"Happy birthday," said Jake.
It was a stupid thing to say. He knew it, but he had to say something. He watched Stevie open the back stairwell door and go through it. Then Jake moved to the phone and punched in a number.
When someone answered, he said, "He just left. I think he's coming for you."
"Let me get this straight here. You want me to turn in my own brother?" asked Anthony Marco.
The wire-meshed visitor's room at Riker's Island was crowded. Marco, in a modest dark suit and pale blue tie, hands cuffed in front of him, sat behind the table, his lawyer, Donald Overby, a high-priced member of the firm of Overby, Woodruff and Cole, sat at his client's side. Overby was tall, slim, about fifty with a no-nonsense military haircut. His colleagues called him "Colonel" because that had been his rank when he worked in the JAG office in Washington during the first Gulf War. His client, in contrast, was called "Bogie" only behind his back because it was safe. He looked vaguely like Humphrey Bogart, and had the same sense of being in on the secret of human vulnerability. But Anthony had a dangerous edginess, a nervous impatient energy, which had brought him to the second day of his trial for murder.
The assistant district attorney handling the case was Carter Ward, an African-American who was statesmanlike, in his late sixties, heavy, and deep-voiced. He talked to juries slowly, carefully, and simply and handled witnesses as if he were disappointed when they seemed to be telling lies.
Ward and Stella sat across from Marco and Overby. Stella was feeling woozy. She had gulped two aspirin and a Styrofoam cup of tepid tea before they entered the cage, which, on one of the three coldest days of the year, seemed oppressively hot to her.
"This is Crime Scene Investigator Stella Bonasera," Ward said calmly. "I asked her to come to this meeting."
Which was, strictly speaking, true. Ward had asked her to come to Riker's, but it was Stella who had suggested the plan, made refinements, and gotten it approved after she and Ward talked to the district attorney, who very much wanted Anthony Marco tied in a red bow and delivered upstate to prison. A death sentence would be nice, but given the vagaries of the system, the DA was willing to settle for whatever sentence the public would accept as long as it was long, very long.
Marco nodded at Stella. She didn't nod back. Ward opened his briefcase and took out a pad of yellow lined paper.
"We all know," said Ward, "that news of the murder of Alberta Spanio has been given prominent coverage in the media. We also know that the jury, now sequestered, was exposed to the news of the murder of our principal witness against you."
Neither Marco nor his lawyer responded, so Ward went on.
"It would be foolish to assume that the jurors will not, have not concluded that your client was behind her murder, and though the judge and you will direct them to deal only with the facts presented in the case, every juror will believe Anthony Marco did on the afternoon of September sixth of last year murder Joyce Frimkus and Larry Frimkus. Killing Alberta Spanio was a nail in your coffin."
Ward was looking at Anthony Marco, who met his gaze.
"Let's try this," Ward continued. "Whoever had her killed may well have known how much damage it could do to you. Alive and testifying, Alberta Spanio was a hanger-on on the fringes of organized crime. Your very able counsel might have, certainly would have, attacked her credibility. But now that one of the two men who was guarding Ms. Spanio, a police officer, has been murdered, murdered inside of the bakery belonging to your brother Mr. Marco…"
"That murder is irrelevant," said Overby.
"Probably so, probably so," said Ward. "But I'll find a way to let the jury know about it before the judge rules it inadmissible."
"What do you want, Ward?" asked the Colonel.
"Let Investigator Bonasera tell you what she has," Ward answered.
Stella told the story of her investigation, about the Spanio murder, tracking down Guista, the evidence of Collier's murder in the bakery.
When she finished, Stella wanted to find a washroom and sit with her eyes closed, waiting for the full-fledged nausea.
"Give us enough evidence to squeeze your brother for a major felony," said Ward. "And we'll take the death penalty off the table."
Prisoner and his attorney whispered and when they were done, the Colonel said, "Murder Two, you ask for minimum sentence. Mr. Marco gets twenty-to-life, gets out in ten, maybe a lot less if you leave the door open."
"Agreed," said Ward. "If the information your client gives us is true and incriminating."
"It is," said the Colonel.
Anthony smiled at Stella, who tried to glare back but felt a feverish heaviness around her forehead and sinuses.
"What the hell," said Anthony. "Dario screwed up, on purpose or not. Doesn't make a goddamn difference. My son-of-a-bitch brother wants to take over my business operations."
"Which are?" asked Ward.
"Private," answered Marco. "That's part of this deal if we go that way."
Ward nodded his understanding.
"My brother, Dario, is a shrewd idiot," said Marco, who shook his head. "A dwarf or a jockey through a window. What kind of stupid idea is that?"
Stella held her peace, not just because she was sick and wanted to get out of there but because she was sure that no dwarf nor Jacob the Jockey had murdered Alberta Spanio. The truth was tricky on the surface, but easy to figure out when you had the crime-scene evidence.
Ward put his pocket tape recorder on the desk and sat upright with hands folded.
Anthony Marco began to talk.
Sheldon Hawkes had received the call from Mac gasking that the body of Charles Lutnikov be brought out of the vault.
When Aiden and Mac arrived, Lutnikov's naked, white body, skin flap pulled back to reveal his rapidly decaying organs, lay on the metal table that gleamed under the intense white light.
"Put the skin flap back," said Mac.
Hawkes put the skin flap back in place and Aiden produced the manuscript with two holes they had taken from Louisa Cormier's apartment.
She held the book open for Hawkes to see. He examined the book and nodded. He knew what Mac and Aiden wanted. There were two ways to go, at least two ways. He chose to remove a canister of clear, two-foot-long plastic trajectory rods from the cabinet, extract two, and put the rest away.
Then he inserted the rods into the holes in the body. The body had gone flaccid. He had to probe gently to be sure the rods were following the path of the bullet. It took him about three minutes, after which he backed up and let Aiden approach the corpse. "Can you clip off most of the rods without moving them?" she asked. He nodded, went to a cabinet, removed a large glistening metal clipper, and snipped the rods down so they protruded about an inch out of the body. Then, with Hawkes's help, she lined up the rods with the two holes in the manuscript. It was a match. She could have pegged the book to the dead man with a little exertion, but it wasn't necessary.
"Conclusion," said Hawkes, leaning over to remove the rods. "The gun that shot Charles Lutnikov was used to make the two holes in your manuscript."
"He was holding the manuscript up in front of him when she fired," said Mac. "Bullet went through the paper, bounced out, and when it exited, dropped down the elevator shaft."
"Sounds right to me," said Hawkes.
"But," said Aiden, "do we have enough for an arrest?"
"She'll need a good story," said Hawkes.
"She's a mystery novelist," said Aiden.
"No, she's not," said Mac. "Lutnikov was the novelist."
"Back to square one and her best defense," said Aiden. "Why should she want to kill the goose that was laying best-selling novels?"
"Back to the lady," Mac said.
"Need the body anymore?" asked Hawkes.
Mac shook his head and Hawkes gently rolled the table toward the bank of drawers holding the dead.