Her eyes were scrunched shut. Please, please, please.
Stella’s white blouse and skirt had been washed and ironed twice, yet she could detect the smell of a thrift shop in the material. It was the odor of failure. Her head was bowed and her shoulders slumped in a loser’s posture. But that was about to change.
When she had finished her ritual prayer words over the cash machine, it disgorged all the manna she needed to replace the ruined audition suit. Her first thought was that this was her rent money, that the Abandoned Stellas had made an early deposit to her checking account. Her second thought was that there was a god of cash machines, and he loved theater folk.
She ran to the end of the block and joined a herd of shoppers gathered outside the department store, all awaiting the early-bird sale. Stella had her battle plan ready. The doors opened, and the chase was on. She sped past older women in support hose, descended the stairs to the basement level, then charged toward the back wall where the suits were hanging. If the clothes fit, if the producer liked what he saw—her entire life would change. Her future might be literally hanging on the rack before her eyes, and she was rushing toward it.
And then she stopped.
Damn—another New York moment.
A lumpy woman with brown hair and gray roots pulled the only blue suit from the group of size eights. Stella watched, dumbfounded, as the middle-aged shopper popped a button trying to close the blazer over her bulging stomach. Oh, and now the evil bitch had left a smudge of makeup on one sleeve.
Stella was distracted by the sight of her own face in a mirror on the nearby wall. Without intending to, she had slipped under the skin of the aging brunette, imitating the scowl, the narrowed mean little eyes, and the absence of a soul.
The older woman gave up the attempt to shoehorn her body into the suit jacket, and she stormed away with heavy footfalls. Stella retrieved the fallen button and collected her prize from the floor where it had been dropped, but not, Thank you, God, trod upon. She checked the label. It belonged to a designer she had actually heard of. The price had been slashed in half, another divine act, or, as the Abandoned Stellas would say, Jesus saves.
She glanced at her watch. It was late, but she would make the audition if she hurried, if the line at the cashier was not too long, if the trains were not late. She was still chaining her conditions of success when she ran into the fitting room, where she stripped, tried on the suit and pronounced it a perfect fit.
Stella slung her old skirt over one arm as she walked toward the cashier’s counter. Miraculously, there was no one on line. This afforded her the luxury of a few minutes of preening before a three-sided looking glass, admiring herself from every angle. The makeup stain was invisible as long as she kept her right hand by her side. And there was more than enough time to sew on a button during the subway ride. For a whole year, she had carried a small traveler’s sewing kit in every purse she owned, just waiting for a day like today, when her life might hang upon a button.
She was knocked into the mirror by a hard slam to her back. Stella sucked in her breath, then braced both hands on the glass. In one of the three reflecting panels, she saw a man standing behind her, breaking the rules, for all New York collisions were hit-and-run affairs. Everyone else in the crowd was in motion, hustling from rack to rack, flinging clothes and hangers. Only this man was absolutely still, and he only had eyes for Stella.
14
The man in the department store mirror was obviously another fan of daytime soap operas. Stella smiled at his reflection.
Yes, it’s me.
He did not acknowledge her smile, nor did he make eye contact like any normal person. The man stared at her as if she were an object all of one piece and without eyes of her own to see him. She stiffened her body, imitating his posture, then focused on her own reflection and watched her eyes go cold and colder. Her mouth became a simple line, committed to no expression. And now she had his likeness inside and out. There was no one home inside of her anymore—just a little graveyard dust.
The man did not seem to appreciate or even notice her artful portrayal of him. Beneath the brim of a baseball cap, his face was unchanged, frozen, one inanimate object facing another—herself. Pushing the likeness just a bit further, Stella’s eyes had gone entirely dead, and she became—
The audition!
She was going to be late.
Stella broke off this eerie connection to glance at her watch. When she looked up again, she saw the reflection of his baseball cap just visible above the heads of female shoppers as he moved backward, blending into the crowd, a player doing his walk-on in reverse.
Mesmerized, Stella did not move until he was out of sight. Again, she looked at her watch. More time had passed than she would have believed possible. Other customers were moving toward the cash registers. She ran full out to beat a slow-moving elderly woman to the check-out counter. Hunched over, neck and neck with the stooped, white-haired shopper, Stella unconsciously mirrored the sudden alarm in her opponent’s eyes. The old woman put on some speed toward the end, then gave up the footrace to youth; panting and wheezing, support hose bagging at the ankles, the loser stood in line behind the grinning actress.
When it was Stella’s turn to be waited on, her mouth dipped down on one side, copying the face before her, and she also assumed the overly efficient air of the salesclerk. “I’m in a big hurry. Just cut the tags. I’ll wear it.” Stella pushed her old skirt across the counter. “And bag this, okay?”
“Suit yourself.” The clerk’s voice was the monotone of a telephone company recording. “No returns on sales.”
Stella held out one pale blue sleeve so the other woman could snip off the price tags. “You be careful with those scissors, all right?”
The clerk’s voice betrayed a sudden annoyance. “Like I said, lady—no returns.” Not quite so efficient anymore, the woman allowed Stella’s arm to hang in the air. Taking her own maddening time to put the blond actress in her place, the clerk picked up the old skirt twixt thumb and forefinger, then held it at the distance of a bad smell before dropping it into a bag. Finally, she reached for her scissors and slowly cut the tag strings from Stella’s sleeve. The cashier glanced at the mirror behind the line of customers, saying, “You know this jacket is damaged, right? Stained?”
Oh, the makeup smudge.
“No problem. I can get that out.”
“Yeah, sure you can.” The clerk watched the blonde walk away with a black X scrawled on the back of the new suit. Then she turned a merciless eye on the next customer in line, an elderly woman slowly approaching the counter. “Move it, lady!”
Lieutenant Coffey watched the last actress leave the squad room in company with two detectives, the number of men it took to escort a pretty woman downstairs. The deputy commissioner’s son-in-law passed them at the stairwell door, and now he walked toward the private office.
So Mallory and Riker had managed to lose Deluthe again.
While the lieutenant checked his list of blondes for the second day of interviews, the younger man stood at a respectful distance and waited to be acknowledged. Coffey liked the deference to rank, but he had his doubts that this youngster was going to make it as a detective.
“I thought you were watching Lars Geldorf.”
“He’s staying home today. I’m looking for Sergeant Riker.”
“He’ll be here in half an hour.” Coffey held up a tabloid with the headline: ACTRESS STABBED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT. “Okay, kid, make yourself useful.” He pointed to the handwritten notes and a telephone number scrawled across the top of the front page. “This midtown precinct never called back with a name on the actress. Find out who she is, then check the interview list. If we haven’t talked to her, get her down here today.”
“Yes, sir.” Paper in hand, Deluthe swooped down on the nearest vacant desk and picked up the phone.
Jack Coffey had only a few minutes to settle in behind his desk before the rookie rapped on the frame of his open off
ice door. The lieutenant waved him inside. “What’ve you got, kid?”
“The actress is Stella Small. I talked to a police aide, Eve Forelli. She says it was just a publicity stunt.”
The lieutenant nodded toward the tabloid in the younger man’s hand. “Did you read that article?”
“No, sir. I thought you wanted—”
“Read it. You’ll find the first mention of blood in the opening paragraph. It’s a puddle on a hotel carpet.” He leaned over the desk and ripped the paper from Deluthe’s hand, then pointed to the photograph of an unconscious woman. “Oh, and the dark stain on her sleeve? That’s blood too.” He slammed the newspaper down on his desk blotter, yet his voice remained calm. “In my experience, very few actresses ever mutilate themselves for a mention in the tabloids.” And now he stopped, for it was not his job to train the rookie from Lieutenant Loman’s squad. “At least you got her name. That’s something.” He consulted his list of blond interview subjects and found Stella Small among them. “Her agent set up an interview, but Small was a no-show. Apparently this woman doesn’t watch the news or read the papers. Find her.”
“The police aide already took her statement,” said Deluthe. “The actress told her she had a street altercation with a tourist. You see, the guy hit this woman with his camera, and she needed a few stitches. That’s it. So then her agent shows up at the hospital and gets the idea to make the wound a little more newsworthy. That’s when it turned into a stabbing.”
“A police aide did the interview? A civilian? Well, that’s just great.” He tossed the newspaper to the rookie. “Get a copy of that statement from Midtown, and get that actress down here.”
“But it’s just—”
“Busywork? Most of my damn day is busywork. I’m one goddamn busy man. Now, can you handle this or not?” What he had really wanted to ask Deluthe was why the man dyed his hair. And of all the colors in the world, why choose glow-in-the-dark yellow?
Detective Janos stood at the front of the squad room and addressed the rest of the men. “We got a thirty-second spot on the morning news and a full minute on radio. We might get lucky with the tip lines.” He held up the newspaper page that listed the dates and locations of open casting calls. “And there’s two auditions today. We got twenty minutes to make the one on—”
“Hey!” Detective Desoto, who sorted the tip-line calls, yelled, “Listen up! A woman with an X on her back just passed the corner of Sixtieth and Lex. I got a guy calling from a pay phone. He says she was headed for the subway. She’s got blond hair, and she’s wearing a light-blue suit.”
“A suit,” said Riker. “I’ll bet she’s on her way to the midtown audition.”
“It’s on the West Side.” Janos was heading for the door, issuing orders on the run. “Get a unit over there. She’ll make the crossover over at Forty-second Street.”
“Maybe not.” Arthur Wang grabbed his gun from a desk drawer. “If she sees that X on her back, she might pack it in. I know my wife would—”
“Subway!” yelled Janos.
Every man but Deluthe was up and running. Sergeant Riker stopped to tap his shoulder, saying, “You’re with us, kid.”
And they were off. Lieutenant Coffey’s busywork errand was forgotten as Deluthe fell in with the gang of running detectives heading downstairs for the cars. One by one, the unmarked vehicles raced their engines. Mobile turret lights were slapped onto the roofs as they sped down Houston, zooming toward the West Side Highway.
Heading uptown.
What a ride!
The police cars were strung out in a wedge, forcing cabs to dodge and weave, and terrifying the amateur drivers. Five sirens screamed, and bull horns shouted, “Outta the way! Move it! Move it!” Every cross-town light was magically green until the convoy pulled to the curb in front of the Forty-second Street station.
The men left their cars at a dead run, hustling down the subway stairs in close formation, flying through the long tunnel, leather slapping cement, adrenaline rushing, hearts on fire, finally emerging in the shuttle bay.
Full stop.
Something’s wrong.
There were too many people milling around at this time of the morning.
Three detectives climbed up on a bank of concrete and scanned the heads of waiting straphangers, looking for the blonde with an X on her back. Six men circled around to the other side of the track to search the rest of the crowd, then returned, heads shaking.
The woman was not there.
The surrounding passengers had the makings of a mob, feet stamping, voices rising, tempers close to exploding in the hot muggy air around the shuttle bay. Most had wandered away from the track, but hopefuls still stood on the edge, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel with a New Yorker’s certain knowledge that watchers, not switchmen, made the trains come.
The crowd was still growing, not conversing but growling, voices rumbling in one sentiment, Death to all transit workers—kill them all. Here and there, a passenger went off like a firecracker, screaming obscenities. It could only be a matter of minutes before the first punch was thrown. This vast space would become a bloodbath from wall to wall.
Near the police booth, a band of musicians were unpacking instruments and plugging in amplifiers. This was the city’s emergency response to impending violence among disgruntled subway riders.
Janos folded his cell phone. “We got uniforms at the exits. No sign of her yet.”
Detective Desoto had disappeared into the mob, and now he was running back to them. “The good news? A suicide. A jumper got himself smeared across the tracks. All these people are from the rush-hour crowd. That’s how long they’ve been waiting.”
“And now the bad news,” said Riker.
“They just finished cleaning up all the blood and guts. The shuttles are on the way. We’re gonna lose the whole crowd in five minutes flat.”
Deluthe understood this worst-case scenario. What were the odds that any of these stressed-out citizens would miss a ride out of hell to talk to a cop? “Can’t we just stop the trains?”
Desoto gave him a look that asked, What hick town are you from? “Maybe you didn’t hear me, kid. The last guy who stopped the trains is dead.”
“We got five minutes,” said Riker. “Deluthe, you work the passengers near the track. Hit on the women. Men are useless. They only see breasts, not backs. The rest of you guys are with me.”
The detectives moved in tandem, walking toward the small band of musicians. Their body language changed as they drew closer to the light Latin tempo intended to soothe ugly tempers with the soft strings of a guitar and a bass—and a drummer with nothing to do.
While Deluthe was taking statements of “I didn’t see nobody” and “I don’t know nothin’,” Riker was taking a guitar away from one of the teenage musicians.
Deluthe watched the action through breaks in the crowd near the track. The senior detective’s hand flew up and down the neck of an electric guitar, playing riffs of rock ’n’ roll, and he was good—damn good. The younger passengers were drifting toward the music, fingers snapping, heads bobbing to the beat—reborn.
The musicians were playing backup as Riker was gliding and sliding, strings zinging, the crowd cheering. He ripped out notes in a one-handed frenzy as he rolled the other hand toward the band to jump up the tempo. The bassman’s fingers moved faster and faster. The drummer went insane with his sticks, smashing cymbals and beating on skins.
Janos pulled a woman from the crowd, and now they were gyrating, twirling, and writhing. Other detectives grabbed strange females, danced them ragged and discarded them quickly. All the people were in motion; the place was rocking, cooking, jumping. The beat vibrated across the concrete and came up through the soles of Ronald Deluthe’s shoes.
The crowd formed a ring around Riker, hands clapping, whistling high and shrill. Janos swung a new partner around, then lifted her high off the floor and let her go—airborne. She squealed with delight when he caught her. Riker ripped out anoth
er riff, and the crowd went wild. A shower of coins chimed into an open guitar case, and the band went demonic, pushing the tempo, faster, harder, louder. The trains came; the people stayed—stoned on music. The detectives changed partners and fired questions, never losing the beat.
Two hands shot up with high signs.
Finale.
Riker made a cutthroat gesture to the band, and the music died suddenly, as if a door had closed upon it.
And the world stopped moving.
The musical detective wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a deep bow to thunderous hand clapping. He turned to Janos, hollering to be heard above the racket, “What’ve you got?”
“A woman spotted the X. Our blonde didn’t cross over.
She stayed on the downtown Lexington line, and she was crying.”
“She’s going home,” yelled Desoto. “Yesterday another woman saw a blonde with an X on her shirt. Now here’s where it gets a little weird. She was fighting off a gang of dead flies in the station at Astor Place, and that’s where she got off the train.”
Deluthe moved against the flow of boarding passengers and fought his way out of the mob in time to see the squad of detectives flying into the pedestrian tunnel. When he emerged from the subway at street level, the other men were piling into their vehicles. The caravan drove off, sirens squealing, red lights spinning. And the young policeman was left standing alone on the sidewalk, breathless, as if he had also danced to the music of Sergeant Riker’s band.
15
The blinking light on the answering machine was pulsating to the beat of a human heart—Stella’s. The message could only be from the police. They would want to know why she had blown off her appointment at the SoHo station, and she had also missed the morning tryout for a play. Her agent had given her one last chance to redeem herself, a late evening audition, and it was not the standard cattle call. This time, she would be one of four actresses up for the part.
Crime School Page 24