by William Hood
“Not quite,” Trosper said. “Along with the usual bits and pieces he picked up while in training, he also let on that he had heard gossip about a penetration of the Firm.”
Grogan whistled sharply. “Well, well, well … ”
“This came out while Bob Dwyer was Acting Controller. He investigated the allegation, but there was nothing conclusive. By the time Duff Whyte got back and could put the heat on, Volin decamped. I mention Volin in this context only because if the anonymous letter is a scam, it’s the sort of a swindle he might try to contrive.”
“These days, a fellow has to stand in line to come up with a dodge involving old Moscow Center activity,” Grogan said. “The alleys are full of these guys, most of them phony.” Grogan leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head. “But say what you want to, Volin had the Mills woman dead to rights. It’s only a pity he didn’t get here while she was still on her feet.”
“I wanted to ask you about her death,” Trosper said. “Ostensibly quite straightforward,” Grogan said.
“Only ostensibly?”
For a moment Grogan seemed to be measuring Trosper. “The wrong time of day for an armed mugging, the wrong place, too much traffic, and no reason for the suspect to think that Mills would be carrying enough in her running clothes to make the effort worthwhile.” He waited before saying, “Dumb as they are, and even coked to their ears, most street creeps have some smarts.”
“What about the weapon?”
“Two rounds from a 22-caliber, semiautomatic pistol, the shots perfectly placed,” Grogan said. “Not your everyday gun, and not the work of a street punk who’s never been on a target range.”
“Witnesses, collateral evidence?”
Grogan leaned forward, holding his chin in his hand. “We went over the area inch by inch, and questioned all but one of the apparent witnesses. Their stories are confirmed, and their background checks are all negative.”
“The missing witness?”
Grogan blinked in surprise. “That’s what it gets down to. The one we can’t locate was closest to Mills when it went down. A thin, black male, expensive running threads and a visored cap, like those flimsy things bike racers wear. As best we can reconstruct it, this guy was within a few yards of Mills — maybe even closer. He was first to touch the body, and the first to run for help — as he said, to call for an ambulance from the precinct substation right there in the park. But he didn’t go to the police, he didn’t call for an ambulance, and he ain’t been seen since.”
“Was there any suggestion of a sexual assault gone wrong — maybe an attempt to drag her into the bushes?”
Grogan smiled and shook his head. “Highly unlikely, wrong time of day, too many witnesses in the vicinity … ”
“Was the pistol close enough to leave powder burns?”
A flicker of irritation crossed Grogan’s face. “You know, we’re getting into NYPD business here,” he said. “I’m CI, the Mills murder is a violent crime. The only reason I’m involved is the allegation against Mills, and the apparent proofs of her espionage.”
“I understand,” Trosper said, “but … ”
“And the only reason the Bureau has any responsibility at all for the case, and that it’s not the exclusive property of the NYPD, is that the victim was a State Department — that is federal — employee, and assigned to our U.N. mission, and the whole goddamned U.N., the jelly-bellies from the State Department, and even Mayor Loud-Mouth were screaming about our — the Bureau, mind you — having lost control of the streets.” Grogan shook his head in disgust. “The fact remains that along with the protection of the NYPD, Mills also was entitled to some measure of federal protection, even though she didn’t have diplomatic immunity.”
“Or even immunity from getting shot dead in Central Park,”
Widgery muttered. In the spartan atmosphere of Grogan’s office, Widgery’s nasal delivery was strident as a comet.
Trosper waved him to silence, and asked, “No collateral evidence on the ground?”
Grogan shook his head. “We found the empty cartridge shells, but the area had been too much tramped over to hope for any footprints of interest.”
“Prints on the shells?”
Grogan blinked; not everyone knew that spent cartridge shells were excellent sources of fingerprints. He shook his head. “The empties are damned small, and both had been stepped on. Ballistics thought that maybe the ammo had been wiped clean, or handled with gloves — there was almost no trace of the lubricant they come coated with.”
“How far afield did your search go in the park?”
Grogan leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “If we’d done the whole damned park, we’d have found enough weapons to outfit a Special Forces battalion — of course, it would have taken the entire New York office a month to do it.”
“I mean did you go a hundred, two hundred yards from the scene?”
“With the local precinct, our people covered all of the escape routes the suspect could have taken from the scene,” Grogan said, his face flushed. “This means we checked every place he might have ditched the weapon, his gloves, his cap, bloodstained clothing, or anything else that might have linked him to the crime. To do this, the uniforms and our guys sorted out every goddamned trash can for three blocks around the scene, examined the sewer inlets, and waded around under every bridge the guy might have crossed.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Digging in garbage cans is standard cop practice, but it’s not what my guys call a day at Disneyland.”
“I gather the NYPD still carries the murder as a mugging by persons unknown,” Trosper said. “Is this your reading?”
Grogan shook his head. “It never was my opinion. As far as I’m concerned, Mills was murdered by a professional hit man for reasons unknown.”
“Reasons unknown?”
“At the time we were checking this out, we didn’t know Mills was an agent,” Grogan said. “When this surfaced, it added a whole new dimension to our investigation. Unless it actually was an attempted mugging, I would have to guess she was hit by her Russian pals.” Grogan tilted way back in his chair. “From what I’ve learned, she could only have been a damned valuable source for Moscow.”
Trosper smiled. “Which suggests that the most plausible reason for them to have killed her would be to protect an even better source?”
“Amen,” said Grogan.
Trosper turned to Widgery. “Jim, will you call for our car?”
“We don’t have a car,” Widgery said sourly. “But I take your point.” He got up and moved toward the door.
“Hey, Widge,” Grogan called as he stepped around the desk. “No hard feelings, huh?” He took Widgery by the shoulder and shook him as if he were ruffling a puppy’s fur. “I’ve got a hundred open files, and only half the staff I need just to stay even. Sometimes things just pop out.” As they shook hands, Grogan held on to Widgery’s shoulder. “There are some things we’ve all got to learn — I’ll square it with your boss.”
“Okay, okay,” Widgery said. “It’s a deal.”
As the door closed, Grogan turned to Trosper. “I’m sorry I blew off … Widge is all right. It’s probably just because he’s here without a boss, someone to keep him on his toes.” He dropped into the chair behind the desk, and laughed. “I’ll try to cosset him a little the next time he comes over … ”
“It won’t do any harm … “
Grogan gazed speculatively at Trosper before saying quietly, “There was one thing, perhaps a bit of evidence. Maybe it’s nothing, but you never know.” He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers, thrust his arms straight forward and turned his palms outward. Then, in a series of deft twists, he cracked one after another of his knuckles. With a satisfied grin, he dropped his arms and pulled his chair closer to the desk. “One of my bright young men turned over a trash can, about three hundred yards from where Mills died, but not on the route the black guy started on when he cut out for the precinct. There was
the usual swill — you know we dump the cans onto a plastic sheet, and then sort through the crap one item at a time.”
“Not, as you say, a day at the beach even in cool weather,” Trosper said.
“It comes with the territory, and the elbow-length, heavy gloves in case we hit a contaminated needle,” Grogan said. “In the middle of all the usual mess, my man found a piece of what seemed to be a latex face mask. What’s more, he had the brains to take it over to Brooks, the big theatrical costume outfit in midtown. Sure enough, it seems to be from a professional latex mask, the sort of thing they use in movies, and usually custom-made.” Grogan waited for Trosper s reaction.
Trosper nodded obediently.
“It was a part of a Negro mask, like the whole thing had been torn up, and in the dark this piece got dropped and later maybe one of the street sweepers or someone tossed it in the trash.”
“A male mask?”
“As far as we could tell … ”
“I’ll be damned … ”
“But there’s nothing to link it to the murder except the probability that the job was done by a pro, not some dumb-ass street junkie — a trained professional, someone who really planned the hit.” Grogan was silent for a moment. “Take, for example, the fact that the trash can was so far away from the shooting, and in exactly the opposite direction from which the missing black witness left the crime scene. If it was a planned hit, it just might be that the suspect figured to start out in one direction, and then changed course at about the time he tore off and destroyed the mask.”
“And you see no connection with the people who had blackmailed her?”
Grogan shook his head. “Even if they had known that their man Volin had done a bunk, and would sooner or later peddle Mills, why would they mess around with a high-risk stunt and hit her? She was already down the drain. From what I know about the case, Mills was recruited just before Moscow Center called time-out and established their new-look service, the SVR, a bright and shiny troop of Boy Scouts if ever there was one. If Mills was arrested and confessed to having been blackmailed, and if any of our cookie-pushers got up the courage to complain, all Moscow had to say was that it happened in the bad old days, and that — Scout’s honor — everything’s different now.”
“Which brings us back to the probability that Mills knew something Moscow was afraid she would spill under interrogation,” Trosper said.
“That’s certainly my view,” said Grogan.
“Did you talk to any of Mills’s supervisors here at the U.S. mission to the U.N.?”
“Oh, yes,” Grogan said. “For what it was worth, I talked to them all — right after the shooting, and then when we learned about the espionage allegations, I did it all over again. Everyone seemed to like Mills, although a couple of her pals thought she had a drinking problem. Aside from that, the consensus was that she was a solitary woman, shy, and not blessed with men friends of any variety.”
“What about the people she worked with in Moscow?”
“The Washington office handled that — and as their records show, no one had the slightest notion that there was anything out of order about Mills. She was a competent, hard-working, senior secretary, a bit shy, and a nice person. I talked to Ambassador Hardwick, who was head of the delegation she was posted with in Moscow. He had a high opinion of her, and didn’t believe she could have been blackmailed into espionage.” Grogan laughed. “Hardwick is a dandified sort of ambassador, but a nice guy. Nothing like Slocombe, his deputy at the time, and a really pompous featherhead. Slocombe nearly had a fit when the Washington guys asked if he could identify the stud in the photographs Volin had supplied.”
Trosper smiled. “I’ve never met Hardwick, but I know Slocombe from way back, and I plan to have a chat.”
“Aside from the boozing that seems to have started after she was blackmailed, Mills had a clean sheet,” Grogan said.
As they shook hands, Trosper said, “The way our anonymous tipster came on, there could be a considerable domestic angle in running down Volin’s allegation, not to mention the Mills case. If it turns out that way, would you like a piece of it? Maybe get yourself sprung for a few days to come along on a joint project?”
Grogan began to laugh. “That’s an idea — even if they wanted to, my outfit couldn’t just turn over legal jurisdiction to something called Research Estimates, Incorporated.” He waited before saying, “But who’d be in charge?”
“That’s the sort of thing I let other people worry about,” Trosper said. “Besides, maybe your people might like to have someone keep an eye on what I’m up to … ”
“Now that might be,” Grogan said slowly. “As you just saw, I could use a breather. Maybe a little R and R with the wild bunch could be worked out.”
“It’ll be up to Washington, but I’ll mention it to our people,” Trosper said.
At the door, he paused to glance at a framed black-and-white photograph on the wall near Grogan’s desk. It was slightly out of focus, and grainy for an 8 x 10 enlargement. A blond woman held a black poodle-like dog to her breast as the dog strained to lick her face. The joy of the woman in the dog and the dog’s devotion were plain to be seen. It was a remarkable photograph, an unpretentious moment of truth and a work of pure art. Trosper studied the photograph before turning to say goodbye.
“My wife really loved that pooch,” Grogan said.
12
New York
“Mr. Slocombe is expecting me,” Trosper said. “Mr. Harrison Slocombe.”
The receptionist at the U.S. mission to the United Nations nodded and ran her finger down a list on the desk beside the telephone. “I’ll just call Mr. Slocombe’s assistant to escort you,” she said.
Trosper stepped out of the elevator, surrendered his coat, and settled down in one of the club chairs in the reception area. Had he been betting, he would have wagered that Slocombe would underline his view of their relative positions in life by inflicting a fifteen-minute wait. It was, however, nineteen minutes before the secretary beckoned Trosper into an office two doors to the left of the ambassador’s suite. All these years so close to the summit, and still a bridesmaid, Trosper reflected.
“Alan, my dear old boy.” Slocombe thrust himself up and leaned across the desk to shake hands. The gesture was not wasted. Had Minister Counselor Slocombe accepted Trosper as an equal in his protocol-encrusted life, he would have stepped from behind the desk to greet him.
“It’s been a while,” Slocombe said as he waved Trosper to a chair in front of the desk. He was well over six feet tall. A severe gray suit, stiff collar, spittlesfield tie, and a waistcoat adorned with a gold watch chain gave Slocombe’s spare figure the aspect of an elegant vicar, or an overdressed undertaker.
“Where were we last — Berlin? All those tiresome negotiations, trying to swap some wretched Russian for one of your sordid villains?”
“Something like that,” Trosper murmured.
“You’re looking fit, I’ll say that for Research Estimates. Have your own trainers, do you?” Slocombe’s prominent cheekbones, beaked nose, deep forehead, and limp hair combed straight across his head never failed to give Trosper the impression he was confronting a naked skull.
Slocombe shot his cuffs, fumbled in his waistcoat for a thin gold watch, and released the chain. “I’ve been running twenty minutes late all day,” he said, propping the watch upright on the desk. “I’m here for a few days to get things on the track for the opening of the General Assembly. It’s simply hell not working with one’s own staff.”
“I’m sure it must be.”
“I’ll admit I’ve no idea what echoes of the late cold war bring you to Gotham and to the U.N. — it seems to me that I’d heard you were en poste in London?”
Trosper had no interest in explaining his employment status. “I want to ask you about Charlotte Mills … ”
Slocombe knitted his heavy eyebrows in apparent concentration. “The Charlotte Mills? The one who got herself shot in Central Par
k?” Trosper nodded.
“That superannuated little tramp and damnable spy.” Slocombe shook his head in disgust.
“Surely not a tramp … ”
“Not a tramp?” Slocombe said, his voice rising. “Those ghastly photographs would turn your stomach.” He paused as if striving for a temperate expression. “Perhaps not your stomach. That sort of thing may be common coin in the world you scuffle around in, but I’ve never seen anything like the pictures. Our security people actually looked me up in Washington to brief me on what she had sold to the Russians, and then the FBI insisted I check the photos on the chance I might be able to identify the lout they had caught in the act. Imagine those cretins forcing me to study those photographs!” Trosper imagined it very clearly and the scene delighted him. “What’s more, I can’t understand why a forty-year-old woman would pose for anything like that.”
“Charlotte Mills wasn’t posing, she was betrayed by a man, an expert at that sort of maneuver.”
“Whatever excuse she came up with, it was damned decent of someone in Moscow, in the local community I suppose, to let us know what one of our staff had got up to in her off hours,” Slocombe said.
“It wasn’t anyone in the local community, as you put it, who had the photographs, it was the operative sent from Moscow to handle Mills in this country who gave us the photographs when he defected.”
“It’s just too damned bad she died before they caught her,” Slocombe said. “She would have deserved just what she got.”
“As may be,” said Trosper. “When we passed the defector’s report to the FBI and your security people, they found ample evidence to bear out the story.”
“Then she never made a confession?”
“Unfortunately she never had the opportunity … ”
“The security people were keen to know what I knew about her in Moscow. As it happened, I scarcely knew the woman, but if I can believe what they told me, along with her pornographic stardom there was no doubt that your Miss Mills was a mercenary little spy.”