The use of her real name and her relationship to Dario Marco stopped the woman who was about to launch another protest.
"You live on President Street in Brooklyn Heights. Anybody from the bakery visit you last night?" asked Stella.
"No, why?"
"Someone bled on your doorstep," said Stella. "And someone vomited." Stella felt more than a little queasy. "We can match the blood when we find the bleeder. We can match DNA in the vomit when we find the person who threw up."
The woman stood, arms at her side, quivering slightly.
"Your cooperation will be appreciated," said Stella.
"My father isn't here yet," she said. "I'll need his permission to…"
Stella was shaking her head "no" before the woman finished.
"Steven Guista," Stella said.
"One of our delivery-truck drivers," Helen Grandfield said, pulling herself together.
"We'd like to talk to him," said Stella.
"I don't…"
"He assaulted a police officer and is wanted in connection with the murder of Alberta Spanio, who was scheduled to testify today or tomorrow against your uncle," said Stella.
Helen Grandfield said nothing and then, after a deep breath, spoke very calmly.
"Steve Guista has the day off. Yesterday was his birthday. My father gave him two days off. I can give you his home address."
"We've got that," said Stella. "Now, who else isn't here today who should be here?"
"Everyone else showed up for work," said Helen.
"We'll need a list of all employee names and a room where I can talk to them one by one," said Stella.
"We don't have anyplace you can do that," said Helen.
"Fine," said Stella. "We'll do it in the bakery." Stella could stand it no longer. She fished a thick tissue out of her pocket and wiped her nose.
Jordan Breeze once again sat across from detective Mac Taylor in the interrogation room. Both men had cardboard cups of coffee in front of them.
Mac turned on the tape recorder and opened the folder in front of him. It was thicker than the last time the two men had talked.
"You didn't kill Charles Lutnikov," said Mac.
Breeze smiled and drank some coffee.
"Your hand is trembling," said Mac.
"Nervous," Breeze said.
"No," said Mac, shaking his head. "Multiple sclerosis."
"You had no right to get that information from my physician," said Breeze.
"Didn't need your physician," said Mac. "We have one of our own who observed you. Jerky eye movements. Internuclear opthalmoplegia, lack of coordination between your eyes. You stuttered when I talked to you. Noticed you had trouble picking up your coffee cup, and your hands shook. You work hard and speak slowly and distinctly to keep from slurring your speech, but you can't completely control it. You can't sit up straight. You keep slouching. When I touched your hand it was abnormally cold. And twice when you were pacing your cell you almost fell. There's no way you could have walked to the river and back in the snow."
Breeze slowly sat up.
"Are you having double vision?" asked Mac. "Muscle weakness. Jerking and twitching muscles. Facial pain. Nausea. Incontinence?"
Breeze went pale and put the paper cup on the table, trying not to spill it.
"Memory problems?" Mac went on.
"You can't get my medical records," Breeze said.
"You confessed to murder," said Mac. "We put you in jail and have the prison doctor examine you."
Breeze said nothing.
"How much time do you have before full onset?" asked Mac.
"A year, two," said Breeze.
"Have a family to take care of you?"
"No one," said Breeze, his right hand visibly trembling now.
"You never had a gun," said Mac.
Breeze didn't answer.
"We found the trunk in the locker three doors to the left of yours," said Mac. "It was filled with books autographed by Louisa Cormier. You took them out of your apartment after you heard about the murder, heard we were talking to Louisa Cormier, heard that she was a suspect."
"She signed them for me," he said. "I'm a big fan. She's going to dedicate the next book to me."
"You didn't kill Charles Lutnikov. He never harassed you."
"I did."
"Was Lutnikov carrying anything when you shot him?"
"No."
"No newspaper, books…?"
"Nothing."
"Is Louisa Cormier paying your medical bills?" asked Mac.
Breeze didn't answer. He turned his head away. Mac thought he detected a hint of pain.
"We'll find out," Mac said.
"She's a good person," Breeze said.
Mac didn't answer. Finally, Jordan Breeze looked down.
"Everything I touch turns to shit," said Breeze.
"Did Louisa gave you the details about the shooting?" asked Mac.
"I think I want a lawyer now," said Breeze.
"I think that's a good idea," said Mac.
One hour later, after listening to the tape of the conversation between Mac and Jordan Breeze, Judge Meriman issued a search warrant for the apartment of Louisa Cormier.
Louisa Cormier offered Aiden and Mac no coffee this time. She was not sullen, surly, or impolite. In fact she was cooperative and gracious, but coffee and charm were clearly not on her agenda today for the CSI duo that came bearing a search warrant.
She let them into the apartment looking a bit frayed, tired and red-eyed wearing a loose-fitting flowered dress.
"Please wait," she said once they were inside.
Mac and Aiden were under no obligation to wait for her to finish the call she made to her lawyer from the wireless phone on a delicately inlaid table just inside the doorway, but they did so anyway.
"Yes," Louisa Cormier said into the phone, her eyes avoiding the investigators. "I have it in my hand."
She looked down at the search warrant.
"Shall I read it to you?… All right. Please hurry."
Louisa hung up the phone. "Why are you here?" she asked. "I understand someone has confessed to killing Mr. Lutnikov."
"We don't believe him," said Mac. "His name is Jordan Breeze. You know him?"
"Slightly. My attorney will be here in fifteen minutes," she said. "I must ask you to put everything back just as you find it."
Mac nodded.
"I plan to watch," Louisa said. "Front-line research for my next book."
"You finished your latest?" asked Mac politely.
Louisa smiled and said, "Almost."
Aiden and Mac stood silently for a moment, waiting for her to continue. Louisa put a hand to her forehead and said, "It may be my last, at least for a while. As you can see, it has taken a great deal out of me. May I ask what you're looking for? I might be able to save you some time and keep my carpets clean and my privacy intact."
"Among other things, a.22 caliber pistol," said Mac. "Not the one you showed us yesterday. And a bolt cutter."
"A bolt cutter?" she asked.
"The lock on the box at the firing range where you keep a pistol was cut, probably some time yesterday."
"And the gun from the box is missing?" she asked, her eyes meeting his.
"No," said Mac.
"I'm afraid you'll have to look," Louisa said. "You won't find anything. I should take notes about how it feels to be a murder suspect. I am obviously a prime suspect aren't I?"
"Looks that way," said Mac.
"A prime suspect without motive," she added.
Neither Mac nor Aiden responded. They put on their disposable gloves and began with the entryway in which they were standing.
"They were going to kill me," Big Stevie said to Jake the Jockey.
Stevie was sitting on the sofa, sunk deep, leg hurting, thinking not about his birthday or the pain in his leg but the betrayal by Dario Marco. That's all it could be, the only explanation. Stevie was a liability. He knew what had happened to Alberta Spanio. Marco couldn't take a chance on Stevie's being picked up and talking, so he had set him up at the apartment in Brooklyn.
Stevie wouldn't have talked. He had little besides a small apartment, a job driving a bakery truck, some favorite shows on television, a bar he sort of liked hanging around in, Lilly and her mother across the hall, and Marco. Until yesterday that had been enough to make him content.