and the morning briefing.
Yesterday’s rain and snow had caused a dip in the usual Saturday night violence. A brawl outside a popular club had sent two men to the emergency room, another had been stabbed at a poker game, and an old woman was badly clubbed because she would not give her son money, but Phil Lundigren was their only homicide. Citywide, his was the first of the year. Last year, less than five hundred cases had been documented and the homicide rate kept dropping. Murder by gunshot still led the statistics, with blunt instruments a distant third. If they could shut off the trafficking of illegal guns from other states, the number of murders could be cut by half. In the meantime, the city’s controversial stop-and-frisk program did seem to be finding fewer and fewer guns.
Turning to their case, she learned that Hentz had already briefed them so that they were up to speed and ready to get the wheels moving.
“Any word from the ME yet?” Sigrid asked.
“Not yet,” said Hentz.
“What about Mrs. Lundigren?”
“Still under sedation,” Urbanska reported. “Yanitelli stopped by on his way in to work and got her prints.”
She set her own coffee cup on the edge of her desk and flipped open her notebook. Hentz reached over and moved the cup away from her hands before she could forget it was there and send it flying.
“The doctor on duty’s going to give her a mental evaluation this morning. He said we could probably question her after lunch, and if that goes okay they might release her this afternoon and let her go home.”
Sigrid turned to Hentz. “She told us she had no relatives. What about him?”
“None that the elevator man knew about. Want me to get a search warrant for the apartment? See if there’s anything there to point us toward his killer?”
She nodded.
With an urban detective’s disdain for someone who drawled like a hick, Hentz asked, “What about the stuff that was stolen from Sheriff Mayberry and his wife?”
“Major Bryant and Judge Knott?” Sigrid remembered that Kate had once said that her brother-in-law was former Army Intelligence, but why spoil it for Hentz? “It would appear that the only things taken from that apartment were an earring and a small bronze sculpture that my grandmother had sent up with them.”
That statement hung in the air for an awkward moment. Only Urbanska was artless enough to look up from her notes and say, “Your grandmother, ma’am?”
“Judge Knott is distantly related to her.” Her tone did not invite further exploration of that relationship.
“What’s this sculpture thing look like?” asked one of the detectives.
“I’ve only seen pictures, but it seems to be several small male figures crammed into a roughly cylindrical shape about the size of a tall beer can.” Her slender fingers sketched the size and shape.
“Solid bronze?” Hentz asked.
Sigrid nodded.
“That much metal would have real heft to it. We didn’t find anything in the apartment that looked as if it had been used to clobber the victim. You think that could be our murder weapon?”
“Very possibly. I’m told that it could be valuable, so when you’re questioning the people who were at the DiSimone party last night, concentrate first on anyone who might have an art background.”
While Sam Hentz went off to find a judge who would sign a search warrant for the Lundigren apartment, Sigrid handed out the day’s assignments. In addition to last night’s violence, there were ongoing investigations into a mugging and some burglaries, and an arrest was imminent in a rape case. Detectives Elaine Albee and Jim Lowry were tasked with interviewing Luna DiSimone, who flatly refused to try to come to the station when they called her that morning.
“She says the snow’s too deep,” Albee reported, wrinkling her pretty nose in scorn.
“Then you’ll have to go to her,” Sigrid said. “We need a complete list of everyone who was there last night, especially anyone with a knowledge of art.”
It occurred to her that perhaps Deborah Knott or her husband could email them the pictures on their digital camera, so she went into her office and called Deborah’s number. One ring and a male voice said, “Deborah Knott’s phone.”
“Sigrid?”
She glanced at her watch. “You’re out early.”
“I never left,” he said and explained about his missing overcoat, his shoes, and the sold-out hotel. “The Bryants were kind enough to offer me a room, and I took it. It was after two before we got to bed, though, and I don’t think they’re awake yet, but if you want I can knock on their door and—oh, wait a minute! Hang on, here’s Bryant now.”
She heard Buntrock explaining, and a moment later Dwight Bryant said, “Lieutenant Harald?”
“Sorry to bother you, Major, but I saw that your wife has her laptop and I was hoping one of you could send me a picture of that maquette that my grandmother sent up?”
“Be glad to if Deb’rah brought along the little gizmo that reads the camera card.”
Sigrid gave him the address, then asked to speak to Buntrock again.
“Elliott, I’m sorry about last night. I’m told that you expected me to come back up to the sixth floor. I didn’t realize.”
