Color Blind (24 page)

Y
es,
sí.
That is Suzie’s businessman.” Rosita Martinez returned the crime scene photos to Floyd Brown, pushed the bottle-black curls off her face, and angled a look at Kate, who was leaning against the wall. “Was this Suzie’s fault?”

Brown said, “Thanks for coming in,” but Martinez continued to stare at Kate.

“No,” Kate said softly. “An officer will see you home Rosita, and thanks.”

Brown waited until the door to his office shut behind Martinez, then flattened his palms onto his desk, and looked directly at Kate. “Not good.”

Kate returned a stare composed of one part defiance and four parts exhaustion—six straight hours with Internal Affairs.

“You just couldn’t call in, could you?”

“I did call.”

“After the fact.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“How is Noreen Stokes doing?”

“Took a bullet in the lung. And her husband shot in the head right in front of her. She’s still in shock. But she’ll be okay. You must have scared Baldoni when you came into the building or he’d have finished her off.”

“See, I did do something right.”

“Not everyone would agree.”

Kate ignored the crack. “So what do you think? Stokes owed Baldoni, couldn’t pay, so Baldoni kills him?”

“Looks like it. We know Baldoni’s history—the organized crime connections, his uncle, the loan-sharking, contract hits.” Brown sighed. “Now we’ve got the Organized Crime Bureau coming in to nose around.”

“I think there has to be something else,” said Kate. “What about the Martini painting found at Richard’s crime scene?”

“Don’t know how we can prove that now that both parties are dead.” Brown leveled a cold stare in Kate’s direction. “Crime Scene found pieces of a photo floating in the toilet, appears to be our first dead hooker, Suzie White. Not sure who put it there, Lamar Black or Andy Stokes. We’ve got an APB out on Black, who’s gone missing. Have a lot of questions for that guy. Like what the hell was Stokes doing in his apartment, for one?” Brown massaged his temples. “The way I’m figuring it, your husband got in the way, maybe tried to intervene on Stokes’s behalf, or it could’ve been a case of mistaken identity. Killer thinks Richard is Stokes.”

It was a chilling idea. One Kate had already imagined.

“But the mistaken-identity concept only works if Baldoni never met Stokes—and that seems unlikely if Stokes had borrowed money from him, right?

Brown rolled the idea around. “Could be that Baldoni farmed out the Stokes hit. Particularly if he had done money business with the guy, he might not want to handle the job himself. Too much of a link. Then the contract man confuses Richard for Stokes.”

Could it be that simple?
The idea that her husband had been murdered by mistake was both horrifying and a relief—but Kate wanted to believe it.

“Since the Organized Crime Bureau wants in, we might as well hand that over to them, see what they can come up with—contract killers Baldoni might have used. Oh, and the ME has a hair from Martini’s shirt collar that didn’t belong to him. If it turns out to belong to Baldoni, then he’s pretty much a lock for the murder.”

“I’d like to work on that. Anything that will get at the truth—”

“You must be kidding?”

“Not at all.”

“You’re
out,
McKinnon. I can’t say it any simpler than that.”

“Look, I know I fucked up, but—”

“Save it.” Brown put a hand up to stop her. “I don’t know what the hell you thought you were doing—what you could possibly have been thinking.”

“Okay, so I wasn’t thinking, so I broke a few rules—”

“A
few
. You want me to get the manual out, read you the first
ten
?”

“Look, I had to know what was going on. I just thought maybe—”

“No, you had it right the first time—you
weren’t
thinking.”

“I just…I had to know. I was worried that…” Kate stopped. She did not want to bullshit Brown. “I did it for Richard. I, I made a vow, a promise that I’d—” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.” Brown softened his tone. “Look, I
do
understand. If it were up to me, I’d keep you on,
maybe
. But Grange is not going to allow it, no way. And he wields a big stick.”

“No doubt compensation for a small dick.”

“Not funny,” said Brown.

“Wasn’t trying to be,” said Kate. “Look, Baldoni was coming at me with a fucking revolver in his hand. Another few seconds and I’d have been dead. Would that have made Grange happier?”

“Probably.”

“IA accepted my version. Why won’t Grange?”

“Because he doesn’t have to. He’s not IA, not even NYPD, remember? Grange has got a real hard-on for you, excuse my French. He’s got this crazy notion that you set Stokes up, that you purposely led Angelo Baldoni to him.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because Grange thinks”—Brown hesitated—“you’re covering up Richard’s murder.”

“Wha—” Kate choked on the word. “You’re not serious? If there is anyone who wants the truth, who really
needs
to know who did this to Richard, it’s
me
. Why would I want to cover up Richard’s murder?”

Brown rubbed a hand across his forehead. “You would if you had something to do with it—if you had hired someone to kill Richard, and Grange thinks—”

The laughter spewed out so fast, Kate couldn’t contain it, but it died just as quickly. “Wait a minute. You’re serious.”

“No. But Grange is. You know rule number one in a homicide: Check out the spouse.” Brown sighed. “Look at it from Grange’s point of view. You’re working your husband’s case. You find a lead—your husband’s business partner. You interview the wife. You get some piece of information that you obviously don’t want to share and—”

“That’s not true, I simply wanted—”

“Let me finish. You don’t call for backup. You follow the wife, who leads you to the husband, who may know something about Richard’s murder. You’re followed by a known hit man, who probably killed the artist who made the painting found at your husband’s crime scene. The hit man shoots your husband’s partner, and then
you
kill
him
. No one left to tell tales. That’s the way Grange sees it—that you helped get rid of anyone who knew the truth about your husband’s murder.”

“Jesus Christ. Don’t you think I wish there
was
someone around to tell tales?”

“It doesn’t matter what
I
think.” Brown frowned. “Grange has also turned up the fact that Richard had a five-million-dollar life insurance policy, which doesn’t help matters.”

“You think that money means anything to me? My God, my husband is dead, and—” Kate was up fast, tears building behind her lids, and no way she wanted Brown to see them. “I don’t have to sit here for this horseshit.”

Brown snagged her by the wrist. “Hey, I’m laying myself on the line telling you this.”

Kate sagged back into the chair, Brown’s words sinking in, all of them true—she had accomplished the exact opposite of what she’d set out to do.

“Look,” said Brown. “The good news is that Grange has absolutely no proof. All he can do at this point is use it to keep you off the case.”

“Yeah, great news.”

“My gut tells me that deep down he knows it’s bullshit, but he didn’t like you being here in the first place, a woman, a civilian, and since you’ve already made your contribution—interpreting the psycho’s paintings—as far as he’s concerned, we no longer need you.” Brown laid his hand over hers for a brief moment, then went back to rubbing his temples. “You could use the break, McKinnon. Go on vacation, or something. Let’s not give Agent Grange anything else to work with, okay?”

Kate dug out her pillbox, deposited a couple of Excedrin into Brown’s open palm. “And what about our little psycho painter?”

“What about him?”

“You may not believe me, but I’m as committed to that case as I am to Richard’s.”

“Sorry,” said Brown, downing the Excedrin. “Not anymore you’re not.”

K
ate hurried down the hall, gray-green walls a blur, passing uniforms and detectives, all of them staring at her, or so she thought, some offering pitying looks—
poor thing, husband involved with the mob, got himself killed
—others unable to hide pleasure from the knowledge that the uptown lady had screwed up.

T
he omnipresent clouds seemed even more oppressive than usual, bearing down on Kate as she turned out of the precinct.

Consequences. She knew there would be consequences. But not this. To be off the case. Her head ached. She needed a couple of Excedrin herself, and to sleep. Just to sleep. But how would she do that, now, after she had totally fucked up?

She thought about going back to Tapell. But if Tapell went to bat for her this time, everyone would know something was up. And no way she would expose the chief.

It was just too late.

K
ate.”

Mitch Freeman touched her arm, gently stopping her, or she would surely have kept going. She did not want to talk to the FBI shrink, or anyone. Not now.

“Hey—” The corners of his mouth turned up, almost a smile, then down.

“So you know, huh? That I’m off.”

Freeman pushed the hair off his forehead, nodded. “Have time for a cup of coffee?”

Kate sighed. She did not want to talk; she wanted to talk forever. “All the time in the world apparently.”

They walked a few blocks, neither of them speaking.

At Ninth Avenue they chose an almost authentic-looking French café, settled themselves around a small table. Freeman ordered for both of them, café au lait, almond croissants, and though Kate was not hungry she didn’t bother to stop him, her will on sabbatical.

“You look tired,” said Freeman. “Are you sleeping?”

“Not much. Ambien helps.”

“Ah, one of the hypnotics.”

“Hypnotics?”

“Yes, that’s how the drug is classified—as a hypnotic. Unlike the old-fashioned narcotics, which knocked you out, Ambien puts you into a state, but you have to go with it, lie down, close your eyes, allow yourself to believe in sleep, then you will.”

Kate wasn’t sure she did believe in sleep—not anymore.

“But don’t take Ambien if you do not have a solid seven or eight hours ahead of you or you could end up with ‘traveler’s amnesia.’”

“Which is?”

“Named for the folks who pop sleeping pills on an airplane and are awakened a few hours later to deplane while the drug is still in their system. Not good. You’re awake, but in a sleep state.” Freeman peered over his glasses at Kate. “You’re more open to suggestion, almost like hypnosis. And later, you wouldn’t remember it.”

“Well, I won’t be taking Ambien except to get a full night’s sleep. I promise.”

Freeman smiled, then got serious again. “And don’t ever increase the dosage. Hypnotics work with the natural brain chemical known as GABA, a neurotransmitter. Neurotransmitters control communication among neighboring brain cells by increasing or descreasing their electrical activity.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Let’s just say that sleeping aids, while they are a boon to millions of insomniacs, can cause not only memory problems but changes in normal behavior if not taken as prescribed.”

“You’ve got my word, doctor.” Kate crossed her heart.

They were both quiet a moment.

“You know, you could have been killed,” Freeman said, after the waitress had deposited their bowl-sized mugs of coffee.

“I wasn’t thinking about me.”

“Maybe it’s time you did.”

Kate raised the bowl with both hands, felt the heat on her face. “It doesn’t worry me.”

“What doesn’t?” Freeman’s warm blue eyes were on hers.

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me, Doctor?”

“Just a little.” Freeman almost smiled. “So what…exactly…doesn’t worry you?”

“What happens…to me.”

“That’s not something a psychiatrist likes to hear.”

“I’m not your patient, Mitch.”

“I know that, but…” Freeman looked down at his croissant, then up. “Sorry, I can’t help myself.”

“What would you like me to say? That I’m sorry I followed Noreen Stokes? That I’m sorry Andy Stokes is dead? That Baldoni is dead too? Well, I
am
sorry. I’m sorry for…” Kate took a deep breath, worked hard at holding back tears. “For failing.”

“Whom did you fail?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Freeman tried to catch her eye, but she looked away. “It’s not your fault that Richard died, Kate.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Did she know that? It seemed that so many people she loved had died and there was nothing she could have done to prevent it.

“Things happen, Kate. Terrible things beyond our control, and—”

“But I
can
control it, I mean, I should, I need to, I—”

“But you
can’t
. None of us can control fate.”

Fate.
The word resonated in her mind. What was
her
fate? “I know you’re trying to be nice, Mitch, but please, just stop, okay? All I said was I didn’t care what happened to me. Is that so bad?”

“Suicidal tendencies? Yes, I think that’s bad. You obviously put yourself in harm’s way.”

“I was chasing answers, that’s all.”

“Without regard for your own safety.” Freeman eyed her across the small table. “You’re going to have to make a decision you know.”

“About…?”

Freeman held her glance. “About whether you want to live or die.”

Kate heard the words and came up with an answer: No, she did not care if she lived or died. “Please stop analyzing me, okay?”

“Okay,” said Freeman. “But why don’t you go away for a while? Give yourself time to grieve.”