The Man Who Lied To Women

by Carol O’Connell

‘So you said. Hush. Listen.’

  The volume was set too high. When the music rose up in a tidal wall, the large room was dwarfed by it, too small to contain it. Charles lowered the volume to a normal setting, but the concerto was undiminished, Louisa’s raw talent defying laws of physics to increase the power of her music in the lower registers of sound. This was truly magic.

  And now Charles was lost again in childhood memories of Louisa in the blue dress with the red stains. The bloodstain turned his thoughts back to Amanda Bosch and the events of last night. Louisa and Amanda became entangled in his mind. Out of old childhood habit, his eyes closed as the music rolled over him, for Louisa was always created in darkness.

  Justin’s stepmother had described the music well. It was haunted. Someone did move through the music, and in the empty space – this time she was crying.

  Before the music could swell up again on the other side of the void, he opened his eyes and looked down at the boy, who was doubled over. Justin’s hands were pressed to his ears.

  What do you hear in the void, Justin?

  And now Charles was also frightened.

  Amanda Bosch was standing over the boy.

  She was rounded out in all three dimensions of his self-induced delusion, wearing the bloodstain on her brown blazer and the wound at the side of her head. She was reaching down to the boy curled at her feet.

  Charles’s hand flashed out to knock the needle off the track. The record made a screeching noise as the needle tore across its surface, ripping the vinyl skin and ending its song.

  Amanda was gone.

  Well, if it isn’t the homicide dick to the rich and famous.

  Riker grinned when he saw Detective Palanski, a beanpole in a black leather jacket and dark glasses. Palanski must think he was a damn movie star, wearing his shades indoors. The detective was sticking his pointy finger in the face of Martin, a uniformed officer with orders to keep everyone away from Jack Coffey’s office.

  Well, no hotshot from the West Side was gonna take that from a uniform, said the jabbing finger in Patrolman Martin’s face.

  It didn’t register with Palanski that Martin was a decade younger, more athletic, that he was squaring off, planting his feet like a boxer, not liking the finger in his face, not liking it at all. The young patrolman was holding his own bit of turf with a confidence lent him by Jack Coffey, who was in the habit of backing up his people. To his credit, Coffey had even backed Mallory when she was dead wrong.

  Riker walked up to the duel of ‘I outrank you’ versus ‘I don’t give a shit’. He tapped Martin on the arm and nodded him away. Martin backed off to the door of Coffey’s office and folded his arms. Palanski turned on Riker with the wrath of an unnaturally tall nine-year-old. ‘My captain wants to know why your lieutenant is keeping this homicide case – the stiff in the park. You got no officer involvement.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Riker, pulling out a cigarette and searching from pocket to pocket for matches.

  Could Palanski have gotten wind of the Coventry Arms angle? Yeah, that was it. Now that the case was high profile, he wanted it back to cover ass on the botched job at the crime scene. There was no other explanation for a cop asking for more work when there was no shortage of dead bodies and open cases.

  ‘The stiff wasn’t Mallory,’ said Palanski. ‘I know that much.’

  ‘But you didn’t know it when you rolled the body.’ Riker lit his cigarette and let the barb sink in. He knew it had to be Palanski who leaked the premature identification to the press. Information was currency in New York City, and he figured Palanski was too ambitious and on the edge of dirty, if not gone over. He dressed too well for a cop supporting a wife, an ex-wife and two kids. Riker only supported the bottle, and he could not afford the pricey salon where Palanski had his hair, not cut please, but styled.

  ‘So, Palanski, if you thought it was Mallory, maybe the perp did too.’

  Palanski lowered his sunglasses and leaned into Riker’s space. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Riker. I’m not buying it.’

  And wasn’t it just a little strange that Palanski had been the first one on the scene when Amanda Bosch was found? A quick check of rosters had confirmed that the man was off duty that morning. Palanski must believe that uptown territory of wealth and fame was his own private preserve.

  ‘I could have Mallory talk to you if you like,’ said Riker, smiling amiably at this man whom he loathed.

  ‘No, I don’t – ’

  ‘No problem. It’s her case. You just tell her why you want to take it away from her.’

  ‘Listen up, Riker, I don’t – ’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the devil in drag. Here she comes now.’

  Palanski’s eyes did a little dance, and his head snapped around to see what might be coming up behind him. Mallory was indeed walking toward them and growing larger in the reflection of Palanski’s dark glasses. In place of her sheepskin jacket, a long black coat whipped around her heels. And, Riker noted, she was wearing her formal-wear black running shoes today.

  What had Mallory done to Palanski? He must ask her sometime.

  She was still advancing on them.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Palanski, turning back to Riker. ‘I’ll tell my captain you think it’s tied to one of your operations. He’ll buy that.’

  And Palanski had managed to get all of that out as Mallory came abreast of them and stalked past with only a nod to Riker, leaving behind a suggestion of $80-an-ounce perfume. Palanski’s head swiveled after her. When Mallory was four steps beyond them and her back safely turned, Palanski made the sign of the cross to ward off evil which could not be killed by bullets.

  Mallory stopped suddenly, as though this little act of heresy had been spoken aloud. She turned on one heel to face the man down, and Palanski’s finger froze at the last station of the cross.

  Riker shook his head slowly. He had known Mallory for so long, and he knew her not at all. In her kiddy days, Markowitz had once described her as a short witch with the eyes of a mob hit man. All these years later, she still had the eyes of a killer. Innocent men, Jack Coffey among them, had stared into those eyes and thrown up their hands in surrender, assuming there must be a gun.

  She only stared at Palanski for a moment before turning around and walking on, but his face paled as though she had found a way to suck the blood out of him without the necessity of sinking in her teeth.

  Riker looked down at his own spread hand and wondered if a drink might stop that tremor.

  Jack Coffey sat back and counted noses. Mallory was her punctual self, not a second before, nor a second after the hour, and Dr John J. Hafner was late.

  ‘What have you got, Mallory?’

  ‘Harry Kipling lied on his credit application at the bank. He’s trying to get credit in his own name. The banks keep turning him down because he keeps lying.’

  ‘Everybody lies to banks. That’s penny ante. What else have you got?’

  ‘He lies on his tax returns. He files as an individual, and not with his wife. IRS nailed him for an unreported income last year. And he has a growing stash of capital in a foreign bank.’

  Coffey covered his face with one hand. ‘I hope we’re doing the background checks quietly?’ Translation – You steal the information, right? You never talk with humans, only machines, right?

  ‘Yeah, real quiet.’

  He had to wonder whose computer she was accessing now. Had she found the back door to Internal Revenue? He would never ask. It might come in handy one day. The ghost of Markowitz was laughing at him as he framed this thought. Wasn’t corruption just awfully damned easy when Mallory was involved?

  ‘And the other suspects? What’ve you got now? Four altogether?’

  ‘I’m down to maybe three. My perp is tall. Harry Kipling is six-one.’

  ‘I’m afraid to ask how tall the judge is.’

  ‘Six-three, and he’s in the running.’

  ‘If you screw up with Judge Heart
, you’re going to be lying under an avalanche of influence and called-in favors, you know that. What have you got on him?’

  ‘He beats his wife.’

  ‘Oh, great, just great. The President’s hand-picked champion of women’s rights. Shoot me, Mallory, shoot me now.’

  ‘Fits well, doesn’t it?’

  ‘If I may interject?’ Dr Hafner, the NYPD psychologist and the mayor’s golf buddy, walked into the office with no knock and no apologies for the lateness.

  Coffey glanced up at Hafner, who went everywhere in the same insipid smile that said, I have all the answers and you don’t.

  ‘A wife beater fits this case better than you know,’ said Hafner, unbuttoning his suit jacket and pulling on the legs of his pants, a prelude to sitting down without creasing his expensive suit. The tailoring and material were rivaled only by Mallory’s long coat and blazer.

  Hafner’s glasses were sliding down his nose; they always did that. Hafner was always pushing them up, always picking imaginary lint from his clothing and tapping his feet. And Coffey was always resisting the urge to lean across the desk and swat the man each time he had to suffer one of these appointments.

  How was he going to keep Hafner from annoying Mallory? How to get Mallory to play nice as long as the mayor’s close friend was in the same room.

  ‘The judge is a Supreme Court candidate,’ said Coffey, smiling pleasantly. ‘I don’t want him to fit.’

  You useless, pompous little twit.

  Hafner adjusted his glasses. ‘You will note that Amanda Bosch carried no purse, no wallet. I don’t think it was stolen from the body. I’ve looked at the inventory of the apartment. Her credit cards and driver’s license were lying loose in a drawer, and she had no purses whatever. Women usually own a number of purses, one for dress one for – ’

  ‘Get to the point,’ said Mallory. It was an order.

  Hafner pushed his glasses up, and the constant smile was even more patronizing, as though he thought this was an unruly child he was dealing with. ‘This lack of a purse is significant in the interpersonal dynamics of the relationship. People who don’t carry identification on their persons lack identities of their own. A woman of low self-esteem would gravitate toward a man who was habitually abusive to women.’

  ‘According to Mrs Farrow,’ said Mallory, leaning in for the first shot, ‘Bosch stopped carrying a purse after she was mugged three years ago. The robbery report is on the record. I sent it to you with all the rest of the paperwork. Do you read the reports we send you? And there are lots of women who prefer pockets to purses.’

  Coffey watched Hafner’s eyes drop down to note that Mallory did not carry a purse. Now Hafner was scrutinizing her face, evaluating Mallory like a specimen. His eyes were gleaming, as though he had discovered a unique life form. He had.

  ‘Dr Hafner,’ said Coffey in his best damage-control tone, ‘do you think he’s likely to kill again?’

  ‘Oh, definitely. He may have killed many times. We don’t know that this is his first murder. I don’t think he’ll be able to stop himself.’

  Coffey was thinking, Bullshit, and Mallory’s eyes were framing stronger language.

  ‘Go on, Dr Hafner,’ said Coffey.

  You idiot, personal friend of the mayor or no.

  ‘The immaculate condition of the apartment is an example of ritualistic, compulsive behavior, the ultimate cleansing. Such compulsively neat individuals always have severe personality disorders.’

  Coffey concentrated on Mallory. Her lips parted. For her, this was tantamount to an emotional outburst. And now he wondered what Hafner would make of Mallory’s compulsively neat and well-ordered environs. The computer room was spotless and kept that way by a civilian keystroker who feared for his life if dust should settle on the computer equipment.

  ‘So you think our man would fit the profile of a serial killer,’ said Coffey.

  ‘Highly probable. And I would be very interested in the formative years of all the suspects.’ Hafner was staring at Mallory as he said this. ‘Was there trauma? Abuse? Abandonment? Maybe a history as a runaway.’

  Coffey sat back and studied Hafner. The man was just too damn fascinated by Mallory, openly examining her face as though gauging the effect of every word on her.

  Hafner pushed his glasses up again. ‘The cleansing ritual may go hand in glove with compulsive punctuality.’

  Coffey leaned forward.

  Punctuality‘? Where was that coming from?

  Perhaps Hafner had seen Mallory’s computer room after all, and more. Hafner could have accessed Mallory’s psych evaluation, which had been mandatory following the discharge of a weapon in the line of duty. This was not about the suspect. This pumped-up twit thought he was going to play with Mallory, to bait her like a lab animal.

  Coffey looked to Mallory’s face, and he could see that everywhere he had gone with this idea, she had been there before him. Coffey sat well back in his chair and well out of the loop. Let the twit fend for himself. Whatever she did to Hafner, he had it coming. He communicated all this to her with the slight inclination of his head.

  Sick him, Mallory.

  ‘Perhaps a visual aid would be useful,’ she said, her voice assuming the soft, deceptive notes of a civilized member of society.

  Coffey watched her gun slide easily from the shoulder holster, and then he ceased to see it in the lacuna which was part of the cop’s blue wall of silence. He was blind to the gun – no, the damn cannon – not a police-issue revolver, but something that made substantially bigger holes.

  ‘Listen, fool,’ said Mallory, bringing her chair closer to Hafner’s, closing for the kill, and not a neat kill either. The gun that Coffey could no longer see was in her hand. ‘This was a spontaneous act,’ she said in even syllables. ‘The weapon was a rock. You had that information.’

  She raised the gun, touched the metal with one long red fingernail, and the revolving chamber swung out of the armature. Her voice rolled on in velvet octaves which contrasted sharply with the deadly thing in her hands.

  Hafner was a study in rigidity. A black fly whined past his head. He seemed not to notice. The glasses slid down his nose. He did not correct them.

  ‘He didn’t bring a weapon to the crime site,’ said Mallory. ‘He didn’t plan to kill Bosch that morning. When he did kill her, he panicked and ran. It took him more than thirty minutes to get his nerve back. You would have known that if you’d read the ME note on the body being moved.’

  She emptied the bullets into her lap, and then inserted one bullet back into the gun and swung the chamber into place with a click.

  The fly landed on Hafner’s cheek. He never moved to swat it, he never moved at all.

  She smiled.

  Coffey was fascinated by Hafner’s new role as Mallory’s mouse.

  The fly whined off and landed on the wall beside Hafner’s head.

  ‘I figure he was more your type, Hafner – comfortable in a controlled situation. Prone to panic when things got out of his control. Like when he used that rock.’

  She pointed the gun at the fly crawling about on the wall; the barrel was aiming over the bridge of Hafner’s nose.

  She fired.

  Hafner jerked backward. The click of the empty chamber had the effect of an exploded bomb. A wet stain was spreading out from his crotch. It took seconds for the man to adjust to the fact that he had not been hit and need not fall down, that he had merely wet his pants.

  The fly was gone.

  Coffey stared at the bare wall with wonder. Had the fly winged away, or was it lying at the baseboard, dead of a heart attack?

  She dangled the gun for a moment and slowly brought it back to rest in her lap, the barrel carelessly pointing toward the sweating man in the chair close to hers.

  Coffey could hear the man breathing. The glasses, greased with sweat, slid further down Hafner’s nose, off his face and landed on the floor at his feet.

  ‘He didn’t stalk her – he knew her well,’
said Mallory. ‘That’s why he came back to destroy her fingers, her prints. He figured it would buy him the time he needed to clean the apartment, to get rid of his own prints. A learning disabled twelve-year-old could have worked that one out.’

  She leaned forward now, holding the gun casually, her arms propped on her knees. Her gun seemed only incidentally pointing toward the doctor’s crotch.

  ‘You’re an inept jerk, aren’t you, Hafner?’ She was nodding her head slowly, and he mimicked the motion, nodding his own head in agreement. His eyes twitched back and forth between her face and her gun.

  ‘And you’re not going to submit a bill for this crap, are you?’ She shook her head slowly from side to side, and in this way, she worked Hafner’s head in the same motion.

  ‘Good. You can go now.’

  Hafner never moved or blinked.

  ‘Thank you for coming by, Dr Hafner,’ said Coffey in the manner of a wake-up call, rising, dismissing the mayor’s close personal friend. He was averting his eyes from the dark stain on Hafner’s trousers. He was not seeing the gun, which he had never seen, sliding back into the holster.

  Now Coffey was smiling at Hafner’s back. Mallory was going to get clean away with this. What were the odds that Hafner would ever tell anyone she had made him pee in his pants?

  The man was not quite out of the door when Mallory was rising to her feet saying, ‘I’m getting my own shrink. The department’s paying for it with what I just saved you on that idiot.’

  ‘Sit down. I’m not done with you yet.’ Before she could give him any grief, Coffey said, ‘I don’t care what kind of a busy day you have planned. Sit!’

  She sat.

  He had learned a lot from Riker. Anything passing for a polite request would have been considered a sign of weakness.

  ‘Let’s start with the cap gun Heller found in the trash. If it’s tied to the perp, then he might have premeditated the act. It’s possible he used it to threaten her into a private location to kill her.’

  ‘It was a – ’

  ‘Shut up, Mallory. You only take the bits and pieces that support your pet theory. You can’t know for a fact that he didn’t plan to kill her. The real facts are barer bones.’