Shell Game

by Carol O’Connell

  Well, yes, of course. And it was going to cost him.

  She walked away from him, pausing by the curtain. There was reproach in that turned back and in her voice. „You knew that old man, Charles.“

  „Actually, I hadn’t seen him in a long – “

  „You knew him, and you liked him.“ Mallory turned around to show him how shocked she was, though her expression was somewhat contrived. „Oliver died all alone on that platform, scared out of his mind while he was being murdered.“

  Now Charles was in the odd position of being lectured on his lack of sensitivity, but – by Mallory} How to explain that unlikely event? Perhaps she did possess genuine human compassion.

  No, that’s not it.

  But he knew she had some agenda beyond correcting his imagined attitude problem, his lack of outraged indignation for an accidental death.

  She stalked off toward the steps leading down from the stage. „Oliver was murdered. So don’t talk to me about accidents, Charles. Don’t talk to me at all.“

  That sounded final – false, but final.

  The lines were drawn, and she had left him standing on the other side with Nick Prado. Riker was following his partner up the center aisle, distancing himself from the enemy camp.

  Only four hours had passed since they had parted company on the sidewalk outside the theater. Riker looked around the den of Mallory’s Upper West Side condo and wondered how she had pulled this off. It took most New Yorkers ten days to have a couch transported from a downtown furniture store to an uptown address. She had moved the contents of an entire room more than eighty blocks north of Charles Butler’s SoHo building.

  Mallory sat at a computer keyboard, fingers flying, tapping, typing. „Was I wrong about the grate?“

  „Yeah, I didn’t find any floor grates in the stiff’s apartment. But the marks on his back match up to a heat register in the theater. I found it after I pulled the crime scene tapes.“

  „Heller’s team missed that?“

  „They weren’t looking for it, Mallory. They didn’t undress the corpse at the crime scene. There was no – “

  „Right, nothing fancy for a dead junkie. Just another damn accident.“

  But the platform had been examined in great detail. Heller had come to the crime scene and personally supervised the crew. And this made Riker wonder what kind of dirt Mallory might have on the head of Forensics.

  He looked down at his notes. „The heat register was in a little room backstage. That’s probably where Richard was shooting up. There’s a lock on that door.“

  „A locked room wouldn’t be a problem for anybody on my short list,“ said Mallory. „Is that where Heller’s techs found the wallet?“

  „Yeah, but you were right about the money – no cab fare. He must have spent his wad on the heroin.“ Riker folded his notebook back into his breast pocket.

  There had been one bad moment upon walking into Mallory’s den. It went beyond deja vu. But for the view of Central Park, he might have been standing in her private office back at Charles’s place in SoHo. She had even re-created the alignment of the computer terminals at perfect right angles to the windows. The one bare wall was a moving projection of larger than life-size spectators at the Thanksgiving Day parade.

  „That’s film from the six o’clock news,“ she said. „Some tourist sold his videotape to the network.“

  Why couldn’t Mallory just watch the news on television like a normal person? He stood before the wall, looking up at the projected image. The camera was focused on a rocky knoll in Central Park. The outcrop loomed behind the low wall along the sidewalk. The volume was turned down, but he could still hear the broadcaster’s interview with the amateur cameraman, a sixty-year-old tourist from Rhode Island.

  Eyes on the knoll, Riker waited to see what would happen next. And now there was a white puff of smoke among the shadows of trees and rocks.

  A gunshot?

  Yes, the broadcaster was confirming that the timing of the white smoke was in perfect sync with the sound of a gun. And now the television voice was lamenting that the network’s weapons expert, a writer of technothrillers, could not be reached for comment. The shot from the rocky knoll would kill the novelist’s carefully diagrammed trajectory. Mallory could not have fired the bullet that brought down the balloon.

  „So, you’re off the hook for shooting the big puppy.“

  „Not yet.“ She depressed a button on the projector’s remote control. The tape ran backward until the white puff of smoke had uncreated itself and sipped back into the shadows of rocks and trees. „They still claim there were three shots. So now I’m part of a conspiracy. I’m also a suspect in the death of Crossbow Man and Oliver Tree.“

  „Well, let Slope release the autopsy findings. Why sit on it now? We already gave it away to Prado.“

  Mallory reran the tape and froze the image on the wall. She was staring at the still shot of a cloud of smoke. She pointed to the rocky knoll. „Guess who that is.“

  Riker walked closer to the wall. „Too grainy. I can’t make out a thing.“ He looked around the room one more time. „When did you have time to move all this stuff out of SoHo?“

  „I hired a crew of art handlers. They’re very careful with sensitive equipment.“

  And they probably would not recognize its illicit uses and applications. The most delicate electronic lockpicks were in the carton Riker had carried up from the trunk of her car.

  He settled into a cold metal chair. „How did Charles take it when you told him you were moving all your stuff out?“

  „There’s only one way to take it. The partnership is over. He’s too careless with the locks.“

  Or perhaps Charles had not been careful enough in picking his friends. One of these crimes had been the deciding factor. „So you didn’t tell Charles you were leaving.“

  No, of course not. She had left the poor bastard to walk innocently into an empty room and figure it out for himself. „I guess you don’t need Max Candle’s platform anymore?“

  Mallory pointed to the small screen of a computer. It scrolled columns of numbers and symbols glowing white on a field of blue. „It’s all in there – the whole apparatus.“

  He picked up the green velvet bag from the edge of her steel desk and slipped out the rod of dangling key plugs. „I can see why the old guys kept these things.“

  „Now do you believe the keys were switched?“

  „Yeah, but I still got a few problems with your theory. What about that line you handed me at the parade? ‘My perp loves spectacle.’ That’s what you said.“

  „And you figured I was just spinning a story? No, I only lied to Coffey.“ It was clear that she considered that an honorable lie, only doing what was expected of her. „I know what you’re thinking. It’s a matter of style. Oliver died screaming, lots of noise and flash. But the gunshot at the parade was real straightforward, wasn’t it? Quick and to the point. The shooter only wanted to get it over with. The victim would never know what happened to him.“ Mallory turned to the image on the wall, the puff of smoke. „That’s Malakhai up there on the rocks.“ She switched it off.

  „And the Central Park murder?“

  „I like Nick Prado for that one. A public relations man makes spectacles for a living. But I’m keeping my options open.“ Now she revolved on her chair, turning to study his face. „Someone locked me in that platform. Do you believe me?“

  Riker knew that she was really asking if he was on her side. „Yeah. If it was just the locked door or the bulb by itself – but I’m not a big believer in coincidence. I figure one of those things had to be deliberate.“

  „The door was deliberate.“ She pulled a clear bag from her knapsack and tossed it on the desk. Inside were five shiny nails. „Those came from the plastic sheet over that backstage window. They didn’t fall out by themselves. He wanted to make it look accidental, like the wind blew the door shut. And the dead bulb was deliberate, too.“

  „Mallory, Ch
arles showed you the bulb. You heard – “

  „Charles knows as much about electricity as you do.“ She turned on her desk lamp. „Keep your eye on that lightbulb.“ She bent down toward the socket.

  Riker was watching the lamp when he saw the spark and heard the noise, and then the bulb went dead. Mallory removed it from the socket. When she shook it, he could hear the filament against the glass.

  „I shorted it out with this.“ She held up a metal nail file. „The cable for the platform lamps was on an independent fuse. That’s why only one light went out. If Faustine’s Magic Theater had been an exact replica, I could’ve shown you a burnt-out fuse, but Oliver upgraded to switches.“

  Riker sat down on the edge of her desk and folded his arms. „So you like Nick Prado for that setup?“

  „Maybe. I’m guessing Futura was in the men’s room throwing up when you and Charles got back to the theater. But that could’ve been an act.“

  „I didn’t see him around. But I don’t think Futura could do anything that – “

  „Because he’s a rabbit? He’s more interesting than you know. He was in the Resistance during the war. That doesn’t fit either, does it? He stays on the list. So where were the other two when you walked in?“

  „Prado and St. John were in the lobby. We kibitzed for a few minutes before me and Charles went inside the theater.“

  „Could’ve been any one of them. Somebody wanted to restore my faith in accidents. Or maybe he just wanted to make me look hysterical. That worked on Charles, didn’t it? He bought the whole thing.“

  Poor Charles. But she had a good point. In the early days as a beat cop handling domestic disputes, Riker had noticed that men relied heavily on the hysterical-woman defense: Who could take the word of a bloodied woman who could not stop crying?

  So someone had come up with a novel variation on a bad old game, and Charles had fallen for it. Riker could think of a few more reasons for the breakup of Mallory’s business relationship – Charles Butler’s big brain, his giveaway face and proximity to all the suspects. She had been wise to distance herself, but she should have done it the right way.

  „I almost forgot.“ He pulled a CD from the pocket of his suitcoat and set it on the corner of her desk. „A present. Louisa’s Concerto. Emile St. John wanted you to have it.“

  She opened the case and slipped the disk into a computer slot. A full orchestra poured out of amplifiers in every wall. He was surrounded by musical instruments, a wall of sound. It was classical, not his taste, and he listened with the confusion of trying to sort out an alien language.

  „Pretty, I guess. But you know what your old man would say? What good is it if you can’t dance to it?“

  That had been his old friend’s criterion for all the music in an extensive collection of blues, jazz and rock ‘n’ roll. Even the slow, sad tunes did something to the human body. But now the dead woman’s music was touching him in other ways. Suddenly, it had his complete attention, as if the strings and horns were speaking to him in a more familiar language. This passage had a sad, lonely feeling.

  The phone rang. Riker’s hand hovered over the receiver while he read the printed line on the caller-ID machine. „It’s Charles.“

  „Don’t answer it.“

  „You’re gonna let him sit around staring at the walls in your empty office till he figures out where things went wrong? Is that the plan?“

  „Yeah, so?“

  „He’s a friend of yours, remember? And your old man liked him, too.“

  Louisa’s Concerto was plaintive now, lending melancholy to the ring of the telephone, backing it up with the low octaves of a sad, sorry horn. And now Riker was surprised. While the concerto affected Mallory not at all, the telephone made her inexplicably sad. Her head moved slowly from side to side, as if she could shake off the blues this way.

  Riker’s solution was to turn up the volume of the music and avert his eyes from the phone. „So if Charles isn’t on your side all the way down the line – “

  „Riker, save it, okay?“

  When the phone ceased to ring, he looked at it, as if a conversation had ended abruptly, with no satisfying resolution.

  Mallory switched on the answering machine so the ringing would not disturb her again.

  „Did you leave the guy a note?“

  „No!“ Mallory’s eyes were fixed on the computer screen. Her face was masklike as she merged with her machine.

  Realizing that he did not exist anymore, not for her, Riker quietly let himself out.

  An hour had passed before Mallory looked up from the computer screen. Where she had been all that time, she did not know. Her internal clock had failed her again. This was happening more often. Perhaps it was only an effect of Emile St. John’s wine.

  She had finished cannibalizing files from a computer game of sudden death by joystick. It contained all the lines of programming to fire the onscreen crossbows.

  The phone rang twice, and then she listened to Charles’s voice on the answering machine. „Mallory? Are you there?“

  Not really. She was intent on the screen where her creation came alive, numbers and symbols translating into an image that revolved in space like a three-dimensional object, showing her all its sides, then upending itself to expose the base. She switched on the projector at the other end of a flat feed cable. Now the image was cast on the wall. The platform continued to turn in slow revolutions.

  „Mallory, please pick up if you’re there,“ said the disembodied voice on the phone.

  She tapped the keys to make the staircase wall transparent, disclosing the interior mechanisms of the lazy tongs and the levers.

  „I’ll change all the locks,“ said Charles.

  She diddled the keys again and again. One trapdoor dropped down into the platform. The lazy tongs slowly emerged, opening the metal arms, spreading them wide to support the cape.

  „Will you call me back?“ There was not much hope in Charles’s request. „You are planning to explain this, right?“

  Wrong. Mallory fired off four animated crossbows. One by one, they hit the target. And now she extended the time between the shots.

  „We should talk.“ Charles was showing some wear in his voice. „This is – well, it’s cold.“

  You think I’m a monster.

  „No, I didn’t mean it that way,“ said Charles, as if he could hear her thoughts. „When I walked into that empty office – I was so surprised.“

  She set off another round of graphic arrows.

  „Goodbye, Mallory.“

  The high-tech toy was boring her. Charles had been right about one thing. A simple escape routine was too simplistic for a Max Candle illusion. Where was the magic? The collapsing cape was only a taste, a teaser.

  „Of course, I didn’t mean goodbye in any permanent sense,“ said the persistent voice on her machine.

  Where was the magic?

  „I only meant goodbye for now.“ Charles paused. „So – “

  There must be more to it. She killed the platform animation and cued up the tape of Oliver’s murder. The old man was back on the wall, dying again.

  „So, you’ll call?“

  Yeah, sure.

  Max Candle always died. He was not supposed to escape all the arrows.

  „Goodbye,“ said Charles.

  But all the crossbows had fired, and there was not a fake arrow in the pack.

  „For now,“ Charles amended himself.

  She stared at the wall where Oliver was being shot to death. If the trick was incomplete, how could Malakhai know it was botched?

  Another hour had been lost inside the machine, perfecting her own illusion. The door buzzer called her out of a trance of codes and numbers.

  Charles? It had to be. Frank the doorman liked him. On her last birthday, he had allowed Charles into the building unannounced, so she could be surprised with flowers. And of course there had been a generous tip. Had she punished the doorman for that? No, it must have slipped her
mind.

  Five minutes later, the incessant buzz was getting on her nerves, and she really wanted to hurt Frank for failing to announce a visitor. She left the den and walked down the hallway, irate and laying plans to verbally gut the doorman so this would never happen again. But right this minute, she was going to cut Charles dead with a few terse remarks so she could get back to work.

  When Mallory opened the door, Rabbi Kaplan was standing in the corridor. Oh, fine. Now what would she do with all this excess adrenaline?

  „It’s late,“ said the rabbi. „I won’t come in. This shouldn’t take very long.“

  His face was not committed to any particular expression, and she had no idea how much trouble she might be in.

  „It’s about what happened yesterday,“ he said. „Mr. Halpern tells me you took time out of your busy day to yell at his only son.“

  The rabbi’s hand went up to silence her before she could interrupt. „I understand you accused the poor man of parental abuse. When the son came home that night, Mr. Halpern spent hours reassuring him, telling him he was not really a – what did you call him? A heartless little bastard.“

  „I didn’t – “

  „Excuse me, Kathy. Was I finished talking? I don’t think so.“

  He smiled, and now Mallory was on guard.

  „Well, the son fired his own father.“ Rabbi Kaplan undid the latches on his briefcase. „Mr. Halpern wanted you to know that he had finally retired. That’s all, Kathy.“

  No way.

  The rabbi was only lulling her into a false idea of escape. He would follow up with a killer punch line. Once, he had been wickedly good at this game. Now he was becoming predictable.

  „I’m not buying it, Rabbi. You could’ve phoned in that lecture.“

  „But not this.“ He extracted a small, flat package from his briefcase and looked down at it for a moment. „It seems that no one ever apologized to Mr. Halpern for the inconvenience of being put in a concentration camp – for the murders of his parents, his entire family. He was charmed by your apology for the paint gun man.“ Rabbi Kaplan held out the package. „This is a gift for you. He worked on it all day.“

  She unwrapped the package and held up a framed portrait in colored pencil. A schoolgirl’s face floated in loose waves of long red hair. Faraway blue eyes were deep in thought, as if the girl were working on a great problem – how to survive in hell.