by Barbara Paul
Holland thought a moment. “If you’re thinking he’s casting a lustful eye on young Bobby Galloway, forget that. It would be far too dangerous. Seducing the son of a client? He’s not going to run a risk like that. He’ll stick to boys who don’t know his name.”
“I know. Dammit.”
“You don’t have a real suspect, do you? What’s the attorney’s name?”
“Bradford Ushton. Jim Murtaugh knows him.”
“Cozier and cozier. Did Fairchild know who Ushton was when he hung that picture?”
“That’s one of the things we’ll find out today.”
“The answer you’ll get will be no, I’ll wager. Notice how Fairchild keeps popping up all the time? And always he’s pure as the driven snow. He’s the one who discovers the cleaning woman spying. When the kidnapping fails, he’s right there at his sister’s side. After the firebombing, he’s the one who provides Rita and Bobby with a home. He’s the one who hangs a picture in public exposing Ushton’s perversion. But is he involved? Oh, no. Mr. Innocence himself.”
Marian smiled. “You just don’t like him. There’s nothing in any of that to make him a suspect.”
“Has he made a move on you yet?”
“He asked me out to lunch, if that counts as making a move.”
“Did you go?”
The question annoyed her. “No, I did not. Holland, stop this. You’re making Fairchild into a rival when he isn’t one.”
He was silent a moment. “Yes, I am making him important, aren’t I? But I can’t pretend indifference when I see him trying to move in on me. Ah … that came out sounding more territorial than I intended. But don’t expect me to remain detached when another man shows interest in you. I won’t even try.”
She looked at the grim set of his jaw and decided this conversation was going nowhere. “Oh well,” she said with mock regret. “He probably doesn’t wear black silk briefs anyway.”
Holland stared at her—and then burst out laughing. The awkward moment passed.
It was almost one before Marian heard from Perlmutter. She and Holland were having lunch at an outdoor café near Lincoln Center when her pager went off. She called in from the table.
“We’re not having much luck tracing Nick Atlay’s known associates, Lieutenant. But we finally found an old con named Lippy Sarkoff who’s seen him once since they both got out. And Lippy says Atlay was working as a janitor.”
“Aha. Does he know where?”
“No, but he said Atlay was running errands for one of the tenants.”
Marian sat up straight. “Find that building, Perlmutter. Residential or office?”
“Lippy didn’t know. But he did give us a few leads, people Atlay mentioned. We’re going to look for them now.”
“This Lippy is very helpful. Sure you can believe him?”
“Oh yeah. Lippy’s one of those old criminals trying to go straight because they’re scared to death of the new breed of younger prisoners we’re sending up—you know, the punks who’ll stick a knife in you if they don’t like the way you look at them. Lippy’ll do anything to stay out of prison. Even tell the cops the truth. What about Walker and Dowd? They get anything?”
She told him about Julia Ortega and that she’d worked for a detective named Hector Vargas. “Vargas is in Atlantic City today, working a case. So right now Walker and Dowd are talking to Ortega’s neighbors and friends to see if she told anyone about the case she was on.”
“How’d they find out about Atlantic City?”
“Mrs. Vargas. His office was still locked up when they checked this morning, so they went to his home address. Back to Lippy a minute. Is he the only one you’ve found who’s seen Nick Atlay lately? The only one?”
“Afraid so. It’s June, the weather’s nice, no one’s staying inside if they don’t have to. We got some repeat calls to make.”
“Find that building,” Marian said and broke the connection.
Holland was looking at her quizzically. “‘Lippy’?”
“Good name for a snitch, don’t you think?”
They spent the next couple of hours wandering, not fully relaxed because of Marian’s mood of anxious expectancy. At any moment her pager could go off; which of her three lines of investigation would bear fruit first?
Eventually the park beckoned. They stopped to watch a man with a camcorder taping the impromptu performance of a street mime. The camcorder man was more entertaining than the mime; he was constantly on the move, always looking for a better angle, hunkering down and shooting upward, climbing onto a bench and shooting downward, thrusting the lens up close in the performer’s face, then backing rapidly away for a long shot. After a few minutes of this, the mime began to get a little disconcerted. Other people watching yelled at the camcorder man to knock it off.
“Too bad,” said Holland. “I don’t like mimes. I was cheering for the man with the camcorder.”
“You don’t like mimes? Why not?”
“Oh, they play at being coy and wistful, but that’s only to put you off guard so they can slip in a zinger. Mimes like to embarrass people.”
“This one didn’t.”
“Only because that budding film director over there never gave him a chance. Perhaps I should pick up a camcorder,” Holland added as they strolled away.
“What for?”
“For when we’re old and jaded. Taking dirty pictures of ourselves might spice things up.”
“Uh-huh. Well, let’s just hold off on that for a while, if you don’t mind.”
They walked a little more … and then Marian suddenly stopped. “Holland. I’m just too fidgety for a stroll in the park.”
He wasn’t happy about it, but he understood. “I’ll drive you to the station.”
It took them twenty minutes to get back to where he’d left his car, and it was after four by the time they pulled up in front of the Midtown South station on West Thirty-fifth. Someone else had had the fidgets as well: Captain Murtaugh was just getting out of his car.
“Jim?” Marian said. “You didn’t need to come in.”
“I know,” he answered. “But I wanted to be here if something breaks.”
She smiled. “And Edie is still out of town.”
“That too.” He looked at the other man. “Holland.”
“Murtaugh.”
A silence developed; the chill between the two men was too strong to pretend it wasn’t there. Marian was annoyed; the two most important men in her life, and they couldn’t get along. But she knew whose fault that was. She turned to Holland and said, “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
He spread his hands. “In that case, I’ll put a candle in the window.” He looked at Murtaugh and his voice took on a taunting tone. “You will let her out eventually, won’t you, Captain?”
“She can let herself out.” Murtaugh turned and strode into the stationhouse.
Marian waited until he was out of hearing and said, “What is it with you two? And what was that crap about letting me out?”
He sighed. “That’s exactly what it was. Crap. I can’t seem to avoid locking antlers with that man every time I see him.”
“Well, that’s a great pity, because he’s a big part of my life. And you’re not helping any by sniping at him.”
“I did not snipe.”
“Only because he walked away before you could start. And I don’t like the idea of being, well, let out—as if I were some sort of pet that needs looking after. You can get pretty damned possessive at times, Holland.”
“Have I ever really ‘possessed’ you?”
“We’ll talk about this later.” She went into the station-house, leaving his question unanswered.
14
It was Campos who broke his case first.
Bradford Ushton, highly respected attorney and child molester, had followed a ten-year-old boy into the men’s room of a movie house. When the two detectives tailing him saw him go into a children’s Saturday matinee, they’d split up.
One sat three rows behind Ushton in a theater full of noisy, popcorn-munching kids. The other went into the men’s room and stood on the toilet seat in one of the booths; anyone checking for feet under the closed doors would not know he was there.
He hadn’t had to stand there long; Ushton had simply followed the first boy who’d needed to pee. The detective watched over the top of the booth as Ushton had petted and sweet-talked the boy, offering to let him play with the latest electronic gadgets geared to the under-twelve set. Ushton had promised to have the kid back in time for the next showing of the movie.
That alone would have been enough to nail him for solicitation, but Sergeant Campos had said to get as much on the attorney as possible without endangering the child; Campos wanted to hit this guy with every law in the book. So the detectives had followed the man and the boy, on foot, to a nearby apartment building. Ushton and his new young friend had gone in the back way, so the boy wouldn’t see the street address prominently displayed on the front of the building. None of the mailboxes in the lobby had Ushton’s name on it; the cops had described Ushton to other residents until one of them identified him as the man in 410. Instead of crashing in, they’d gone outside and climbed the fire escape. Through a window they saw Ushton taking off the boy’s T-shirt. Then they went crashing in.
“We’ve got him cold,” Campos told Marian and Captain Murtaugh. “You should see that place. One-room apartment, within walking distance of several different movie houses. He kept it just for a place to take the boys. Packed with stuff for kids—video games, action figures, like that. In case they needed persuading. And the old fool took pictures. Look at this.” Campos fanned out a stack of Polaroid shots on Marian’s desk, all of naked boys. “He kept those displayed on a big bulletin board. I guess he figured if a new boy saw other boys undressed, he wouldn’t think it was so weird.”
“Where’s the boy he picked up today?” Murtaugh asked.
“I had a bluesuit drive him home and explain to the parents what happened. The kid still don’t understand what was going on.” Campos grinned crookedly. “Those parents are gonna get a real talking-to. The bluesuit was pissed that the kid didn’t know no better than to go with Ushton. He kept saying the parents shoulda taught him better, they shoulda warned him.”
“Perhaps they did,” Marian said mildly. “Kids don’t always listen. Where’s Ushton now?”
“Interrogation room. Waiting for a lawyer he called. I was hoping the old buzzard would represent himself, but he’s too shrewd for that.”
“I want to talk to him,” Murtaugh said. “Has he been charged yet?”
“Yeah, he’s been charged.”
Campos and Marian went to the small room on the other side of the interrogation room and watched through the oneway glass. Ushton sat with his hands folded on the table in front of him, face impassive, aware that he was being watched.
But when the door opened and Murtaugh stepped in, his face showed something like relief. “Jim! Will you be handling this … misunderstanding?”
“Is that what it is, Brad?” Murtaugh asked tonelessly. “A misunderstanding?”
On the other side of the glass, Campos said, “Jesus Christ! They’re friends? You shoulda told me, Lieutenant.”
“No need,” Marian replied. “The captain didn’t want us to go easy on this guy. What he wanted was exactly what you gave him—an open-and-shut case.”
In the interrogation room, Ushton was saying he’d make no statement until he had legal representation. Murtaugh waved that aside and said, “I’m here to tell you something, not ask questions. And what I’m telling you is this: cooperate. Give the investigating officers answers to all the questions they ask and it will go easier for you. Admit what you’ve done, face up to it, and ask for help. And that piece of obvious advice is all the help you’re going to get from me. In fact, I’m going to ask the DA’s office to oppose bail at your hearing. You’re a menace, Ushton, and you ought to be locked away where you can’t hurt any more little boys.”
“I never hurt them! I—” He clamped his mouth shut and would say no more. Murtaugh looked at him in disgust and left.
A little over an hour later they gathered downstairs in the briefing room, the only closed room in the stationhouse that could hold more than four people comfortably. Marian’s two teams of detectives had come in; and the captain was still there.
Marian said, “Campos and his team are interrogating Bradford Ushton, and they’re under strict orders to make no mention of the Galloway case or the two homicides connected with it. They’re not even to hint at murder. So when Campos is through and Ushton thinks he’s finished for the day—that’s when we move in. His attorney will scream and holler, but there’s not a damned thing he can do about it.”
Walker asked, “Do we have anything linking him to the murders?”
“No, but he won’t know that. So far his only connection is that he’s Hugh Galloway’s attorney.”
Dowd said, “He was after the Galloway boy. What more do you need?”
“We need a lot more,” Marian said emphatically. “It’s a flimsy connection at best. But I don’t see any other suspects standing around, do you?”
Murtaugh grunted. “See if you can get him to talk about Bobby Galloway. He might let something slip.” The others nodded.
“All right,” Marian said. “That’s what’s going to happen next. Let’s hear what you found today. Walker, you first.”
Walker looked unhappy. “We struck out, Lieutenant. Julia Ortega just didn’t talk about her work. We spoke to everyone we could find who knew her, but we’re going to have to wait until tomorrow when Hector Vargas gets back from Atlantic City.”
“What about Mrs. Vargas?”
Walker shook his head. “No help.”
Dowd laughed shortly. “She didn’t know nuttin’ about nuttin’. She was saying what her husband told her to say if anyone ever showed up asking questions.”
“Huh. Well, don’t push her. See Vargas as soon as he gets back. Now, what about Nick Atlay? Perlmutter?”
He cleared his throat, prefatory to giving a negative report. “We couldn’t find the building where Atlay worked as a janitor. We did find someone who knew Atlay’s job was in an office building and not a residential one. But we have a few more leads we can follow tomorrow.”
Marian spread her hands. “That’s it? Why is this so difficult?”
“Couple of things, Lieutenant,” Perlmutter said. “Atlay was a loner. There was no one he was close to. Not by choice, I’m guessing. But he just didn’t have friends. Everyone looked upon him as part of the background, not as a person worth paying attention to. He was slow and didn’t understand a lot and people got impatient trying to talk to him.”
“Yeah,” O’Toole agreed. “They talked about him like he was a piece of furniture.”
“And that’s what caused the second problem,” Perlmutter went on. “We’d ask about Nick Atlay, they wouldn’t know who we meant. Almost nobody knew his last name. We didn’t get anywhere until we started asking about ‘Nickie’—that’s the only name they knew him by.”
“How’d you find that out?”
Perlmutter grinned. “Lippy Sarkoff. I told you he’d tell us the truth.”
“Well, good for Lippy.” She frowned. “There was something else—”
O’Toole said, “You wanted us to ask Rita Galloway whether her brother knew Bradford Ushton or not. She says they never met.”
Marian was doubtful. “But surely he knew who he was. From court—the Galloway divorce hearing.”
“We asked her about that. It was settled in the judge’s chambers, only the two Galloways and their attorneys present. It wasn’t a real hearing, anyway—that comes, er, next year?”
“Whenever Bobby is old enough to start regular school.” Marian looked at Murtaugh. “No blackmail … since Fairchild didn’t know whose picture he was taking in that men’s room.” The captain shrugged; it was a long shot.
“Anything else?” Marian asked the room at large. “Okay, then, grab a bite to eat while you can. We’re in for a long siege.”
A long and fruitless siege, she should have said. Captain Murtaugh left around nine o’clock, when it became clear that they were going to get nothing from Ushton. When Ushton understood that he was being questioned about murder, he became in turn appalled, angry, indignant, and frightened. Even when they reached the fear stage, he had nothing to tell them.
Marian called it quits. They were all tired and were getting nowhere fast. She’d just about convinced herself they were on a wild-goose chase anyway when Walker came to her and helped her decide.
“No motive,” he said. “He’s not interested in Bobby Galloway. Not that way. We asked him about Bobby. He said, ‘He’ll be a lovely boy in a few more years.’”
“And that’s not interested?”
“Not now. ‘He’ll be a lovely boy in a few more years.’ Bobby’s too young for his tastes, Lieutenant. Ushton likes ’em around ten, eleven. All the boys he took pictures of are about that age. There’s no picture of a boy as young as Bobby.”
Marian looked at him tiredly; she should have thought of that herself. “You’re right.” She’d known it all along: Ushton wasn’t their killer. She’d been clutching at straws when she ordered his interrogation. “Good work, Walker, getting him to tell you that.”
He grinned wryly. “It was Dowd he told. He directed all his answers to my partner. Ushton didn’t like being questioned by me.” Walker was the only black man on the team.
She told him to go home and get some sleep. Marian was discouraged. They were right back where they’d started, with no suspect. She wondered if there was anything to be gained from a talk with old Walter Galloway at a time when Hugh was not around. Not tomorrow, though; wait until next week when Hugh would be in the office.
It was almost one when she finally unlocked the door to Holland’s apartment. And found the place dark. A wave of disappointment swept over her, followed by a flash of irritation. And then she was ashamed of herself; she hadn’t realized until that moment how much she counted on Holland’s making himself available whenever she wanted him. Something to think about.