A VOICE.
“I think I see something.”
I thought I did, too. To be more specific, a voidlike awareness thought so, too. There was no I. The void was comprised of black splinters in a black space. Fission lines. Cracks in blackness. But not inert. They were in frantic motion, ripping trails across the blackness like the crescent tails of dying stars. Reverberating at the edges of the void was the suggestion of things familiar. Familiar and also vital. But out there. Inside out. Awareness sizzled faintly off along the horizons, far from where it belonged.
“I thought his eyes were opening. I guess it was just a flicker.”
More cracks were appearing in the void, multiplying in a blur. Cracks within cracks. The voice fell away, like a receding surf, and then a faint signal sounded. A primitive beacon, orderly and welcome. A dull red pulse.
Beep…beep…beep…beep…
WHITE FLUORESCENCE OVERCAME me. It came on like the first intake of air after you’ve held your breath longer than you thought possible. I thought it would drown me. I was saturated with strobing light as I blinked my way through the adjustment.
I was horizontal. For a brief moment I thought I was floating. I felt dangerously buoyant. Then my eyes narrowed and forms dissolved into place.
Margo.
She was seated in a chair by a window off the foot of a bed-my bed-reading an issue of Vanity Fair. There was a look of intense concentration on her face; she was essentially scowling at the page. In my mind’s eye, a gilded frame dropped around her, the peripheral details all going fuzzy, and she was a portrait leaning up against a wall. I simply wanted to look. I had a craving to savor. But a moment later, she licked a finger, turned a page, looked up.
“Jesus Christ!” Already dropping the magazine, she rushed out of the frame. Her pale face filled my vision. “You shit. You big old goddamn son-of-a-bitch shit!”
There were tears on her cheeks. Her hand fumbled for something near my ear. I turned my head to see. A plastic button. Margo’s thumb was bloodless white on the button. A woman entered the room, a cartoon moving swiftly. A nurse. Breasts like soft mountains.
“What is it?”
“He’s awake.”
The nurse surged forward. I thought she was going to fall on top of me. “Hello, Mr. Malone.” She gave me a piano-keys smile to focus on as Margo bobbed on her horizon. The nurse held up an object in front of her nose. “What am I holding?”
I felt my eyes crossing as I focused on the object. It was a pen. Blue. Ballpoint. Paper Mate. Behind the nurse, Margo was scrutinizing me with her scowl.
“An elephant,” I said. My voice sounded harsh and unfamiliar.
The nurse blinked with confusion. “I’m holding an elephant?” She looked over at Margo, who was no longer scowling.
“He’s fine.”
I’D GONE UNDER the ice. Witnesses saw me hit (the one who called 911 said I hit headfirst, the other thought I landed on the small of my back), and for a short period of time, I had remained on its surface, motionless. When I finally did move, it wasn’t to prop myself up on my elbows and shake it off. Quite the opposite. Both witnesses agreed that it was my feet that went first. They slid down into the crack that my body had made when I’d landed. The widening crack. My feet lolled into the water, then, as if a voracious aquatic creature were reeling me in, I slid cleanly off the splintering ice and disappeared into the black water without a splash. Only a thin smear of blood on the ice gave any suggestion that I had been there at all.
The wound that Ratface and his kitchen knife had given my side required seven stitches. Fortunately, nothing vital had been pierced. Another set of stitches had been required to close up the nasty gash on the back of my head, where I’d hit the ice. This was where the doctors were placing concern. My head. They were worried about brain swelling, a concern that had prompted Margo to blurt, “God, that’s all we need.”
Perversely, the several minutes I had spent partially under the ice were to thank for my head injury not being quite as threatening as it otherwise might have been. The East River had performed first aid on me, the bracing water freezing the swelling in its tracks. However, it had also taken the opportunity to fill my lungs with a gallon or so of its chilly swill. But that was the least of my problems. Mainly, it was the concussion that preoccupied the doctors. I was given a list of symptoms I needed to be on the lookout for. Trouble remembering things, disorientation, difficulty making decisions, headaches, irritability.
My doctor insisted that I remain in the hospital through the day and overnight for observation. I wanted to wrestle him on the matter, but he refused. My memory seemed to have holes in it. My mother and my half sister, Elizabeth, came by to see me, but I have no recollection of what we spoke about. Joe Gallo’s face appeared at my bedside, but when it vanished, so, too, did my memory of our conversation. I got calls from Peter Elliott and Michelle Poole and Megan Lamb, but General Margo refused to let me take them. Kelly Cole put in a call as well. Margo jotted her number on the back of one of my business cards and stuck it in my wallet for me.
“I don’t think you’re up for that kind of syntax right now.”
I felt remarkably better the next morning and was dressed and ready to go by the time the doctor came to check on me. He aimed a penlight in my eyes and had me follow his finger as he waved it like a symphony conductor; then he told me I was to rest, not drive a car, keep off alcohol for at least a week and also to refrain from sex. Margo was seated on the large windowsill, posing with her hands on her knees. “Thanks, Doc. You’re a pal.”
I lost the argument with Margo about staying at my place while I convalesced. Truth was, I put no real heart into my end of the argument. Neither Margo nor I had touched on the subject of our recent sword crossings. My injuries had forced a truce, and I was just as happy to keep the issue unspoken. Margo took me from the hospital to a tiny country-food-themed restaurant near Gramercy Park, where I ate a double helping of eggs and sausage and home fries. After breakfast, we went to Margo’s, where I picked up the phone, set it back down, then crawled onto the couch and slept until eight that night. Margo shoveled some pesto pasta into me. I showered, got into bed, made a lame pass at Margo when she joined me, then went out with the light.
I can’t say I felt like a million bucks in the morning. More like enough for a down payment on a small dump somewhere unpopular. But that would do. Margo dutifully retrieved a three-day-old copy of the Post that she’d been holding on to for me. “If your head was a hundred percent, you’d have asked for this already.”
She flipped the paper open to page five. There was a short article about my unscheduled trip into the East River. Accompanying the article was a police sketch of my alleged attacker. If he looked like anyone, he looked like Thurman Munson, the beloved Yankees catcher who was killed midseason in a plane crash a quarter century ago.
“This looks like Thurman Munson,” I said to Margo. “The guy who attacked me didn’t look like this. You look more like him than this does.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re doing a fine job of patching things up.”
Margo had a meeting at ten o’clock. She made herself pretty, then climbed into a thick winter coat and a mighty fur hat. I told her, “You look good enough to tackle.”
“You’ll be careful,” she said, not even pretending to make a question of it. “I don’t do hospital visits twice in one week.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Lies,” she said, grabbing her keys. “All lies.”
After Margo left, I called my answering service. Among a dozen dumpable calls were ones from Kelly Cole (“I know a suffocated story when I hear one. I want to know what was going on. Call me.”) and Alan Ross. I dug Kelly’s number out of my wallet and tried it, but I hung up when I was delivered into Ms. Cole’s voice mail. I had better luck with Alan Ross.
“I read about your adventure in the paper,” the executive said after his secretary put me through. “How are you holding up?”
I gave him a brief status report. “The doctors are giving me another forty years minimum, so long as I play my cards right.”
Ross said that he would like to meet with me. “I have a business proposition to discuss.”
“When would you like to meet?”
“Today, if that’s possible. How does noon sound?”
Noon sounded fine. He gave me the midtown address of his office, and we hung up. I showered, careful to keep my various sets of stitches dry. Not exactly your fun-loving singing-in-the-rain kind of shower. On the checklist I’d gotten of possible concussion symptoms, I was feeling low-grade most of them. Especially the headache. Despite the siren song of the couch, I pulled on a thick Irish sweater, double-wrapped a scarf under my chin, shrugged into my bomber jacket and gingerly tugged a watch cap over my battered skull. A bastard wind hit me full force in the face as I exited Margo’s building. Across the street, Robin Burrell’s Christmas tree was gone from the bay window. The final witness shunted off.
MEGAN LAMB CAME OUT to the front desk to meet me. She looked as if she’d gone a few rounds in the ring with a determined kangaroo. If there weren’t exactly bags under her eyes, it was close. She saw me noticing. “Crappy night.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I don’t sleep much. But hey, you’re not looking so bad, considering. Word was you were half dead.”
“Half alive. It’s all a matter of viewpoint.”
“I understand you took a knife.”
I gave my kidney a light pat. “Came in through the side door. I was stupid, he was lucky. Won’t happen again. Trust me.”
I followed her down a corridor to a roomful of desks. Megan’s was in a corner. She dropped into the chair behind her desk and motioned for me to sit. Her phone rang and she took the call. The desk was a mess of papers and folders. The way they were spread clear across the large desk, it looked as if Megan had slept here overnight. There was a framed photograph of an attractive brunette posing next to a table piled high with summer produce. I angled it for a better look. I recognized the spot. The farmer’s market at Union Square. I also recognized the woman.
Megan ended her call. She followed my gaze. “That’s Helen.”
“I know.”
She picked up the photo and looked at it. “Her acupuncturist used to prescribe a visit to the farmer’s market every weekend. He had a whole energy theory going. The harvest. Locally grown foods. He said that just walking through the market was therapeutic. I could never quite catch it all. Kidney energy. I kept hearing about Helen’s kidney energy, whatever the hell that was.” She set the picture back down. “She swore by him. If he’d wanted to put his damn needles in her eyes, she’d have let him. He had her on this thing for a while where she stuck these fuses to the bottom of her feet and then I lit them for her. Some kind of heat acupuncture. Don’t tell me it sounds crazy, I already know. But guess what? Helen was the healthiest person you’d ever want to know, so what can I say? Every Saturday, religiously, off to Union Square to talk with her tomatoes.”
She picked up a pen and tapped it thoughtfully against the picture frame, then tossed the pen on the desk. “You make sense of it. Helen taught sixth-graders how to read and write while I run around for a living with a gun on my hip. But which one of us is still here to tell the story? When I think of how that woman used to worry herself sick over me. That’s a real laugh, isn’t it?”
“It’s not a laugh. It’s normal,” I said. “Margo would be quite happy if I sold paper clips for a living.”
“Well, look at you, fished out of the East River. She might be right. I don’t know, sometimes I think people who do what we do for a living don’t have any business getting ourselves involved with civilians. Helen was all about cute and stupid things the kids did at school that day, while I’m sitting there sucking in exit wounds and bloated floaters. ‘How was your day, honey?’ ‘Oh, fine, you know, just another romp through mankind’s butcheries.’”
“My old man used to describe his job as toxic.”
“Your old man was right. That’s exactly how I feel sometimes-like I’m slowly being poisoned. And it’s not only the victims but the nut monkeys out there, the ones who are doing this shit. You get to thinking the human race in general is toxic. You’ve got your crazy butchers, you’ve got your perfectly normal-seeming butchers. Kids shooting other kids. Parents killing their own kids, for Christ’s sake. Helen wanted us to adopt a baby. She loved the idea of raising a child. Jesus. In this world? I break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.”
“Hell of a responsibility.”
“Forget it. I used to think how unfair it’d be to Helen, we adopt a kid then I get killed on the job and leave her to raise the kid on her own. Look what happened instead.” She laughed. It wasn’t a particularly joyful laugh. “If some poor kid had to count on me these days, God help her. Or him. They’d go back to the agency and demand a new placement.”
“Maybe you’re being too hard on yourself.”
Megan looked at me a moment without speaking. “That’s exactly what my shrink says. I’ll tell you what I tell her: sure, I’m hard on myself, but there’s no way in hell I’m too hard on myself. I deserve all the crap I throw at myself.”
“I’ll bet your shrink doesn’t agree with that.”
“That’s an easy bet to win. Anyway.” She flipped open one of the folders on her desk. It contained the police sketch of my attacker.
“That’s not him,” I said. “I don’t know where you got it, but it’s no good.”
“Michelle Poole worked with our sketcher on this.”
“It’s no good.”
“I had a feeling. The girl didn’t seem very sure of herself.” Megan picked up the sketch and studied it.
“Thurman Munson,” I said.
“Thurman what?”
“Former Yankees catcher.”
“That’s who threw you into the river?”
“That’s who the sketch looks like. But like I said, the sketch is no good. The guy this sketch doesn’t look like was stalking Michelle Poole. I guess she told you that. I saw him that day. At the Quaker meeting.”
“Could be he was first stalking Robin.”
“I was hoping to get a chance to ask him that question, but he decided to show me how fast he could run.”
“I guess he didn’t run fast enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“You caught up to him.”
“Right. Lucky me.”
“So, are you up to a session with a sketcher?” She picked up the phone and put in a call. She covered the mouthpiece. “Twenty minutes. Can you wait?”
“I’m in no hurry.”
She told the person on the phone that twenty minutes was fine, then she hung up. I asked her for some of that fine NYPD coffee, and she fetched me a cup. I discarded a couple of easy jabs about the burnt mud. Megan told me that she had spoken with Edward Anger from the Quaker meeting and that he was in the clear. Out-of-town alibi for the evening Robin was murdered. She also told me that Allison Jennings had given Gallo the same two names I’d gotten her to cough up. They’d both cleared as well.
“I wasn’t real keen on those two anyway,” I said. “Though it wouldn’t have been the first time that a long shot came in. But Anger. I guess I was holding out some hope for him. Sometimes the excessively gentle ones-well, you know.”
“A name like that was too good. But the alibi’s fine. Anger’s out.”
“So what do you think, Megan? I mean about Riddick and Robin. Are they copycat jobs, or is it possible that Fox was innocent all along?”
She was shaking her head before I’d even finished the question. “It’s him. The case is too strong. We got the fibers from Nikki’s plaid skirt off of Fox’s scissors. That was huge.”
“You never recovered the skirt itself.”
“Doesn’t matter. We had the receipt. We got the positive ID from the clerk at Liana who sold it to her. Nikki’s neighbor saw her leaving the building wearing it, a green-and-black plaid skirt. Fragments of the same skirt end up in Fox’s bedside scissors? Plus the blood on the scissors?”
“But the defense leaked the story that it was all just sex play. A game of dress-up. They said Nikki got nicked by the scissors when Fox was hacking her out of the skirt.”
“Of course they leaked the story. We got the DNA match on blood that was on the scissors as well as the semen the M.E. recovered from Nikki’s body. No question she had sex with Fox just before she was killed. Or possibly it was even while they were having sex. A man who likes to pretend he’s in bed with a schoolgirl and he’s attacking her with a pair of scissors? I wouldn’t put anything past him. If the defense was so confident about their version of things, they could have put Fox on the stand and had him tell the tale. Uh-uh. He’s our man, Fritz. And ladle in the case for Cynthia Blair. Fox was desperate to keep a lid on that affair. And I mean desperate. When she told him she was going ahead with the pregnancy, that was pretty much her death warrant. You heard the testimony. Fox’s attitude toward fathering children was lethal.”
The sketch artist showed up, and we got to work. The good ones employ a relaxing technique of mild hypnosis. This was a good one. We moved into Joe Gallo’s office so we could have some privacy. Megan took the sketcher out into the corridor, where she briefed him on what we were looking for. The two came back in, and Megan pulled the blinds. I was instructed to close my eyes and think about the ocean. It took me a moment to clear the beach and to locate the big open expanse the sketcher was looking for, but I eventually got it. The sketcher moved me into a trancelike place. He had a voice like one of those classical DJs. I expected him to introduce Rachmaninoff any minute. I heard my disembodied voice talking with him, and I heard myself describing the man who had thrown me into the East River. An image of his face floated in my head crystal-clear, and I calmly ran down his features. When the blinds were opened and I opened my eyes, I was handed a sketch that looked 70 percent like Ratface. I worked with the sketcher until we got to about 85 percent, then I had to beg off. My head was really doing a number. I didn’t want pieces of my skull breaking off and littering Joe Gallo’s desk. The sketcher told me I was a good subject and took off. Megan told me to drink a cup of water-it had appeared miraculously on her desk-and she left the room and came back a minute later with a large brown envelope. Several copies of the sketch were in the envelope.
“I’m not giving these to you.”
“No, ma’am.”
She handed me the envelope. “You’re not to distribute these.”
“No, ma’am.”
“I don’t generally find ‘ma’am’ to my liking.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Megan walked me to the front door and followed me outside. Megan wasn’t dressed for outside, and she hugged herself tightly. She looked like a woman in a straitjacket.
“That conversation we had. About the job. The part about it being toxic.”
“What about it?”
“I’d like that not to go anywhere.”
“I wasn’t planning on hopping on the phone.”
“You know what I mean. I’ve been back to work since the fall, but I’ve still got a lot of eyes on me. There are some people who think I lost it with Albert Stenborg, that I got spooked and that I’m still spooked.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with admitting you’re spooked. It’s human.”
“Being spooked and admitting you’re spooked are two different things.”
“You don’t seem to have a problem admitting it to me.”
“You’re not a cop. I don’t work with you. Besides, I don’t know. I remember that time you pretended to run into me at Mumbles.”
“That was the name of it. I’d forgotten.”
“What the hell was a guy like you doing in a place like that?”
“A guy like me what?”
“A guy.”
“I do recall I seemed to be in the minority.”
“The point is, it was a nice gesture.”
“That’s not how you reacted at the time. As I recall, you told me to mind my own goddamn business.”
“So original.”
I shrugged. “I’d heard you weren’t treating yourself so good. It’s not unexpected, given all you were in the middle of. I’ve had some pretty sour points in my time. Sometimes you welcome a person nosing in, and sometimes you tell them to mind their own goddamn business.”
Megan released her grip on herself and blew into her hands. Her lips were going blue. “Let me ask you something. Something that’s none of my own goddamn business.”
“Shoot.”
“You’ve killed someone,” she said. “That’s not a question. I happen to know it.”
“Okay.”
“You can tell me to shut up if you want.”
“Go ahead.”
“I hate this word, it’s gotten so self-helpy, but did you get closure on it?”
“It?”
She could read my tone of voice. “Jesus. You’ve killed more than one person? I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s okay. All part of the résumé. As for your question, I can’t answer it. Or if I can, I think the answer is no. Closure isn’t a concept that makes sense to me. Not in this context. That kind of closure is too cold for my tastes. Plus, I don’t really buy it. I think it’s denial, to use another self-helpy word.”
“Then you understand what I’m talking about.” She indicated the precinct house behind us. “There’s no one in there I can talk to about any of this. Joe, I guess. But only so much. Pope is too green. I don’t want to spook him. But what you just said, that’s the problem. There’s this idea that I’m supposed to shake off what I did. But what I did was I failed to save my girlfriend and I failed to save my partner. Both of them went down on my account. That’s not something a person just shakes off. And believe me, killing Stenborg didn’t do it for me. Not by a long shot. The time to kill him was before he did his damage. I could unload pistols into that bastard all day long and it wouldn’t make any difference. That’s what I’m carrying around. It’s this feeling that I owe Helen. I owe Chris Madden, too, but if I’m brutally honest, that’s not where the trouble is. It’s Helen. I feel like I still owe her. And the thing is, I owe her what I can’t give her.”
“Thinking like that is only going to drive you nuts.”
“You rest my case.”
“You said you’re not getting much sleep. Is that it?”
“Let’s just say I find it’s a lot easier the less I close my eyes.”
I headed for the subway. The station was like a deep freeze. People stood on the platform stomping their feet and beating their arms up and down. Deep freeze or a nuthouse. The 1 train came in, rocking slightly as it hurtled forward. I caught a glimpse of a rat scurrying to get out of its path. I’d moved closer to the edge of the platform than I’d realized; I could practically smell the train. The sight of the scurrying rat brought to mind a memory I wasn’t particularly fond of.
Yeah. I knew what she meant.
ALAN ROSS CAME OUT from behind his desk and clamped a solid two-hander on me. “It’s good of you to come, Mr. Malone. What can Linda get you? Coffee? Sparkling water? Tea?”
The office was just shy of an airplane hangar, a festival of teak and glass and polished metal. The walls were choked with photographs of Ross in the company of celebrities. Through the large window behind his desk, sunlight danced off the stainless-steel spire of the Chrysler Building. Visible in the distance, beyond the steel and concrete, was a thin ribbon of my old friend the East River.
I let Linda off the hook. “I’m fine,” I said. The secretary flashed an unnecessarily large smile. I was made a midget by the large plushy leather chair Ross directed me into as he returned to the ergonomic throne behind the desk.
I asked, “How many people say ‘nice place’ when they come in here the first time?”
Ross laughed, giving the huge room an approving glance. “Nearly all. It’s an absurd amount of space for just one person, no question. But you have to remember, I deal with some pretty colossal egos. You’d be surprised how quickly this room fills up.”
It was a canned response, but for that, not so bad a one. Ross poured himself a glass of water from a moist pewter pitcher on his desk, then set the glass down without taking a sip. He fixed me with a direct gaze. “Marshall Fox is an innocent man.”
I thought he was going to elaborate, but he didn’t. I squirmed in the leather valley, working my way forward. “Okay. Fox is an innocent man.”
He frowned. “You don’t sound convinced.”
“I didn’t try to sound convinced. I have no idea if he’s innocent or not.”
“I’m telling you, he is. Marshall is many things, and unfortunately, not a few of them are far from attractive. But being a vainglorious egotist is not the same as being a murderer.”
“I’m sure the dictionary would back you up on that. But what does any of this have to do with me?”
Ross paused before answering. On the wall just off his right shoulder, Bette Midler eyed me mischievously as she landed a big wet kiss on Alan Ross’s cheek.
“I don’t believe the police are doing all they can to find out who murdered Zack Riddick and the Burrell woman.”
He paused for me to respond. I didn’t give him much. A slow nod. “Okay.”
He went on, “Frankly, I think they’ve got major egg on their face and they don’t dare admit it. They took a high-stakes risk when they arrested Marshall for those murders. You’ve seen the circus. Marshall’s career is tanked, regardless of the trial’s outcome. A lot of ugly testimony flashed coast to coast. The whole thing has been a complete abysmal mess. You had better believe the police are invested in making those charges stick. Can you imagine the fallout if Marshall were to walk?”
I glanced off to my left. Alan Ross and Sylvester Stallone were arm wrestling. Rocky was losing, if you can believe it. Ross followed my gaze, his expression relaxing.
“Sly. He’s a good man. Beautiful Act One. No Act Two. A real waste.”
“I thought he was good in Cop Land.”
“Too little too late.”
Ross brought his fingers together and touched them to his lips. “Mr. Malone, perhaps you’re not aware how invested I am in all this. Zack Riddick was a friend of mine. Admittedly, not super close, but even so, I liked the man. Zack had his obnoxious side, I’m not pretending he didn’t. But at heart he was a decent person. He definitely didn’t deserve to have his throat slashed.”
“Few do.”
“And Cynthia. To a degree, she was a protégée of mine. I personally chose her to work with Marshall when I brought him in from the sticks. She was as sharp as they come. Very driven. Her entire life in front of her, poor girl.” He paused for a sip of water. “I’m going to tell you something I try not to think about. I feel responsible for these people, for what happened to them. Less so the Burrell and Rossman women, although that’s only because I didn’t know them personally. But Cynthia most of all. I delivered her to Marshall like a gift.”
“But you’re saying Fox didn’t have anything to do with her murder.”
“Directly, no. That’s right. He didn’t. You’re missing the point. Whoever killed these people did it because of Marshall. I can’t explain the killer’s motivation, but it’s clearly something to do with these people’s association with Marshall. That’s obvious. So do you understand what I’m saying? I’m the one who brought Marshall into the public eye. My wife and I. We’re the ones who took a nobody and made him famous beyond belief. You see how it works? If I don’t make a superstar of Marshall Fox, four people aren’t murdered in cold blood. Two of them friends of mine. That’s what I’m trying to say. Whoever did this did it because of Marshall, and I created Marshall. He’s my Frankenstein. I don’t know if you can understand what I’m saying, but it is a horrible, horrible burden. For the sake of providing what I’m quite willing to admit is essentially silly entertainment five nights a week, four people are dead. It doesn’t make me happy, Mr. Malone.”
As he sat back in his chair and folded his fingers into a ball, a thought occurred to me. Possibly it was the same thought that had led Ross to call me up to his sanctum.
“You,” I said.
“Me? What about me?”
“Your safety. If Fox really is innocent, and the same person who killed Cynthia Blair and Nikki Rossman is at it again-”
Ross was waving his hands. “No, no. This isn’t about me.”
“But it could be. If someone really has a problem with Marshall Fox and they’re taking it out on all these people who are associated with him, what about the actual person who created him?”
Ross shook his head. “That’s not why I asked you here. Though, believe me, I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since last Friday night. But I’m not looking for protection. What I want is someone who isn’t invested in this whole thing the way the police are. I’m not saying they’re sitting on their hands; they’re trying to find out who killed Zack and Robin Burrell. But I happen to know that they prefer the copycat theory. The fact that the killer might be the same person who performed the murders they’ve already arrested Marshall for? They don’t want that.”
“No offense, but how is it you know what the police are thinking?”
“I’m putting myself in their shoes. I’m reading between the lines.”
“You’re guessing.”
He let out a sigh. “Yes. I’m guessing.”
“And what do you want from me?”
“You’re a private investigator. Let me emphasize. Private investigator. I thought of you the day after Robin Burrell was killed. Running into you in the courtroom. And then I saw reports the other day about your, um, incident. You’re looking for the killer as well, aren’t you?”
I tried to keep a neutral expression. “And if I am?”
“You are. Your sweetheart lives directly across the street from where Robin Burrell lived. I’m a stickler for research. I find things out.”
“You know, people don’t like other people nosing about in their business.”
Ross erupted into laughter. “Oh well, that’s choice. A private snoop lamenting someone else doing a little snooping? I like that. Maybe you’d let me set up a screen test for you, Mr. Malone. I could see a series developing out of that.” He made a square with his hands and held it up in front of him. “The Selfish Detective. Have you ever considered the slippery slope of show business?”
“My slope is plenty slippery, thanks anyway.”
The tension that had been growing in the room evaporated. Ross was only kidding about the TV-show idea, of course, but even so, slipping back into his element seemed to relax him somewhat. The color came up in his face.
“Here’s the story,” Ross said pleasantly. “I would like to make it official. I’d like to hire you. You’ve already heard my angle. There’s plenty self-serving on my part, I’m the first to admit it. But so what? I feel guilty about my man Marshall being the springboard for some pathetic sicko out there killing people. I want Marshall found innocent, and I want these killings to stop. I want to clear my conscience and Marshall’s name all at once. Nice tidy package.”
“The police are doing everything they can.”
“Then why are you running around looking for Robin Burrell’s killer?”
“Remember, that’s your theory, Mr. Ross.”
“Fine. The point is, I’d like to hire you. Like I say, I’ve done my research. It turns out you’re not so bad at what you do.”
“It’s been an okay Act One,” I said.
“So it’s settled. You’ve seen my absurd office, I don’t like to quibble over money. Whatever’s your normal fee, I’ll double it. I’m sorry, Mr. Malone, but I’m in the business of buying people. I want to be your top-priority client. And I want to hear from you every day. Progress reports. I’m not trying to bully you. I just have a certain way of operating.”
A pigeon floated gracefully past the window behind Ross’s head, angling down for a sharp descent. I shoved myself to the edge of the annoying chair.
“I have a certain way of operating as well,” I said. “It starts with my not having the client tell me how to go about doing my job.”
“You have connections. I know about your father. You’ve got friends on the force. At one point you were even planning to become a cop yourself.”
I stood up. “Hats off to your researchers, Mr. Ross. It looks to me like you have all the snoops you need.”
“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m not handling this too well.” He pulled open a drawer and removed an envelope. “I make no demands. That’s just how I’m used to operating. I want this nightmare ended.” He tossed the envelope onto the desk. “That’s five thousand dollars. If nothing else, it’s for coming in to see me.”
I picked up the envelope. It was thick and crunchy. I slapped it against my palm. Five thousand dollars makes a sweet slap. “If word gets out, you’ll have every gumshoe in the city bugging Linda for an appointment.”
Ross smiled wanly. “I feel helpless, Mr. Malone. It’s not a mode I’m accustomed to, believe me. It’s just that I’d like to feel I’m doing something to undo what’s happened.”
“Dead’s dead, Mr. Ross.”
“I know that. You decide if you’d like to accept my offer. I hope you do. Either way, keep the money. Or give it to your favorite charity, I don’t really care what you do with it. I just want to help in some way. If you decide it won’t kill you to keep me posted, either on your progress or the progress of the police, wonderful. I’ll pay you for my own peace of mind. Maybe that sounds pathetic to you, but don’t forget, I operate in a superficial world. Maybe if I hired a good writer, I could script a more meaningful gesture.”
I slapped the envelope against my hand a second time. “How about I get back to you?”
He stood. “Sure. That would be fine. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.” He clasped his hands behind his back and gave me a professional smile. It felt like an anti-handshake.
Linda’s smile was also way below wattage as she fetched my coat from the closet. I’ve yet to know a secretary who didn’t know everything that was taking place in her boss’s office, if not his mind. I looked to see if her ear was red from pressing against the door.
“He’s in pain,” she said softly as she handed over my coat.
I had an almost irresistible urge to chuck her on the chin. I fought the urge with all my might, then made my way out to the elevator for the long ride back to Planet Earth.
THE DOORMAN REMEMBERED ME.
“Hey, you’re the guy they fished out of the river the other day. Somebody up there must like you, brother. That’d been me, I’d be dead.” He bounced his hands off his substantial gut. “Sink like a rock. You’re one lucky guy.”
A lucky guy wouldn’t have ended up stabbed and tossed into the icy East River from a substantial height, but hey, context is everything. I pulled out one of the sketches that Megan Lamb had photocopied for me and handed it to the doorman. He studied it as if it were a logarithm.
“Nasty character,” he opined.
“Have you seen him before?”
“Him? No. Not me.”
It had occurred to me that when I’d been in pursuit of my attacker, his zigzags had led him directly to the Waterside Plaza complex as if maybe he knew exactly where he was headed. And after managing to flip me over the wall, he had disappeared instantly. No one had reported seeing a person fleeing from the scene. I’d wondered. Through the glass doors and up the elevator? With a nod and a wave to the friendly doorman? Given the lousy sketch that had made the earlier rounds, it was conceivable that the doorman had seen it and made no connection whatsoever with the man himself.
I asked, “There’s no one living in any of these buildings who looks like this?”
“Here? This guy? I don’t think so.”
“How about the super? Or a maintenance man?”
The doorman pursed his lips and tilted the sketch. Why people do that, I’ll never understand. What? You tilt the thing and suddenly recognize it’s your uncle Billy?
“Sorry, brother.” He tried to give me back the sketch.
“Keep it.” I handed him my card. “The police will probably be by sometime and run you through this whole routine again.”
He looked at the card. “Private investigation, huh? Hey, I’ve never met a private investigator before. So are you like those detectives on TV? Get hit on by all the ladies? Beautiful widows coming out of your ears? I lose a few pounds, I’d like to try that out. You must deal with a lot of cheating husbands. You carry a piece?”
I tapped the sketch in his hand. “I’d like to locate this guy. You help me out, maybe I’ll try to dig up a beautiful widow for you.”
He smiled. Big and toothy. “Don’t get me dreaming, brother.”
I left him to his dreams. Crossing back over First Avenue, I worked the shops and bars. There were plenty of both to keep me busy. At first no one recognized the face in the sketch, though more than a few sneered at it when they looked at it. “What’d he do? Kill his own mother?” But at a Laundromat on Twenty-seventh, I got a hit. An elderly Asian woman about the size of an eight-year-old told me that she recognized the face.
“He come here. He smoke. I tell him no. Clean clothes, clean clothes! No smoke!”
I asked if she knew anything about him. A name. Where he lived. She didn’t. I’ve been taking my laundry to the same place in Little Italy for ten years, and if someone told them my name was John Jacob Astor, they wouldn’t have any reason to say it wasn’t, except to wonder why someone so stinking rich couldn’t send his laundry in with the butler. I asked the woman if I could post the sketch on her bulletin board, next to the flyers for dog walking, yoga lessons, teaching guitar and all the rest. She didn’t like that idea but agreed to take the sketch and show it to customers, and if they knew anything, they could give me a call. At least I think that was the arrangement. My pidgin English isn’t all that good.
I concentrated on all the business establishments within a five-block radius of the Laundromat. I got a maybe at a food market on Twenty-first.
“Did he have kind of a beard before?”
“Could be,” I said.
“I couldn’t swear to it. You see a lot of faces in this city. This one might’ve come in here a few times. He does look sort of familiar.”
After several hours of footwork, my fuel cells were pretty drained. I tried to give them a charge with a pastrami sandwich from a reputable joint, but the results were mixed. I made a phone call. “Paddy Reilly’s in an hour. Can do?” The answer was in the affirmative. “Good.”
I worked the sketch for another sluggish hour, but I got no more hits. Still, I found myself imagining that along one of these streets I was going up and down, Ratface was there, maybe even sitting up in his goddamn Ratface apartment looking out the window at me. It was a powerful feeling and a little unnerving-as if his eyes were boring laser holes into the back of my head-and it was all I could do to keep from scanning the building windows as I moved about.
The stitches in my side weren’t real happy with all the activity, but they didn’t get much of a say in the matter. The sun was still off on vacation somewhere-the South, I suppose-and what with the raw cold and the colorless sky and the dingy heaps of snow, the life seemed sucked out of the city. Or maybe it was just sucked out of me. It took me a while before I realized that this was one of the things the doctors had cautioned me about. I was irritable, flirting with something along the lines of fury. I was impatient. A blast of cold air whipping around Twenty-fifth Street worked me over and I wanted to hit something. There was a dull throbbing just behind my eyes. I pulled off my watch cap and touched the stitches on the back of my head. They felt hard and grisly, like the whiskers of some savanna beast. I looked at the sketches of Ratface that were clutched in my other hand, and a ball of rage rose up in my chest. It snagged my breath, precisely as if the rage itself were a scramble of barbed wire lodged in my sternum. I brought my fingers away from the wound. They were splotched with blood. It was going to ooze, the doctors had warned me. I ran my fingers along one of the sketches, bloodying the man’s cheeks.
The bartender at Paddy Reilly’s was a giant with a shaved head, a neck tattoo and a tuft of carrot-red hair below his lower lip. We were nodding acquaintances. He wrote poetry, the kind with a notable paucity of flower imagery. I’d heard him read a few times at some poetry slams in Alphabet City. He was reading one of his poems to Jigs Dugan off a scrap of paper as I came over to the bar.
Got a hustler’s laugh and crowbar arms
And a Puerto Rican kid like a shadow
Won’t let him be, thinks he’s a god
And he finds a Coney Island mermaid
The one of his dreams
Rolls her in popcorn
In a room, with a view, of the sea
Streams of paper whipping off the wire fan
Cool breeze, cool breeze, cool breeze.
He folded the paper and stuck it in his T-shirt pocket. Jigs was playing with an unlit cigarette, looking thoughtful. He tapped the filter against the bar. “Yeah, I guess that’s good. So. He’s balling the mermaid. Am I hearing that right?”
I set one of the sketches on the bar. “Ever seen this most happy fella?”
The bartender did the doorman thing. Tilted the sketch and pursed his lips. “Can’t say it rings a bell.”
Jigs had a tumbler in front of him. It was either iced tea or whiskey, and who wants to pick? I asked the bartender for a cup of coffee. Jigs asked, “You want he should Irish that up for you?” I waved off the offer, and the bartender moved down the bar to slap the coffee machine around.
Jigs picked up his glass. “I hear you took a spill, friend.”
“You hear correctly.”
“Darkened my day to hear it.”
“I stuck around the hospital an extra day in case you were sending me flowers.”
“I don’t do hospitals well,” Jigs said.
“I’d have thought you might come fishing for a pretty nurse.”
“I went with a nurse once. A Janice. Or Janet. I can’t remember. She gave me a lovely sitz bath. This was when I had that little knee situation.”
Little knee situation. A lead pipe swung like a Ty Cobb bat at Jigs’s knees. He was off his feet for half a year.
The bartender returned with my coffee. The mischief came into Jigs’s eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this mermaid of yours, Kevin. It seems-”
The bartender cut him off. “It’s a metaphor.”
Jigs made a sound like he was loosening a hairball in his throat. “Ack. Metaphors. Perfectly lovely mermaid, and you want to shunt her off as a metaphor. You poets need to start facing reality on more of a regular basis.”
The bartender didn’t seem to care what Jigs thought. He found a far corner of the bar that needed polishing.
“I’m after the bastard who’s been slitting throats,” I said.
Jigs cocked an eyebrow at me. “Is that so? Town’s kind of jumpy on that topic.”
“So am I.”
He indicated the sketch. “Would this be him?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. This is who packed me into the East River. It’d be nice if he was also the killer.”
“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Jigs said, eyeballing the sketch. “I watched some of that trial on the tube. Ugliest show in America. Impossible not to watch. I saw the pretty girl getting the once-over from the dead lawyer. He wasn’t dead yet, and neither was she. But now they are. The both of them. How does that play out, Fritz? There was surely no love lost between the two of them. They were adversaries. Who would hold a grudge against one of them and then go on to begrudge the other to the same result?”
“You mean why would someone target Robin Burrell and then go after Riddick?”
“To put it less poetically.”
“That’s the question. Were they targets in their own right, or was it more a case of somebody targeting Marshall Fox? Or people associated with Fox?”
“That’s where I go,” Jigs said. “You find someone who’s too furious about what Mr. Fox did to those two girls last year. An avenging angel, tit for tat.”
“But why now? Fox is in the fight for his life.”
“Not in this state, honey. Here he gets packed off for ten to twenty and he comes back out somewhere in the middle.”
“Still, why shake things up so close to the verdict?”
Jigs consulted his whiskey. “Maybe an acquittal would play in to our good fellow’s hand. It does put Mr. Fox back out on the street, after all.”
“So you mean kill two people to even the score, then if Fox is set free, wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”
“Now, that’s poetical.”
I considered what Jigs was saying. It made as much sense as anything else being bandied about. I figured the police were already looking closely at family and close associates of Cynthia Blair and Nicole Rossman. They’d surely be working that angle.
I squared the drawing of Ratface on the bar. Had he known either of those two women? My gut was saying no.
I realized my gut was also saying it didn’t matter.
“I want this guy.” The voice didn’t even sound like mine. It was a profound baritone. Just an octave or two up from a growl. I tapped a finger heavily against the sketch. “I don’t know his angle, and to be honest, I don’t care. This bastard lives nearby. In the neighborhood somewhere. I’ve gotten a couple of positive IDs.”
Jigs set his glass down. “And you want him.”
I looked past the row of bottles behind the bar and confirmed it with the cranky fellow in the watch cap. From my pocket, I took Alan Ross’s envelope and laid a large stack of twenties down on the flyer. “That’s right.”
Jigs nodded sagely. “Yeah, brother. I can see that.”
MEGAN WAS LOOKING DOWN at her fingers when the woman approached. “Hey. Remember me?”
Megan looked up. Large. The ubiquitous big-boned. Cute face under a Louise Brooks cut. She was wearing orange jeans and a black T-shirt with a William Wegman dog on it. A Weimaraner. This one wasn’t dressed up in a costume like they usually were. It was sitting on a white box looking terribly cute and perplexed. Megan wondered if that was how she was looking. Cute, she couldn’t say. Perplexed, definitely.
“I’m sorry. Uh. I’m waiting for someone.”
The woman showed her a classic ear-to-ear. “I notice you’ve been waiting for a long time. Maybe you’re being stood up. Do you mind if I join you?” She didn’t wait for an answer but pulled back the chair opposite Megan and made herself at home. “What are we drinking?”
Megan had been staring at a Scotch and soda for forty minutes.
“You want me to freshen that? What is it?”
“It’s Scotch, but-”
The woman called out. “Two Scotches!” She turned back to Megan. “You really don’t recognize me, do you? That’s okay. I’m not offended.”
Megan didn’t know where to put her eyes. This was ridiculous. She had no business coming back to this place. Why not? a voice in her head demanded. What the hell’s wrong with getting on with your life? It’s just a place.
“Ruth,” the woman said.
Megan looked up from the table. “I’m Megan.”
Ruth skidded her chair back from the table. She lifted her shirt slightly while tugging down on her jeans. Megan leaned forward. Part of a tattoo showed just below the woman’s belly button. A dragon of some sort. Most of it remained below the belt.
“You don’t remember?”
Megan shook her head. She did, vaguely. Like in an uncomfortable dream. “Maybe it wasn’t me.”
Ruth grinned. “Oh, it was you, sugar. I don’t forget a face like yours.”
The drinks arrived. Megan could feel her first sip travel to the tip of each limb. It felt good. Ruth touched her lightly on the wrist, then pulled back sharply, as if she’d received a shock. “You need to smile, little girl. Nothing can be that bad.”
Two hours later, Megan switched on the overhead light and stepped aside. The keys slipped from her hand and fell to the floor. She didn’t dare lean over to fetch them. Instead, she kicked at them with her foot. It didn’t even feel like her foot.
Ruth followed her into the apartment with a slight stumble. She laughed, holding her arms out from her sides like a high-wire artist. She turned around as Megan closed the door. “I’d kill for a place in the Village.”
Megan kicked the keys across the floor. “You want it? It’s yours.”
“Yeah, I should be so lucky.”
“Serious. I don’t give-” Megan had to grab hold of a chair.
Ruth started forward. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
“Fine.”
“Look. Do you want to get high?”
As Ruth reached into her pants pocket, Megan grabbed hold of her arm. “Don’t.” It was a fleshy arm. Megan closed her eyes tightly. She was afraid she was going to be sick.
“I’m just thinking of a little nightcap.” Ruth began singing: “‘Nothing could be finer than a little mariwhiner in the eeeeeeevening.’”
Megan squeezed the woman’s arm. “Don’t.”
Ruth shrugged. “Hey. Okay. That’s how you want it. I’m just trying to be a good guest.” She grinned, reaching down and hooking her fingers into Megan’s belt loops. With a jerk, she brought their pelvises together. Megan’s hit Ruth’s below the hips. She stumbled. Ruth cooed, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Megan couldn’t remember putting away such quantities of alcohol since forever. She could taste the bile in her throat. Ruth was holding her close. She cupped her hand on Megan’s ass. “I think we can loosen you up.”
Megan’s head lolled forward onto the woman. She felt as if she were being drawn into a cave. A cave with a dragon hidden in the darkness. This was wrong, all of it. Megan told herself this was not what Helen would have wanted her to be doing. Soft, silly Helen. Where was she? Dammit, why wasn’t she here? Why wasn’t she coming in the front door right now and telling this Ruth woman to kindly get her big bones out of here? Ruth was kneading Megan’s ass with her fingers. Megan couldn’t breathe. Where the fuck is Helen!
Ruth nuzzled forward and tried to kiss her. Megan jerked her head away.
“Hey!” Ruth tightened her grip on Megan’s ass and pulled her closer. “Let’s just start relaxing already, okay? Come on, now. I remember you were a real sweet kisser. Let’s be friends here.”
Megan worked her arms up between the two of them and pushed with all her strength, twisting her torso as she tried to squirm free. The women’s feet tangled. Ruth stepped on her own foot and with a cry fell backward onto the floor. Megan managed to shake free and remain standing.
“Jesus Christ!” Ruth crawled onto all fours. “Honey, you’ve got a very fucked-up…” She stopped. Megan saw her eyes grow wide. “What the…fuck is that?”
She was staring at Megan’s bookshelf. Displayed one next to the other were three black-and-white framed photographs. Eight-by-ten. The first one showed a woman with a scarf of some sort knotted at her neck. Clearly dead. The woman in the second photograph-a blonde, Ruth recognized her from the newspapers-had had her slender throat cut open. The woman’s eyes were open and staring off into space.
“Oh my God.”
The third photograph was the most horrible. It didn’t appear that there even was a neck. The cheeks looked like they’d been raked by a wild animal. Ruth scrambled to her feet. Megan had not moved but stood shaking in the middle of the floor, pale as a sheet.
“What the hell are you into, little girl? Where the hell’d you get these?”
“Go.” Megan’s voice sounded hoarse.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m changing my plans right now.” Ruth brushed past Megan, pausing at the door. “That’s not good form, honey. You want some advice, you put those pictures away, or you’re going to stay awfully lonely.”
Ruth left. Megan’s feet walked her to the door, and her hands locked it. Turning from the door, she confronted the three photographs across the room. They were swimming. Megan made it halfway across the room before she got sick.
FOR NANCY SPICER, foreperson on the Marshall Fox jury, life had been reduced to a tiny hotel room, the pine-paneled jury room, the van that shuttled her from one to the other, and to those eleven other hateful people whom Nancy didn’t especially like and who definitely did not like her. She was either too white, or too indecisive, or too religious, or too scared. Too something. Too anything. Too nothing.
Nancy Spicer decided to see what would happen if she swallowed twenty-seven barbiturates in the space of something like fifteen minutes.
Over the past several months, Nancy had come to fear that the eleven other jurors were right. The world is a brutal place. It takes courage and strength and conviction in order to maneuver, in order to survive. Nancy had none of these. There might have been a time-she could recall having a thin grasp on conviction once, though this seemed a lifetime ago-but in the large scheme, not really. Never enough. Bruce was the provider. The rock. Bruce had always filled in where Nancy came up lacking. He had the conviction and the strength and the courage. Bruce knew his place in the world, and he surely knew his purpose. He knew right from wrong, black from white, and he knew sin when it made its inevitable appearance. Nancy’s husband was clear on all matters, a man of unshakable resolve. If he were foreman of this jury, there would have been none of this contentiousness. There wouldn’t be the sniping and the hostility and the disgust. Bruce could have pulled everyone together; he was a leader of men. He saw things with a razor-sharp clarity, and he knew how to put people in their place.
Nancy was a lesser person, and she knew it. Bruce was kind, so kind to put up with her, to have admitted a cripple into his home. His rage soon after their marriage at the discovery that Nancy was barren and would be unable to deliver his children into the world had been understandable. The disappointment was mighty. If Nancy had known, she would not have married him. She never could have been that knowingly selfish. Bruce’s anger was acceptable. It was the devil who poisoned the wombs of the unworthy; it was the devil Bruce raged against. Nancy had accepted all that. She’d welcomed it. A husband who will cleanse his wife’s impurities is a treasure to cherish. Bruce was so good to her. He was magnificent in his disappointment. He was full where she was empty. The world had no idea what a precious messenger of Truth it had in Bruce Spicer. God bless him, Nancy thought as she cupped her first handful of pills. Take care of him. I have failed in every aspect of my life. I am too weak. I can’t face those other people anymore. Their eyes. Their disgust. I am too confused now. How can I sit in judgment? The devil has put me here, and he is enjoying my misery. He is enjoying the mess I am making of things. Bruce has told me so. But…but I will not be his agent. I will crush his enjoyment. Bruce will understand. He will not be angry, but he’ll rejoice in this one selfless act that I have managed to perform in my entire life. My entire crippled, useless life.
The lights of Times Square outside Nancy Spicer’s window had never looked so remarkable, like an array of colored stars in a close-up universe. They blurred and merged. Angels, Nancy thought woozily. Angels forming my bed. Her arms were covered with tears. She wondered if she had ever been so happy. Bruce will be proud. He’ll be so proud. The bed of lights was swimming. Swinging. Like a hammock. Nancy made a sound that was intended to be a laugh. It came out as a sob. Followed by another. Then came the pain. The devil clamped his red fists onto her abdomen, and his barbed fingers dug into her useless womb. An agony like none she had ever experienced or could have ever imagined rose up in her belly, and she was struck with unspeakable fear. She fell back from the window and began beating her fists against her belly, trying to make the pain stop. She began to convulse. Her last conscious thought was the horror of seeing, right there in her belly, the devil’s gnarled hand digging and twisting and probing. On his vile hand was the wedding ring. Shiny and gold. One she knew very, very well.
PETER ELLIOTT PHONED ME with the news in the morning.
“My foreperson is in a coma,” he said. “Life doth suck.”
I met Peter out in front of Saint Vincent’s. The media was well represented. So was the NYPD. Vehicles parked every which way. I spotted Kelly Cole standing on the corner of Twelfth and Seventh, speaking into her cell phone. When she saw me, she raised a manicured finger, mouthing for me to hang tight.
A dark car had just pulled up to a fire hydrant. “Are you sure it’s not the pope they’ve got in there?” I said to Peter. Lewis Gottlieb was climbing out of the back.
“Lewis and I have to get inside,” Peter said. “Bruce Spicer is in there threatening to explode. This whole thing is headed for the toilet.”
“I’ll catch up to you.”
Kelly Cole flipped her phone closed and stepped over to me. The coat itself must have cost a few thousand bucks. It was long and tan and cut like something for a Russian czarina.
“Did you get the flowers I sent to you in the hospital?” she asked.
I told her I hadn’t.
“That’s because I didn’t send any.” She laughed. “I did try to call you, though.”
“I got that. I called you back, but you weren’t in. I didn’t feel like leaving a message.”
“So tell me, who dumped you into the river?”
“You know what? The gentleman never stopped to give me his name.”
“But he’s a suspect in Zachary’s murder, isn’t he?”
“Come on, Kelly. I chase bad guys for lunch.”
“The short way to say that is ‘No comment.’”
“‘No comment’ is shorthand for ‘yes.’”
“So is he a suspect?”
“Nice coat, Kelly. Is that wool or synthetic?”
“Come on. Give a girl a break, will you? At least tell me whether you’re investigating the murders. That’s not a state secret, is it?”
“No comment. Yes. No.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to make a living, for Christ’s sake. The police are completely constipated on the whole thing. I’m only trying to assure my audience that someone is making some progress. Can’t you just tell me, off the record, who it was that got the jump on a tough guy like you?”
“I like that. Take a compliment and split it in two. I told you, I honestly don’t know the man’s name. All I know is that it appears he’s been stalking a friend of Robin Burrell’s. I wanted to talk to him about Robin, but he got all shy on me.”
“What’s this I’m hearing about another phone threat? Do you know anything about that?”
I looked past Kelly and spotted Megan Lamb crossing at the corner. “There’s your chief investigator. Why don’t you go collect some no-comments from her?”
Kelly followed my gaze. “The Lambinator. I can’t figure that one out. She’s gay, you know.”
“Well, hey, you figured that part out.” As Megan angled in our direction, I whispered, “Say something nice about her hair.”
“As if.”
Megan came over to us. “Any word?”
“Something about the jury foreperson in a coma,” I said. “Apparent suicide attempt. I just got here.”
“I got the call as I was leaving my apartment. I live just over on Hudson.” She acknowledged the reporter. “Morning, Ms. Cole. Any scoops you’d like to share with us?”
“You took the question right out of my mouth.”
“Has the juror’s name leaked yet?”
Kelly shook her head. “No. Would you care to leak it for me, Detective?”
“Don’t worry. Hospitals are sieves. It’ll come out. When it does, I suppose you’re ready to contribute to the shutting down of this trial.”
“I do my job, Detective. You do your job. Mine is reporting the facts.”
“Sometimes your job makes my job ten times harder.”
“I pass information on to the citizens. That’s how a free society works.”
Megan turned to me. “Little early for a civics lesson, don’t you think? Come on.” She started for the emergency room doors.
“Uck foo you too, sister,” Kelly murmured as I turned and followed.
“You all right?” I asked Megan as we entered the hospital.
“Not relevant,” she snapped.
Bruce Spicer was a man surrounded. Seated against the far wall in a visiting area down the hall from the ICU, he was nearly drowning in members of Marshall Fox’s defense team. Peter Elliott and Lewis Gottlieb stood nearby. A dozen cops, a doctor and several other people I couldn’t identify were part of the cluster. Spicer was talking as Megan and I added to the crowd. Actually, he wasn’t talking. He was railing.
“Why in the world should I not speak my mind? My wife has been kept in virtual incarceration for nearly three months, forced to undergo torture and abuse at the hands of state-appointed imbeciles who don’t seem to know which hole their heads are supposed to pop out of. Let me tell you something right now, I am tired. I am sick and tired and disgusted at the bend-over-backward efforts to so-called protect the so-called rights of a rapist and fornicator and murderer! Who’s nuts here? Is it me? Have I landed on a backward planet? The man is a despicable sinner. He is guilty of all the charges. Not to mention a whole lot more that the state has been too lily-livered to even bother to bring. I’m sick of it. I’m disgusted. I’m fed up. My wife is on death’s doorstep, thanks to you people!”
He sent an accusing finger around the room, punctuating the air as he aimed it at every single person present. Even Megan and I got stabbed.
“You are all guilty of sending my wife to the grave, if that’s where this ends up. So are those eleven ninnies you saw fit to put into the jury box with her. I’m telling you this: you lawyers-you want some work? It’s coming. I’m coming. Are you ready? I’m coming strong. I’ll get you a whole big pile of work to do.” He counted off on his fingers. “I am suing the city. I am suing the state. I am suing the ninnies. And you can damn well be certain I am suing KBS Television and the company that owns it and Mr. Marshall Fox and that prostitute wife of his!”
I looked over at Megan and mouthed, “Prostitute?”
Megan answered in a low voice, “You might want to tell that reporter friend of yours. I think that’s a scoop.”
Spicer looked out over his small crowd. “Where are the reporters? I’m sick of talking to you people. I need to speak to the God-fearing Christians out there. Some people with common sense. They need to hear what I’m saying. Those women who were killed last year were whores! Marshall Fox is an indiscriminate fornicator. Let the swine go down with the swine. Why should taxpayer dollars be spent on any of this? Why should my wife be sent to her death on account of a pack of godless sinners? Where’s the press? We need to get the word out. Have you got them locked out? I guess they’re in on the conspiracy with the rest of you heathens. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of it all. Ye shall know my strength and ye shall fear my wrath, you sniveling pack of whores!”
Lewis Gottlieb stepped forward. His demeanor was impeccably calm and civil. “Mr. Spicer, I hear all that you’re saying. I honestly do. This is a terribly delicate situation. I feel horrible about what has happened to your wife. Matters should not have been allowed to reach such a point, and on behalf of the court and the state of New York, I want to apologize personally to you and your family. But please, we need to contain the damage here, we don’t-”
Spicer interrupted. “Gottlieb, is that right?”
The attorney inclined his head. “That’s correct.”
“I’ll be suing you, too! Personally!”
The attorney demurred. “What you need right now is to be alone with your wife. This is not the time to be raising a holy fuss. Your wife’s health should be your only concern right now. If there is-”
“My wife’s health had better be your concern. All of yours. Is anybody listening to me? I want to talk to the press, and I want to do it right now! What’s going on here? Am I under some sort of house arrest?”
Peter spoke up. “Mr. Spicer, we really do not want this trial to fall apart. The wise thing is to wait until we’ve heard from Judge Deveraux-”
“Him?” You’d have thought Spicer had just stepped on a land mine. “Sweet Jesus and Mary, the man in the black robes. I wouldn’t cross the street to spit on him.”
Lewis Gottlieb had had enough. “You are a contentious low-life little shit is what you are.”
As the attorney started forward, Spicer leaped to his feet. “I don’t think any killer of the Lord Our Christ is going to judge me one iota.” He grabbed the chair he’d just been sitting in. Before he could lift it, Peter Elliott lunged forward and grabbed hold of it. Spicer tried to yank it free, but Peter had a good grip. With his free hand, he tried to move Gottlieb back, but the elderly gentleman tripped on his own feet and went tumbling to the floor. Spicer cried out.
“Baby killer! Heathen pig!”
Peter sunk his fist hard into Spicer’s stomach. The man doubled over and the police leaped into action, two of them taking hold of Spicer while another one pulled Peter away from him. Spicer continued bellowing, “Heathens! Blasphemers!”
Peter snarled at him, “Just shut the hell up, would you?” as the policeman guided him over to the far wall. Lewis Gottlieb was helped to his feet. He slid into a chair. Spicer was still thrashing to free himself of the police grip, and he attempted to kick the elder attorney, but the police jerked him out of range. Gottlieb waved a freckled hand in the air, like a wizard concluding a spell.
“Please take that man away from here. I’d like to consider assault charges. Please detain him somewhere until this has been sorted out.”
Spit was flying from Spicer’s mouth. “I demand to see my lawyer!”
Gottlieb dusted off the arms of his jacket and addressed the man. “Luckily for you, Mr. Spicer, there are plenty of lawyers who would cross the street to spit on you.”
He waved his hand again at the policemen. “For goodness’ sake, take him away.”
LEWIS GOTTLIEB WAS CHIDING his protégé.
“You’ve got to let a man like that put his own fool head in the noose. He’ll do it. He did it. I sacrificed my can, and then you come along and actually assault the damn fool. What in the world were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry, Lewis. It was the slur.”
“Oh, the slur. Screw the slur. You think I haven’t lived my entire life on the edge of a slur? I could care less at this point. Especially from a psycho like our Mr. Spicer. The point is that now he can charge you with assault.”
“The list of charges Bruce Spicer wants to bring is so long it’ll take him a year to get around to that one.”
“Let’s hope.”
Megan and I were sitting with the two lawyers in the hospital cafeteria. Gottlieb, it turned out, had smacked his elbow fairly hard on the floor when he’d gone down and had injured it somewhat. The attorney’s jacket was hung carefully on the back of his chair, and the left sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to his biceps so he could hold an ice pack to the injury. Peter was looking glum. He knew he’d screwed up in attacking Spicer. Gottlieb’s demeanor was surprisingly wily.
“The trial’s sunk, that’s obvious,” the elder attorney declared. “Bruce Spicer’s big mouth is not going to be denied. And a forewoman with a husband like that? If Fred Willis doesn’t demand that Sam declare a mistrial, I will. This is the most hackneyed affair I have ever been involved with.”
Peter groaned. “New trial. I think I’ll just shoot myself now. How are we going to pull that off? The entire country’s been handicapping this one up close and personal. What rock are we going to look under to get an untainted jury at this point?”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be your problem, young squirrel,” Gottlieb said. “I’ve got eighteen holes calling my name, and this time they will not be denied. It would have been nice to add Mr. Fox’s pelt to my collection, the self-righteous son of a bitch. But don’t worry, Peter. The groundwork’s been laid. The country knows what kind of sicko Fox really is. You’ll be fine. Detective Lamb here and Joe Gallo did a superb job of boxing that little prick into the corner, and the evidence isn’t going anywhere. We’ll take some public relations hits, no doubt about that. You’ll get your usual clamor that mistrial means the man must be innocent. Just ignore all that. Don’t get caught up in the sideshows. That’s all an idiot like Bruce Spicer is, a sideshow. And there’s your irony. Spicer hates Marshall Fox’s guts, but all he and his wife have succeeded in doing is giving the man a whole new day in court. Spicer’s got his agenda over here and his brains out in West China somewhere.” He turned to me. “Now that you’ve seen him in action, is my idea so crazy?”
Megan asked, “What idea is that?”
Peter explained, “Lewis believes we should be considering whether Spicer had something to do with Zachary’s and Robin Burrell’s killings.”
Gottlieb interjected, “Not ‘something to do with.’ Stop pussyfooting around, Peter. My contention, Ms. Lamb, is that Bruce Spicer’s our killer.”
Megan turned to me. “You were looking into this?”
“Lewis mentioned his theory to me the day I got dunked in the East River. I haven’t really had a chance to pursue it.”
Gottlieb lowered the ice pack. “We’ve got nothing to contain at this point-not after Nancy Spicer’s gesture. I suggest very strongly that you and your boss look into this. The man’s a fanatical anti-abortionist, and Ms. Burrell admitted on the stand to those two abortions. Not just one but two.”
“What about Riddick?”
“Lifestyle, Ms. Lamb. Our Mr. Spicer is fond of words like ‘heathen’ and ‘fornicator.’ Our dear departed Zachary surely falls into these categories.”
I turned to Megan. “What do you think?”
She steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them. Her gaze bored through the table to the floor below. “Something Spicer said just now. Upstairs…” She let the sentence drift off, unfinished.
“What?”
“Oh my God!” She looked up sharply. “Did you hear it? When he was going on about suing everyone? ‘I’m coming.’ I knew there was something that’s been nagging me.”
Peter’s mouth dropped slowly open. “My God. You’re joking.”
“I’m not. It’s what he said. ‘I’m coming.’ The same voice. ‘Can you taste the blood?’” Megan’s eyes traveled from face to face as the meaning sank in.
Four chairs screeched abruptly away from the table.
HE WAS GONE.
After his rant, Spicer had been escorted from the visiting area to the room that was being readied for his wife. Nancy Spicer had emerged from her coma nearly simultaneously to her husband’s histrionic display in the visiting area, and according to the aides who wheeled her up from the ICU, Bruce Spicer had whispered something in her ear, given her a squeeze on the shoulder and exited the room. A quick search of the floor told us that he was no longer on it.
“I’m going downstairs,” Megan said. “I’ll put in a call from one of the cruisers. He can’t have gotten far.”
Peter wasn’t so confident. “He could be on a subway. He could be headed anywhere.”
“We’ll flood the Port Authority,” I said. “We’ll alert the airports. Airport security will pluck him out in a heartbeat. Don’t worry. He’s stuck in the boroughs. Plus, you saw him. The man’s like a mad chicken. He won’t be able to hide.”
I joined Megan. We took the stairs two at a time. As we approached the hospital’s front door, I had a thought, and I pulled up short. “Allison Jennings.”
“What about her?”
“Spicer called her. He threatened her. We still don’t know why.” I pulled out my cell phone. “I’m going to see if I can get ahold of her. See if the name means anything to her.”
“I’ll be outside.”
I had to track around in the lobby before I could get a decent signal. I leaned up against a wall engraved with the names of financial Samaritans and pulled Allison Jenning’s card from my wallet. Something felt peculiar as I punched in the numbers. Just before the final one-a four-I realized why it felt peculiar. I shifted my thumb over one number and hit the five instead. It picked up on the second ring.
“Kelly Cole.”
Son of a bitch. That was it.
“Kelly, It’s Fritz. Where are you?”
“I’m still outside the hospital, why?”
“I want you to put your hand lovingly on your pretty throat.”
“My…what are you talking about?”
“And then I want you to say a prayer to whatever God you believe in.”
“I don’t believe in any of them.”
I switched ears, huddling in to the wall to fix the reception. “You might want to reconsider that stance, sweetheart. Just a heads-up.”
THE DIN WAS LIKE the amplified chewing of an army of ants, but it was only Brasserie on a Saturday night. Above the long sleek bar ran a bank of brushed chrome video monitors, ten in all, displaying in black-and-white stop-action the comings and goings of patrons, captured by a small video camera mounted just inside the glass entrance. The trip from the first monitor to the tenth and final one took about twenty seconds. It was a novelty that never failed to crane necks. Caught on hidden camera. (“There you are! That’s you!”) From Patty “Tania” Hearst to Princess Di at the Paris Ritz, no one can get enough of it.
Sometime shortly after eight-thirty, the image of Rosemary Fox pushing through the glass door began its stuttering trip along the monitors. She was accompanied by Alan and Gloria Ross. No one at the bar seemed to recognize Marshall Fox’s wife on the screen. However, diners seated at their tables turned their heads and watched as Rosemary and the Rosses were ushered to a table in the far corner of the large loud room. The Rosses took a seat on either side of Rosemary, who looked pale and angry, even behind her blue-tinted sunglasses. She also looked lovely in her $10,000 Versace “smock,” her thick hair falling nearly to her elbows. The hostess had given the invisible signal, and by the time the three were settling in, a basket of cracked poppy-seed bread was being slid onto the table, a deep blue bottle of sparkling water was landing on the linen, and a frog-faced man in a deliberately oversize silk blouse was folding his hands together and silently kissing the air in front of him as he crooned, “How might I please you with cocktails this evening?”
Rosemary answered that one. “Double vodka martini. Three olives. Tell your man he’s never built one so dry. Tell him also to wait approximately seven minutes and then build another one. No olives in that one.”
The frog-faced man practically snapped his heels. “The lady knows what she wants.”
“Yes.” Rosemary sighed. “The lady does, at that.”
Samuel Deveraux was going to declare a mistrial. This wasn’t officially official, but it was what Fred Willis had all but guaranteed when he’d phoned Rosemary earlier in the day. Something about the jury foreperson wigging out. A suicide attempt? Rosemary hadn’t paid much attention to the details. Apparently, the husband was a nut. That much was abundantly clear. There was even a rumor making the rounds that he was wanted for questioning in the murders of Zachary and the Quaker girl. As of early evening, the man was not yet in custody. Rosemary had also received a phone call from that woman detective, the one who had put Marshall under arrest in May. Real balls on that little gal, Rosemary thought, making that call herself. The detective had wanted to tell Rosemary about the juror’s husband, equivocating on whether she thought the man was really the murderer everyone was looking for, but she did feel confident that he was the one who had left the crude message on Rosemary’s phone machine. “A friendly warning, Mrs. Fox. You might want to be extra-cautious until we bring him in.”
Alan and Gloria Ross sat silently, waiting for their cue from Rosemary. Rosemary was only slightly difficult to read behind the blue sunglasses. Her left index finger was tapping rapidly on her folded napkin, and her perfect chin was dipped slightly. Ross couldn’t help but steal a glance at her breasts, pale and full, nudging the silver fabric of the dress. Familiarity with Rosemary Fox had bred no lack of astonishment on Ross’s part at how beautiful and sensual the woman was, even wound tight as a clock, as she clearly was this evening.
Gloria was giving her husband a signal: a head bob in Rosemary’s direction. Ross reached over and placed his hand over Rosemary’s fingers, snuffing out her nervous tapping.
“I know a new trial seems like just about the worst thing on earth, honey,” he said in as soothing a tone as he could muster in the noisy restaurant. “It pushes the time line way back for getting your life back to normal, I know that. But that jury was getting more and more freaked by the minute, Rose. They could have easily come in with a guilty verdict, you have to remember that. Marshall could be in the stew this very minute, but he’s not. We all live to fight another day.”
He glanced at his wife, who nodded nearly imperceptibly. Ross continued, “That’s how you have to look at it, Rose. And there’ll be no surprises the next time. We’ve all seen what they’ve got. Fred can work with that.” He patted her hand again. “You’ll see. Fred says there’s a decent argument for getting Marshall out on bail now. It ain’t gonna be cheap, honey. But think of it. Marshall free. That would be huge.”
Rosemary’s martini arrived, along with a pair of gin and tonics for the Rosses. The frog-faced man started to make nice with his customers, but Gloria caught his eye and waved him off with barely a movement.
Rosemary took up her drink. The Rosses followed suit.
“To Marshall,” Gloria said.
As they toasted-somewhat lacklusterly-Rosemary spotted two men sitting several tables away, staring at her. Good-looking men. Rosemary lowered her glass and picked out one of the olives, making just a bit more out of sucking it into her mouth than was called for.
God, she thought. I am such a cunt.
Gloria was talking now. Rosemary wasn’t tuning in fully. More about Marshall this, Marshall that, future this, future that. Rosemary trained her eyes in the direction of Gloria’s face, just to look as if she were listening. Who was this woman kidding? Future? Future? Okay, Rosemary had a future. She had a lot of future, for that matter, as well as a lot of ideas about how she would like to spend it. She had no intention of bungling any more of her time than she already had. Rosemary was kind of surprised to hear Gloria talking that way. Gloria was in the business, she knew how a future could be cut short like that. She had to know full well that there would be no Marshall Fox after all this, whatever the outcome and whenever this endless tedious soap opera of a trial finally ran its course. Rosemary didn’t mean to be cold about it, only realistic. Marshall Fox was dead.
Rosemary finished off her drink. The frog-faced man appeared as if by magic, bringing her second martini on a tray.
“You tell your man he is making me happy,” Rosemary said.
The frog-faced man made a flourish. A laugh traveled about the table. The beautiful woman shared a smile with her dinner guests, both of whom responded eagerly. The good-looking men at the other table were still looking at her. Rosemary picked up her drink, tipping it ever so slightly in their direction, and allowed them the tiniest of smiles. Men. She thought about what was waiting for her back at the apartment. Her best-kept secret. She had to laugh. The lucky bastard would never have it so good again, that was for sure. He was probably not the future for too much longer, though that wasn’t important right now. Right now he was still there-that was the point-willing to cater to her whims. The power of a woman can be almost frightening. Rosemary never tired of marveling at it. She knew she’d have to start putting distance between the two of them. She’d waited way too long already. But for Christ’s sake, her husband was behind bars. What was she supposed to do, shave her head and find a convent? Rosemary anticipated some trouble when the time came for her to lay down the law. There’d be a scene; he’d already surprised her with his ability to make scenes. She realized she’d better start devising her plan of action now, just to be on the safe side.
The menus arrived. Yet another waiter. Rosemary held the single sheet down near her cutlery and looked over the options. The waiter was reeling off a list of specials, each one more elaborate and yummy-sounding than the next. There was an appetizer special of oysters. Rosemary envisioned the ugly little things. Floating in their own milky swill. Presented in those gnarly misshapen shells. The things people chose to consider special. The emperor’s new oysters. She thought they tasted disgusting. Squishy slime. Like swallowing someone’s mucus.
“I’ll have those,” Rosemary said. “The oysters.” A giddy thought came to her mind. No. Yes. Must be the martini. She reached out both arms, graceful and swanlike, and placed her fingers on Alan’s and Gloria’s hands, eliciting a smile from each of them. She looked back up at the waiter.
“And please. Offer a serving to every table here, could you? I’d like to do that for everybody.”
I NOTED THAT the faint scar running along Jigs Dugan’s jaw was picking up the blue from the neon Canadian beer sign in the window behind him. The man who had given Jigs that scar some fifteen years back had lived just long enough to regret it. Jigs shocked not a few people by attending the man’s viewing, at Campbell’s funeral home on the Upper East Side. His face half hidden in a sloppy bandage, Jigs had pulled out his knife while bowing his head at the casket and quietly run the blade along the polished mahogany. Gave it a three-inch cut. Just like his scar. Tit for tat, if you don’t take into account what Jigs had already done to the man.
Jigs was wearing a gray Irish sweater under a herringbone jacket. His cheeks were clean-shaven, and a comb seemed to have found a way into his hair. Argyle socks and black shoes that picked up the light. He handed me a slip of paper with an address jotted down on it.
“Our boy’s name is John Michael Pratt. He’s a painter, though not of the Rembrandt school. Mainly houses and apartments. That is, when he’s not enjoying the largesse of the state.”
“Largesse of the state. This would mean prison time?”
Jigs smiled across the table at me. “Maybe one day I’ll marry you, you’re such a smart fellow. Exactly. Our John Michael likes to steal things that don’t belong to him. Sometimes people try to stop him and he knocks them down. The last time he did this, he used an iron pipe. Two darling girls have a halfwit daddy as a result of that little maneuver.”
The address was on Nineteenth Street, near the FDR Drive. Jigs and I were at a bar on Twenty-first.
“I took a quick look,” Jigs said. “Door’s got a bit of a rattle. I wouldn’t want to be stashing the Hope Diamond or anything in there, if you see what I mean.”
I folded the piece of paper and put it in my shirt pocket. “You were fast on this.”
“I was. I gave you the full-court press. Belated Christmas gift.”
“I thank you.”
Jigs gave a two-fingered salute. “As the lady said to Bogie, if there’s anything else, just whistle.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Be sure you do. You’re not up to your hundred percent, that’s clear.”
“You’re looking sporty,” I said.
“It’s Saturday night, lad. Maybe you can’t remember anymore, it’s still the night for peacocks.”
“So what are your plans for the evening?”
Jigs ran a finger along his chin. “It’s the city that never sleeps. I suppose I’ll stay up and keep it company. Don’t you worry on my account. I can always put together a dance card.”
GETTING INTO Pratt’s building was a simple matter of leaning against the vestibule door and giving it a sharp shove. A sour smell greeted me in the hallway. A buzzing fluorescent tube sent a harsh white light down from the flaky ceiling. I took the stairs in front of me to the top floor. The sour smell was less pungent here than it was downstairs. The hallway was dimly lit by a half-dozen sad wall sconces that gave off a dull buttery glow.
I pulled my gun.
Pratt’s apartment was at the end of the hallway: 5C. A television was on in one of the apartments across the way. Chatter. Laughter. More chatter. More laughter. A nontelevised male voice called out something, and a woman’s voice answered, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.
I had a plastic bag with me. I set it down and put my ear to Pratt’s door. I heard nothing. I kept my ear there a full minute, picking up vibrations from the building, a few hums, a sound like distant ice breaking. Nothing else.
I tried the doorknob. It turned partway, but the door didn’t open. After another minute, I knocked on the door and called out, “John!”
No answer. I tried the doorknob again and pumped the door. It rattled. Just like Jigs had said. “John!”
I put away my gun and picked up the bag and took from it a hard rubber mallet Jigs had been kind enough to bring along when we met at the bar. Taking aim at the dead-bolt keyhole, I swung the mallet, using all the single-pointed focus I could muster, which proved sufficient. The doorjamb splintered, and the lock went askew under the mallet. When I turned the doorknob this time, the door swung easily open.
The man’s perversity was in his bedroom. Photographs and clippings-hundreds of them, all over the walls. Asian girls and women. Hardly a bare square inch to be found. Many of the pictures had been ripped from skin magazines and featured naked and semi-naked women rising up on their knees, bent over spread-eagle, cavorting on a bed wearing high heels, arching their backs on lounge chairs, peering dead-eyed from a hammock, on and on. Just as many had been pulled from regular magazines. Fashion models. Movie actresses. Asian teens dressed in retro American schoolgirl outfits. The pictures were taped onto all four walls of the small room. Many of them had been outlined in thick red Magic Marker. On some of them, the marker had been held on the picture to bleed splotches on the breasts or the crotches of the women. There were also Magic Marker phalluses drawn all over the place, disembodied torpedoes prodding at the images.
Moving farther into the room, I felt the eyes of the hundreds of girls and women on me, tracking me as I stepped over to the bed. Stacks of ravaged magazines and Asian-language newspapers were piled next to the bed. What interested me was a cluster of pictures taped together on the closet door just to the left of the bed. They were all the same picture. I counted seventeen of them. It was a color photograph that had been cut from the pages of a glossy magazine, maybe People or Us, from the look of it. One of those types. The photograph featured two women. One of them was wearing a pair of sunglasses and walking down a sidewalk with her head lowered, in evident distress. She was clearly trying to avoid having her picture taken. Next to her was a young Asian woman in calf-high leather boots and a short pink winter coat, her hair pulled back and tied with a bright yellow scarf. I noticed a scarf identical to the one in the picture knotted around Pratt’s closet doorknob. The Asian woman’s arm was around the other woman, and she was consoling her. In all seventeen of the pictures, the Asian woman had been outlined in thick red Magic Marker. The phalluses appeared on a few of the pictures.
The woman in the sunglasses was Robin Burrell.
The other woman was Michelle Poole.
I went back into the front room and closed the apartment door. I pulled a roll of duct tape from the bag and did what I could to tape the dead bolt on and the splintered door back into place. No one was going to be fooled; I just wanted to get things so that I could engage the lock again, even though a simple push would open the door. A very iffy alarm system.
I flipped over one of the cushions of the ratty couch and sat down to wait for him. Rats always return to their holes. I could practically feel the presence of all those hundreds of girls and women crowded onto the walls. They say everyone should have a hobby, but I was somewhat less than impressed by Pratt’s. No wonder Michelle Poole had felt creeped out. People don’t necessarily have to see someone to know that they’re being watched. The hair on the back of the neck. The unexplained fear that wants to become a panic. Lord only knows how many other women besides Michelle had sensed a pair of unwelcome eyes consuming them as they moved about the city. I thought of Pratt’s face. Ratface. Scurrying around the city like a oneman infestation, then coming home and going into his tiny room to encourage his infection. My hand tightened around the rubber mallet in my lap. My pistol sat right next to it. The pulsing in my temples wasn’t too bad, considering. Didn’t really matter, in fact. I welcomed it.
I WAS ASLEEP when he came in.
I had dozed off. It was only my so-called alarm that alerted me. The sound of the door rattling woke me.
“What the-?”
The door swung open as I struggled to get up from the low couch. My gun fell to the floor. Pratt stepped into the room. I stood there with the rubber mallet in my grip. I was the intruder, but I had the mallet. Pratt took a step forward, then I saw his eyes noticing the gun at my feet. He turned and took off, racing back out of the apartment. I heard his feet pounding down the hallway, then I heard a grunt and the sound of something hitting the floor. This was followed by a low murmuring. Then silence.
I bent down and retrieved my gun. I checked my watch: 2:10 in the morning. I’d slept like a baby. No dreams that I could remember. I checked to see that nothing had fallen out of my pockets and slipped behind the cushions. All clear. I stood a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to come back to normal, then I left the apartment and made my way up to the roof.
He was on the ground. Jigs had him by the shoulders and was dragging him along the gravelly surface as I emerged from the stairwell.
“Nice of you to join us, sweetheart. You want to lend a hand, or are you just here to watch?”
Pratt’s hands were tied behind his back. The pervert’s face was a mess. Jigs is a kicker. Pratt’s nose and mouth were nearly indistinguishable. A single splotch of red and gristle. He was moaning very softly.
“He can breathe, can’t he? I don’t want him choking on his own teeth.”
“Your kindness always touches me, Fritzy,” Jigs said. He followed this with a hard kick to Pratt’s throat. He leaned down. “Are we breathing, John Michael? Anything we can do to clear your passages?” He grabbed Pratt by the shoulders again. “Help me here.”
I stepped over and grabbed the man’s rubbery legs, and together Jigs and I carried him to the edge of the roof. Jigs positioned Pratt so that his bloodied head was dangling over the side of the roof, five flights above the sidewalk. He kicked the man’s legs apart and settled himself between them, grabbing hold of Pratt’s belt.
“Row row row your boat.” Jigs inched his way forward on his tail, letting gravity assist as Pratt’s torso began making its way over the edge of the roof. Jigs continued wiggling forward until Pratt was halfway over the roof. Jigs had his heels dug in hard, keeping a good grip on the belt, leaning back as far as he could as a counterweight.
“Tickle me, Fritz. Go ahead.”
From below the roofline, Pratt let out a holler. He sounded something like a moose in labor. Even in the pale moonlight, I could see Jigs’s face gone red with the effort of holding on.
“I’d like to see if he’ll bounce, Fritz. Just give me the word.”
I stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. There was no one on the sidewalk below us. No one was watching. The mallet was still in my hand. I closed my eyes and saw seventeen pictures of Robin and Michelle taped on a closet door. Jigs was speaking in his low, seductive voice.
“He stabbed you, isn’t that so? This man tried to kill you. He put you in the river. The Good Lord only knows what else he did. I don’t think we need a man like this on this good earth, I really don’t.”
I opened my eyes. Jigs was tilted so far back his head was nearly touching the graveled roof. His eyes were wide and white in the moonlight.
“Well?”
I shook my head. “Reel him in.” I dropped the mallet and grabbed hold of Pratt’s belt and jerked him back onto the roof. He was blubbering, snot and blood in equal measure. I got hold of the lapels of his coat and jerked him onto his knees. I got right into his face, disgusting as it was.
“What do you want to tell me about Robin Burrell?” I jerked on his lapels. “What do you want to tell me, Pratt? You can either tell me or you can tell my friend here. Are you clear on this? It’s your choice.”
There was a stench of beer mixed in with the smell of blood. I had to turn my head to get a hit of fresh air. Jigs was on his feet, wiping gravel off the back of his pants. Pratt made a sound.
“What was that? I missed that.”
“Never. Touched her.”
“Never touched who? Never touched Robin? Or are you talking about Michelle now?”
“Nobody. Never touched nobody.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you? Is that it? Just take your word for it?” I rattled him again. He moved in my hands as if he were boneless. “You don’t have a healthy take on women, John. You’re aware of that, aren’t you? Did Robin Burrell excite you? Did she piss you off? What was it? Were you jealous because she was friends with Michelle? Did you want to be friends with Michelle? Was that it? Was Robin standing in your way?”
His eyes found a semblance of focus on my face, one eye more than the other. “You’re out of your mind.”
I jerked my hands and brought his head down hard on the roof. It bounced once, then fell back to the gravel. I stood up and went back down to Pratt’s apartment and fetched the roll of duct tape I’d used to rig up the dead bolt. I noticed a skylight in the kitchen. I went back into the bedroom and got a half-dozen T-shirts from the dresser. Back on the roof, I knotted the T-shirts together. I located the skylight over Pratt’s kitchen and kicked in some of the glass. Along with the duct tape and the knotted T-shirts, Jigs and I secured the man to the metal framing of the skylight. Jigs wanted to snap his knees and tape his legs up in a funny way, but I persuaded him to back off.
Before we left the roof, I taped one of the police sketches to Pratt’s back. I scribbled a note on it: SPECIAL DELIVERY. JOSEPH P. GALLO. Jigs and I made our way downstairs and called the police from an all-night diner on Twenty-third Street. We told the woman on the other end of the phone that there was a package for Joe Gallo and where to find it. I was famished and asked Jigs if he wanted something to eat. I planned on something with lots of carbs and lots of protein and lots of fat. Jigs demurred.
“I’ve got to see a man about a dog,” he said, producing a comb and moving it over his wavy black hair.
“What man?”
“Well, it’s not really a man,” he said. He gave me the smile so many mothers fear. “Not really a dog, either.”
THE ACTRESS Greer Garson was balanced on the branch of an apple tree, laughing that little-bells laugh of hers and jogging the branch in order to send a cascade of apples falling to the ground. That’s where I was, standing below her. Scores of war planes darkened the sky overhead, but the lovely Miss Garson was oblivious. Look out belooow, she sang as the apples plummeted earthward. I’d just caught one of them and was about to bite into it when the ringing telephone fought its way into my consciousness. Greer Garson and her apples dissolved.
I dragged the phone onto the bed, hoping in my guilty haze that it wasn’t Margo. It wasn’t. It was Joe Gallo.
“Did I wake you?”
“You ask that with a smile in your voice.”
“I wanted to thank you for the package.”
“The…? Right. Anytime.”
“I’m not going to ask you how you were able to track down our friend so quickly.”
“I have elves.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
I threw the blankets off and brought my feet to the floor. I don’t use the word “rarified” too often, but that was how the light in my room felt. I cranked my eyes open. Snow was falling steadily outside the window.
“Your special delivery arrived pretty banged up,” Gallo said. “I guess he offered some resistance.”
I took the phone to the window. It was a beautiful snowfall. “Joe, it was so long ago.”
“So do you want to ask me the sixty-four-dollar question, or should I just tell you?”
I knew the answer already. “Pratt didn’t do it.”
“Is that a guess, or do you actually know something?”
“It’s a guess,” I said. “What I do know is that it’s probably a good one. This guy had a hard-on for Asian women. Robin Burrell was zilch to him. Not to mention Riddick.”
“He’s got an alibi for Robin. His parole officer.”
I shouldered the phone to crack the window. White sparks of snow leaped in under my fingers, along with a welcome blast of cold air. “That’s a good alibi. One of the best.”
“We’re filing attempted murder charges against Mr. Pratt. I hope that makes you happy.”
“My heart frolics on sylvan clouds.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing, I’m just being not so clever. So tell me, any word on Bruce Spicer? Have you hauled him in?”
“Not yet.” Gallo paused. “Not that I’m on silver clouds about that.”
“Sylvan.”
“Whatever. We’ll get him. He’s been making calls to the media. He’s talked three different times that we know of to Jimmy Puck. If you want to call it ‘talk.’ More of the raving-lunatic garbage Megan told me about yesterday.”
“How’s Nancy Spicer doing? What’s her condition?”
“It looks like she’ll be fine. We’re having Saint Vincent’s hang on to her until we’ve tucked her husband away.”
“Let’s hope that’s soon.”
“Sooner than soon,” Gallo said.
“Right.”
I hung up the phone and stood another minute or so watching the snowfall. It really couldn’t have been prettier. A part of me wanted to stand there all day watching it coming down. That’s the part that the other part of me always disappoints.
ROSEMARY FOX LEFT the man lying in bed. He didn’t stir as she slid out from under the deadweight of his arm. She crossed to the closet and put on the green satin robe. As she knotted the sash, she saw that one of her nails had broken.
“Shit.”
She looked over at the bed. He hadn’t moved. He was lying on his front, diagonally across the bed. Hog, Rosemary thought. One of his feet jutted out over the edge of the mattress. Size thirteen, as he was always so fond of remarking. The foot had patches of dark hair along the top, as well as wiry tufts sprouting below the toe knuckles. I’m fucking an ape, Rosemary said to herself. I moved from a cowboy to an ape. Where do I go from here? She laughed inwardly as she thought about the Turkish race-car driver she’d met recently. Maybe I can get him to run over my dear little ape. She thought of the Turk’s hands and the strength it must take to keep control of a machine tearing around a track at those insane speeds. She imagined the strong hands gripping her shoulders and how much she’d have to struggle to free herself from them. That had been one of the disappointments with Marshall; he’d been nowhere near as physical as she’d anticipated. She thought they grew ’em tougher out there on the ranch. Marshall had never lacked for invention, she’d grant him that-a hell of a lot more sexual creativity than the sleeping ape-but in the end, ideas are only as good as their execution. At least the ape had delivered. You couldn’t take that away from him.
Rosemary moved into the front room, where she saw that it was snowing. She crossed the checked tiles, grabbing up matches and a pack of cigarettes from the glass table as she swept by, and stopped at the sliding glass doors that led out to the patio. I should be in fucking Vail, Rosemary thought. She scooted a cigarette from the pack, imagining the mountaintop crawling with people in their garish skiers’ garb. The parties. All that laughter. She lit her cigarette and blew the drag out to the side. This is like being under house arrest, she thought. Marshall’s in a jail cell, and I’m in my penthouse prison. Standing by my man. This is how it’s done. She knew the tedious script, and she hated it.
She yanked at the handle and stepped out onto the patio. The air felt arctic. The overhang allowed for an area up against the building where no snow could gather. Rosemary felt her legs turn to ice. Her bare feet were either burning hot or biting cold, it was the same thing. She stepped to the edge of the snow line, taking a long drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke spill out of her mouth of its own accord.
Marshall would piss in his pants if he had even a clue what Rosemary had been up to since the very first day of their estrangement. Poor boy. Such an old-fashioned view of the world. Boys will stray but girls will remain faithful. Marshall knew this wasn’t technically the case, but it was how he operated. It had infuriated Rosemary, how arrogant Marshall had been about his adventures, as if he really were the great gifted god that the hype machine had conjured up and sold so well to the willing public. Hubris. The brilliant god hadn’t even known the damn word when Rosemary had accused him of it. And who were some of these women, anyway? That was where Marshall really put it in Rosemary’s face. Easy-lay actresses were one thing. But these working girls. Women with their one-room apartments and their garish friends and no sense of how to really fucking live. Especially that little one with the fake breasts and the tiny doll body. How low can you go?
Rosemary tossed her cigarette aside and stepped forward onto the dusting of snow on the edge of the patio. It crunched beneath her feet like pulverized glass. No one could see her. The snow was a dense white curtain. Unknotting her sash, she pulled her robe open, holding it out to her sides like a pair of green satin wings. The snow fell on her bare skin, melting on contact. It felt good, like a soft shower of whispers, or thousands of tiny attendants kissing, kissing, kissing…
MEGAN LOADED HER CLIP and slapped it into place. She adjusted her goggles and her protective ear covers. She felt as if she were still very much in her morning dream, operating in a haze. The muffled sounds from the half dozen other shooters were oddly pacifying.
It was a private shooting range, located in the basement of a midsize building on West Twentieth Street. A place to blow off steam and lead in equal measure. Megan assumed the shooting stance, clamped her left arm onto her right forearm, and sighted along the barrel. Like a lot of cops, she was fond of the old-fashioned target, the black-and-white drawing of the beefy antagonist hunched over his snubby. Gus. At least that’s the name she’d picked up for the target along the way. Sweat was pouring down Megan’s face. Her goggles had fogged somewhat, but she didn’t care. She didn’t need to see the target clearly. In fact, all the better if Gus remained cloudy. She could apply any face to the target she chose. Even her own.
Megan logged a half hour at the range. She slaughtered Gus over and over and over. He kept coming back for more. Fresh and crouched and ready. Megan’s entire body was drenched in sweat by the time she left. She caught the subway back down to the Village and showered and dressed for work. Before she left, she threw a plate at the kitchen wall. By the time she headed uptown, she was sweating all over again.
THE SNOW EDGED around Rosemary’s pink toes. Her eyes were still closed. She was making some decisions.
She thought again of Vail. She thought of Santorini. She thought of Tuscany, where the Turk had told her he had a place on a small hill surrounded by olive groves. She imagined a patio, not frosty like this one, but baked warm by the Tuscan sun. The sea of soft green rows. The burnt-sienna horizon.
What the hell was she still doing here?
Rosemary reknotted the sash on her robe. She felt remarkably new. Cleansed. Fresh. Most amazing, really. Now she just had to get rid of her ape. Wrap up that business. Pray he wouldn’t make a scene. The story of Rosemary’s life, it seemed. They always made a scene. Big, strapping men, and in the end they acted just like babies. She wondered if she should even bother with the Turk. She was just so damn tired of scenes.
Rosemary went back into the apartment. More than anything, she wanted to be alone. Right now. She wanted to plan out her next moves, and she didn’t want a large hairy presence moving about the apartment as she did so. He’d been getting more possessive these past few weeks, she’d noticed. Insisting more often on remaining the entire night. Hanging around as if he owned the joint. As if he owned her, which was a great big ha!
Do it quickly, she told herself as she entered the bedroom. He doesn’t know from nuance anyway, so just spell it out and be done with it. It’s been a good run, it’s been a crazy run, it’s been a dangerous run. The smart thing is to end it. Stick it in the memory books, lover, and be glad we got away with as much as we did.
He was awake, frowning as she approached, almost as if he knew what she was about to do. Good, she thought. That will make it all the easier.
She didn’t even sit down on the edge of the bed but remained standing, her arms crossed tightly, signaling him that the goods were off-limits now.
“I want you out of here. This has gone on too long, and we both know it. Let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?”
He argued. Rosemary had figured he would. He didn’t have much to argue about, and she tried to tell him so. The next thing she knew, she was on the floor. She’d barely seen him lurch up from the bed. Rosemary slashed at him with her fingernails, but she knew full well the extent of his strength. Ants against elephants. She tried to wriggle backward away from him, but he got her by the hair and jerked her head back with all his strength. She couldn’t find the breath to cry out. His fingers tore at her robe, and she realized what he was intent on. She found her breath.
“No!”
Rosemary wasn’t accustomed to hearing fear coming from her own mouth. Her cry was followed by a fist to her mouth. She thought her lip had exploded. She felt the blood spilling onto her chin. She attempted to get at his eyes, but he reared back and she thrashed at empty space. Her legs were being shoved apart. No way! She knew where she had to hit him, but before she could manage, the ape rattled her head so hard against the floor she thought her skull was going to crack. She felt all her strength waver, and then it was too late. He had the nerve to try to kiss her as he did it, but she was able to twist her head sideways. Small victory.
It ended. He rolled off her, getting up first onto all fours, looking more than ever like the brute creature he was, then rising up slowly to his feet. She remained on the ground. The taste of her own blood was disgusting. Rich and gooey, where just minutes before, light sparkles of snow had melted there so effortlessly. Her body was beginning to shake, which for Rosemary was the largest embarrassment of all. She didn’t want him to see her quiver.
He ran an arm across his mouth, as if he required the enormity of the entire limb in order to wipe clear whatever was there. From where Rosemary lay on the floor, he looked a thousand feet tall. He wiped a second time, then looked down at her with sullen eyes. “Has anyone ever told you how ugly you are?”
MEGAN LAMB POKED her head in to Joe Gallo’s office. The homicide lieutenant was seated at his desk, scissoring the blinds to look out at the snow.
“Rosemary Fox,” Megan said. “She’s at the Cornell Medical Center with a sprained neck, facial abrasions and signs of possible rape.”
Gallo released the blinds. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I’LL GET YOU a platter,” the doctor said to Megan. “You’ll want something to put your head on when she hands it to you.”
“You didn’t tell her you phoned the police, I hope.”
“The patient did not make the request. So, technically speaking, no. But given the circumstances-”
“Don’t worry,” Megan said. “How about we say I just happened to be in the neighborhood on other business and spotted Mrs. Fox being taken out of the ambulance?”
“Taxi,” the doctor corrected. “Apparently, she got a cab at her building and went right into shock. The cabbie brought her here.”
“Was she carried or walking under her own power?”
“The cabbie helped her. So did an orderly.”
“Right. I remember now. Cabbie and an orderly. So what’s the damage?”
“I’ve seen worse. Facial lacerations. Severe neck trauma. There’s definite vaginal tearing. It looks ugly to me, but she’s swearing she had consensual sex. I know this can be a rough town, but I think she’s lying.”
“Covering up for someone?”
“I’ll leave it for you to draw the conclusions.” As Megan started for the door, the doctor added, “You might want to consider a chair and a whip.”
“Thanks. I’ll take my chances.”
Rosemary had been outfitted with a neck brace. As Megan entered the room, Rosemary’s eyes moved first, then her head. The eyes darkened. Her lower lip was twice its normal considerable size, and it sported a pair of nasty stitches. A large circle on Rosemary’s cheek looked as if she had gone seriously overboard with her rouge. A white rectangular bandage was in place just above her left eyebrow.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t ask for the police.”
“I saw you being brought in,” Megan said.
“Is that so? Why don’t I believe you?”
“What happened, Mrs. Fox?”
Rosemary tried to sneer, but her cuts and stitched lips rendered the attempt pathetic. “Nothing happened. I fell down a flight of stairs.”
“The doctor says there are no other injuries indicating a fall. Are we to assume you bounced all the way down on your head?”
“Assume what you wish.”
Megan turned a rolling chair backward and dropped into it. “And the sexual assault. That occurred where? Midway down the stairs?”
Rosemary’s natural imperiousness was made a parody by her neck brace. Megan noticed that Rosemary had arranged her long thick hair to conceal the restrictive device as best as possible. “Sexual assault, as you put it, is the fantasy of that lecherous doctor.”
“You’re saying you weren’t sexually assaulted?”
“If anyone will listen, yes.”
“But you have had sex recently. This morning sometime. The lecherous doctor isn’t wrong about that, is he?”
Rosemary felt the shaking coming on again, and by a force of will, she stilled it. She’d be damned if she was going to allow this incident to turn into a horror show. It was already surreal enough, all of it.
“I don’t discuss my personal life with strangers.”
Megan asked, “Does your husband know that you’re seeing someone while he’s in prison?”
“Who says I’m ‘seeing’ anyone?”
“It’s just a hunch. You’re protecting somebody. I’m guessing it’s someone who is more than just a one-night stand.”
“Oh, please. Stop it already.”
“You’ve managed the loyal-wife thing wonderfully, Mrs. Fox,” Megan said. “You had most of us fooled.”
Rosemary remained cool. “Marshall needs my support. You might have noticed that his reputation is a bit tainted. I hardly think I gain anything by running off on him or ganging up on him.”
“Let’s get back to your assault.”
“I told you, that is my business.”
“From the look of things, somebody was pretty angry with you.”
Rosemary snapped, “Well, I’m pretty fucking angry with him, too.”
Good, Megan thought. Bonding. “Just a word of advice, Mrs. Fox. You’re going to need a better story than I-fell-down-a-flight-of-steps.”
“Who says I’m going to need a story at all?”
“You’re a public commodity. People are going to insist on hearing what happened to your beautiful face.”
“Since you ask, I’ve been thinking of taking my beautiful face away somewhere for a while. It’s a big world, Detective. I know how to hide in it when I have to.”
“I thought you just said you gained nothing in running away from your husband.”
“Who says I’m running away? My lawyer tells me that the judge is about to declare a mistrial. Marshall might be released on bail soon. I wouldn’t be running away. Perhaps I’d be preparing a place where my husband could get some long-needed privacy.”
“I’m afraid that even if your husband is allowed out on bail, he’s going to be required to keep very much in plain sight. I can assure you, he is not going to be given a leash so long that he can fly off and join you somewhere halfway around the world. It just doesn’t work that way. Perhaps it would be wiser if you were to stay close to home as well.”
Rosemary’s eyes narrowed. “I can go anywhere I damn well please.”
Megan backed off. Her mind was racing. She needed to get it in control. She needed to layer her thoughts calmly, one atop the other. “I suppose your personal life is none of my business, Mrs. Fox,” she said, rolling back in her chair away from the woman. “If you want an assault and rape to go unreported, I guess that’s your affair. We can’t force a wife to testify in court against her husband, and I guess we can’t force a woman to prosecute her abusive lover.”
“Former lover, Detective, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Former? So what am I looking at? Was this your boyfriend’s idea of a swan song?”
“It’s my fault for letting it drag on so long,” Rosemary said. “Lesson learned.”
Drag on so long. Megan was dying to know just how long it had dragged on. Months? A year? Just how long after her husband was put behind bars had Rosemary taken her mystery lover? For that matter, had Rosemary perhaps been cheating on Fox even prior to the murders?
“Would you like me to drive you back to your home?” Even before Rosemary could begin to answer, a second thought came to Megan. “Wait. That’s not such a good idea, is it? I’m sure there are photographers hanging around your building. One look at you in this condition…Is there someone you can call who’d come get you and take you somewhere more private? At least for the day? I’m sure you don’t need the aggravation.”
Rosemary gave the idea some thought. She liked it. In fact, she knew exactly where she’d like to go. The Hamptons. In the dead of winter it was like a morgue out there. She could give Gloria a call and have a car sent. In a matter of hours, Rosemary could be sitting in front of a fire in that big ugly empty house, glass of wine in hand, looking out the glass doors at the misty ocean. Nobody around to take pieces of her. It sounded nice. She could do her thinking there, start to get her exit strategy sorted out. No way was she going to abide sitting around through a whole new trial. She knew that much. Sorry, Marshall, but the time had come. She could begin to plan the next phase of her life in earnest. Getting banged around might have been the best thing that could have happened to her.
Rosemary looked over at the detective and gave her what, on any other day, would have been her killer smile. “Lady, I like the way you think.”
MEGAN MOVED right past her car. She waited until she was a block away from the hospital before she pulled out her phone. It wasn’t as if she was afraid that Rosemary Fox could hear through walls; what Megan needed was the trudge up York through the snow to think things through. Before she could punch in the number, her phone went off. It was Joe Gallo.
“Got him!”
“Who? Got who?”
“Who do you think? Spicer. You’ll never guess where we grabbed him. Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. He managed to spend the night there, then went off into the wrong restroom this morning. A nun came into the women’s room, and there he was in one of the stalls, screaming fire and brimstone over his phone to Jimmy Puck. The nun fetched a pair of cops from out in front of the church. We just got him in the box a few minutes ago. He says he doesn’t want a lawyer. I’m putting him on a low boil until you can get back here. What’s up on your end, anyway? Do we know who beat up Mrs. Fox?”
“She didn’t give a name.”
“Didn’t give a name? What does that mean? She has a name but she wouldn’t give it?”
Megan chose her words carefully. “She’s in shock, Joe. And she’s very bullheaded. When a woman like that wants to clam up, she clams up.”
“Okay. You can fill me in later. I need you back up here. Spicer’s already blowing off like Vesuvius. If he killed Burrell and Riddick, I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble coaxing it out of him. This is a man who is proud to be angry.”
Megan clicked off the call and pocketed the phone. Bruce Spicer was in police custody. A man with a motive-several of them, in fact, however perverse they seemed. Megan knew she should be hightailing it back to the car and hitting the cherry lights and getting back uptown as quickly as possible. This was the moment of the kill.
Except it wasn’t. Megan closed her eyes and tilted her head back to face the falling snow. Her lips parted slightly as she took the flakes with her tongue.
It’s not him. It’s not Bruce Spicer.
She knew it in her heart. In her gut. Yes, the man had made the threatening phone calls. Unquestionably, the very existence of Robin Burrell and the other women he had phoned-or attempted to phone-had inflamed him to no end. And he had desperately wanted his wife off the jury. The man was eminently capable of causing havoc, no question about it. But it wasn’t him. And Megan knew she was right. The person who had gone on a killing rampage was the man Rosemary Fox was protecting. What was worse-much worse, Megan realized-was that a horrible mistake had been made. And she had made it.
Marshall Fox wasn’t guilty, either. It was this man. Rosemary Fox’s lover. It was Rosemary herself.
“Oh my God.”
Megan’s hands shook as she pulled out her phone and punched in a number. It answered after two rings.
“Malone.”
Megan almost hung up. There was the right way to do this. By the book. Megan knew better. This was hardly the time to go cowboy.
Screw it.
“Fritz, it’s Megan Lamb. Listen. I’ve got a question for you. I don’t have much time here.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
A yellow snowplow was moving north along York, the diagonal snow flashing in the truck’s amber beam. The blade rutted roughly along the pavement with an angry animal sound. Seeing the cascade of salt stones coming her way, Megan turned her back to the street and huddled in to the phone.
“Any chance I can convince you to break the law a little?”
“THIS IS MRS. FOX,” Margo snapped into the phone. “Who is this?”
“This is Luis, Mrs. Fox. Are you okay?”
Margo threw me a wink. “Luis, listen to me. The police are going to be coming by sometime in the next hour. I want you to let them into the apartment, do you understand?”
“Are you all right, Mrs. Fox? Is-”
“Luis. Just do what I ask. Please.”
“Well, yes, ma’am. But I-”
“Thank you, Luis.” Margo hung up the phone. “So, do I make a grade-A bitch or what?”
I stepped over to the couch, knotting my tie. “Amazing.” Margo adjusted it for me. I shrugged into my coat and slid my thumb along the brim of my hat. “Well?”
“Are you honestly going with the fedora, too? This isn’t 1930.”
“It’s snowing. People wear hats in the snow.”
“Good thing you’re prettier than Humphrey Bogart. That’s all I think of when I see a fedora. Sorry, but I think it’s overkill.”
“Do I look cop enough for you?”
“A uniform would clinch it.”
“A uniform would clinch me jail time.”
She shrugged. “This’ll do fine.”
I TOOK A CAB across the park. The cabbie had his opinions about the snow, but I tuned them out, and by the time we were passing the Boathouse, he’d stopped sharing them with me. I had other matters to mull.
Megan Lamb had laid out her case quickly but succinctly. She’d emphasized that it was only a theory, but the pitch of her argument betrayed the conservative note. What if Rosemary Fox already had a lover of her own at the time her estranged husband was shagging everyone who came down the pike? What if the two of them had cooked up a scheme that not only generated some pretty audacious revenge on Rosemary’s part-the elimination of two of Fox’s lovers-but also succeeded in focusing the police investigation on Fox himself?
Megan hadn’t had time to embellish her theory or to poke and prod it to see where all the weak spots were. But she’d sounded convinced.
“Robin Burrell. There’s lover number three. I don’t know where Riddick fits in. Maybe he was becoming suspicious of Rosemary. Or maybe he was coming on to her and she set her goon on him. The point is, I need to find out the identity of Rosemary’s lover. This guy did a real number on her this morning, and for whatever reason, she’s willing to give him a pass. As my mother used to say, that don’t stink good.”
The cab came out of the park, and I directed the driver to drop me a block from Rosemary’s building. No need to let the doorman see “Captain Nicholas Finn” of the NYPD getting out of a taxicab instead of a department vehicle. Nick Finn had been a friend of mine in the days when I was attending John Jay College with an eye toward following my old man’s footsteps into the police force. Nick’s death had coincided with my abandoning those plans, and not a few people think it’s somewhat perverse that he lives on in a drawer full of falsified documents that I keep in my desk at the office.
The doorman barely glanced at my shiny badge when I presented it to him.
“I wanted to call the police when I see Mrs. Fox like that. But I don’t dare. She said she is fine, but she looks like she was hit by a bus. I got her a taxi, like she asks, but she-”
I interrupted him. “Luis, I need you to let me into Mrs. Fox’s apartment. If you’d like to call the station and speak with her first-”
The man shook his head rapidly. “No, no. It’s okay. I spoke with her already. I’ll let you in.”
Nicholas Finn slipped his badge into the pocket of his trench coat. Heeding Margo’s advice, he’d passed on the fedora.
I SAW THE BLOODSTAINS on the carpet the moment I entered the bedroom. A greenish robe was bunched nearby. I crossed to the robe and knelt down to examine it. In front of me was an accordion wall made completely of mirrors. A clothes closet. Its reflection included me and the door to the bathroom, which was open behind me. As I picked up the robe, there was a shifting of the light, and in the reflection I saw a figure-a man-stepping into the bathroom doorway. The reflection froze and so did I, but only for a split second.
“Who the-?”
He didn’t finish his own question but instead took two speedy steps into the room and shoved me with all his strength just as I was twisting around to face him. I tumbled up against the mirrored wall. The man was out the bedroom door by the time I had scrambled to my feet. As I raced into the front room, he was snatching a down jacket off the couch. He turned. He charged me. I’d been reaching for my gun but yanked my hand free to ward off the attack. The guy barreled into me and sent me reeling backward. I slammed into a small table, toppling a brass lamp and an ashtray. The man veered toward the front door. I grabbed the table and whipped it sideways at him. It hit him behind the knees, and he stumbled to the floor.
“Fuck!”
I grabbed hold of the lamp as if it were a baseball bat and gave it a sharp tug. The plug came out of the wall, the wire arcing in the air like an animal’s tail. As the man started to his feet, I charged forward and took my swing, aiming for the fences. Unfortunately, he saw the swing coming and lurched to the side so that the lamp took him on the shoulders and not the head. He wheeled around, and his fist caught me just below my ear. There was muscle behind the hit. As he came at me for another blow, I brought the lamp up and smacked it against his ear, then released it and got off a double set of hard jabs. I felt his nose collapse under the second one. As he staggered backward, I came after him, landing a pair of punches to his throat. He made a hollow swing that I easily avoided, and before he could get off another, I raised my foot as high as I could and slammed it down on his left knee. He howled. I whipped my gun from my holster, and as the man collapsed to the floor, I staggered backward, safely out of his reach.
“Stay down!”
My arms were aching, and the last thing they wanted to do was be held straight out. But I wanted him to see the gun, and I wanted him to see that it was aimed right at his bloody face. “Stay down,” I said again as he made a halfhearted move to get up. He stopped. Blood from his damaged nose fell to the tiled floor.
“I can’t…breathe,” he said in a choked voice, then began coughing.
“You can breathe.” I lowered my arms halfway, still keeping my aim. “Lie down on the floor.”
He didn’t move, so I stepped over and swept my leg under one of his arms, taking out his support. He landed on his chin and then complied, lying out flat on the ground. I moved around behind him and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of his head. “Give me your hands.”
He obeyed, bringing around his large paws to rest at his lower back. Using the cord from the table lamp, I bound his wrists, yanking the knots as tight as I could. I requisitioned a second lamp and used its cord to secure his ankles. It was crude but sufficient. I dragged an upholstered chair over and upended it on top of him, not unlike a turtle shell. Then I went into the kitchen and splashed my face with water, gulping several mouthfuls in the process. I ran a glassful of water and fetched a tea towel from a magnetic hook on the refrigerator door and went back into the front room. The man hadn’t budged. I wet a corner of the tea towel and knelt down and dabbed at the blood on the man’s nose. He stared at me sullenly, saying nothing. He was wheezing a bit-his mouth was dropped open like a gulping fish-but he was breathing.
I returned to the kitchen, fetched a fresh glass, and filled it, this time for me. I went back out and pulled the chair off him and slipped his wallet out of his pants pocket, then helped him squirm up to a seated position on the floor, leaning against the wall. There was a driver’s license in the wallet. It told me that his name was Danny Lyles and that he lived in Long Island City, not far from Charlie Burke’s neighborhood. I told him not to get any ideas as I went through his other pockets. I found an electronic pass card and two key rings. In the down coat that Lyles had taken his detour into the front room to grab, I found a vial of pills and a baggie of pot. Thick. No stems, no seeds.
“Are you familiar with the Rockefeller drug laws, Danny? A stash like this can ruin your day.”
He wasn’t impressed. From the looks of things-especially his nose-his day was already ruined. I kicked an ottoman over to where the man sat wheezing on the floor, and took a seat. I took a long, satisfying sip of the water.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
DANNY LYLES WAS Marshall Fox’s former driver. Also his bodyguard. Not a towering sort but plenty of muscle. A free-weights guy. He’d held the position for a little over a year, a year he described to me as one of the wildest of his life. In addition to being Fox’s driver and protector, Lyles had also been his occasional night-crawling buddy. Lyles described himself as “a party hound” but admitted that he held a backseat to Marshall Fox in that department.
“Marshall was dangerous hungry, man. You’ve got no idea.”
Roughly a month before Cynthia Blair’s murder, Lyles had taken on additional duties, though in a completely unofficial and secret capacity. He became Rosemary Fox’s lover. Lyles told me that he’d had no illusions the evening when Rosemary first came on to him. He knew what she was all about. After a separation of eight months, Fox had recently started making overtures to his wife; he wanted Rosemary to take him back, to give the marriage another go. Rosemary had Marshall on the hook and she knew it. Lyles said that he’d gotten a phone call from Rosemary asking that he come by the apartment. He did, and she sat him down on the living room couch and demanded that Lyles fill her in on all of her husband’s escapades over the months of their separation. Lyles balked at first. He played the loyalty card. But Rosemary trumped it easily. She possessed her own set of cards, and she knew exactly how to lay them out to her own best advantage.
“Right behind you, man. Right there on the couch. She’s one superior pain in the ass, no question about it. But I’m telling you, you’ve never met anyone’s got the goods like that, I swear.”
Lyles admitted to me that he had known all about Fox’s affair with Cynthia Blair. He was pretty certain he’d been the only one who did know.
“I drove the guy everywhere. I knew everything he did. I’ll tell you, when he found out she was pregnant, he got more drunk off his ass than I’d ever seen. The man was out of his gourd, he was so pissed off. It was all pretty trippy for me. Even though I’m shagging his old lady on the side, we’re still partying together. I mean, he was clueless. I was also seeing this other chick at the time. Tracy Jacobs. You’ve seen her. She’s all hot shit now on that show. Century City? She plays the clueless wife of that older guy? Perfect casting, man. Girl couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag, then she lands a plum role in a show like that. Anyway, one night right after Marshall’d found out about Cynthia and how she was planning to have the kid, he tagged along with me and Tracy. He ended up going way over the top. He was drinking like no tomorrow, popping uppers. The guy was a mess. This is all before Tracy’d gotten her show, by the way. She was nobody at this point to Marshall. Just another bad actress all goo-goo to be hanging out with Marshall Fox.”
As Lyles described it, somewhere along the way, Marshall had started getting nasty with Tracy. At first he argued with everything that came out of her mouth, but soon he was trying to put the moves on her.
“He’d do that sometimes, man. Show his mean side, then start trying to get in their pants. It kind of freaked Tracy out. Marshall got a real bug up his tail about Tracy, and I had to pull him off her before he hurt her. He’s got this ugly streak, man. You don’t want to see it. It all sort of cooled down, but the evening was pretty much tanked. Then when I was dropping her off at her place, Marshall suddenly got out of the car and went after her again. I’m telling you, though, it was the whole damn Cynthia thing. He just needed someone to take it out on. Anyway, I had to pull him off of her and shove him back in the car and all that crap. Tracy cut things off with me after that. That’s how it goes, I guess. Thing is, though, she ended up getting me fired. How’s that for fucking irony?”
I went back into the kitchen and fetched more water. I tried Megan’s number but got no answer. Lyles was tugging against the lamp cord when I came back out.
“How about you loosen this up, man. My circulation’s cut off.”
“Go on with your story. If I like it, we’ll talk then.”
He grumbled a bit but went on. Lyles said that several days after Cynthia Blair’s body had been discovered at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, he got a call from Tracy Jacobs. She was extremely upset and talking about contacting the police to tell them about Marshall Fox’s violence.
“The thing is, like I said, she didn’t know a thing about Marshall getting that girl pregnant. All she knew was that he’d scared the hell out of her that night we all went out. I got her to hold off on calling the cops. I lied and told her that Marshall had an alibi for the night Cynthia got killed. Thing was, he didn’t. Cynthia had actually been up to his place the night she was killed, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell that to Tracy. She said it was her duty to contact the police and all that shit, but I got her to agree to hold off for a day. I didn’t know what to do. Crazy as he was, Marshall didn’t kill that girl.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Some things you just know, and I know that. But all the crap he was going through, the last thing he needed was Tracy getting the cops all excited about him. So I called Mr. Ross.”
“Alan Ross?”
“Yeah. I guess you can say he’s Marshall’s boss.”
“Why would you call him?”
“Ross is the guy Marshall always goes to when he’s in any kind of a fix. He’s connected, he’s smart. He’s one of those take-charge guys. I just thought it made sense.”
“And what did Ross say?”
“He said he’d take care of things. Just like I knew he would. Cool as a cucumber, that guy. He got Tracy’s phone number from me and told me not to sweat it.”
“And that was it?”
“Hell no, that wasn’t it. The next thing I know, Marshall’s all over my ass. He’s ready to kill me. He’s saying Tracy called up him and his lawyer and threatened to tell the police not just about him and Cynthia but about her being pregnant with his kid. I swear to you, I never breathed a fucking word to anyone about any of that. Especially Tracy. Not even that the two were screwing each other. No way she got it from me. But Marshall was ready to take my head off. He fired me on the spot and said if he ever saw me again, he would kill me. Meanwhile, Tracy flies off to Los Angeles, and the next thing you know, she’s on Century goddamn City. It’s totally nuts. This whole fucking show business is nuts.”
I took a minute with Lyles’s story. Then I took another one. There was a piece of his story I didn’t like. I could tell he was giving me the truth, but something wasn’t fitting. It was the same thing that hadn’t fit for Danny Lyles.
I asked, “You’re absolutely positive you didn’t tell Tracy Jacobs about Fox and Cynthia Blair? Or maybe she overheard you two talking about it.”
“No way. Totally positive, man. Marshall was completely nuts on that subject. The whole kids thing freaked him in general. You’ve never seen a guy who was so paranoid about ever being a father. Plus, he was already working on trying to get Rosemary to take him back. The last thing he needed was for the thing with Cynthia to come out.”
I got up and wandered over to the sliding doors leading out to the patio and stood looking at the falling snow. A pack of cigarettes sat on a cast-iron table, half covered in snow. A minute or so later, I returned to Lyles.
“Tracy Jacobs. Where is she now? Is she in Los Angeles?”
Lyles scooted up farther against the wall. “Yeah, that’s where she’s been. Except I ran into her here about a week ago. She was in town for a visit. The show’s not shooting right now. Can’t say she really wanted to talk to me.”
“She’s in the city? Do you have any idea where she was staying? Or how I could get ahold of her? A phone number?”
He grunted. “Hey. It’s fuck-you time, man. You want to talk to Tracy? Sure. I can tell you where she was staying. I don’t know if she’s still there. But you’re going to fucking untie me first, man. Time’s up. I’m not handing out any more freebies.”
I went into the kitchen and fetched a steak knife. May I say that the man looked just a tad uneasy as I approached him?
A FALSIFIED POLICE CAPTAIN’S BADGE isn’t the kind of thing you want to get into the habit of flashing if you can help it. I went with my slightly less impressive PI license, held up to the door that had opened only as far as the chain would allow. “I’m looking for Tracy Jacobs.”
The woman who peered at me had green eyes, burgundy hair and a tiny gem planted in the side of her nose. “Tracy’s not here.”
“But she’s still in New York,” I said. A statement, not a question.
The green eyes narrowed. They were quite pretty, in an almond-shaped heavy-lidded sort of way. They suggested the sort of person who always looks sleepy. Or slightly stoned. “I didn’t say that.”
“If she wasn’t in New York, you’d have said she’s not in town, or not in town anymore. You said she’s not here.”
The eyes took a moment to study my face. “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”
“I am pretty clever. But it’s just from years of talking to people through cracks like this. Anyone can learn to do it.”
That coaxed a smile. “Let me see that license thingy again.” I held it up next to my face. “Okay. It doesn’t say you’re a serial rapist or anything. Hold on.”
The door closed. I heard the chain being removed. The door opened again, this time in the complete welcoming position. A woman in her early thirties stood there. She was wearing a navy blue leotard and a man’s white oxford shirt with the top several buttons open, though no man had ever likely done for the shirt what she was doing.
“I’m Jane.”
“Fritz Malone.”
“I know. I read that on your thingy.”
JANE SETTLED ONTO the large plush armchair, hiding her feet under her fanny. I took a wooden rocker. The apartment was clean and pleasantly furnished, much like its occupant. I spotted several framed theater production posters on the walls, as well as a large framed photograph of a bewigged Jane landing with overstated exuberance on the overstated lap of what could only be a Falstaff. A familiar stone parapet against a dusk-blue sky was visible in the photo’s background.
“Delacorte?” I asked, indicating the photograph.
“Last summer. That’s Tim Robbins. He was a fantastic Falstaff. Who’d have thought?”
“Sorry I missed it. So if you’re doing Shakespeare in the Park, you’re doing okay. You’re the envy of a million waiters out there.”
“My, my. You’ve got a whole cute thing happening, don’t you? Have you ever acted?”
I thought, Like an idiot a few times. “Look, Jane, I really need to speak with Tracy.”
She gave an actorly pout. “Shakespeare’s not good enough, huh? Everybody wants the television star. So what do you want to see Tracy about? Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“I understand you and Tracy were roommates when she was living in the city.”
“That’s right, sir. Tracy and I were struggling actresses together.”
“Shakespeare in the Park isn’t exactly struggling.”
“Fine. She was struggling. Would you like me to be blunt about it?”
“I think I’d enjoy that.”
She had already warmed to the subject. “The only way Tracy saw the inside of a legit theater was with a ticket. I’m not being snippy, I’m just telling you. Tracy and I shared this place for a couple of years. I brought home an OBIE nomination, and she brought home a case of herpes.”
“Okay, that might qualify as too much information.”
“Sorry. I’m just a bitter old washed-up thirty-two-year-old. Any of a dozen regional theater directors would vouch for my talent, but look who ends up the TV star. Tracy’s the laughingstock of that stupid TV show she’s on, but do you think she even knows it? The whole thing is like a big cosmic joke. Tracy Jacobs, an Argosy client? I’m sorry, but that’s Alice-through-the-looking-glass time.”
“What’s Argosy?”
“Only the top boutique agency in the biz. They take only the cream of the cream.”
“And what you’re saying is that Tracy Jacobs is not cream.”
“As an actress? Low-fat skim. Curdled.”
“You are bitter.”
“I’m just a jealous bitch. This town is full of us.”
Jane offered me a cup of tea. Lapsang souchong, which is a tea that tastes like smoke. I passed. “I really need to speak with Tracy.”
“Tracy has been in Paris. They’re still on holiday hiatus with their show. She came here for about a week and then she went over to Paris. She’d never been. Check this out. She actually told me that her character on the show has been to Paris and that she thought it’d be a good idea if she went so she could be more convincing about it.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve never been a barmaid in Elizabethan England, but you know what?”
I said, “It’s called acting.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“When is Tracy due back from Paris?”
Jane consulted her watch. “You’ve got impressive timing, I’ll give you that much. If the snow doesn’t slow things down, she’s due to land about an hour from now.”
I asked, “What do you know about her relationship with Danny Lyles?”
She made a face, and she made it well. “You know him?”
“We met this morning.”
“If you’d like to take a shower, I’ll understand.”
“How long were Tracy and Lyles seeing each other?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. No more than a couple of months is my guess. They met at some club in the meatpacking district. Tracy had a thing for trolling the hot venues. Though if all she’s going to come up with is a charmer like Danny Lyles, I say stay home and watch water boil. I’m sure Tracy thought that by hooking up with Danny Lyles, she was getting herself in tight with the Marshall Fox club.”
“According to Lyles, Tracy did meet Fox.”
“Oh, sure, she met him. Big deal, meeting a celeb. Though it’s totally screwy. I mean, Tracy thought that by sleeping with Marshall Fox’s driver, she was making a real career move. And it turned out she was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Argosy. The TV show. Miss Hotshot flies to Paris. The whole thing. If not for the fluke of her meeting Alan Ross, none of that ever even becomes a pipe dream. If you-”
“Slow down a minute. Where does Alan Ross fit into this? Lyles told me that he gave Tracy’s number to Ross.”
“Oh yeah. You said a mouthful. Somebody got somebody’s number, all right. Sure. Ross called her up. He had her come into his office to meet with him. And the next thing I know, she’s going back the next day for an audition, so she says. By the time I come home, she’s sitting on that couch over there with a bottle of champagne and she’s landed a plum role on Century City and she’s moving to Los Angeles immediately. And Ross has told her he’ll get his wife to sign her up with freaking Argosy. People slit wrists to get a meeting with Gloria Ross.” Jane leaned so far forward I thought she was going to fall right out of the chair. “You have to understand something. Our friend Tracy? Didn’t. Even. Have. An agent.”
She fell back in the chair, disgusted. “I put it right to her. I asked her if she slept with Ross. She thought I was kidding at first, but I was serious. It’s the only thing that makes any sense. Tracy swore up and down that it was nothing like that. She said Ross told her he had this role in one of his shows that he thought she might be perfect for. I don’t know, maybe the guy’s a genius. Essentially, the character’s a trophy wife. And not the brightest bulb in the pack, or whatever that stupid phrase is. So maybe you can say typecasting, right? But still, there are plenty of actresses out there who’d have killed for that role. I mean name actresses, not this total unknown.”
“What’s your take? Do you think she slept with Ross?”
“It’s too screwy. A guy like that doesn’t need Tracy Jacobs. Or let’s put it this way-he doesn’t need to promise her the moon if he wants to get her in the sack. Tracy told me that Ross had her back to the network the next day for what sounds to me like the world’s lamest audition. It was just him in his office running the camera and audio. She read a monologue. Cheesiest dialogue in the world. She showed it to me. You can’t believe they pay people good money to write this dreck. Not that Century City is exactly David Mamet, but please. On the basis of this, she lands a gig like that?” Jane wrapped her arms around her knees and gave herself a good hug. “Oh well. Fuck it. I’ll always have Tim Robbins, right?”
Before I left, I asked Jane what airport Tracy was scheduled to fly into. Kennedy. Air France. At the door, Jane told me she would be appearing in a show in February in Chelsea.
“I play a Mormon lesbian who’s running an orphanage in Kabul. There’s some music in it, too. It could be good or it could stink. If you’re interested, I could probably get you some comps.”
I told her I’d keep it in mind.
“No, you won’t,” she said flatly. “You’ve already written me off as a theater flake. That’s okay. It was nice snooping with you.”
On the street, I hailed a cab. As we made our way slowly up Sixth Avenue, I dialed Margo’s number.
“I’m going to throw a name at you,” I said when she answered. “Tell me what comes to mind. Free association.”
“Sure,” she said. “Fire away.”
“Tracy Jacobs.”
“Tracy Jacobs. Easy. Actress. TV show. Looks like a hundred other actresses.”
“Have I ever seen her show?”
“Century City? I think it came on the tube once, and you said something like ‘Life’s too short.’ It’s not so bad, as those things go. It can take in a sucker like me. But Tracy Jacobs is definitely the weak link. She’s pretty, but no big deal. Why do you ask?”
I gave her a quick rundown of what I’d picked up from Jane and from Danny Lyles concerning the meteoric rise of Tracy Jacobs. Margo listened without interruption. As the cab crossed Twenty-third Street, a florist delivery van in front of us went into a slow-motion skid. My driver whipped the wheel left then right and tapped the brakes, and we slid deftly by the van at a slight angle. The driver muttered a creative curse.
“Somebody’s lying,” Margo said. “If Tracy Jacobs called the police and told them about Marshall Fox and Cynthia Blair, then clearly she knew. Maybe she overheard Fox saying something to his driver.”
“No. Lyles swears that didn’t happen. He says she was threatening to call the cops, but only to give them a heads-up about Marshall Fox’s penchant for violence. That’s when Alan Ross contacted her and ended up offering her the role in his TV show. According to Lyles, Tracy supposedly called both Fox and Zachary Riddick sometime later and said she knew that Cynthia Blair was pregnant with Fox’s kid and that if Fox didn’t come clean to the police, she’d tell them.”
“Was she trying to get money? Was it an extortion thing?”
“Lyles didn’t say it was. But maybe. He was out of the loop by then.”
“So what do you do next? Take your taxi up to Seventy-first Street and mull it all over with your one and only while the gorgeous snowfall continues?”
“Can I take a rain check?”
She laughed. “In this weather?”
“I’M HERE TO SEE Alan Ross.”
The woman at the security desk picked up her phone and slid a ledger toward me. “Sign here. Your name, please, and-Oh. There he is.” She pointed in the direction of the front doors. “See the man standing there?”
Through the revolving doors was a figure in a gray coat, wearing a hat.
“Thanks.” As I turned for the doors, a silver car pulled up. The driver got out and Ross climbed in behind the wheel. I was spinning through the doors as he pulled away from the curb. The cab I’d just taken was still idling at the curb. The driver was busy jotting down something in a notebook. I yanked open the rear door and hopped back in.
“See that silver car? I want you to stay with it.”
The driver turned around in the seat. “Hey. It’s you.”
“Silver car.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Go!”
Ross followed Sixty-sixth across the park. At Lexington, he cut over to Fifty-ninth then went east toward the river. At Second Avenue, he took a right. I didn’t need to instruct the driver to hang too far back. Who in New York City sees a yellow taxicab in their mirror and thinks they’re being tailed? We were as ubiquitous as the snow.
“Looks like he’s heading for the tunnel,” my driver said. I’d just had the same thought-the Queens Midtown Tunnel. And just like that, I knew where Alan Ross was headed. Before we went into the tunnel, I tried Megan’s number. As the signal began to break up, I got her voice mail.
“Rosemary Fox’s rough boy is a guy named Danny Lyles. Lyles was Fox’s driver. It’s a cozy bunch, these people. But forget about Lyles. Alan Ross. You want to start shaking every tree with Alan Ross’s name on it and see what starts falling.” I added, “And answer your goddamn phone, would you?”
The mouth of the tunnel loomed. I’ve got a thing about tunnels, particularly the ones that go underwater. Not a good thing. Dark, closed-in places. I took a deep breath as we plunged into the hole.
ROSS PULLED INTO short-term parking. I had the cabbie pull over at the parking gate. The lot wasn’t terribly full, and I was able to keep an eye on Ross’s car. I paid off the cabbie and tracked Ross at a parallel, several hundred feet from him. As soon as he entered the terminal, I raced over to the door he’d used and followed him.
I found him standing at a bank of monitors. I moved off to a nearby electronic check-in kiosk and mimed the securing of a boarding pass. Ross remained staring at the monitors a long while, then broke away and turned in my direction. I leaned in to the kiosk screen. The image of a woman in her crisp flight attendant’s uniform came up. What can I do for you today? Ross passed me. I took a ten-count then went over to the monitors. Air France Flight 8830 from Paris. Like most of the others on the screen, the Air France flight was delayed. It wasn’t due to land for another forty minutes. Gate C3. Even as I looked at the monitor, several more flights were being shifted to delayed. Low groans sounded from the people around me.
Because Tracy’s flight was coming from overseas, all the passengers would be funneled through customs, which I knew was on the level below. Ross apparently knew this, too. I took the escalator down and spotted him taking up position in front of the retractable barriers where all the passengers would be emerging. He had removed his overcoat and folded it over his arm. He stood there a few minutes, consulted his watch, crossed his coat to his other arm, went over to a row of black chairs and took a seat.
I had a decision to make. My impulse was to lay back and wait for the Air France passengers to begin streaming out from customs and baggage claim. I was more than a little curious to witness the reunion of Ross and Tracy Jacobs. A lot can be drawn from whether two people greet each other with a handshake or a pat on the shoulders, or whether they bury their tongues halfway down each other’s throats. My curiosity was far from cursory. If the lovely Jane was to be believed-and who would doubt the lovely Jane?-the crossing of Alan Ross’s and Tracy Jacobs’s stars suggested something less than a natural and readily explained trajectory. A no-talent nobody lands a continuing role in a popular television series mere days after threatening to blow the whistle on one of the network’s top talents. From where I sit, a plum TV role and an invitation to join the roster of a prestigious talent agency sound like pretty enticing hush money. I knew about Ross and his money. Had giving Tracy Jacobs the Century City role been Alan Ross’s way of taking extreme measures to protect his boy Marshall, or did Ross know more about the murders of Cynthia Blair and Nicole Rossman than he’d been willing to share with the authorities? When I’d met him in his office, Ross claimed he’d wanted me to go out there and dig up information for him. It seemed the network executive had a few interesting items in his pocket already. I considered briefly the old trick of waiting until the passengers were emerging, then having Alan Ross paged to a different part of the terminal so I could be the one to greet Tracy Jacobs and see if I could pull a few answers out of her. But I realized that I didn’t even know what she looked like. That’s what I get for not watching more television.
My phone went off. It was Megan. I stepped behind a rack of paperbacks, where I could still keep an eye on Ross.
“I thought maybe you’d decided to take the rest of the day off,” I said.
“I got caught up in some stuff. The Spicer investigation was a bust. The top brass has been reading us the riot act. I’m sorry. Where are you now?”
“I’m at Kennedy. Alan Ross is waiting for Tracy Jacobs.”
“I got your message. What’s the story with Alan Ross?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. You know who Tracy Jacobs is, don’t you?”
“Tracy Jacobs the actress? What does she have to do with anything?”
“She’s the person who called Fox and Riddick and put the squeeze on for Fox to fess up to his affair with Cynthia. She was sleeping with Fox’s driver. Except the thing is, he swears the information about Cynthia didn’t come from him. I believe him.”
“Why is Alan Ross meeting Tracy Jacobs at the airport?”
“I don’t know. Would you like me to go over and ask him?”
“No. Where’s she coming from?”
“Paris. She’s been catching up on her culture.”
“What do you think’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Except that Alan Ross called me into his office two days ago and gave me an envelope full of money. He wanted me to look into the Burrell and Riddick murders. In fact, he wanted me to tell him how you were faring on them.”
“Me?”
“The police. He wanted progress reports.”
The line was silent for a few seconds. “Listen. When she shows up, I want you to keep a tail on them. Call me as they’re heading back to the city.”
“What if they don’t go back to the city? There are plenty of no-tell motels between here and there.”
“You think they’re lovers?”
“It was suggested to me that this might be the case. I don’t know what they are. Except that Mr. Ross seems to have set Ms. Jacobs up pretty nicely. He’s the one who got her the Century City gig. I think we’d like to find out why he did that.”
“Shit. Okay. Wherever they go, stay with them. Let me know what’s going on.”
I broke the connection. Ross was still seated in the plastic chair. I checked my watch. Plenty of time. Going back outside, I waited a few minutes in the taxi line and caught a cab. When I told him I only wanted to go over to the car-rental lot, he tried to dump me. I pulled enough bills from my wallet to convince him not to. There was a longer line than I’d anticipated at the rental desk, and by the time I got my car and was driving into the short-term lot, Tracy Jacobs’s flight was-unless things had changed-on the ground. I located Alan Ross’s car and pulled into a nearby slot. The wait was shorter than I’d expected, maybe fifteen minutes. Ross appeared, rolling a small suitcase behind him. Next to him was a woman who was not dressed for a snowstorm. She was holding a magazine over her head. They reached Ross’s car, and he opened the passenger door. The woman got in. Ross moved around to the trunk and put the suitcase in. Before closing the trunk, he removed his overcoat. Reaching into the trunk, he pulled out something that I couldn’t see. It went into the folds of his coat. Before he yanked open the driver’s door, he paused and looked around. His eyes moved right past where I was parked. I was too far away to get a true read of his expression. He got into the car, started it and backed up. This brought the car closer to mine. Just as the car shuddered into forward, the trunk rose slowly and the brake lights came on. Ross got back out and came around to shut the trunk, this time making certain it was secure. He looked around again. This time I could see the look on his face. Let’s just say this: I was glad I would be on the man’s tail.
THE CONDITIONS ON the Long Island Expressway degenerated the farther east Alan Ross traveled. By the time he was approaching Melville, they were near whiteout. Tractor trailers were pulled over and parked along the sides of the highway, as were dozens of passenger cars and SUVs. Every few miles, a vehicle had run off into the median strip and remained there, the taillights blinking an anemic pink. From the swirling white haze in Ross’s rearview mirror, the occasional snowplow materialized. Pellets of salt rattled against the side of his car as the plows overtook and passed him.
Ross was perspiring like a man in the desert. His head was aching from the strain of squinting into the white wall in front of him. What he wanted was silence, some time to think. But this wasn’t likely, not with the hyperactive actress seated next to him. You’d have thought the woman had invented Paris. She wouldn’t shut up about it. Ross couldn’t count how many times he had been to Paris. Dozens? By the time this ride was finished, Tracy Jacobs might well have managed to ruin the city for him forever.
Ross was maintaining an achingly slow speed. He was not going to run the risk of either being pulled over by the police or sliding off the road like the half-dozen or so cars he had already passed. If there was one thing to be said for doing all this in a snowstorm, it was that the snow rendered Ross’s car virtually invisible. That part’s good, he thought. In a way, you really couldn’t ask for better. Not only here on the damnable LIE, but later, once they’d arrived at their destination, invisibility would be a wonderful advantage. Ross smiled to himself. It spoke to his sense of perfection. All he wanted at this point, his single goal, was to make all his problems and headaches disappear. Like a polar bear in a snowstorm. It’s there and it’s not there all at the same time. Now you see it, now you don’t.
He glanced over at Tracy Jacobs. She was in the middle of telling him everything he didn’t need to hear about the Musée d’Orsay, but noticing him looking at her, she came up for air. Would wonders never cease?
“You look happy all of a sudden. What are you smiling about?”
“I love hearing your stories,” Ross said suavely. “It’s nice to see a girl who can get all excited like that. It’s so nice you’re not jaded.”
Tracy flashed her huge smile. “Do you know what I thought when I was looking at the Mona Lisa? I mean the Mona Lisa.”
“Tell me.”
“I was thinking, and I’m serious about this, I said to myself, ‘Alan Ross is the man responsible for this.’”
Ross demurred. “Don’t you mean Leonardo da Vinci?”
Tracy laughed. God, that laugh. Try as they might, the vocal coaches for Century City hadn’t made a whole lot of progress on that horrific laugh.
“Alan, you know what I mean. Not just Paris. The whole thing. Everything. It’s true. I owe you my entire life.”
Alan Ross turned his attention back to the slick roadway. Yes, you do, dear, he thought. That’s exactly right.
MEGAN GOT THE CALL from Fritz as she was clearing the snow off her windshield.
“They’re heading out onto the Island. I remember Robin telling me that Ross and his wife have a place out in the Hamptons somewhere. That’s my guess.”
“The Hamptons? In this weather?”
Megan looked up and saw Brian McKinney coming out of the precinct house. She turned her back on him. The interrogation of Bruce Spicer had been a fiasco. If Spicer bellowed “Whore!” at Megan once, he’d bellowed it a dozen times. McKinney and a few of the others had found the whole Bruce Spicer show vastly amusing, crowding around the one-way window outside the box to watch Spicer heap his verbal abuses on Megan. The interrogation had gone nowhere, except round and round. Megan knew she might have handled Spicer better, but her mind had been elsewhere.
Malone was asking her a question, but the connection was breaking up.
“Say it again, Fritz. I couldn’t hear you.”
“…get the address…Hamptons. That way…follow him.”
“What?”
“Ross’s address.”
“You want me to get Ross’s address? The Hamptons?” Malone’s answer was unintelligible. “What do you think he’s doing out there?”
The connection crackled again. Megan repeated her question. Malone’s voice came on abruptly. Loudly.
“…DEFINITELY NO GOOD.”
Megan jerked open the driver’s-side door and tossed the snow scraper onto the seat, then slid in behind the wheel. In the side-view mirror, she saw McKinney getting into his car. “I’m coming out,” she barked into the phone. “I’ll get back to you with the address. Just stay with him. Corner the bastard. Shove him all the way out to Montauk if you have to. I’m coming out there.”
“The roads are a mess. You don’t need to-”
She threw the phone onto the seat and fired up the engine. McKinney had pulled up next to her. He signaled for Megan to roll down her window. She hit the gas and jerked the wheel, fishtailing sluggishly from the curb.
TOO MANY QUESTIONS. Ross was getting sick of stringing stupid lies together. He’d told Tracy when he met her at the airport that he was taking her to a surprise birthday party for Gloria out at the Hamptons place. Anyone else would have asked the obvious question right up front (“In a blizzard?”), but in tossing out a bogus list of who was allegedly coming to the nonexistent party, Ross had ignited Tracy’s expectations and she’d spent nearly the first forty minutes of the drive gushing over the fanciful gathering. Only as they crawled past the Central Islip exit did Tracy begin asking why the party wasn’t being held at Ross’s place in Westchester. And wasn’t Gloria’s birthday in March?
Where was jet lag when you needed it? Ross wished she would just clam up. His temples were pounding, and he fantasized about snatching hold of the gabby woman’s neck with his right hand while still piloting carefully with his left, pressing his thumb into her windpipe as hard as he could. His heart quickened with the thought. He just wanted everything over. Enough was enough was enough.
He glanced over at Tracy. She was sitting upright in a sexy something she’d told him she got on the Champs-Élysées. Okay, Ross conceded, a little fame and a lot of money hadn’t hurt the girl in the least, he’d give her that. Compared to the shrill, awkward young woman who had sat in his office the previous spring, going on and on about how violent and dangerous she thought Marshall Fox was, this Tracy was a vast improvement. The new hairstyle, the fix-up on the nose. Some eyebrow work. It wasn’t a face with much of a repertoire of expressions-especially for a so-called actress-but it was sunny and fresh and eager, and sure, he’d have considered getting into this one’s pants if he’d had anything remotely close to the urge, which he didn’t. How easy. Slide the car over to the side of the road. Work a quick number on her. Remind her who the hell got her where she was today and who had the power to take it all away. Easy. Ross was 90 percent loyal to his wife. Hell, in their industry, that practically made him a prince. And since the whole debacle with Cynthia, Ross hadn’t strayed at all. Not once.
But that wasn’t the plan. Maybe by the time they got out to the house, he’d consider it. Who knows? Maybe in a perverse way, it would make what he had in mind easier. She’s already gotten further in life than she had any right to. I’ve already given her that, Ross thought. Maybe one final dizzy moment before it all ends.
He’d think about it.
Tracy ran her palms across the flat plane her skirt made of her lap. “Would it be all right if I talk to you about the show?”
“The show?”
“Well, my character, actually.”
“You know what, Trace? It’s tricky concentrating on the road. If it’s all the same to you, can it just wait until we get to the house?”
“Sure. It can wait. It’s just about expanding Jennifer a little. I really don’t think her potential is being realized.”
Ross gave her a paternal smile. “But it can wait.”
“Sure. It can wait.”
Ross stared into the swirling snow. He thought of Gloria. She was in L.A. Hopefully, she wouldn’t try to reach him. Ross’s cell phone was turned off. Doubtless it would be collecting messages, lots of them. Ross spent half his day talking on the phone. If things got screwed up somehow, that could be a problem. His dropping out of sight for all that time. If it came to that, he’d have to sort through it. There’d be a way; he’d figure it out. He’d gotten quite good at that sort of thing. Alan Ross was nothing if not methodical. It was how he had made his way. Organization. Knowing exactly how to play people. Moving them around like chess pieces. It was an art. Ross truly felt that. It was something he had shared only with Gloria, the fact that he considered what he did art, that he considered himself something of an artist. Like Picasso. Beethoven. Grinning to himself, he ran his fingers along his row of CDs in the well between the two front seats and picked out Beethoven’s Seventh and slid it into the CD player. The music swarmed richly from the speakers like intoxicating smoke.
“That’s nice,” Tracy said. “What is it?”
“It’s Richard Strauss.” Ree-shard Strauz.
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
Ross stole a glance at Tracy Jacobs’s legs. If he wanted, when they got where they were going, he could tie them up like a pretzel. Who would stop him? Her?
“Oh God, Alan. I am so glad you picked me up at the airport. I can’t wait till we get there. This is too much fun. Really. I love you. I really mean it.”
Ross leaned over and patted her on the leg. “I love you, too, honey. You’re something special.”
He let his hand linger on her leg a few seconds. The thought of Cynthia’s firm legs came to him, the brief moment he had taken to stroke them as he’d choked back his tears. It was her fault. This whole stupid endless maze of hell was that infuriating, sweet dead woman’s fault.
Tracy smiled over at him, and he gave her leg a squeeze. Good Christ, it felt nice. The kid was a real specimen. No taking that away from her. He’d have to consider exactly how he wanted this whole thing to play out.
A HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS had gone into the master bathroom alone. The fixtures were all Bagni. Eight thousand alone just for the showerhead. Nine-inch diameter. Solid chrome. Gloria had pointed out to Rosemary the different rings, each one responsible for a unique spray. But it was the chrome pipes on opposite walls of the shower, she’d said, that made the real difference. Prickling jets of water from the shoulders to the knees. Or, if one preferred, a strong hissing mist. Just adjust the control. The marble was Italian, cream with pinkish veins. Overhead, a chimney-like flue ran up about twenty feet to a skylight, operable by remote control right from the shower.
The ride out to the Island had been a blur. Three cheers for the Demerol that she’d been given at the hospital. Rosemary had made the driver stop at Paragon, instructing him to go inside and buy several pairs of sweatpants, both lightweight and heavy, a few sweatshirts, some T-shirts and several pairs of warm wool socks. Gloria had plenty of other clothes in the closets and dressers if necessary. Rosemary had found a flannel robe that she liked; she’d be fine.
Rosemary adjusted the temperature and stepped into the shower. Her body ached from Lyles’s brutish attack. What was his problem, anyway? Rosemary wondered. Was he offended that I told him to pack it up and get out? What is it with men? Maybe that lesbian detective knows what she’s doing after all. Maybe there’s something to be said for sticking with the more intelligent sex. Rosemary increased the pressure of the water. God…it felt so good. She hadn’t yet activated the two chrome pipes.
Okay. Men are useful, let’s not get silly about it. They’re fun. Get the right one and they’re more than just fun. Lord, Rosemary thought, tilting her head cautiously to look past the eight-thousand-dollar streams of water at the few flakes of snow drifting through the distant skylight, I am so ready to burst out of the stable. Where in the world has my life been, anyway? The entire past year was feeling as hazy as the past three hours. Even though she was in a fog, she felt as if she were finally making her way out of one.
Rosemary had to be careful with her wrenched neck. No sudden movements. And it would be several days at least before the bruising on her face went away. Not that she planned on seeing anyone. This was major downtime. Rosemary. A big empty house. An ocean. It was fine with her if it snowed ten feet. Twenty feet. Bring on the next Ice Age, she didn’t care.
Looking down, she noticed a bruise on her right thigh. Bastard, she thought dreamily. She took the oval bar of translucent soap and began rubbing it along the bruise, as if somehow she’d be able to lather it away. She rubbed counterclockwise, then clockwise, then again, both directions. At last she released the soap, letting it drop next to her feet. It looked like a very fat toe. I need to get to sleep, she thought. Or maybe she’d spoken aloud. She wasn’t sure. The jets of water were beginning to sting. It felt like her skin was burning where the water hit.
Okay…let’s try the big blast, and then it’s mattress time.
Rosemary reached for the nozzle that activated the chrome pipes and gave it a turn. The water blasted from the pipes with unexpected force. Too hard. And way too hot. Scalding. Rosemary spun. Her neck torqued. The pain shot through her entire body, and a shriek erupted from her lungs. It echoed through the upstairs rooms of the empty house and down the empty staircase. It also traveled out the skylight far above her head, traveled outside into the soft white silent world, where its sound barely registered.
A faint noise.
Brief. Unintelligible.
Then nothing.
AFTER SHE CAME OUT of the Midtown Tunnel, Megan phoned Ryan Pope. She explained what it was she needed from him, and when he questioned why she needed it, she requested that he simply do her the damn favor and not ask questions.
“This has to do with Fox, doesn’t it?”
Megan sighed. “Ryan, everything I do these days has to do with Fox. My pancakes in the morning have to do with Fox. Please just get that address and call me back.”
Megan hung up and pulled around a slow-moving Mini Cooper and settled in for a stressful drive. Pope phoned her back fifteen minutes later.
“It’s in East Hampton.” He gave her the address. He started to ask another question, but Megan cut the connection and phoned Malone.
“Got it. East Hampton. Seventeen Skyler Drive.”
Malone thanked her. “Now I can finally pass this guy. Ross is driving worse than an old lady.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to drive up ahead. I’d like to be in place when Ross and his gal get there. I’ll ditch the car a couple blocks away from the house.”
“Try not to do anything until I get there.”
“I’m not planning to do anything. We don’t even know what the score is here. I just want to keep an eye on things.”
They hung up. Megan brought her flashing light up onto the dashboard. She didn’t want to attract the attention of any police out on the highway. But a few flashes every now and then would be good to get slower traffic out of her way.
This was it. She felt certain that this was it. She flexed her fingers, stretching them wide, and dropped her hand on the seat. An old habit. A signal to Helen.
“Hand, please,” she muttered. She took a beat, then wrapped her fingers closed and squeezed as tightly as she could.
This was it.
THE BLACK SUBURBAN WAS going too fast. I swore under my breath as it passed. Just because they’re sitting high and mighty, people think they’re in some sort of damn protection bubble. The Suburban cut abruptly back into my lane, forcing me to hit my brakes. The rental started into a slide, but I righted it.
“Jerk.”
There was a tractor trailer in front of the Suburban, maintaining a safe speed. The Suburban pulled out to pass the truck, but it remained too close. As it began to overtake the truck, it skidded to the right, bouncing off the rear wheels of the trailer.
“Shit!”
I pumped my brakes to avoid the skid. The two vehicles moved away from me, and as I watched, the cab of the truck angled to the left, directly into the path of the Suburban. The trailer, which continued moving straight, began to shudder. It rocked sideways several times then seemed to lie down almost gently on its side. The instant it hit the highway, it sent up a cloud of snow and bounced in the air. As it did, the Suburban went into a skid, spinning nearly 180 degrees. When the trailer bounced back down on the road, it landed squarely on top of the Suburban.
The jackknifing continued as the Suburban rolled out from under the trailer, which then seemed to fold itself into an embrace around the vehicle. Sparks leaped from both the vehicles as their metal gouged into the pavement. It was almost beautiful, except that it was horrible.
I managed to come to a stop some fifty feet from the two vehicles. Immediately, I looked in my rearview mirror, where I saw the VW behind me swerving to avoid rear-ending my car. I saw a flash of headlights as someone did rear-end the VW. Horns were going off. More headlights. A car slid sideways off the highway. A crunch. A bang. A thud. I remained with my grip tight on the steering wheel, holding my breath. No one hit me. I twisted around in the seat for a look.
Cars at all angles. It looked like a parking lot of drunken sailors.
ROSS SAW THE LIGHTS up ahead, the glow of pulsing red and yellow lights filling the air. He gently pumped the brakes.
“What is it?” Tracy craned forward as if the few extra inches would bring any additional vision.
“Accident.” Ross shifted to the right lane and continued to slow down. Up ahead were at least a dozen vehicles, maybe more. All stopped. A tractor trailer had jackknifed and was on its side. It looked in the whirling snow like a large beached whale. A partially crushed vehicle was tucked up against the truck. Baby whale. Ross checked his rearview mirror. Traffic was coming in slowly behind him. In another minute, he’d be trapped.
“Hold on.” Ross put the car in reverse and flung his arm over the back of the seat to look behind him.
Tracy was alarmed. “What are you doing? Are you backing up?”
No, I’m doing the fucking Charleston.
That’s it, Ross thought as he maneuvered partway onto the shoulder in order to squeeze past a pickup truck, I’m having nothing more to do with this simpleton. She’s been nothing but trouble ever since I first heard her goddamn name. His eyes went to the backseat, where he’d laid his overcoat. The edge of the crowbar that he’d fetched from the trunk when they were in the airport parking lot was showing. Ross stretched back farther and flipped an arm of the overcoat over the metal bar. The car swerved dangerously close to the far shoulder of the road, but he pulled the wheel in time to avoid the ditch.
Tracy asked, “Are you going to try another road?”
Ross kept his voice level. “That’s right. The exit’s about half a mile back. It’s bound to be slower. But if we sit here, we’re dead in the water.”
He stole a glance at the woman. She was sitting straight up, eyes wide, jerking her head to look in all directions at once. Poor, stupid, silly thing. She didn’t know it yet, but she was already dead in the water.
THE SKY WAS dark gray and growing murkier by the minute when Ross finally pulled into the driveway. He had a moment of panic, fearing that the car might not make it through the unplowed snow. The last thing he needed was for his car to be hanging out for anyone passing by to notice. There’d been another accident, this one on Route 27A. Nowhere near as large as the tangle on the LIE. This one had involved only three cars, but it had still brought traffic to a standstill for nearly forty minutes. Ross had not enjoyed a single one of them.
The automatic door rumbled as it opened, and Ross pulled the car in to the garage, next to his prized cream ’68 Caddy. Ross turned off the car and lowered his hands to his thighs.
Stillness.
Tracy let her head fall back onto the headrest. “Gosh, it seems like we’ve been driving for days. You did great.”
Ross remained silent. He sat stone-still, gazing through the darkened windshield at the images flashing in his brain:
Cynthia Blair bumping into him as she emerged from Marshall’s building.
The Rossman girl, so fatally gullible, getting into his car.
That unfortunate young woman’s huge Christmas tree.
“Alan?” Tracy twisted to look out the back window at the darkening day. “Um, where is everyone? When’s the party supposed to start?”
Now.
Ross leaned his shoulder into the driver’s-side door. “They’ll be here. We’ve got to set things up. The caterer should be here any minute. Come on. There’s something I want to show you. It’s going to be the big surprise.”
He got out of the car and pulled open the back door, fetching his coat as well as the crowbar hidden in its folds. As Tracy got out, Ross put on the coat and dug his left hand into the pocket, slipping the crowbar under the coat so that he could hold it in place under his arm.
Tracy met him at the back of the car. She was shrugging into her stylish blazer. “What’s the surprise?”
“It’s out in the boathouse.”
Tracy hugged herself and performed a parody of shivering. “Maybe we should go inside first and get me a sweater or something.”
Ross brought his right arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him. She responded with a small giggle. “Ah, you’re a tough kid,” Ross said. “I’ll keep you warm. Come on. It won’t take long.”
The two left the garage, Ross activating the automatic door to close it behind them. They started around the side of the huge house. What with the snow and the fast fading of the day’s remaining light, the water was only vaguely visible. The boathouse, newly painted the summer before, was the sole piece of color visible as the two made their way across the large backyard.
“Alan, my shoes are already completely soaked. They’re going to get ruined. Let’s just go inside. I’m sure Gloria’s got some boots or something I can use.”
It wasn’t an unreasonable request. Quick detour into the house and then head straight back out. But Ross was tired. Now that he was no longer behind the wheel, the full weight of his fatigue was coming down on him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted a peaceful sleep. It didn’t matter if it was only a five-minute detour, enough was enough already. He scoffed at the notion that he’d even considered enjoying himself with this girl before wrapping things up.
“Alan?” Tracy lowered her shoulder and attempted to squirm out from under his arm, but Ross was quicker, and he held on to her. “Alan. Let go! Stop it.”
She tried again, this time shoving her hand against his chest. She managed to roll away from his arm, but Ross reached out and caught her arm before she could get away.
“What are you doing? Let go, Alan! It isn’t funny.”
From a distance it might have looked like a dance. Astaire and Rogers. The man in the long coat leaning back slightly to hold the weight of the woman at the end of his arm, the two of them arching backward like a pair of wings opening up. But there was nothing graceful in the sudden appearance of the black iron rod. Or in the way that it came down on the woman’s head over and over and over.
Nothing graceful at all.
MEGAN WAS UNABLE to get a signal. The last she’d spoken with Malone, he was still stuck in the snarl of vehicles around the accident. Megan had taken Route 27A to avoid the mess. Even there, she had passed several tow trucks on either side of the road, securing a pair of cars on their beds.
She pulled to a stop in front of Alan Ross’s driveway. She could make out tire tracks in the snow leading up to the garage. The garage door was closed. Megan decided to keep her car where it was and approach the house by foot. The wind was gusting hard, and when Megan opened the car door, a blast of whipping snow stung her in the face.
There were no lights on in the house that Megan could see. She knelt down to inspect the tire tracks. They seemed fairly fresh, the tread marks still quite distinct, not covered with any appreciable snowfall. The car that had made them could not have been here for long.
Approaching the garage, Megan made out two sets of footprints leading around the side of the house. She followed them through a wooden gate, where they led into the spacious backyard. As Megan moved forward, crouching somewhat so she could follow alongside the two pairs of footprints, she was unable to clear from her mind the evening-just over a year before-when she had located the Swede on his houseboat at the marina in Sheepshead Bay. Walking stealthily down the pier in the dark, placing her feet with the silence of a cat, her heart thumping hard in her chest, just like it was doing now. She tried to will the memory to recede, but it refused to budge.
Through the blowing snow, Megan could make out a small dark structure. The footsteps appeared to head in that direction. A boathouse. As she moved forward, a light appeared briefly in one of the windows. A brief, buttery flash and then it was gone. Then it happened again. A flashlight. Someone was waving a flashlight around.
Some hundred feet from the boathouse, Megan froze. The footprints in the snow stopped being parallel pairs and the snow became a scramble, like a cluster of failed snow angels. Several feet beyond, there was something dark on the snow. Megan knelt down and scooped up a handful of the dark snow. She touched the fingers of her other hand to the snow, and they came away darkened.
Megan wiped the bloody snow off against her coat and blew into her cupped hands, then reached to her hip holster and unfastened the safety strap. Her pistol felt heavy. She felt like she was palming a lead brick. Megan’s heart was no longer simply slamming in her chest; it seemed to have expanded to fill her entire torso. No need to step softly, as the snow would muffle her footsteps. She plunged forward. The darkness on the snow ran in smears, alongside a wide track, the imprint of a body being dragged. Megan ran her arm across her eyes to clear the blowing snow. She heard a voice letting out a fearful whisper. It could only be her own.
Helen.
ROSS WAS GOING to take the Boston Whaler. He’d have preferred the Chaparral, especially in this sort of weather, but the sleek runabout wasn’t wise for his purposes. Though not without effort, he’d be able to paddle the Whaler out into the ocean some distance before turning over the engine. That was one consideration. The other, frankly, was cleanup. What he had to do was going to be messy. The Chaparral had white leather seats, cream-colored cushioning, the padded dashboard. Much easier to mop down the Whaler.
Ross couldn’t wait until this whole stupid episode was over. All he wanted was to get the mess over with and go inside and crawl into his bed. Grabbing the prone body of Tracy Jacobs by the arm and dragging her along the dock beside the Whaler, Ross glanced up through one of the boathouse’s windows, where he could see the rear of his house, see his bedroom window. He was shocked to see that a light was on. For an instant, panic flooded his system. Slow, he told himself. It’s probably just a timer. Focus. One thing at a time, you know how this has to be done.
He thought of Cynthia. That one hadn’t been planned. There’d been no time for the sort of organization that he prided himself on. After it was concluded, yes, sure. A quick minute to think things through. The bit with the hand over the heart. A smart move. The others had been more to his liking. Problem. Plan. Execution. In Ross’s view, a smart person could accomplish anything he set out to accomplish. Anything. You just had to be the one in control of the situation. Plan. Execute. And make sure your ass was covered. Life was so simple, really, it was laughable.
Ross didn’t know whether the young woman was alive or dead. It didn’t matter. She was out cold, that was the important thing. It was her own fault, those several extra hits with the crowbar. She’d just been so fucking irritating. And not just now but in general. All he’d done for her. He’d given her a life, for Christ’s sake. If only she’d remained on her side of the country.
Ross paused and looked at the battered head at his feet. He thought he might throw up. He hadn’t needed to hit her that hard. It was Fox, dammit. He was the person to blame for all this. Marshall and his insatiable ego. And Cynthia, of course. The both of them. What Ross still marveled at was how in the world those two had managed to pull off their affair without Ross knowing. The secrecy, and especially the betrayal, that’s what was so infuriating. How many times had Ross made a complete ass of himself in front of Cynthia Blair, begging her, begging her to take his feelings for her seriously? She had no idea how urgently she had mesmerized him. No idea at all. She never listened properly. She never heard. Cynthia had said she was “flattered.” Who the hell cared about flattery? Alan Ross flattered people every day of the week; he could flatter a cement wall if he had to. Cynthia didn’t understand. He had to have her. This wasn’t a negotiation, it was a requirement. It was a need. Ross had groomed Cynthia at the network. He’d watched her grow and develop. He’d helped train her, helped her to sharpen her skills, to put the bite into her work. And hadn’t it paid off when he brought Marshall onto the scene? His two creations? His creations. Cynthia owed him. Big-time. Ross treasured the dynamic he and Gloria had established in the industry. They’d become a true power team. But that was Act One. Ross wanted the intoxication again, this time with Cynthia. He needed it. He needed to do it all over again, with fresh supple blood. If Cynthia played her cards right, she was definitely going places. Ross planned on going there with her, as simple as that. And if patience was what it required, he was prepared to remain patient. Power comes from action; it can also come from patience.
What Ross hadn’t been prepared for was running into Cynthia leaving Marshall’s building in tears one night the previous April. He had not been prepared for their walk through Central Park and her confession of her affair with Marshall. She’d allowed Ross to hold her, to keep his arm around her as she told him the squalid details. The words had moved about in Ross’s head at precarious angles, crashing into one another. Marshall. Lovers. Affair. Cynthia had allowed Ross a closeness like never before. She had told him she trusted him more than anybody else in her life, that his coming along at that precise moment was a miracle. The two had traveled arm in arm along the southern portion of the park, past the boat pond, pausing at the Alice in Wonderland statue, so creepy in the moonlight. Especially the Mad Hatter, with his large bony nose and his bad teeth. They’d moved on, traveling north, pausing at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, where Cynthia had said she had something else she needed to tell Alan. Something more important to her than anything else in the world and that he had to promise not to breathe a word to anyone. This was something she would be handling in her own way. She had already made her decision, she said, and she was ready to live with the consequences. In fact, she was overjoyed with her decision. Taking hold of Ross’s hands, Cynthia had placed them on her stomach and held them there. Her touch sent an electrical current jolting through Ross’s system. He dared to massage her belly, ever so lightly. His fingertips kneading her pliant flesh. Then she smiled at him. Ross had never seen Cynthia smile like this before. Angelic.
“It’s so perfect, Alan. I mean, that you’re the first to know. It couldn’t be better. Because really, if you think about it, without you, none of this could have happened. Seriously. This is all because of you.”
She squeezed one of his hands, helping it to massage her belly a little harder as she told him her wonderful news.
TRACY JACOBS LET OUT a groan. Small and gurgling. Ross nudged her with the toe of his shoe. Oops, he thought. DNA all over my Lazzeris. So she was alive. Barely, he was sure. It didn’t matter. Maybe some duct tape on her ankles and wrists, to be safe. Certainly on her mouth. Ross aimed his flashlight beam at the wall, where several tools were hanging. There was the duct tape, just where he knew it would be. He wrapped the woman’s ankles together, then her wrists. He scraped the bloody hair back from her mouth and allowed her to complete her next groan before securing a large piece of tape on her mouth. He decided that the kind thing was to stick some duct tape over her eyes as well. She really didn’t need to see what was coming next.
Ross straightened. God, his knees ached. Isn’t aging a bitch. He shone his flashlight down at the black water lapping against the sides of the Whaler-paper-thin sheets of ice had formed-then trained the light back on the wall, stepped over to it and lifted the hacksaw from its nail. He returned to Tracy and eyeballed the distance between the edge of the dock and the gunwale of the boat. If he attempted to roll her into the boat, he could well miss and she would go toppling instead into the water. Not good. Not here. And not all in one piece.
He’d have to lift her at least partway. This would be the awkward part. He set the flashlight down on the wood so that its beam was trained on Tracy. He set the hacksaw down next to it. Taking a deep breath, he knelt and wrapped his arms around the woman’s shoulders and hugged her torso to him, then rose to a squat. For a cute young thing, she was surprisingly heavy. Ross adjusted his grip and pulled her closer. Her head flopped onto his shoulder.
It was then that he heard a noise and looked up to see the boathouse door opening.
THE CONE OF LIGHT from a flashlight was illuminating a body lying prone on the wooden dock. A long slender boat bobbed between Megan and the body. It took Megan several seconds to realize that the body-it was a woman-was bound at the ankles and wrists and that something was terribly wrong with her face. Then she saw, directly behind the woman, a pair of legs, a shadowy figure. It was holding something metallic, something that caught a portion of the flashlight ray.
“Drop it!”
Megan fell to one knee, her Glock aimed at the area just above the illuminated legs. A silent shriek was whistling in her ears. If he has a gun, I’m dead. She shouted again. “Drop it! Police! Show me your hands!”
It was duct tape on the woman’s eyes and mouth. Her forehead was smeared with blood. The figure standing over her was not moving. Megan registered that what the figure was holding was a handsaw. Panic raced through her system. The Swede! Her gun wavered.
“Drop it! Now!”
Her words echoed in the hollow structure, almost as if a second Megan were straddling the narrow roof beams up above, calling out from up there. The figure standing over the bound woman knelt down slowly and set the saw on her hips. A man. He was wearing a fedora-style hat that partially covered his face. As he set down the saw, Megan heard a small scraping sound. Of course it wasn’t Albert Stenborg. The Swede was very dead. Even so, Megan strained to make out Albert Stenborg’s nearly invisible blond mustache. He’d stood straddling Helen just like this, his clumsy six-five frame rocking gently with the movement of his fetid-smelling houseboat, obsessively stroking his imperceptible mustache.
“Get down!” Megan ordered. “Lie down right next to her! On your front. Do it!”
“I’d just as soon not, thank you.” His voice was every bit as calm as Megan’s was aflame.
Megan could make out his outline better now. Her eyes were adjusting. Directly in front of her, the narrow boat wobbled in the water. The faint lapping of water sounded like tiny slaps. Megan’s finger tightened cautiously on the trigger. He killed them. He killed them all. This is him. This is the one. She could taste salt on her lips. Her face was blazing hot.
“Lie down on your front. Let’s just do this calmly. Hands out in front.”
“You’re trespassing,” the man said. “You shouldn’t be here. This has nothing to do with you.”
Megan rose slowly from her crouch, tracking her aim as she did, keeping it trained on the area of the man’s chest. “Do what I say.”
Ross scoffed, “And if I don’t? What then? What exactly are you going to do, Detective? Are you going to shoot me? Is that it? In cold blood?”
Megan took a sharp breath, held it and squeezed the trigger. The Glock bucked in her hand and the barrel flashed. In the confined space, the noise was a thunderous roar. The shot sailed well to Ross’s right. As intended. He ducked seconds late.
“Are you fucking crazy?”
She’d gotten his attention.
“I’m fine,” Megan replied. “Now let’s just end this thing quietly. And for your sake, I hope that woman is still alive.”
Megan’s vision was sufficiently adjusted that she could now make out the contours of the boathouse. There were two boat slips, the one between her and Ross with the Boston Whaler in it, and a second one behind Ross, where a larger boat rocked gently in the black water. Ross was essentially trapped. The only escapes were the door behind Megan or the water at the end of the dock. Assuming Ross wasn’t foolish enough to take the icy leap, he’d have to go through her first if he wanted to get out.
“There’s no point in this,” Megan said, beginning to edge to her right. “You’re a smart man, Ross. I don’t know why you did all this, but it’s finished. Okay? Just do what I’m saying and let’s get on with it. If that woman’s still alive, we’ve got to get her to a hospital.”
Megan edged farther, keeping the pistol trained on the man. She didn’t want to glance down at the bloodied body at Ross’s feet, but she couldn’t help herself. It had to be Tracy Jacobs, though there was no way she could identify the pulpy face of the woman lying on the dock. It dawned on Megan that there was no way Ross could have delivered such damage with his bare hands. Not the handsaw. It wasn’t nearly heavy enough.
The bastard has a weapon.
“I want your hands, Ross! Right now!”
“I don’t think-”
She jerked the gun and fired again, this time toward the larger boat. Its triangular windshield exploded. The gun muzzle swung immediately back to Ross. “Now!”
Ross brought both of his hands up slowly in front of him. Something long and skinny and black was in his right hand. A crowbar. Megan took another step. I can shoot him. The bastard has a weapon. He came at me with it. I had no choice. Rule number one: defend yourself at all costs. I can blow this bastard into the water.
But Megan didn’t want to fire from here. She wanted her pistol barrel jammed up right against the bastard’s tonsils.
“Drop the crowbar, Mr. Ross.”
He did. With a flick of his wrist, the crowbar dropped into the water, next to the boat. In the same movement, Ross snatched up the flashlight and flicked the beam directly into Megan’s eyes. She could see nothing but white spears.
Shoot! Now! He’s going to come at you. Shoot!
Ross flicked the light away from Megan’s face and trained it on Tracy Jacobs. Megan was still somewhat blinded. The prone body shimmered blue and out of focus. Ross lifted a foot and placed it on the woman’s back. He nudged slightly, rocking the prone body. She let out a soft groan.
“You hear that? She’s still alive.”
“Step away!”
Ross trained the light on Megan for a few seconds, then again on the body lying at his feet. “She’s alive, Detective. I’m sure she’d be very grateful to you if you’d help her out.”
He reset his foot on the woman’s back and grunted as he shoved. The body rotated easily. Three quarters of a turn and she dropped cleanly off the dock, landing with minimal splash in the black water. Ross trained the flashlight on her. The bound legs swung down and out of sight. Her hair fanned out on the surface. In the flashlight glare, the top of her head resembled a softball. It followed swiftly after the legs.
Ross flicked off the flashlight. “Your call, lady.”
MEGAN’S CLOTHES TOOK her down. Even without her coat and her shoes, which she had frantically pulled off, her saturated clothes took her down like an anchor. She hadn’t expected it. She groped for the sinking body but found nothing. She didn’t even know if her eyes were open. There was nothing to see. Total blackness. Megan thrashed at the water.
She was flying.
She was floating.
She was swimming.
She was sinking.
Dark as the grave, Megan thought, sweeping her arms in front of her. Dark as the womb. She was already lost. Up. Down. Her lungs were holding, but the shock of the water’s temperature-delayed at first-arrived. It attacked her like cold knives slashing at her skin.
Her limbs were already losing feeling. Was she flexing her fingers? She thought maybe. All the switches were being flipped off. Megan could not have imagined anything this cold.
She kicked her feet. She groped. She gathered the blackness into her chest. Her lungs were beginning to ache. And she knew what was happening.
Josh.
Her brother’s face appeared to Megan as if it were right there in front of her, as if it were inside an illuminated bubble. For weeks and weeks he had pulled her out of herself, dragged her back into the light and sat there with her, coaxing her back. Patient. Loving. Loyal. Oh, Lord. Josh. Please don’t look at me now. All your efforts. Your sweet efforts.
She felt ashamed.
Failure is cold and black.
Megan’s arms crossed back and forth over each other. There was no seeing them at all. There would be no more seeing. She was kicking her freezing feet. Going where? Out to sea? And for what? She imagined herself grabbing an armful of slick weeds at the bottom and holding tight, curling up to them.
Her lungs were hurting badly now, as if a corkscrew were working its way into her chest. This was a fool’s end. She scissored her legs one last time, kicking with all her remaining strength. Arms outstretched, fingers splayed, Megan kicked and opened her mouth as wide as it would go.
ALAN ROSS DASHED across the snow. The poor woman. She had looked pathetic, struggling to strip off her overcoat, as if the sleeves were suddenly three times too long. She was so small, he doubted she’d have the strength to pull Tracy out of the water even if she got the chance.
Ross went around to the front of the house and let himself in the front door. His fingers went automatically to the house alarm, but halfway through the code, he realized that the alarm was not activated. He frowned. He couldn’t remember if it was he or Gloria who had been the last one out the door on their most recent trip. It wasn’t like either of them to forget the alarm.
Ross was dying of thirst. He started for the kitchen then veered into the dining room, where he fetched a bottle of Dewar’s from the liquor cabinet. He took the bottle into the kitchen and dropped a few ice cubes into a tumbler and poured the glass three quarters full. Swiftly he took it down to a quarter in one gulp.
There were a million questions but no time to find answers. If the police detective didn’t freeze to death or drown, she’d be back on the scene any second. With or without Tracy. Frankly, he hoped it was with. He couldn’t afford to have Tracy Jacobs’s body washing ashore somewhere. He had to return to the original plan. If need be, he would deal with the detective in the same manner. It was getting so complicated. Ross stared hard into his glass. The one piece of information he’d like to know was whether the detective was the only person who had pieced the murders together, or if there were others. The good news was that she had apparently come out here alone. This suggested she was on a cowboy mission, rushing out by herself, like a fool. Ross prayed he could be so lucky. If Lamb was the only one wise to him, it was still possible he could manage events to keep himself safe. If not…He wasn’t ready to think about it. He’d have to disappear. How the hell he was going to do that, he didn’t know. If it came to it, he’d figure it out. Problem. Plan. Execute. It’s what he was all about.
Ross finished off his drink and slammed the glass down hard on the counter. Fuck you, Marshall! He downed another half glass then went into his study and, using a key from the top drawer of his desk, unlocked the narrow closet on the east wall where he kept what Gloria snidely referred to as his “coon gun.” An old Winchester pump-action.22, less for raccoons than for squirrels and groundhogs, which seemed more plentiful in these parts. Ross wasn’t anything near a full-fledged hunter. Sometimes he liked sitting out on the patio with the rifle propped up on the banister. Point and shoot. Squeeze and kill. It was so easy. Anyway, there were more squirrels and groundhogs on the planet than necessary. Ross enjoyed the pump action. What normal, healthy guy doesn’t like the pump action?
Ross glanced out the window at the boathouse. No movement that he could see. He had to get back out there. If the detective did make it out of the water, he needed to be there waiting for her. Squeeze and kill. Ross went out into the front hall. What he saw there made him stop cold.
Rosemary Fox was descending the staircase. She was in a neck brace and was wearing one of Ross’s own bathrobes, the belt tied loosely. Her semi-wet hair fell down over her half-exposed breasts. Her face was horribly bruised. The expression on it was dreamy, serene. The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. The eyes didn’t join in.
“Alan?”
Abruptly, the front door opened. A man was standing there holding a pistol in his hand. Ross swung about, his rifle hip-high, and fired.
THE BRASS MALLARD NEXT to my face tore off the door. The wood splintered, and I took a few shards on the face. I leaped to my left into the house, performing a complete-if clumsy-roll, then a second one. Anything so long as I was a moving target. I came to a stop on my elbows.
Alan Ross was standing at the foot of the stairs, pumping his rifle. Behind him on the stairs stood Rosemary Fox. She wore a green bathrobe, and the fingertips of her right hand rested lightly on the banister. A huge bruise dominated her face.
I brought my gun up. Ross fired before I could, but his shot sailed over my head. I sighted on him. Rosemary Fox screamed. “Alan!”
I held my shot. Ross darted to his left, disappearing into the next room. As I scrambled to my feet, Rosemary Fox took a poor step. Her feet came out from under her and she landed sideways on the stairs, bumping down to the bottom step. I dashed past her.
Ross was slamming through a swinging door at the far end of the room. The kitchen. I crossed quickly and caught the door as it was swinging closed. Ross knew the house. I didn’t. He wouldn’t knowingly trap himself. The kitchen led elsewhere. My guess? Outside.
Or the garage.
I retraced my steps at a dead run. Rosemary Fox was still on her fanny at the bottom of the staircase. Her robe had fallen open. She looked like a serious lush.
I ran out the front door and around to the driveway. As I did, I heard the sound of a car engine revving inside the garage. I knelt down on the snow at the edge of the driveway and readied myself. The garage door slid open, and for a moment, nothing. Then a cream Cadillac leaped forward. Holding my breath, I tracked and got off the shot, hitting the front right tire. The Caddy swerved toward me and straightened as it passed. I pivoted, locking my arms in place, and fired twice, the second shot hitting the right rear tire. The car skidded on the snow, sliding sideways into a standing lawn lamp.
I was up and running. Ross was gunning the engine, but the rear of the car slid slushily back and forth in the snowy driveway. I grabbed hold of the driver’s door handle and tugged, but the door was locked. I could see Ross through the smoked glass. It took two hits with the butt of my pistol to shatter the glass. Ross was reaching for his rifle, which was on the seat next to him. My pistol barrel went snugly against his left temple, as if the two pieces were made to fit.
“Let it go.”
He hesitated.
I didn’t.
I reared back and landed the gun butt sharply just above his left eye. His head lolled forward. I groped for the door lock on the driver’s armrest and pushed it, then I pulled back out of the window, yanked open the door and dragged Ross by the collar out onto the snow.
“Where’s Lamb?” When he didn’t answer, I gave him another taste of my gun butt. “Where is she?”
Blood was running into his eyes. He blinked it away and looked at me as if I were some sort of curious artifact. I dropped the gun and took a double grip on his coat.
“Where the hell is she?” My throat would hurt later from the strain.
He ran a tongue across his lips. “Dead in the water. How should I know?”
FOR A BRIEF INSTANT, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Two dark slick bodies, one of them stretched out flat on its back, the second one hunched over the other, looking for all the world like it was feeding on it. It was dark, but then I pieced it together. I was in the boathouse. In front of me were Megan and Tracy Jacobs. Megan was frantically performing mouth-to-mouth on the actress. Blowing into her mouth, pumping her hands on the woman’s chest. Blowing, pumping…She looked up at me. Her face was a shock mask. Her teeth were chattering so loudly I could hear them.
“Help.” Her voice was a plaintive croak. I pulled off my coat and wrapped it around her. She shook her head violently. “Her.”
Megan turned her head and vomited water onto the dock. I knelt down next to Tracy Jacobs. Even in the dark boathouse, the paleness of her face showed like a dull moon. I took over the mouth-to-mouth, spitting brackish salt water from my mouth every other breath. I pressed my hands to her sternum and pushed.
“She’s alive,” Megan said weakly behind me. “There’s a heartbeat.”
I kept at it, and after what was probably only a very long minute, the body under me spasmed. Her back arched involuntarily, and a rush of black water gushed out of her mouth. Her coughs were otherworldly. They were followed by a groan that built slowly but steadily, tightening until it reached a piercing siren shriek.
MEGAN COULD WALK. She followed me as I carried Tracy Jacobs across the large yard into the house. Tracy’s face and head were horribly beaten. I didn’t see the extent of it until I set her down on Ross’s living room couch. Rosemary Fox was seated in an armchair, looking dreamily amused.
Megan instructed her to go into the kitchen and boil some water. When the woman hesitated, Megan barked, “Now!”
Rosemary Fox rose from the chair and floated out of the room.
I asked, “Boil water?”
Megan was lightly touching one of Tracy Jacobs’s head wounds. She shrugged. “I just wanted her out of the fucking room.”
I had called 911 from my cell phone at the boathouse. Megan’s lips were blue, and her breathing was beginning to speed up. I took her cheeks between my hands and rubbed vigorously. Then I took her hands-they were ice-and rubbed them as well.
“Hold on,” I said. I ran up the stairs and found the master bedroom. There was a down quilt on the bed. In a second bedroom, I snared a blanket, then returned to the living room and wrapped the quilt around Megan. I placed the blanket over Tracy Jacobs. The actress’s eyes opened briefly. She blinked and looked right through me; then her eyes closed again.
Rosemary Fox came in from the kitchen. “The water’s boiling.”
“Make some coffee, Mrs. Fox,” I said.
She asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m the person asking you politely to please make some coffee. Very strong.”
“I would like to know what is going on here. Where’s Alan? Who are you? Who’s that girl?”
I stepped over to her. As I approached, she took a step backward. She also managed a haughty look, even with that nasty bruise. She crossed her arms defensively on her chest.
“My name is Malone,” I said. “That young woman on the couch is Tracy Jacobs. Your friend Alan tried to kill her. What I want from you is some help, in the form of a pot of hot coffee. Can you handle that, Mrs. Fox?”
“You’re a bit of a shit, aren’t you.”
“On a good day, sure. By the way, I met your friend Danny. Bit of a shit himself, isn’t he?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want milk?”
Back in the living room, Megan was shivering within her quilt. She had pulled a chair up to the couch and was sitting in it, stroking Tracy Jacobs’s cheek. She looked up as I entered the room.
“Where is Ross, by the way?”
“I’ve got him locked away.”
“Locked away? Where?”
“He’s in the trunk of his car.”
“Outside?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Kind of cold out there, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Megan laughed. Too hard, it turned out. Her shoulders began to shake, and her breath got away from her. The transition to tears was seamless. Her smile curdled, and she pulled the quilt tight around her neck. Her eyes grew large and frightened as the tears flooded down her cheeks. I took a step toward her, but she shook her head. “No.”
She doubled over in the chair and began sobbing. I came forward anyway and touched her lightly on the top of her head. You’d have thought I pushed a button. She came forward out of the chair, out of the quilt, and wrapped her thin arms around me, pressing her face into my chest, crying unashamedly. Hanging on for dear life.
AFTER STRANGLING Cynthia Blair and leaving her body at the base of Cleopatra’s Needle, and at the last minute hitting upon the inspiration of driving a pen into her chest so as to secure her hand over her heart, Alan Ross had assumed that the authorities would immediately turn their attentions to Marshall Fox. Naturally, Fox had been questioned, but the police had been interested primarily in obtaining background information concerning Cynthia. Not once had their questions suggested any suspicion of Fox.
Although Marshall Fox had trusted Ross possibly more than anyone else he knew, his affair with Cynthia was one aspect of his personal life that he had chosen not to share with his trusted friend. Ross was privy to most of Fox’s numerous dalliances, more so than he cared to be. Marshall liked to brag. Ross had known about Nicole Rossman, although not by name. Fox had been unable to keep from boasting about some of the outrageous things he had been doing with the malleable doll-woman he had met online. In the days following Cynthia’s murder, as it became clear to Ross that the police were not including Fox on their list of top suspects, the television executive had formulated a plan. Under the guise of concern for Marshall Fox’s mental state, Ross arranged with Fox’s driver to be kept informed on the entertainer’s doings and his whereabouts. And so it was that when Nicole Rossman emerged from Fox’s building at three in the morning ten days after Cynthia Blair’s murder, she was met by none other than Alan Ross of KBS Television.
Gloria was off in Los Angeles, so Ross had no tracks to cover on that front. Getting Nikki Rossman into his car proved even easier than he’d guessed. He’d merely had to give her his credentials and tell her that he needed desperately to talk with her about Marshall. The attack took place just north of Central Park. Ross pulled to a stop near the Duke Ellington statue on 110th Street and produced a hammer. Three swift blows and Nikki Rossman was crumpled against the passenger door. Ross drove into the park, pulling off the road into a cove of trees just north of Cleopatra’s Needle. The forty seconds required to transfer Nikki’s body from the car to the base of the monument was the riskiest part of the endeavor, but Ross took the gamble and won. Using a hunting knife he would later discard, he opened up the young woman’s throat. Then he nailed her hand to her chest. Four-inch nail. Driven all the way to its head.
When Fox wasn’t arrested the very next day, Ross went ballistic.
TRACY JACOBS UNDERWENT emergency surgery at Eastern Long Island Hospital and was then transferred to Manhattan’s Hospital for Special Surgery. My small concussion was nothing compared with the damage Alan Ross had inflicted on the actress. It was deemed highly unlikely that the doctors’ facial reconstruction efforts would eliminate all evidence of the severe beating. Word emerged almost immediately from the entertainment industry that a replacement actress for Tracy Jacobs’s role in Century City was being actively pursued.
Investigators going over Ross’s cavernous office at the network turned up what Joe Gallo referred to jokingly as “a little Nixony thing.” Ross’s office was wired to record all conversations that took place there. There were wireless microphones located at key spots throughout the office. A sound technician at the network confirmed that Ross had been a fanatic about recording every single encounter that took place in his office. This included his phone calls. All the recordings were downloaded onto Ross’s computer. Rodrigo and his IT team went to work. My chat with Ross surfaced, but Gallo wasn’t overly interested in that. He was interested in retrieving Alan Ross’s interview with Tracy Jacobs when she allegedly threatened to go to the police with her allegations of Marshall Fox’s abusive and violent tendencies. He was even more curious to hear the recordings of Tracy’s audition for Century City and Ross subsequently offering the role to her. It was no real surprise that neither of these recordings appeared to exist.
Gallo called Gloria Ross in several times and roughed her up in his gentlemanly way. She was generally cooperative. She admitted to having heeded her husband’s “urgent request” that she sign Tracy Jacobs to an Argosy contract, only half believing his story that the actress was a recent lover of Fox’s who was threatening to raise a very public stink in the media about the entertainer. To the extent that she bought her husband’s willingness to cave in to such a craven extortion scheme, Gloria had chalked it up to the pressures that Ross was under concerning Fox’s growing difficulties. During an extended period of questioning, Gallo managed to extract from Mrs. Ross her suspicions that her husband had harbored “excessively proprietary feelings” toward Marshall Fox’s producer, Cynthia Blair. When Gallo pressed her concerning any thoughts she might have had on her husband’s possible role in Cynthia’s murder, Gloria had demurred, if only slightly: “I didn’t go there. That’s all I’m going to say.”
A WEEK AFTER the final surgery, Tracy Jacobs was moved to a rehabilitation center located in Briarcliff, under five miles from Alan and Gloria Ross’s Westchester home. Gallo took the short trip north out of the city to speak to the woman. Despite the doctors’ warnings that Tracy’s memory could be compromised, the actress’s recollection of the events “that changed my life” proved intact. She told Gallo that she had indeed met with Alan Ross in his office and voiced her concerns about Marshall Fox. She told Gallo that Ross had treated her with exceptional respect and, after hearing her concerns, had pleaded gently but firmly with her not to go to the police. “As a personal favor to me” was the phrase he had used, she said, over and over again. Eventually, he had steered the conversation away from the topic and over to her career-such as it was-and had floated the offer of the audition as well as the possibility of having Tracy talk with his wife about representation. Tracy told Gallo that she’d found it peculiar that her audition the following day took place in Ross’s office and with no one else present except Ross himself. He’d set up a video camera on a tripod and given her a short script to read. He made her read the script nearly two dozen times, each time asking that she read every word with a different emphasis than she had used in the previous run-through. At one point, she said, Ross seemed to become frustrated and demanded that she read the script one word at a time. No sentences, simply word after word, as a means, he said, of getting her to loosen up.
She thought she’d blown the audition. The following evening she was on her way to Los Angeles.
Tracy had kept her copy of the audition script, and she was able to tell Gallo where it could be found in her apartment in West Hollywood. Gallo immediately contacted the LAPD, and within hours, the single page was faxed to New York.
Joe showed it to me in his office.
I want you to listen to me and I don’t want any interruptions. Kevin Daly can’t be trusted. He was having an affair with Missy Welch and I know that he is the one who got her pregnant. If he knows what’s good for himself, he’ll go to the police and tell them about Missy. If he doesn’t, I’ll do it. And I mean it. Don’t think I won’t.
“Scintillating,” I said.
Gallo asked, “Do you see what I see?”
I nodded. “Ross already had the tape of Tracy’s visit from the day before. She’d have been throwing Fox’s name around, accusing him of being the violent punk he really is. Ross sends her off with the promise of a so-called audition, then he cooks up this piece of crap and has her come back in and read it a dozen different ways. All sorts of inflections.”
“Exactly. Do a nifty splice job with bits from the day before, and he’s got her on tape saying whatever he wants.”
I looked down at the fax again. “‘Marshall Fox was having an affair with Cynthia Blair. He’s the one who got her pregnant. If he doesn’t tell the police, I’ll tell them myself, blah, blah, blah.’”
Joe nodded. “When Megan and I went up to Fox’s apartment, he and Ross and Riddick all said they wanted to get Fox’s affair with Cynthia on record themselves rather than have us hear it from this other source. This source that Fox thought was credible.”
“Except Tracy never knew.”
“That’s right.”
I held up the fax. “So which is it? Is our man Ross brilliant or pathetic?”
“We got Fox’s and Riddick’s phone records and checked all the calls that came in the week Tracy’s threat showed up. We found a pair of calls made to both of them within several minutes of each other, from the same public telephone five blocks from Alan Ross’s office. Tracy Jacobs wasn’t in New York at the time of the calls, so we checked all calls that came in to Fox and Riddick from the Los Angeles area as well. They’ve all been signed off as legit calls from known associates. Nothing from Tracy.”
“Thorough bastard, aren’t you? I’d sure hate to work for you.”
“I’ll remember that if you ever come crawling.”
“If I’m crawling, Joe, you won’t want me.”
NOT FORTY MINUTES BEFORE talking his way into Robin Burrell’s apartment and killing her, Alan Ross had been making nice with me in Samuel Deveraux’s courtroom. It took some work for the thought not to depress me. Cool, calm bastard. DNA evidence placed Alan Ross inside Robin’s apartment. Besides the hair samples from Ross located in Robin’s apartment, skin tissue samples removed from beneath her fingernails provided a match with Ross, as did a spot of blood lifted from the large mirror shard that Robin’s killer had thrust into her neck. The small sample of blood was located on the portion of the shard that the killer would have gripped while working the glass into place. Since there were no unaccounted-for fingerprints taken from Robin’s apartment, the assumption was that Ross had worn gloves but that either a finger or a thumb had gotten torn on the glass and the thumb or finger beneath had been nicked. A claw hammer retrieved from Ross’s garage also yielded blood samples that were traced not only to Robin Burrell but to Nicole Rossman as well.
The case against Alan Ross strapped on rockets.
MEGAN AND I TOOK the Metro North train up to see Tracy Jacobs. A golf-ball-sized lump remained under her left eye, which itself sagged somewhat and wasn’t opening completely. Her jaw was wired in place, and a temporary latex piece had been affixed to her lower gums in lieu of the teeth that were no longer there. She was having problems with the right side of her body; the leg in particular wanted to behave more like a noodle than a leg.
Megan did most of the talking. For the most part, she steered the conversation in neutral directions. Tracy’s family. Her recent trip to Paris. What it felt like to kiss Matt Damon during his recent guest appearance on Century City. I silently awarded Megan a daytime Emmy for her performance during that line of questioning. She actually behaved as if she really gave a damn.
We spoke with Tracy in the facility’s solarium, overlooking a sloping ten-acre lawn at the edge of which sat a half-frozen pond populated by black ducks. Tracy cried a few times during the visit. Thankfully, she had no memory of the beating she had taken at the hands of Alan Ross. Her final memory of the afternoon was of Ross’s car pulling into his garage. For her own peace of mind, she had not been informed of Ross dumping her bound body into the water. She had no clue of Megan’s role in her rescue. In the hour and a half we spent with her, Tracy thanked me half a dozen times for saving her life. A strong look from Megan the first time Tracy gushed this way had warned me off from setting the record straight. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t my call.
Before we left, we picked up a key piece of information. Three days before leaving New York for Paris, Tracy had bumped into Zachary Riddick at a DreamWorks party in midtown. She told us she had been unprepared for the reaction she’d received. Riddick lit in to her for the calls he said she’d placed both to him and to Marshall Fox, allegedly threatening to go to the police with her story about Fox’s relationship with Cynthia Blair. Of course, Tracy had never made those calls, and she went to great pains to convince Riddick that she had no idea what he was talking about. She swore that Danny Lyles had never breathed a word to her about Fox and Cynthia Blair. Tracy told us that Riddick had seemed baffled, then troubled, by her insistence that she in no way had placed the calls. She did tell him that she had raised her concerns about Fox with Lyles and that the driver had contacted Alan Ross. She related her meetings with Alan Ross, going on at some length about what a wonderful man Ross had been to take her under his wing the way he had.
“I thought Alan was a god,” Tracy said to us, gazing off toward the pond. “He was a god, and I was one of his very favorite angels.” She turned her broken face to us. The tears in her left eye seemed unable to fall. “How could he despise me so? What did I do?”
As we were leaving, Tracy’s mother and brother appeared, and I had to go through the whole hero thing again. Megan drifted off and looked out the window as I collected the praise.
“You know your humble act gets old fast,” I said to her on the ride back to the train station.
She fixed me with a look I hadn’t been ready for. “I’ve had the spotlight. I detest it.”
On the train back to the city, Megan and I put the scenario together. Riddick must have smelled a rat. In buying Tracy Jacobs’s story that she had not placed threatening phone calls to him and to Fox, the lawyer must have begun to suspect who was actually pulling the strings. He must have contacted Ross and aired his suspicions. Or if not, he must at least have put some hard questions to Ross.
“Ross couldn’t afford to have Riddick poking into this,” Megan said as the train raced past Valhalla. “Riddick was Fox’s lawyer. His job was to get his client cleared of these charges.”
I agreed. Zachary Riddick spelled trouble for Ross. “But why Robin?” I asked. The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I knew the answer. Megan did, too.
“Misdirection.”
“Precisely.”
“Ross targets yet another of Fox’s former lovers and arranges her killing to look just like Cynthia’s and Nikki’s. And who should know better than Ross how to do that? The result? Uproar and confusion. Big headlines. Is Fox innocent after all, or is there a copycatter coming out of the woodwork?”
“And the next day Riddick gets it. Ross must have arranged to meet him at the Boathouse Café and then somehow lured him into the Ramble.”
“But no nail in the heart,” Megan said.
“No time. That one was a risky kill. But it was still in Central Park, and it included the throat slashing. And Riddick was closely associated with Fox, so Ross could bet that the killing would be lumped in with Robin’s murder. Any questions of a relatively sane motive-like covering his own ass-weren’t likely to be raised. Which they weren’t.”
“Why did Ross try to hire you?” Megan asked. “Do you really think it was his way of keeping tabs on how we were doing?”
“He’s an admitted control freak. And manipulator. This is a guy who likes to have all the angles covered.”
Megan turned to watch the cemetery at Hawthorne racing by. A small crowd was gathered near the top of the hill. Two seconds, then gone.
She turned from the window. Her skin was ghastly pale. “So Robin Burrell’s murder was a control freak’s ploy to camouflage his motive for killing Riddick.”
“Essentially, yes.”
She leaned her head against the glass and muttered something under her breath. I missed it.
“What?”
“I said I should have killed him.” She continued staring out the window. “I mean that, Fritz. With all my heart. I should have blown him into the water.”
WHEN WE REACHED Grand Central, Megan and I went for a drink at the Oyster Bar. She fiddled with a white wine. I took two fingers of Maker’s and then two more. I might have been happy with a whole fistful. The Oyster Bar is a good place for this kind of drinking. You feel like you’re at the bottom of a deep cavern, sealed off from the outside world. For all you know, the outside world might be gone. Up in smoke. Vaporized in a single white flash. The only woes and problems left in the entire world might be the silly ones you’re nursing in the underground bar along with your silly drink. If you think about it, there ought to be a sense of hope embedded in a notion like that. I suppose on some days there is.
Megan switched to water after her glass of wine. We didn’t talk much. We watched a couple at the bar having an argument. Corporate types, boxed neatly into their suits. He seemed to be taunting her, and she seemed to be taking the bait. I was tempted to go over and tell them both to quit it, which was when I realized it was time to let the rest of the ice in my drink melt away.
“You should go see your girl,” Megan finally said. “If I had a girl, that’s what I’d do.” She looked up toward the ceiling. “I don’t know about you, but my head’s swimming with questions I know full well I’m not going to find any good answers to.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Big ones. Stupid ones. The mankind kind.”
I skidded my glass on the table. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“I’m not asking you to. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
I tossed some bills on the table. The corporate couple had stopped arguing and were playing kissy-face as we passed them on our way out. There’s mankind for you.
Out on the street, the light was fading fast, nearly gone. Forty-second Street was slipping into its black-and-white mode. Collections of silhouettes swam both ways across the street. Taxis, taxis, taxis…nothing but taxis. God knows which twenty of them were honking.
I said goodbye to Megan at Fifth Avenue. Actually, I didn’t say goodbye. She squeezed my hand, and in half a minute, she was passing the library lions. I considered angling across Bryant Park to my office but then congratulated myself for not being a complete fool. Megan was right. I should go see my girl. I needed to do some work on that front.
I peered down Fifth for a last glimpse of the small detective, but the dusk had swallowed her up. I hoped she wasn’t still carrying around her big stupid questions. A woman like that worries me.