“I think he’s the one who called me on the phone last night,” Myron said. “Whatever blackmail scheme Liz Gorman was running, it’s natural to think that Whiteman was in on it too.”
“But why you?” Win asked. “If he has dirt on Greg Downing, why would you be the target of his extortion?”
It was a question that had been gnawing at Myron too. “I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “The best guess I can come up with is that Whiteman recognized me at the diner. He probably figures that I’m closely connected to Greg Downing. When he couldn’t reach Greg, he decided to try me.”
Myron’s cellular phone rang. He flicked it on and said hello.
“Hey, Starsky.” It was Dimonte.
“I’m Hutch,” Myron said. “You’re Starsky.”
“Either way,” Dimonte said, “I think you’ll want to get your butt over to the precinct pronto.”
“You got something?”
“Only if you call a picture of the killer leaving Gorman’s apartment something,” Dimonte said.
Myron almost dropped the phone. “For real?”
“Yep. And you’ll never guess what.”
“What?”
“It’s a she.”
Chapter 31
“Here’s the deal,” Dimonte said. They were threading their way through a veritable United Nations of cops, witnesses, and whatnots. Win was waiting outside. He didn’t like cops, and they didn’t exactly feel like taking him out for ice cream. Best for all if he kept his distance. “We got a partial image of the perp on a videotape. Problem is, it’s not enough to make an ID. I thought maybe you’d recognize her.”
“What kind of videotape?”
“There’s a shipping garage on Broadway between One Hundred Tenth and One Hundred Eleventh streets, east side of the block,” Dimonte said. He remained a pace ahead of Myron, moving briskly. He kept turning behind him to make sure Myron was keeping up. “They handle home electronics. You know how that is—every worker steals like it’s a Constitutional right. So the company set up surveillance cameras all over the place. Videotape everything.” Still moving he shook his head, awarded Myron a toothpickless smile and added, “Good old big brother. Every once in a while somebody tapes a crime instead of a bunch of cops beating up a perp, you know what I’m saying?”
They entered a small interrogation room. Myron looked into a mirror. He knew it was one-way glass—so did anybody with even a passing knowledge of cop shows or movies. Myron doubted anybody was on the other side, but he stuck his tongue out just in case. Mr. Mature. Krinsky was standing by a television and a VCR. For the second time today, Myron was going to watch a video. He trusted this one would be more tame.
“Hey, Krinsky,” Myron said.
Krinsky barely nodded. Mr. Loquacious.
Myron looked over at Dimonte. “I still don’t see how a shipping garage camera could have gotten the killer on tape.”
“One of the cameras is by the truck entrance,” Dimonte explained. “Just to make sure nothing falls off the truck as it’s leaving, if you know what I mean. The camera catches part of the sidewalk. You can see people walking by.” He leaned up against the wall and motioned Myron to sit in a chair. “You’ll see what I mean.”
Myron sat. Krinsky hit the play button. Black and white again. No sound again. But this time the shot was from above. Myron saw the front end of a truck and behind it, a glimpse of the sidewalk. Not many people walked by; the ones that did were barely more than distant silhouettes.
“How did you come up with this?” Myron asked.
“With what?”
“This tape.”
“I always check for this stuff,” Dimonte said, hitching up his pants by belt loops. “Parking garages, storage houses, any of those places. They all have surveillance cameras nowadays.”
Myron nodded. “Good work, Rolly. I’m impressed.”
“Wow,” Dimonte said, “now I can die happy.”
Everyone’s a wiseass. Myron turned his attention back to the screen. “So how long is each tape?”
“Twelve hours,” Dimonte replied. “They change them at nine A.M. and P.M. Eight camera set-up. They keep each tape for three weeks. Then they tape over them.” He pointed his fingers. “Here she comes now. Krinsky.”
Krinsky pressed a button and the tape froze.
“The woman who just entered the picture. On the right. Heading south, which would be away from the scene.”
Myron saw a blurry image. He couldn’t see a face or even gather much about her height. She wore high heels and a long overcoat with a frilly neck. Hard to tell much about her weight either. The hair however was familiar. He kept his tone neutral. “Yeah, I see her.”
“Look at her right hand,” he said.
Myron did. There was something dark and long in it. “I can’t make it out.”
“We got it blown up. Krinsky.”
Krinsky handed Myron two large black and white photographs. The woman’s head was enlarged in the first one, but you still couldn’t see any facial features. In the second picture, the long dark object in her hand was clearer.
“We think it’s a plastic garbage bag wrapped around something,” Dimonte said. “Kind of an odd shape, wouldn’t you say?”
Myron looked at the photo and nodded. “You figure it’s covering up a baseball bat.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Myron said.
“We found plastic garbage bags just like that one in Gorman’s kitchen.”
“And probably half the kitchens in New York City,” Myron added.
“True enough. Now look at the date and time on the screen.”
On the top left-hand side of the screen, a digital clock read 02:12.32 A.M. The date was early Sunday morning. Just hours after Liz Gorman had been at the Swiss Chalet bar with Greg Downing.
“Did the camera get her coming the other way?” Myron asked.
“Yeah, but it’s not too clear. Krinsky.”
Krinsky hit the rewind button. Several seconds later, he stopped and the picture came back on. The time now read 01:41.12. A little more than thirty minutes earlier.
“Coming now,” Dimonte said.
The image almost flew past. Myron only recognized the woman by the long overcoat with the frilly neck. This time, she was carrying nothing in her hand. Myron said, “Let me see the other part again. All the way through.”
Dimonte nodded at Krinsky. Krinsky found it and hit play. While Myron still couldn’t see the woman’s face, her walk was another matter. And a person’s walk could be fairly distinctive. Myron felt his heart crawl up into his throat.
Dimonte was studying him through squinting eyes. “You recognize her, Bolitar?”
Myron shook his head. “No,” he lied.
Chapter 32
Esperanza liked to make lists.
