Seven Ways to Die (4 page)

So he changed his phone number. Wanted her to call him. Well, he could go screw himself.

The wind briefly wrapped the curtain around her before she brushed it away.

She went back to her desk and put the matchbook book down.

Then she noticed that her laptop was on. The screen was lowered but she could see the light from the screen between the cover and the keyboard. She thought she’d hibernated the machine when she’d finished the review.

She reached over and lifted the screen. There was a letter on the screen which began: “Dear Raymond…”

And the fear choked her.

Before she could react she felt a warm breath on the nape of her neck. A plastic bag whished as it snapped over her head.

The opening was twisted tight.

The bag became a deadly trap.

A strong arm pinned both her arms to her sides and lifted her off the floor. Her screams were muffled by the bag, her muscular legs flailing helplessly as she fought for a breath.

She was frantic, staring out across the Park through the gauzy container. Her attempts to breathe merely sucked the plastic into her mouth and popped it back again.

Just one breath, she thought.

But it was denied. The strong arm jerked hard on her abdomen, emptying her lungs.

The struggle lasted four minutes before she went limp.

Her killer was relentless, holding her in the vice, waiting until the lovely dancer certainly was dead.

The plastic bag was pulled off her head. Her chin fell to her chest. The killer moved the free hand and fondled her tight breast, moved down between her legs and then, in one swift move, lifted and shoved her lifeless body through the door.

She flipped over the balcony, plunged fifteen floors, and splattered on the sidewalk below.

While she was still falling, well-manicured fingers Melinda never saw finished typing the artfully ambivalent email that would be accepted as a suicide note.

Δ

“Before I close this series,” said N.Y.P.D. Max Wolfsheim, who had narrated this unsolved case at his regular NYU Graduate Center class on Crime in the City, “I have been given his permission to recognize our auditor, who’s faithfully attended this forensics series. He’s the author of a dozen bestselling books on famous crimes.”

The crime writer, white-suited Ward Lee Hamilton, received a polite hand from the graduate students.

“What will your next book be?” a brave student asked him.

“I never discuss my next work,” Hamilton replied smugly. “Ernest Hemingway once said, ‘I’ve talked away more books over a cup of coffee than I’ve ever written.”

At this the class again applauded.

3

Manhattan—

Friday, October 26, 2008

Waldo Madigan stared out the window of his diner just as the jogger and his dog, a big white German Shepherd, turned onto Walker Street. He looked up at the Seth Thomas clock on the wall and shook his head.

“There he is,” he said, half-aloud. “Right on time. Six twenty-five. Not six twenty-four, not six twenty-six. Six twenty-five on the dot. I think he waits on Church Street until it’s
exactly
six twenty-five before he comes around the corner. The man never wears a watch.”

“Mornin’, Cap,” Waldo said to Cody as he unlocked the door and held it wide. The dog charged in first. “And same to you, Charley.” The big shepherd wagged his tail and sat, eagerly looking past him at the large stainless steel refrigerator.

“Thanks, getting cold out there,” the captain said. “How’s tricks, Waldo? Still talking to yourself?”

“I ain’t had no trick since I was seventy-five,” the big black man answered. “And most nobody else’ll talk to me.”

Waldo opened the stainless door to the fridge and took out three hot dogs which he laid in a row on the cutting table. He cut them in two and picked up one of the pieces.

“How about it?” Waldo asked. Charley looked at him with gold-flecked eyes, his tail dusting the floor, and rolled his lips back over his teeth in what might be considered a smile.

“Good boy,” said Waldo, tossing the piece which Charley caught in his mouth.

Cody ate his breakfast in silence, throwing Waldo a nod of approval, while Waldo tossed frankfurter slices to Charley.

Two burly-looking men entered the diner. They were dressed for hard work and one had a stevedore’s hook hanging over his shoulder. He looked at Charley through puffy, hangover eyes. “Dogs ain’t allowed in restaurants,” he said harshly.

“What’s the matter,” the captain answered pleasantly. “You don’t like dogs?”

“No. One bit me once when I was a kid. I still got the scar on my leg.”

“Dogs are like people. Some bite and some don’t.”

“He still don’t belong in here.”

“He’s a seeing eye dog,” Cody said with a trace of smile.

“Oh yeah? You don’t look blind to me,” the stevedore snapped back.

“It’s his day off. We always have breakfast together on his day off.” Cody paid the check and they left.

The stevedore watched them through the window and mumbled, “Dumb mutt.”

Waldo stared at the stevedore for a moment and closed the conversation. “He’s smarter than most people I know,” Waldo said. “He was one of the first rescue dogs at Ground Zero on 9/11.”

Δ

By seven-five, his morning ritual over, the captain was back at his apartment, had showered, and was toweling off when his cell phone buzzed.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Cal. Looks like we got one.”

“Where?”

“East side. Seventy-third between 3
^rd
and Lex. Rizzo should be out front as we speak.”

“You there?”

“Already started the drill.”

“On my way.”

He looked out the window just as the black Ford pulled in front.

Cody dressed quickly in dark gray slacks and a brown turtle neck, slipped on his shoulder holster, a black sports jacket; and pulled on a pair of black Bally boots, then reached for his hunting knife, checked its blade, and tucked it into the holster. His briefcase was sitting beside the door—an old-fashioned, weathered-leather satchel like doctors once carried when they made house calls. He grabbed it on the way out.

“Stay, Charley, I’ll be back later,” he said. The dog stared after him for a few moments then wandered into the corner of the living room, stretched out on a large fleece mat, and dozed off.

The captain moved quickly down the stairs to the door and raced to the car. Rizzo swung the door open and he jumped in.

“Morning, Frank,” he said, slamming the door behind him.

“And a good morning to you, Micah,” Rizzo answered.

He put the big car in gear and they took off.

Δ

Rizzo was a big man, his craggy face a map of thirty years on the NYPD. He was over six-feet tall, muscular, with white hair and a handlebar mustache to match. He had a barbed wire sense of humor which masked a sentimental side that was unusual for a cop of his experience who had lost his wife to cancer a few years earlier. Years of routine dictated his appearance. Dark suit, starched button-down shirt, silk tie, shoes agleam. His alert blue eyes were always on the rove. He didn’t miss a thing. After ten years in homicide he was getting bored with the routine and was considering early retirement when Cody asked him to lunch one day. Over hamburgers and a beer at P. J. Clark’s, Cody proposed.

“I’d like you to be my number one in a new outfit we’re putting together, Sergeant,” Cody said.

“What do I do?” Sergeant Rizzo asked

“Teach me what you know and keep me out of trouble,” Cody answered with a casual smile.

Rizzo knew about Cody, admired his free-wheeling M.O. and his reputation as a tough, intuitive, wily detective with a unique approach to a crime scene and a legendary record for solving tough homicides. Cody was also known as an introspective cop who avoided headlines, preferring to let others take the glory. He was in his thirties at the time he made captain, unheard of in the ranks of the PD.

“What’s this outfit called?” Rizzo asked.

“The Tactical Assistance Squad.”

Rizzo had no idea at the time what the TAZ, an acronym for which it would become known in the PD, was all about. He didn’t care either. He liked Micah Cody instantly.

“What the hell,” he said, “you’re on.”

Cody reached in his pocket, took out a gold badge and slid it across the table.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” he said.

It was a marriage made in heaven. They had put together a hand-picked crew of mostly young men and women who fit their own peculiar, sometimes eccentric, way of approaching homicides. They were not disenchanted by long days, hard work, and sporadic disappointments. The mentoring of Cody and Rizzo fueled it. Respect for each other’s sometimes wildly divergent ideas and intuitions energized it. Challenge kept it focused.

The final member of the TAZ was a loner. A free lancer. The forensic pathologist named Max Wolfsheim whom Cody and Rizzo had lured from retirement with a promise that he could do things his own way, taking on cases that would add new glory to an already legendary resume. Wolfsheim had not been disappointed. He was also keenly aware that life in the TAZ had kept him from a slow descent into bootless old age. He was a garrulous, often impatient and worrisome genius.

“I just felt the earth tremble, Wolf must be on his way,” Rizzo had once told a young member of the crew. It was an aphorism well-earned.

Δ

Rizzo was the best driver in the squad. He sped across town to Third Avenue and grabbed a left, alternately pumping brake and gas pedal, weaving through the early morning traffic like an old-timer qualifying at the Brickyard. He filled in Cody on the run, never taking his eyes off the street.

“Cal fields a 911 to NYPD at six-fifty-eight. A housekeeper on her cell phone. She’s pretty hysterical. Says somebody killed the man she works for and gives the address. Cal calls central and tells them he’s on it, then he calls the Loft and Hue answers and passes the call to me. Cal gets to the address and luckily finds a place to park. It’s a brownstone, second floor. He’s there now, calming the woman down. Left the front unlocked. Says nobody is wise yet and the scene is clean.”

“That’s a break. Can we keep it that way?”

“I called Stinelli and told him we had what appears to be a homicide, that Bergman is at the scene, and we’re on the way. He’s cool with that.”

“That’s Rick McKeown’s turf.”

“Yeah.”

“Stinelli will deal with Rick if it’s something we should handle. Rick loves it when we do his work for him.”

“Yup,” Rizzo said, turning onto East 73
^rd
Street. “On the left, two doors off Lex.”

It was a tree-lined street of brownstones, empty except for a man in a hooded jacket walking his dog.

“Nice and quiet, so far.”

“Seven-thirty,” was all Rizzo said.

He stopped and Cody grabbed his satchel and got out while Rizzo stayed on the move, circling the block and waiting for instructions. Cody entered the narrow, three-story brownstone squeezed between two taller buildings.

It had a cramped hallway, like most brownstones, but pale green Berber carpeting and pastel yellow walls brightened the gloomy atmosphere often found in these older buildings. Stairs on the left. Apartments on both sides of the hall. A private elevator at end of the hall. So quiet you could hear a mouse snore except for the muffled sobs coming from above.

Cody followed the sound to the second floor and faced a small, pleasant sitting room at the end of the hallway. Cal Bergman was waiting for him, comforting a woman seated on a couch nestled between two ficus trees under a bank of soft grow lights. The hallway was dark except for a faux Tiffany lamp on an end table beside the sofa.

The woman looked terrified, close to shock, and was clutching a bottle of spring water in one hand while Bergman held her other hand. She looked up wide-eyed and gasped as Cody reached the top of the stairs.

Bergman quickly reassured her.

“Mrs. Kearney, this is Captain of Detectives Cody,” he said. Cal Bergman was six feet tall, making him two inches taller than Cody, a lean blonde in his early thirties wearing a dark blue suit.

“Mrs. Kearney,” Cody said in a soft pleasant voice as he walked over to them. “Inspector Bergman has filled me in a bit. I understood you’ve had a terrible experience here this morning.”

Her eyes welled with tears and she began to shake. Cody squatted down in front of her, staring straight into her eyes. She was about fifty, a bit on the heavy side, dressed in slacks, a sweater and Nike sneakers. Her brown eyes were tear-streaked, her hair close cropped and turning gray. Her strong face had seen better days.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Cody said. “Take a deep breath and swallow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. I know Cal, here, has talked to you but I’d like you to answer a few questions for me.”

She nodded.

“What’s your first name?”

“Wilma,” she stammered.

“Okay if I call you Wilma?”

She tried a smile. “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Are you married, Wilma?

“I’m a widow. My husband worked for the Transit. He had a heart attack five years ago.”

“And what’s your employer’s name?”

She sucked in her breath. Veins stood out on her forehead. Her throat bobbed with sorrow.

“Take a drink of water, it’ll help.”

She took a sip and then the dam broke: “Raymond Handley. He’s such a nice young man, a stock broker, a very successful stock broker with Marx, Stembler and, uh…”

“Trexler?” Bergman offered.

“Thank you. Mister Handley is a vice president and he’s only, like, thirty-nine. He’s engaged to Linda Stembler, Mister Stembler’s daughter.” Her voice cracked, and she had to take another sip of water. “She goes to college in Boston. She comes down on weekends sometimes and sometimes he visits her up there. He’s very kind, pays well, and he’s very neat.” The tears started again. “A very neat young man. He works very hard.”