“Hello, saliva traces and DNA.”
He started to rise, when he noticed something on the glass inside the case. In front of all the mouth-watering treats (Resist the temptation! he scolded himself), words had been written in what looked like Epstein’s blood:
Run, run, as fast as you can
Can’t catch me…
Mrs. Funerro came up behind him. “Did you find something? Is that a clue?”
Quickly he stood, using his bulk to block her view of the body and, more importantly, the writing. “You must have watched police shows on TV. You know I can’t say anything.” Especially if I don’t want everyone from here to Astoria to know about it He held the half-eaten cookie behind his back. “Forensics will tell us what happened. For now, I need you to do something very important.”
The old woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “You want me to canvass for witnesses? I could do that — I know everyone from Shore Road to Fort Hamilton Parkway. Maybe somebody saw something. That snippy waitress got her break at the diner a little while ago. Maybe she knows something — she’s always talking to those boys who go in there, the little gossip.”
“No, no, that could be dangerous.” Ippolito put an arm around her skeletal shoulder and guided her through the kitchen to the rear door. “I need you to go back to your house and write down everything you saw and experienced here tonight.”
“Write down…?”
“You’re our main witness right now. We need to protect you.” He nodded solemnly. “I’ll have a car sent to watch your door, too. Just in case.”
Hope enlivened her voice. “Am I… in danger, you think?”
“Just in case.” He touched one beefy finger to the side of his nose. “But do me a favor — no axes. We can’t have our most valuable witness hurting herself.”
Now she was positively glowing. “Of course. Of course, you’re right. But the Bridgeview is on my way. If I stop there I can question—”
“Straight. Home.” He closed the door before she could argue.
Epstein had kept a small office next to the kitchen. Ippolito used its phone to make his report before going back out to the front shop to wait for assistance. Through the front window he watched snow begin to fall on an empty Fourth Avenue. Memories of his grocery delivery days returned like ghosts of Christmases past. Way too many years ago. Years and pounds. He started to smile until a glare reflected off the floor and reminded him why he was there. The car, a Mercedes SUV with a Christmas tree’s worth of headlights, had stopped at a red light outside. A shirtless young man wearing a thick gold rope around his neck hung out the passenger window.
“I love you, Angieeee! Merry Fucking Christmas!” the man screamed. “Aaaaaaaaa! I love you, Aaaangieeee!”
Across the street an apartment window slammed open. “She don’t love you, ’cause she’s up here sucking my dick! Just shut the hell up!”
Now the driver of the SUV joined in. “You can’t talk to my boy like that! Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
The light turned green and the SUV sped off in a screech of tires and obscenities. “Home sweet home,” Ippolito shook his head. “Where everybody’s a tough guy and no one takes crap from no one, because their boys have got their backs.”
He turned away from the window and his memories to study the scene. The tray atop the serving counter was also filled with those mobster gingerbread men, in eight neat rows of four. Gingerly he avoided the pool of blood as he stood over them. The cryptic message on the display case was backwards from this side, but the baked goods looked just as wonderful. From this position he couldn’t see the body either, and any of the smells death brings were smothered by the overwhelming scent of delightful holiday treats.
“Temptation,” he reminded himself. He stared into the display case, feeling like a child, before something odd caught his eye: One of the gingerbread mobsters had red hands. And they all had white frosting eyes and pinstripes, but red mouths.
Ippolito frowned. The gingerbread mobsters on the countertop looked identical, but with white frosting mouths. He picked one up and circled the counter, stepped over Epstein’s body, and crouched to take one from inside the case. His knees creaked. Holding the two side by side he noticed the one from inside the case, in addition to the varied coloring, also seemed… bigger.
Fatter.
“Hmph.”
Carefully he replaced the larger one, an involuntary grunt escaping his pursed lips as he reached. “Jesus, I’ve got to lose some weight. My New Year’s resolution.” Still in a crouch, he leaned against the counter for support. The hand on which he rested his weight clutched the gingerbread mobster from the countertop.
“What are you looking at?”
The gingerbread mobster had no reply. Its white frosting eyes remained unblinking, its white frosting mouth remained in a fixed sneer.
The temptation proved too much. He cocked his head at the cookie and adopted the tone of the SUV driver: “Fuck me? Fuck you!” He chuckled as he bit off its head and chewed. “Yeah, I can eat you. It isn’t New Year’s yet.” He took another bite. The gingerbread was still faintly warm, and a hint of cinnamon tickled his palate. It dissolved in his mouth like butter on hot pancakes, leaving an aftertaste of gingery vanilla.
“Wow,” he smacked his lips. “Mr. Epstein, the world will mourn the loss of so great a cookie master—”
Scuttling above him made Ippolito’s head snap up. He dropped the half-eaten cookie and started to rise, reaching for his gun. As he came eye-level with the counter he saw the flat pan was now empty. Before he could process this, he saw why.
And he screamed.
“God, he just called this in,” the patrolman said sadly. “Can’t have been more than twenty minutes ago.”
Detective Mike Schofield’s jaw tightened. “Well, obviously the killer came back.”
Ippolito’s body lay atop the body of the bakery’s proprietor. It took two blankets to cover the mass, and both were sponging up blood. It was everywhere. Schofield noted spray patterns from severed arteries as well as smears that showed the hefty detective hadn’t gone down without a fight. Judging by the damage to Ippolito’s body, there had been more than one assailant.
The patrolman was staring at the display case’s glass window. “What’s this supposed to mean?”
Schofield glanced at it. “Whatever it means, it’s written here, too.” He pointed at the countertop. “‘Run, run, as fast as you can. Can’t catch me…’ We’ll see about that, scumbag. You don’t kill a cop and walk away. We watch out for our own.”
Next to the writing sat a tray filled with gingerbread mobsters. Schofield frowned. They were big and fat, overlapping each other in a way that would have made them burn in the oven if that was how they’d been cooked.
“Let me ask you something,” he said to the patrolman. “You bake gingerbread men, you give them faces with white frosting, right?”
“Yeah.”
Schofield pointed at the cookies on the countertop. “So how come these ones have red mouths?”