On this dark morning, lightning split the sky over the treeline of Central Park. The stone steps of the fountain were wet with mist, and Mallory’s hair was netted with fine pearls of water. Across the wide driveway that separated the hotel from its courtyard, a high wind rustled the multinational flags that decorated the landmark facade.
She could not have orchestrated nature any better.
Another gift to the cause was a crowd of animal-rights activists ganging along the sidewalks. A small army of angry people held up giant photographs of wounded animals. Others waved signs defaming a hotel guest, a film star who wore furs in public.
A bellboy was loading suitcases into the trunk of a long black limousine. When the chauffeur walked to the rear of the car to settle the tip, Mallory sprinted out from the cover of the fountain and pushed her way through the crowd on the sidewalk. She opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the steering wheel. On the other side of the glass partition, Emile St. John was the lone passenger in the back seat. Mallory turned around to smile at him. Hers was not an expression of warmth – more like a promise of something nasty. And St. John was taken by surprise.
She depressed a button on the dashboard. The door locks clicked shut all around the car. Another button rolled down the glass wall that separated them. „Good morning.“ She managed to make this sound like a threat as she turned the key in the ignition and fired up the engine.
„Is this a kidnapping?“ St. John had recovered from his jolt, and now he seemed merely amused. „Nick will be so envious. Where are we going?“
„Nowhere.“ She maneuvered the long car across the lanes of the driveway. Grille and bumper nearly touched the parked cars at both curbs and effectively blocked the flow of traffic. The engine idled as she turned to face him, not smiling anymore. „You were a good cop for a lot of years, St. John.
It’s not your style to run away.“
„I’m afraid I’ve aged into a coward. I’m too old to do Max Candle’s routines.“ He waved one hand in the air to say, It’s that simple.
The chauffeur was politely tapping at Mallory’s window. She ignored him. „You asked Nick Prado to take over the hangman act. He’s about your age, isn’t he?“
„But Nick isn’t aware of that. I never had the heart to tell him he was getting old.“ St. John turned to the side window to see a red sedan pulling up to the limousine’s broadside. The car’s windshield faced the limo’s side windows, and the driver was waving at them, flicking the air in a shoo-fly gesture, as if this would clear away the tons of metal stretched lengthwise across his path. St. John held up two fingers to the driver to tell him this wouldn’t take long, only a few minutes. He was wrong about that.
The hotel doorman was knocking on the rear passenger window, trying to get St. John’s attention. The luxury limousine was well padded against city noises, and the man’s voice was little more than the buzz of an insect, but Mallory could guess what he was saying. The opposite side window gave her a view on the driveway curving back to the busy artery of Central Park South. A cab had pulled up alongside the red sedan, its headlights a foot from the side of the limousine. As these vehicles were disgorging passengers and baggage, two cabs and another private car were queuing up behind them, locking them into the driveway.
The courtyard lit up with a flash of lightning.
She paid no attention to the more insistent rapping at both windows. Her tone was casual. „The doctor said your accident amounted to a nasty rope burn.“ Actually, the doctor had refused to say anything. A raid on the hospital computer had been more helpful. „Now what about Franny Futura? Is he dead yet?“
The bang caught up to the lightning bolt, louder than gunfire.
St. John turned to the window pocked with a smattering of raindrops. Another man was knocking on the glass and gesturing toward a yellow cab sandwiched between the limousine and the other cars.
Mallory tuned out the knocking man. „Where is Futura?“
St. John only shook his head, distracted by the men at the windows. The chauffeur retreated, but the doorman did not, and the cabby had escalated to the sexually graphic gesture of one extended finger, a traditional New York traffic signal directing St. John to insert his car into a dark orifice. Outside the baffle of thick glass, the chauffeur engaged the cabby in a dumb-show shouting match. More cars were pulling into the driveway.
„Where is Futura?“ There was no pressure in her voice. She had all day for this. Other drivers were gathering around the cabby and the chauffeur. Round eyes, Asian eyes and every shade of skin could be seen through the rain-streaked glass.
„Mallory, I’d tell you if I knew where Franny was.“
„Sure you would.“
The cabby had driven off the chauffeur with a raised fist, and now he renewed his attentions to the window, hammering on it with his fist. Though the law forbade the nonemergency use of car horns, Mallory ignored the lawbreaker who leaned on his horn in a continuous shriek. The line of cars was now stretching into the street. Backing up into traffic was not an option for any of the enclosed vehicles. Nor could they jump the curb thronged with activists. One of the protesters waved a giant photograph of an animal’s chewed-off leg left in the metal jaws of a trap. The mist had changed to a light rainfall, but none of the animal people showed signs of leaving. They had become an audience for the angry motorists assaulting the car.
„You’re not afraid, St. John. That’s not why you’re running back to Paris. You just don’t want to be here when another man dies.“
More drivers were carting bags from the back of the line and glaring at the limousine. Other men had joined the cabby, who was hammering on the hood with both fists, frustrated, eyes popping with an implosion of anger, trying to get at this rich bastard who was ignoring him. Other drivers were warming up their fists on the windows and the trunk of the car. Their mouths opened and closed with screams that broke through the barrier of thick glass. The words were muffled and some were foreign, but the sentiments were clear. It was easy to lip-read the word asshole and its many translations.
A gridlock of traffic blocked two lanes of Central Park South.
St. John was finding it more difficult to keep his tone civil as the windows were assaulted with more hands and angry faces pressed to the glass. „Mallory, this is old business that should’ve been taken care of long before you were born. In the war, I resolved the killing with my religion as – “
„You never resolved a thing. You still carry it around with you.“ She had hit home. It was in his eyes, the pain of a stab in the soft spot.
One of the cars at the end of the drive tried to back into the street and hit a carriage, freeing the horse from its traces, and now the old brown mare was running down the sidewalk and scattering pedestrians. Cheers from the animal-rights people penetrated the glass. The overturned horseless carriage cut off more traffic, and now the line of immobilized vehicles extended past the intersection.
A man in a gray suit was pressing his identification to Mallory’s window. Without turning to look, she knew he was hotel security. Now the gray suit was being roughly elbowed out of the way by men who were not so well dressed. On all sides, the car was being hammered by fists on the glass and metal. The animal people along the curb appeared to be rooting for the cabbies and supporting the illusion of a full-scale riot.
„I know why you’re leaving.“ She smiled pleasantly. Yes, it was shaping up to be a fine New York morning, full of confrontation and street violence. „You don’t want to watch this murder go down. Like that makes it all right, being somewhere else when a man dies.“
More car horns were penetrating the window glass.
„I know you want me to stop this. That’s why you locked me inside the platform, isn’t it? It was a message just for me. Cop logic. Coincidence is always suspicious.“
A man in a turban danced on the hood, then made a jump to the roof of the car. The crowd went wild with applause.
„And hiding the dead body in the platform? That was your work, St. John. You wanted me on this case – officially. You handed it to me with that dead body. But now you won’t help me stop a murder. You can’t choose up sides, can you? Fine, but don’t make me chase you down. Stay here and watch a man die. We’ll call it penance for the executioner.“
„In the war – “
„Don’t start with me. You’re pathetic, all of you. Old men playing war games. Futura’s dead, isn’t he?“
He winced, and she knew this was the truth, or it soon would be. A cheer went up from the animal people. St. John looked up to the roof of the car where feet were stomping on the metal.
„It’s a hard call. Will Malakhai die?“ Her words were in monotone. „Or will he get Prado first? You know I’ll get the last man standing, and maybe I’ll have to kill him. Is that what you want?“
The car was moving, rocking. Angry hands were pushing it in both directions. The crowd had spilled into the unobstructed half of the driveway for a closer view. They were waiting on the promised destruction of the long black limousine. The man in the turban made another leap to the hood and began a violent dance, denting the metal with his cowboy boots. And now he kicked at the windshield, but the thick glass would not give.
Only Mallory was serene as she studied St. John’s face. Was he reliving days of Maquis justice, the mobs, the killing mobs? Welcome to my war zone, New York – Fun City.
She could hear the sirens coming, only a shrill whine piercing the glass, but it was building in pitch. The lightning flashed and the bang was an instant behind it; the strikes were closer now.
„The day Louisa died, you told her the Germans were printing up posters with her picture. So they didn’t know where she was – not until someone informed on her. Isn’t that why Malakhai was wearing a German uniform when he shot her? He knew they were – “
„Yes, yes!“ The car was nearly rolled on that pass. St. John clung to the armrests to keep his balance. His face showed no overt expression of fear, but he could not control the sweat of his upper lip, the whitening knuckles. Fist-fights were breaking out among the drivers and the people in hotel uniforms, treating St. John to the sight of real blood as the men outside the car were going off like bombs.
Mallory’s voice was almost a whisper. „The informer – was it Franny Futura?“
He only stared at her, as if she were insane to be so calm in the center of this human storm. At any moment it would spill into the car – or they would be dragged out. A bloodied face was slammed into the window by St. John’s head, and he jumped in his skin. It was not fear in his eyes, but pain. This was the flip side of the Maquis, the target’s view of the mob – new insight, fresh hell.
„Was Futura the informer?“
The limousine rocked with renewed violence. The sirens were louder now. The vehicle settled down on all four wheels as two police cars pulled to the curb.
„No, it wasn’t Franny.“ St. John’s head lolled back on the upholstery, eyes fixed on the blood-smeared glass. „Informing on Louisa was Oliver’s job.“
„His job? You all killed Louisa?“
„I liked the other setting much better,“ said Nick Prado. „More atmosphere. That caged drug addict was a priceless prop.“ He stood before the mirror at the far end of the formal interview room, brushing nonexistent lint from his tie as an excuse to be closer to his own reflection. „So, Mallory, what became of your little pet?“
„The junkie?“ She closed the door and locked it. „We shipped him off to a bigger cage, and someone put a shiv in his back. The other cons will tell you all about it when you get there.“
He smiled at the mirror and tapped its surface. „It’s a window, isn’t it? A one-way glass? Are people watching us right now?“
„No, Prado. Whenever you have that uneasy feeling that you’re being watched – that’s usually me.“ Mallory sat down at the table. A theater ticket lay on top of her thick manila folder. A messenger had delivered it to her desk in the squad room of Special Crimes, wrapped in a recently printed publicity flyer.
So Charles Butler was going to perform the Lost Illusion at Carnegie Hall. This tribute to the late Max Candle was scheduled to follow Malakhai’s performance.
And whose idea was that?
Prado pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down. He reached out to tap the flyer. „I see you’ve heard the news. Brave boy, our Charles. Not too many people are surviving his cousin’s illusions these days.“ There was a swagger in Prado’s voice. His words strutted up and down in inflection.
„Ready to arrest me?“ His face was half a grin, half a leer. He stretched out his hands to be cuffed. „Pity you don’t wear a uniform. In my fantasy – “
„I’m not that far from a warrant. Don’t push your luck.“ She set the ticket and the flyer to one side. „How do you plan to get out of doing Emile’s act – the gallows trick? Thirteen steps to a small rickety stage, right? Given your fear of heights – “
„My what? I don’t know what you mean. I’ve already done one rehearsal this morning. Ask Emile’s assistant.“
No, she could not be wrong about this.
Mallory leaned far forward, the better to see his eyes when she flashed a hand across his face. He never blinked, and the irises were slow to react when the strong light from the window was blocked. She tossed him a pencil, and he fumbled the catch.
„So, how many sedatives did you have to take just to climb the stairs of the gallows?“
His expression of pure hate only lasted a moment.
Mallory lowered her eyes to the stack of folders. „All right, Prado, let’s talk about the homicide of Oliver Tree.“ She didn’t look at him as she riffled the sheets of the first folder. „You’re the only one who knew how he was planning to do that trick.“
„I see you’re still obsessed with the Lost Illusion.“
„Not anymore. Oliver gave away every trick he worked out – gifts to his old friends.“ She pulled out a small notebook and flipped back the pages. „Thanksgiving at Charles’s place.“ She looked up at Prado. „You said you got your props and instructions months ago. But you’re the only one who didn’t plan to perform in the magic festival.“
„I’m doing all the publicity. It’s very time-consuming.“
„No, you were the one who got the solution for the Lost Illusion. Originally, Oliver never intended to perform that trick in public. I think he knew his shortcomings. He had a lot of respect for the rest of you – the real magicians. The post loops were set too high for a man his size. He made the platform for a taller man, someone Max Candle’s size – your size.“
She uncovered what she had been searching for. The material was pressed between the sheets of paper. „Oliver invited you to share the bill with Franny Futura. But you turned him down. You convinced him to perform the trick himself – a publicity stunt to kick off the festival.“
„How did you arrive at that?“ There was nothing in his face to tell her if she had guessed right.
„Oliver’s will didn’t mention the platform. I always had a problem with that. Then I realized he’d already given it away – to you. Now that’s important, nailing down premeditation. You brought the cuff key to the park. You shined it up to look like new.“ She tossed the green velvet key bag on the table. It was encased in a plastic cover with the attendant paperwork of evidence. „You substituted the bags. This one is yours. It’s the one I took off Oliver’s body.“
Actually, it was the one taken from Charles’s tool chest.
Prado looked down at the velvet bag with mild curiosity. „All of Faustine’s apprentices had those bags.“
Mallory bent over her notebook. „So you’re admitting that you had the green bag.“ This was not a question, and she gave him no time to contradict her. „You don’t mind contributing a blood sample, do you? I need it for the DNA tests. I also need the suit you were wearing that day in Central Park. I have to match it to the clothing fibers on the bag.“ Fat chance Lieutenant Coffey would give her one more dime for a forensic test.
Mallory looked up at him with a show of surprise that was not intended to fool a half-bright ten-year-old. „No? You don’t want to cooperate? Well, after I charge you, the best criminal lawyer in town can’t stop me from draining off a little blood.“
She turned her attention back to the pages of her folder. „Now Louisa’s death was more involved. I underestimated you, Prado.“
„Thank you. And may I return the compliment? You’re beginning to think like a magician.“
„No, thinking like a magician is a waste of time. It was harder to get into the mind-set of a ditsy teenage boy – but more productive. The plot to kill Louisa was all you, Prado. Gross stupidity. Too complicated – too much flash. It’s like you hung a neon sign on her corpse. I don’t know how you survived as a juvenile delinquent in Paris. Now that was impressive.“
„I prefer faint praise, Mallory.“
„I caught so many screwups, the jury is gonna laugh till they cry.“
„Enough compliments. I’m blushing.“
„If Louisa hadn’t died that night, the French police would’ve laughed their tails off. And then they would’ve rounded up all of you. Futura would’ve cracked first. He was always going to be a problem. Is he dead yet?“
„And what evidence – “
„Louisa knew about your little forgery business.“ She held up the old passport. „Irrefutable evidence of motive. Futura and St. John were in the Resistance. Looks like she had something on all of you, even Oliver. He gave shelter to an escaped prisoner. None of you could afford to let the Germans get her back. That’s how you got the rest of them to cooperate in staging the murder of Louisa Malakhai.“
He folded his arms; his smile was patronizing.
She held up a fax from the British War Office, then set it down on the table in front of him. „After she died, you became a soldier – licensed murder. Did Louisa give you a taste for it? What a rush. Didn’t you love the war?“ She tapped the sheet. „You have to kill a lot of people to get this many medals. Between you and Malakhai, you must have wiped out a whole city.“
„You were born too late, Mallory. It’s a rare woman who would appreciate – “
„I’m betting Futura’s still alive. You can’t afford one more accidental death. So you just took him out of the loop for a while. You knew I’d break him down. And St. John? That little accident with the hangman’s noose was entirely too convenient.“
„You think I tried to murder him?“
„No, that was St. John’s idea – and not the first time he staged an accident. I know he had a part in Louisa’s murder. Oliver betrayed her to the Germans. That was his job the night she died. Timing was critical. If he brought them to the theater too soon, they would’ve arrested Louisa on sight. Their entrance had to be timed to witness her accident on the stage. You should’ve given the informant’s job to Futura. He would’ve been my choice.“
Prado shook his head slowly and smiled. „Franny would’ve wet his pants if he had to talk to a German soldier.“
She leaned forward. „That’s why I would’ve picked him. He would’ve been so believable as an informer.“ And then, as if she were generously excusing the clumsiness of a child, she said. „But then, I’m the pro and you’re the amateur.“
„You’re an interesting young woman.“ He waved his hand in concession. „All right, a bit of miscasting. But Oliver – “
„Miscasting? Everyone tells me Oliver’s timing was bad. Giving him that job was a major screwup on your part. But you lucked out. That night he got the timing right. Then, you needed a doctor to pronounce Louisa dead. That was Futura.“
„Franny was born with worry lines in his face. It aged him quite a bit. No screwing around with stage makeup.“
„And you needed a French policeman on the scene, so he could take over the accident report. That was where Emile’s day job paid off. And the last player was you. You were the one who carried her into the back room. And then you murdered her.“
„How clever, but – “
„I hope you’re not talking about yourself, Prado. It was an incredibly stupid plot. So many holes in it. Too many people involved. Just the sort of thing a brainless teenage boy would come up with.“
His smile was faltering, but she still had more chipping to do before he caved in. St. John had only given her the bare bones of the night Louisa died, refusing to call it murder.
„And no one told Louisa what you were planning. That was your idea. You wanted authenticity, real blood, real surprise. All those combat soldiers in the audience that night. You couldn’t afford a bad acting job.“
He said nothing to contradict her, and he seemed pleased that she had appreciated this fine point of his plot.
„That was another screwup, Prado.“ Well, that jarred him a little. A chip here, a chip there. „It was a trademark you held on to. You used it again the day of the parade. Charles didn’t know the crossbow stunt was staged. And that was your idea. He was an amateur performer, and you needed authentic surprise.“
Prado glanced at the mirror.
Looking for solace in his own reflection? No, she guessed he was not able to shake the idea that someone was standing on the other side of the glass. He was smiling for whomever he imagined there.
Mallory rapped the table to call him back to her. „So the Germans showed up to arrest Louisa. And there’s Malakhai on the stage. He’s wearing the uniform of an SS officer and aiming a crossbow at a defenseless woman.“
Mallory opened a folder and pulled out five sheets of Polish text. This was the contribution of a patrolman named Wojcick, who could not read Polish but thought this might be his grandfather’s will. Another donation to the cause was the aged photograph clipped to the first page. Though the subject was of German descent, he bore a slight resemblance to Mr. Halpern’s portrait of Louisa Malakhai, and that was why she had selected his snapshot from Detective Riker’s family album.
Mallory held up the sheets so Prado could see them. Even on the off chance that Polish was a second language, she knew he would not be able to read a single word. She had found the bifocals when she picked his pockets at Oliver’s wake. He would never wear that pair of glasses in front of a woman and admit to a weakness of aging eyes.
She tapped the photograph. „Louisa’s father died in custody. He never gave up any names. That’s why the Germans wanted his daughter so badly.“
No reaction from Prado. He knew no more than she did. So it was true Malakhai had never told anyone about Louisa’s history.
„There was a bounty on Louisa and wanted posters with her photograph. No exit visas were being issued, so your forgeries would’ve gotten her arrested at the border. All the papers were being cross-checked by phone and cablegrams. There was no way out. She had to be declared dead. Then she’d only have to stay in hiding till the Spanish frontier was open again. Isn’t that how you sold the plot to Malakhai and the rest of them?“
„No flaws in your logic. Not bad for an hour’s work, wouldn’t you say? That’s all the time I had before the show.“
„Not bad?“ She almost laughed out loud. And people said she had no sense of humor. „A chimpanzee could’ve come up with a better plan. So how did you convince the rest of them it could possibly work? Maybe you showed them the death certificate with the signature of a doctor.“
Mallory pulled out another sheet, a document in French. But she concealed this one quickly, sliding it back into the folder, because it was a Haitian policewoman’s baptismal certificate with a heading of very large type. „Bad job, Prado. Anybody can tell it’s not the same handwriting as the real doctor.“
„Everybody’s a critic. Let me remind you that no one has questioned that document in more than fifty years.“
Mallory went on: „Emile carried it off pretty well. But then he looked more German than the Germans did. They were happy to leave it in his lap – after he convinced them that he didn’t plan to trace the runaway SS officer. Obviously an accidental death, a magic trick gone wrong. The Germans liked that, didn’t they? So neat, so efficient. And risk-free – because you had an authentically dead body to show them. That was your part.“
„You’ll never prove that, Mallory.“
„If she’d been captured, she would’ve told them everything she knew. Most people did.“
She tidied her stack of folders. „I have all this physical evidence. Juries love things they can hold in their hands. If you save the taxpayers the cost of a trial, you can avoid a death sentence – again. This is a onetime offer. It’s today or – “
„I’ll take my chances in court. Side bet? I say you can’t get a grand jury to indict me.“
„You’re a prosecutor’s dream. French or American, those bastards are all political animals. Careers are made on cases like this one. It’s a murder with a little something for everybody, war, romance, betrayal – it’ll make great press. But I can’t give you to the French. They might not send you back to die for Oliver’s murder in New York.“
„Last chance, Prado.“ She waved another folder for her finale. „More evidence. But I don’t have to show this one to your lawyer until I’ve got the indictment.“
It contained the mayor’s new guidelines for ticketing citizens who did not wash their tin foil before they recycled it with their bottles and cans. She stacked it neatly in her pile of useless paperwork. „Malakhai missed his shot that day at the parade. But I’m pretty sure he still wants you dead. I could give you protection.“
„I don’t need your protection, thank you.“
„But you’re doing the hangman routine – stoned on drugs. Now there’s a murder in the making.“
She held up a slip of paper with a doctor’s name and address printed across the top. „Recognize it?“ This was the sedative prescription she had taken from his pocket the night of Oliver’s wake. „There’s already been one accident with the hangman illusion. And you’re going to be stoned out of your mind for that performance. There’s no other way you can stand on that gallows and watch it collapse. That’s what happens, isn’t it? The gallows will fold, and you’ll be swinging thirteen steps off the ground with a rope around your neck. It’s already failed once. Are you sure it’s not a setup? Are you very sure you don’t need my protection?“
He was pulling himself together, rebuilding his facade. And now she could see that something had just occurred to him. He was smiling again, self-possessed and confident.
„Malakhai is a killer. You got that much right.“ Prado picked up the flyer for Carnegie Hall and waved it in the air like a small flag. „So here’s something else to think about. Charles isn’t handsome like his cousin. But I promise you that every time Malakhai looks at him, he sees Max Candle’s face.“
„So? Max and Malakhai were friends.“
„Were they?“ Prado turned to the mirror and fiddled with the knot of his tie. „Malakhai spent years torturing his old friend with the Louisa illusion. He brought his dead wife into Max’s home and sat her down at the man’s dinner table. Max was very much in love with Louisa. He took her death very hard. And then, there she was, back from the grave and sitting right beside him at the table. Interesting? And then there’s Charles. Max loved his little cousin like a son. Did you know that? It’s a pity you never worked out the Lost Illusion, just to be on the safe side. When Charles performs at Carnegie Hall, he shouldn’t be taking any help from Malakhai.“
„Malakhai would never hurt him.“
„Are you willing to bet Charles’s life on that?“ Prado glanced at the mirror before he sat down again. „Hours before Louisa died, I dropped by Oliver’s apartment. It was early in the afternoon. Louisa and Malakhai had the room upstairs. We could hear them up there, going at it like animals. They rocked the bed on its feet and made it dance all the way across the ceiling. Poor Oliver turned bright red and pretended it wasn’t happening. So provincial. What an American he was. But it wasn’t Louisa’s husband in that bed with her. You see, Malakhai walked into Oliver’s room while the bed was still dancing upstairs. Oh, the look on his face when he stared at that ceiling. He was devastated. No – he was destroyed.“ Prado leaned across the table, smiling. „Are you quite sure Malakhai didn’t mean to kill his wife that same night?“
„You’re lying. Max and Louisa told him about the affair. That’s how he found out.“
„Is that what Malakhai said? Well, maybe they did confess. But I promise you, Mallory, that dancing bed was the first he knew about the affair. Don’t let Charles – “
„He won’t hurt Charles.“
„No? Don’t you wonder why Malakhai wouldn’t help you work out the Lost Illusion? How long do you think he’s been planning to share his stage with Max’s cousin?“ He spoke to her, but he played to his imagined audience in the mirror. „Well, maybe Charles will survive. You never know.“ He picked up his hat. „You’ll excuse me? I have to rehearse Emile’s routine. I may need to hang myself ten times. Practice makes perfect.“
„Dangerous trick, Prado. And strung out on drugs? Maybe when St. John bowed out, he was helping Malakhai set you up for the kill.“
„What of it? I know you’ll be there tomorrow night – watching my back. You can make my finale after Malakhai’s act. But you’ll have to hurry, Mallory. Timing is everything.“
He waved one hand in the air, still performing for the watchers he believed were behind the mirror. And now he was unlocking the catch on the doorknob.
„Prado!“ She rose from the chair and leaned over to press her hands flat on the table, allowing her blazer to open and show him the gun. „If Franny Futura turns up dead, I’m going to kill you. And it won’t be a bullet – not a quick death. You’ll never guess the day I come for you. It might be a month or a year. I’m real patient that way.“
Now that should assure him that there was no one behind the looking glass.
Jack Coffey sat alone in the dark room behind the mirror. Mallory’s interview was done, and he knew he should leave now. Yet he remained in his seat, watching her through the one-way glass as she sat down and covered her face with both hands.
He was past the point of a supervisor overseeing a case. This was borderline voyeurism. Coffey shifted in his front-row chair, so like a theater seat. Though he knew he was alone, he turned to check the elevated row of stationary chairs behind him.
But why should he feel guilty? Mallory was the one who just made a death threat against a suspect. Maybe she had only intended to rattle Prado. But then Coffey had to wonder if he should believe every word. He hoped Prado had believed her. It might keep Futura alive awhile longer.
Every good instinct told him to take Mallory off the case. But who else could have done so much with damn little help? Riker’s evaluation had been correct. Inspector Markowitz had been the best of cops in his prime, but his child was better.
She was also dangerous.
Coffey wondered what Mallory was thinking, sitting there still as death. He wished he could see her face.
As if responding to this thought, her hands fell away, and she slowly turned her head toward the one-way glass. Hers was not the vague, roaming glance of Nick Prado, who had only suspected a watcher. Mallory was staring into his eyes. Coffey took little comfort in the knowledge that she could not see through the mirror. This was only her paranoia tuned to a fine instrument for fun and terror. She knew he would take the center chair and where his eyes would be.
What would Lou Markowitz do if he could come back from the dead and see his daughter now? Would he laugh or cry?
As if she were reading his mind, Mallory smiled – just like the old man, a Markowitz smile.
Jack Coffey closed his eyes and continued to sit in the dark after Mallory had abandoned the interview room. He listened to her footsteps in the hall. She stopped at the door and tried the knob. Now he heard her working the lock. He was bracing for the confrontation. He would be caught in the act of a voyeur watching a lone woman in the interview room.
The door opened by only an inch. Mallory never looked inside.
What for? She already knew he was there.
Her footsteps continued down the hall. Was she laughing? Or was that Markowitz?
A newspaper lay on the floor, headlines screaming about the hanging of Emile St. John. Franny Futura lay back on the pillows. He had not left his bed since the maid brought him the morning paper. The woman had accepted a cheap ring as payment, for he had no money to bribe her.
He had not changed his clothes since his arrival. The suitcases were in the closet, unopened – a neat stack of symbols for his entire existence, always packed and ready to run.
Franny watched the shadows crawl from one side of the room to the other, slowly edging across the walls, and some crawled along the ceiling. Now that darkness had fallen, the headlights of cars in the parking lot created more diverting dark shapes and jerky flashes, dashing across the walls to take him by surprise. Every pair of lights announced another visitor to the motel.
Any moment now.
He had lived his entire life rehearsing for a knock on the door. In dreams, it always happened at night. As often as he had imagined the moment, he could never see beyond the point when the door began to open. On the other side, something awaited him.
Another pair of lights splashed one wall, veered sharply onto the next one, then died off to leave him in the dark. His fear was a hulking thing, crafty and cruel. It sat on his chest with real weight, haunches tensing, crouching, set to spring. Franny listened to the opening and closing of a car door. He followed the sound of steps in the parking lot. They passed him by, and he thought to breathe again.
Locks and bars had been unnecessary adjuncts to his jail. He could never leave this motel room. He would miss the curtain for his Broadway show, and he must reconcile himself to that loss.
He sat up on the bed and stared at his reflection in the mirror over the dresser, looking there for the younger Franny from Faustine’s Magic Theater, hiding in the brilliant spotlight of the stage, the only place where he felt truly safe. Even today, if not for his sporadic stage career, he would never leave his rented rooms. But he could not explain this to his agent, who had urged him to retire many years ago.
There was someone behind the door. He was sure of it.
Franny lay back on the pillows, eyes wide with anticipation. He had waited for more than half the century, a million minutes ticking by, building to this moment.
Nick Prado didn’t knock. He let himself in with the key.