The CBS Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    The building on West Forty-fifth Street was home to Vinny Russo catering, purveyor of breakfasts and lunches to the movies and television shows being filmed on location in the city. Like many longtime businessmen and inhabitants along the West Side docks, Russo had known Nash for years and had a certain tolerant fondness for him. Some months earlier, when Nash had mentioned that he was setting up a small electrical contracting business and needed some desk space to operate out of, Russo had told him, sure, he could put a desk and a telephone in a back corner of Russo’s shop. Nash had taken possession, installed the telephone and an answering machine, and every few days, when he was in Manhattan, he would stop by to pick up his messages, what few there ever were. The shop normally was closed well before six in the evening and, Russo later insisted, Nash did not have a key, he had never given him one nor permitted him to have one. That day, though, there was no need for a key.
    Leaving the van, and Barbera’s body in the back, out at the curb, Nash rushed to the door of Russo’s shop. It was unlocked and open. There had been a major water leak within the past hours, and the building’s superintendent, Alberto Torres, was inside, finishing the repairs, cleaning and mopping up. He and Nash had been friends for years. When he saw Nash, though, he was surprised not just at his appearance at this unexpected hour but also at his condition. Nash was in extreme distress; he was shaking, out of breath, and drenched with sweat; he looked as though he had just come out of a shower or a steam bath. Nash barely greeted Torres. He made straight for his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number in Keansburg, N.J., the home of his twenty-nine-year old nephew, Thomas Dane. Nash knew that if there was one person in the world he could depend on in time of need, it was Dane. Dane idolized him, looked on him not just as an uncle but also as his best friend, a father. There was nothing Dane would not do for him.
    The line was busy.
    Nash hung up, dialed again, this time his own number in Keansburg. His common-law wife of seventeen years, Jean Marie, answered. He told her he was trying to reach Dane, it was urgent that he talk to him, but the line was busy. He told her to walk the two and a half blocks to Dane’s house, tell him to get off the phone because Nash was trying to get through. She did as she was told.
    Dane was talking to his girlfriend in Manhattan, had been talking to her for about ten minutes, when Jean Marie Nash rang the doorbell and gave him Nash’s message. Dane went back to the phone and told his girlfriend, “I’m sorry. My uncle is trying to reach me. I have to hang up. But I’ll call you back after I talk to him.”
    On Forty-fifth Street, Nash waiting nervously and impatiently, counting the minutes he knew it would take his wife to reach Dane. Outside, he could hear the shattering screams of the sirens as police car after police car raced north to Pier Ninety-two.
    When he figured enough time had passed, he dialed Dane again and this time got through. He told Dane it was vital that they meet. He was in Manhattan and would be heading for New Jersey within a few minutes. Dane should meet him just off the parkway on the way to Keansburg, a spot where they had met several times before. Dane agreed and hung up. He called his girlfriend back and told her, “That was my uncle. I have to meet him later on.” Then, for the next eight minutes, he conversed with her, picking up where they had left off.
    For some moments after his call was completed, Nash sat silently at his desk, holding his head in his hands. Suddenly he looked up at Torres. “Alberto,” he said, “my God, I just shot three people. They’re all dead. You have the keys to the fence of the parking lot next door. Can I put the van in there?”
    Torres was stunned, unbelieving, appalled. He stared