Four Walls Page 12

  Bracey was present, as promised. Morgenstern wasn't, which was something of a relief. Then again, Stella knew how invasive the execution of a search warrant could be, and so, probably, did Morgenstern, from his previous experience with the NYPD. She couldn't blame him for not wanting to be around for it.

  Stella had made a list of what they needed from the house-the clothes from the night before and Maria's necklace, if it was there-and the uniforms from the five-oh knew their stuff, so she figured they'd grab anything they thought would be suspicious. A lot of them patronized Belluso's and knew Maria, so they were motivated to find her killer. As Angell had said on the drive up, you didn't mess with a cop's source of caffeine. They'd be thorough.

  So once Bracey read over every word of the warrant and let them into the house on Cambridge Avenue, Stella and Angell left the uniforms to it and walked over to Riverdale Pinan Karate, which was located in a modest storefront on Fieldston Road, off Riverdale Avenue.

  As they walked over, Angell asked, "You get anything from the love letters?"

  Stella sighed. "No epithelials, and the only usable print hits were DelVecchio and our vic, but we know they both touched them. The paper itself was Georgia-Pacific eight-and-a-half-by-eleven printer paper that's readily available at every Staples, Office Max, CVS, Duane Reade, and Hallmark store in town. The printer looks to be a Hewlett-Packard laser jet, which is only the most popular printer on the market." She shook her head. "Hell, it's what we use. For all we can prove, Danny wrote those letters."

  Angell smiled. "Somehow, Messer doesn't strike me as the type to write a haiku. Dirty limerick, maybe."

  Stella chuckled. "The point is, though, we're nowhere. We might-might-be able to match it with a specific printer, but it's a long shot. Best we could do is use it as an interrogation tool-throw it in the perp's face and hope he doesn't realize how weak the evidence is."

  "I don't see that happening with Morgenstern as long as he has Shark Lady by his side."

  They walked down Fieldston Road, the late-afternoon sun blazing at Stella's back. The dojo had just opened when they arrived. Based on the schedule, which was on a brochure that Stella grabbed on the way in, they only taught classes in the late afternoon and evening. Most of the dojos Stella knew of in Manhattan had early morning classes, but the later schedule tracked with the more residential nature of Riverdale. Stella bet that the majority of their students were kids who came after school.

  Coming inside, Stella saw a small reception desk, several chairs in front of a waist-high divider, and a bench. Beyond the divider was the polished wood floor of the dojo, which extended back several dozen feet. A floor-to-ceiling mirror along the north wall made the place look bigger than it was; the south wall had both an American and Japanese flag hanging from it.

  Behind the reception desk were several shrink-wrapped uniforms, T-shirts, and pieces of fighting equipment that she assumed were for sale.

  A young woman named Donna Farr was already there-a student, she worked part-time as the dojo's receptionist. She did verify that Jack Morgenstern attended the kumite class the previous night and that he left at about 10:50 P.M. That tracked with everything else they'd heard. Donna even verified that Morgenstern was wearing a black sweatshirt.

  Shortly, a very tall dark-skinned man came in. As he entered, he put his fists in front of his chest and bowed from the waist, saying, "Osu." Then he came the rest of the way in.

  "Sensei," Donna said, "these people are from the NYPD."

  Angell pulled out her badge, and Stella did likewise. "I'm Detective Angell, this is Detective Bonasera. We're here to talk to you about Jack Morgenstern."

  "I'm Allen Portman-this is my dojo. How can I help you?"

  Stella said, "We just need to verify that Mr. Morgenstern was part of the fighting class last night and that he was at one point kicked in the ribs."

  "May I ask what this is regarding?"

  Quickly, Angell said, "An ongoing investigation that we can't talk about in detail."

  "Jack is one of my better students. If he's under investigation-"

  "We really can't talk about it," Stella said mildly.

  Angell added, "I'm sorry, but we have to ask these questions."

  Portman folded his arms over his well-muscled chest. "All right. During one of the later rounds in the class, Jack fought with Senpai John."

  "How many rounds do you usually go?" Angell asked.

  "Fifteen-fourteen two-minute rounds, then one that's three minutes. This would've been either round thirteen or fourteen-we were still doing kick and punch both. The last round is always just punches. Jack missed with a mawashi giri-that's a roundhouse kick-and that left him open for a yoko giri, a side kick. He caught Jack right in the rib cage. After the round, I told him he could rest, but he insisted on continuing." Portman smiled slightly. "Jack can be stubborn that way."

  Somehow, Stella managed to keep from making a snide comment. Instead, she asked, "You always wear footgear during fighting classes?"

  "Of course."

  "Everyone wear the same kind?"

  "Generally. We sell fighting gear, and most of the students purchase from us."

  "Is Senpai John one of the 'most' in question?"

  Portman nodded. "He wears the standard footgear, yes."

  Stella nodded back. "We're going to need one set of footgear for comparison purposes, Mr. Portman."

  "Of course." Portman didn't sound happy about it, but he was obviously still willing to cooperate. Then again, Stella couldn't imagine that having one of his students under suspicion for a crime was anything that sat well with him. "Donna, could you please give the detectives a set of footgear? The large size, please."

  "Osu, Sensei." Donna, who had been working on the computer at the reception desk, hit a few more keys, then got up and pulled down some footgear from the shelves behind her.

  "Detectives," Portman said, "I want you to know that I've known Jack for three years now. He's a good man and a good student. I'm aware of the history he has with your department, and I'd ask you to please not hold that against him. He can be abrasive, it's true, but I don't believe that he has it in his heart to commit a murder."

  Stella took the footgear from Donna. "Thanks." Then she turned to Portman. "What makes you think this is a murder?"

  "Deductive reasoning, Detective Bonasera," Portman said with a small smile. "I know all the detectives that work the day shift in the Fiftieth Precinct, and you two are not among them. I do a good deal of community outreach, and that requires coordination with the local precinct," he added by way of explanation. "Also I know that a young woman was killed in Belluso's Bakery this morning. It isn't that difficult to put two and two together. You think that Jack killed Maria."

  While Riverdale was a large community, the businesses were all clustered in a small area. Stella therefore couldn't bring herself to muster up surprise that one business owner would be aware of what happened in one around the corner. New Yorkers minded their own business, but murder was bad for business.

  Angell had a few more questions about the dojo-Stella soon learned that she had guessed right, eighty percent of Riverdale Pinan Karate's enrollment was children between the ages of four and eighteen-and then they prepared to go. Stella and Angell both left business cards with Donna.

  "If there's anything else I can do to help, Detectives," Portman said, "please don't hesitate to call. Our number's on the brochure."

  Angell and Stella both expressed their gratitude, then left the dojo.

  They stopped at the crime lab's SUV to put the footgear in the trunk, then proceeded on to Morgenstern's house.

  O'Malley was standing in the foyer holding up a large blue plastic evidence bag filled to bursting with clothes. "This is what our guy wore last night, we think."

  "You think, Deej?" Angell asked with an undertone of annoyance that was creeping its way into being an overtone.

  "They were still in the dryer, along with a karate uniform. I figure he put
'em in the dryer last night 'fore he went to bed and left 'em there." He shrugged. "I do it all the time."

  Stella looked at Angell. "What is it with men that they can't fold laundry until they absolutely have to?"

  "Hey, don't turn this into a men-women thing, Detective-my wife doesn't even remember to do the damn laundry half the time, all right? Anyhow, you want this stuff or not?"

  "Want." Stella held out her hand. "What about the karate uniform?"

  "Bagged that, too. Bats has it."

  "Any sign of the necklace?" Stella asked.

  Shaking his head, O'Malley said, "Nada."

  "Where's the dryer?"

  O'Malley led her back through a hallway and kitchen to a small alcove off the kitchen. Angell went upstairs to see how things were going in the bedroom.

  Reaching into her jacket pocket, Stella pulled out her penlight. She had once joked with Mac that they all wielded their penlights like weapons, and Danny had said that if Mac lost his penlight, he'd get the shakes from the withdrawal.

  Still, they were useful, especially when you were searching the inside of a dryer for an errant purple-painted fingernail.

  Unfortunately, while she found plenty of dust and lint, she found no fingernails. Nothing in the washer, either. It might have still been on the clothes-she'd check that once she got them back to the lab-but it was more likely that it was knocked off in the wash.

  "Hey, Stell!" That was Angell calling from upstairs.

  Stella leaned her head outside the washroom. "Yeah, Jen?"

  "You should come up here."

  Pocketing the penlight, she went up the stairs, her shoe heels clunking on the bare wood. She was surprised that he hadn't put a runner down to mute the noise.

  Turning left at the landing, she saw that one of the house's three bedrooms had been converted into an office. At a large wooden desk sat a Dell desktop computer, a mouse pad with the New York Yankees logo on it, and a printer.

  A Hewlett-Packard laser jet, to be precise. Two of the five-oh's uniforms were disconnecting it.

  Angell walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. "And looky here."

  Following her, Stella peered into the drawer, which included all manner of detritus-envelopes with bills; some booklets; a passport; a few rulers; various office supplies, such as paper clips, binder clips, and staples; and, finally, a ream of paper from Georgia-Pacific.

  Stella tilted her head. "Well, it doesn't actually prove anything, but it also means that we can't eliminate him, either."

  "Works for me," Angell said.

  Sighing, Stella went back downstairs. The evidence all supported the notion that Morgenstern killed Maria, but did nothing to prove it.

  At least not yet.

  Still, Stella hated this part of it. While it was true that evidence didn't lie, it didn't always tell the truth.

  Sometimes it just sat and taunted you, and didn't actually tell you anything.

  "Jen," she called back upstairs, "I'm gonna head back-get to work on some of this."

  Angell poked her head over the banister. "Will do. I'll send over everything once it's collected."

  Bracey appeared out of nowhere and said, "I expect an itemized receipt, Detective."

  Putting her hand to her chest and trying to get her breathing under control, Stella said, "You scared me."

  "I said I expect-"

  "-an itemized receipt, I heard you the first time, Ms. Bracey. Don't worry, you'll get it. Excuse me."

  With that, she left the Morgenstern house. She needed to get back to the lab and find out once and for all if the house's owner really was a killer.

  13

  IT SEEMS TO BE a routine crime scene check. You and Mac follow a blood trail that starts at the dead body and leads upstairs into a corporate office hallway.

  There's a ladder on the floor where the trail ends and an open panel in the ceiling. Mac holds a latex glove in his hand and straightens the ladder, then he climbs it to see what's up there.

  While Mac does that, holding that penlight he always carries like it's a spear or something, your mind starts to wander. You're testifying in the Howard case in a week, and you're supposed to go over your testimony with ADA Maria Cabrera this afternoon. Even though the evidence against Howard's partner in the plastic surgery business is overwhelming, the jackass still pled not guilty and hired an expensive mouthpiece.

  Worse, the DA gave it to Cabrera, the snottiest person in the prosecutor's office. She still has a grudge against you for the Balidemaj case, which means this meeting will be as much fun as your last trip to the dentist, only without the cute hygienist, Abby. If the ADAs were less like Cabrera and more like Abby, you'd enjoy testifying more. You should call her, actually…

  Suddenly, Mac practically jumps off the ladder. "We gotta check the building. If there's anyone here, get 'em out." You wonder what the hell he's talking about, when he says three fateful words:

  "There's a bomb."

  All thoughts of Abby's hourglass figure and the Howard case and Cabrera's obnoxiousness flee from your brain at the sound of those words.

  Instead, you think that the last thing this city needs is another building blowing up.

  "Hit the alarm!" Mac yells, and you reach out with one long arm and yank on the white handle of the fire alarm.

  It's craziness after that, the alarm blaring in your ears. "Call central," Mac screams over the alarm, "no radio!" But you already have your cell phone out and flipped open.

  "Suspicious package," you cry as you run upstairs, "621 Greenwich. A bomb."

  Central, as usual, is staffed by morons. "Did you say a bomb?" the guy says. You're pretty sure it's Soohoo. Probably half asleep like usual.

  "Yeah a bomb!"

  You and Mac get to the next floor, and sure enough, even though it's Sunday, there are workaholics in the building who just can't wait until Monday to do what they have to do. Of course, you're working on a Sunday, but never mind.

  Used to be that evacuating a building was like pulling teeth, only without the sexy hygienist. Since the fall of 2001, though, all you had to do was say the word bomb, and every New Yorker knew exactly what to do.

  You're not sure if that's a good thing or not.

  Mac calls Monroe-who had gone outside to get more crime lab toys from the SUV-and tells her to evacuate the area.

  Finally, you're checking the last of the doors, making sure that the building's been completely emptied. It's just you and Mac left, looks like.

  "All right," Mac says, "c'mon, let's go."

  You both turn and head to the stairwell.

  "Hey, what's goin' on?"

  You whirl around, and there's some schmuck wearing noise-canceling headphones who looks confused. You start moving toward him.

  "Hey, get the hell outta here!"

  And then the world explodes in a fiery conflagration. Your ears pop from the deafening report of the bomb's detonation, and you feel the impact of shrapnel slicing into your chest.

  You don't remember anything after that…

  Flack sat up quickly, his bare chest drenched in sweat. "Son of a bitch."

  Though the dream had ended, the pain in his chest hadn't died down.

  It took Flack a few seconds to extricate himself from his sheets, which had gotten tangled in his legs.

  It had been a while since he'd had the dream.

  He wasn't sure what prompted it this time. Usually, there was some kind of trigger, but he'd spent all day today at Richmond Hill interviewing surly convicts and brain-dead COs. That wasn't a hundred percent accurate, of course. Many of the COs were just fine, especially Terry, and a surprisingly large number of the cons were polite, but Flack didn't remember the decent ones with anywhere near the same clarity with which he remembered the jackasses.

  Flack liked the look of Melendez as their guy. Mac would say it was because of the fingerprint on the murder weapon, but Flack put more stock in the fight in the Koran class. Guys like Melendez were always searching
for a way to get out early, and Washburne had put up a roadblock to that. And the incident in the weight yard had provided him with a golden opportunity: everyone was busy looking at Barker. Melendez could get his revenge without anybody even seeing him. He even pointed out the dead body so people wouldn't suspect him. The classic stupid person's rationale: If I point out the dead body, I can't have done the murder.

  He looked over at the clock radio next to his bed. 3:52.

  Then he looked down at the network of scars on the left side of his chest.

  Knowing he wouldn't get back to sleep, and not relishing the idea of possibly having the dream again anyhow, Flack got up.

  That proved to be a mistake, as the twinges of pain in his chest turned into white-hot knives of agony. He fell back down, staring at the ceiling, trying to get his breathing under control.

  After a few dozen eternities, the pain started to die down. Slowly, very, very slowly, Flack got up from the bed. He gingerly walked to the closet, where his suit jacket was hanging. Opening the closet door proved to be even more painful than getting up had been, and he almost stumbled to the floor with the pain.

  Taking a second to let the pain subside, he stood upright and reached into the inner pocket of the jacket he'd been wearing yesterday.

  He heard the clatter of a Percocet against plastic as he pulled out the pill bottle.

  He also heard Terry Sullivan's voice: "Will you please take the pill, for the love of Christ?"

  Walking into the kitchen, he pulled open the refrigerator door. His memory hadn't betrayed him: there was an open bottle of Chianti Classico, the cork sticking up out of it.

  Under normal circumstances, Flack would've gotten a wineglass out of the china closet, but-with all respect to an excellent Tuscan red-he needed this sooner rather than later. Besides, opening and closing doors was proving to be agonizing. He could just get a regular milk glass out of the dry rack next to the sink without having to open or close anything.

  Pouring out the remainder of the Chianti, he then put the pill in his mouth and downed a mouthful of the wine.

  Peyton Driscoll usually got in early. She had promised a full autopsy report on Malik Washburne first thing in the morning. For all Flack knew, she'd had a prelim the night before, but after a full day at RHCF, he'd come straight home. If something important came up, Mac or somebody would've called him. Or not-it wasn't as if anybody involved in the case was going anywhere, and Mac had even commented to Flack that he looked like he needed a good night's sleep.