“In a dive bar,” Myron corrected. “Why there? Why not go to a hotel or her place?”
“Perhaps because it is out of the way. Perhaps, as you implied, Liz Gorman would want to keep out of the public eye. Such a bar might be a good alternative.” He stopped steepling and lightly drummed his fingers on the desk. “But you, my friend, are forgetting something else.”
“What?”
“The woman’s clothes in Greg’s house,” Win said. “Your investigation has led us to conclude that Downing has a lover he was keeping secret. The question, of course is: why? Why would he work so hard to keep a love affair clandestine? One possible explanation is that the secret love was the infamous Liz Gorman.”
Myron wasn’t sure what to think. Audrey had seen Greg at a restaurant with a woman that did not fit Liz Gorman’s description. But what did that mean? It might have been another date. It might have been something innocent. It might have been a side affair, who knows? Still, Myron had trouble buying a romantic entanglement involving Greg Downing and Liz Gorman. Something about it just didn’t wash. “There must be a way of tracing down this screen name and finding out the user’s real identity,” he said. “Let’s make sure it checks back to Liz Gorman or one of her aliases.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I don’t have any contacts with America Online, but someone we know must.” Win reached behind him. He opened up the paneled door on his minifridge. He tossed Myron a can of Yoo-Hoo and poured himself a Brooklyn Lager. Win never drank beer, only lager. “Greg’s money has been difficult to locate,” he said. “I’m not sure there is very much.”
“That would fit into what Emily said.”
“However,” Win continued, “I did find one major withdrawal.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars in cash. It took some time because it came out of an account that Martin Felder holds for him.”
“When did he withdraw it?”
“Four days before he disappeared,” Win said.
“Paying off a gambling debt?”
“Perhaps.”
Win’s phone rang. He picked it up and said, “Articulate. Okay, put it through.” Two seconds later he handed the phone to Myron.
“For me?” Myron asked.
Win gave him flat eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m handing you the phone because it’s too heavy for me.”
Everyone’s a wiseass. Myron took the phone. “Hello?”
“I got a squad car downstairs.” It was Dimonte in full bark. “Get your ass in it now.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m at fucking Downing’s house, that’s what’s wrong. I had to practically suck off a judge to get the warrant.”
“Nice imagery, Rolly.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Bolitar. You said there was blood in the house.”
“In the basement,” Myron corrected.
“Well, I’m in the basement right now,” he countered. “And it’s as clean as a baby’s ass.”
Chapter 21
The basement was indeed clean. No blood anywhere.
“There’s got to be traces,” Myron said.
Dimonte’s toothpick looked like it was about to snap between his clenched teeth. “Traces?”
“Yeah. With a microscope or something.”
“With a…” Dimonte flapped his arms, his face crimson. “What the hell good is traces going to do me? They don’t prove a damn thing. You can’t test traces.”
“It’ll prove there was blood.”
“So what?” he shouted. “You go through any house in America with a microscope and you’re bound to find traces of blood. Who the fuck cares?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Rolly. The blood was there.”
There were maybe five lab cops—no uniforms, no marked cars—going through the house. Krinsky was there too. The video-camera in his hand was off right now. He also had what looked like manila files jammed into his armpit. Myron motioned to them. “That the coroner’s report?”
Roland Dimonte stepped in to block Myron’s view. “That ain’t none of your business, Bolitar.”
“I know about Liz Gorman, Rolly.”
The toothpick hit the floor on that one. “How the hell…?”
“It’s not important.”
“The fuck it ain’t. What else do you know? If you’re holding out on me, Bolitar—”
“I’m not holding out on you, but I think I can help.”
Dimonte narrowed his eyes. Senor Suspicious. “Help how?”
“Just tell me Gorman’s blood type. That’s all I want to know. Her blood type.”
“Why the hell should I?”
“Because you’re not a total numb nut, Rolly.”
“Don’t give me that shit. Why do you want to know?”
“Remember I told you about finding blood in the basement?” Myron said.
“Yeah.”
“I left something out.”
Dimonte gave him the glare. “What?”
“We tested some of the blood.”
“We? Who the fuck is…” His voice trailed off. “Oh Christ, don’t tell me that psycho-yuppie is in on all this?”
To know Win was to love him. “I’d like to make a little trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
“You tell me the blood type in the report. I tell you the blood type we found in the basement.”
“Fuck you, Bolitar. I can arrest your ass for tampering with evidence in a police investigation.”
“What tampering? There was no investigation.”
“I could still nail your ass for breaking and entering.”
“If you could prove it. And if Greg were around to press charges. Look, Rolly—”
“AB positive,” Krinsky said. He ignored Dimonte’s renewed glare and continued. “It’s fairly rare. Four percent of the populace.”
They both turned their attention to Myron. Myron nodded. “AB positive. It’s the same.”
Dimonte put up both hands and scrunched his face into perplexed. “Whoa, hold up here. Just what the fuck are you trying to say? That she was killed down here and moved?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Myron said.
“Cause we didn’t see any evidence of the body being moved,” Dimonte went on. “None at all. Not that we were looking for it. But the bleeding pattern—I mean, if she was killed down here, there wouldn’t have been so much blood like that at her apartment. You saw the mess there, right?”
Myron nodded.
Dimonte’s eyes darted aimlessly. Myron could practically see the gears inside his head grinding to a halt. “You know what that means, don’t you, Bolitar?”
“No, Rolly, why don’t you enlighten me?”
“It means the killer came back here after the murder. It’s the only explanation. And you know who all this is starting to point to? Your pal Downing. First we found his fingerprints in the victim’s apartment—”
“What’s this?”
