The armchair’s skin was soft, and the deep cushion cupped around his backside in an intimacy he had never enjoyed with a woman. Yet Detective Sergeant Riker could not be entirely comfortable here, and it was nothing to do with the new tension between himself and his partner.
Mallory’s living room had the cold look of a vacant apartment, though it was fully furnished in the high contrast of black leather and white carpet, sharp angles of costly woods, glass and chrome – appointments well beyond the means of a cop. The most striking feature was the panoramic window overlooking Central Park. Such views did not come cheap.
Riker didn’t want to know where all her excess money came from. But he had dark suspicions that she might be up to something perfectly legal. She was too open about living higher and dressing better than cops who were known to be on the take. He coupled this with her catlike patience for the long setup to a vicious pratfall. So he never asked any blunt questions about money, lest he wind up falling on his face, the next victim of Mallory’s unique tripping style.
Her back was turned to him as she stood before the open closet, holding his new coat in one hand and a hanger in the other. Her body stiffened sightly, and he knew she had found the stain on one sleeve, a small spot of spaghetti sauce.
Riker set a stack of videotapes on the glass coffee table. „These are more outtakes on the parade. The cameramen kept cutting to the dog balloon and the screaming kids. You won’t see any action with the crossbow.“ When he turned back to the closet, Mallory was gone – probably off to the kitchen in search of spot remover; she had her priorities.
He took advantage of this private moment to inspect a florist’s bouquet of long-stemmed red roses delivered in a tall crystal vase. He slipped the attached card out of the envelope and read the words: ‘Dinner at eight. I promise not to play the violin anymore.’ It was unsigned. The handwriting was an elegant script with the old-fashioned flourish of a much older man. On the other side of the card was the logo of a midtown hotel. This only told him that Mallory’s admirer was filthy rich, but he had already guessed that by cost-estimating the vase.
He heard the noise behind him and feigned interest in the view as he worked the card back into its envelope. When he turned around, she put a cold bottle in his hand. Though it was not quite noon, he accepted this goodwill gesture and slugged back a taste of imported beer.
A peace offering? Or was it a bribe?
She sat on the couch and sorted through the tapes. „Did you find Oliver’s nephew?“ The subtext of her tone asked if he had even bothered to look.
„You mean Crossbow Man?“ He flopped down in the armchair and tossed her a folded newspaper. Mallory opened it to read the comic strip name in large block letters across the front page, ‘CROSSBOW MAN MISSING.’
„Your boy must’ve left town in a hurry,“ said Riker. „Nobody’s seen him since the parade. If he stays lost, the city might squeeze out of a lawsuit. I think the kid skinned his knee when you brought him down.“
She turned to the story on the inside page. „Suppose the crossbow routine was a diversion for attempted murder? Richard Tree could be a material witness. Maybe he’s not lost. He could be dead.“
In the spirit of detente, Riker refrained from telling her what he thought of that theory. While she scanned the story, he concentrated on not spilling his beer. God, how he hated this wall-to-wall white carpeting. The scatter rug in his own apartment was more adaptable to stains. Over the years, he had actually altered the pattern with colorful accents of sauces from deli containers.
He glanced at his watch, then picked up the remote control unit and touched the power button. The automated doors of a black lacquer cabinet swung open to display a television set. It was almost time for Noonday New York. „Mallory? Have you been watching the news? They’re turning the balloon shooting into a damn miniseries.“
„No.“ She was still preoccupied with the newspaper article.
Did she ever watch television? He tried to imagine her doing something purely recreational. And then he decided that she had only purchased the TV set to keep up the illusion that a normal human lived here.
He settled back with his beer, turned up the volume and fell in love with the image of a tarted-up newscaster sitting behind a long desk. She wore a tight sweater, and garish red lipstick outlined her prominent teeth.
Riker sighed. He had always been a sucker for hookers with overbites and electric-red hair that could only be described in the context of a bowling alley in Lodi, New Jersey.
Behind the news desk was a giant screen with a still picture of Mallory standing on the brim of the top-hat float. The electric redhead was saying, „ – uncovered new evidence in the shooting of Goldy – “ The image on the big screen dissolved, changing to a moving picture of the gargantuan deflating balloon. The camera closed in to focus on one elderly parade spectator. Riker remembered taking this woman’s statement and praying that she would not die of old age before they were done. The camera froze this portrait as the newswoman crooned to Riker, „ – witness died suddenly before she could offer testimony in the ongoing investigation of – “
„What investigation?“ Mallory looked up from her reading. „This is official now?“ Unmistakable was the implication that he had been holding out on her.
Riker shrugged. „I don’t know where they get this stuff. There’s no open case. The balloon’s a dead issue, and so is Oliver Tree.“
She continued to stare at him, waiting for him to confess to some crime of omission.
In his defense, he said, „Mallory, this is the news media.“ He pointed to the paper in her hand. „Did you get to the part where the one gunshot is now three shots?“ He glanced back at the screen portrait of the parade spectator. „And that old lady is a mysteriously dead witness.“
The screen image changed to show an elderly man emerging from a parked car on a residential street in suburbia. The ancient wrinkled face was fearful as his startled eyes took in the approaching mob, an onslaught of reporters with cameras and microphones, coming to crush him. Now the camera shot the old man’s back as he hurried up the flagstone path toward the sanctuary of his little house. His walking canes slowed his flight, and every reporter was able to beat him to the door. He stopped and covered his face with both hands, yelling, „Yes, she’s dead! My wife is dead! Are you happy now?“
A reporter was asking – shouting, „Was it a sudden death?“
„No,“ said the old man. „She was ninety-two years old. It took a long, long time.“
In the background, a garage door flew open to reveal a young amazon in strapping good health. The girl ran into the front yard, armed with a baseball bat. She was heading for the reporters, swinging her weapon in blind fury and screaming, „My grandmother died of pneumonia, you freaking – “ The camera crew dispersed quickly, and now their lenses recorded the jumpy, quirky images of many pairs of feet running across the lawn at top speed.
Riker turned to Mallory and raised his eyebrows to say, I told you so. „Who are you gonna believe? Me or those clowns?“
The large screen behind the news desk went dark as the redhead stood up to greet a slender young man with a concave chest and a failed goatee of straggling hairs. Riker noted elbow patches on the man’s blazer and took this as a sign that the fop did no real work – probably a writer. But now the guest was being introduced as a weapons expert.
Go figure. In Riker’s experience, weapons technicians were all actual men – even the women.
Beside the newswoman’s desk, a large easel displayed the cartoon of a cartoon, a diagram of the Goldy balloon floating above the drawings of tiny spectators.
The weapons expert stood by the easel and pointed to bold blue lines drawn through the big puppy’s body. „This is the trajectory of the bullet. These lines mark the entry of the bullet through the tip of the dog’s tail, nicking the rear paw, passing through the hindquarters, exiting the dog collar and entering the jaw.“ He paused to catch his breath. „Finally exiting the top of the puppy’s left ear.“ His pointing finger moved to a position on the pavement, and the camera lens zoomed in for the close-up of a cartoon blonde with a gun.
Riker glanced at Mallory, relieved to see her absorbed in the newspaper.
„And this line,“ said the expert, „shows the origin of the bullet as being consistent with the position of the policewoman who shot the balloon.“
Mallory looked up as the newscaster turned to her television audience and flashed her glorious overbite. „So there we have it. Damning new evidence against the cop who shot Goldy. Expert testimony from the writer of best-selling technothrillers, Rolf Warner.“
„That hack looks familiar.“ Riker leaned closer to the television. „Hey, isn’t he the same expert they used to explain the war in Bosnia?“
The redhead was saying, „ – to recap for viewers just tuning in. We have the sudden death of a witness to the shooting. And the mysterious disappearance of another witness, Crossbow Man.“ The woman smiled, momentarily dazzling Riker with her large buckteeth. „The police have made no progress in their search. Our sources at Number One Police Plaza tell us this has all the signs of an NYPD cover-up. Crossbow Man is still – “
Mallory grabbed the remote control from his hand and switched off the set. „I’ll find that little bastard myself.“
„No you don’t,“ said Riker. „Coffey’s right on this one. You don’t go near Richard Tree. The lieutenant put two full-time men on the kid. They’ll find him.“
„So we do have an open homicide case.“ Suspicion was back in her voice.
„No, Mallory, we don’t. But somebody leaked the kid’s juvenile record to the press.“
And now she glared at him to say, So you were holding out on me.
Riker knew when to make a timely exit. He grabbed up his hat and walked toward the closet to retrieve his coat. „We’re following a directive from the mayor’s publicist. He wants us to find Crossbow Man and deliver him to the reporters. This has nothing to do with police business.“
He opened the door to the closet and looked down to see a cardboard package large enough to house a Shetland pony. „What’s in the big box?“
„Rabbi Kaplan’s bread board,“ she said.
Riker threw his hands up. „Okay, okay. Forget I asked.“
The young detective had left her gun hanging on the coatrack by the rabbi’s front door, but she still seemed a bit dangerous as she leaned over the kitchen sink with her screwdriver and coaxed sparks from a jumble of wires in the wall.
Rabbi David Kaplan stood near the empty carton and nodded politely, as if he were actually following her plan to extend wireless electricity across the floor to the outlets of the new butcher-block island. But he knew nothing of electrical affairs. Only his wife understood overloaded circuits and knew the secret location of the fuse box. So the rabbi had no idea what Kathy Mallory was talking about.
While she replaced the cover of the wall outlet, he averted his eyes and stared at the grand piece of furniture she had assembled in the center of the room. The cart was well crafted, surfaced with strips of hardwoods in complementing grains.
The rabbi shook his head in silence. Kathy always went too far.
Or perhaps this was an atonement of sorts. But was it for past or future crimes? Should he regret arranging an interview with the old man?
Too late now.
Mr. Halpern was looking forward to seeing the ‘pretty child’ he had met so briefly last night.
What was the worst thing that could come of their meeting again?
Well, Mr. Halpern was very fragile.
She had finished testing the outlets on the cart, and now she was frowning at Rabbi Kaplan, misunderstanding his expression. „You don’t like it?“
„Oh, yes, Kathy. I like it very much. It’s wonderful, but so – “ So extreme? So suspicious? „You broke a five-dollar bread board, not an heirloom.“ She had also broken his heart and shaken his faith. It might be a bad idea to let her get away with that. But he must pick his words carefully; she was not very tolerant of criticism.
„Last night, you said anyone at the table could tell Malakhai how twisted you were. How could you say such a thing in – “
„You didn’t rush in to contradict me, did you, Rabbi?“
Her face was turned away from him as she bent over to tighten a screw, but he had heard the cold accusation in her voice, the opening cut. The game was on.
„Kathy, under the circumstances, how could I contradict you? I would’ve stepped on your best line of the evening.“
Good parry.
The rabbi smiled as he stepped up to the butcher block and pressed his advantage. „But now I want to know if you really believed that, or were you lying to a purpose?“
„You believed it.“
He made note of her game point – a fast shot to a vital organ. His hand rested over his heart as he rallied with, „You think I believe you’re twisted? I never did.“
Was that entirely true? Well, no, but he had not intended to lie – not that time. Some of his counterpoints were pure acts of self-defense, words pulled quickly to fend her off. „I’ve known you since you were ten years old and – “
„Eleven.“
„Ten. You lied a year onto your age. Don’t deny it.“ Here he stopped to compliment himself on this maneuver, insisting upon honesty on the one hand, while the other hand was busy obfuscating the truth. „Helen Markowitz’s judgment carries more weight with me than yours.“
She was somewhat subdued by this. Invoking Helen’s name still had some stopping power, but it would not last long. He needed a hook of words to hold his ground with her. „I remember the night when Louis brought you home to Helen.“ As if he might have forgotten a child felon in manacles, a tiny hellmouth of obscenities. „Do you remember your room, the way it looked that first time Helen put you to bed?“
She nodded. „It used to be the guest room.“
„Yes, that’s what they called it. They bought that house ten years before you came to live with them. And for all those years, Helen changed the sheets in the guest room once a week without fail. But whenever there was a houseguest, she always made up a bed on the fold-out couch downstairs. A little odd, don’t you think?“
Yes, he could see that she thought so. „Ten years before you arrived, there was a baby’s crib in that room. Louis disposed of it before Helen came home from the hospital – without the child.“
Other than replacing the crib with a bed, over the ensuing decade, the bedroom had remained unchanged. The wallpaper stripes had never faded, but stayed true to the primary hues of a child’s coloring book. A soft woven rug invited the soles of small bare feet, and the bed quilt was a cheerful patchwork of folk-art animals. The entire room had the look of a crafty trap that Helen Markowitz had set to catch a loose child on the fly. For ten years, that gentle woman had never uttered one soft word about her dead baby, lost before it was even born.
For ten years, the room screamed.
„Helen had been waiting for you such a long time. You completed her life, Kathy. She thought you were perfect in every way – not at all twisted.“
And because of its blind spot, a giant gaping maw of a lacuna where heinous crimes were overlooked, motherlove was both imperfect and perfectly wonderful.
„Not by any word or act have I ever contradicted Helen – and you know that, Kathy.“
And thus he completed a neat escape by the artful framing of words, but at what personal cost? He knew what she was – though her foster mother had vehemently denied it. Helen Markowitz had torn up the child’s early psychiatric evaluation, putting great anger into the shredding of paper, strongly objecting to the word sociopath in connection to a little girl whose life had barely begun.
Rabbi Kaplan wanted to go on believing that Kathy Mallory did not know what she was. So long as she remained in ignorance of the truth, this ruthless, amoral child could exist in a state of innocent grace. Sometimes he believed that truth was not a shining thing, but a weapon of great destruction. At other times, he wondered if he had merely become a proficient deceiver, an uncommon liar.
In the moments of heavy silence between them, he scrutinized her face, looking there for signs of redemption – hers or his own? He could not say. Their wordplay was done, and he was bleeding only a little – as usual.
He ran his hand over the surface of the butcher block. „I didn’t thank you for this. It’s beautiful.“ He looked up, gratified to see the faint smile on her face. „Your meeting with Mr. Halpern is arranged for tomorrow. But it might be a waste of time. He wasn’t in Paris during the occupation.“
„I know those two have some history together.“ She picked up her tools and tossed them into her knapsack. „Last night, that old man was crying after he talked to Malakhai.“
She had what she came for, and now she was turning to leave.
Not so fast.
„Kathy, you will not interrogate Mr. Halpern.“ This was the tone of the teacher. He was not yet finished with the Promethean labor of Kathy Mallory’s moral instruction. „Mr. Halpern is a good storyteller. You will listen to him without interruption. He’ll tell you what he’s willing to talk about. Whatever causes him pain will be left out. When he’s done, you’ll leave with whatever he gave you – and no more.“