fighting shock, his sorrow etched in the seams of his face, his swollen brown eyes glistening with unwept tears. He was unshaven and had obviously dressed in a hurry. The forty-four-year-old chef was wearing white sneakers, a pair of weathered jeans and a brown wool sweater over a white t-shirt-but his socks did not match: One was blue, the other black. He was leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together as he tried to cope with reality: The man who had adopted him as his son was dead.
Jimmy Farrell did the introductions. Ricky had a hearty handshake but his palm was wet.
“I’m sorry this has happened, Mister Crosetti,” said Cody.
Crosetti nodded, thought a moment or two, and said, “Maybe I should see Uncle Tony.”
“Look, Ricky, I think we should stick to the plan,” Farrell said. “Let the Captain and his squad do the autopsy. Then I’ll go with you and get him to the funeral home. Tell her exactly what we said, no signs of violence and we won’t know his cause of death until the autopsy is complete. Right now that’s the truth.”
“I’ve got a timeline from 11 p.m. until Ricky left at about 1:10 a.m.,” Rizzo told Cody.
“I’ve got a couple of questions for Ricky,” Cody answered.
Crosetti looked at him and said, “Okay.”
“What time did all the work staff and cleaning people leave?”
“I signed out the last one, that was my sous chef, the assistant master chef Tom Poggi, at 12:20.”
“Did they all leave by the rear entrance?”
He nodded.
“And just the two of you were left at that point? You and Tony?”
“Right.”
“Then what happened?”
“I re-mopped around the back door, some of the boys had stuff on their shoes. Uncle Tony finished doing the books and took the cash and checks down to the ATM. He left right at 12:30, way he always does. Jimmy, here, always has a squad car down at the corner of Canal Street to keep an eye on him. I went outside and had a smoke. Tony doesn’t like smoking in the place. Then I got the electric polisher and went in to do my uncle’s office, polish the floors, that is. That’s the last thing on the itinerary.”
“How long does it take you to do the office? What’s your procedure?”
“Fifteen minutes. The rest of the place is spotless. I personally check the whole restaurant before the cleaners leave. I do the polish when he’s down at the corner. He usually stops in to have a quick cup of tea with Mister Chow-he owns the Shanghai Palace-he’s never more than ten minutes with Chow. I put the rug on the desk, polish the floor-move the chair and computer desk around. Put it all back the way it was. When he comes back he locks the front door behind him, comes straight to the kitchen, I give him his glass of wine, and he sips while he checks every square inch of that kitchen. What I mean, there better not be a spot of grease on a stove or the oven or any of the pots and pans. He’s really freaky about that.”
“Where’s the wine kept?”
“He breaks open a new bottle every night from down in the wine cellar. What’s left after he has his couple of glasses goes out to the bar as bar wine the next day. First thing I do before the polish is uncork the bottle and pour him a glass, let it sit while I do the rest of the job. He likes to let it breathe. So, when he comes back he checks out the kitchen and sips his wine, then he goes to the office and I take him his supper-it’s always the special of the day-and a bottle of water. Sometimes a salad but he didn’t order one last night.”
“Do you leave the door ajar while you’re doing all this?”
“Yeah, air it out. It’s always pretty hot in there.”
“And the wine?”
“On the counter with the glass. I take the whole thing in on a tray, set it out for him, ‘ Buona notte, Padre,’ kiss him on the cheek, bring the tray back, close the shutters on the kitchen windows, lock the door as I leave.”
“The wine and water stay in there?”
“Right. He has another glass with his dinner, brings the plate, glasses, the bottle into the kitchen when he leaves, puts the dirty dishes in the sink, leaves the bottle on the counter, throws what’s left of the water in the garbage.”
“Always the same?”
“Every night. Rituals. That’s the way he is.” The dam broke as he said it. Ricky lowered his head and tears showered down his cheeks.
Cody shook his head. He looked at Farrell and nodded. “That’s all I have,” he said, and to Ricky, “I’m sorry we had to put you through this. Thanks, Ricky.” And Cody returned to the restaurant.?
“Yeah,” Cody said. “Vinnie and Winters are waiting in their car in the parking lot until the van leaves. They’ll assist Si running the grid.”
“Any signs of a struggle?” Si asked.
“No,” Annie answered. “Just some smudged footprints in front of the chair. I’m guessing they’re O.R. booties. Eight inches long, which is rather small. I pulled some blue fibers from the frost on the floor. It frosts up when you open the door; the temperature in there is zero Fahrenheit. There were also some red droplets on the floor. I assume they’re drops of wine. I’ve tubed everything from inside the freezer except the wine bottle and glass.”
Hardy returned with the gurney and a blanket.
“Brung a blanket,” he said. “He’s gonna be kinda slippery, don’t wanna drop the poor guy.”
“I’ll help you get him on the gurney,” said Annie. “We’ll lay him on sideways and cover him with the blanket.”
“Good,” Cody said. “I’ll give Si a quick tour back to the office. Meet us back there. You’ll wanna take the rug and plate with you.”
“Right.”
Cody led Si to one side. “Here’s what you need to know. Crosetti lived by rituals. Everything was done his way, every day. Everybody that works here is out by quarter after twelve. That leaves the old man and Ricky here alone.
“I think our killer knows all this. Follow me. He comes in, spikes the wine bottle and glass, walks down this hall, to the ladies rest room, comes in, comes back here to the third stall, and stands on the toilet seat. And waits. He’s in and safe. He waits until he hears Ricky give Tony his dinner, hears him close the window shutters in the kitchen, lock the door and leave, then he comes out, comes down here to the main dining room and waits in the dark. Watching. Watching Tony Crosetti eating his late night supper, sipping his wine. He waits and watches and…” Cody led Si across the darkened dining room to the office, “…at some point, Uncle Tony passes out and falls face forward into his dinner.”
Si stared at the plate and started to say something but Cody cut him off.
“Let me finish. Uncle Tony’s out cold. Our killer drags him out of his chair, lays him on the rug, wraps it up and drags him through that door to the freezer. You’ll find fibers in the tile grouting in the kitchen. Then he goes into the private dining room, takes a chair from the table, and puts it in the freezer. He undresses Tony, props him in the chair the way we found him, takes the rug back to the office and brings the wine bottle and glass back, puts it beside Tony, closes the door, and leaves. The whole trick doesn’t take more than twenty, thirty minutes. Look at the plate. Crosetti wasn’t half way through his meal when he took the dive.”
“That’s pretty good, Micah. Two questions. Why the clothes? And why put the wine and glass in the freezer?”
“You tell me, Si.”
“First of all, he froze faster naked.”
“Okay.”
“And second, there was something on the clothes, maybe some fibers, DNA, something the killer was worried about, so he copped the clothes. Why take a chance?”
“How about the bottle of wine?”
Si smiled. “He’s talking to us Micah. He’s telling us something. I told you, sooner or later they all have to mark their work, like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. And I’ll make you a ten dollar bet.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll bet you ten bucks Crosetti didn’t freeze to death.”
