“Got a stiff in the cellar,” he said. “Hispanic male, maybe forty, forty-five, shot once in the back of the head. Got a tattoo on his right biceps says Rosa.”
“Francisco,” I said. “The super.”
Belson nodded.
“He have a passkey?”
“Sure,” I said.
“That’s probably how they got in,” he said.
I nodded.
“Take some scientists down there, Stevie,” Belson said. “I’ll be right there.”
He looked at me
“You wanna take a look?”
“I would,” I said.
And we headed to the cellar.
39
Francisco had been a good guy, and clever with his hands. He could fix a lot of stuff. Now he was facedown on the floor of his basement workroom with a small, dark hole at the base of his skull, in a pool of his blood dried and blackened on the floor.
“Keys?” Belson said.
Stevie shook his head. “Haven’t seen any.”
“Normally carried them in front, hooked to a belt loop,” I said. “Large bunch. You could hear him coming. They may be under him.”
“Turn him,” Belson said.
And a couple of technicians turned him up on his side. The bullet had apparently exited his forehead and made a much larger hole, from which the blood had come. The keys were on his belt loop. The technicians let him back down as he had been. Belson squatted on his haunches and looked at the bullet hole.
“Big caliber,” he said.
“Big enough,” I said.
Belson stood up.
“Bell marked
“Yes,” I said.
“So they ring the bell,” Belson said to whatever he was looking at in the middle distance. “He lets them in. They point a gun at him, and since they don’t know the layout here, he takes them to your place and opens the door.”
“Then they walk him to the cellar and into his office,” I said, “and execute him.”
“No witness,” Belson said.
He appeared to be staring blankly at nothing. But I’d known him a long time, and I knew he was seeing everything in the room and could give you an inventory of it a week later. A Homicide dick named Perpetua came into the room.
“Look around, Pep,” Belson said. “When you’re done, come talk to me.”
Perpetua nodded and took out a notebook.
To me, Belson said, “Let’s you and me go someplace and talk.”
We went up from the basement and sat on the stairs between the first and second floor.
“Couple things,” Belson said.
His cell phone rang. Belson listened, nodding slightly. At one point he smiled.
“She did, huh?” he said.
More listening.
“Thanks,” Belson said, and broke the connection.
“Susan’s fine,” he said. “She was with a patient and wasn’t pleased about the interruption.”
“She speak sharply to anyone.”
“I believe she called the prowl-car guy a ‘fucking ass-hole, ’ ” Belson said.
“That would be my Sweet Potato,” I said.
“Cruiser will stay there, anyway, out front, for the day, at least.”
