Seven ways to die

32

Although he could have knocked off for what was left of the weekend-Uncle Tony certainly wasn’t going anywhere-Wolf spent the afternoon writing up his autopsy report.

Wolf was intent on comparing Uncle Tony’s murder to Handley’s point by point. Both occurred approximately the same time of night. Both victims were naked, both sitting. Both had no obvious motive. Both killings went out of their way to confuse the cause of death, as though intentionally playing games with the investigators. In both cases, fiber evidence that Androg was wearing surgical booties seemed all too easily discovered, as though the clue had been left on purpose to perplex. The vague imprints were approximately the same in size.

Rizzo and Bergman, for their part, were making plans to interview anyone who might have seen the killer at La Venezia Friday night and planned to sit down with Ricky both to go over his unprompted recollections of the crowd and to jog his memory with the Venezia’s credit card slips-though they found it hard to accept that this particular killer would have used a credit card.

Bergman kept thinking about the woman in red, who looked somehow vaguely familiar as she passed his table leaving in her wake an unforgettably sensual and expensive scent. He made a note to pay a visit to the perfume boutiques at Saks when he had finished the interviews.

“Is there any possible connection between Crosetti and Handley? Could Handley have been a customer at La Venezia?” Kate Winter asked Cody.

“That’s what Larry’s trying to determine,” Cody said. “Right now their only obvious connection is that they’re both dead.”

“I don’t understand why we’ve come up so short on physical evidence,” she said. “Nobody’s that good.”

“I don’t think we’ve come up short at all,” Cody replied. “What I think is that we just don’t understand what we have yet. But we will. Leave that to the gang.”

“I don’t know,” Kate said. “Androg may just be the exception to the rules.”

Cody nodded. “Sure looks like he’s trying to be.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a call from Stinelli. “What’s the latest?” the Chief demanded. “I’m starting to get calls from The Daily News. It’s ruined my Sunday. Even that son of a bitch Hamilton’s on my ass already.”

“How the hell did they get onto this?” Cody wanted to know.

“They have eyes and ears everywhere, even more than we do I sometimes think.” Before hanging up, as though to vent his irritation, Stinelli reminded Cody that his captain’s ass was expected at the Ladies’ Auxiliary Ball Tuesday night come hell or high water.

“I’d hate to have your job,” Cody said, then registered what he’d just heard and tried to slough it off as though it were a casual invitation. “I’ve got my hands full here, Chief. Give me a break. You gotta let me off this friggin’ hook!”

But Stinelli wasn’t having it. It wasn’t an invitation, he pointed out; it was a command performance. Cody better be there, and in proper formal wear, with a proper escort. The idea was a show of force to show the Ladies the brass appreciated their charitable commitment to the general well-being of New York’s Finest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Cody said. But he was listening to a dial tone.

Who the hell am I going to drag to this circle jerk? he thought. Suddenly a not-altogether-unpleasant thought crossed his mind. He reached for the card still in his pocket, and punched in the numbers.

Amelie Cluett answered immediately, as though she were expecting his call. “I’m fine, Captain. Thanks for checking in on me.”

“Do you think I can ask you to do me an enormous favor?”

When she heard what he was asking she said, “Sounds to me more like a date than a favor.”

“Is that a yes?” he asked.