Dead of Winter

There's been a murder, and as the most isolated dweller in this building I'd like you to find out who did it as soon as possible. Please come in.'

She stepped back so Mac could enter. When he was inside, she closed the door.

The room was more than a room. It was a dark, marble-floored, broad expanse with a dining area bigger than Mac's apartment, with a massive wooden table and sixteen chairs around it, plus a living area that looked large enough to play tennis in furnished with brightly upholstered antique furniture. Sliding glass doors led to a balcony with a panoramic view of the city facing north.

'It is big, isn't it,' Louisa said, following Mac's eyes. 'This is the part I let Architectural Digest use, this and the kitchen, and my library/office. My bedroom however…' she pointed toward a door in the living room area, 'was off-limits to Architectural Digest, but not to you.'

'I'd be very interested in seeing all the rooms,' Mac said.

'I understand,' said the woman with a smile. 'Doing your job. Coffee?'

'No, thank you. Just a few questions.'

'About Charles Lutnikov,' she said, leading him into the living area and, with a delicate right hand, inviting him to sit where he wished.

Mac sat in an upright upholstered chair. Louisa Cormier sat across from him on a claw-legged sofa.

'You knew Mr. Lutnikov?'

'A little,' she said. 'Poor man. Met him when he first moved in. He was carrying one of my books, had no idea I lived here. I have a well-deserved reputation for being unwilling to talk about my work, but when I saw Charles in the lobby several weeks later he was carrying another of my books. Vanity.'

'He was vain?' asked Mac.

'No,' she said with a sigh. 'That's the title of the book and the main character. I was, however, succumbing to vanity when I saw Charles with one of my books. I asked him if he was enjoying it and he said he was a big fan. Then I told him who I was. For an instant he didn't believe me and then he opened his book to the inside back flap and looked at the photograph. I know what you're thinking, that he knew who I was all the time, but he didn't. I could tell. My only concern was that he not become a gushing fan. I couldn't live with a gushing fan in the same building. You know, afraid to run into him, having to make small talk. The people in this building have respected my privacy as I've respected theirs.'

'So you…?'

'Laid out ground rules,' she said. 'I'd sign his books. He was not to approach me with questions or comments if we ran into each other. We would simply smile and say 'hello.' '

'And it worked?'

'Perfectly.'

'Did he ever come up here?' Mac asked.

'Up here? No. Have you ever read any of my books?'

'No, I'm sorry,' he said.

'You needn't be. Millions, however, have.'

She smiled broadly.

'Someone in our unit is a fan,' Mac said. 'I've seen him with your books. Did you hear a shot fired this morning?'

'What time?' she asked.

'Probably around eight,' he said.

'I was out at eight,' she said seriously. 'I go out every morning.'

'Where did you go this morning?'

'Well, in good weather I walk to Central Park, but this was not the day for it,' she said. 'I bought a newspaper, had coffee at Starbucks, and came home. Please.'

She stood up and headed for the room which she had said was her office/library.

'Come,' she said. 'I'll sign a book for your police officer friend. The new one, Courting Death. It comes out in about a month.'

Mac rose to follow her and said, 'Did you hear any noise this morning?'

'No,' she said, opening the door to the office/ library. 'No, but I probably wouldn't even if someone were shot right outside my front door. I was in my office here from six till eight with the door closed, working on a new book, and then I went out.'

'You took the elevator?' asked Mac.

'You mean did I see a dead man on the elevator?' she asked. 'No I did not. I didn't use the elevator. I walked down.'

'Twenty-one flights,' Mac said flatly.

'Twenty,' she said, 'we have no thirteenth floor. I walk down the stairs every morning and after my walk, I climb the stairs. Those stairs and my walk are really the only physical exercise I get.'

The library/office was big, not as expansive as the rest of the apartment, but big enough for an ornate ebony desk with curved legs and inlaid ivory strips with a matching chair and two walls covered with shelves of books, not as many as Lutnikov had in his smaller apartment, but a sizeable number. Against another wall was a floor- to-ceiling glass-enclosed case with wooden shelves. Neatly stacked on the shelves was an odd assortment of objects.

'My collection,' Louisa Cormier said with a smile. 'Things I've used for research for my books. I try to use or at least handle crucial objects so I know what I'm talking about.'

Mac looked over the collection which included an old Arvin radio from the 1940s, a Boy Scout axe, a large crystal ashtray, an enormous bound book with a red cloth cover, an Ertй art deco statue of a sleekly dressed and coiffed woman about a foot high, a claw hammer with a dark wooden handle, a blue decorative pillow with yellow tassels and the words NEW YORK WORLD'S FAIR printed on the front, a two-foot scimitar with a gold handle, a Coke bottle from the 1940s, and dozens of other odd pieces.

'I've been told,' Louisa said, 'that if I signed them and put them on eBay the collection would be worth close to a million dollars from loyal fans.'

'No guns,' observed Mac.

'I go to gun shops and firing ranges when I write about guns,' she said. 'I don't collect them.'

There was a set of six file drawers, also ebony, against the wall behind the desk. On the wall above the file cabinets were fourteen framed awards and an eleven-by-fourteen-inch black-and-white photograph of a pretty young girl standing in front of a cleaning store.

'That was me,' she said. 'My father was the clerk in the store. I worked there after school and on Saturdays. That was back in Buffalo. We were far from well-to-do which turned out to be a blessing since I enjoy and appreciate having and spending money. Here it is.'

She was at an eye-level shelf in the right-hand corner of the room. She pulled out a book, opened it to the title page, and asked, 'Who is it for?'

'Sheldon Hawkes,' Mac said.

She wrote with a slight flourish, closed the book, and handed it to Mac.

'Thanks,' he said taking the book.

There was a computer, a Macintosh, on the desk and a printer, no scanner, no state-of-the-art accessories.

'Anything else?' she asked folding her hands, her smile broad, warm.

'Nothing now,' said Mac. 'Thanks for your time.'

She ushered him to the front door and opened it. Aiden stood in the hallway, metal case in one hand.

'If I can be of any further help…' said Louisa Cormier.

'Do you have any hired help?' Mac asked.

'No,' she said. 'A cleaning crew comes in and cleans every three days.'

'Secretary?' he asked.

Louisa cocked her head slightly to the left like a frail curious bird and said, 'Ann Chen. She keeps my social and business calendar, protects me from reporters, fans, and the idly curious, and handles my correspondence and Web page.'

'She work here?' asked Mac.