Flu

Chapter 46

"Something bothering you about this case?" Kate asks as Rick settles into his seat next to her desk.

"There is," he confides. "We've got the what, where, how and we're looking for the who. But we never asked about the why. It wasn't a robbery. Terry's cash was untouched. Vendors are rarely rich. No one would have been looking for an inheritance. And a killing for love wouldn't have been that cold and systematic. There could be a crime involved somehow, but what? Selling bootlegged root beer? It doesn't make sense, Kate."

"If we can spot the killer, it won't have to," Kate points out. "We don't have much video. There weren't any ATM or security cameras near Terry, and the traffic cams would have been focused on the street. If there's anything there, you'll see it soon enough. You should use the big screen in Tech. Tori can enhance an image if you find one."

Rick wishes the video had sound. The camera catches a sideways view of a man approaching Terry around zero hour. His face is turned away as if he knows he's being surveilled. He's wearing the heaviest coat and scarf that wouldn't attract undue attention in late October. His shoulders seem wide underneath, but it's hard for Rick to be sure. A baseball cap covers the potential suspect's head. As Tori zooms in, Rick can see a few strands of hair, white hair, poking out. "Can you get a height estimate from this?" Rick asks.

Tori's fingers move swiftly over her keyboard. "Relative to the other elements in the frame, he's about six-four."

The churn in Rick's belly increases. He knows a six-foot-four white-haired man with the skills to take Terry out at one thrust, and if it were in the national interest, he'd do it with few qualms. That the mission would be illegal on American soil wouldn't matter. But what could a street vendor be involved with that would call for summary execution? Rick desperately hopes he's jumped to conclusions, but he's afraid he's right on target.

He signals for Kate to follow him into the abandoned tech office and locks the door behind them. "Babe," she protests, "I love you, but we really don't have time for…"

Shaking his head, Rick raises a hand to cut her off. "I wish that's why I brought you in here. I found a partial view of our suspect, not enough for facial recognition, but something."

"Then why do you look like the roof just fell on your head?"

"Because I think I recognized him. Kate, I think my father killed Terry Hanson."

Kate's teeth dig into her lip. "But you don't know. You don't have enough to make a positive identification."

"No. I don't," Rick admits. "But if it was my father, the company had a reason for going after him. Our victim wasn't who he seemed to be."

"Yeah, OK, but the canvass isn't finished yet," Kate reminds him. "We still might find someone who saw something that will prove it wasn't your father. And Perlmutter could also find evidence that will point to another killer. Step back and take a breath. Maybe you should go by the Pumpkin Castle to check on things there. Tomorrow is Halloween. Mark must be revving up for the big day."

"Kate, I was there to drop off my autographed jack o' lanterns. Mark is making preparations, but he said things are going as smoothly as can be expected. I don't need a distraction. I need to dig into Terry Hanson. If he was who everyone thought he was, that would knock the pins out from under my theory. We haven't had a look at his place yet. Wouldn't going through it be SOP?"

"It would. We can check out his apartment while we're waiting for the final reports from the canvass and Terry's autopsy. But don't go off on me, OK. 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.'"

Rick's fingertips dig into his palms. "Freud was talking about dreams. Terry was killed in broad daylight."

Kate reaches for the door handle. "Let's go."

Rick can't see anything remarkable about Terry Hanson's small third floor Manhattan apartment, except that the victim had one. The sky-high rents on the concrete island usually preclude occupancy by lower-income residents, unless they share costs. Terry Hanson lived alone. His furniture is worn but serviceable. He had a few books and the paperwork he needed to maintain his business license, but other than that, the apartment contains little.

Rick opens the refrigerator. "Hmm."

"What?" Kate questions.

"Terry Hanson dealt in nostalgic American food, like the root beer Lana Springer was after when she found him. There's none of that here, but he's got borsht, sour cream, and some leftover kasha. They are the kind of things you might expect in the fridge of someone brought up in Russia."

"Or someone with an immigrant mother or grandmother," Kate suggests. "I love Remy's burgers, but I also love the dishes Nonna used to make."

"Point taken. But something else, Kate, where did he keep his cart? This building has no elevator. Even if there was room for it, he couldn't have gotten it up here. The building doesn't have a garage, either."

There might be storage in the basement," Kate suggests. "We could check with the super."

"That would be below street level. He'd still have to get that thing up and down the stairs," Rick argues. "I'm betting he has a storage unit someplace where he parked his cart and anything he wouldn't want to keep in his apartment."

"I requested his financials. They'll probably be in by the time we get back to the 12th. If he has a unit, we may find charges for it."

Jack was hoping that the investigation of Hanson's death would be assigned to anyone but Kate Beckett. He would also have liked to take the sleeper out anywhere but a busy Manhattan street, but the company made the job priority red. Hanson posed an immediate threat, or at least the analysts believed he might.

The chance of Kate and Rick coming anywhere close to Jack is vanishingly small, but it's not impossible. Kate's record for closing cases even before she met Richard was exceptional, and as a pair, they are almost unstoppable. He'll be one of the few that gets away, and he hates to be a black mark on the family business. He shakes his head. Damn! He's getting soft.

Hefting a pair of bolt cutters, Kate clips the lock on Hanson's storage unit, as Rick looks on. "I could have done that."

"No, you couldn't. I'm the cop, you're the civilian consultant," she reminds him. "You're not allowed to break and enter."

"But a guardian of the law is? Do you realize how little sense that makes? Never mind, I find watching you do it strangely arousing. Maybe I should get some extra locks to keep in the bedroom."

"I've known guys turned on by a lot of weirder things," Kate confesses.

Rick winces. "I'm not sure I want to know. Do I get to roll up the door?"

"Knock yourself out, Babe.

Metal grates as the door rises. Rick points to a bare spot on the floor. That's the right size for Terry's cart. But look at this other stuff, Kate. The map of the subway system he has on the wall is marked up. Why would a street vendor need to do that? And he has the kind of fridge they use in labs. Maybe he has more than root beer in there.

Kate blocks Rick as he reaches for the handle on the refrigerator door. She opens it with a gloved hand. "No root beer, but is this an empty test tube rack?"

"It is," Rick confirms. "I wonder if he was expecting to put something in it, or something that was in it is gone. All in all, I prefer option one. Kate, if Terry Hanson was some kind of bio-terrorist, my father's the type of guy the company would have sent to take him out."

"But we don't know what Terry was going to put in that rack. It could have been for holding a new snack or something."

Sighing, Rick shakes his head. "The only one who'd want a snack from a test tube rack would be Dracula. You don't really believe Terry was an innocent, do you?"

"I don't know what to believe. I'll get CSU in to sweep this place, and we'll see what they find."