White Russian Page 2

  “Hey, there's someone for everyone,” Jones replied with a wink.

  Levine took a good, long look at the bodies.

  “Got a cause of death for us, Doc?” Vic asked with a sardonic smile.

  “Not yet,” Levine said.

  “That was a joke, Doc,” Vic said. “We know the cause of death.”

  Levine looked up. “Okay, Detective. What killed her?”

  “A whole bunch of .45 slugs,” Vic said.

  “No.”

  Vic blinked. “You telling me she was already dead? Or she died of something else? Tell you what. Maybe she had a heart attack. Or how about cancer? Really, really fast-acting cancer?”

  Levine wasn't good at sarcasm. “I won't know about underlying medical conditions until I do the bloodwork and the autopsy,” she said. “But I can see she's got at least three bullet wounds to her legs and lower abdomen. Those didn't kill her. What killed her is this.” She took a pencil out of her lab coat's pocket and pointed to the hole in the middle of the woman's forehead.

  “That's what I said,” Vic said.

  “You said .45 slugs killed her,” Levine said. “This hole's too small for a .45. I'd say nine-millimeter.”

  “Nine-millimeter,” Erin echoed, scanning the floor of the room. There wasn't as much spent brass in here as outside, but it still took her a minute to find the one that was different. Then she saw it. The shell casing had flown a surprising distance, ending up at the base of the TV stand. “I've got it here,” she said, stooping to take a closer look. “One nine-millimeter pistol casing. Looks a little funny, though. Not quite like a standard nine.”

  “There's powder tattooing around the entry wound,” Levine said. “The gun was almost contact close. Probably less than a meter.”

  “Execution style,” Webb said.

  “What about the guy?” Vic asked.

  “He's got five shots in the back,” Levine said. “Both lungs perforated, along with a heart shot. He was dead by the time he hit the ground.”

  “So they mowed down the guy, then took out the girl to eliminate the witness,” Vic said.

  “Either that, or she was the target,” Erin suggested.

  “She's a hooker,” Webb said. “Look at the clothes.”

  “What's that got to do with it?” Jones retorted. “People kill hookers all the time.”

  “Prostitutes get knifed or beaten to death,” Webb said. “Not blown away with machine guns. Ten bucks says when we ID this guy, he's gonna be a mobster.”

  “No bet,” Vic said.

  “I'll take some of that action,” Erin said. She was staring at the young face of the woman—more of a girl, really. “I got ten says you're wrong, sir.”

  Chapter 3

  “Okay,” Webb said. “Jones, you and I will talk to the manager. Neshenko, see about ID on the victims. O'Reilly, you and your K-9 get as much of a whiff of the perps as you can. Let's get to work, people.”

  Erin didn't have high hopes, but she took Rolf to the window. “Such,” she said. Rolf had been born in Bavaria and had been trained in German. It had been easier for her to learn the foreign commands than to re-train the dog. Rolf, tail wagging, sniffed at the windowsill, then took off into the parking lot.

  The whole thing was a waste of time, Erin knew. The shooters hadn't walked to the motel, and they sure hadn't walked away after emptying about a hundred bullets into the room. Rolf couldn't track a car. But she got a surprise. The dog paused at a storm drain and snuffled at the grating. He glanced up at her, tail waving expectantly.

  “Hey!” Erin shouted to the nearest cops. A couple of patrolmen hurried over.

  “What's up, Detective?” one asked.

  She still wasn't used to being called that, and she couldn't help liking the sound of it. “We need to take a look down there,” she said, pointing to the grating. “I think they might've chucked something down it.”

  “Fantastic,” muttered one of the uniforms. “Let's go digging in the mud.” But the guys got down to it without too much bitching. Meanwhile, Rolf headed on, following his nose.

  After that, it was the anticlimax she'd expected. He lost the scent at a parking place in the darkest corner of the lot. He went back and forth, sniffing the blacktop, then stopped and whined unhappily.

  “Good boy,” she said, scratching him behind the ears and handing him his rubber Kong ball. He'd given it his best shot. She played her flashlight over the space as Rolf dropped to the pavement and happily chewed at his toy. The search wasn't a total washout. She saw the marks left by the tires of a car that had pulled out in a hurry. They almost certainly belonged to the getaway vehicle. Most people didn't burn rubber pulling out of a motel parking slot. She labeled the rubber spots with a couple of numbered yellow plastic markers. There were security cameras in the lot. Maybe they'd get some footage they could use to ID the vehicle, and the tread-marks might be useful to the CSU guys.

  She canvassed the area around the parking spot, hoping for something that'd been carelessly left behind, and came up with a cigarette butt. Unlike every other cig Erin had seen, this one was black and gold, instead of the usual white and tan. It looked fresh. She stooped over it and sniffed. Rolf abandoned his toy for a moment, stuck his snout in close, and joined in. She couldn't help laughing. Like dog, like master. She smelled fresh tobacco smoke. She tagged the butt. There might be usable DNA on it, or if they were really lucky, it'd be some kind of exotic, rare brand of smokes.

  “Camels, probably,” she muttered. But she called another cop over to keep an eye on the parking spot until the CSU van arrived. Then she went back to the room.

  “Find anything?” she asked, leaning through the window. Vic and Levine were still looking over the bodies.

  “Yeah,” Vic said. He had on gloves and was leafing through a nice-looking wallet. “The guy's got a driver's license, name of Gregory Markov. Credit cards, a couple hundred in cash, library card.” He grinned sardonically. “Pics of the wife, too.”

  “Any kids?” Erin asked.

  “No pics of them,” he said. “Wedding ring's still on his finger. Nice watch. Not a Rolex, but classy.”

  “He carrying?” she asked.

  “Nope,” Vic said. “No weapon, not even a pocketknife. No cell phone, either, which is weird. Car keys. Toyota. Bet we find it in the lot, and a phone in the car.”

  “A Toyota?” she echoed. “No Mercedes? No Audi?”

  “I know, crazy,” Vic said. He pointed the key fob at the window and pushed one of the buttons. From Erin's right came the familiar chirp of a car door unlocking. Headlights blinked. She looked to see what it was.

  “You've gotta be kidding me,” she said. “It's a Prius.”

  “Not exactly a gangster-mobile,” Vic said. “We'll need to check the car, of course.”

  “What about the girl?” she asked.

  “No idea,” Vic said. “No purse, no ID. All she's got is her clothes.”

  “Any idea who she might be?” Erin persisted.

  “She's a pro,” Vic said. “Dress like that, she's gotta be. And she looks like she's not a day over seventeen. Maybe younger. Might be in the system, might not. We'll check with Vice, run her prints. She's blond, pretty. Can't tell much else.”

  “Needle tracks on her arms,” Levine put in. “She was a heroin user. But the marks aren't fresh. I'll run the bloodwork, but I'd guess she's been clean for a couple of weeks at least. No obvious tattoos. I'll look over her whole body for identifying marks. I'll do that back at the lab.”

  “Anything outside?” Vic asked. “I don't see you coming back with three gunmen in bracelets.”

  “I found where they stashed the getaway,” she said. “One cigarette butt, some tire tracks, and maybe something they dropped in the storm drain on the way out.”

  “Better than nothing,” he said.

  Erin looked around the room. “What else can we do here?” she asked.

  “CSU will dust for prints,” Vic said. “And they'll look for
body fluids, God help them. They'll collect all the physical evidence. Need any help with the stiffs?”

  “Technically, you shouldn't call them stiffs until rigor mortis sets in,” Levine said. “That usually takes two to six hours, starting with the face, neck, and jaw.”

  “Jesus,” Vic said. “Sorry I asked. So what do I call them?”

  “Victims?” Erin suggested.

  “Right,” he said. “Why don't we go see how the Lieutenant's getting on.”

  They found Webb and Jones in the lobby, having just finished talking to the night manager. The woman had calmed down a little, but she was still pretty obviously spooked. Her hands were shaking and she had a used tissue clenched in one fist. She kept tearing little bits of it off and scattering them on the floor.

  Erin and Vic stepped outside with their colleagues and explained what they'd found. Webb listened, nodding.

  “We don't have too much on our side,” the Lieutenant said. “We know the shooting happened at quarter to ten, going by the lobby clock. According to Miss Walsh, there was no warning at all. No raised voices, just a lot of shooting, some screaming, then more shooting. She dove behind the counter, so she didn't see anything once holes started getting punched in the wall.”

  “Smart girl,” Vic observed.

  “She said there was a pause, maybe twenty seconds, but she's not sure about the timing. Then there was one more shot, and silence. She dialed 911, and while she was talking to Dispatch, she heard tires screech outside.”

  “She see the car?” Erin asked.

  “Nope,” Jones said. “She was still keeping her head down.”

  “That last shot sounds like the one into the girl's head,” Erin said.

  “That's what I'm thinking,” Webb agreed.

  “So no one got a look at the perps,” Vic said. “Unless the camera's any good.”

  “We'll try it,” Webb said. “But it was already dark out there. I'm guessing we get jack shit from it. We can at least confirm how many shooters.”

  “Does Miss Walsh remember anything about Markov and the girl?” Erin asked.

  “Yeah,” Jones said. “She says they came in separately, about fifteen minutes apart. The guy was first in. He paid for the room, cash, signed the register as Greg Marks.”

  “Fake name,” Vic said. “Classy.”

  “The girl came in about twenty minutes before the shooting,” Jones went on. “The witness says she was acting edgy, all twitchy and nervous. She asked for Greg's room. The manager told her which one it was, and she went down the hall.”

  “Huh,” Vic said. “They must've set up the meeting ahead of time. Usually, the john comes in with the hooker, not one at a time. Maybe he was a regular for her.”

  “Did she have a purse with her?” Erin asked.

  Jones shrugged. “I dunno. Manager didn't say.”

  “There wasn't a purse in the room,” Webb said.

  “Exactly,” Erin said.

  Webb snapped his fingers. “Just a minute.” He went back to the lobby. A moment later he returned. “Clerk says she had a black purse, basic handbag.”

  “The shooters took her purse,” Jones said.

  “And left his wallet,” Vic said. “Who robs a hooker and leaves the john's money?”

  “Someone who knows hookers get paid in cash,” Webb said.

  “Twenty minutes,” Erin said.

  “What's that?” Webb asked.

  “The two of them were alone for twenty minutes,” Jones said. She'd followed Erin's line of thinking. “If they came to the motel to get it on, they were taking their sweet time. They still had all their clothes on when they were shot.”

  “Or they put them on again,” Vic suggested.

  Everyone looked at him.

  He shrugged. “Twenty minutes is plenty of time.”

  Jones shook her head. “For you, maybe,” she said. “A real man takes his time.”

  Webb snorted, and Erin had to bite back a laugh.

  “We'll know from Levine's report whether the girl had sex,” Webb said, before Vic said anything else. “No need to speculate. What I want to know is, how did the shooters know which room to target?”

  “Did anyone else come through the lobby after the victims?” Erin asked.

  “Miss Walsh says no,” Jones said. “But she also took a bathroom break just after the girl arrived.”

  “We need to dust the register for prints,” Webb said. “I'm thinking one of them came into the lobby and looked up the room number. Nothing else makes sense, unless one of the victims told the shooters where they'd be.”

  Just then, a shout from the parking lot got their attention. One of the uniformed officers was running toward them.

  “We've got a gun!” he yelled. “In the drain. Pistol.”

  Webb clenched his fist. “Great work, O'Reilly.”

  “It was Rolf,” she said, rubbing her partner's head.

  “Then tell him great work, from me,” Webb said, hurrying toward the drain. The others followed.

  The second cop, wearing gloves, was holding a pistol by the barrel. “It was right on top, in plain view once we popped the lid off,” he said.

  “What kind of gun is that?” Jones asked, squinting along her flashlight beam. “Doesn't look like one I've seen before.”

  “It's a Makarov,” Vic said. “You don't see many of them in the US.”

  “Russian gun?” Erin guessed.

  “Yeah,” Vic said. “Soviet cops used them up through the Nineties. It's reliable, but its ballistics are worse than our nine-millimeters, and the ammo's incompatible. No wonder they threw it away. They'd have trouble getting reloads over here.”

  “What's a Russian handgun doing here?” Jones asked.

  “I'll bet it's the one that shot the girl,” Erin said.

  The coroner's van had pulled up to the motel while they were talking.

  “Oh, great,” Vic said. “The meat wagon. I just know it's gonna be Hank and Ernie.”

  “Who're they?” Erin asked.

  “They're the guys we hide when the press comes around,” Jones said. “They're... well, you'll see.”

  Erin figured there had to be some sort of contract that required one tall, thin guy and one short, fat guy. In this case, Ernie was the tall one and Hank was the short one. They were rolling their stretchers into the motel. As the detectives got there, they could hear Hank saying, “Well, no one can say they didn't go out with a bang.”

  “Y'know,” Ernie replied, “One of the ESU guys told me firing a submachine-gun full auto is the closest a guy can come to having a multiple orgasm.”

  “Interplay of sex and violence,” Hank agreed solemnly. “It's all over film, TV, you name it. Sex and death.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Webb said. “Will you two shut the hell up? You're getting paid to move bodies, not exercise your jaws.”

  “That's what she said,” Ernie said to his partner.

  Erin blinked. “Did they really...?” she asked Jones in an undertone.

  “Yeah,” Jones said. “There's no excuse for them.”

  “We done here, sir?” Vic asked.

  “Pretty much,” Webb said. “We'll let the evidence techs work the place over. Let's look at Markov's car, then get back to the precinct.”

  “We don't want to hit this fresh in the morning?” Jones asked.

  “Sorry, Detective,” Webb said. “Am I interfering in your busy evening plans?”

  Jones sighed. “No, sir.”

  “Guess we'll have to have that drink another night,” Erin said to Vic.

  “Who knows?” Vic replied. “A lot can happen before the sun comes up.”

  Gregory Markov's Prius was almost brand-new, dark blue and freshly washed. There was no sign of it having been disturbed. The only interesting thing was a cell phone in the glove compartment. Webb carefully lifted it out and checked it.

  “Three missed calls,” he said. “All of them from a contact called Nat. We'll dump the SIM ca
rd back at the station.”

  “No guns,” Vic said. He'd been going through the trunk. “No drugs. No diamonds.”

  “You sound disappointed,” Erin said.

  “If I could find something that tied him to being a gangster, this would make more sense,” Vic said. “This is just some ordinary guy's car. What the hell is going on? Guys who drive Priuses don't get done like Pacino in Scarface.”

  “So bad guys aren't allowed to drive environmentally-friendly cars?” Jones asked.

  “You know what I mean,” Vic said. “I'm not seeing any sign this guy was in the life.”

  “CSU can take a look,” Webb said. “But I'm thinking the car's a bust. Saddle up, everyone. We're going home.”

  “If only that were true,” Jones said gloomily.

  “Hey, the NYPD's a family,” Vic said. “A big, happy, dysfunctional, heavily-armed family.”

  “You make us sound like the Corleones,” Erin said. Vic had put Al Pacino movies on her mind.

  “Lots of armed organizations pretend they run New York City,” Vic pointed out. “We're the only ones that actually do.”

  Chapter 4

  The first thing they did back at the precinct was start a fresh pot of coffee. Then they started hunting for information. Jones looked up Markov's record. Vic went down to the morgue to get a set of prints off the Jane Doe and run them. Webb and Erin were cataloging the evidence they'd recovered from the scene. While they were working, Markov's cell phone started ringing.

  “Nat again,” Erin said. “Persistent.” She glanced at the clock, which read a little past two.

  “Pick it up,” Webb said. “Whoever it is, they don't know he's dead. Maybe we can get some info.”

  “Okay.” Erin took a deep breath and answered. “Hello?”

  There was a short, baffled pause. Then a woman's voice, heavily accented, said, “I am sorry, I must have wrong number.”

  “Is this Nat?” Erin asked, before the other woman could hang up.

  There was another pause. “Yes. Who are you?”