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:
He leaned inward on his desk, his cold dark eyes going from Rizzo to Ginsberg and back again.
“I did not kill Viktor. Nor did I authorize it. If I learn who is responsible, they will pay. For my part, I will look to Quatroppa, and if you are at all interested, you may wish to do the same.”
Ginsberg drove slowly, Rizzo seated beside him. “Both these guys are trying to use Antipov as an excuse to start a war. One of them is lying, Joe. Quatroppa or Boklov.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve seen the bodies Boklov leaves on the streets — multiple head shots, complete overkill, not just a single round to the chest. And with Quatroppa, there’s usually no corpse to be found. They wind up in dog-food cans. And when there is a body, it’s because he’s sending a message. We’ve been in this business a long time, Mark. We know a mob hit when we see one. This Antipov case — it’s a murder, not a hit. A civilian murder. We identify the killer, we avoid a war.”
“So you’re thinking motive unrelated to him being a mobster?”
“Yeah, probably. Even if Antipov had a personal beef with another crew member, they’d never dare kill him. He was too valuable and too close to Boklov.”
Ginsberg considered it. “I don’t know. It’s like finding a guy squashed on the pavement with an unopened parachute strapped to his back and figuring maybe he fell off a ladder.”
Rizzo smiled. “Yeah. A little like that. But — strange things do happen.”
“Still, Joe, I’d rather spend our time running down that guy who’s mugging old ladies on Social Security check day. I really don’t care who killed this guy. The precinct has — what? — forty open dead hoods dating back to the flood? So now we’ve got forty-one.”
“Normally I’d agree, but we usually figure it out, Mark. Maybe we can’t always prove it, but we figure it out. My gut tells me to push this. And we’ll get around to that mugger soon enough. Just a couple more days on this Antipov thing. That’s all I’m asking.”
Ginsberg shrugged and pressed harder on the accelerator. “Okay, you’re the boss. But I hope you’ve got a plan.”
“I do. Let’s assume this is a murder, not a hit. We know a murder has motive. This guy Antipov surely had a million enemies, but they were mostly work related. If we buy into Oleg and Louie’s denials, which I’m inclined to do, that rules out business associates, regardless of motive. No mobster would kill the guy without permission from the top; it would be suicide.”
“So,” Ginsberg said, “we look at his personal life?”
“Right. And you know what that means.”
Ginsberg let out a chuckle. “Oh yeah, Joe, I know what it means. We start with the wife.”
Rizzo’s eyes fell to a corner phone booth. “Pull over. I need to make a call.”
Minutes later, Rizzo returned to the car. “Okay, here’s the scoop from the M.E. and CSU. Cause of death, gunshot piercing ascending aorta, thirty-eight caliber, semiwadcutter round, recovered sufficiently intact for ballistic match if we turn up a gun. Time of death between seven-thirty P.M. Tuesday and seven-thirty A.M. Wednesday, when the body was discovered. CSU says no promising forensics at scene. Roger and out.”
“Not much help.”
“No.”
“Should we go visit the grieving widow now?”
Rizzo sighed. “Yeah. Start getting tactful.”
Mrs. Yulia Antipov was twenty-nine years old. She had two young children ages three and five. She sat solemnly on her sofa. Condolences and preliminaries complete, Rizzo began a gently toned questioning.
“When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Antipov?”
“At about three in the afternoon, the day he was... the day before they found him.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Here.”
“Was he planning on going out somewhere?”
“Yes. To work.” Her eyes fell away. “He drives limousine car. For rich people.”
“Yes. We know all about his career. Did you hear from him at all later that day or night?”
“No.”
“Was that unusual? Not to hear from him, I mean.”
“No. Not unusual. Very busy when driving limousine.”
“Where were you from three o’clock on Tuesday until the police notified you on Wednesday about... what had happened?”
“Home. My children... I am busy with my children.”
“Were you alone that entire time?”
“No. My brother here.”
“Your brother? Who’s your brother?”
“Lev. Lev Krupin. My brother.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty.”
“What hours or time frame was he here?”
She straightened her back and fixed her eyes upon the opposing wall.
“He arrived at six-thirty. We had dinner. Chicken with creamed corn. Then we watch TV, Frasier, very funny. Then we watch news. Lev fall asleep on couch. I put blanket over him, go to bed at eleven. I think Viktor will wake him when he come home, then Lev go to own home. But... Viktor not come home.”
Rizzo passed a quick glance to Ginsberg, who gave a brief lift to his brows. Rizzo continued.
“So when, if you know, did your brother leave?”
“Next morning, seven o’clock. Lev open his shop every day, seven-thirty, seven days a week.”
“Did you have occasion to see him at any time between eleven P.M. and seven A.M.?”
“Yes. I wake up around midnight, come downstairs to look for Viktor. Viktor not here. Lev still asleep on couch.”
Rizzo jotted notes into his pad, asked for Lev Krupin’s home and business information. After recording them, he raised his eyes to Yulia’s.
“Kind of warm in here, Mrs. Antipov, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Very warm. Viktor always like house warm... so... it still warm.”
“I notice you’re wearing a long-sleeve blouse, though.” Rizzo smiled. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable with a short sleeve.”
Her eyes fell from Rizzo. Suddenly a loose thread on her pants captured her attention.
Ginsberg said, “You know, I have a son. He’s ten. plays soccer. A few weeks ago, he took a kicked ball right to his face. It was a couple of weeks before the bruising cleared up. The last few days it looked a lot like your face — that discoloration on your left cheekbone. You don’t play soccer, do you, Mrs. Antipov?”
She worked the thread more diligently. “No. No soccer... I...”
“Have some sorta accident, did you, ma’am?” Rizzo asked.
“No.” She raised her head defiantly. “No accident. Are we finished now? I must go check on children.”
“Well, coupla more questions, if—” Ginsberg began.
“No, no, that’s okay,” Rizzo said. “We can come back another time. Go check on your children, ma’am. We’ll see ourselves out.”
Once back in the 62nd Precinct, Rizzo sat at his desk and dialed the neighboring 61st Precinct detective squad.
“Six-one Squad, Moore,” he heard.
“Hello, Moore, Sergeant Rizzo, Six-two squad.”
“What’s up, Sarge?”
“Need some info on the late Viktor Antipov, he lived in your precinct. I’d like you to check for any DV radio runs to that address.”
“I don’t have to check, unless you need exact dates and times. But— Antipov was a local celebrity, you know. Riser in the Russian mob, so we’re all pretty familiar with him. There weren’t any domestic violence calls — from the house, that is. But there were at least three or four made from Coney Island Hospital. An ER supervisor would make the calls. We tried to nail Antipov a couple of times for beating his wife, but we didn’t get anywhere. She never personally made a complaint, always said she fell, walked into something, whatever. Just one more reason me and the guys toasted a fond farewell to that son-of-a-bitch when we heard he was cold. Who whacked him, by the way? Louie or Oleg?”