Judging only by the wildlife of cockroaches in the sink and pink-flamingo statuary cavorting on dead grass outside his window, Franny Futura had never imagined that squalor could be quite this tacky. He wept for the chipped furniture and the noise the plumbing made when residents on either side of his motel room used the toilet. Years ago, the cracked and dirty walls must have been painted a brighter hue; now they were the color of an aged salmon dying of natural causes.
Franny walked to the only window and looked through a hole in the curtains. He counted the flamingos. One pink plaster bird might have been considered kitsch, an interesting statement. But this flock of four was a deliberate and frightening attempt at decor.
So this was New Jersey.
Nick had told him not to leave the room, but the telephone by the bed had no dial tone. He stared at the public booth on the other side of the parking lot, an upended glass coffin exposed to the traffic of a busy highway – a million pairs of eyes a minute.
It was dangerous to leave the room, or so Nick had said. Franny believed it, for he was always willing to be frightened at the least provocation. He had read somewhere that fear was a genetic thing, that some people were wired from birth to be less brave than others – not his fault.
But he was not a complete coward. In recent years, all civility had ended, and he had been heckled, hissed and booed by the crowds. There had been times when he feared they would rush the stage and pull him down. Yet he had always remained to finish his act, hands trembling and tears passing for flopsweat. And now he had traveled for thousands of miles, for years and years – for what?
If he could only get through to Emile St. John, everything would be all right. Emile would come to fetch him in a stretch limousine, and they would travel back to New York City, drinking good scotch from the limo bar and smoking Cuban cigars. Rehearsals could resume this afternoon.
He put one hand on the doorknob, then drew back, as if the metal had been hot to the touch. What was the worst thing that could happen to him? What was worse than the terror of anticipation? Well, Nick would be angry. And there was all that highway traffic – all those eyes on him.
Franny stood in front of the door, hands at his sides. Once, long ago, he had done a brave thing. Surely he could walk that stretch of parking lot to the phone booth.
He heard a metallic creak, footsteps stopping outside his door. A knock on the wood and then another. A key was working in the lock. The knob was turning. Franny was backing away, slow-stepping, falling, crawling to the wall.
When the door opened, a large woman in a uniform walked in, her arms full of fresh linens and towels. She gaped at Franny, perhaps surprised to see him huddled on the floor, hands covering his face – crying softly.
The building was surrounded by all the traffic noises of the busy midtown theater district, but not even the siren of a fire engine could permeate these walls. Soundproofing had been an important consideration in his selection of performance space. The gallows illusion would be ruined if the audience was distracted from the ticking of gears, the creaks of wood and the cries of the hanged man.
Emile St. John checked the apparatus one last time. Every rehearsal had gone smoothly. Oliver had gotten this one right.
He glanced at his wristwatch as he slipped on the handcuffs. His assistant was due back in a few minutes. He had hired the young man for the trait of compulsive punctuality.
Timing was everything.
Thirteen steps above him, the stage of the gallows was very small, only room enough to hang a man. The narrow platform had a ramshackle look about it, crooked lines and rough board that concealed an iron framework. Its appearance was tenuous, as though a child had slapped it together with a handful of rusty nails. Visually, the structure threatened to fall apart at the first breeze created by applause.
He walked up the steps, just as Max Candle had done so many times. His foot was heavier on the last step, so it would crack and break at the hinge. And now he stretched his leg to step up on the tiny elevated stage. Emile shifted his weight, and the entire structure wobbled with precisely six inches of tilt in the superbly engineered framework. Standing beneath the noose, he watched as the line began to lower, programmed by clockwork gears to cast its deadly falling shadow on the curtain behind him. When it was level with his head, the line moved back. So far the mechanism was working smoothly. Oliver had done a wonderful job calibrating the noose by Emile’s own height and mass. The metal arm of the hydraulic lift locked on the metal vest beneath his suit.
He slipped the cuff key in the lock. The rope began to pull and tighten; the noose was constricting under his chin, pulling, straining.
And now he heard the sound of splitting wood beneath his feet. His hands were still locked in the manacles. When the structure fell out beneath him, he did not float. He did not follow the well-rehearsed routine of removing the noose and descending by invisible steps to the stage below.
He dropped like a stone, a dead weight, and his still body turned slowly, twisting round and round at the end of the rope.
When Franny had fumbled the correct number of coins into the public telephone and finally connected with the theater, a young Frenchman’s voice answered the phone. It might have been Emile half a century ago.
„Oh, yes, Mr. Futura. I’m his assistant. I’ll fetch him right away.“ Franny listened to the sound of feet walking away from the telephone. And next he heard the young man’s screams.
Apparently, Nick had been right. Emile couldn’t help him anymore. Franny hung up the phone. The late-afternoon sun slanted across his contorted face wet with tears.
Outside the door of the lockup, NYPD was humming with new cases. Mallory sat at a square table scarred with water marks from soda cans and the carved initials of bored felons and cops. She was the orphan of the Special Crimes budget. Slope’s release of Richard Tree’s autopsy had killed every hope for additional manpower, and Heller was not available for any more tests or television shows. Her anger was exacerbated by the grinning man who stood between two uniformed officers.
„Prado, if I prove you put that arrow in the body, you’ll be prosecuted for mutilating a corpse – not great publicity for the festival. And then there’s your public relations firm. All those wealthy clients might decide to take a walk.“
„Ridiculous,“ said Prado. „All publicity is good. Do you mind if I start that rumor myself?“ He nodded toward the second-floor window overlooking the SoHo street. Reporters were milling on the sidewalk below, creating a litter of coffee cups and sandwich wrappers. Others were behind the fast-food truck, waiting in ambush. „I’ll give you a credit line if you like.“
Behind her, a moan came from the junkie on the floor of the wire cage.
„Hey, knock it off.“ Officer Hong brought his truncheon down hard on the wood frame, but failed to get the prisoner’s attention. „I think this guy’s gonna throw up again.“
Mallory looked over one shoulder and caught the eye of the boy huddled on the floor behind the wire. He was small and skinny and sick.
„Don’t piss me off,“ she said.
The junkie slumped against the wall and lowered his head to his chest She turned back to Prado. „I need your movements for Thanksgiving Day. Oliver’s nephew was still wearing a tux when I found the body in the platform. So I figure he died a few hours after the parade.“
„Franny went to the police station with Richard.“ Prado slung his coat on the table. Uninvited, he pulled up a chair and sat down. „He told the detectives how he rigged the crossbow stunt, and then they let the boy go. I wasn’t even there.“
„I know that,“ said Mallory. „Futura left the station and went directly to Charles’s house. But you arrived an hour late. Your movements can’t be traced during the parade either. I’ve been over every camera shot. You’re not on any of the film.“
„I went to a deli on Columbus Avenue to get coffee. It was a cold day, and the float wasn’t due to move for another thirty minutes. It’s all in my statement.“
„But you never came back with any coffee. And I checked that deli. They don’t remember any magicians, no silk hats, no tuxedos.“
„They wouldn’t remember a Martian. The place was packed and the line for coffee was a very long one. After a while, I decided to pack it in. I went back empty-handed.“
„And then what happened? Where were you when the balloon got shot? Were you on the rocks with a rifle?“
„Now there’s another good rumor. Wait till the world finds out that I’m willing to shoot puppies and mutilate corpses for my clients. You can’t buy publicity like that.“
„Help me put you in the clear. Just tell me – “
„You’re not paying attention, Mallory. I don’t want to get clear of the charges. Now, can I tell the reporters what I’m accused of? Maybe we could both put in a little appearance on the sidewalk. Me in handcuffs – your prisoner.“
„I haven’t charged you with a crime – not yet.“
„What do I have to do to get arrested in this town?“ He looked at the uniformed officers, then turned back to Mallory. „And why send strange cops to arrest me? In my fantasy, you put the handcuffs on me.“
Mallory turned to the two officers in uniform. „You cuffed him?“
„No, we didn’t,“ said Pete Hong. „We told him he wasn’t under arrest. It was more like an invitation to come downtown. He offered us a hundred bucks apiece to put handcuffs on him in front of a reporter. I said that was a bribe. And then Mr. Prado said it was a performance fee. I still don’t know how to write it up.“
„Up to you, Mallory.“ Hong’s partner was staring at the clock, waiting for the hour hand to mark the end of his shift. „Sergeant Bell said it was your call.“
Mallory nodded. „Sounds like a bribe to me.“
Prado put out his hands. „So now you’ll cuff me?“
„No,“ said Mallory. „We never do that if we think the perp might enjoy it.“
She stood up and walked over to the wire cage. The sole occupant was a boy wearing blue jeans and vomit on the front of his T-shirt. He was awake again and shivering, huddled on the floor and mumbling foreign things. Mallory could not even identify the language, and still she knew the boy was over the edge and rambling. His skin was slick with sweat, and the long dark hair was matted. Weak and suffering from stomach cramps and nausea, he was in some other world, hardly aware of her anymore.
„Let’s see – a bribe or not a bribe.“ Mallory turned back to the two uniforms. „I suppose we could put Mr. Prado in the cage while we get an opinion from the DA’s office. That might take a while.“
Prado left his chair and moved closer to the cage for a better look at the small, slight boy on the floor. „So you think your little friend and I might fall in love while I’m waiting?“
„He doesn’t want your body. He wants a needle.“ Mallory looked down at the wasted prisoner with the rolled-back eyes. A thirteen-year-old girl could beat him up in a fair fight. „But he might take a shot at you if you irritate him.“ She looked at Prado and shook her head. „No, old man, you wouldn’t last two seconds with a sick junkie.“
Prado was so startled, Mallory half expected him to check his testicles to make sure that she had not snipped them off.
She was getting to that.
After kicking a chair out from the table, she waved him to it. „Have a seat, Prado.“
„I think I’ll stand.“ His voice was firm.
Mallory turned to the uniforms. „Sit Mr. Prado down.“
They were moving toward him when he decided to take a seat at the table. His movements were stiff.
Mallory nodded to the officers. „You can go now. Oh, wait.“ She turned back to the boy in the cage. „You’re sure he doesn’t speak English?“
„Yeah, I’m sure,“ said Hong, and his partner added, „But the perp’s still got eyes, Mallory.“
It would be hard to miss the implication that she should not brutalize her suspect in front of a witness – a second opinion on Prado’s declining manhood. She watched the man’s hands clench into fists.
Now what could she do to make his head explode?
„If I’m not under arrest, I don’t have to talk to you.“
„You got that backward, Prado. When we arrest you, you’ll have the right to remain silent. But right now? You answer questions or I nail you for obstructing a homicide investigation.“
„You can’t prove Oliver was – “
„Oh, yes I can. It was hardly a perfect murder. But I have so many homicides to choose from. Louisa’s – that one’s provable, too. And what about Franny Futura? Should I put him on the list of dead bodies? What did you do with him, Prado?“
He held up a cigar. „May I? Oh, wait, there are laws against smoking in public buildings.“ Prado rose from the chair and collected his coat. „I’ll just step outside.“
He was moving toward the door when Mallory threw up the window sash. „You can smoke on the fire escape.“
She grabbed his arm and swung him back. He was off balance and moving toward the window with the force of inertia and very little effort by Mallory. Prado lost his footing, and his head was thrust out the open window. His hands froze in a death grip on the sill. His mouth hung open, and then he began to shake. One hand went to his chest, and he was fighting for breath.
His heart? No, this was something miles more interesting. In only three seconds, the man had progressed from surprise to a full-blown panic attack. When he moved away from the window on shaky legs, his distress lessened, but Mallory blocked any further retreat.
„Don’t be afraid,“ she said, with too much sincerity to be believed. She pointed down to the street below. His eyes followed this gesture with equal parts of fascination and fear.
„Look, Prado. You can see right through the grate. With all those reporters down there, what are the odds I’m going to push you off?“
If he kept biting into his lower lip, he was going to draw blood.
Perhaps it was something on the sidewalk that frightened him. Mallory leaned out the window and looked down through the grate as Shorty Ross’s wheelchair zoomed out the front door of the station house. All the reporters were stampeding one another, hailing taxis and climbing into vans and private cars. Others were pouring into the subway.
A uniformed officer opened the door of the lockup. „Hey, Mallory. That guy you wanted us to pick up – St. John? He hung himself.“
Charles Butler carried a bouquet of flowers down the corridor and walked into a heated conversation between Mallory and a very large nurse.
A few steps beyond these two, a uniformed policeman stood with Malakhai. Behind them, a door opened and Nick Prado stepped out, looked around at the assembled company, then turned on his heel and sped down the hall toward an exit sign.
Nick had good instincts. Charles wondered if he should pay his respects to Emile St. John some other time.
The woman in the white uniform was yelling at Mallory, „What the hell do I care what you want? Mr. St. John is not a crime victim. You got that? It was an accident.“
Not Mallory’s favorite words these days. „I have a problem with that.“
She pulled out her badge. „So few people accidentally hang themselves.“
The nurse never even glanced at the gold shield. „Mr. St. John says it was a mistake in a magic trick. That’s his story, and his assistant backs him up. Now if he wants to see Mr. Prado, or Mr. Malakhai, or anybody else, it’s fine with me. But not you. He was real specific about that.“
Charles watched Mallory regroup with a tactic short of gunning down the nurse. She pulled a notebook from her pocket, only showing the woman a glimpse of the holstered weapon. Her eyes and tone of voice went farther, to tell the nurse how badly she really wanted to draw blood. „I need a statement from – “
„The hell you do!“ The nurse pointed to the officer standing by the door of the hospital room. „And that guard has no business here. He’s gotta go.“
Malakhai leaned against the wall of the corridor, enjoying this exchange. He nodded a greeting to Charles, and then turned back to the defeated Mallory. „So you think Emile will have another accident while I’m visiting? Maybe Nick’s already done him in. Shouldn’t we check?“
Charles perceived a volatile atmosphere between Malakhai and Mallory. If not for the extreme difference in their ages, he might have called it a sexual tension. All the signs were there in a subtle dance. Mallory stepped forward, as if she meant to touch him, and Malakhai bent down to her – in anticipation of what? A caress?
Not likely.
Charles thought she was going to strike the man. At least she had this in her mind, even as she backed away. She was drawn to Malakhai, repulsed by him, angry and fixated, all the symptoms to sister psychoses of love and hate.
The nurse held the door open and spoke to Malakhai. „You just go on inside, and I’ll take care of the guard.“ And now she cast an evil eye on the uniformed officer stationed by the door. When the door had closed behind the magician, Mallory drew Charles down the hall and away from the nurse, who held an uneasy guard duty standing toe to toe with a policeman.
„Let’s say a man is afraid of heights,“ said Mallory. „What are the odds he’d live in a penthouse?“
„And of course, it’s just a coincidence that Nick Prado lives in a penthouse.“
„Charles, I’m not asking you to turn on a friend. I’m trying to eliminate suspects, too. A fear of heights might explain why he wasn’t on that parade float when the gun went off. Now, is he afraid of heights?“
„I have no idea.“
„Charles, think back. Futura said Prado wouldn’t get up on the float – like he refused. Prado was wearing a tux that morning. He was supposed to be part of the act, right? But did he ever get up on the top hat float?“
„Well, no, but I assumed he was explaining the crossbow stunt to the cops who arrested Oliver’s nephew.“
„No, Futura did that. It took ten minutes. So Prado was never on that float?“
„Well, no, but that doesn’t imply – “
„Could he live in a penthouse if he was afraid of heights?“
„Yes, he could even fly an airplane. As long as he’s in an enclosed space, there’s no problem. You see, it’s the only phobia that carries a fear of physical injury. He’d have to be near the edge of a precipice, or maybe standing on a ladder. But if there’s a protective barrier, like window glass – there wouldn’t be any anxiety.“
„The crown of the top hat float was what? Maybe ten feet high? There’s no way he’d ever get up there, right?“
„Right. If he was afraid of heights, you wouldn’t catch him on a stepladder. But there’s no way to verify it.“
She looked at him with such grave suspicion. Did she think he was lying? Probably. But he knew this was nothing personal. It was almost flattering that she believed he could lie.
„Mallory, you could know someone all your life and never be aware of a phobic disorder. People with phobias always avoid every situation where it might be a problem. So what are the odds you’d ever witness a panic attack?“ And an egoist like Nick would never admit to a weakness.
Down the hall, the door to Emile St. John’s room was closing. Malakhai walked toward them with an easy smile and a leisurely strolling gait – both good signs that Emile’s condition was not at all serious.
„Sorry,“ said Malakhai. „He can’t have any more visitors. It was a rather nasty accident.“
„Yeah, right.“ Mallory had undoubtedly been making the same assessments of his body language, and she had come up with a lie.
Malakhai smiled at her. His face said, I have a present for you, and you’re going to hate it. „Something went wrong with the illusion, but it’s easily correctable. Emile asked Nick to step in and do the act.“ He leaned close to Mallory and whispered, „Looks like Oliver bungled the plans for another trick.“
Charles had one confusing moment when he could not tell if these two were going to kill one another or embrace.
Mallory walked into the den and sat down at her desk to write the goodbye letter. Three generations of cops in the Markowitz family had done this before her.
But who would she address it to?
Charles? No, he was a secondhand friend, passed down from her late foster father. And when it came to choosing sides, he might not pick hers. She had gone to great lengths to prevent him from failing this test.
Riker? Or one of Markowitz’s old poker cronies? No. Like the pocket watch, they were also hand-me-downs from the old man, the one they really loved.
Mallory looked down at the white paper and overlaid it with images of Sacred Heart Academy. Helen Markowitz had enrolled her foster child with the nuns upon discovering that young Kathy had begun life as a Catholic. This experiment had ended badly. The little girl had proved a natural athlete and a true competitor, yet her classmates did not want her on their teams. She saw them again on the playground, edging away, eyes full of suspicion, sensing that there was something wrong with Kathy Mallory.
The business of choosing up sides had been so important to her then. And now? Well, now that the Markowitzes were dead, she had learned not to care about standing alone.
Yeah, right.
In any case, she was alone.
Mallory stared at the blank sheet. So what was the point of this?
The old pocket watch sat at the corner of the desk. Inside the cover, beneath the engravings for the old man and his forefathers, all believers in tradition, her own name was the last line of script.
In the manner of a schoolgirl dutifully attending to a homework assignment, Mallory bowed her head over the paper and wrote, ‘To all of those whom it may concern.’ She tore up this sheet and began again, less formal and more realistic in her expectations. ‘To anyone who cares – ’
And that was as far as she got. The light was failing, but she did not turn on the desk lamp.
Louisa’s letter had been dated to the day she died, and the writing had obviously consumed all the time she had left. It was a beautiful goodbye, a woman’s naked soul rendered on paper. But no one would expect such a letter from Mallory the Machine.
Once more, she labored over the opening salutation. If this was to have any meaning at all, her goodbye must belong to one person. Her foster mother would have called it an act of love to lessen the tears of those who were left behind.
Mallory’s pen hung in the air. Her head tilted to one side.
In the absence of love and without any expectation of tears, what was the point of this?
Franny Futura woke up with a start, hands batting at the narrow enclosure of glass on all sides – the coffin. And the footlights were moving, traveling across the stage at incredible speeds.
No, he was not on stage. He had never made it back to New York City. Squinting through the grimy glass, he could make out the familiar tableau of four prancing pink flamingos.
So he was still inside the public telephone booth by the highway, and now he was fully awake and full of dread. When he stood up, his knees buckled, and there were searing pains in all his joints and muscles. He slumped against a transparent wall, pressing his forehead to the glass.
When had he ever been so hungry and tired – so cold? What was he to do? The motel room was just across the parking lot. Franny’s eyes never left the door as he winced at fresh pain from an Achilles tendon. The door was a hundred miles away for one who lacked the good legs to carry himself across that dark patch of ground.
A pair of headlights entered the lot. The car was aiming straight at him, rushing toward the telephone booth and blinding him with brilliant light magnified in reflections on four walls of glass. Two thousand pounds of steel and chrome stopped just short of the booth, with a squeal of brakes and tires spitting gravel.
Which one of them was playing with him now – torturing him? This was too cruel. Was it Nick Prado or Mallory?