Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
Four uniformed police officers stood scattered at the rear wall, gazing downward. A body lay sprawled half against the wall, legs splayed outward, dead eyes staring back at the cops. As the two detectives approached, Rizzo noticed the older patrol officer, Bob Harris, glancing at his wrist watch.
“You can always tell the experienced uniforms,” he said to Ginsberg. “Harris is noting the time we showed up. For his report. ‘Relieved at the scene by Sixty-second Squad detectives, oh-eight-ten hours.’ ”
“Yeah,” Ginsberg replied. “That guy usually carries a donut in each pocket.”
The older cop smiled at the two detectives. “Hello, Sarge, Mark,” he said. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
“There’s good news?” Ginsberg asked.
“Yeah, our dearly departed is Viktor Antipov. I recognized him right off. You will too. So — one less mobster runnin’ around Brooklyn. You guys can just fill out some DD-5s, file them under ‘oops’ and forget about it.”
Rizzo, pulling on his own latex gloves, moved to the body and squatted. The pale, frozen-in-shock face of the corpse was, in fact, clearly recognizable: Antipov was a seasoned soldier in the notorious Brighton Beach gang led by Russian crime czar Oleg Boklov. It was widely known throughout the mirror-image world of criminals and cops that Antipov, now sprawled dead against the stone-cold brick wall, was not only an assassin and brutalizer of the first order but also a trusted aide to Boklov. As he gazed upon the corpse, Rizzo experienced a familiar feeling.
At one time, violence had angered and puzzled him. Now — increasingly — it merely saddened him. The streets were taking away his anger, and, as he studied the milky dead eyes before him, it occurred to him that death, unlike monkey stores and five-year-olds, was permanent.
Rizzo stood slowly and turned to Harris. “You said good news and bad news. So what’s the bad news?”
“Well, think about it, Sarge. If it was Oleg Boklov who whacked this dirt-bag, no penalty, no foul. But if it was the Italians or some loose cannons, then we got a war on our hands. We’ll run out of chalk before we finish outlining all the stiffs that’ll be littering the streets.”
Rizzo nodded. “Okay. The M.E. is on the way, so is Crime Scene. Call into the precinct, tell them to send two or three more detectives if they can spare them. Then — seal off the alley with tape and do a street search for a gun.”
“Gun? We ain’t gonna find a gun, Sarge. If the shooter’s a pro, he’da dropped it right here or held onto it. Pros don’t toss guns in garbage cans like junkies do.”
Rizzo felt his face begin to tighten. “Yeah. I saw that movie, Harris. Go look for a gun. Maybe if you learned to listen, you’d be out of that uniform by now or wearin’ stripes. Go do what I said.”
The man shrugged, truly indifferent. “Okay, boss,” he said mildly and motioned to the other uniformed officers. They walked single file from the alley.
Rizzo turned back to the body. Ginsberg was squatted beside it, his forearms resting atop his thighs.
“Guy bled out right here, Joe,” he said, indicating the wide, deep pool of blood which had found a depression in the rough, gritty concrete. “He was shot right here.”
Rizzo dropped a handkerchief to the ground and knelt one knee upon it while scanning the corpse.
“Single gunshot to the chest.” He leaned closer. “I don’t see any muzzle burn on the shirt. No residue splatter either.”
“So the shooter was off a ways, at least five, six feet.”
“Yeah.”
Ginsberg frowned. “Is it just me, or is this getting complicated?”
“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “It is. Mob hits are multiple-shot guarantees, usually with at least one head shot. And close up and personal, plenty of muzzle burn and powder residue.”
“And this alleyway...” Ginsberg added, “good place to dump a stiff, but not so good for a hit. The shooter’s trapped in here, only one way out, too risky. Ralph the Citizen is walking his dog and somebody runs outta here after a gunshot — bingo — you got a witness.”
Rizzo swiveled his head to the alley’s two doors midway behind them.
“Unless the shooter went through one of those doors.”
“They’d have to be unlocked, the steel curtains raised,” Ginsberg noted. “Maybe somebody connected to the hardware store? The laundromat?”
“So — already we’re totally off the gang-hit theory?”
“No. Not totally, I’m just talking, Joe. I like the idea it was Oleg Boklov cleaning house. We’ll never be able to prove that, and nobody will expect us to. Instead of working, we can go to that fancy coffee joint, get a Mocha-Boca-Joker and a lump of French soy dough. You know, reminisce about monkey rides and stuff.”
At the sound of someone approaching, Rizzo and Ginsberg turned. It was a tall, thin, disheveled man in his mid sixties. They recognized him as Dr. Joshua Wilton, Deputy Medical Examiner, alcoholic, and general malcontent.
“Great,” Ginsberg said softly to Rizzo. “Doctor Ghoul.”
Without greeting beyond a slight nod, Wilton approached the body. He reached a bare hand and rested two fingers on its forehead, then the jugular. Straightening, he reported.
“Male, white, mid thirties to early forties. Dead. Most probable: single gunshot to left chest. From the volume of blood, I’d say it caught the aorta. Died quickly and within the last twelve hours. No signs of defensive wounds. Give me your card, I’ll need it for your copy of the autopsy report. You may now examine the body and arrange for transport.”
He turned and began walking away.
“When will we see that report?” Rizzo said to the man’s retreating back.
“Soon.”
Ginsberg laughed. “Hey, Doc,” he said loudly. “Nice chatting with you, our best to Morticia and Cousin Itt.”
Hours later at the 62nd Precinct Detective Squad Room, Rizzo and Ginsberg sipped coffee in a small, battered, two-tone green interview room. They sat at opposite sides of the heavy, scarred wooden table.
“So how do you get a guy like Antipov to march meekly down an alley and allow you to shoot him?” Ginsberg asked.
Rizzo shrugged. “Show him some thigh? Bat your baby blues? I don’t know.”
After a few moments, Rizzo went on. “So, what’ve we got?”
“A known Russian mobster found dead in Bensonhurst, ground zero for the Italian mob, a group that’s got a strong affinity for the death penalty for trespassing,” Ginsberg said. “But — and this certainly has bunched up our panties — this hit is totally lacking in professionalism, from choice of location to mechanics of shooting. No self-respecting Mafia hit man could be that stupid.”
Rizzo sipped at his coffee, then spoke. “You know, Mark, stupidity can be an asset. It’s much easier to be carefree when you’re stupid. Why worry about the Middle East going ka-boom when you can buy a scandal sheet and check out Brigitte Bardot’s butt?”
“Bardot’s like an old lady now, Joe. Or possibly dead. You really need to update your files.”
“Well, whoever, then. Give me stupid anytime. Let’s stretch our imaginations and consider this a pro hit. The shooter is stupid. He picks the wrong place and uses the wrong method, and what happens? We begin to figure it for — whatever we’re figuring it for. And the pro is maybe off the hook.”
“Antipov’s wallet was in his pocket with six bills in it, a ten-grand watch on his wrist, and a diamond ring on his finger. So, most likely it was no robbery.”
“According to what we found out from the owners of the laundromat and hardware store,” Rizzo said, “those alley doors haven’t been opened in years. Both places were broken into a few times so they installed those metal curtains and bolted the doors. Whoever did the shooting either exited that alley directly to the street, or one or both owners are either mistaken or lying.”