Dead of Winter

9

HAWKES LOOKED DOWN AT COLLIER'S BODY, Mac and Stella at his side.

"The killer was taller than the victim," Hawkes said. "Look at the bruises."

He pointed to the dead man's neck.

"Pulled back and up to get leverage. Bruises start at the Adam's apple and work upwards. Like this."

Hawkes got behind Mac and demonstrated. Mac could feel Hawkes's loose grip moving upward.

"Probably lifted our victim right off the ground."

Hawkes stepped back and looked down at the corpse again.

"Dead man weighs two hundred and ten pounds and is six one and a half," Hawkes said. "Your killer is at least six five, maybe as tall as six six or even six seven and very strong. No fumbling around here, just one clean arm around the neck from behind and a powerful sudden pull. No struggle."

"And?" asked Stella.

"Killer's right-handed," said Hawkes. "Principal bruising and crushing of the esophagus is on the victim's right side."

"So if we find a left-handed giant, he's innocent?" asked Mac straight faced.

"Thus eliminating left-handed giants," Hawkes agreed.

"He's done this before," said Stella.

"He knew what he was doing," said Hawkes. "You like opera?"

"Never saw one," said Stella.

Mac had seen them. His wife had loved opera. And Mac had gotten used to the artificial, inane stories, the overacting, and the semi-pomp of dressing up. He had especially liked watching Claire dress for a big night out. She always smiled in anticipation. And Mac had gradually grown to appreciate the music and the singing.

"I've got two tickets for Don Giovanni tomorrow," Hawkes said. "Donatelli in Homicide gave them to me. He's got a cousin in the chorus. Donatelli's wife has the flu, which, he said, was one he owed God."

"You're not going?" asked Stella.

"I prefer CDs," said Hawkes. "You want to try?"

"No, thanks," said Stella.

"Mac?" asked Hawkes.

Mac considered and looked at Stella.

Her cheeks were pink, but it was difficult to tell how pink under the surgical lights. Her eyes were moist and he thought she looked a little unsteady.

"Take them," she said.

"You all right?" he asked.

"A cold," she said.

Mac held out his hand and Hawkes produced two tickets from his pocket. Mac glanced at them. They were good seats, orchestra.

"Thanks," he said, pocketing them.

On the way down the corridor, with gray frigid light coming through the windows, Stella asked, "You really like opera?"

He almost said, "We did," but stopped himself and instead said, "Depends on the opera."

In the lab, Danny Messer stood in front of a large table on which lay a two-foot length of steel chain.

"Where do we start?" he said, looking at Stella and Mac.

Mac jerked his chin at the chain.

"Right," said Danny. "Standard stuff. Some of the links have tiny numbers indicating their manufacturer. One thing's for sure. This chain matches the fragments we got in that hotel room. I called the manufacturer. They guarantee the chain will hold a hundred pounds. The woman I talked to said that holding more than a hundred pounds on the chain out the window would probably result in one or more of the links opening."

"Collier's clothes?" asked Mac.

Danny smiled and walked over to a microscope. Alongside the microscope were slides neatly numbered. Danny put one of the slides in the microscope, focused, and stepped back.

"Tested the brown-white flecks," Danny said. "Flour. On the back of his jacket only."

Stella examined the slide.

"Collier's body was moved in a vehicle containing flour," said Mac.

"Almost coated in a thin layer," said Danny.

"Insect pieces in the flour," Stella said. "In the other samples too?"

"Yep," said Danny.

"Federal Drug Administration allows a low level of insect content in flour used in bakeries," said Mac.

"I'll remember that when I order a sub for dinner tonight," said Danny.

Stella moved aside and Mac gazed into the microscope saying, "Insects are different for each bakery."

"And," added Danny, "there are different kinds of flour, different additives. I'm tracing the producer of this flour. I'll get a list of their customers. Then we can match the flour and insect particles to a particular bakery."

"Maybe," said Stella, arms folded.

"Maybe," Danny agreed.

"Start with Marco's Bakery," said Stella.

They all knew why. The fingerprint in the hotel room above Alberta Spanio's bedroom had been left by Steven Guista, a man with an arrest record, a big man who drove a truck for Marco's Bakery, which was owned by Dario Marco, the brother of the man Alberta Spanio was supposed to testify against.

"Nothing from Flack?" asked Mac.

"Nothing yet," said Danny. "He's waiting at Guista's apartment. Judge Familia issued the warrant."

Mac looked at Stella, who held back a sniffle.

"I'll get my kit," she said.

It would take them twenty minutes to get to Guista's apartment. A lot would happen in those twenty minutes.

Don Flack carefully examined Guista's small apartment, listening for footsteps in the hall. A monk could have lived there.

There was a stained green recliner in the small living room just inside the door to the hall. The stained recliner had a hollowed-out indentation where Guista probably spent most of his time. A small color Zenith television sat on top of an old three-drawer dresser directly in front of the recliner. A remote sat on the arm of the recliner.

There was a Formica-covered table in the kitchen with aluminum legs and three matching chairs with blue plastic seats and backs. A refrigerator with little in it, a cupboard with three coffee cups, four dinner plates, a pair of heavy glasses. Under the sink were one pot and one chipped Teflon-covered pan.

The bedroom was tiny. A big neatly made bed with a green blanket and four pillows took up most of the bedroom space. There were no books or magazines on the night table. On the wall at the foot of the bed was a print of three horses eating grass in a broad rolling pasture.

The small bathroom had an oversized old tub with clawed feet and old porcelain handles.

What struck Flack most about the apartment was that it appeared to be immaculately clean, almost antiseptic, barely lived in. There weren't many clothes in the drawers or closet. Guista did seem partial to green in his socks, shirts, and few pieces of furniture.

Don went back in the living room/kitchen area and sat in one of the chairs at the Formica-covered table. The chair faced the door.

Don was prepared to spend the rest of the day and all night in the small apartment.

Across the hall, Big Stevie and Lilly partied, ate, and began to watch a rerun of a Gunsmoke episode, one of the ones in black and white with Dennis Weaver as Chester.

Stevie wanted to stay there. He had done enough for one day, more than enough. He hoped it would be appreciated. He didn't expect a bonus. A small sign of appreciation would do. And it was his birthday.

But right now he had to think. There was someone in his apartment, a man, waiting for him, going through his neatly stacked clothing, his evenly spaced pants, shirts, and jackets, his coffee cups and cereal jars.

Big Stevie knew he had to get away, but it felt right sitting with Lilly, eating the last of the cake, drinking orange-tangerine juice.

It was most likely the cops. But it was too soon for them to find him. In fact, he did not expect to be found at all, but here they were.

Then another thought welled up. He tried to push it down. What if it wasn't the cops? What if Mr. Marco thought Big Stevie might get picked up, might talk? What if Mr. Marco thought Big Stevie was getting too old for the work? No, couldn't be. Wouldn't happen. But maybe.

Stevie had to get into his apartment, find out. He had to get the few things he cared about in there and go somewhere, check in with Marco and go to Detroit or Boston. He knew Detroit and Boston.

"I'm not afraid," Lilly said.

"What?"

"That man inside the barn isn't going to kill Marshall Dillon," she explained. "The music says he might, but if he killed Marshall Dillon, there'd be no more shows and we know there were lots of them."

"You're smart," said Stevie, touching the top of her head with a broad palm.

"Smarter than the average bear," she said.

Stevie didn't get it.

The show ended. Marshall Dillon shot the bad guy in the barn. Stevie stood up. He had to know.

"You stay in here," he said. "You might hear some noise in the hall but you stay in here. Lock the door behind me."

"You have to go?"

"Business," he said.

"The man in your apartment," said Lilly.

"Yeah."

"Are you coming back when you're finished with him?"

"Not today," he said.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the painted dog she had made for him.

"Thanks," he said, holding it up.

"You really like it?"

"Best birthday present I ever got," he said, putting the dog back in his pocket.

He turned down the volume on the television set, walked to the door, opened it slowly, quietly, while Lilly watched.

"Lock it," he whispered.

She nodded, followed him to the door, and locked it behind him.

In the hall, Stevie stood still for a few seconds and then moved silently to his apartment door. Did the man inside leave the door unlocked? Probably not. He would want to hear Stevie put his key in the lock, turn it, which was why Stevie instead threw himself at the door.

Don should have been ready, but the huge man who flew past the splintered door and lunged at him was moving too quickly for the detective to pull out his weapon.

He started to rise from the chair but the big man flung himself toward him, landing with his full weight on Don, sending them both toppling to the floor.

"Police," Don panted.

The big man was on top of the detective who was pinned to the floor, pain in his back from the metal leg of the chair digging into it.

Stevie was relieved. Marco had not sent someone to kill him. Stevie could deal with the police. He had his entire life. Anthony Korncoff, who had spent half his life in cells, said Stevie's survival was a direct result of Stevie's relative lack of intelligence.

"You're all animal instinct," Korncoff had said.

Stevie had taken it as a compliment. Stevie kept everything simple. He had to. Once Stevie told a lie, he stuck to it. He couldn't be, had never been rattled. He wasn't rattled now.

"What do you want?" said Stevie.

"Get off me and we'll go in for a few questions," said Don, trying to ignore the pain and the weight of the big man.

"Questions about what?" asked Stevie.

It was possible this man pinning Don to the floor had murdered Cliff Collier a few hours earlier. It was certain he had something to do with Alberta Spanio's murder. It was likely that if Don said any of this, the big man would kill him.

"Let me get some air," Don gasped.

Stevie considered and sat back. It was a mistake. Don got to his gun and was pulling it out of the holster under his jacket when Stevie's fingers found his throat.

Don could feel the thick thumbs digging into his neck, deeply, quickly. He fired. He wasn't sure where the gun was aiming. He hoped it was toward Big Stevie Guista.

Stevie grunted, his thumbs loosened slightly. Don hit the big man in the nose with the barrel of his gun and Stevie stood up on wobbly legs, blood coming from a wound in the fleshy upper part of his left leg, blood flowing from his broken nose.

Don skittered backwards on the floor. He still wanted to take the man in, but he wasn't going to take any chances.

He hesitated. Big Stevie kicked the gun out of the detective's hand. The gun rose and landed with a clatter in the kitchen sink.

Stevie had a choice. There had been a shot. People might have heard. Should he kill the policeman? Did he have enough strength to do it? Would it make the pain and bleeding worse? And what was there to gain from killing another cop?

There was no choice. Stevie lumbered past the open door and into the hall.

Behind him he could hear the cop trying to get up. The door to the apartment across from his opened. Lilly stood there looking at him.

"I'll be all right," he said. "Go back in. Lock your door."

"You're hurt," she said plaintively, seeing the wound in his leg.

She began to cry.

He glanced back at the cop who was struggling to get up.

"No one ever cried for me before," he said.

He smiled through the blood that covered his face and turned his teeth red.

Stevie staggered quickly down the hall without looking back. His hand found the painted dog in his pocket. He held it tightly, but not so tightly that it would break.

Mac and Stella missed Stevie by no more than three minutes. They saw the drops of blood on the stairway as they climbed the stairs. They didn't know whose blood it was but they could tell that whoever had been bleeding had gone down the stairs, not up. The blood drops left a small tail in the direction from which the bleeding person had come.

When they stood in the doorway of Stevie's apartment, Mac had his gun drawn.

The little girl from across the hall who they had talked to earlier was kneeling next to Don Flack, who sat on the floor, wincing.

"Rib or two broken I think," he said. "Guista can't be far. Couple of minutes ago. Shot him."

Stella moved to Don's side as Mac turned, gun in hand, and followed the trail of blood.

The woman, tall, pretty, short platinum hair, probably somewhere in her mid-forties, wore a gray suit, white blouse, and a simple strand of faux pearls around her neck. She exuded class amid the smells of baking bread. The faint sound of voices wafted from the bakery down the hall and beyond the double doors.

Danny wanted to adjust his glasses but kept from doing it. Somehow he thought the woman would pick up on the move as insecurity.

"You want to see Mr. Marco about…?" she asked, looking at the uniformed officer behind Danny. The officer was broad, experienced, dark-skinned. His name was Tom Martin. He met the woman's eyes without blinking.

One of the first lessons he had learned twenty-one years ago in the Academy was that when you were faced with a tough nut, don't blink. Literally, figuratively, don't blink. His instructor, a much-decorated veteran, had suggested that they watch the eyes of movie stars.

"Charlton Heston, Charles Bronson," the instructor had said. "They don't blink. That's part of their secret. Make it part of yours."

Martin knew where they were and why. No trouble was expected, but he had gone through seemingly innocent doors before and found himself facing semi-human or stone-cold madness. That was how he had earned the pink scar on his chin and a lot of experience.

"Mr. Marco is busy," said the woman, who didn't introduce herself.

"I just want to look in the bakery and ask a few questions," Danny said.

"I can answer your questions," she said.

"Is Steven Guista here?"

"He has today and tomorrow off," she said. "His birthday. Mr. Marco remembers the birthdays of those loyal to him."

Danny nodded.

"Is his truck here?" asked Danny.

"No," she said. "Mr. Marco let him use it for transportation for his birthday."

"A truck?" asked Danny.

"A small delivery truck," she said.

"I'd like to see the bakery and Mr. Marco now," Danny said. "I could come back with a warrant."

"I'm sorry, but…" she began.

"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.