enough to use first names and feel comfortable about asking each other about their families. Don remembered that Collier wasn't married but had a mother and father who lived in Queens. Collier's father was a retired cop.

Danny, Stella, and Don all noticed the smell, a mixture of warm, salty and sweet Chinese cooking. Danny would have liked an order of fried wonton or something else that looked good. Maybe he could suggest to Stella that when they finished outside they might go inside, ask some questions, get something to eat.

Stella gently touched the neck of the dead man and turned the body slightly. It was tight behind the Dumpster but she managed to reach back for her small hand vacuum and use it on the victim's jacket, neck, and hair.

Flack wasn't thinking of Chinese food. Not that he didn't like it, but the dead man was on his mind and he was focused.

"Thanks," he said to the young woman.

She didn't have to translate. The heavy-set man glanced at the body and hurried back into the restaurant. The girl handed Flack's coat back to him. Their eyes met. There might have been something there, but he wasn't up to it, not now, not here, not with Collier lying there.

When the girl went back in the restaurant, Flack turned and watched Mac Taylor coming down the alley, moving slowly, hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

Mac stood next to Danny, looking down at the body and Stella kneeling next to it. Mac's lips were closed and tight, his eyes searching the narrow alley.

"Neck's broken," Stella said.

She turned the body on its side. It was a tight fit and the dead man was heavy. She could have asked for help, but she didn't want to contaminate the site any more than it had been already.

"Alley's full of prints in the snow," said Danny. "At least six different people. I've taken footprints."

Danny had first used an aerosol spray snow print wax to retain the details of the prints and stop the effects of melting. Then he had taken a casting of each print, using a pouch of casting powder mixed with water, which he kneaded and poured directly from the pouch into the print, adding a couple of pinches of salt to speed the setting of the plaster.

"Any particularly large?" asked Mac.

"One set," said Danny. "Clean one over here."

Danny knew why Mac had asked about large prints. Collier was over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds. He was also in good shape, worked out. Hawkes would weigh him to get an exact figure.

Whoever had killed Collier had been stronger and at least as big as the detective, if it was one killer. Again, Hawkes would be able to tell them more.

Danny pointed to a trio of footprints heading toward the Dumpster and then at two more, approximately the same size, heading away. The ones heading away weren't as deep as the ones heading toward the Dumpster. The weight of Collier's body had been off of the shoulders of the man who had dropped the body.

"Get a cast of the footprints moving away," said Mac. "Measure the snow density. We'll find a formula to be sure that he was carrying Collier's body. Check Collier's wallet. See what it gives as his weight."

Danny nodded. There was no doubt that the footprints belonged to the bearer of Collier's body, but it might come down to evidence given in court and Mac wanted everything confirmed.

Flack joined Danny and Mac and watched Stella work.

The question didn't have to be asked, but all four members of the CSI unit knew the odds of the detective's murder being connected somehow to the murder of Alberta Spanio, the woman he had been protecting only hours ago.

Stella was up now, taking off her gloves.

Mac could see the places on the Dumpster that had been dusted for prints. There were plenty of them, but it wasn't likely that any belonged to whoever had dropped Collier's body here.

"He wasn't killed here," Stella said.

Mac nodded.

"No footprints in the snow behind the body," she said. "If he was killed and pushed over, he'd have to be turned around. No sign of that."

"No signs of struggle," said Mac.

"That too," said Stella.

"We've got footprints," said Danny.

It was Stella's turn to nod. There was nothing more for them to do here. The rest would be done in the lab.

Each of them had a theory, one they were ready to give up or modify with the next piece of evidence.

Flack's first thought was that Collier had found a lead to Alberta Spanio's murderer, followed it and got spotted by the killer.

Danny considered that Collier may have seen or remembered something about the murder and either told the wrong person, or the killer figured out that Collier knew something that might reveal who he was.

Stella considered that Collier might have been involved in the murder of Alberta Spanio and had been killed to protect the killer or killers.

"Ed Taxx," Mac said. "Bring him in. He may be on the killer's list. If Collier saw or knew something that got him killed, Taxx might know the same thing."

Flack nodded.

"And let's find Stevie Guista," Mac added, glancing at the body and nodding at the paramedics who had just arrived.

Mac checked his watch.

"Anyone hungry?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Danny, rubbing his hands together and shifting his feet which were beginning to feel numb.

"I'll pass," said Stella.

Don shook his head and watched the paramedics move the Dumpster and zip the dead man into a black bag.

The quartet didn't move. They watched silently until the body was well down the alley. Mac noticed a trio of wrapped fortune cookies lying in the snow where the Dumpster had been. He knelt and picked them up.

Mac and his wife had been to Ming Lo's once. They'd had fortune cookies that night. He didn't remember what they said.

After a few seconds, he dropped the unopened fortune cookies in the Dumpster and turned to the others, saying, "Dim sum?"

Big Stevie knocked at the door and waited while Lilly said, "Who is it?"

"Me, Stevie," he said.

When she opened the door, he handed her the shopping bag from Zabar's. It weighed her down and touched the floor.

"It's my birthday," he said. "How about a birthday party?"

He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

"I knew it was your birthday," she said, moving to the small kitchen and starting to lift out each of the goodies, pausing to savor the touch and smell of what was to come. "I made you a present."

Stevie was caught off guard, touched. It must have shown on his face.

"It's nothing much," Lilly said. "I'll give it to you after we eat."

He took off his coat and removed his shoes, placing the coat on the chair near the door and the shoes on a mat next to the chair.

"How about before we eat," he said, trying to remember the last time he had been given a birthday present. Not since he was a young boy. He had never been a "little" boy.

"Okay," Lilly said, removing the last package from the shopping bag.

She moved to the bedroom on the left, went in, and came back seconds later with a small package awkwardly wrapped in wrinkled red paper with a pink ribbon. She placed the small package in his huge hand.

"Open it," she said.

He did, carefully, not tearing paper or ribbon. It was a small, pocket-sized animal. Lilly had made it from clay or something and painted it white.

"It's a dog," she said. "I was going to make a horse but it was too hard. You like it?"

"Yes," he said, putting the dog on the table.

It wobbled but didn't fall.

"Can I name him?" Lilly asked.

"Sure."

"Rolf, like the dog on Sesame Street."

"Rolf," he said. "Sounds like a bark."

"I think it's supposed to."

"So," he said. "Should we eat?"

Lilly got plates, knives, forks, paper towels, and glasses.

"Did those people find you?" she, asked unwrapping a package of sausage.

"People?" Stevie asked.

"A man and a woman, when Mom left for work."

"Who did they say they were?" he asked as Lilly carefully placed a slice of sausage on a roll she cut in half.

"I think they were the police," she said, handing him the sandwich she had made and then the card her mother had given her before she left.

Stevie was silent. He looked at the CSI card with Mac Taylor's name and number on it and handed it back to the girl. Then he took the sandwich and looked at it as if it were an unfamiliar object.

"I think one of them is in your apartment waiting for you," she said, working on her own sandwich.

Stevie pocketed the clay dog and turned in his chair to look at the door as if he could, with enough effort, see through it into his own apartment.

Stevie had to think. It would take time. Thinking was not one of his strong points. He took a large bite of the dry sandwich. The texture was dry, but the taste was satisfying, familiar.

Jacob Laudano was seriously starting to worry. It had all been too easy, and now he had a phone call telling him what to say if and when the police came looking for him.

Why the hell should the police be looking for him? Okay, so they had a reason to look for him, but he could get around that unless they were out to nail him. They didn't have evidence against him. They couldn't.

Jacob "The Jockey" Laudano stood four foot ten and weighed ninety-four pounds, five pounds more than his racing weight. Considering that the last time he had been on a horse was eight years ago, he had done a good job of keeping the weight off, putting food on the table, paying the rent for his one-bedroom East Side apartment, and having enough left over for clothes and drinks.

He didn't need money to get women, not like Big Stevie. Not many wanted to be crushed by Steve's bulk or look up and see Steve's face. Jake, on the other hand, held an appeal for some reason that was hard for him to understand, but which he accepted without question. He knew it had something to do with his size. He wasn't a bad looking guy, but the face that looked back at him in the morning mirror or the mirror at the back of Denny Kahn's Bar was no Tom Cruise. Jake was pale, nose a little sharp, eyes narrow. He was nearing fifty but could pass for younger. His size again.

He had never liked the horses except to bet, and that's what had gotten him into trouble. For awhile it had been good. He had bet on his own races and played all the tricks to see to it that the favorite didn't win. It was a little-appreciated skill, even less appreciated by the other jockeys who eventually turned him in.

Jake was through in the business by the time he was twenty-six, at which time he had put his agility and lack of regard for the law into the traditional family business, breaking and entering.

He had done fine at that for more then ten years and then, dumb luck, he was delving into the lower drawer of a dresser where people often hid something small and worth taking when the apartment door opened suddenly.

Dumb luck. Jake had gone for the window. The guy had beat him to it, blocked his way, and punched him in the chest harder than he had ever been punched before or than he would be while doing two years upstate.

The guy turned out to be a third baseman for the Mets. Dumb luck again.

Jake made contacts while on the inside, which led to connections when he got out, connections that got him work because he was still damned good at getting in and out of places the big, fat, and often old people who hired him could not fit into. The first time he had been offered a hit for ten thousand he had said, "Sure."

He had killed three others since then, all for the standard fee of $10,000. Jake the Jockey had a reputation. He didn't try to hold out for a bigger payoff no matter who he was hired to kill.

Jake's preferred tool was a long, sharp knife to the neck while the mark was asleep.

He was straightening his tie in the mirror and pulling the knot just right. Someone had once called him a "natty dresser." He had looked it up and liked it.

The phone rang. Jake kept working on his tie as he came out of the bathroom and picked it up.

"Yeah," he said.

And then he listened.

"Went just fine," Jake said. "Like I told you. In, out. No questions… Yeah, they saw me, not my face… If he does, I will, but he won't come here… Okay, okay, I'll call."

The phone went dead. He put it back down and looked at it for a few seconds. Had something gone wrong?

It was dark in the elevator shaft, but Aiden had a large lamp flashlight on its highest setting sitting in a corner on a metal beam.

She wore gloves and had a package of evidence bags atop her kit next to the flashlight. There wasn't as much garbage as she had expected, but there was still enough to make the job formidable.

It was a challenge.

There were crumbling sheets from newspapers dating back to the 1950s. One of them held the word "Ike" in what was left of the headline. She plowed through envelopes, all old, none from or to anyone whose name she recognized. She found a Baby Ruth candy bar wrapper, an assortment of screws, thumb tacks, and other pieces of metal. She found two dead rats under an unidentifiable moist mess in one corner. One of the rats was long dead and mostly skeletal. The other was still damp and all too fragrant.

She rummaged for forty-five minutes, finishing her search with a dried out condom wrapped in aluminum foil. So much for a high-class Manhattan apartment building.

There was no bullet at the bottom of the shaft. She was as sure of that as the fact that she needed a shower.

She started to climb out of the shaft into the basement. With one knee on the concrete floor, she took a last look back, shining her flashlight into corners and up at the stopped elevator, which she'd turned off before coming down here. It was then that she saw it. The bullet, what was left of it, lay dark and leaden, on a metal structural beam. It hadn't fallen all the way to the floor of the shaft.

Aiden scrambled down into the shaft with tweezers and a plastic bag, took three photographs, and retrieved the bullet.