"We didn't find any other copies of your books in his apartment," said Aiden.
"He gave them away to other tenants after he read them. After all, he had untouched first editions. My God. This is fascinating."
"Did Lutnikov ever show you any of his writing?" asked Mac.
"His writing? I think he wrote catalogue copy. Why on earth would he show me that?"
"No fiction?" asked Aiden. "Short stories? Poetry?
"No. And to tell the truth, had he done so I would have politely told him I was far too busy to read his work and that I seldom read any fiction, not even that of my closest friends. If he had persisted, as a few do, I would have told him that my agent and editor had told me never to read an unpublished manuscript because I might be accused later of plagiarism. You'd be amazed at how many frivolous lawsuits are filed against me, which is why I contribute significantly to a lobby for tort reform."
"You're working on a book now?" asked Mac.
"Should have it finished in a week or so."
"You work on your computer?" asked Mac.
"I know writers, Dutch Leonard, Loren Estleman, who still use typewriters, but I don't understand why," Louisa said.
"What kind of paper do you use?" asked Aiden.
"In my printer?"
"Yes," said Aiden.
"I really don't know. Something good. Ann gets it at a stationery store on Forty-fourth."
"May we have a sheet of it?" asked Mac.
"A sheet of my computer… yes, of course. Is that all?"
"Yes," said Mac. "We're finished for now."
He rose, and so did the two women. Louisa Cormier, gun in her right hand, made another trip to her office and came back with several sheets of paper which she handed to Mac. The gun was gone.
"You should know that I don't give my publisher a printed copy of my books," she said. "Haven't for God knows how many years. I just E-mail the finished manuscript in, and they print it and give it to the copy editor."
"So you have all your manuscripts in files on your computer?" asked Mac.
Louisa Cormier looked at him quizzically.
"Yes, on my hard drive. I also keep a backup floppy disk copy which I lock in my fireproof wall safe."
"Thanks," said Mac. "A last question or two. Do you own another gun?"
Louisa Cormier looked mildly amused.
"No."
"Have you ever fired a gun?"
"Yes, as part of my research. My character Pat Fantome is an ex-police officer with a very good aim. I think it helps to know how it feels to fire a gun. I go to Drietch's Range on Fifty-eighth."
"We'll find it," said Mac. "One more question. Do you have any idea how Lutnikov's blood got on the carpet outside your elevator door?"
"No. I'm really a suspect, aren't I?" She seemed pleased by the possibility.
"Yes," said Mac. "But so are all your neighbors."
"Thanks for the coffee," Aiden said, picking up her kit.
"Come back any time," said Louisa, ushering them to the door. "I'd love to know how your investigation is going. I'm going to call my agent now and tell her about all this."
When they were back in the elevator, Aiden said, "Basement?"
"You're on your own," said Mac. "Stella just found Cliff Collier dead."
"Collier? The cop who was guarding Alberta Spanio?"
"Strangled."
"Where?"
"Alley in Chinatown."
Aiden nodded and stifled a sigh with a stiff-lipped nod. She would have to go in search of the bullets by herself. She had been at the bottom of elevator shafts before. It was always interesting. It was never pleasant.
Mac looked at the sheets of paper in his hand.
He and Aiden were both thinking the same thing.
"Search warrant?" she asked.
He shook his head.
Louisa Cormier had lied. Both Aiden and Mac knew it, but they didn't know what she had lied about- probably the blood traces. It was a rare suspect who didn't lie about something, even if they were completely innocent.
"Not enough cause," he said.
"We can ask her nicely," Aiden said.
"And she can say 'no' nicely and call her lawyer."
"So?"
"We'll find more evidence," he said.
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.