Seven Ways to Die by William Diehl

term,” Bergman laughed. “By tomorrow half of that stuff will be gone but that’s why I put it all on tape as I was going through that little black bible of his.”
    “Well, between what we know from the entry plus my interrogation and your notes, we’ve got enough to wake the gang up and keep everybody busy. It’s gonna be a long day.”
    “They usually are,” Bergman answered with a smile.
    “And I’m guessing most of it will be in vain.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I don’t think we’re gonna find the name of whoever did that job on him in any book. And I don’t think the killer took any of his business stuff from the apartment. Or anything else for that matter.”
    “That’s why he went by his office,” Bergman said. “He probably dropped off the computer, his cell, and the Blackberry there.”
    “What leads you to that conclusion?”
    “He was going someplace else before he went home,” Bergman said.
    “Keep talking.”
    “Didn’t mix business with pleasure. So he left the business stuff at his office and then went…wherever he went.”
    “Then why did he take the briefcase?” Cody asked.
    “Because it had the little black book in it and that was very personal.”
    “Cool thinking,” Cody said. “The book’s a map of his past, Cal.”
    “Also his future,” said Bergman. “All his appointments are in it.”
    “They’re probably in his Blackberry and laptop. They just happened to be in that personal book, too, and he took that with him. And that mask.”
    Bergman nodded. “Full of personal stuff,” he said.
    “Yup.”
    “Why do you suppose he took all the receipts with him?” Bergman asked.
    “Force of habit. He still had one more stop to make after he signed off on the limo and he was taking the case with him anyway so he took the receipts.”
    “There wasn’t a receipt for the taxi…”
    “…because it was personal and he didn’t want a record of it,” Cody said, finishing the sentence.
    “And the mask?” Bergman asked, dodging past a FedEx truck and taking a hard right.
    “That may help explain where he went on his way home.”
    “I just thought of something,” Bergman said. “His overcoat was in that closet in the bedroom.”
    “Yeah?”
    “It was cold last night so he was probably wearing it and stopped to put it in the closet when he came in.”
    “And…”
    “If he signed off for the limo the receipt may be in the pocket. We don’t want to have to check with the driver unless we have to, he’ll get curious.”
    “Good idea.”
    Bergman drove another block, weaving through morning traffic.
    “What a weird way to live,” Bergman said, half aloud.
    “Not nearly as weird as the way he died,” Cody answered. “And I have a theory about where he stopped after the office.”
     

8
     
    Kate Winters stood in front of the oblong brick building and straightened out the wrinkles in her tan pants suit. She was about five-five, a shapely African-American woman in her mid-forties, with handsomely etched features and black hair trimmed in a bob. The strap of her dark brown purse was hooked over one shoulder but she held the purse itself in a tight fist, a not uncommon pose for a woman who had lived in Manhattan for more than a decade. A snatch thief would need a pair of vice grips to get it away from her.
    It was an unimposing building, an old two-story warehouse that filled a short block bordering Little Italy and was surrounded by bustling commerce: restaurants, grocery stores, a deli across the street, a pizza parlor up the way; a structure so unobtrusive the world hustled by like it was an obscure eyesore waiting for the wrecking ball. Its windows were bricked over. The entrance was a single steel door with a small, thick, opaque glass window nestled between four large, steel garage doors. There was no number on the door. No mailbox. Nothing to indicate what might be inside the place.
    She pressed a button close to the door jamb.
    “Yes?” A gruff voice