Law & Order Dead Line Read online

  “Could use a smoke.”

  “Can’t do that,” said Briscoe.

  Santonio seemed to be searching the corners for cobwebs.

  “Look,” said Briscoe. “It didn’t really help Mrs.

  Santonio to make her run.”

  “She didn’t do nothing, but you would punish her all the same. Cops are all the same. Judges are all the same.”

  “She pawned that laptop, Guillermo. That makes it look like she stole it. She’s a maid. She has a passkey.”

  “Ermilia is no thief.”

  “But you need money for the baby.”

  “We work hard! Do you think thieves would work like we do?” His voice ground like gravel. “All I want is for my son to be born in a country where the gov-ernment cannot do this”—he pointed to his bad eye—“to a ten-year old boy.” He broke down and began to mumble Madre de Dios, Madre de Dios, over and over.

  Briscoe glanced at the one-way mirror, shrugged, and handed Santonio his handkerchief. Eventually, 48

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  Santonio said gracias. Briscoe put a hand on Santonio’s shoulder and spoke quietly.

  “Look, Guillermo, Ermilia could be in a lot of trouble. She ran from the police. If we have a lot of trouble finding her…”

  “All I care is that you do not find her until my son is born. Then you cannot send her back.”

  Briscoe tugged at Santonio’s arm to look him in the eye. “I can understand your troubles, Guillermo, but the district attorneys? You’ll just be another notch on their guns.”

  Santonio seemed to be resigned to his fate, not really rising to Briscoe’s threats. Briscoe continued, but Santonio held to his story. Filling out some paperwork on a clipboard, Van Buren remained in the room with Green. After nearly forty-five minutes, he said,

  “Good cop’s not working.”

  “And you want to play bad cop, I suppose?” said Van Buren.

  “Different strokes,” said Green.

  She tapped on the glass. Briscoe came out. “Yeah?”

  “What do you think, Lennie?”

  “I think he’s scared,” said Briscoe. “He loves his wife.”

  “Did he kill Barbara Chesko?”

  Briscoe shrugged. “I doubt it. Not deliberately, anyway.”

  “My turn,” said Green, but just as he moved toward the door, Santonio stood, went to the barred window and gripped it. They watched as he pulled at the bars as if to try to rip them out of the frame.

  He turned, then, looked straight at the one-way mirror and shouted, “I want a lawyer! A lawyer! Get me a lawyer. I am not saying nothing else!”

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  “Well,” said Van Buren, “it took a while for the ghost of Ernesto Miranda to dial, but the call seems to have come in.”

  50

  MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE

  520 FIRST AVENUE

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23, 2:35 P.M.

  “So, where we’re at,” said Briscoe to Assistant Medical Examiner Rodgers, “is that Guillermo Santonio is willing to plead guilty to robbing Barbara Chesko’s hotel room. His court-appointed attorney is trying to get a light sentence because he’s fessed up.”

  “Court-appointed attorneys are good at throwing their clients on the merciless mercy of the court,” said Rodgers.

  “Some of them give the D.A.s a real bad time,” said Green.

  “My theory is if you don’t have enough money to hire an attorney, you should break out of jail and rob somebody else to pay for one. Otherwise you don’t stand a chance.”

  “I’ll stay tuned for the Nightline discussion of criminal justice in America,” said Briscoe. “What I’m suspicious about is why the guy suddenly confesses.”

  “You?” Rodgers asked Green.

  “Could be. He says he got a passkey from his wife, and makes a big deal about how she didn’t know, but the hotel collects them when the maids clock out.”

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  “He denies ever seeing Barbara Chesko,” said Briscoe.

  “But if he wants to cop to the laptop,” said Green,

  “he’s welcome to the jail time.”

  “He’s just covering for his wife,” said Briscoe.

  “Which is why the D.A.’s office sent us back on the bricks. It could be that Santonio’s confessing to burglary to avoid a murder charge.”

  “Hence, your friendly M.E., a.k.a. ‘me.’”

  “Can you place the guy in the room? Is there anything here that indicates Mrs. Chesko was forced out of the window?”

  “Can’t say about him,” Rodgers said. “But there are signs that she didn’t go gently.”

  “So you are saying she was pushed?” asked Green.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Briscoe spread his hands. “Come on, doc. Help us out here. We just want to know where to file the case.

  S for ‘suicide,’ M for ‘murder,’ or A for the ever popular and always easy on the taxpayers ‘accident.’”

  “Door number one, number two, or number three: all have something going for them. No note, eh?”

  “No,” said Briscoe sharply.

  “Well, she has paint under her fingernails. It was scratched off the windowsill.” Rodgers stepped to the counter and opened a file. She spread the photographs on the counter. Green winced then forced himself to look.

  “I didn’t find any pre-death contusions that indicated anyone had struck her or gripped her arms or anything like that.” Rodgers lifted one of the photographs. “There is a scratch on her left forearm. It could have been raked by someone trying to grab at her as she fell.”

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  Green held out his arm and slowly pulled it back.

  “Or she jerked away from someone, then fell.”

  “Or it scraped the wall on the way out or down.”

  The M.E. pointed. “They’re not showing real clear, but you can see them.”

  “It looks like four parallel scratches,” said Briscoe.

  “And it could have been done by four fingernails.

  Looks like it,” said Rodgers. “I’d testify it looks like it. But it could have been something else.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Briscoe.

  “My, didn’t we wake up sarcastic today? I just gather the physical evidence, Lennie. They were fresh scratches. They didn’t bleed long. About as long as it takes to fall eight floors.”

  “But, look,” said Green, “she grabbed at the window frame, so we can rule out suicide, right?”

  “Who’s to say she didn’t change her mind at the last second?” said Rodgers. “In the split second between the trigger’s release and the powder’s igni-tion, the suicide decides to live. Bang anyway.”

  Briscoe raised an eyebrow. “You spend too much time down here communing with your clients.”

  “I could get out more, it’s true. But this one isn’t speaking clearly to me.” She lowered the arm back on the slab. “I can tell you she had sex before she died.

  Both lower orifices. Nonoxynol-9, so the penetrator used a condom.”

  “Both orifices,” said Briscoe, “so it took at least five minutes.”

  “If she was lucky,” said Rodgers. “There’s no sign of resistance. No sign of vaginal bruising. No evidence of rape. But then, sometimes there isn’t.”

  “And the nonoxynol, it matched the wrapper we found?”

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  “The wrapper wasn’t totally dry, so I’d say yes. But it means nothing. It’s the most common spermicide and one of the most common condoms. Most stores sell them.”

  “Anything else?”

  “There’s a bit of a fingerprint on the corner, but you couldn’t identify anybody from it. Not enough detail. Too few points of comparison. We could try to see if there’s anything odd about your suspect’s prints, like a scar or something, but that would be a long shot. Send down his prints, anyway.”

  “Santonio says C
hesko wasn’t in the room when he stole the laptop. We’re asking for a DNA sample and he seems willing.”

  “Bring it on, then,” said Rodgers. “But I’ll have to see if there’s anything we can compare it to.”

  “Look hard,” said Green. “We were hoping you could help.”

  “Maybe she was just looking for a quick one and picked up somebody,” suggested Rodgers. “Then maybe it depressed her.”

  “She reserved the room a day ahead,” said Green.

  “It doesn’t seem like a pickup.”

  The M.E. shrugged. “Maybe it was depressing anyway.”

  “What about pubic hairs?” asked Green. “White guy? Black?”

  “I didn’t find any. I could look again, but a hair won’t tell you much if you don’t get a follicle for the DNA.”

  “Come on, Doc,” said Briscoe. “I’d like to wrap this up before Christmas.”

  “Look,” said Rodgers, “we can almost certainly get 54

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  DNA off the bedspread, and hope it isn’t just her fluid, or maybe off the condom wrapper.”

  “We’d already planned on the neighborhood pub crawl,” said Briscoe. “And checking on boyfriends.

  I’ve got a hunch the stain came from her ex.”

  Green gave him a quizzical look. “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Can you think of any better revenge on your ex than throwing yourself out of the window after having a reunion?” said Briscoe.

  Green shook his head. “That’s like a soap opera.”

  “I’ve known two cases of it not necessarily by window.” He paused. “I’m not kidding. One splattered her brains with her husband’s forty-five at Sunday dinner.”

  “I’ll raise you by four,” said Rodgers. “My favorite was the guy who drank battery acid at a strip joint.

  His ex was performing with a snake.” Green winced.

  “Yes, a reptilian snake of the genus Python. Not one of the usual two-legged snakes.”

  “I fold,” said Briscoe. “Wait a minute. You said you could get DNA from a condom wrapper?”

  The M.E. smirked. “A guy’s in the heat of passion.

  He’s got one hand busy unzipping or groping or something. He’s in a hurry. He tears the condom open with his teeth, leaving some saliva on it.”

  “That’s good,” said Green.

  “And they teach you that in pathology school?”

  said Briscoe.

  “You learn a lot communing with the dead,” said the M.E., “and in bed, my first husband usually qualified.”

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  GLENDA ATTERBY’S APARTMENT

  345 WEST 75TH STREET

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23, 8:47 P.M.

  Glenda Atterby was in no hurry to open her door, even though she had been notified by the doorman.

  Briscoe leaned on the bell several times, then pounded the door with the heel of his fist. “Police!” he said.

  Green held up his badge in front of the peephole.

  “All right, already!” they heard her say, as she unlocked her door.

  “Are you Glenda Atterby?” asked Briscoe.

  “Yes, and you’ve interrupted Melva Patterson’s reading.”

  Six women sat in a circle in the living room behind her. The one in a wing chair had a grim expression.

  She put down her manuscript, sipped red wine from a balloon glass, and avoided looking in the detectives’

  direction. “I hate being interrupted,” she said.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your soirée, but we understand that Barbara Chesko had an appointment to be here tonight.”

  “She’s not here. Oh, God! There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

  “Can we come in?”

  Atterby backed away, then rushed to her group.

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  “Barbara!” She spun back to Briscoe. “She never misses! Don’t tell me—”

  “I’m afraid it’s bad news. Mrs. Chesko, she’s dead.”

  One guest shrieked and bit down on her fist. One threw herself against a heavyset woman and sobbed on her shoulder. The woman looked surprised, then annoyed, then rolled her eyes. Patterson gulped her wine. The other two froze in astonishment.

  “Oh my God!” said Atterby.

  “Was she murdered?” asked Patterson.

  “Why would you think she was murdered?” asked Green.

  “Because you’re policemen!” said Atterby.

  “We’re just trying to find out about her,” said Briscoe.

  “How did she die?” Patterson insisted.

  “She fell.”

  “Fell?”

  “From a window.”

  The women sat stunned. “Oh my God!” repeated Atterby, groping for a chair. “All that talent!”

  Briscoe and Green waited to let the shock subside.

  The heavyset woman seemed unable to decide what to do about the woman sobbing on her shoulder. Finally, Atterby recovered enough to shake her head and say, “Just as her novel was about to be published!”

  “Really?” asked Green. “She sold her book?”

  “She was planning to bring her contract tonight,”

  said Atterby. Several of the women looked surprised, then horrified.

  “Tonight?” asked Briscoe.

  “Bummer,” said Patterson, knocking back more wine.

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  “It was a surprise,” said Atterby, more to explain to the other women than to the detectives. “She told me she was going to bring some special news, signed and delivered.”

  “When did she say this?”

  “She telephoned me Friday. Maybe it was Saturday.

  Yes, Saturday.”

  “Did she say it was a book contract?”

  “She didn’t have to. It was all she wanted in the world. It was all she lived for.”

  “We knew she would be the one to break in,” said a woman squatting on a throw pillow.

  “There’s so much luck involved,” said Atterby. “But she was really on track.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Briscoe.

  “She had an editor really interested in her work. He was helping her put the manuscript in shape. He even recommended an editing professional to work with her.”

  “So,” said Green, “she was a pretty good writer.”

  “‘Pretty’ is condescending,” said the heavyset woman. Her voice was as hoarse as a cheese grater. “She was a good writer.”

  “Better than good,” said another. “We must never forget her.”

  “She was a great writer,” said another and dissolved in tears. Her friend soothed her.

  “Better than the rest of you?” asked Green.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” snapped the hoarse woman.

  “I mean, if she was ‘really on track,’ as you say, about to get published, you all must be pretty, I mean, good.”

  Atterby smiled. “We are. No one is allowed to bring 58

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  negativity into our group. We are here to be positive.”

  Several of the women nodded seriously, several wiping tears.

  “So, some of you must be on your way as well,”

  said Green.

  “Our luck will come,” said Patterson. “We each just need to find the right editor on the right day. Am I right?”

  Several women nodded. One rubbed at the back of her hand.

  “So, did you know this editor who was interested in Mrs. Chesko’s novel?” asked Briscoe.

  “Barbara kept it a secret,” said Atterby. “She didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “And we didn’t want to know,” insisted the heavyset woman.

  “Why not?” asked Briscoe.

  “There would be a temptation to exploit that, an imposition on our friendships, so it’s against group rules. Each of us wants to make it on her own. She would share when it was right for her. We didn’t ask, did we?”

  “No
ne of you?”

  There was a momentary silence. Patterson hesitantly spoke. “Ah, Kirstner and Strawn.” She glanced at her friends. “We went to Barnes and Noble after the session at Hannah’s.” She turned toward the hoarse woman. She was presumably Hannah. “Barbara mentioned that the new book by Suzanne Lewiston had been edited by the man who was interested in her novel.”

  “She didn’t say who?”

  “No, just the publisher: Kirstner and Strawn.”

  The editor who had been encouraging Barbara 59

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  Chesko wrote on Kirstner and Strawn stationery, Green remembered. Chesko’s date book had also listed an appointment at “K & S.”

  “Her husband—her ex, I mean. What did he think of her writing, do you know?” said Briscoe.

  “Him!” said Atterby. “He was just another man who wants one woman chained in the kitchen and another one chained to his bed.”

  “He kept telling her she needed to give up writing and get a job,” said Patterson. “And then, a month ago, he claimed he had no more money. It was an outrage.”

  “He had some business reverses, they say,” said Briscoe.

  “Like that means he didn’t have a golden parachute!” said Atterby.

  “His bimbo left him,” said Patterson. “Poor boy!”

  “The hurt he put Barbara through!” said the sniffler.

  “But it brought out her creativity,” said Hannah. “It made her stronger!” Several of them nodded.

  “Listen,” said Briscoe, “we’re trying to talk to all the people who knew her. Did she date? Did she have a steady boyfriend? Anything like that?”

  “I think she was pretty fed up with men,” said Patterson.

  “She wasn’t you know like that,” said another. “Just not wanting to get involved.”

  “Well, was there anyone she might be seeing casually?”

  “She never mentioned anyone,” said Patterson.

  “Maybe she had a reason to keep it secret? Like he was married?”

  Briscoe had clearly said the wrong thing. Atterby 60

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  bit each word. “After what happened to her, I hardly think she’d do that!”

  “We were just trying to find out why she was in a hotel in midtown,” Green explained. “Any ideas?”

  “Maybe her apartment was being painted?” said Hannah. “People get sick from the fumes.”

  Briscoe interrupted. “How did she seem lately? Was she moody? Did she seem depressed?”