Читать книгу Soul Murder - Daniel Blake - Страница 15

‘How did the killer get in?’ Patrese asked, when he and Beradino were in the car.

‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it? Well, one of them, anyway.’

That the fire escape and underground parking lot were risky methods of entry didn’t mean they were impossible. The parking lot had closed-circuit TV; the fire escape didn’t. The cops would trawl through the footage and see what they could find.

Failing either of those, could the killer have been a resident?

It seemed unlikely, to say the least. They’d spoken to all the residents, albeit briefly. None of them looked as though they could harm a fly, and none had an obvious motive to do away with Redwine.

The uniforms would follow up, of course, interviewing every resident properly.

What about one of the doormen? Probably not Foxworth himself – it would be hard to do it on one’s own shift, because it would have meant leaving the front desk unattended for too long – but one of the others, who was off shift? A doorman would know all the shortcuts and hidden entrances, and his presence wouldn’t be suspicious.

But again, it came back to the same stumbling block: why?

Why had Redwine been killed, and why – the second sixty-four-thousand-dollar question – why in that way? Why burned, rather than, say, shot, or stabbed?

To hide something? If not Redwine’s identity, then something else?

To destroy something? Forensic evidence, or something less directly connected to the corpse, such as documentation or other items?

As punishment; a cruel and unusual way of murdering someone?

Or were all these delving too deep into something very simple? Had Michael Redwine been burnt to death simply because the killer had felt that was the easiest way of doing it?

Redwine had been a surgeon at Mercy, Pittsburgh’s largest and most famous hospital. Mercy was located uptown, a few blocks from The Pennsylvanian.

‘We’re going to Mercy?’ Patrese asked.

‘You got any better ideas?’

‘Matter of fact, I do.’

Patrese flipped open his cellphone and hit one of the speed dials. A woman answered on the second ring.

‘Hey, Cicillo.’

‘Hey, sis. Are you on shift?’

‘No, at home, all alone; Sandro’s taken the kids to his mom’s for a few days. Why?’

‘Can we come by?’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Me and Mark.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘Tell you when we get there. We’re leaving town now. See you in fifteen.’

He ended the call. Beradino looked across at him.

‘Who was that?’

‘Bianca. My sister.’

‘The one who’s a doctor at Mercy?’

‘The very same.’

Beradino smiled.

There were two ways to find out what Redwine had been like and why someone might have wanted to kill him in such a vile manner. There were formal channels, which involved managers, bureaucrats and warrants; and there were informal channels, which involved the promise of favors owed if you were lucky and good old dead presidents if you weren’t.

Either way, there were no prizes for guessing which method tended to be quicker and more effective.

‘You’re not as dumb as you look,’ Beradino said.

‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’