No bolt cutter, no.22 caliber weapon, after thirty-two minutes of looking. What Mac did find in the bottom drawer of Louisa Cormier's desk below her computer was a bound manuscript. He placed it on the desk as Louisa Cormier protested.
"That's the draft for one of my earlier books, when I was still using a typewriter. It was never published. I've been meaning to return to it, get it in publishable condition. I'd rather you not…"
Louisa looked at her lawyer, Lindsey Terry, who had arrived a few minutes ago. He held up his palm indicating that his client should hold her protest.
Mac placed the manuscript on the desk, opened its thick green cover, and looked down at the top page.
"Now if you would just put it back," she said. "It has nothing to do with bolt cutters or guns."
Mac flipped the manuscript open to approximately the middle of the book and looked down at the two round holes that ran through the pages.
Mac pointed to the pages before him.
"Nothing sinister," Louisa said. "I shot the book."
Mac tilted his head to one side like a bird examining a piece of something curious that might or might not be edible.
"When I finished it," she said. "I hated it. I lived in Sidestock, Pennsylvania, at the time, working for the local newspaper, free-lancing to supplement my less than considerable wages. I read the book, thought it was a complete bomb, a waste of a year of my life. So I took it outside to the woods behind the house and shot it. I thought my potential life as a writer was over before it really got started. Pure impulse."
"But you didn't throw it away," said Mac.
"No, I did not. I didn't have to. I had gotten rid of my despair. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the manuscript. I'm glad I didn't. The manuscript is a reminder of the fact that the muses can be fickle. And now, I actually think someday I'll be able to salvage it."
"Do you mind if we take this?" said Mac, turning to the last page of the manuscript. "We'll return it."
Louisa again looked at her lawyer, Lindsey Terry, who had stood silently at her side and said nothing. Terry was nearly ancient, had retired more than a decade earlier but had come back after concluding that he no longer had the passion he had once had for raising exotic fish. Ancient or not, Lindsey Terry was formidable. He was smart and knew how to play the age card. Mac was also sure that if charges were brought against Louisa Cormier, Lindsey Terry would step aside for another lawyer, someone with a much higher profile.
"Does that manuscript have any bearing on the crime for which you obtained a warrant to search?" the lawyer asked.
"Yes sir," said Mac. "I think it does."
"I don't want him reading it," said Louisa.
"Will it be necessary for you or anyone else to read Miss Cormier's manuscript?" the lawyer asked.
"I've become a fan over the last two days," said Mac, looking down at the open page.
"Can't you…?" Louisa began, looking at the bald, freckle-headed, and clean-shaven old man at her side.
"I cannot," said Terry. "I can but warn Detective Taylor that he is engaged in a search which may well be tainted by his exceeding its conditions."
"I understand," said Mac rising.
Aiden entered the room. Before Cormier or her lawyer spotted her, Aiden gave a nod to Mac to indicate that she had found nothing.
"The name of your new novel?" asked Mac.
"The Second Chance," she said.
Aiden moved to the chair Mac had vacated and turned on the computer.
"What is she doing?" asked Louisa.
"Finding the program with your new novel," said Mac.
Aiden's fingers moved quickly from keyboard to mouse and found herself looking at the desktop page. At the right side of the page was a file titled The Second Chance. She clicked on it and scrolled to the bottom of the document.
"Page three hundred and six," Aiden said.
"I'm almost finished," said Louisa.
Aiden went to the hard-drive icon, clicked, opened it, and found files for Louisa Cormier's novels. She looked at Mac and shook her head.
"We're finished," said Mac, taking off his gloves and putting them in his pocket. The manuscript was under his arm, his kit in the other.
When they left the apartment, Mac looked back at Louisa Cormier and decided from what he saw that the famous author no longer thought it would be interesting to be a murder suspect.
"What's the manuscript?" Aiden asked as the elevator descended.
Mac handed it to her. Aiden opened it and looked down at the holes.
"Last page," Mac said.
Aiden flipped to the final page. By the time the elevator stopped at the lobby she had skimmed it enough to know that the words she had been looking at were exactly the same words they had found on the typewriter ribbon of Charles Lutnikov.
14
"STEVIE GUISTA," Don Flack said to Jacob Laudano, the Jockey.
From where he stood in the doorway to the apartment, Don could see the whole room and the toilet and sink behind the open bathroom door.
Don closed the door behind him.
"Haven't seen Big Stevie for months," said Jacob.
"He was at the Brevard Hotel night before last," said Flack. "So were you."
"Me, no," the Jockey said.
"You won't mind a line-up then," said Flack.
"A line-up? What the hell for?"
"To see if any of the staff at the hotel recognize you," said Don. "If they do, you move up the list to murder suspect."
"Wait a minute here," said Jake, going to the table and sitting. "I didn't murder anybody. Not night before last, not never. I've got a record, sure, but I've never murdered anyone."
"Never that we could prove," said Flack.
"Maybe I was at the Brevard," said Jake. "I go there sometimes, drop in. Between you and me and the lamppost there's a floating card game that rents a room there sometimes."
"Night before last?" asked Don.
"No action. Went somewhere else."
"Who runs this card game?" asked Flack, moving closer to Jake who backed away.
"Who runs it? Guy named Paulie. Don't know his last name. Never did. Just 'Paulie.' "
"I want Steve Guista," said Don. "If I have to step on you to get him, I'll just be leaving a small stain on the carpet."
"I don't know where he is. I swear."
"Right," said Don. "Why would you lie?"
"Right," agreed Jake.
Don was standing in front of the little man who may well have been lowered down to Alberta Spanio's window the night before last, swung in, and stabbed her in the neck.
There was no solid evidence. No fingerprints. No witness. There was just the Jockey's acquaintance with Guista, who had rented the room, and the Jockey's size and violent background that made him a good candidate for the crime.
Don took out a card and handed it to the Jockey, who looked at it.
"Call me if Guista gets in touch with you."
"Why would he?"
"You're friends."
"I told you. We hardly know each other."
"Keep the card," said Don, leaving the apartment and closing the door behind him.
When he felt reasonably sure the detective was gone, Jake looked up and watched Big Stevie limp out of the bathroom.
"He went too easy," said Big Stevie.
"He had nothing," said Jake.
Stevie took the card from the Jockey and read it.
"He could have leaned on you harder," said Big Stevie. "I busted his ribs. He should be mad as hell."
Stevie pocketed Don Flack's card and continued, "I gotta get out of here. Check the hall. See if he's out there."
"Where you going?" asked Jake, moving to the door.
"I've got something to do before he catches up to me," said Stevie.
The Jockey went to the door, opened it, looked down the hall, and turned to Stevie saying, "I don't see him."
Stevie had come up to Jake's apartment by the back stairwell, and that's where he headed after pausing to thank the Jockey.
"Sure, wish I could do more," Jake said.
Stevie limped toward the back stairwell.