Cold Day in Hell
Page 2
I gave myself up to the natural tides and, after a few jostling minutes, was gently bumped up against the real live version of a woman I was more accustomed to seeing in a plastic box with a square hole cut into the front. Her name was Kelly Cole. A palomino blonde with large chocolate eyes, she was tapping the nonbusiness end of a pen against her slender lips and frowning down at her reporter’s notebook. The little squiggle between her eyebrows was the sole blemish on her milk-smooth face. I pointed it out to her.
“Baby’s first frown line,” I said. “So cute.”
The tapping pen halted. The line evaporated. “Well. Fritz Malone. Can it really be? What brings you here? I wouldn’t have thought celebrity trials were your kind of thing.”
“They’re not. I was down the hall putting the screws to some pirates. The riptide brought me in.” I indicated her notebook. “Looking for your lead?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Though I don’t know why I think it makes any damn difference. Do you think the viewers pay one iota of attention to my syntax?”
I rejected a lame joke about the alluring reporter’s syntax and instead asked, “So what do Ms. Cole’s sources tell her about what’s going on here?”
She gave me a “nice try, buster” look. “Who says Ms. Cole has those kind of sources?”
“The kind of sources that leak good dirt on our airtight jury? I don’t know, I guess I just consider you more wily than the average bear.”
“Well, the defense is itching for a mistrial here, but everyone knows that. That’s hardly a secret. A contentious jury is their best chance, and this one seems to be a powder keg these days.”
“Eddie Harris told me there’d been a fight.”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“You really don’t have the details?”
She shrugged. “We can speculate. Either the truck driver is finally fed up with the schoolteacher or the actress-waitress is tired of being hit on by the guy who owns the bar. That’s how my scorecard looks.”
“What about the foreperson?” I asked.
“Foreperson. Honestly. A person could choke on PC shit like that.”
I pressed. “I’ve heard some rumors.”
“That Madame Foreperson tried to get herself removed? Could be. According to the people who’re keeping score, she’s seemed the most fragile of the bunch.” The reporter pulled something from her blazer pocket and flipped it open. For a second I thought it was a cell phone, but it turned out to be a compact mirror. She checked out the goods, taking a scrape with her fingernail at the edge of her lipstick.
I asked, “So what’s the office pool saying?”
“On Fox?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, the cowboy’s going down for it, no question about it.”
“No question? Mr. Simpson managed to squirm off the hook.”
She slipped the mirror back into her pocket. “Mr. Simpson was an anomaly. There’s no race card here. Besides, that’s Hollywood. We do things differently in New York. We tear down the mighty for breakfast.”
She sounded more than a little eager for a verdict of guilty, and I told her so. “You’re drooling, Ms. Cole.”
Something deep in her eyes pulsed. “I’m entitled to my opinion. So long as I don’t broadcast it.”
“And your opinion is that he did it.”
“Them. The bastard killed both of them. Any idiot can see that.”
The door to the jury room had just opened, and twelve of Marshall Fox’s alleged peers began the shuffle-march into the jury box.
I noted, “All it takes is one idiot.”
“Would you like to put up a wager?”
“Not with you, sweetheart. Not with your inside information.”
If eyes were bricks, I’d have had my head staved in. Her milky skin went red. “Screw you! That is so fucking yesterday, I can’t believe you’re even saying that.”
I raised my hands. “Whoa. You’re right. I’m sorry. That was stupid.”
“You’re damn right it’s stupid! Give me a break already.” She gave her head a toss. How she knew it would make her hair fall perfectly into place was beyond me. “You’ll excuse me. I’ve got to go earn my measly nickel.”
With that, another of Marshall Fox’s former girlfriends moved off, bumping and grinding her way through the crowd to get to the media corral.
THE CORONER DETERMINED that the blows to Robin Burrell’s head, powerful though they were, weren’t what killed her. For certain they stunned her, but chances were-unfortunately-that they didn’t even make her lose consciousness. Her attacker handcuffed her ankles together and, with a second pair of handcuffs, bent one of Robin’s arms behind her back and cuffed her wrist to the chain of the first pair of cuffs. Robin was extremely limber-freshly so-and she probably bent backward easier than most.
It was shards from the broken shower mirror that he used to cut her. He also used them to cut the jeans partway off. The largest shard was the one that killed her. It was surmised that the killer must have seen to it when he smashed the mirror that he came away with at least one large, jagged piece. This was the one found protruding from Robin Burrell’s neck. The reflecting side was facing her.
Just in case she had wanted to watch.
JUDGE DEVERAUX SUMMONED the two lead attorneys to the bench. Each attorney was trailed by several lackeys, but the judge made a backhanded motion dismissing them. This talk was for the big boys only. Peter Elliott made a play to remain included, but his boss, Lewis Gottlieb-the Gentleman Jew-placed a hand on his shoulder and dismissed him.
Generally speaking, Sam Deveraux had been receiving high marks for his handling of the Fox trial. Physically, he was an imposing figure: a six-foot-three, 240-some-odd-pound, fifty-seven-year-old African American with a large expressive face and a voice whose rich resonant rumble seemed capable at times of causing the walls around him to tremble. It was definitely capable of causing the people around him to tremble, as had been evident throughout the trial whenever the judge employed his mountainous energy to bring the histrionic or the shrill or the incendiary back into line. In a trial featuring no shortage of bona fide celebrities, both on the witness stand and in the audience, Sam Deveraux had emerged as the freshest and most impressive personality of the lot.
The two attorneys bounced slightly on their toes as they conferred with the judge. At the defendant’s table, Marshall Fox’s mood seemed inappropriately spry, considering the circumstances. He was bantering with his various attorneys, at least one of whom, it was generally acknowledged, had been included on the team for the sole purpose of providing the defendant with a fawning sycophant, a ready-made audience for the entertainer’s fabled need for attention. His name was Zachary Riddick, and he was known in courthouse circles-and beyond, for that matter-as a headline grabber, one of those self-satisfied bottom-feeders in the profession who’ve determined that being provocative and noisy can go a long way toward covering over a basic lack of legal expertise or skill. He had boyish good looks-a trifle too boyish, in Margo’s view-and had learned how to get his name on some of the various A-lists around town, popping up at celebrity bashes or high-profile fund-raisers, usually with a fresh piece of arm candy. Riddick and Fox had been acquainted even before Fox’s arrest, and when rumors began growing of Marshall Fox’s imminent arrest in the two Central Park murders, Riddick had bobbed immediately to the surface, offering vigorous denouncements of the district attorney, the New York City Police Department, Marshall Fox’s competition in the late-night wars, you name it. Professionally speaking, his presence on Fox’s defense team was considered a joke. But as I say, it seemed to amuse Marshall Fox to have him around.
A burst of laughter erupted from the defendant’s table. Marshall Fox was pantomiming trussing up Zachary Riddick like a rodeo steer. Judge Deveraux’s molten gaze cleared the heads of the two attorneys in front of him as he took in the defendant’s table, and the little party broke up.
“Jesus Christ.”
Ross grunted an acknowledgment as he moved past me out of the pew. He made his way to the banister separating the courtroom seating from the defendant’s table. The executive was too far away for me to hear his exchange with Riddick and Fox, but from the expressions on both men’s faces, it appeared that Ross’s message was a duplicate of Judge Deveraux’s. Shut your stupid traps!
The conference at the bench broke up, and the two attorneys returned to their corners. The judge waved a clerk over. Lewis Gottlieb huddled with Peter Elliott, and from where I was sitting, I wasn’t seeing a terribly pleased expression on either face. Alan Ross returned to the pew. As I scooted back to let him pass, he gave me a game smile.
“Welcome to the tawdry follies.” He sat down heavily next to me. “ Franklin, isn’t it?”
“Fritz,” I corrected him. “Fritz Malone.”
“Right, right. Alan Ross.” He offered his hand, and we shook. Ross leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I used to be legendary for my low blood pressure. Amazing what a little celebrity murder trial can do to you, isn’t it?”
“I try to steer clear of them as often as I can,” I said.
“Oh? Did you take a wrong turn on your way to traffic court?”
“I was down the hall on business.”
“Private investigation. Do I recall correctly?”
“You do.”
“Just couldn’t pass on the train wreck, eh?”
I shrugged. “Guilty.”
Judge Deveraux dismissed the clerk. He looked out over the packed courtroom, taking his time, sweeping his head slowly, like a lighthouse beam throttled down to a slow crawl. Taking hold of his mallet, he lifted it with both a solemnity and a certain degree of weariness, as if its weight over the course of the trial had been increasing daily and it had now, at this moment, reached the absolute maximum poundage that the judge would be capable of lifting.
“Give my best to Ms. Burke, will you?” Ross said.
I nodded. “Will do.”
The judge’s mallet fell, making, as it always did, a sound like that of a large bone being snapped in two.
“Order!”
THE SLICING TOOK PLACE in Robin Burrell’s bedroom. The crimson of her pillows alone was testament to that much. Her radio alarm clock was among the numerous items found strewn on the floor next to the upturned bedside table. The clock had come unplugged from the wall: 6:48 was frozen on its face.
Was she dead already or still dying when her body was dragged along the short hallway into the front room? I have to hope she was already dead, that’s all I’ll say about it. She was placed under the huge Christmas tree, cuffed and bent backward, the large wedge of mirror glass protruding from her throat. And then, just as in the case of the two murders for which the star of Midnight with Marshall Fox was currently on trial, Robin Burrell’s right hand had been placed palm down against her breast, inches above the newly stilled heart, and, as with the second of the Central Park victim’s, affixed there with a simple four-inch nail driven all the way in to its head.
THE JUDGE ASKED that the courtroom be cleared of members of the press as well as any onlookers who did not have a direct role in the trial. A collective grumble rose from the ranks of the reporters as they made their way out of the room. Ross excused himself and squeezed past me. I was starting out of the pew when I heard my name being called above the low din.
“Fritz!”
It was Peter Elliott. He waved me over. “Can you stick around?”
“You heard the judge.”
Peter swatted the air. “Forget that. We had you on payroll. You can stay. I’m not sure how this is all going to go. If this jury disintegrates, you might have to keep me from killing myself.”
I took a seat in the now empty front row. Across the aisle from me sat Rosemary Fox. Her extraordinary beauty was as placid and hard-edged in person as it appeared in photographs. As I watched, her husband turned from the defense table and mouthed something to her. Then he gave his trademark gesture, the one with which he had been signing off after his hour and a half on the air for three years, five nights a week, right up until the day of his arrest. He brought the fingers of his right hand to his lips for a kiss, then placed the hand softly over his heart.
Rosemary Fox remained as still as a steel statue. I can’t even characterize the look that was likewise frozen on her face. Molten? All I can say is that it wiped Marshall Fox’s famous smirk right off his face. You’d have thought he’d just rounded the corner into the path of an oncoming train.
Judge Deveraux had turned to the jury. His voice came on like a low rumble of thunder. “One thing I want to make clear to all of you right now, before I go any further. You will be going back into that jury room first thing tomorrow morning. You will continue to deliberate. And you will be delivering a verdict to this court, even if I have to sit in there with you and hold your hand and slap you silly and referee all the crap that’s been going on for too damn long now. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
He placed his hands down flat and leaned forward. He looked like he was ready to bound right out of his chair. “I want to see twelve heads nodding. Now.”
3
THE SNOW HAD NEITHER let up nor intensified but was still coming down like finely sifted sugar. Nearly a dozen police cars, along with two ambulances, were clogging the narrow street, their lights flashing blue and red tattoos on and off the snow-powdered trees, the parked cars and the gawkers. The latter were growing in numbers and animation by the minute. Yellow crime-scene tape embraced the front of five attached brownstones. But it was the middle one that was receiving most of the attention, the one with the oversize Christmas tree all atwinkle in white in the high front windows.
I followed the scores of footprints to the edge of the onlookers. A bank of spotlights had been set up and directed at the brownstones. The illuminated area looked not so much like daylight as like the light of a flashbulb stilled at the moment of going off. Inside the apartment with the Christmas tree, real flashbulbs were going off.
Not a good sign.
Having gotten as far as I could, I pulled out my cell phone and hit the code for Margo. She answered immediately.
“Fritz! Where are you? You’re never going to guess what’s happened.”
“One of your neighbors has been murdered.”
“Oh. You know.” She sounded disappointed.
“Poke your head out the window.”
I looked up at the top floor of a brownstone across the street from where all the activity was taking place. Several seconds passed, then I saw a form pass in front of a window. The window went up. Margo Burke leaned out into the abyss, holding the phone to her ear. In my ear, her voice said, “I don’t see you.”
“Down here. Not too tall, not too short, jus
t right.” I waved my free hand.
“There you are!” She waved back. “I’ve been watching out the window for about an hour. It’s a murder, right?”
“I believe it is.”
“Oh, Jesus. And you see who it is?”
“I see whose apartment it is,” I said.
“Oh, Fritz, come on. It has to be her.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
I saw her switch the phone to her other ear. “I’m not jumping to conclusions. Come on, this was Marshall Fox’s lover, for Christ’s sake.”
I reminded her, “Former. And what of it? Since when do you have to be involved with a celebrity to get whacked in this town?”
“Whacked. Well, aren’t you Mr. Mob tonight?”
“Besides,” I said, “we don’t know yet if it’s her.”
The line crackled. Even though we were separated by only a few hundred feet, I guess our signals first had to travel untold miles up into space before bouncing back down to us. “You know the policeman’s secret handshake. Why don’t you go find out?”
Which is what I did. And, of course, she was correct. The first official homicide victim of the New Year in the borough of Manhattan was Robin Jane Burrell. Age twenty-seven. Originally from New Hope, Pennsylvania. Or, as one of the tabloids would put it the following day in a caption beneath the grim photo of the woman lying trussed beneath the Christmas tree: NO HOPE.