Read Online Blind Sight (A Mallory Novel) by Carol O'Connell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol O'Connell
Ads: Link
The lab tech says it comes off a gull. That might steer us to a crime scene by the water.” He held up two fingers for “ Two rivers— miles of waterfront property.” Or, more briefly put, Kiss that lead goodbye.
“Got anything that might give up the transport vehicle?”
“You mean fibers? No, nothing that links to floor mats or trunks. But he dumped four bodies. I’d bet on a van.”
So far, not one leg of his partner’s impossible theory was panning out. What was she up to? Had she known about the trophy hearts, maybe talked to the ME? Yeah, he would bet the rent money on it. And now he had the hang of Mallory’s setup: Could she get him to ask Heller the granddaddy of stupid questions? He did have to ask, but he couched it in disbelief when he said, “Well, could’ve been worse. At least we’re not lookin’ at murder for hire.”
The CSU commander relied on the science of physical evidence and a history of violence dating back to a time when New York City was the country’s murder capital—before that title was lost to Chicago. This man could be trusted to know a lunatic from a pro by the tracks and traces left behind. And so Riker had not anticipated Heller’s look of serious consideration for the insane theory of a hit man.
“Your perp has an untraceable murder kit.” The captain picked up a long blade, serrated on one side. “It’ll fit with the wounds. I bought this one down the street. You can buy ’em anywhere. A carving knife’s not your typical weapon for a pro, but they don’t all use twenty-twos. A bullet to the back of the head says assassination. That sends a message. It’s cold. It’s all business . . . but so’s this.” He laid out a photo of one victim, whose shirt was open to expose a wound where a stolen organ used to be. “Cutting out the heart—that’s got some hate to it. It’s personal . . . but not to your killer. He cuts ’em open. Only onewound—a stab sawed out to a long, straight cut. Not a rage attack.” He held up a hammer. “This’ll match tool marks we found on the broken ribs, the one’s that would’ve been in his way. So . . . a slice, a few whacks, then snip, snip and done—like it’s just stuff on a checklist. No passion, not even close. That says hate at one remove. He could be a real cold whack job . . . but I’d say he’s getting paid for this.”
And that would be Mallory’s punch line.
—
ALBERT COSTELLO and his no-name guest smoked cigarettes companionably as they discussed the mugging on St. Marks place. “He didn’t get my wallet. The coward must’ve been scared off. I can’t remember much. The doc said I should expect that with a cracked skull.”
The stranger drained his beer. “I heard a blind kid went missin’ that day.”
“No shit? I ain’t seen TV or a newspaper in days. What else did I miss?”
“The cops think the kid was on this street around the time you got mugged. You never saw him?”
Albert shook his head. And then, pressed to recall one more detail, he said, “A nun? Oh, yeah. I do remember her. I saw her comin’ from half a block away, even with my bad eyes. Not often you see that kind of outfit these days—like a black sailboat floatin’ down the sidewalk. So the nun stops at the bodega on the corner. She’s lookin’ at flowers, fixin’ to buy some, I guess. She must’ve been at it for a while before I got hit. The doc said I could count on losin’ maybe ten minutes or so. What’s your interest in a—”
The stranger closed one hand on his beer can and crushed it.
4
In this place of white tiles and stainless steel, sharp-pointed weapons were on display alongside the home-repair tools of saws and drills, all put to the service of mutilating the dead—the pathologist’s art. The most recently violated bodies were lined up in a row of four dissection tables. The autopsies had been completed, and the corpses only awaited removal to the morgue’s cold-storage
“Got anything that might give up the transport vehicle?”
“You mean fibers? No, nothing that links to floor mats or trunks. But he dumped four bodies. I’d bet on a van.”
So far, not one leg of his partner’s impossible theory was panning out. What was she up to? Had she known about the trophy hearts, maybe talked to the ME? Yeah, he would bet the rent money on it. And now he had the hang of Mallory’s setup: Could she get him to ask Heller the granddaddy of stupid questions? He did have to ask, but he couched it in disbelief when he said, “Well, could’ve been worse. At least we’re not lookin’ at murder for hire.”
The CSU commander relied on the science of physical evidence and a history of violence dating back to a time when New York City was the country’s murder capital—before that title was lost to Chicago. This man could be trusted to know a lunatic from a pro by the tracks and traces left behind. And so Riker had not anticipated Heller’s look of serious consideration for the insane theory of a hit man.
“Your perp has an untraceable murder kit.” The captain picked up a long blade, serrated on one side. “It’ll fit with the wounds. I bought this one down the street. You can buy ’em anywhere. A carving knife’s not your typical weapon for a pro, but they don’t all use twenty-twos. A bullet to the back of the head says assassination. That sends a message. It’s cold. It’s all business . . . but so’s this.” He laid out a photo of one victim, whose shirt was open to expose a wound where a stolen organ used to be. “Cutting out the heart—that’s got some hate to it. It’s personal . . . but not to your killer. He cuts ’em open. Only onewound—a stab sawed out to a long, straight cut. Not a rage attack.” He held up a hammer. “This’ll match tool marks we found on the broken ribs, the one’s that would’ve been in his way. So . . . a slice, a few whacks, then snip, snip and done—like it’s just stuff on a checklist. No passion, not even close. That says hate at one remove. He could be a real cold whack job . . . but I’d say he’s getting paid for this.”
And that would be Mallory’s punch line.
—
ALBERT COSTELLO and his no-name guest smoked cigarettes companionably as they discussed the mugging on St. Marks place. “He didn’t get my wallet. The coward must’ve been scared off. I can’t remember much. The doc said I should expect that with a cracked skull.”
The stranger drained his beer. “I heard a blind kid went missin’ that day.”
“No shit? I ain’t seen TV or a newspaper in days. What else did I miss?”
“The cops think the kid was on this street around the time you got mugged. You never saw him?”
Albert shook his head. And then, pressed to recall one more detail, he said, “A nun? Oh, yeah. I do remember her. I saw her comin’ from half a block away, even with my bad eyes. Not often you see that kind of outfit these days—like a black sailboat floatin’ down the sidewalk. So the nun stops at the bodega on the corner. She’s lookin’ at flowers, fixin’ to buy some, I guess. She must’ve been at it for a while before I got hit. The doc said I could count on losin’ maybe ten minutes or so. What’s your interest in a—”
The stranger closed one hand on his beer can and crushed it.
4
In this place of white tiles and stainless steel, sharp-pointed weapons were on display alongside the home-repair tools of saws and drills, all put to the service of mutilating the dead—the pathologist’s art. The most recently violated bodies were lined up in a row of four dissection tables. The autopsies had been completed, and the corpses only awaited removal to the morgue’s cold-storage
Similar Books
