The Ninth Step Read Free

on?”
    Jack stared back. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
    The man peered down the aisle at the victim. His air of indignation deflated a bit. “This is terrible, terrible. Who is this man?”
    Jack shrugged. “We don’t know yet. Does the name Robert Brasciak mean anything to you?”
    The owner shook his head.
    “Would you mind taking a closer look at him?”
    The owner looked away, uneasy.
    “The sooner we can find out what happened here, the sooner your store can get back to normal.”
    The man followed the detectives down the aisle. From about six feet away, they stared down at the body. The victim lay faceup, with his eyes rolled back in his head. It was a hard-planed face, like that of a backstreet boxer, with an oddly small mouth, which hung open slackly, as if he was sleeping off a bad three-day drunk.
    “You recognize him?” Jack asked.
    The owner nodded gravely. “I think so. He comes in sometimes. A customer.”
    “Did you notice anything about him?”
    The owner frowned. “Not a friendly man.”
    Jack sensed that he was holding something back. “What? Anything you can tell us might help.”
    “I think … he does not like us. Pakistanis, I mean. He will buy our products, and he will give us his money, but he does not respect us.” He frowned down at the bloody floor. “This, ah, this mess here. Do the police clean this up? I don’t want my people to have to touch this.”
    Jack nodded in sympathy. “We can recommend a professional service. They specialize in these matters.”
    The owner unstiffened a little more. “So what happened? Have you spoken to Aban?” He nodded toward the front counter.
    “Your guy says he didn’t really see what went on. And he says you don’t have video surveillance.”
    The owner glanced at his employee, then lowered his voice. “Please, come with me.”
    Jack and his new partner exchanged puzzled looks, but they followed the man as he marched briskly down the left aisle, the one unpopulated by dead bodies, past a display of mops and cleaning supplies, through a back door, and into a dim hallway full of a sour foreign cooking smell. An open doorway on the right revealed a small storeroom packed with boxes and product-crammed shelves. The owner turned toward a closed door on the left. He pulled out a key, opened it, and gestured for the detectives to enter. They did, and found themselves in an even smaller room, not much bigger than a walk-in closet. An office. The owner marched over to a gray metal cabinet, pulled out another key, and yanked the door open triumphantly.
    Jack and his partner stared at a small TV perched on the top shelf. On its little black-and-white screen, Jack could see a grainy bird’s-eye view of one of the store’s narrow aisles, facing toward the window, with the edge of the front counter just visible on the left. One of the M.E.’s boys stood up, emerging into view.
    Next to the TV sat a VCR.
    “Sweet baby Jesus!” said Powker.
    The owner smiled, sheepish. “My employees don’t know. This way, I can see if they are behaving.”
    “Is there a tape in there?”
    “Yes indeed.”
    Jack grinned at his partner. “Maybe you just hit the lottery after all.” The case might be wrapped up before lunchtime.
    It took a few minutes of rewinding, watching customers pop in and out of the store like hyper little windup dolls, before they found the crucial scene.
    First, the empty aisle. Then someone strolled in the front door. The picture was lousy, but you could see that it was a young guy, maybe mid-thirties, with a dark complexion and shiny black hair. Pakistani also, or Indian. (Jack had no idea how to tell the difference.) The guy picked up a shopping basket from a stack by the door, then walked toward the camera, casual and calm. He stopped to pick out a few items from the shelves, then drifted past the camera and disappeared from view.
    Jack turned to the deli owner. “Do you recognize this man?”
    The deli owner shook