“I don’t believe the police are doing all they can to find out who murdered Zack Riddick and the Burrell woman.”
He paused for me to respond. I didn’t give him much. A slow nod. “Okay.”
He went on, “Frankly, I think they’ve got major egg on their face and they don’t dare admit it. They took a high-stakes risk when they arrested Marshall for those murders. You’ve seen the circus. Marshall’s career is tanked, regardless of the trial’s outcome. A lot of ugly testimony flashed coast to coast. The whole thing has been a complete abysmal mess. You had better believe the police are invested in making those charges stick. Can you imagine the fallout if Marshall were to walk?”
I glanced off to my left. Alan Ross and Sylvester Stallone were arm wrestling. Rocky was losing, if you can believe it. Ross followed my gaze, his expression relaxing.
“Sly. He’s a good man. Beautiful Act One. No Act Two. A real waste.”
“I thought he was good in Cop Land.”
“Too little too late.”
Ross brought his fingers together and touched them to his lips. “Mr. Malone, perhaps you’re not aware how invested I am in all this. Zack Riddick was a friend of mine. Admittedly, not super close, but even so, I liked the man. Zack had his obnoxious side, I’m not pretending he didn’t. But at heart he was a decent person. He definitely didn’t deserve to have his throat slashed.”
“Few do.”
“And Cynthia. To a degree, she was a protégée of mine. I personally chose her to work with Marshall when I brought him in from the sticks. She was as sharp as they come. Very driven. Her entire life in front of her, poor girl.” He paused for a sip of water. “I’m going to tell you something I try not to think about. I feel responsible for these people, for what happened to them. Less so the Burrell and Rossman women, although that’s only because I didn’t know them personally. But Cynthia most of all. I delivered her to Marshall like a gift.”
“But you’re saying Fox didn’t have anything to do with her murder.”
“Directly, no. That’s right. He didn’t. You’re missing the point. Whoever killed these people did it because of Marshall. I can’t explain the killer’s motivation, but it’s clearly something to do with these people’s association with Marshall. That’s obvious. So do you understand what I’m saying? I’m the one who brought Marshall into the public eye. My wife and I. We’re the ones who took a nobody and made him famous beyond belief. You see how it works? If I don’t make a superstar of Marshall Fox, four people aren’t murdered in cold blood. Two of them friends of mine. That’s what I’m trying to say. Whoever did this did it because of Marshall, and I created Marshall. He’s my Frankenstein. I don’t know if you can understand what I’m saying, but it is a horrible, horrible burden. For the sake of providing what I’m quite willing to admit is essentially silly entertainment five nights a week, four people are dead. It doesn’t make me happy, Mr. Malone.”
As he sat back in his chair and folded his fingers into a ball, a thought occurred to me. Possibly it was the same thought that had led Ross to call me up to his sanctum.
“You,” I said.
“Me? What about me?”
“Your safety. If Fox really is innocent, and the same person who killed Cynthia Blair and Nikki Rossman is at it again-”
Ross was waving his hands. “No, no. This isn’t about me.”
“But it could be. If someone really has a problem with Marshall Fox and they’re taking it out on all these people who are associated with him, what about the actual person who created him?”
Ross shook his head. “That’s not why I asked you here. Though, believe me, I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since last Friday night. But I’m not looking for protection. What I want is someone who isn’t invested in this whole thing the way the police are. I’m not saying they’re sitting on their hands; they’re trying to find out who killed Zack and Robin Burrell. But I happen to know that they prefer the copycat theory. The fact that the killer might be the same person who performed the murders they’ve already arrested Marshall for? They don’t want that.”
“No offense, but how is it you know what the police are thinking?”
“I’m putting myself in their shoes. I’m reading between the lines.”
“You’re guessing.”
He let out a sigh. “Yes. I’m guessing.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“You’re a private investigator. Let me emphasize. Private investigator. I thought of you the day after Robin Burrell was killed. Running into you in the courtroom. And then I saw reports the other day about your, um, incident. You’re looking for the killer as well, aren’t you?”
I tried to keep a neutral expression. “And if I am?”
“You are. Your sweetheart lives directly across the street from where Robin Burrell lived. I’m a stickler for research. I find things out.”
“You know, people don’t like other people nosing about in their business.”
Ross erupted into laughter. “Oh well, that’s choice. A private snoop lamenting someone else doing a little snooping? I like that. Maybe you’d let me set up a screen test for you, Mr. Malone. I could see a series developing out of that.” He made a square with his hands and held it up in front of him. “The Selfish Detective. Have you ever considered the slippery slope of show business?”
“My slope is plenty slippery, thanks anyway.”
The tension that had been growing in the room evaporated. Ross was only kidding about the TV-show idea, of course, but even so, slipping back into his element seemed to relax him somewhat. The color came up in his face.
“Here’s the story,” Ross said pleasantly. “I would like to make it official. I’d like to hire you. You’ve already heard my angle. There’s plenty self-serving on my part, I’m the first to admit it. But so what? I feel guilty about my man Marshall being the springboard for some pathetic sicko out there killing people. I want Marshall found innocent, and I want these killings to stop. I want to clear my conscience and Marshall’s name all at once. Nice tidy package.”
“The police are doing everything they can.”
“Then why are you running around looking for Robin Burrell’s killer?”
“Remember, that’s your theory, Mr. Ross.”
“Fine. The point is, I’d like to hire you. Like I say, I’ve done my research. It turns out you’re not so bad at what you do.”
“It’s been an okay Act One,” I said.
“So it’s settled. You’ve seen my absurd office, I don’t like to quibble over money. Whatever’s your normal fee, I’ll double it. I’m sorry, Mr. Malone, but I’m in the business of buying people. I want to be your top-priority client. And I want to hear from you every day. Progress reports. I’m not trying to bully you. I just have a certain way of operating.”
A pigeon floated gracefully past the window behind Ross’s head, angling down for a sharp descent. I shoved myself to the edge of the annoying chair.
“I have a certain way of operating as well,” I said. “It starts with my not having the client tell me how to go about doing my job.”
“You have connections. I know about your father. You’ve got friends on the force. At one point you were even planning to become a cop yourself.”
I stood up. “Hats off to your researchers, Mr. Ross. It looks to me like you have all the snoops you need.”
“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m not handling this too well.” He pulled open a drawer and removed an envelope. “I make no demands. That’s just how I’m used to operating. I want this nightmare ended.” He tossed the envelope onto the desk. “That’s five thousand dollars. If nothing else, it’s for coming in to see me.”
I picked up the envelope. It was thick and crunchy. I slapped it against my palm. Five thousand dollars makes a sweet slap. “If word gets out, you’ll have every gumshoe in the city bugging Linda for an appointment.”
Ross smiled wanly. “I feel helpless, Mr. Malone. It’s not a mode
I’m accustomed to, believe me. It’s just that I’d like to feel I’m doing something to undo what’s happened.”
“Dead’s dead, Mr. Ross.”
“I know that. You decide if you’d like to accept my offer. I hope you do. Either way, keep the money. Or give it to your favorite charity, I don’t really care what you do with it. I just want to help in some way. If you decide it won’t kill you to keep me posted, either on your progress or the progress of the police, wonderful. I’ll pay you for my own peace of mind. Maybe that sounds pathetic to you, but don’t forget, I operate in a superficial world. Maybe if I hired a good writer, I could script a more meaningful gesture.”
I slapped the envelope against my hand a second time. “How about I get back to you?”
He stood. “Sure. That would be fine. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.” He clasped his hands behind his back and gave me a professional smile. It felt like an anti-handshake.
Linda’s smile was also way below wattage as she fetched my coat from the closet. I’ve yet to know a secretary who didn’t know everything that was taking place in her boss’s office, if not his mind. I looked to see if her ear was red from pressing against the door.
“He’s in pain,” she said softly as she handed over my coat.
I had an almost irresistible urge to chuck her on the chin. I fought the urge with all my might, then made my way out to the elevator for the long ride back to Planet Earth.
30
THE DOORMAN REMEMBERED ME.
“Hey, you’re the guy they fished out of the river the other day. Somebody up there must like you, brother. That’d been me, I’d be dead.” He bounced his hands off his substantial gut. “Sink like a rock. You’re one lucky guy.”
A lucky guy wouldn’t have ended up stabbed and tossed into the icy East River from a substantial height, but hey, context is everything. I pulled out one of the sketches that Megan Lamb had photocopied for me and handed it to the doorman. He studied it as if it were a logarithm.
“Nasty character,” he opined.
“Have you seen him before?”
“Him? No. Not me.”
It had occurred to me that when I’d been in pursuit of my attacker, his zigzags had led him directly to the Waterside Plaza complex as if maybe he knew exactly where he was headed. And after managing to flip me over the wall, he had disappeared instantly. No one had reported seeing a person fleeing from the scene. I’d wondered. Through the glass doors and up the elevator? With a nod and a wave to the friendly doorman? Given the lousy sketch that had made the earlier rounds, it was conceivable that the doorman had seen it and made no connection whatsoever with the man himself.
I asked, “There’s no one living in any of these buildings who looks like this?”
“Here? This guy? I don’t think so.”
“How about the super? Or a maintenance man?”
The doorman pursed his lips and tilted the sketch. Why people do that, I’ll never understand. What? You tilt the thing and suddenly recognize it’s your uncle Billy?
“Sorry, brother.” He tried to give me back the sketch.
“Keep it.” I handed him my card. “The police will probably be by sometime and run you through this whole routine again.”
He looked at the card. “Private investigation, huh? Hey, I’ve never met a private investigator before. So are you like those detectives on TV? Get hit on by all the ladies? Beautiful widows coming out of your ears? I lose a few pounds, I’d like to try that out. You must deal with a lot of cheating husbands. You carry a piece?”
I tapped the sketch in his hand. “I’d like to locate this guy. You help me out, maybe I’ll try to dig up a beautiful widow for you.”
He smiled. Big and toothy. “Don’t get me dreaming, brother.”
I left him to his dreams. Crossing back over First Avenue, I worked the shops and bars. There were plenty of both to keep me busy. At first no one recognized the face in the sketch, though more than a few sneered at it when they looked at it. “What’d he do? Kill his own mother?” But at a Laundromat on Twenty-seventh, I got a hit. An elderly Asian woman about the size of an eight-year-old told me that she recognized the face.
“He come here. He smoke. I tell him no. Clean clothes, clean clothes! No smoke!”
I asked if she knew anything about him. A name. Where he lived. She didn’t. I’ve been taking my laundry to the same place in Little Italy for ten years, and if someone told them my name was John Jacob Astor, they wouldn’t have any reason to say it wasn’t, except to wonder why someone so stinking rich couldn’t send his laundry in with the butler. I asked the woman if I could post the sketch on her bulletin board, next to the flyers for dog walking, yoga lessons, teaching guitar and all the rest. She didn’t like that idea but agreed to take the sketch and show it to customers, and if they knew anything, they could give me a call. At least I think that was the arrangement. My pidgin English isn’t all that good.
I concentrated on all the business establishments within a five-block radius of the Laundromat. I got a maybe at a food market on Twenty-first.
“Did he have kind of a beard before?”
“Could be,” I said.
“I couldn’t swear to it. You see a lot of faces in this city. This one might’ve come in here a few times. He does look sort of familiar.”
After several hours of footwork, my fuel cells were pretty drained. I tried to give them a charge with a pastrami sandwich from a reputable joint, but the results were mixed. I made a phone call. “Paddy Reilly’s in an hour. Can do?” The answer was in the affirmative. “Good.”
I worked the sketch for another sluggish hour, but I got no more hits. Still, I found myself imagining that along one of these streets I was going up and down, Ratface was there, maybe even sitting up in his goddamn Ratface apartment looking out the window at me. It was a powerful feeling and a little unnerving-as if his eyes were boring laser holes into the back of my head-and it was all I could do to keep from scanning the building windows as I moved about.
The stitches in my side weren’t real happy with all the activity, but they didn’t get much of a say in the matter. The sun was still off on vacation somewhere-the South, I suppose-and what with the raw cold and the colorless sky and the dingy heaps of snow, the life seemed sucked out of the city. Or maybe it was just sucked out of me. It took me a while before I realized that this was one of the things the doctors had cautioned me about. I was irritable, flirting with something along the lines of fury. I was impatient. A blast of cold air whipping around Twenty-fifth Street worked me over and I wanted to hit something. There was a dull throbbing just behind my eyes. I pulled off my watch cap and touched the stitches on the back of my head. They felt hard and grisly, like the whiskers of some savanna beast. I looked at the sketches of Ratface that were clutched in my other hand, and a ball of rage rose up in my chest. It snagged my breath, precisely as if the rage itself were a scramble of barbed wire lodged in my sternum. I brought my fingers away from the wound. They were splotched with blood. It was going to ooze, the doctors had warned me. I ran my fingers along one of the sketches, bloodying the man’s cheeks.
The bartender at Paddy Reilly’s was a giant with a shaved head, a neck tattoo and a tuft of carrot-red hair below his lower lip. We were nodding acquaintances. He wrote poetry, the kind with a notable paucity of flower imagery. I’d heard him read a few times at some poetry slams in Alphabet City. He was reading one of his poems to Jigs Dugan off a scrap of paper as I came over to the bar.
Got a hustler’s laugh and crowbar arms
And a Puerto Rican kid like a shadow
Won’t let him be, thinks he’s a god
And he finds a Coney Island mermaid
The one of his dreams
Rolls her in popcorn
In a room, with a view, of the sea
Streams of paper whipping off the wire fan
Cool breeze, cool breeze, cool breeze.
He folded the paper and stuck it in h
is T-shirt pocket. Jigs was playing with an unlit cigarette, looking thoughtful. He tapped the filter against the bar. “Yeah, I guess that’s good. So. He’s balling the mermaid. Am I hearing that right?”
I set one of the sketches on the bar. “Ever seen this most happy fella?”
The bartender did the doorman thing. Tilted the sketch and pursed his lips. “Can’t say it rings a bell.”
Jigs had a tumbler in front of him. It was either iced tea or whiskey, and who wants to pick? I asked the bartender for a cup of coffee. Jigs asked, “You want he should Irish that up for you?” I waved off the offer, and the bartender moved down the bar to slap the coffee machine around.
Jigs picked up his glass. “I hear you took a spill, friend.”
“You hear correctly.”
“Darkened my day to hear it.”
“I stuck around the hospital an extra day in case you were sending me flowers.”
“I don’t do hospitals well,” Jigs said.
“I’d have thought you might come fishing for a pretty nurse.”
“I went with a nurse once. A Janice. Or Janet. I can’t remember. She gave me a lovely sitz bath. This was when I had that little knee situation.”
Little knee situation. A lead pipe swung like a Ty Cobb bat at Jigs’s knees. He was off his feet for half a year.
The bartender returned with my coffee. The mischief came into Jigs’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this mermaid of yours, Kevin. It seems-”
The bartender cut him off. “It’s a metaphor.”
Jigs made a sound like he was loosening a hairball in his throat. “Ack. Metaphors. Perfectly lovely mermaid, and you want to shunt her off as a metaphor. You poets need to start facing reality on more of a regular basis.”
The bartender didn’t seem to care what Jigs thought. He found a far corner of the bar that needed polishing.
“I’m after the bastard who’s been slitting throats,” I said.
Jigs cocked an eyebrow at me. “Is that so? Town’s kind of jumpy on that topic.”
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