“Why?”
“Because after all I’ve turned up, you can still pin this on some random street criminal, that’s why.”
“Except I don’t believe that anymore.”
“You don’t?”
Franco turned to fully face me. “No street mugger would throw away something as valuable as a handgun. He might resell it in the ’hood or stash it in his crib until the heat from his crime cooled off, but toss something like that in a Goodwill bin? That’s as good as throwing away hundreds of dollars—the kind of a thing an amateur would do, thinking he or she was making a premeditated murder look like a random street crime.”
I sat up straighter. “You’re on my side now?”
Franco nodded. “I interviewed Shelly Glockner.”
“I know. She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
Franco laughed. “I’d peg her as coldhearted enough to do the deed
Franco was right about that. Dickie was after me. But I knew he couldn’t have shot Karl—because Dickie had a solid alibi at the time Karl was killed (that VIP cocktail party he threw before the big Public Library event). I doubted Dickie pulled the trigger on Alf, either. Given what Franco had just told me about the murder weapon, I even doubted Alf’s killer was a professional Known Associate of Dickie’s. A professional assassin wouldn’t have made the mistake of getting rid of the gun in a manner the police would find suspicious. No, according to Shane Holliway, Dickie was just the go-between, someone who was helping some famous person, whom Karl was almost certainly blackmailing (according to Ben Tower). Which meant there was someone else out there, someone who wasn’t a pro, who was willing to pull the trigger—twice—for whatever it was Karl had stashed in his apartment.
“I think the person who killed Alf was the same one who killed Karl,” I said. “Do you agree?”
“Based on your investigation—yeah, I’d say it’s the same person. Keep in mind, though, whoever it was didn’t use the same gun.”
“If only there were some way to get fingerprints after they were wiped!”
“Actually, there is.”
“What?”
“Ever hear of John Bond?”
“Don’t you mean James?”
Franco shook his head. “John Bond is a scientific support manager at Northamptonshire Police and an honorary research fellow at the University of Leicester.”
“Leicester,
“That’s right. He’s been working with American law enforcement to solve cold cases.”
“How exactly?”
“Bond’s developed a new procedure for detecting fingerprints. He coats a fine conducting powder, something like what you’d see in a photocopier, onto a metal surface and applies an electric charge. Then guess what? If the fingerprint has been wiped off or even washed off, it leaves a slight corrosion on the metal—which attracts the powder when the charge is applied and shows us a residual fingerprint.”
“Are you telling me this Bond guy can find a fingerprint that’s been wiped off? That he can find out who handled Alf’s weapon?”
Franco nodded. “The technique works on everything from bullet casings to machine guns. Even better if our killer likes junk food.”
“Excuse me? Are you joking?”
He smiled but assured me, “It’s no joke. Processed and pre-packaged foods put more salt into human sweat. Salty sweat helps the microscopic corrosion process.”
I frowned at that, remembering Omar’s favorite lunch of Jamaican ackee and saltfish—his son’s messy SUV, all those empty bags of chips and snacks that Dwayne had swept into his father’s driveway...
“Anyway, even if heat vaporizes normal clues, Bond can read the fingerprints of who handled the metal. I hear they’re going to try applying the technique to roadside bomb fragments in Afghanistan.”
“I see. That’s really... amazing.”
Franco smiled. “And you thought I was just another pretty face.”
“No, Sergeant. What I thought was—I’m sorry, but I thought you might be the shooter, some kind of vigilante doling out street justice.”
“I’m not all that surprised.” He shrugged. “I know you had your boyfriend ask around about me. Whether I was a good cop.”
“And?”
“And Mike Quinn got his answers. Ask him.”
“I don’t need to, Sergeant. Not anymore.”
Franco nodded, looking pleased. “So...” He glanced at Mike’s building. “Is your man up there?”
“I don’t think so. Can I use your cell phone to call him?”
Digging into his pocket, he smirked. “As long as it’s local...”
QUINN was extremely relieved to hear from me. “I left
“I’m sorry, Mike, I didn’t have my cell phone with me—”
“When I couldn’t reach you, I finally contacted Detective Hong. He filled me in. You should be pleased, Cosi.” I could hear the pride in Quinn’s tone. “Based on what you’ve uncovered, Hong is looking for evidence to link Alf’s killing with Karl’s. They might have come to that conclusion eventually, but you speeded up the process. And crimes have a much better chance of being solved when they’re—”
“—hot, I know. What about Dickie?” I asked after recounting my adventures in the New York Public Library, including my candy cane tangle with the man’s Known Associate.
“Hong’s already reached out to the Two-Oh on that—”
“You mean the Twentieth Precinct, right?”
“Right, sorry. That’s who caught the Kovic murder. They’re picking up Dickie right now for questioning. I’ll call Hong and let him know about the man who tried to assault you in the Public Library’s basement. If Dickie doesn’t give up a name, we’ll have you go through mug shots. The Twentieth Precinct house is on Eighty-second. I’ll take you myself tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay...” I sighed with relief and explained my current dilemma. “I’m sorry, Mike, but I don’t have a key with me to get into my place or yours.”
He told me what to do and asked me to put Franco on the line.
I did, thanking the sergeant again for his help, and then I climbed out of his unmarked car, punched in the front door code on Quinn’s building, and took the elevator up to Dr. Mel Billings’s apartment (a neighbor and coworker of Quinn’s who kept a spare key to his place).
Mel let me into Quinn’s one-bedroom, and I locked the door behind me. Then I rang Tucker, left a message on his cell to take my handbag and clothes with him when he left the library, and headed straight into a hot shower.
Toweling off, I heard the front door unlock and open. I smiled with relief, already feeling better because Mike was finally home. Using a small hand dryer, I took a few minutes to fluff up my chestnut hair. Then I sprayed on a bit of perfume, glossed my lips, wrapped a terrycloth robe around me, and began swinging the bathroom door out toward the bedroom.
“Hey, big boy! Guess who?”
I froze at the sound of a strange woman’s singsong voice—and pushed the door the rest of the way open.
Sitting on Mike’s king-size bed was a tall, slender, thirtysomething woman. Her most striking feature—a silky curtain of red curls—framed a delicately sculpted face with a complexion of flawless porcelain. A Mrs. Claus baby- doll nightie barely covered the woman’s long, slender torso. Her Rockette-length legs were crossed; her pretty feet manicured with holiday red polish; and the expression in her big, blue, doll-like eyes was one of pure shock.
Okay, that made
