Cold Day in Hell

by Richard Hawke

  “So am I.”

  He indicated the sketch. “Would this be him?”

  “I don’t know. It’s possible. This is who packed me into the East River. It’d be nice if he was also the killer.”

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” Jigs said, eyeballing the sketch. “I watched some of that trial on the tube. Ugliest show in America. Impossible not to watch. I saw the pretty girl getting the once-over from the dead lawyer. He wasn’t dead yet, and neither was she. But now they are. The both of them. How does that play out, Fritz? There was surely no love lost between the two of them. They were adversaries. Who would hold a grudge against one of them and then go on to begrudge the other to the same result?”

  “You mean why would someone target Robin Burrell and then go after Riddick?”

  “To put it less poetically.”

  “That’s the question. Were they targets in their own right, or was it more a case of somebody targeting Marshall Fox? Or people associated with Fox?”

  “That’s where I go,” Jigs said. “You find someone who’s too furious about what Mr. Fox did to those two girls last year. An avenging angel, tit for tat.”

  “But why now? Fox is in the fight for his life.”

  “Not in this state, honey. Here he gets packed off for ten to twenty and he comes back out somewhere in the middle.”

  “Still, why shake things up so close to the verdict?”

  Jigs consulted his whiskey. “Maybe an acquittal would play in to our good fellow’s hand. It does put Mr. Fox back out on the street, after all.”

  “So you mean kill two people to even the score, then if Fox is set free, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Now, that’s poetical.”

  I considered what Jigs was saying. It made as much sense as anything else being bandied about. I figured the police were already looking closely at family and close associates of Cynthia Blair and Nicole Rossman. They’d surely be working that angle.

  I squared the drawing of Ratface on the bar. Had he known either of those two women? My gut was saying no.

  I realized my gut was also saying it didn’t matter.

  “I want this guy.” The voice didn’t even sound like mine. It was a profound baritone. Just an octave or two up from a growl. I tapped a finger heavily against the sketch. “I don’t know his angle, and to be honest, I don’t care. This bastard lives nearby. In the neighborhood somewhere. I’ve gotten a couple of positive IDs.”

  Jigs set his glass down. “And you want him.”

  I looked past the row of bottles behind the bar and confirmed it with the cranky fellow in the watch cap. From my pocket, I took Alan Ross’s envelope and laid a large stack of twenties down on the flyer. “That’s right.”

  Jigs nodded sagely. “Yeah, brother. I can see that.”

  31

  MEGAN WAS LOOKING DOWN at her fingers when the woman approached. “Hey. Remember me?”

  Megan looked up. Large. The ubiquitous big-boned. Cute face under a Louise Brooks cut. She was wearing orange jeans and a black T-shirt with a William Wegman dog on it. A Weimaraner. This one wasn’t dressed up in a costume like they usually were. It was sitting on a white box looking terribly cute and perplexed. Megan wondered if that was how she was looking. Cute, she couldn’t say. Perplexed, definitely.

  “I’m sorry. Uh. I’m waiting for someone.”

  The woman showed her a classic ear-to-ear. “I notice you’ve been waiting for a long time. Maybe you’re being stood up. Do you mind if I join you?” She didn’t wait for an answer but pulled back the chair opposite Megan and made herself at home. “What are we drinking?”

  Megan had been staring at a Scotch and soda for forty minutes.

  “You want me to freshen that? What is it?”

  “It’s Scotch, but-”

  The woman called out. “Two Scotches!” She turned back to Megan. “You really don’t recognize me, do you? That’s okay. I’m not offended.”

  Megan didn’t know where to put her eyes. This was ridiculous. She had no business coming back to this place. Why not? a voice in her head demanded. What the hell’s wrong with getting on with your life? It’s just a place.

  “Ruth,” the woman said.

  Megan looked up from the table. “I’m Megan.”

  Ruth skidded her chair back from the table. She lifted her shirt slightly while tugging down on her jeans. Megan leaned forward. Part of a tattoo showed just below the woman’s belly button. A dragon of some sort. Most of it remained below the belt.

  “You don’t remember?”

  Megan shook her head. She did, vaguely. Like in an uncomfortable dream. “Maybe it wasn’t me.”

  Ruth grinned. “Oh, it was you, sugar. I don’t forget a face like yours.”

  The drinks arrived. Megan could feel her first sip travel to the tip of each limb. It felt good. Ruth touched her lightly on the wrist, then pulled back sharply, as if she’d received a shock. “You need to smile, little girl. Nothing can be that bad.”

  Two hours later, Megan switched on the overhead light and stepped aside. The keys slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. She didn’t dare lean over to fetch them. Instead, she kicked at them with her foot. It didn’t even feel like her foot.

  Ruth followed her into the apartment with a slight stumble. She laughed, holding her arms out from her sides like a high-wire artist. She turned around as Megan closed the door. “I’d kill for a place in the Village.”

  Megan kicked the keys across the floor. “You want it? It’s yours.”

  “Yeah, I should be so lucky.”

  “Serious. I don’t give-” Megan had to grab hold of a chair.

  Ruth started forward. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  “Fine.”

  “Look. Do you want to get high?”

  As Ruth reached into her pants pocket, Megan grabbed hold of her arm. “Don’t.” It was a fleshy arm. Megan closed her eyes tightly. She was afraid she was going to be sick.

  “I’m just thinking of a little nightcap.” Ruth began singing: “‘Nothing could be finer than a little mariwhiner in the eeeeeeevening.’”

  Megan squeezed the woman’s arm. “Don’t.”

  Ruth shrugged. “Hey. Okay. That’s how you want it. I’m just trying to be a good guest.” She grinned, reaching down and hooking her fingers into Megan’s belt loops. With a jerk, she brought their pelvises together. Megan’s hit Ruth’s below the hips. She stumbled. Ruth cooed, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

  Megan couldn’t remember putting away such quantities of alcohol since forever. She could taste the bile in her throat. Ruth was holding her close. She cupped her hand on Megan’s ass. “I think we can loosen you up.”

  Megan’s head lolled forward onto the woman. She felt as if she were being drawn into a cave. A cave with a dragon hidden in the darkness. This was wrong, all of it. Megan told herself this was not what Helen would have wanted her to be doing. Soft, silly Helen. Where was she? Dammit, why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she coming in the front door right now and telling this Ruth woman to kindly get her big bones out of here? Ruth was kneading Megan’s ass with her fingers. Megan couldn’t breathe. Where the fuck is Helen!

  Ruth nuzzled forward and tried to kiss her. Megan jerked her head away.

  “Hey!” Ruth tightened her grip on Megan’s ass and pulled her closer. “Let’s just start relaxing already, okay? Come on, now. I remember you were a real sweet kisser. Let’s be friends here.”

  Megan worked her arms up between the two of them and pushed with all her strength, twisting her torso as she tried to squirm free. The women’s feet tangled. Ruth stepped on her own foot and with a cry fell backward onto the floor. Megan managed to shake free and remain standing.

  “Jesus Christ!” Ruth crawled onto all fours. “Honey, you’ve got a very fucked-up…” She stopped. Megan saw her eyes grow wide. “What the…fuck is that?”

  She was staring at Megan’s bookshelf. Displayed one next to
the other were three black-and-white framed photographs. Eight-by-ten. The first one showed a woman with a scarf of some sort knotted at her neck. Clearly dead. The woman in the second photograph-a blonde, Ruth recognized her from the newspapers-had had her slender throat cut open. The woman’s eyes were open and staring off into space.

  “Oh my God.”

  The third photograph was the most horrible. It didn’t appear that there even was a neck. The cheeks looked like they’d been raked by a wild animal. Ruth scrambled to her feet. Megan had not moved but stood shaking in the middle of the floor, pale as a sheet.

  “What the hell are you into, little girl? Where the hell’d you get these?”

  “Go.” Megan’s voice sounded hoarse.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m changing my plans right now.” Ruth brushed past Megan, pausing at the door. “That’s not good form, honey. You want some advice, you put those pictures away, or you’re going to stay awfully lonely.”

  Ruth left. Megan’s feet walked her to the door, and her hands locked it. Turning from the door, she confronted the three photographs across the room. They were swimming. Megan made it halfway across the room before she got sick.

  FOR NANCY SPICER, foreperson on the Marshall Fox jury, life had been reduced to a tiny hotel room, the pine-paneled jury room, the van that shuttled her from one to the other, and to those eleven other hateful people whom Nancy didn’t especially like and who definitely did not like her. She was either too white, or too indecisive, or too religious, or too scared. Too something. Too anything. Too nothing.

  Nancy Spicer decided to see what would happen if she swallowed twenty-seven barbiturates in the space of something like fifteen minutes.

  Over the past several months, Nancy had come to fear that the eleven other jurors were right. The world is a brutal place. It takes courage and strength and conviction in order to maneuver, in order to survive. Nancy had none of these. There might have been a time-she could recall having a thin grasp on conviction once, though this seemed a lifetime ago-but in the large scheme, not really. Never enough. Bruce was the provider. The rock. Bruce had always filled in where Nancy came up lacking. He had the conviction and the strength and the courage. Bruce knew his place in the world, and he surely knew his purpose. He knew right from wrong, black from white, and he knew sin when it made its inevitable appearance. Nancy’s husband was clear on all matters, a man of unshakable resolve. If he were foreman of this jury, there would have been none of this contentiousness. There wouldn’t be the sniping and the hostility and the disgust. Bruce could have pulled everyone together; he was a leader of men. He saw things with a razor-sharp clarity, and he knew how to put people in their place.

  Nancy was a lesser person, and she knew it. Bruce was kind, so kind to put up with her, to have admitted a cripple into his home. His rage soon after their marriage at the discovery that Nancy was barren and would be unable to deliver his children into the world had been understandable. The disappointment was mighty. If Nancy had known, she would not have married him. She never could have been that knowingly selfish. Bruce’s anger was acceptable. It was the devil who poisoned the wombs of the unworthy; it was the devil Bruce raged against. Nancy had accepted all that. She’d welcomed it. A husband who will cleanse his wife’s impurities is a treasure to cherish. Bruce was so good to her. He was magnificent in his disappointment. He was full where she was empty. The world had no idea what a precious messenger of Truth it had in Bruce Spicer. God bless him, Nancy thought as she cupped her first handful of pills. Take care of him. I have failed in every aspect of my life. I am too weak. I can’t face those other people anymore. Their eyes. Their disgust. I am too confused now. How can I sit in judgment? The devil has put me here, and he is enjoying my misery. He is enjoying the mess I am making of things. Bruce has told me so. But…but I will not be his agent. I will crush his enjoyment. Bruce will understand. He will not be angry, but he’ll rejoice in this one selfless act that I have managed to perform in my entire life. My entire crippled, useless life.

  The lights of Times Square outside Nancy Spicer’s window had never looked so remarkable, like an array of colored stars in a close-up universe. They blurred and merged. Angels, Nancy thought woozily. Angels forming my bed. Her arms were covered with tears. She wondered if she had ever been so happy. Bruce will be proud. He’ll be so proud. The bed of lights was swimming. Swinging. Like a hammock. Nancy made a sound that was intended to be a laugh. It came out as a sob. Followed by another. Then came the pain. The devil clamped his red fists onto her abdomen, and his barbed fingers dug into her useless womb. An agony like none she had ever experienced or could have ever imagined rose up in her belly, and she was struck with unspeakable fear. She fell back from the window and began beating her fists against her belly, trying to make the pain stop. She began to convulse. Her last conscious thought was the horror of seeing, right there in her belly, the devil’s gnarled hand digging and twisting and probing. On his vile hand was the wedding ring. Shiny and gold. One she knew very, very well.

  32

  PETER ELLIOTT PHONED ME with the news in the morning.

  “My foreperson is in a coma,” he said. “Life doth suck.”

  I met Peter out in front of Saint Vincent’s. The media was well represented. So was the NYPD. Vehicles parked every which way. I spotted Kelly Cole standing on the corner of Twelfth and Seventh, speaking into her cell phone. When she saw me, she raised a manicured finger, mouthing for me to hang tight.

  A dark car had just pulled up to a fire hydrant. “Are you sure it’s not the pope they’ve got in there?” I said to Peter. Lewis Gottlieb was climbing out of the back.

  “Lewis and I have to get inside,” Peter said. “Bruce Spicer is in there threatening to explode. This whole thing is headed for the toilet.”

  “I’ll catch up to you.”

  Kelly Cole flipped her phone closed and stepped over to me. The coat itself must have cost a few thousand bucks. It was long and tan and cut like something for a Russian czarina.

  “Did you get the flowers I sent to you in the hospital?” she asked.

  I told her I hadn’t.

  “That’s because I didn’t send any.” She laughed. “I did try to call you, though.”

  “I got that. I called you back, but you weren’t in. I didn’t feel like leaving a message.”

  “So tell me, who dumped you into the river?”

  “You know what? The gentleman never stopped to give me his name.”

  “But he’s a suspect in Zachary’s murder, isn’t he?”

  “Come on, Kelly. I chase bad guys for lunch.”

  “The short way to say that is ‘No comment.’”

  “‘No comment’ is shorthand for ‘yes.’”

  “So is he a suspect?”

  “Nice coat, Kelly. Is that wool or synthetic?”

  “Come on. Give a girl a break, will you? At least tell me whether you’re investigating the murders. That’s not a state secret, is it?”

  “No comment. Yes. No.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to make a living, for Christ’s sake. The police are completely constipated on the whole thing. I’m only trying to assure my audience that someone is making some progress. Can’t you just tell me, off the record, who it was that got the jump on a tough guy like you?”

  “I like that. Take a compliment and split it in two. I told you, I honestly don’t know the man’s name. All I know is that it appears he’s been stalking a friend of Robin Burrell’s. I wanted to talk to him about Robin, but he got all shy on me.”

  “What’s this I’m hearing about another phone threat? Do you know anything about that?”

  I looked past Kelly and spotted Megan Lamb crossing at the corner. “There’s your chief investigator. Why don’t you go collect some no-comments from her?”

  Kelly followed my gaze. “The Lambinator. I can’t figure that one out. She’s gay, you know.”

  “Well, hey, you figured that part out.” As Megan angled in o
ur direction, I whispered, “Say something nice about her hair.”

  “As if.”

  Megan came over to us. “Any word?”

  “Something about the jury foreperson in a coma,” I said. “Apparent suicide attempt. I just got here.”

  “I got the call as I was leaving my apartment. I live just over on Hudson.” She acknowledged the reporter. “Morning, Ms. Cole. Any scoops you’d like to share with us?”

  “You took the question right out of my mouth.”

  “Has the juror’s name leaked yet?”

  Kelly shook her head. “No. Would you care to leak it for me, Detective?”

  “Don’t worry. Hospitals are sieves. It’ll come out. When it does, I suppose you’re ready to contribute to the shutting down of this trial.”

  “I do my job, Detective. You do your job. Mine is reporting the facts.”

  “Sometimes your job makes my job ten times harder.”

  “I pass information on to the citizens. That’s how a free society works.”

  Megan turned to me. “Little early for a civics lesson, don’t you think? Come on.” She started for the emergency room doors.

  “Uck foo you too, sister,” Kelly murmured as I turned and followed.

  “You all right?” I asked Megan as we entered the hospital.

  “Not relevant,” she snapped.

  Bruce Spicer was a man surrounded. Seated against the far wall in a visiting area down the hall from the ICU, he was nearly drowning in members of Marshall Fox’s defense team. Peter Elliott and Lewis Gottlieb stood nearby. A dozen cops, a doctor and several other people I couldn’t identify were part of the cluster. Spicer was talking as Megan and I added to the crowd. Actually, he wasn’t talking. He was railing.

  “Why in the world should I not speak my mind? My wife has been kept in virtual incarceration for nearly three months, forced to undergo torture and abuse at the hands of state-appointed imbeciles who don’t seem to know which hole their heads are supposed to pop out of. Let me tell you something right now, I am tired. I am sick and tired and disgusted at the bend-over-backward efforts to so-called protect the so-called rights of a rapist and fornicator and murderer! Who’s nuts here? Is it me? Have I landed on a backward planet? The man is a despicable sinner. He is guilty of all the charges. Not to mention a whole lot more that the state has been too lily-livered to even bother to bring. I’m sick of it. I’m disgusted. I’m fed up. My wife is on death’s doorstep, thanks to you people!”