“I didn't know her. Nobody knew her. They tell me she worked in a bar . . . the Step In on Stark Street. Maybe somebody knew her there.”
“Were you home the night of the shooting?”
“Yes. It was late, and Carmen had the television on real loud. I never heard her play it so loud. Then someone was banging on Carmen's door. A man. Turned out he was a cop. I guess he had to bang because no one could hear him over the television. Then there was a gunshot. That's when I called the police. I called the police, and when I got back to my front door I could hear there was a big commotion in the hall, so I looked out.”
“And?”
“And John Kuzack was there, and some others from the building. We take care of our own here. We aren't like some of those people who pretend not to hear things. That's why we have no drugs here. We never have this kind of trouble. John was standing over the cop when I looked out. John didn't know the man was a cop. John saw someone shot dead in Carmen's doorway, and this other man had a gun, so John took matters into his own hands.”
“Then what happened?”
“It was real confusing. There were so many people in the hall.”
“Was Carmen there?”
“I didn't see her. There were just so many people. Everybody wanting to know what happened, you know? People trying to help the dead man, but it was no use. He was dead.”
“Supposedly there were two men in Carmen 's apartment. Did you see the second man?”
“I guess so. There was a man I didn't know. Never saw before. Skinny, dark hair, dark skin, about thirty, funny face. Like it'd been hit with a frying pan. Real flat nose. That's why I noticed him.”
“What happened to him?”
She shrugged. “Don't know. I guess he just left. Like Carmen.”
“Maybe I should talk to John Kuzack.”
“He's in 4B. He should be home. He's between jobs right now.”
I thanked her and walked up two more flights of stairs, wondering what sort of person would be willing and able to disarm Morelli. I knocked at 4B and waited. I knocked again, loud enough to bruise my knuckles. The door was thrown open and my “what kind of person” question was answered. John Kuzack was 6' 4" tall, weighed about two hundred and forty pounds, had his graying hair pulled into a ponytail, and had a rattler tattooed onto his forehead. He was holding a TV Guide in one hand and a can of beer in the other. The sweet aroma of pot drifted out of his hazy apartment. Vietnam vet, I thought. Airborne.
“John Kuzack?”
He squinted down at me. “What can I do for you?”
“I'm trying to get a lead on Joe Morelli. I was hoping you could tell me something about Carmen Sanchez.”
“You a cop?”
“I work for Vincent Plum. He posted the bond on Morelli.”
“I didn't know Carmen Sanchez real good,” he said. “I'd seen her around. Said hello to her a couple times. She seemed nice enough. I was coming up the stairs when I heard the gunshot.”
“Mrs. Santiago, on the second floor, said you subdued the gunman.”
“Yeah. I didn't know he was a cop. All I knew was he'd shot someone, and he was still armed. There were a lot of people coming into the hall, and he was telling them all to stay away. I figured it wasn't a good situation, so I hit him with a six-pack. Knocked him out cold.”
A six-pack? I almost laughed out loud. The police report had stated that Morelli had been hit with a blunt instrument. It hadn't said anything about a six-pack.
“That was very brave.”
He grinned. “Hell, bravery didn't have anything to do with it. I was shitfaced.”
“Do you know what happened to Carmen?”
“Nope. Guess she disappeared in the scuffle.”
“And you haven't seen her since?”