„Good,“ said Mallory. „That backs me up. The guy with the crossbow wasn’t the only shooter in the crowd.“
This was the moment Coffey had been waiting for. He leaned toward her, not even trying to suppress his happiness. „The crossbow shooter was hired by the magicians on the float. The kid was part of the act, Mallory – a publicity stunt. The old guys paid him to do it.“
It was not hard to read her face. She reminded him of the children on the parade films, eyes turned skyward, watching the giant puppy deflate – a startled wide-eyed look followed by an expression of Oh, shit.
Two screwups in one day.
She was shaking her head in denial. „No. If it was faked, Charles Butler would’ve – “
„Charles didn’t know,“ said Coffey. „I talked to him myself. The old guys didn’t tell him what was coming. Said they didn’t trust him to act surprised. They wanted the genuine article for maximum effect.“
„That fits,“ said Riker, nodding. „Charles can’t hide a thing with that face of his. The way that poor bastard loses at poker. Behind his back, Dr. Slope calls him the bank.“
„I want to see that crossbow shooter,“ said Mallory.
„Too late.“ Coffey was not smiling now. „The West Side dicks kicked him loose twenty minutes ago. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue the city. So you don’t go anywhere near the kid.“ He rapped his knuckles on the desk to make sure she was paying attention. „That’s an order, Mallory. Don’t even think about crossing me. You can’t afford one more violation.“
Her voice was almost mechanical, giving equal weight to every word. „There was another shooter in that crowd.“
„What if there was?“ Coffey shrugged. „The parade has passed by. It’s over. Who the hell cares?“
Well, she cared. That was obvious. Mallory was shredding the sheet of press quotes into tiny pieces. Not one scrap escaped the lap of her cashmere blazer. She was freakishly neat.
„There must be a witness on my side. I never drew my gun.“ Mallory stood up and deposited the confetti in his wastebasket, and she also took this opportunity to scan everything on his desk.
He riffled through the paperwork and picked up an affidavit signed by a taxpayer. „This is my personal favorite.“ Riker’s report had described the witness as a punk kid with too many earrings and a bad attitude toward cops. „This guy swore he saw you aim the gun at the balloon. And then he heard you say, ‘Take that, you evil puppy from hell.’“
Mallory did not get the joke, but Coffey was grinning, his life was complete. She had no more possible comebacks.
He had not anticipated a sniper shot from her partner.
„She had good reason to go after the kid with the crossbow. It wasn’t a toy,“ said Riker. „Crossbows are illegal in – “
„He had a performance permit signed by the damn mayor.“ Coffey waved the paperwork faxed from the West Side precinct.
„And she was supposed to read that through his back pocket while he was running away? And what about that old guy who died last week? The Central Park magic show? He was killed with crossbows – four of ‘em.“
„Okay,“ said Coffey. „The arrest was a righteous call. But don’t tell me you’re going for a connection to the park accident.“
Mallory sat down and leaned back in her chair, suddenly more cheerful – always a bad sign. „What if it wasn’t an accident? Suppose I can prove Oliver Tree was murdered?“
Coffey had a problem with that. Mallory was too hot to get clear of the balloon assassination. She might cheat the pieces to come up with a diversion. „No way. It’s a closed case. Accidental death, cut and dried.“
„When did anyone ever die in a cheesy magic act?“ She had a good point, but he would never admit it – not to her. „There’s no reason to question another detective’s report, not unless you enjoy making enemies. So forget it. And now there’s still the little matter of a bullet missing from your gun.“
„Mallory fired her gun yesterday,“ said Riker, with great reluctance. „I found four witnesses, all patrol cops.“
Coffey made a rolling motion with his hand. „Come on, what’s the rest of it?“
„She killed Oscar the Wonder Rat. Picked him right off the top of the candy machine in the lunchroom.“ Riker pointed one finger like a gun barrel and cocked his thumb to fire. „Single shot.“ No, no, no!
Coffey stared at the ceiling for a moment, outwardly calm, inwardly screaming at Mallory, Are you nuts? Totally nuts?
„Okay, Riker. Leave the missing bullet out of the paperwork. I don’t want the reporters to know she gunned down a rat with a pet name.“
He had to wonder about those four uniformed officers who had watched her pull a weapon inside the station house. What had gone through their minds when they heard a gunshot in the one place where they were supposed to feel safe? Most cops would have twenty-year careers without ever firing a gun on duty.
Had the uniforms downstairs already pegged her as a loose cannon? In that paranoia unique to cops, were they watching her more closely now? And how long would it be before the rat story crossed the line between the patrolmen and his detectives?
And now he understood why those two men in uniform had not taken part in humiliating Mallory. Cop, accountant or postman, the rules were the same: It was not a sane idea to antagonize a dangerous coworker.
The uniforms would find another way to deal with her.
Mallory was pulling papers from the deep pockets of her trench coat.
She unfolded a sheet of text and set it on his desk blotter. It bore the mast-head of the tax assessor’s office, and by the date, this information was a week old.
„Oliver Tree left an estate worth millions,“ she said. „That’s just the tangible property. I haven’t even looked for cash holdings yet.“
In Malloryspeak, this meant she had the bank statements, but he would not like her method of acquisition, and neither would the bank appreciate her computer skills, her high-tech lock-picking.
Riker was leaning forward to stare at the list of property holdings, clearly surprised by this information. So Mallory was a week late in sharing the money motive with her own partner. Well, that was typical.
She tapped the sheet with one red fingernail. „Forty years ago, the old man bought up a row of condemned brownstones. Got them for a song and did the renovations himself. He still owned three of them when he died. And he owned a small theater in a prime real estate location.“ On top of this paperwork, she laid down her own report on the parade shooting. „The crossbow shooter was related to Oliver Tree. I don’t know how he figured in the old man’s will – not yet.“
By the look on Riker’s face, he was also hearing this for the first time.
Coffey scanned the lines of text underscored in red ink. The bowman’s name was Richard Tree, nephew of the magician who had died a week ago – killed by four arrows.
She laid a three-year-old arrest report on top of this sheet. „The nephew has a juvenile record for drugs. Maybe the parade stunt was a fake. But a junkie would kill his own mother for cash, and that kid was in the park the day his uncle died. So I’ve got motive and opportunity.“ And then, as if she had read his mind, she added, „I didn’t raid sealed juvie records. I talked to the cop who busted him.“
Of course, she had found that officer’s name in a raid on sealed juvenile records, but Coffey let that slide.
„I like money motives, too.“ Riker was looking at his wristwatch again as he stood up and buttoned his coat. He averted his face, hiding the anger from his partner. There were many lessons that Mallory had yet to learn, but apparently Riker intended to handle this one privately. One hand was on the doorknob when he glanced back at Coffey. „I’m sure the mayor’s office wants the park death to stay accidental. High murder stats are bad for tourism. But you know she’s got something here.“
Coffey sat back in his chair, not surprised that Riker would back his partner, even if he thought this was crap, and he prob
ably did.
„Mallory, we’re running late,“ said Riker.
She looked down at her pocket watch, not trusting him with the time of day. „I need the West Side report on Oliver Tree. Everything from the detective who caught the case. I want statements, evidence – “
„Not so fast.“ Coffey pushed her sheets back across the desk. „First you check out these leads – discreetly. Riker will do all the interviews. Officially, you’re on vacation. You got that, Mallory? You don’t interrogate anybody. If you get anything solid, then we’ll talk about stepping on toes in another precinct. Oh, and I’m keeping your gun for a while.“
Mallory didn’t like that, but she was clearly going to eat it. And why not? She had other guns at home. He believed she only carried a private cannon because the police-issue.38 didn’t make big enough holes. She stood up and cinched the belt of her trench coat, electing not to press her luck by staying any longer.
„Sit down, Detective,“ said Coffey. „I’m not done with you.“
Between a dead rat and a punctured balloon, Mallory had done herself a lot of damage, but she couldn’t see it yet. She was standing too far outside the closed society of cops.
He waited until she had settled back into the chair, then slammed his hand on the desk with enough force to send pencils and pens rolling off the edge. „Don’t you ever pull a gun inside this station house again! Even if you don’t get off one bullet – if you only pull the gun out of your holster – I will fire your ass!“
Behind her back, Riker’s face was solemn as he nodded in rare agreement with Coffey. Mallory could not afford to learn every lesson by hard experience. She would not survive.
Coffey let his words settle in for a moment and then pressed on. „That stunt with the rat? That’s gonna come back on you. You don’t want the reputation of a gun-happy screwup. It makes other cops nervous. Those uniforms who watched the rat get shot? Now they’re gonna be watching you, Mallory – waiting for more evidence that you’re dangerously nuts. And then, one day, you’ll be in trouble. You’re gonna look around for backup from the uniforms – and they won’t be there.“
Fellow cops might hear her calls for help on the radios of a dozen police cars, but they would turn stone deaf and let her die alone – waiting for them.
„No cop will raise a gun to you,“ said Coffey. „They’ll sit back and let some perp do that part. But you’ll be just as dead.“
Welcome to the darker side of NYPD.
Mallory was angry now, taking this as a threat. And she was right about that. Coffey turned to his senior detective for another kind of backup.
Riker came at Mallory from behind as she was rising. His hands pressed on her shoulders to gently force her back down to the chair. „You’ll appreciate this, kid – since you’re such a fanatic about neatness.“ Head bent low, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. „Back when I was in uniform and a cop went down that way – we called it ‘good housekeeping.’“
Chapter 3
A white tie hung loose around Charles Butler’s open collar. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to the elbow, and his foot tapped in harmony with a Vivaldi mandolin concerto.
The kitchen was his favorite room, and today it fed all his senses. Sunlight brightened the yellow walls, set copper pots to gleaming and sparkled off chrome pans and spice jars. The air was ripe with the smell of fresh-baked bread slathered in garlic butter, and the aroma of roast turkey wafted up from the oven door. As Charles reached for the basting brush, he realized that his guest held an empty glass.
„Sorry, Nick.“ He searched the countertop, hunting for the recently uncorked wine amid the jumble of jars and plates, but the bottle was gone. Perhaps someone had taken it into the front room. He reached for another one from the case on the table.
„No need, Charles.“ The older man shook out a large dinner napkin, laid it on the chopping block, and as he delicately used two fingers to draw up the material, an open bottle of red wine materialized at the center of the wooden square.
Just like old times. Charles had been a small boy the last time Nick Prado came to dinner. Thirty years ago, this man’s hair had been lustrous black. Now it was a sparse iron gray. And his dark Spanish eyes had faded to an ordinary brown.
„When is Malakhai coming?“ Nick’s Latin accent was gone without a trace, and this was another disconcerting effect of time. The flavor was leaving every aspect of the man.
„Malakhai phoned his regrets.“ Charles filled two wineglasses. Though he towered over most people, it felt odd to be looking down at Nick, trading statures with the elder man who had once bowed his head to speak with a child-size Charles.
Nick turned to the wall rack of cooking utensils and admired his reflection in the chrome of a frying pan lid. Though he could well afford cosmetic dental work, he still had his natural teeth, evidenced by the gaps of receding gums and the yellow stains of a lifelong tobacco habit. Judging by the smile that showed every tooth to the frying pan lid, he must perceive his aged enamel as a sign of continuing virility, for despite the fading, the graying and the yellowing, this was still authentically Nick Prado in all his original parts. Apparently, the paunch at his belt line did not adversely affect this good opinion. He patted it now in a compliment to himself.
Another guest appeared in the kitchen, but only his head and a stretch of neck as he checked round the edge of the door to see that no one was there before he opened it wider. Franny Futura smiled, and his eyes became slits of gray, disappearing into the folds above them and the bags below. He stepped into the room and lightly tap-danced across the tiles, as if the floor might be hot. He was led to the oven by an upturned sniffing nose. „Oh, Charles, it smells wonderful.“ On a sadder note, he added, „We’re out of hors d’oeuvres again.“
The Frenchman spoke perfect English. And he was such a clean man, as if some insane housekeeper had been at him with an arsenal of solvents and powders, scrubbing his skin to a raw pink and scouring his dentures until they were too white to pass for the real thing.
Charles had met him only one week ago, but he guessed there had never been much of a chin to support Franny Futura’s face, and now the flesh fell past it to hang in a loose wattle. The slicked-back hair of his scalp was white, but his thick eyebrows had been made young again with black dye.
Franny stood at the kitchen counter, refilling his wineglass and carefully rolling the bottle to avoid spilling a single drop. „That lovely girl has disappeared.“
„Mallory?“ Charles dipped his basting brush in a pan of melted butter. „She’s probably in her office across the hall. She’ll be back.“
„An office across the hall?“ Nick Prado reluctantly turned away from his reflection. „But you said she was a real police detective. What’s she – “
„She’s a silent partner in my consulting firm.“ Of course, the word silent stood for covert. NYPD frowned on moonlighting and flatly forbade outside employment that required investigative skills.
„So, Charles, how does that work again?“ asked Nick. „This business of yours?“
„Well, institutes and universities send me people with interesting gifts. I evaluate them, and Mallory does all the computer work and background checks. She takes the raw data and – “
„Fascinating,“ said Nick.
But Charles could tell it was not at all interesting to either man. He was boring his guests. „Now Mallory’s regular job is miles more intriguing. She’s a – “
„Pretty girl, fabulous eyes,“ said Nick. „And that hair. I’ve always been partial to blondes. Is she married?“
„Oh, right, you old fool.“ Franny Futura grinned. „As if you had a shot.“
Charles hoped they would not speculate on his own chances with Mallory. He could imagine the sad shake of their heads as they estimated the great size of his nose in inverse proportion to his slim prospects. Not that he was overly sensitive about the large hook growing in the center of his face, but he was constantly aware of it.
No matter where he turned his eyes, there it was.
Nick Prado was uncorking another bottle. „So, why didn’t you introduce her last week? At Oliver’s funeral?“
„What?“ Charles turned away from the chore of basting. „I didn’t see her there.“ And since she had never met Oliver Tree, he had to wonder why she was there. „Are you sure it was Mallory?“
„Oh, yes. I saw her, too.“ Franny opened the door. „She was in the back of the crowd taking photographs.“
Nick picked up the wine bottle as he followed his friend out of the room, saying, „I wonder if she got any good pictures of me.“
When Charles had finished with the turkey and closed the oven, he glanced through the open doorway for a narrow view of the dining room. Mallory had returned. She was walking around the long table. He watched her resetting the plates and silverware with machine precision. If he took a ruler to the place settings, he knew they would be equidistant to within the smallest fraction of an inch. And all the knives, forks and spoons would make perfect right angles with the edges of the lace tablecloth.
Nick Prado approached Mallory, holding a full wineglass in each hand. He sucked in the paunch at his belt and vamped her with a slow smile, displaying all the gaps between his nicotine-stained teeth, no doubt believing that she would find this attractive, possibly seductive, for they were his own teeth, weren’t they?
Mallory accepted a glass of red wine, then resumed the chore of compulsive silverware straightening.
„May I call you Kathy?“ Nick was asking.
„No one calls me Kathy.“ Done with the silver, she turned her back on him and walked away, probably off to straighten the picture frames in the next room.
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