that by the time they got back to their car and gave chase, Guista would be gone.
Mac looked down at the street about where the driver's side entrance of Guista's car would have been. The splotch of blood was about the size of the top of a Pepsi can. Guista was bleeding more now. His run to the truck had made his wound worse.
Stella had a small kit in her pocket. She knelt next to the splotch of blood, took out a swab, collected and bottled a blood sample. She did the same with a second swab and bottle and then put the samples back into the kit and her pocket.
A few people walking by paused to watch, but only for a few seconds. It was just too damned cold.
'Now?' Stella said, getting up, trying not to show the ache in her arms and legs.
'We call hospitals,' Mac said as a car with illegal snow chains rattled past them. 'We call for a lookout on the truck.'
'He's bleeding badly, deep,' Stella said, looking at the dark red blood. 'He may not make it to a hospital.'
'He may not try,' said Mac. 'Flack?'
'Broken ribs. Guista sat on his chest. He should be fine,' said Stella. 'I called an ambulance.'
'I'll go back to him,' Mac said, heading back toward the apartment building. 'You go back to the lab, make the calls. I…'
Mac's phone was ringing. He took it from his pocket and pushed the talk button. Stella hurried ahead of him toward the car parked more than a block away.
'Yes,' Mac said.
'Found the bullet in the shaft,' said Aiden. 'You were right.'
'I'll be in as soon as I can get there.'
'That's not all,' said Aiden. 'Danny's got something you'll want to hear.'
'Tell him I'm coming in,' Mac said.
They met almost two hours later. It was close to seven. Aiden hadn't had her shower. Two bags of rolls and bread from Marco's Bakery in the Bronx sat untouched on the table.
After taking Flack to the hospital for X rays and to have his ribs taped, Mac had picked up gyros and drinks from a nearby Greek restaurant.
They ate slowly except for Stella, who nibbled at the crust of her pita bread.
'Heel marks in the hall at the bakery definitely came from Collier's shoes,' said Danny. 'I checked. He must have been strangled at the bakery.'
Mac looked at Aiden.
'Bullet that killed Lutnikov was a.22,' she said.
'Louisa Cormier has a.22,' Mac said.
'But it hasn't been fired,' Aiden responded.
'Maybe she has another one,' said Mac. 'Or she got rid of the one that had been fired and replaced it with the one we saw.'
'Covering her ass,' said Stella.
'She's a mystery writer,' said Mac.
'We should have checked the registration on the gun she showed us. Do we have enough for a warrant?' asked Aiden.
'No,' said Mac. 'Did you notice Louisa Cormier's hands when we talked to her?'
'Clean,' Aiden said with a shrug.
'Scrubbed clean,' said Mac. 'Her hands were red. Why?'
Mac looked around and waited.
'Lady Macbeth,' said Danny.
'Mystery writer,' said Stella. 'Residue. Gunshot residue. She's afraid we'll find it.'
Mac held up the gunshot residue information report Aiden had prepared.
During the discharge of a firearm, gases escaping from the gun leave a residue on the shooter's hand and clothing, principally lead, barium, and antimony.
'She can't get it all off,' said Aiden.
They all knew that samples would have to be taken from Louisa Cormier's skin and then examined in the lab for atomic absorption under a scanning electron microscope.
'Maybe she doesn't know she can't get it all off,' said Mac. 'She checks the Internet and then starts scrubbing, probably burns whatever clothing she was wearing.'
'So?' asked Danny. 'Can we force her to use a GSR kit on her hands?'
'Not with the evidence we have,' said Aiden, 'but maybe we can worry her into making a mistake.'
'How?' asked Danny.
'We lie to her,' said Aiden. 'And Mac's the best liar I know.'
'Thanks,' said Mac. 'First thing in the morning then. Anything new on Guista?'
'Nothing yet,' said Stella.
'How's Don?' asked Danny.
'Out of the hospital,' said Mac. 'Doctor told him to go home, gave him pain pills. He's probably in bed by now.'
Mac was wrong.
Don Flack, trying not to shiver, stood in front of the small house in Flushing, Queens and rang the bell. It was after nine. Night had dropped the temperature to just below zero degrees and that wasn't counting the wind chill.
There were lights on inside the house. He rang again, trying not to breathe deeply. The doctor who taped his ribs, Dr. Singh, had told him to take one of the hydrocodine tablets and go to bed. Don had taken half his advice. He had downed one tablet before he left the hospital.
The door opened. The warmth of the house greeted him and he found himself facing a pretty brunette teenage girl holding a book.
'Yes?' she asked.
'Is Mr. Taxx home?' he asked.
'Yes,' the girl said. 'I'll get him. Come in.'
Flack stepped in, closing the door behind him.
'Are you all right?' the girl asked.
'I'm fine,' he said.
She nodded and strode away into a room on the right calling, 'Dad, there's someone here to see you.'
The girl returned almost immediately to face Flack.
The warmth of the house, the stab of pain, and the hydrocodine got to the detective. He must have swayed slightly.
'Are you sick?' the girl asked.
'I'm fine,' he lied.
Ed Taxx came out of the room the girl had gone into seconds earlier. He wore jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a New York Jets sweat shirt.
'Flack,' he said, 'you all right?'
'Fine, can we talk?'
'Sure,' said Taxx. 'Come on in. You want some coffee, tea, a shot of something?'
'Coffee,' said Flack, following him, controlling a need to wince.
'Could you get a cup of coffee for Detective Flack?' Taxx asked the girl.
The girl nodded.
'Cream, sugar, Equal?' she asked.
