“I don’t know all the details,” said Heller. “But neither did Markowitz. It wasn’t his crime scene. He only got a quick look at the room and the body, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Damn strange way to kill somebody.”
Heller would never back anyone in a lie. No one on the force had stronger credibility. And so Lieutenant Coffey’s eyes rolled up, as if his concession speech might be written on the ceiling. “Mallory, I wanna see that Cold Case file. Until I do, your hooker isn’t draining resources from Special Crimes. You got that?” He was walking toward the door as he said, “You can use that man Lieutenant Loman gave you, but that’s all—”
“Two men,” said Mallory. “Loman promised two.”
Jack Coffey was close to joy when he turned on her. “Oh, did he? Well, I guess the bastard scammed you. He only came across with one detective—half a detective. The guy’s a whiteshield, no experience. And here’s the best part, Mallory—it’s the same idiot who resuscitated the corpse. So Loman’s squad gets rid of a half-dead hooker and a screwup cop. What a deal, huh?”
Score one for the boss.
Riker was almost happy for the man. Jack Coffey needed these small victories to keep him going. Over time, the lieutenant had learned the value of a hit-and-run game. And now that he had scored, he slammed the door on his way out.
Heller knelt on the floor to close the snaps of his toolbox, then glanced up at Riker. “Markowitz never told you about that hanging, did he? Naw, he’d never give up details from another cop’s crime scene. That’s a religion in my job, too. I was the only one he could talk to.” Heller aimed his thumb at Mallory. “And Markowitz never told her a damn thing. She was only thirteen years old. The way I remember it, we caught her listening at the door.”
Riker stubbed out his cigarette. “What else can you tell me?”
“The woman’s hands were bound. Rope or tape—I’m not sure.” Heller stood up and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “So that knocked out murder dressed up as suicide. And Markowitz said the perp must’ve planned it. He brought his own rope to the party—just like your guy. But why plan a hanging?” The criminalist grabbed his suit jacket from the back of a chair, and only now did he notice that, despite the sweltering heat of the basement, Riker was the only one not stripped to shirtsleeves.
Before Riker could check the movement, his hand touched the button that kept his jacket closed. “What about money? Lou always loved money motives.”
“No,” said Heller. “On his own time, he looked into that and came up dry. He didn’t see any sex angles either.”
“And the victim didn’t step off a piece of furniture,” said Mallory. “The noose was around her neck when the perp raised her from the floor—just like Sparrow.”
“But there was no fire,” said Heller. “No candles, no jar of flies.” He made this sound like an accusation against her. “And there wasn’t any hair in the victim’s mouth. Your old man never mentioned any of that.”
Riker jammed his hands in his pockets. “Mallory, why did you have to elaborate so much? You told Coffey the hair was—”
“It’s not a problem,” she said. “Without a name or a case number, no one can find the file. We don’t even have a date.”
“She’s right,” said Heller. “That case was years old when Markowitz told me about it. It bothered him for a long time. Too many things didn’t fit.” He shrugged. “That’s all I remember.”
The door opened, and a technician from Crime Scene Unit entered the room to pick up an armload of canisters. Heller grabbed two evidence bags and followed his man outside to the waiting van.
Riker took one last look at the departing bag of ashes and unburned fragments. He could see the charred spines of magazines, yet some miracle had preserved the brittle tinder of an old paperback novel. It had not even been scorched when he had retrieved it from the water. He could feel the wetness on his skin under the pressure of his holster’s strap.
Mallory was attracted to the damp spot spreading across the breast of his suit. Her gaze dropped lower. “I bet you never used that button before.”
True, he never bothered to close his jacket, but on any other night, there would be nothing to conceal.
You spooky kid. Always picking up on the oddest things.
Mallory met his eyes, and her gaze was steady. She was clearly waiting for him to say more.
To confess?
Damn her, she knew he had robbed the crime scene. But she could not pose a direct question. A cop could never ask a partner, Did you break the law?
Riker went out in search of a cold beer, and Mallory stayed behind to double-check Heller’s work. On the subject of forced entry, she deferred to no one. There were no recent scratches on the outside of the lock. Even after dismantling the mechanism, she could find no sign of a metal pick.
Sparrow, why did you let the hangman in?
The prostitute had been good at reading men and sorting out the mental cases. It was unlikely that the collector of dead flies had been her customer; he would never have gotten past her radar—unless she had been dope sick and desperate. Then she would have opened the door to any drug dealer, however squirrelly. But Dr. Slope had found no signs of recent addiction, and there were no syringes listed on the evidence log.
The junkie hooker had always been careful to keep a supply of clean ones. In what had passed for a childhood, Kathy Mallory had stolen boxes of needles from a local clinic—presents for Sparrow, a little girl’s idea of payments for shelter from the streets.
One hand drifted down to a tear in the couch cushion and touched a hard lump. Heller’s crew had missed something. Her fingers dug into the upholstery and pulled out an ivory comb with delicate prongs. Sparrow had always worn it in her hair. The oriental carving was elaborate, unforgettable. This was the only thing of value that the whore had not sold for drug money. The antique comb had been stolen long ago to buy the first story hour. The whore had laid her present down with a sigh, saying, “Baby, you don’t have to pay for stories. They’re free.”
No. Young Kathy had shaken her head to tell the woman that she was wrong. And the child’s logic had been indisputable: All hookers would be beggars if this were true; their lies would be worthless—if this were true. But then, Sparrow had never understood precisely what the little girl was buying.
How long had they kept company—and why?
Mallory’s early history on the streets was not linear, but called up in shattering events remembered out of order. And now her memories were so distant, they could be twisted any way she liked. She decided that, at best, Sparrow had been merely a bad copy of a dead mother.
A whore and nothing more.
She had not recognized the prostitute’s new face at the crime scene. On the way to the hospital, Riker had broken the news, and he had done it so gently, as if the victim were a family member—and not the dangerous debris of the past. But soon enough, Sparrow would be dead, and only Riker would know the story, but he could never tell it.
Mallory’s hand closed over the comb. It had not been dropped through the tear in the couch cushion, but buried there. So Sparrow had had some time to hide it, but when? While the hangman was knocking at the door? Perhaps he was already inside when she pushed her precious comb deep into the upholstery so it could not be stolen. Had there been time for conversation? Had Sparrow tried to talk him out of killing her?
She stared at the bedsheet covering the broken glass. Why had the man risked burning the window shade before he made his escape?
You wanted a big audience for your work—not just the cops—civilians too. Fame? That’s what you want? Yes, he had even left an autograph, a signature of dead flies.
The door opened. Mallory rose to a stand, then whirled around to face Gary Zappata. The rookie fireman stood on the threshold. His sleeveless T-shirt and chinos were a size too small, the better to show off his gym-sculpted torso. His dark hair was slicked back, still wet from a shower, and he stank of cologne.
“This is a crime scene, Zappata. Did you forget the rules?” She nodded toward the door in lieu of saying, Get the hell out.
“Hey, I’m here to help.” He shut the door, then sauntered into the room. There was arrogance in his smile and his every move. “So, Detective . . .” One hand waved about, feigning frustration, as if her name might be difficult to remember. “How’s it going?”
“I’m working here. What do you want?”
He hooked both thumbs in his belt loops and strolled over to the couch. “Just tying up loose ends.”
“Zappata, don’t waste my time. If you’ve got something—let’s hear it.”
That made him petulant, but he forced a smile. She was forgiven. “I can help you, babe. I know things about that fire. For instance, the candles had nothing to do with it.”
“Great tip. Thanks for stopping by.” Mallory turned her back on him to study the blackened wall of the burn area. After a moment, she glanced over one shoulder with a look that asked, Still here?
The fireman ignored this blatant dismissal and flopped down on the couch. “The guy’s not a pro.” He draped one leg over the upholstered arm—just to let her know that he planned to stay awhile. “A real arsonist would’ve made a fuse to the door. You know, when a blaze gets hot enough, the air can ignite.”
“Did you learn that in fire school?”
He disliked this reminder that he was new at his trade. Even when he had been a cop, his police career had not lasted long enough to lose the rookie status. “Listen, Mallory.” This was an order. “The guy’s an amateur at homicide too. These freaks always stick with what worked in the past. So this is definitely our perp’s first try at murder. ’Cause of the botched fire.”
Our perp?
Mallory looked up to the window, attracted by the silhouette of a man pacing across the makeshift curtain. His hat had the crown of a uniformed officer. Riker must have requested a guard for the crime scene. Bad move. This un-approved use of manpower would not sit well with Lieutenant Coffey.
Zappata left the couch to hover over the wet pile of flashy silks and rayon. He picked up the sparkling costume that Riker had so admired. “I wonder what the hooker looked like in this.”
“Drop it!” Mallory strode across the room, aiming herself at the man, planning to walk over him or through him. He backstepped to the door, clutching the costume to his breast in a lame attempt to hide behind a swatch of sequins and fairy wings.
“Don’t touch her things!” She ripped the garment away from him and shouted, “Get out!”
His hand was on the knob when he noticed the guard’s shadow rushing across the bedsheet curtain. And now there were footfalls on the cement steps leading down to the basement door.
The fireman was as nervous as a schoolgirl afraid of losing her reputation. He puffed out his chest and summoned up a bit of bravado.
The cop outside was coming closer.
Zappata opened the door, yelling, “I’m done here, you bitch!” He stomped out of the apartment, as if this were his own idea.
Mallory wondered if the fire department knew that their rookie was a physical coward. But he was forgotten when she looked down at the ivory comb in her hand.
Sparrow, how did the hangman get in? Did he bring you presents, too?
Sergeant Riker could smell the apartment-house odors of meals cooked and eaten hours ago. His stomach rumbled as he stepped off the elevator.
The landlord’s floor was divided in two. On one side was Charles Butler’s apartment, and across the hall was a consulting firm of elite headhunters. And here Kathy Mallory broke the law in her off-duty hours, investigating the deluded, the grifters and other poseurs to weed them from a clientele of wildly gifted and generally unstable job candidates for think tanks. Riker called them Martians.
Lieutenant Coffey had given her a direct order to dissolve this business partnership, and tonight, Riker had his first glimpse of Mallory’s response, an elegant solution. She had nailed a new brass plaque on the old familiar door. Once, this had been the entrance to Butler and Mallory, Ltd. Now it was called Butler and Company. She had become a silent partner.
Attracted by the aroma of a recent meal, the detective strolled across the hall to the private residence. His nose for fast food told him it was Chinese take-out. Before he could knock, the door opened, and he was looking up—and up—at Charles Butler.
The man was at least a head taller than most of the world, and his nose was also above average, a wonderful hook that could perch a pigeon. His heavy-lidded eyes bulged, and the small blue irises were surrounded by vast areas of white, giving Charles a startled look that he shared with frogs and frightened horses. From the neck down, Mother Nature had gotten it right—better than that in Riker’s estimation, for the body was well made, aiming for the angels in form and power.
“Riker, hello!” When Charles Butler smiled, he took on the aspect of a lunatic, but such a charming loon. Over the past forty years of his life, he had learned to be self-conscious about this idiosyncrasy. The line of his mouth waffled with embarrassment, apologizing for every happy expression.
“Hey, how are ya?” Riker noted his friend’s rare departure from Savile Row suits. The denim shirt screamed of money; nothing off the rack could fit so well. And apparently Mallory had introduced Charles to a tailor shop that customized her own blue jeans. The two of them were still struggling with the concept of casual dress.
“I hear you’re on summer vacation.”
“Yes, Mallory’s idea.” Charles pushed a curling strand of light brown hair away from his eyes. He was always forgetting appointments with his barber. “No more clients until the fall.” And now the man looked worried. “She’s all right, isn’t she? You didn’t come by to—”
“Oh, no. She’s fine. I should’ve called. Sorry.” And Riker’s regret was genuine, for Charles must have thought that he was here to break the news of Mallory’s premature death. “It’s late. I should leave.”
“Nonsense, I’m glad you stopped by.” Charles stood back and ushered his guest inside. “I was only worried because we had dinner reservations, but she wasn’t home when I—”
“She never called to cancel? I’ll rag her about it.” And that neatly explained the reek of Chinese take-out in the home of a gourmet cook. Riker passed through the foyer, then paused a few steps into the front room. “She rewired your stereo, didn’t she?”
“How did you—”
“I’m a detective.” Perfection was Mallory’s signature, and it was writ in what could not be seen. She had made the machinery, its wires and speakers invisible. And the sound was remarkably well balanced, creating the illusion of an orchestra at the center of Riker’s brain. The concerto was bright and hopeful, a portrait of Charles Butler in strings and flutes.
There were never any CDs lying about in Mallory’s personal car, and he sometimes wondered if she ever listened to music, perhaps something metallic with New Age clicks and whirs.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a beer.” Riker sprawled on the sofa while Charles crossed the formal dining room, heading for the kitchen.
Though the detective had been in this apartment many times, he scrutinized the room of paneled walls and antiques. Books and journals were piled on all the tables and chairs, the sign of a man with too much free time. Riker found what he had been looking for—food, a bowl of cashews partially hidden under a newspaper, and he had devoured all of them before Charles returned with two beers foaming in frosted glass. Any man who kept his beer steins in the freezer was Riker’s friend for life.
“I have to tell, you—” As the detective accepted his beer, he spied a fortune cookie on a small table next to the sofa. “This isn’t exactly a social call.” He grabbed the cookie, then remembered his manners and asked, “You mind?”
“It’s yours.” Charles settled into an armchair. “What can I do for you?”
Riker unbuttoned his suit jacket and pulled o
ut the stolen waterlogged paperback. “Can you fix this?”
Charles stared at the soggy cover illustration of cowboys and blazing six-guns—so far removed from his own taste in literature. His face expressed some polite equivalent of Oh, shit, as he attempted a lame smile. “I think so. It might take me awhile.”
“I got time.” Riker cracked his cookie open. His printed fortune fell out. He watched this sliver of paper drop to the floor and let it lie there, for he was that rare individual who ate the cookies for their own sake. And now he looked around for another.
Charles excused himself for a few minutes, then came back with a sandwich wrapped in a napkin, and Riker happily traded his wet book for the roast beef on rye. A moment later, his happiness was destroyed. The paperback lay open in the other man’s hands, and the detective could see a piece of paper stuck to the back cover. If he had not been so tired and hungry, he would have thought to leaf through the book before handing it over. “What’s that?”
“A receipt.” Charles gently peeled up the paper. “From Warwick’s Used Books. Odd. I thought I knew every bookshop in Manhattan.” He closed the old novel and stared at the lurid cover. “So this is rather important to you.” He was too well bred to ask why in God’s name this might be true.
“Yeah, you can’t get ’em anymore. That western went out of print forty years ago. It’s the last novel Jake Swain ever wrote.” Riker wolfed down his sandwich, then drained the beer stein, stalling for time, for the right words. Sheriff Peety rides again. What was the other character’s name? He had blocked it out of his mind long ago and hoped it would remain forgotten.
“I’ll have to get started before this dries out.” Charles rose to his feet, and Riker followed him into the next room. The library walls were fifteen-feet-high and covered with a mosaic of leather bindings. A narrow door set into one bookcase opened onto a small boxy room. Glue pots and rolls of tape, brushes, tweezers, and spools of thread lay on a long work table where the bibliophile repaired the spines and pages of his collection. Charles swept aside volumes with gold-leaf decoration to make room for a paperback that had cost fifty cents in the year it was published.
Crime School Page 4