A Cold Day in Hell Read online

  Lauren waited until Violanti passed her before she got up. She followed him silently out of the courthouse onto the street.

  “Go home, Lauren,” he called without turning around.

  “No, I think you and I need to talk.”

  “Nothing to talk about.”

  She caught up to him and matched his stride. All around them people were streaming by, on their way to lunch or back to work or home for the day. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

  “I wasn’t. You heard the judge, it’s an unproved allegation.”

  A really huge unproved allegation, Lauren thought, you conniving prick. “You should’ve told me.”

  “I get it. I get it. I’m a bastard. I tricked you into this. Blah, blah, blah. Give me back the money and go home. If not, I have work to do.”

  Lauren suppressed the urge to punch him in the throat. “It’s a good thing for you I found Jennifer Jackson’s car on tape rolling through the intersection at 9:50 that night and returning at 10:45.”

  Violanti stopped dead in his tracks, causing a woman to walk face first into his back. He apologized as she brushed past him, swearing under her breath. “What?”

  “The windows are too dark to tell who’s driving, but the plate on the Lexus comes back to Jennifer Jackson.”

  The astonished look that had spread across his face was replaced with a wide smile. “Motive and opportunity. Son of a bitch.”

  She slapped him hard in the stomach with the package containing the disks she’d been carrying the whole time, knocking the wind out of him. She hadn’t suppressed the urge to hit him very well after all. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

  69

  David was fifteen minutes late getting down to the rec room because of the hearing. The courthouse deputies had turned him over to the holding center guards who, in turn, had to take him back to his cell to put his paperwork away once the side show was over.

  None of the other guards took notice of him as he shuffled with an attitude to the empty weight bench at the south end of the room. The other bench was occupied by Stefan, who was already shiny with perspiration. With his shirt off, David could see the rest of Stefan’s lean torso, covered over in tattoos and scars. One particularly nasty one ran from his collarbone to his belly, red and puckered, like someone had taken a jagged piece of glass and sliced him with it. Maybe someone had.

  “Where you been?” Stefan asked through gritted teeth as he pumped the bar over his head. “They picking your jury?”

  “No. Not yet. Tomorrow and the next day, my uncle said. I had a hearing this morning,” David said, pulling a ten-pound disk off the bar and replacing it with a twenty. “Frigging cops.”

  “What’d they do, bro?”

  David laid on the bench and gripped the bar above his head. He sucked air in and out, in and out, and then pumped the weights up. “They found this girl and wanted to use her at my trial. My lawyer got it all thrown out, but I can’t believe all the bullshit,” he huffed between reps.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “A nobody. A loser. A freaking lame ass who wanted to screw someone on the football team. Then after we did it and I never called her, said I forced her to have sex with me.”

  “When was this?”

  “Like, two years ago! I can’t even believe the girl had the nerve to get on the stand and say that shit. She was lucky to even get me to talk to her, let alone have sex with her. She should be thanking me for being too drunk to care what she looked like.” As David began working out, he shifted his anger from the weights to her. He began to think of all the things he’d like to do to that bitch now. He’d make what happened on the way home that night seem like a peck on the cheek.

  Stefan nodded solemnly. “Broads are like that. They drink too much and it’s your fault. You have to be careful. They say, ‘I said no’. But you’re already half undressed. You can’t go halfway with a man and then take it back.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.” David was pumping the bar rhythmically now. “She knew exactly what was going to happen the minute she got in my Jeep.”

  “I had a girl try to press charges against me for some shit like that before.” Stefan hooked the weight bar onto the bench and sat up, sweat trickling down the sides of his face.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. The detectives came and questioned me. It was my word against hers.”

  David smiled for the first time since he walked in, beads of sweat starting to pop on his forehead. “And that’s a beautiful thing.”

  70

  The press conference for the Shannon Pilski arrest was scheduled for one o’clock. They had eight minutes to walk down to the second floor. “How do I look?” Reese asked, adjusting his navy and red striped tie. “Any bats in the cave?” He turned his nose up for Lauren to inspect.

  “No. But you have to trim those nose hairs.”

  “My trimmer broke. Is it bad?”

  Lauren scoped out the inside of his nostrils. “Not terrible, but keep your chin down.”

  “Shit.”

  “And have a mint.” She held the little metal tin from her desk out to him.

  He scooped out two, popped them in his mouth. “You’re going to give me a complex. Fix my stupid tie, please.”

  Standing directly in front of him, Lauren undid the mess at his neck and expertly tied a Windsor knot. “There.” She brushed off his shoulders. “Perfect.”

  “Are we ready?” He picked up the nice brown leather folio he liked to hold in front of him as a prop for just such occasions.

  Snagging her own paperwork shield, she took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

  Mario Aquino and Joy Walsh looked up from their conversation in the hallway. “Good luck, guys,” Joy called to them. “Great job.”

  Reggie Major, in on overtime, came walking out of one of the doorways. “I worked on that murder when it first happened. I was brand-new up here. Glad you two could finally make an arrest. Sincerely.”

  “Great job, Cold Case,” agreed Mario. “If all my cases keep going south, I’ll have a few more for you by the end of the month.”

  “Thanks,” Lauren laughed, hitting the exit bar on the door with her hip, “but I’m afraid we’re booked up to the New Year.”

  A couple more “good jobs!” were called out from the inner office as the door fell shut behind them. Lauren had to smile. As much ego as there was floating around the office on a daily basis, so did a lot of heart. The approval of her peers still meant something to her, even when she tried to convince herself it didn’t.

  They walked down the narrow staircase from the fourth to the second floor. As soon as you walked out, you were face to face with the commissioner’s office, which was full of the top brass waiting to walk down to the police academy’s auditorium. They made a left, walking past the old-time police photos one of the photographers had the genius idea of blowing up, framing, and lining the hallways with. They passed a patrol car from the fifties, its two occupants standing next to it, squinting into the sunshine with their eight-point hats on. Another showed a beat cop perched on top of a two-story snow mound during the Blizzard of ’77 surveying a frozen city street. The last picture before you walked through the double doors was a portrait of a 1960s traffic cop, smiling with a silver whistle clenched

  between his teeth. He was waving cars forward with one leather gloved hand. It had become a sort of superstition to touch Uncle Ron’s face before you entered the academy. No one knew what that old-time copper’s real name was, but over the years countless officers had claimed he was a relation of theirs; grandfather, cousin, father-in-law, but by far the favorite was uncle. Hence Uncle Ron.

  Reese reached over and touched his whistle. “Wish me luck, Uncle Ron.”

  Lauren, who usually didn’t pay attention to the tradition, even brushed her fingers ove
r the glass. Nothing, literally nothing, scares cops more than having to go in front of news cameras. A barricaded suspect? Chasing a double murderer? A drunk waving a butcher knife? Child’s play, Lauren thought, compared to having to get on the stage in the auditorium with the hot lights blinding you, trapped there by the reporters and their questions.

  But she also knew it was necessary. For the police department, for the DA’s office, for the public, and especially for the victim’s family. This was a rarity: a Cold Case that was solved without lengthy searches, complications, or excessive drama. The double failures of the Stenz and Bronstein cases back to back were the most common results of opening a case. Vinita Ortiz’s homicide seemed almost too easy. All the dominos fell exactly where they’d wanted them to. That almost never happened. But when it did, there was a satisfaction to it that sometimes, once in a while, justice was finally served. Knowing that she and Reese were a part of that fueled Lauren with a sense of purpose. She wasn’t leaving Cold Case, no matter what the outcome of the trial next week. Church would have to force her out.

  Off to the left, standing on the very corner of the stage was Carlita Ortiz and her brother, Vincent. The resemblance to her mother was striking—same dark hair, same wide smile. The son was tall, at least six-one to his sister’s five-two, and fidgeting, pulling at the collar of his button-down shirt, jaw clenching. A woman from the mayor’s office was with them, talking to them, trying to keep them calm.

  Lauren smiled as she approached them. “Hey guys.” They had met in person three times before this, but it didn’t make it any easier for them. They got what they had always wanted—their mother’s killer arrested, something many families never got—and yet their relief was marred by the reality that nothing had changed. Their mom was gone and even though Shannon Pilski was getting seven to fifteen in prison, they still had a life sentence without her.

  Carlita hugged Lauren to her, breath coming in ragged gasps, trying not to cry. Lauren hugged her back, waiting until she was ready to let go.

  “Ms. Riley,” Vincent said, leaning forward to shake hands with Reese, “Mr. Reese.”

  “How you two holding up?” Reese asked.

  “It’s hard on my wife, you know?” Vincent said, tugging at the top button again. “She doesn’t know what to say to our kids. They’re so little. She stayed home.”

  “What about your kids?” Lauren asked Carlita.

  Carlita managed a smile and pointed down into the rows of seats lined up in front of the stage. “That’s my husband, Juan. And that’s Vinita. Named after her abuela. And her brother, Marcelino.” She waved to her family, sprawled across three seats, the little girl kneeling in her white dress to walk her dolls to each other across the metal chairs as her little brother tried to grab them. Her husband waved back, giving her an encouraging smile. Lauren knew from Carlita that their uncle had gotten him and her brother both jobs at the Ford Stamping plant out in Woodlawn, south of the city, where Lauren’s own father had retired from ten years ago. Vinita would have been so proud of her kids, Lauren thought as the department’s media officer started placing everyone in their designated spots.

  Mayor Patrick Karnes took the stage, along with DA Carl Church, ADA Kevin King, Police Commissioner Barbara Bennett, and the Invisible Man. They got arranged around the lectern, with Riley and Reese off to their left and the family to the right.

  The Invisible Man walked up to the microphone, tapped it once to make sure it was working and began. “I’d like to thank all the members of the press who have come out today. I am the Administrative Captain in charge of the Homicide division, Captain Stanley Maniechwicz. Spell it like it sounds.” A titter went up among the reporters as he paused a moment for them to adjust their cameras. “Before we begin I’d like to introduce the people with me on the stage, starting on my left … ” He went on with the introductions, spelling each person’s name after they waved or nodded in acknowledgement. When he was finished, he motioned Commissioner Bennett forward, who lowered the microphone to her red lips.

  “I’m Buffalo Police Commissioner Barbara Bennett and I’d like to welcome you all to our academy. Yesterday I was informed by the Erie County District Attorney Carl Church that a plea deal had been reached in the Cold Case homicide of Vinita Ortiz. Ms. Ortiz was brutally stabbed to death at 469 Virginia Place, July 29th, 1993. The case went cold.” She paused for effect, looking out over the cameras. Bennett knew how to work a crowd. The city’s first black female commissioner, there had been a lot of expectation for her to fail. Brought in from New York City, she’d neither messed up nor made a splash; utterly boring for the scandal-loving press.

  “This summer, after being contacted by family, Cold Case detectives Lauren Riley and Shane Reese diligently followed up on their mother’s death, culminating in the identification of a suspect, Shannon Pilski. Yesterday, Thursday, October 19th, through the efforts of the district attorney’s office, a plea deal was worked out, sparing the family the pain of enduring a trial.” She stepped aside, inviting Church to come forward. “District Attorney Carl Church would like to speak on that.”

  Shaking her hand before turning toward the room, he stood squarely in front of the mike, his charcoal gray suit accented with his trademark red power tie. Also a practitioner of the pregnant pause, he eyed the room for a moment before he spoke. “After more than twenty-four years, the district attorney’s office is pleased to announce the successful resolution of this case. It’s a testament to the teamwork and collaborative effort of the Buffalo Police Department, Erie County lab, and district attorney’s office that these cases, thought to be unsolvable, can be reopened and justice served to the victim’s families. I commend all the men and women involved for their hard work and diligence. And I’d like to remind the public, as far as cold cases are concerned, there is always hope.”

  Nice touch, Lauren thought as he turned the lectern over to Carlita Ortiz, who nervously ran through a litany of thanks to everyone involved. When she was done, the Invisible Man stepped forward again and opened the floor for questions. Most were expected: Who is the suspect to the victim? Why did it take so long for justice to be served? How did the case get reopened? Typical softball questions that Maniechwicz handled without batting an eye, until an older reporter from the Buffalo News stepped forward, tape recorder held out in front of him and asked, “Jury selection for the Katherine Vine homicide is going on right now. Aren’t you personally trying that case, Mr. Church?”

  Church’s face clouded over with anger for a split second before he managed to pull himself together. “Yes, I am. Yes, it is. And my second chair, Assistant District Attorney Lynn Ferro is more than competent to pick the jury.”

  “Sir, isn’t Detective Riley working for the defense in that case? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

  Church stepped back to the lectern, elbowing the Invisible Man aside. “There is no conflict of interest. Whatever side of a case we are on, we are both professionals. Presenting a case to a jury isn’t about picking sides, it’s about getting to the truth. And the jury decides that. Not me, not Detective Riley.”

  Every hand in the room shot up, questions fired up at the stage, but Captain Maniechwicz stepped forward, waving his hands, and shut the press conference down. Church stormed off the stage behind a thick blue velvet curtain with the Kinger following him. Lauren and Reese exited the other side of the stage, slipping through a door that took them into the camera room. Fifteen heads swiveled around as the door shut behind them.

  “Nothing to see here, folks.” Reese raised his hand in a friendly wave to the light duty officers who manned the city’s hundred surveillance cameras. They strode through the center of the double banks of screens on either side and went out through another door leading to the stairs.

  “I didn’t see that coming.” Lauren exhaled when she was sure they were finally alone.

  “Really? Because that’s what I’ve been warning
you about since day one.”

  “Reese, please … ”

  He held up a hand, shushing her. “Shannon Pilski still needs to be processed. Kinger told me she’s in custody over at the holding center. Let’s do the arrest paperwork, run it over, get her mugged and printed, and call it a day, okay?”

  She studied his expression for a moment, trying to gauge where his head was at. Was this the final straw in their partnership? Come Monday, when the trial started, would she even have a partner?

  “Okay,” she sighed. “Let’s go.”

  71

  On Monday morning, after the jury selection, there was nothing left but the trial. After little more than four months of preparation, investigation, and researching, the case was going before a jury. Everyone involved wanted different things. Joe Wheeler wanted his moment in the spotlight. Frank Violanti wanted his godson’s name cleared. Carl Church wanted justice at any cost. David Spencer wanted freedom.

  Lauren just wanted it to be over.

  In a criminal trial, the prosecution always gets the first and last word. They represent the people and for this reason they get to make the first opening statement to the jury and the last closing argument. In between those two monologs, the prosecution presents its case, methodically calling witnesses, presenting evidence to the jury, and hammering home their theory of the crime. The defense gets to cross examine those witnesses on their testimony, to poke holes in the prosecution’s case, and when they are done the prosecution get to redirect or re-question their witness to mitigate the damage done by the defense. Then the prosecution rests and the defense gets to put their witnesses on and the process is reversed. The defendant may or may not testify. The defense can recall the prosecution’s witnesses. The judge presides over the battle of the objections on both sides, remaining neutral, in theory maintaining the flow of the trial.