"Well, this was outrageous.
Seated behind the desk was Riker's rude young friend from the police department, the only visitor who had ever ignored Miss Byrd's attempts to prevent her from entering the boss's office unannounced. She was a lovely child to be sure, but such uncivilized eyes, so cold and showing no deference whatever for her elders.
It was Miss Byrd's habit to put everyone in their place by the use of diminutive first names, as though kindergarten had never ended. Of course, Riker foiled her in this regard; only the first letter of his name appeared on the payroll roster. However, this young woman posed no such problem, for she was much talked about by the crew.
"Kathy! What are you doing!" The tone implied that the girl should cease and desist immediately. "Kathy, do you hear me?"
"It's Mallory," the younger woman corrected her, "Detective Mallory." She regarded Miss Byrd with grave suspicion, then said, "You're overpaid, Frances."
Miss Byrd sucked in her breath as she grappled with the novel experience of hearing her Christian name spoken aloud. And then she roughly guessed what lay in store for her. Yesterday's mountain of papers was now arranged in neat stacks around the edges of the desk, and an open account ledger had pride of place on the blotter.
Mallory ran one long red fingernail along a column of payroll figures. "Riker thinks you only work part-time. That's what you told him, isn't it, Frances? Before his brother left for Europe, you were working eight-hour days every week. But now you get the same paycheck for half a day. Interesting." She gestured to a chair beside the desk. "Sit down, Frances."
And Miss Byrd sat.
The young detective casually leafed through a few stacks of statements and tax forms, bills and letters, dragging out the moment, while the senior woman held her breath.
"Riker has the strange idea that you're a receptionist," said Mallory. "Nobody told him that you were the company office manager. He thinks all this paperwork is his job." She closed the heavy account book with a loud slam to make Miss Byrd jump, though she never raised her voice when she said, "Payroll fraud is a serious crime, Frances."
Miss Byrd's mouth was suddenly dry. She had never worried about the cleaning crew ratting out her fiddle of the hours, for she knew all the secret vices of every employee. However, now she felt queasy. Her voice cracked when she said, "You're going to tell Riker, aren't you?"
"Well, that depends on you, Frances. His brother Ned's due back on Monday. That's not much time to fix all this damage. I suggest you brown bag your lunch. Dinner, too. You won't be getting out much." Mallory moved a stack of papers to reveal the steel box that belonged in a locked drawer of Miss Byrd's own desk. "And here's another odd thing. Riker didn't know about the petty cash fund. He's been drumming up business, buying lunch for homicide cops out of his own pocket. You'll want to correct that error on his final paycheck."
The older woman's head wobbled in a lame version of a nod. The detective pushed the account ledger across the desk. "You'll be putting in an eighty-hour week – for free. I'll stop by to check up on you, and when I do, there shouldn't be any problem with these figures. I want them to match the bank statements and – "
"I never stole money from the accounts. I was dead honest with – " "With his brother? Yes, I know. I looked at all the accounts. But Riker's hopeless with paperwork. So now you've got a huge backlog to deal with. The bank statements don't agree with his deposits and debits. And the payroll deductions are all wrong, months of errors. He botched every one of them. That's more paperwork. Did I say eighty hours? You might have to camp out here every night. During the day, you'll be busy setting up the jobs and working as the dispatcher."
"But that's Riker's – "
"That's right, Frances. You'll be running the whole shop, doing your own job – Riker's. He's taking time off for a little police work. You don't have a problem with that, do you? No? Good. And get this place cleaned up. It's a mess."
After the detective had stalked out the door, Miss Byrd let out a long sigh in a hoarse, dry whistle as her body went limp. In the next moment, her heart lurched and fluttered like a goldfish when she felt a hand curl round her shoulder, cold steely fingers, not human – Mallory's.
The cop reached out with her free hand to run one finger down the dirty glass pane and through the painted name of the company. "Do you do windows, Frances?"
"I do now," said Miss Byrd.
A detective from the Greenwich Village copshop stood by the curb collecting notes from a patrolman. Flynn was his mother's son, tall and dark-skinned with features of Africa. Only the ten freckles across his nose came down from his Irish side. He smiled as his erstwhile drinking buddy lumbered toward him. "Hey, you're lookin' great, man!"
Untrue. Riker had not shaved this morning, nor had he taken the time to select the least dirty clothes from a wardrobe of flannel shirts and faded jeans, and his leather jacket was unzipped, exposing the worst of his stains. Hungover and dragging, he stopped to thank Flynn for the phone call to tell him that one of his employees might need a friend.
Riker moved on toward the playground at the other end of the block. Though this was not his own precinct, there was no trouble getting past the men in uniform posted at the entrance. They stood aside for him, all but saluting as he passed through the gate. He was royalty now that he had been shot. Apparently, these men had not heard the news of his separation from NYPD via a stack of unopened mail. Even the medical examiner's men paused to slap him on the back, mumbling their greetings as they rolled a gurney toward the waiting meat wagon. Though the corpse was concealed in a zippered bag, Riker knew that Flynn had revised his earlier call of suicide, upgrading this case to murder. No lesser offense would merit the attentions of Crime Scene Unit. He watched one CSU investigator overturn a trash barrel and sift through the contents while others walked with their eyes to the ground, stopping now and then to collect small objects and map their locations on a sketch pad.
Jo was seated on a bench near a sandbox, bent forward, her long hair covering her face. Riker sat down beside her and gingerly encircled her with one arm. The hump on her back was a mystery to him, and it crossed his mind that he might hurt her if he held her tight. She raised her face to show him her red and swollen eyes. She had been crying, but now she seemed oddly calm. Shock could do that. The case detective was walking toward them. Flynn was a first-rate cop and a decent one. Riker trusted him to go light and easy with Jo.
The detective sat down on the other side of the bench and leaned forward to catch her eye. "Ma'am? I understand you knew the victim pretty well."
"Everybody knew that freak," said Riker. "He's been a pest in this neighborhood for – "
"Let the lady talk." Flynn turned back to his witness, prompting her. "Ma'am? What can you tell me about this guy?"
"I know his mother lives in Vermont," said Jo, "but she hasn't seen him in years."
Riker was stunned to hear her rattle off the long-distance telephone number for a homeless bum's next of kin. And now she gave another number that she had memorized, that of a local attorney who could supply more current information.
Detective Flynn's pen hovered over the notebook. "A vagrant with a lawyer!"
"New York City versus Bunny's Foot." She was quoting a tabloid headline that had been pinned to the bulletin board at Ned's Crime Scene Cleaners as homage to a neighborhood celebrity. Flynn nodded. "I remember that case."
Even Riker knew this story, though he never read newspapers anymore. His only tie to the world was office gossip. According to his crew, an ACLU lawyer had defended the homeless man's right to die rather than lose his diseased foot to a surgeon's saw, thus nicely defeating the city's criteria for hospitalizing a vagrant as a danger to himself. The court, weary of drawn-out appeals by the American Civil Liberties Union, had decided that Bunny was legally entitled to a slow painful death on the street, though that initial plan had gone awry this morning.
Detective Flynn flipped through the pages of his notebook. "There's
just a few things we need to clear up. We canvassed the block where this man spent most of his time. According to the neighbors, you match the description of a woman who went round and round with this guy three nights a week. So this freak attacks you on a regular basis, but you don't even cross the street to avoid him. Can you explain that, ma'am?"
No, apparently she could not. Jo closed her eyes.
Flynn moved closer, trying to connect with her. "So when this bastard used you for a human punching bag, did he lead with his left or his right?"
"He was right-handed," said Jo, "and he never hit me."
"I know. He just threatened you" said Flynn. "He scared you. and you gave him money. That's what the neighbors say. Are you right or left-handed?"
"Hold it," said Riker. "I can give you at least twenty people who wanted this bum out of the neighborhood – permanently. Just walk along that street and count the houses. The tenants must've filed a hundred complaints with you bastards."
"Hey." Flynn splayed one hand to say that the lady was not a serious suspect, and would Riker please shove his head up his butt so they could get on with this interview.
"Back off," said Riker. "Her lawyer's the same guy who defended the bum." He was making this up as he went along. "And now that you know the lady has counsel, that ends the interview."
"She's a witness, not a suspect," said Flynn, "I can question her all damn day long."
"Wrong. She was a suspect the minute you asked her what hand she used to hold the murder weapon. I think a judge is gonna see it that way, too. You like the idea of getting your ass reamed out in court? No, I guess not." Riker gently raised Jo from the bench. She was docile and made no resistance to going with him. "Now, if you don't plan to book her – with squat for evidence – I'm taking the lady home."
Flynn had a bewildered look about him as his eyes turned skyward. Riker, a fourth-generation police, had chosen the wrong side; and, though the sun was where it ought to be, the world was definitely out of order this morning. After clearing the playground gate, Riker turned back to see the detective hovering over a crime-scene technician, watching the man dust the bench for fingerprints – Jo's prints.
Long after Riker had left her hotel suite, Johanna Apollo sat in a patch of direct sunlight and never felt the warmth. It was a spider's business that called her attention to the window. Hours ago, the little spinner had begun a delicate web stretching across the sill. The ambitious project was complete, but horrific in light of the arachnid's nature. The web's pattern was flawed, strange and twisty, with ugly knots in the silk and gaping holes where a fine network of threads should be. Before the web was half done, all attempt at weaving symmetry had been abandoned. Johanna flirted with the idea that the tiny creature had lost its mind. She glanced at the cat curled on his red pillow, as if he might be the cause of the spider's affliction, but Mugs was in a mood of rare calm and watching her through half-closed eyes. He was the sane one this morning.
Or was it afternoon?
Johanna turned back to the problem of the spider spinning chaos. It was said by some that the observer influenced the outcome of the thing observed.
The telephone rang. It was jarring, frightening, this ordinary thing, this common sound. Her answering machine picked up the call. She recognized the voice of a veterinary surgeon reminding her that Mugs's checkup had been rescheduled. The cat padded toward her and sat down at her feet. Odd, but he seemed unwilling to touch her. Was he sensing something unhealthy in the air – something not quite sane?
Johanna would not look at the spiderweb again. Half the day had been lost before she rose from her chair and felt the hundred needles of limbs gone to sleep. She walked to the closet to fetch the plastic pet carrier. Even before she pulled it out, the cat was backing into a corner, baring his teeth and hissing the sentiment, No! No way! You can't put me in there, not again! After a cab ride across town and uptown to Sixtieth Street, Johanna and the screaming Mugs entered the animal hospital. Behind the front desk, the teenage receptionist suddenly tensed every muscle in her young body, bracing for a touch of hell in the afternoon. The pet carrier in Johanna's hand was shaking with rage. And the poor beast's last howl conveyed the message, I'll kill you all!
Chapter 4
Zachary's personal slave, the most recent in a long line of disposable employees, entered the room carrying a covered tray. She wore a secretive smile as she set it down before him. And there were other warning signs. The girl had not combed her hair today, but that was only mildly interesting. It appeared that she had misplaced her shoes, for she was walking barefoot through corporate America. And were those the same clothes she had worn last night? Yes. He smiled with genuine affection for her, his best find in months. It was a pity that she could not last much longer. His genius lay in the ability to spot fracture lines in a damaged psyche. He had known what she was on the day of her hire; he had seen it in her eyes, a bit too wide, too bright. The less astute personnel director had mistaken the girl's manic chatter for enthusiasm.
Her smile turned ghoulish as she lifted the silver tray cover to reveal a generous serving of steak tartare. "Mr. Needleman said this was your favorite."
"My producer? You talked to him?"
"Yeah, he called me this morning." She sat down at the table and lowered her head until her nose was only inches from his food, then watched his plate with great concentration.
"The bastard never calls me." And now he also stared at his lunch. "So you pissed on it, right?" When she raised her face to his, he saw deep disappointment in her eyes. "Sorry." He pushed the tray away. "I spoiled your fun."
She rallied with a triumphant smile. "Mr. Needleman gave me the call-in figures for last night. He said the listener response was over the moon."
Evidently, the producer had also told her that she was the inspiration for most of those calls. The fans had wanted to know if she had been fired or not, for the show had ended abruptly with the last caller's find of a live juror in Manhattan. Bless Randy of SoHo. Whenever the juror death rate remained stagnant for too long, Zachary worried that the game would become stale, that he would lose the high ratings of his shock-radio audience. Sometimes he had to skate by on his talent for torturing the hired help. The sound engineer had proved a huge success as his new whipping girl, and she knew it.
"So now you think you're bulletproof, don't you, babe?" He shook his head. "No way." He could kill her with words any time he wanted to. She would break and fold before tonight's show was over. Or maybe not.
The girl picked up a fork and began to eat the red meat, which obviously had not been pissed on. "Jerk-off," she said.
And his new term of endearment for her was "You crazy bitch."
She looked up from the lunch plate, responding to this name, and grinned as another thought occurred to her. "That window in my booth, is that bulletproof?"
"Absolutely unbreakable." Zachary had insisted upon that specification before he would sign with the New York media giant. Thick glass on the booth windows was a necessary precaution, a lesson learned the hard way when his show had been based in Chicago. One memorable night in his old studio, the security door had held up through a pounding – but the engineer's window had not. A crazed woman had broken the glass to get at him. She had nearly bled to death, clumsy fool, after cutting herself on the shards. And all the while, he had taped a play-by-play account of the action to the rhythm of a security guard banging on his door. The ambulance crew had provided the climax, asking for Zachary's autograph while strapping a bleeding woman to a gurney bound for a hospital psychiatric ward. His most current crazy bitch was stuffing food in her mouth with her fingers. The concept of silverware was quite beyond her now.
"Maybe I'll take over the show," she said, "when they take you off the air." "They? Who? The FCC?" He shrugged. "They can try." In fact, lately he had wondered why they did not try harder. He missed his daily visits from frustrated bureaucrats who had failed to shut him down. Perhaps they were afraid of more formidable
attorneys. Or had they simply tired of losing every legal action to the American Civil Liberties Union?
"Maybe the network will get rid of you," she said. "Sooner or later, somebody's going to sue you for – "
"I get sued all the time." He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, warming to his favorite subject. "Usually it's the outraged relatives of dead jurors, looking to make some fast cash. The network accountants crunched the numbers. Given the current advertising revenues coast to coast, it's cheaper to pay off the families." 'Then the Reaper will get you."
Oh, I doubt it. He couldn't find the jurors without me and my fans. He's probably my most loyal listener." What if he's saving you for last?"
He nodded, as if considering this. In reality, he was wondering why her cognitive reasoning remained unimpaired, and he made a mental note to work on that.
"If you die," she said, "I could be your replacement. I could be bigger than you."
"Well, you can dream." Zack smiled at his newest candidate for induced psychosis. He had to admire her stamina. She was the only one who had remained with him after that moment when her mind had gone elsewhere. "You crazy bitch."
Johanna Apollo almost dropped the pet carrier. Kathy Mallory was a jarring sight on any occasion, but this was such a gross invasion. The uninvited visitor stood at the end of the narrow foyer, somewhat annoyed by Johanna's intrusion into her own hotel suite.
Riker appeared at the young woman's side. "Hey, Jo."
Johanna entered the living room and set the pet carrier on the floor at her feet. "How did you two get in here?"
"Same way we got into this thing." Riker stood before her open armoire and nodded to the tall blonde. "She has a way with locks."
Mallory strode toward the front door, causing Johanna to move out of the way or be trod upon. One foot in the outer hall, the younger woman's face was turned toward the glass door that gave a view of the elevator. She called back over one shoulder, "Hurry it up. We've only got a few minutes."
Dead Famous aka The Jury Must Die Page 5