appointments, you know?”
“That’s very good, Wilma. Now we’re going to take you home, okay?”
“I can go home, then?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Cal, take Mrs. Kearney downstairs. Frank’ll be waiting.”
“Right.”
“I’m so sorry,” Wilma said and began to sob again.
“I know,” Cody reassured her. “It’s not your fault, Wilma. Lieutenant Frank Rizzo is waiting downstairs. He’ll drive you.”
“Thank you. I’m so sorry.”
Bergman took Wilma Kearney by the arm and helped her down the stairs.
Cody punched in Rizzo’s secured cell number.
“Hey,” he answered.
“Where are you?”
“Half a block away.”
“We got a beaut. The housekeeper’s really spooked. Cal’s bringing her down. Run her home. Turn on the charm. Let her talk and run the recorder. She didn’t tell us much. She was about to go operatic on me and I don’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood. All we know is she thinks her boss is inside the apartment dead and I’m inclined to take her word for it.”
“Suicide?”
“We’ll soon know. Cal and I will make the entry. I wanted to get her out of here before we go in.”
“Gotcha.”
“Stay with her, Frank. I don’t know what’s in there, but right now she’s the only witness we got. Might be a good idea to give her a sedative.”
“Right. She married?”
“Widow.”
“Where’s she live?”
“Avenue B.”
“Here they are,” Rizzo said.
“Have fun.”
“Oh, sure. You know me, I love to baby sit hysterical widows.”
Cody snapped the cell phone shut, looked over his shoulder and took a momentary sideways glance at apartment three, which was directly across the hall from Handley’s, and reached for his satchel.
He knelt down and snapped open the bag. Arranged in the bag were latex gloves, surgeon’s scrubs, a Streamlight Stinger flashlight, a digital camera, laptop, note pads, several Post-it pads in different colors, lock needles, several vials of chemicals including one labeled “black moss,” needle nose pliers, wire cutters, a portable blue light blood scanner, a. 25 caliber S amp;W-which he’d never used in the line of duty-a radio headset attached to a small tape recorder, and a myriad of other tools of his trade neatly arranged in specially made pockets.
He took out the flashlight and bathed the lock to apartment four with light, checking it for telltale scratches, leaned closer and sniffed the area.
Cal Bergman came up the stairs two at a time, carrying an aluminum case.
“You get lost?” Cody said without looking at him.
“Had to get my case from the car. I got the keys from Wilma.” He stooped over and whispered in Cody’s ear: “We got company in number three.”
“Yeah. I noticed movement behind the peephole.”
“Her name’s Amelie Cluett. Masseuse.”
“Interesting. So you did get something out of Wilma,” Cody said with a smile.
“I tried to keep her talking so she wouldn’t get too wacky before you got here.”
“Very good. Let’s suit up.”
“Aren’t we waiting for back-up?”
“There’s nobody else in there. You got a cold?”
Cal shook his head, looking at Cody with a question on his face.
“Get close to the door and take a whiff.”
Cal leaned close to the door jamb, sniffed hard and his head jerked back.
“Handley’s been dead awhile,” Cody said. “I doubt anybody’s sitting shiva with him. We’ve got a virgin crime scene here, let’s work it before anybody else shows up and contaminates it.”
“You got a nose like a bloodhound,” Cal said, opening his case and getting his scrubs and flashlight. “No normal human being can smell a thing.” They both put on scrub booties, caps and latex gloves. Bergman drew his. 38 and held it against his leg as Cody put on his headset and recorder and unlocked the door. He slowly pushed it open about a foot. Cody’s nose wrinkled. Cal laughed.
“Wilma left a light on,” said Cal.
“Yeah, she was in one big hurry.”
Cody looked down and smiled. He reached in and flicked off the light. While Bergman scanned the apartment with his flashlight, Cody squatted down, reached around the partially open door and studied the carpeting with his Stinger.
“Well, look what we got,” he said with delight. He reached in with his free hand and lovingly stroked the top of the thick, plush floor covering. “Shag carpeting.”
He edged the door open another six inches, got on his knees and held his light close to the floor letting the beam skim back and forth across the tufted floor.
“You a hunter, Cal?”
“Never could get into it.”
“First thing a good hunter looks for is paw prints. And we got a lot of ‘em. Put your gun up, pal. The only thing living in here is probably flies.”
Cody turned on the tape recorder and started dictating all his remarks into the headset mike.
“This is Captain Micah Cody of the TAZ accompanied by detective Calvin Bergman. It is…8:01 a.m., October 26th, 2008…We are about to make entry into Apartment Four at 981 East 73rd Street which we have been informed is the residence of a Raymond Handley who has been reported DOA by his housekeeper, Wilma Kearney.” He pushed the pause button.
“Cal, let’s see if we can run a timeline on all these prints. Remember what Wilma said about vacuuming?”
“Yeah. She vacuumed the carpet yesterday afternoon.”
“Where is the vacuum cleaner stored?”
“In a closet to the left of the front door.”
“Remember what kind of shoes she was wearing today?”
“Nikes.
“Good, we’ll label these Subject A and we will mark them with Post-its and arrows indicating the direction in which they are going.”
Cody swept the light beam across the floor, leaned around the front door and flashed it at the foot of the closet door.
“We got a pair of Nikes going from the closet door out the front door. Partially obliterated by the arc the closet door and front door made opening and closing but still visible. So we can assume these were made yesterday afternoon after Subject A vacuumed and put the cleaner back in the closet and left. You buy that?”
“Reasonable.”
He swung the beam to his left.
“And here they are again, going in the front door,” he swung the beam into the room, “toward the entranceway to the library, stopping, and then coming back out. That would have been Subject A coming in this morning, seeing Handley, and splitting in one helluva hurry.”
“How about these others?”
