Hooked

ride.”
    “Where to?”
    “Brooklyn.”
    Linc checked his watch. “I’m staking out Upper Eighties tonight. Get one of the other guys to go.”
    “This ties to the Cooper case.”
    “What case?” Linc said. “We don’t have a case.” Not unless Tawny gets something tonight.
    “We do now. Ever hear of a guy by the name of Rick Martell?”
    Why did that name ring a bell? “Sounds familiar. Who is he?”
    “The name would sound an alarm if you were a fed. He’s Mario Russo’s money man, related to the old man by marriage.”
    He remembered now. Harry had mentioned him, suggesting Martell had set up Tawny’s offshore account. Linc’s stomach flipped. He had an ugly feeling he didn’t want to hear what was coming next. “What’s he got to do with us?”
    “Martell’s dead, and he left a suicide note. Couldn’t live with the guilt of killing a couple of hookers. Wanna guess who?”
    Now he knew he didn’t want to hear this. “Sarah Marshall and Cindi Dyson?”
    “You got it, Einstein. That’s why the guys at the 62 nd called us. That enough of a connection for you?”
    Linc checked his watch one more time. He could make it back before nine, at the latest ten. Tawny’s leaving was more important than her going in. Mind made up, he grabbed his jacket. How long could this take? He followed Dennis to the car. “I don’t suppose he wrote where he committed this murder, like Benny Cooper’s establishment.”
    “Said he killed both women in some motel in Brooklyn. Dumped Marshall in the harbor and put Dyson in a suitcase and dumped her in the East River near the Main Street section of Brooklyn Bridge Park . This time he weighted it down so she wouldn’t pop up.”
    “Man, I hate to hear that.”
    “Why?” Dennis asked, getting behind the wheel.
    “Don’t you find that a little too convenient?” Linc buckled his seatbelt. “Guy leaves a suicide note, confesses to one murder we haven’t been able to pin on anyone, then he tells us where to find the body of a second woman we only suspected was dead. Sounds like someone wanted to tie up all the loose ends with a big pretty bow. I bet the note’s written on a computer too. Not in Martell’s handwriting.”
    “Don’t know. We’ll find out when we get there.”
    “ Brooklyn ,” Linc said. “This stinks.”
    Dennis groaned. “I hate when you’re logical. Fucks up everything.”
    “Mario Russo’s all over this. Listen to this. It’s hypothetical, but it could have happened this way. Tawny found out that Cindi Dyson worked at Cooper’s. That we know for a fact. Suppose Martell killed Dyson there. Could have been an accident, rage, who knows? Russo finds out and tells Cooper to keep his mouth shut. Meanwhile, someone dumps the girl’s body. What if Melody Carnes was involved or found out about it? She takes off but finds out the cops were knocking on her door. She panics and calls Cooper. Then Cooper calls Russo.”
    “Why? Cooper isn’t the kind of guy who’d call a mob boss. He’d pack the girl off, give her a bundle, and tell her to keep her mouth shut.”
    “Right, but he’s covering up a murder, accidental or not. That’s enough to put him in prison.” Linc thought for a minute. “Okay then, what if Martell confesses what happened to Russo. They’re tight, he’s Russo’s accountant, connected by marriage. Russo calls Cooper to make sure this isn’t going anywhere. Cooper assures him it isn’t, but after we try to question Carnes, the cat is slowly creeping out of the bag. If she’s involved, she’ll make a deal to save her ass, and in the process flip on Martell.”
    “And if she flips on Martell,” Dennis said, “Martell might flip on Russo.”
    “Right,” Linc said, drawing out the word as the scenario fell into place. “And Martell knew where all the dirty money is.”
    “Why not take out Melody Carnes and solve everyone’s problem?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe by the time Russo found out, she’d flown the coop. Hmm,” Linc said, leaving the sound hanging.
    “What?”
    “Maybe there’s something more. What if Russo wanted to get rid of Martell?”
    “You mean for other reasons?”
    “Yeah,” Linc said, “why not?”
    * * * * *
    T he forensic crew was already at the scene when Linc and Dennis arrived. They put on protective shoe coverings and the detective in charge, Ron Shute, waved them inside. The familiar smell of death hung in the air.
    “Thirty-eight to the temple,” Shute said after