Shell Game

by Carol O’Connell

  On the stage of the top hat float, one of the old men was on his knees, arms extending toward a child, tossing out a yellow ball which had just materialized in his hands.

  Riker and the camera crew were watching the balloon dog in the instant when an arrow hit the side of the giant top hat and shuddered with the vibration of sudden impact. The featherless metal shaft pinned the old man by his coattail.

  A crossbow pistol disappeared under the red cape of the lone magician in the crowd. So the boy had come stealing back while they were distracted by Dr. Slope.

  In the next second, Mallory’s running shoes had hit the ground and she was gone.

  Riker jumped off the edge of the float, jarring his bones on hard pavement. He was in motion without a prayer of catching up to his young partner. He kept track of Mallory and her fleeing suspect by the jerking ropes of balloon handlers being knocked aside like ninepins.

  A gunshot banged out.

  What in hell?

  His stomach rose up and slammed down hard. With a rush of cold adrenaline, he put on some speed. What was Mallory thinking? She knew better than to fire a weapon in a crowd. Even a bullet shot into the air could take out innocent life, falling back to earth with enough velocity to penetrate a human skull.

  All these little kids – -Jesus.

  Riker’s heart was hammering against the wall of his chest, and his lungs were on fire. He slowed down to catch his breath, and now he could see a few out-of-towners in the crowd, mothers who held their children a little tighter. The real New Yorkers had not blinked when the gun went off. It was already forgotten, displaced by the racket of yet another high school marching band. The tiny screaming fans of the humongous dog were chanting, „Goldy, Goldy, Goldy.“

  When he caught up to his partner, she was sitting on top of the rogue magician and cuffing his hands behind his back. The crossbow lay on the pavement, harmless without its arrow. Her trench coat was wide open, flapping in the wind, and Riker could see that her revolver was already back in its holster. So her hunch had panned out. But there would be hell to pay for the gunfire. And something else troubled him.

  What’s wrong with this picture?

  A police chase was the stuff of a New York sideshow. Every collar on the street was guaranteed an attentive audience. So Riker thought it odd that the crowd was staring up instead of down.

  „Look at the puppy!“ yelled a five-year-old boy from the sidewalk, and Riker obediently sought out the golden balloon. The behemoth’s tail was losing air and hanging between the hind legs in a limp and mournful attitude. The great body listed to one side, leaning against the granite face of an apartment house. Tiny people on the balconies were running indoors, as though under attack, and Riker supposed they were. This tableau had all the makings of a vintage monster movie.

  In a last act of lifelike animation, one wounded rubber paw reached out for a balcony, then lost its purchase and dipped low to graze the upper branches of a tree. The puppy’s great head sagged against the twelfth floor of the stone facade and then lowered, flight by flight of windows. The rubber dog was going down, deflating, dying.

  The five-year-old was pointing at Mallory. „She did it – the one with the big gun. She shot Goldy. She killed him!“

  Mallory glared at the little boy, and Riker was treated to a glimpse of the ten-year-old Kathy he used to know. In her face was a child’s rejoinder of I did not! The boy on the sidewalk wisely conceded the argument and hid behind his mother’s coat.

  A mounted policeman galloped up to Mallory and her prisoner. The cop was grinning as he reined in his horse and pointed to the damaged balloon. „Nice going, Detective.“

  The handlers were not holding the balloon down anymore, but running to get out from under the giant puppy as he lost helium and altitude.

  „Yeah, Mallory,“ said the cop on horseback. „I never shot anything that big.“

  Riker stepped up to the mounted policeman and pulled rank. „Shut up, Henderson. That’s an order. Just move along before she shoots your damn horse.“

  Mallory spoke to Riker’s back. „I didn’t do it.“

  Well, it was predictable that she would try to lie her way out of a suspension. Discharging firearms in a crowd was a serious violation, but shooting a balloon would cost her a great deal more. She was about to become the joke of NYPD, and Riker was already sorry for her.

  The rest of the mounted officers converged on the scene, the hooves of six horses clattering on the pavement. Two men dismounted and took the prisoner into custody. They had missed Mallory’s humiliation, but were just in time to witness Henderson’s. His horse could cope with gunshots, but the sight of a huge dog falling from the sky was more than the startled animal could bear. The stallion reared up and dumped his rider on the road.

  Two small children on the sidewalk were taunting Mallory, pointing their mittened fingers at her and chanting, „You killed Goldy, you killed him, you killed him, you – “

  Mallory pulled out her.357 Smith & Wesson revolver.

  The children stopped chanting.

  She held out the weapon on the flat of her hand. „Touch it, Riker. The metal’s cold. I didn’t fire my gun. It never left my holster. There’s a shooter in the crowd.“

  He did touch it. The metal was not warm. But the wind-chill factor of hard-blowing frigid air had tumbled the temperature below zero. How much time had elapsed? How long could a gun hold its heat?

  He looked out over the faces in the dense crush of civilians behind the police barricades.

  So many children.

  Suppose Mallory was not lying?

  Slowly, he turned his eyes to the thousand windows overlooking the parade route. A shooter in the crowd – but where? And where was that gun aiming now?

  Chapter 2

  The upper half of the office wall was a window on the squad room of Special Crimes. The environs were bleak. Gray file cabinets lined one grime-white wall, and a bank of dirty windows overlooked the SoHo street. Yet the atmosphere was suspiciously festive. There were no civilians in the house, not even clerical staff – only men with guns, milling around steel desks topped with computer monitors and piles of paperwork on fresh homicides.

  Believing that his people worked better without a superior officer’s eyes on them, Jack Coffey usually kept the blinds drawn – but not today. The lieutenant watched as ten grinning detectives gathered around the punch bowl on the center desk. Only five of them had been scheduled to work this holiday shift. None of their conversations penetrated the thick glass, but the tension came through. It hummed, it reeked.

  What were they going to do to her?

  Lieutenant Coffey was a man of average height and average features. Even his hair and eye color were in the middle range of brown. However, at thirty-six, he was uncommonly young for a command position, or so the brass at One Police Plaza had argued. Over the past year, stress had made inroads on a bald spot at the back of his head; he had acquired deep worry lines and a world of trouble in his eyes; and now his appearance was older, more appropriate to the job.

  At the back of the private office, another man struck a match and added a whiff of sulfur to the air, followed by a stream of gray smoke.

  It would be nice if once – just once – Detective Sergeant Riker would ask for permission to light up a cigarette. Lieutenant Coffey bit back a reprimand as he stared at this detective’s reflection in the glass. Riker was standing at attention, telegraphing the strain of the morning – waiting for the show to begin.

  In the squad room beyond the window, men in shirtsleeves and shoulder holsters were ladling eggnog into paper cups and opening containers of Chinese take-out food. On the far side of the room, a pair of uniformed officers were keeping their distance from the detectives.

  And that was another odd note.

  The two men in uniform exchanged uneasy glances. Perhaps they also wondered why they were here. Patrol cops never partied with detectives; they wouldn’t even drink in the same bars.

/>   Invited as witnesses? Yes, that would fit, for now a detective was unwrapping a furry stuffed toy. It was a replica of the puppy Detective Mallory had recently dispatched to Balloon Heaven.

  Lieutenant Coffey glanced over one shoulder. Detective Riker was leaning against the back wall, as if suddenly very tired. A hat brim shaded his eyes from the overhead lights. Riker must have plans for Thanksgiving dinner. He was stealing glances at his cheap watch, and he had not yet removed his new coat, which was not at all cheap.

  „Nice material,“ said Coffey, whose own coat was from a discount store in New Jersey. „Very expensive. People will say you’re on the take.“

  Riker smiled as he brushed a cigarette ash from the tweed lapel. „Mallory gave it to me.“

  „Don’t tell anyone.“ There were enough rumors going around about his only female detective. Coffey turned back to the window on the squad room, where his detectives perched on the edges of desks, sharing foxy smiles and watching the door. The two patrol cops traded looks of deep discomfort. Coffey knew they would rather be downstairs with the other uniforms.

  He could roughly guess what was going to happen next. Without lookaway from the glass, he spoke to the man behind him. „You know she won’t get off easy this time.“

  „Mallory says she didn’t do it.“

  „I expected that from her. But what about you, Riker? You know better. She’s lying.“

  „The gun was cold.“

  „The day was cold.“ Coffey turned around to face his sergeant. „Even if the gun test comes back negative, that won’t clear her – not with me. You never searched her for a backup piece, did you?“

  Riker’s slow smile said, Silly question.

  In the squad room on the other side of the glass, a man grabbed up the telephone, listened for a moment, then made the thumbs-up gesture to the other detectives. And now they were all converging on the stairwell door.

  Ambush.

  The desk sergeant must have warned them that Mallory was on her way upstairs.

  Showtime.

  Today the world would stop revolving around Markowitz’s daughter. She had gone to the limit of her old man’s influence.

  Detective Riker walked over to the window and followed the action with his eyes. He would do nothing to warn his partner. Even the late Inspector Markowitz would not have tried to stop this. It might be Mallory’s last chance to come into the fold. So much depended on how she reacted.

  She had no friends among those men lying in wait by the door. They saw her as an outsider, never drinking or breaking bread with other cops. Perhaps the worst offense was keeping her own counsel; her silence fueled their paranoia. In the tight community of police, every loner was suspect.

  The two uniformed officers were hanging back, wanting no part in this.

  Why?

  The stairwell door was opening. He could see curls of blond hair beyond the tight press of bodies. The wall of armed men parted to form a gauntlet, giving Coffey a clear view of the toy dog, a perfect replica of the Goldy balloon. It lay on the floor, bleeding catsup from a mortal wound. A white chalk mark had been drawn around the furry body – all decked out like a corpse at a crime scene.

  Mallory was looking down at the stuffed animal when the detectives screamed in unison, „I didn’t do it!“

  Mallory’s slogan.

  Her head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the toy. She stiffened slightly when a detective taped a giant paper star on her shoulder. The bold print of a felt-tip marker read: ‘The only good puppy is a dead puppy.’ Any second now, she would explode – or she would work it out. The men were popping off the balls of their feet, finding this tension delicious, God’s gift to all the detectives of the Special Crimes Unit. A true day of thanksgiving.

  Aw, Mallory, no.

  She was looking up at them now, wearing a broad smile that was radiant – and pure Markowitz, a damn ghost of the old man. There had been no resemblance between father and foster child – absolutely none. Yet this was the inspector, back from the grave and charming everyone in the room.

  Oh, Jesus, this is criminal.

  Mallory had even captured mannerisms, tugging on her right earlobe as she focused on every man in turn, making each one the center of the universe and special in her eyes – Markowitz’s eyes. How many hours had she labored in front of a mirror, coldly perfecting this impersonation – and why?

  Coffey stared at his detectives, all but Riker, who had turned away from the window, not wanting to see this anymore. Her cheap magic act was working on all the others. Their faces were full of delight, their own smiles saying, Well, hello again, old man.

  It was shocking to see Markowitz alive in Mallory – and obscene. How conniving and maniacal.

  How smart.

  She might learn all her lessons the hard way, but she did adapt with inhuman cunning and speed.

  The men were grinning, all cops together now, laughing and slapping backs, aiming light, good-natured punches to her arms. Mallory the loner had won them over with charisma stolen from a dead man. The only woman on this squad was finally one of the boys – just what Coffey had hoped for, and he damned her to hell for the way she had pulled it off.

  He threw open the door and yelled, „Mallory! Get your ass in here!“

  The mood of the room shifted abruptly, and he was met with sullen glares from every cop, including the pair in uniform.

  Oh, great. Just great. Now it was all of them and Mallory against himself. Ah but payback, fresh ridicule, was only as far away as tomorrow’s press release. And now he looked forward to telling her about the crossbow shooter.

  She walked toward the door, taking her own time, so as not to give the impression that she was acting on a direct order from a commanding officer. The smile dropped away as she crossed the threshold of his office. The show was over.

  He slammed the door and sat down behind his desk. „Mallory, you’re going to take a little vacation for a while.“

  She removed the paper star from her shoulder. „I don’t have any vacation time left.“

  „I know that.“ He made a show of moving papers around on his blotter, unwilling to meet her eyes until his anger subsided. „Call it a little gift from Commissioner Beale.“ Over the edge of his desk, he watched the legs of her designer jeans folding into the chair beside Riker’s. She wore new running shoes, and he knew that brand – two hundred dollars a pop. The long leather trench coat parted as she crossed her legs. And how much had that tailored item cost?

  „I can’t take any time off.“ Mallory shot the crumpled paper star into the wastebasket next to his desk. „I’m working a full caseload.“

  Her voice was too confident, and he was about to change that. „Not anymore.“

  His attention shifted to the long ash on Riker’s cigarette. It was perilously close to dropping on the floor. It had taken three months of requisitions to get the new carpet. A cloud of smoke drifted across the desk, and he wondered if Riker was deliberately distracting him with this flanking maneuver of fresh aggravation. Coffey turned to Mallory. Her face was absent the sham warmth of Markowitz.

  If a machine had eyes…

  „You’re off duty until this shit dies down, and that may take a while.“ He picked up a sheet of quotes from the parade broadcast and handed it to her. „America’s most famous cartoon character was gunned down in the street – by a cop. Parents are gonna use your name to scare their kids into behaving.“

  „Yeah,“ said Riker, rousing from lethargy. „I can hear the mommies now – ’Clean up your room, or Detective Mallory will shoot your dog.’“

  The phone jangled, and Coffey picked up the receiver midring. This was the call he had been waiting for. He listened for a moment, then said, „Put him through.“ And now a technician was delivering a dry recital of test results produced in record time. Normally, Special Crimes only got this kind of service when a cop killed a human.

  Mallory was reading the quotes of the newscasters. Was her stomach knott
ing up? He hoped so.

  „This is bogus,“ she said. „I did not fire my gun in – “

  „Oh yeah?“ Coffey covered the phone’s mouthpiece with one hand. „There’s a bullet missing from your gun.“ He turned to her partner and tossed a sheaf of stapled, badly typed text into the sergeant’s lap. „Riker, you forgot to mention that little detail in your report. Fix it.“ He spoke to his caller: „What else?… Hold on.“ He cupped the receiver again. „The tech says the gun was fired recently.“

  Riker looked up from his paperwork. „I bet they can’t pin it down within twenty-four hours.“

  Coffey pretended not to hear that, because it was true. As he thanked the technician for the holiday overtime, he was making a mental note of what Mallory was costing the Special Crimes budget.

  „My gun was fired yesterday,“ she said. „Not this morning.“

  „What were you – “

  „Lieutenant?“ Riker slowly shook his head. „You don’t want to know.“

  „The hell I don’t.“ Well, actually, he didn’t. There was a lot to be said for deniability in Copland politics. Coffey turned his attention back to Mallory. „Out of all the balloons in the parade, why did you have to shoot a dog – a puppy, for Christ’s sake.“

  „Yeah, Mallory.“ Riker’s head was bowed over the papers in his hand. „That was cold. Why not shoot that annoying woodpecker you never liked?“

  „I didn’t – “

  „Right.“ If NYPD could not prove it, she did not do it – Coffey knew that old song. But this time he had witnesses. „I’ve got statements from people who saw you fire your gun.“

  „Damn civilians.“ Riker’s pencil was moving over lines of text. „They hear a car backfire, and then they see a gun that isn’t there.“ He looked up at Coffey. „And who says the balloon was shot? Another balloon went down when a tree branch ripped it.“

  The lieutenant opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a videotape. He held it up to Riker. „For a joke, one of the reporters asked Dr. Slope to examine the dead balloon. Well, his kid’s with him, right? I guess he thought it might be fun for Faye. So, to quote our chief medical examiner, ‘Yup, that’s a bullet wound all right.’“ Coffey dropped the tape in the drawer and slammed it shut. „They’ve got film of Dr. Slope bending over this pile of rubber, explaining how the edges of the holes are more consistent with bullets than trees.“