LITMIR.BIZ

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shrugged. “You’re the detective. I just got through faxing a preliminary report to your office. It should be on your desk when you get back. Some of the tests will take longer. I’ll let you know when the lab work is done.”

      Butoli slapped the little man on the back.

      “Thanks, Yoda. This is the first good news I’ve had in two days.”

      Wise smirked. “May the force be with you. Now go away. I have work to do.”

      Butoli left the crime lab with a bounce in his step that had little to do with his sore toe. Finally a name to go with the face—at least most of a name. He was going to swing by the office, pick up Marshall and a picture of the victim, and then take a ride back down to Brighton Beach. Maybe someone would remember a man named Walton. Hell. Maybe he was kin to John Boy. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants?

      Five hours later, Butoli slid into the passenger seat as Larry Marshall got in behind the wheel. They’d been in and out of every place of business within a fifteen block radius of the area where the old man’s body had been found, with no response. It wasn’t until they’d gone into a small Russian restaurant adjacent to a thrift store that they’d gotten lucky.

      The manager had frowned at their badges as he stubbed out a roll-your-own cigarette, glanced at the picture, then shook his head without looking up.

      But Butoli had persisted.

      “Come on, buddy. Look again. Somebody stuck a knife in his heart and left him to die in an alley alone. Somewhere he’s probably got family who are worried sick. I’m not asking you to ID a killer, just the man. It’s the least he deserves. Now look again. Have you seen him before?”

      The manager looked up with a distrustful glare. His experience with public authority had begun at the age of seventeen, half a world away in a Soviet prison. He felt no need to cooperate. But the look on the cop’s face seemed less threatening than most, so when Butoli shoved the picture back toward him, he shrugged, then looked down.

      “Yeah…maybe I see him before…two…three times. He liked my borscht.”

      “Is he a local?”

      “Nyet,” the manager answered, then qualified the Russian “no” with a negative shake of his head.

      “How do you know?” Butoli asked.

      “One time I think he pay with what you call traveler’s check.”

      “Did you see anyone with him?”

      The manager shook his head again.

      Larry Marshall leaned against the counter, putting himself in the man’s personal space with only a small bit of wood and glass between them. The manager took a defensive step back as Larry fired his first question.

      “Any idea where he was staying?”

      The manager shook his head again. “But maybe not too far away.”

      “What makes you say that?” Marshall asked.

      “He was old…sick, too, I think.”

      “How do you know?”

      The manager shrugged again, then glanced nervously around. It wasn’t good business to be friendly with the police.

      “His skin…it was not a good color. But he did not ask for cab, so maybe he had room not too far away.”

      “Good deduction,” Butoli said, and slipped the picture in his pocket. “Sir, I thank you for your help. If you think of anything else…anything at all…give me a call.”

      He handed the manager his card, and then they left.

      “Next on the list, hotels and rooming houses,” Marshall said, as he started the car and pulled away from the curb.

      “Maybe we’ll get lucky again,” Butoli said. “But in the meantime, don’t get pushy with these people. Few of them have any reason to trust authority.”

      Marshall patted the part in his hair without heeding Butoli’s caution.

      “They’re in America now. If they don’t like the way we do things here, they can go back where they came from.”

      Butoli’s toe was killing him, and his patience was gone. He had the strongest urge to slap the back of Larry Marshall’s head just to see the look on his face. Instead, he popped a couple of painkillers and leaned back against the seat.

      Less than half an hour later, Butoli’s prediction was proven right. The desk clerk at the Georgian Hotel identified the picture before Larry Marshall could get out his notebook.

      “Oh my…he is dead?” the clerk asked.

      Butoli nodded.

      “Poor man, but glad it didn’t happen here.”

      Marshall smirked. “Yeah, I see your point. Not good for business, huh?”

      The clerk flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t say that right. I’m sorry Mr. Walton is dead. He seemed like nice man, but you know what I mean…right?”

      Butoli frowned. No luggage had been found with the body. Maybe they’d just found their motive for the old man’s death. People had been killed for far less than a suitcase of clothes.

      “What name did he register under?” he asked.

      “Walton…Frank Walton. I remember I teased him and asked if he was related to John Boy. You know…from TV show.”

      “Exactly when did he check out?” Butoli asked.

      The clerk turned to the computer and typed in the name.

      “Here it is. Yesterday morning.”

      Butoli’s frown deepened. The coroner had told them that the old man had probably died between 7:00 and 9:00 p.m. the night before his body was discovered. So if Walton was already dead, then he couldn’t have checked himself out. His pulse skipped a beat.

      “You’re sure? Did he check out at the desk?”

      The clerk scanned the screen and then looked up. “I was not on duty. All I know is room key was turned in and his bill put on credit card he gave on arrival.”

      “We’ll need that credit card number,” Marshall said.

      The clerk frowned. “I am not supposed to give—”

      “It’s to confirm identification and to make sure it wasn’t a stolen card, understand?”

      The clerk hesitated and then copied it from the screen to a piece of paper and handed it to Marshall.

      “Had his room been slept in?” Butoli asked.

      The clerk shook his head. “I don’t know. You have to check with housekeeping.”

      “Then get somebody up here,” Butoli said. “We’ll wait.”

      “Can you speak Russian?” the clerk asked.

      “No,” Butoli said.

      “Then I need to call manager, too, or you get nowhere with the help.”

      “You don’t speak Russian?” Marshall asked.

      “I am not Russian. I am Slovak.”

      “Whatever,” Marshall muttered.

      A short while later they were in the manager’s office, conducting a half-assed interrogation through a man who quite obviously wished them to be anywhere else but here. The reluctant hotel manager was standing beside a cowering housemaid, who obviously thought she was in some kind of trouble. Despite the fact that they’d assured her otherwise, she hadn’t stopped crying since she’d entered the room.

      “What the hell did you say to her?” Butoli growled.

      The manager, who was also of Russian

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