supers in all the buildings along Ninety-ninth… See if any garages are open late. Find me a witness, Bear. That’ll keep you svelte.”
12
THE TWO CALLS girls who had been with Alexandre St.-Germain were being held for questioning. They were waiting inside a formal parlor on the second floor.
From the hallway, Stefanovitch saw a young, extremely beautiful blond woman, a heartbreaker of the first magnitude. She was wrapped in an expensive-looking brocaded silk robe, sitting with her face hidden in both hands.
Even in shock, she was stunning. Her hair was pulled back, tied in a red satin ribbon. She didn’t look as if she belonged at Allure. Maybe at some manicured estate in Westchester, or up on the Connecticut River.
“Her name’s Kimberly Victoria Manion,” Kupchek confided. “She does some modeling, some acting. She only does special numbers here at Allure. Calls them dates. That’s what she said, Stef. Originally, she’s from Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“She should have stayed out there in Nebraska,” Stefanovitch said.
“The other one is Kay Whitley.”
The second call girl waiting in the parlor was even more interesting to Stefanovitch. She had already changed into a yellow slip of a dress, with cream-colored stockings and expensive, conservative high heels.
“She’s from Poughkeepsie originally. She tells everybody, all her clients, that she’s from Boston. Very proper way of speaking. Lots of long a ’s.”
Stefanovitch finally entered the parlor. His voice was quiet at first, almost soothing.
Both of the women looked up. They were obviously surprised by the wheelchair, but also by the good-looking and virile man sitting in it.
“My name is John Stefanovitch. I’m a lieutenant with the Homicide Division. The man in the clip-on tie is Senior Detective Kupchek. As you already know, there’s been a murder here. Three murders, actually. Both of you are material witnesses.”
The girls nodded without saying anything. Kimberly Manion’s cheeks were streaked with mascara. Stefanovitch felt sorry for her, but he figured she was probably tougher than she looked.
She was, he found out over the next two hours. Both girls were tough.
By the end of the question-and-answer session, it was four in the morning. Stefanovitch hadn’t learned nearly enough. He didn’t have a description of the hit team, not even agreement on their number. Or how they’d gotten inside Allure.
“I’d like to see where he was shot. Bear?”
Stefanovitch twisted his body around in the wheelchair, and spoke to Kupchek. He had been putting off the final step, but the time had come.
His partner nodded, but he didn’t seem too happy about Stefanovitch’s decision.
“The medical examiners are still there. The coroner’s wagon is parked out on the street. I’ve already taken beaucoup notes in there, Stef. Leave it alone.”
“Go ask them to take ten. I have to see the bedroom. Just the way it is. Just the way he is.”
“Why do you want to go down there? I took enough notes for Crime and Punishment II. They’re doing forensic sketches. Don’t do this to yourself.”
John Stefanovitch pushed himself out of the parlor without saying anything else to Kupchek.
Once he was in the hallway, Stefanovitch realized that he felt more drained than he’d thought. His mouth was dry. A dead weight was pushing down on him, making his shoulders sag.
Stefanovitch passed inside the high-ceilinged master bedroom. He closed the paneled, heavy wooden door behind him.
Alexandre St.-Germain was laid out alongside an unzippered gray body bag on the bed. The Grave Dancer was right there.
The shock of the brutal murder finally struck Stefanovitch with a physical jolt. Bile rose in his throat. Someone had gotten to the Grave Dancer before he had.
The attack had exposed jagged bone on both sides of St.-Germain’s chest. The mobster’s head and most of his neck had been savaged by the machine-gun volley. The body looked desecrated,
12
THE TWO CALLS girls who had been with Alexandre St.-Germain were being held for questioning. They were waiting inside a formal parlor on the second floor.
From the hallway, Stefanovitch saw a young, extremely beautiful blond woman, a heartbreaker of the first magnitude. She was wrapped in an expensive-looking brocaded silk robe, sitting with her face hidden in both hands.
Even in shock, she was stunning. Her hair was pulled back, tied in a red satin ribbon. She didn’t look as if she belonged at Allure. Maybe at some manicured estate in Westchester, or up on the Connecticut River.
“Her name’s Kimberly Victoria Manion,” Kupchek confided. “She does some modeling, some acting. She only does special numbers here at Allure. Calls them dates. That’s what she said, Stef. Originally, she’s from Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“She should have stayed out there in Nebraska,” Stefanovitch said.
“The other one is Kay Whitley.”
The second call girl waiting in the parlor was even more interesting to Stefanovitch. She had already changed into a yellow slip of a dress, with cream-colored stockings and expensive, conservative high heels.
“She’s from Poughkeepsie originally. She tells everybody, all her clients, that she’s from Boston. Very proper way of speaking. Lots of long a ’s.”
Stefanovitch finally entered the parlor. His voice was quiet at first, almost soothing.
Both of the women looked up. They were obviously surprised by the wheelchair, but also by the good-looking and virile man sitting in it.
“My name is John Stefanovitch. I’m a lieutenant with the Homicide Division. The man in the clip-on tie is Senior Detective Kupchek. As you already know, there’s been a murder here. Three murders, actually. Both of you are material witnesses.”
The girls nodded without saying anything. Kimberly Manion’s cheeks were streaked with mascara. Stefanovitch felt sorry for her, but he figured she was probably tougher than she looked.
She was, he found out over the next two hours. Both girls were tough.
By the end of the question-and-answer session, it was four in the morning. Stefanovitch hadn’t learned nearly enough. He didn’t have a description of the hit team, not even agreement on their number. Or how they’d gotten inside Allure.
“I’d like to see where he was shot. Bear?”
Stefanovitch twisted his body around in the wheelchair, and spoke to Kupchek. He had been putting off the final step, but the time had come.
His partner nodded, but he didn’t seem too happy about Stefanovitch’s decision.
“The medical examiners are still there. The coroner’s wagon is parked out on the street. I’ve already taken beaucoup notes in there, Stef. Leave it alone.”
“Go ask them to take ten. I have to see the bedroom. Just the way it is. Just the way he is.”
“Why do you want to go down there? I took enough notes for Crime and Punishment II. They’re doing forensic sketches. Don’t do this to yourself.”
John Stefanovitch pushed himself out of the parlor without saying anything else to Kupchek.
Once he was in the hallway, Stefanovitch realized that he felt more drained than he’d thought. His mouth was dry. A dead weight was pushing down on him, making his shoulders sag.
Stefanovitch passed inside the high-ceilinged master bedroom. He closed the paneled, heavy wooden door behind him.
Alexandre St.-Germain was laid out alongside an unzippered gray body bag on the bed. The Grave Dancer was right there.
The shock of the brutal murder finally struck Stefanovitch with a physical jolt. Bile rose in his throat. Someone had gotten to the Grave Dancer before he had.
The attack had exposed jagged bone on both sides of St.-Germain’s chest. The mobster’s head and most of his neck had been savaged by the machine-gun volley. The body looked desecrated,
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