The upper half of the office wall was a window on the squad room of Special Crimes. The environs were bleak. Gray file cabinets lined one grime-white wall, and a bank of dirty windows overlooked the SoHo street. Yet the atmosphere was suspiciously festive. There were no civilians in the house, not even clerical staff – only men with guns, milling around steel desks topped with computer monitors and piles of paperwork on fresh homicides.
Believing that his people worked better without a superior officer’s eyes on them, Jack Coffey usually kept the blinds drawn – but not today. The lieutenant watched as ten grinning detectives gathered around the punch bowl on the center desk. Only five of them had been scheduled to work this holiday shift. None of their conversations penetrated the thick glass, but the tension came through. It hummed, it reeked.
What were they going to do to her?
Lieutenant Coffey was a man of average height and average features. Even his hair and eye color were in the middle range of brown. However, at thirty-six, he was uncommonly young for a command position, or so the brass at One Police Plaza had argued. Over the past year, stress had made inroads on a bald spot at the back of his head; he had acquired deep worry lines and a world of trouble in his eyes; and now his appearance was older, more appropriate to the job.
At the back of the private office, another man struck a match and added a whiff of sulfur to the air, followed by a stream of gray smoke.
It would be nice if once – just once – Detective Sergeant Riker would ask for permission to light up a cigarette. Lieutenant Coffey bit back a reprimand as he stared at this detective’s reflection in the glass. Riker was standing at attention, telegraphing the strain of the morning – waiting for the show to begin.
In the squad room beyond the window, men in shirtsleeves and shoulder holsters were ladling eggnog into paper cups and opening containers of Chinese take-out food. On the far side of the room, a pair of uniformed officers were keeping their distance from the detectives.
And that was another odd note.
The two men in uniform exchanged uneasy glances. Perhaps they also wondered why they were here. Patrol cops never partied with detectives; they wouldn’t even drink in the same bars.
Invited as witnesses? Yes, that would fit, for now a detective was unwrapping a furry stuffed toy. It was a replica of the puppy Detective Mallory had recently dispatched to Balloon Heaven.
Lieutenant Coffey glanced over one shoulder. Detective Riker was leaning against the back wall, as if suddenly very tired. A hat brim shaded his eyes from the overhead lights. Riker must have plans for Thanksgiving dinner. He was stealing glances at his cheap watch, and he had not yet removed his new coat, which was not at all cheap.
„Nice material,“ said Coffey, whose own coat was from a discount store in New Jersey. „Very expensive. People will say you’re on the take.“
Riker smiled as he brushed a cigarette ash from the tweed lapel. „Mallory gave it to me.“
„Don’t tell anyone.“ There were enough rumors going around about his only female detective. Coffey turned back to the window on the squad room, where his detectives perched on the edges of desks, sharing foxy smiles and watching the door. The two patrol cops traded looks of deep discomfort. Coffey knew they would rather be downstairs with the other uniforms.
He could roughly guess what was going to happen next. Without lookaway from the glass, he spoke to the man behind him. „You know she won’t get off easy this time.“
„Mallory says she didn’t do it.“
„I expected that from her. But what about you, Riker? You know better. She’s lying.“
„The gun was cold.“
„The day was cold.“ Coffey turned around to face his sergeant. „Even if the gun test comes back negative, that won’t clear her – not with me. You never searched her for a backup piece, did you?“
Riker’s slow smile said, Silly question.
In the squad room on the other side of the glass, a man grabbed up the telephone, listened for a moment, then made the thumbs-up gesture to the other detectives. And now they were all converging on the stairwell door.
Ambush.
The desk sergeant must have warned them that Mallory was on her way upstairs.
Showtime.
Today the world would stop revolving around Markowitz’s daughter. She had gone to the limit of her old man’s influence.
Detective Riker walked over to the window and followed the action with his eyes. He would do nothing to warn his partner. Even the late Inspector Markowitz would not have tried to stop this. It might be Mallory’s last chance to come into the fold. So much depended on how she reacted.
She had no friends among those men lying in wait by the door. They saw her as an outsider, never drinking or breaking bread with other cops. Perhaps the worst offense was keeping her own counsel; her silence fueled their paranoia. In the tight community of police, every loner was suspect.
The two uniformed officers were hanging back, wanting no part in this.
Why?
The stairwell door was opening. He could see curls of blond hair beyond the tight press of bodies. The wall of armed men parted to form a gauntlet, giving Coffey a clear view of the toy dog, a perfect replica of the Goldy balloon. It lay on the floor, bleeding catsup from a mortal wound. A white chalk mark had been drawn around the furry body – all decked out like a corpse at a crime scene.
Mallory was looking down at the stuffed animal when the detectives screamed in unison, „I didn’t do it!“
Mallory’s slogan.
Her head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the toy. She stiffened slightly when a detective taped a giant paper star on her shoulder. The bold print of a felt-tip marker read: ‘The only good puppy is a dead puppy.’ Any second now, she would explode – or she would work it out. The men were popping off the balls of their feet, finding this tension delicious, God’s gift to all the detectives of the Special Crimes Unit. A true day of thanksgiving.
Aw, Mallory, no.
She was looking up at them now, wearing a broad smile that was radiant – and pure Markowitz, a damn ghost of the old man. There had been no resemblance between father and foster child – absolutely none. Yet this was the inspector, back from the grave and charming everyone in the room.
Oh, Jesus, this is criminal.
Mallory had even captured mannerisms, tugging on her right earlobe as she focused on every man in turn, making each one the center of the universe and special in her eyes – Markowitz’s eyes. How many hours had she labored in front of a mirror, coldly perfecting this impersonation – and why?
Coffey stared at his detectives, all but Riker, who had turned away from the window, not wanting to see this anymore. Her cheap magic act was working on all the others. Their faces were full of delight, their own smiles saying, Well, hello again, old man.
It was shocking to see Markowitz alive in Mallory – and obscene. How conniving and maniacal.
How smart.
She might learn all her lessons the hard way, but she did adapt with inhuman cunning and speed.
The men were grinning, all cops together now, laughing and slapping backs, aiming light, good-natured punches to her arms. Mallory the loner had won them over with charisma stolen from a dead man. The only woman on this squad was finally one of the boys – just what Coffey had hoped for, and he damned her to hell for the way she had pulled it off.
He threw open the door and yelled, „Mallory! Get your ass in here!“
The mood of the room shifted abruptly, and he was met with sullen glares from every cop, including the pair in uniform.
Oh, great. Just great. Now it was all of them and Mallory against himself. Ah but payback, fresh ridicule, was only as far away as tomorrow’s press release. And now he looked forward to telling her about the crossbow shooter.
She walked toward the door, taking her own time, so as not to give the impression that she was acting on a direct order from a commanding officer. The smile dropped away as she crossed the threshold of his office. The show was over.
He slammed the door and sat down behind his desk. „Mallory, you’re going to take a little vacation for a while.“
She removed the paper star from her shoulder. „I don’t have any vacation time left.“
„I know that.“ He made a show of moving papers around on his blotter, unwilling to meet her eyes until his anger subsided. „Call it a little gift from Commissioner Beale.“ Over the edge of his desk, he watched the legs of her designer jeans folding into the chair beside Riker’s. She wore new running shoes, and he knew that brand – two hundred dollars a pop. The long leather trench coat parted as she crossed her legs. And how much had that tailored item cost?
„I can’t take any time off.“ Mallory shot the crumpled paper star into the wastebasket next to his desk. „I’m working a full caseload.“
Her voice was too confident, and he was about to change that. „Not anymore.“
His attention shifted to the long ash on Riker’s cigarette. It was perilously close to dropping on the floor. It had taken three months of requisitions to get the new carpet. A cloud of smoke drifted across the desk, and he wondered if Riker was deliberately distracting him with this flanking maneuver of fresh aggravation. Coffey turned to Mallory. Her face was absent the sham warmth of Markowitz.
If a machine had eyes…
„You’re off duty until this shit dies down, and that may take a while.“ He picked up a sheet of quotes from the parade broadcast and handed it to her. „America’s most famous cartoon character was gunned down in the street – by a cop. Parents are gonna use your name to scare their kids into behaving.“
„Yeah,“ said Riker, rousing from lethargy. „I can hear the mommies now – ’Clean up your room, or Detective Mallory will shoot your dog.’“
The phone jangled, and Coffey picked up the receiver midring. This was the call he had been waiting for. He listened for a moment, then said, „Put him through.“ And now a technician was delivering a dry recital of test results produced in record time. Normally, Special Crimes only got this kind of service when a cop killed a human.
Mallory was reading the quotes of the newscasters. Was her stomach knotting up? He hoped so.
„This is bogus,“ she said. „I did not fire my gun in – “
„Oh yeah?“ Coffey covered the phone’s mouthpiece with one hand. „There’s a bullet missing from your gun.“ He turned to her partner and tossed a sheaf of stapled, badly typed text into the sergeant’s lap. „Riker, you forgot to mention that little detail in your report. Fix it.“ He spoke to his caller: „What else?… Hold on.“ He cupped the receiver again. „The tech says the gun was fired recently.“
Riker looked up from his paperwork. „I bet they can’t pin it down within twenty-four hours.“
Coffey pretended not to hear that, because it was true. As he thanked the technician for the holiday overtime, he was making a mental note of what Mallory was costing the Special Crimes budget.
„My gun was fired yesterday,“ she said. „Not this morning.“
„What were you – “
„Lieutenant?“ Riker slowly shook his head. „You don’t want to know.“
„The hell I don’t.“ Well, actually, he didn’t. There was a lot to be said for deniability in Copland politics. Coffey turned his attention back to Mallory. „Out of all the balloons in the parade, why did you have to shoot a dog – a puppy, for Christ’s sake.“
„Yeah, Mallory.“ Riker’s head was bowed over the papers in his hand. „That was cold. Why not shoot that annoying woodpecker you never liked?“
„I didn’t – “
„Right.“ If NYPD could not prove it, she did not do it – Coffey knew that old song. But this time he had witnesses. „I’ve got statements from people who saw you fire your gun.“
„Damn civilians.“ Riker’s pencil was moving over lines of text. „They hear a car backfire, and then they see a gun that isn’t there.“ He looked up at Coffey. „And who says the balloon was shot? Another balloon went down when a tree branch ripped it.“
The lieutenant opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a videotape. He held it up to Riker. „For a joke, one of the reporters asked Dr. Slope to examine the dead balloon. Well, his kid’s with him, right? I guess he thought it might be fun for Faye. So, to quote our chief medical examiner, ‘Yup, that’s a bullet wound all right.’“ Coffey dropped the tape in the drawer and slammed it shut. „They’ve got film of Dr. Slope bending over this pile of rubber, explaining how the edges of the holes are more consistent with bullets than trees.“
„Good,“ said Mallory. „That backs me up. The guy with the crossbow wasn’t the only shooter in the crowd.“
This was the moment Coffey had been waiting for. He leaned toward her, not even trying to suppress his happiness. „The crossbow shooter was hired by the magicians on the float. The kid was part of the act, Mallory – a publicity stunt. The old guys paid him to do it.“
It was not hard to read her face. She reminded him of the children on the parade films, eyes turned skyward, watching the giant puppy deflate – a startled wide-eyed look followed by an expression of Oh, shit.
Two screwups in one day.
She was shaking her head in denial. „No. If it was faked, Charles Butler would’ve – “
„Charles didn’t know,“ said Coffey. „I talked to him myself. The old guys didn’t tell him what was coming. Said they didn’t trust him to act surprised. They wanted the genuine article for maximum effect.“
„That fits,“ said Riker, nodding. „Charles can’t hide a thing with that face of his. The way that poor bastard loses at poker. Behind his back, Dr. Slope calls him the bank.“
„I want to see that crossbow shooter,“ said Mallory.
„Too late.“ Coffey was not smiling now. „The West Side dicks kicked him loose twenty minutes ago. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue the city. So you don’t go anywhere near the kid.“ He rapped his knuckles on the desk to make sure she was paying attention. „That’s an order, Mallory. Don’t even think about crossing me. You can’t afford one more violation.“
Her voice was almost mechanical, giving equal weight to every word. „There was another shooter in that crowd.“
„What if there was?“ Coffey shrugged. „The parade has passed by. It’s over. Who the hell cares?“
Well, she cared. That was obvious. Mallory was shredding the sheet of press quotes into tiny pieces. Not one scrap escaped the lap of her cashmere blazer. She was freakishly neat.
„There must be a witness on my side. I never drew my gun.“ Mallory stood up and deposited the confetti in his wastebasket, and she also took this opportunity to scan everything on his desk.
He riffled through the paperwork and picked up an affidavit signed by a taxpayer. „This is my personal favorite.“ Riker’s report had described the witness as a punk kid with too many earrings and a bad attitude toward cops. „This guy swore he saw you aim the gun at the balloon. And then he heard you say, ‘Take that, you evil puppy from hell.’“
Mallory did not get the joke, but Coffey was grinning, his life was complete. She had no more possible comebacks.
He had not anticipated a sniper shot from her partner.
„She had good reason to go after the kid with the crossbow. It wasn’t a toy,“ said Riker. „Crossbows are illegal in – “
„He had a performance permit signed by the damn mayor.“ Coffey waved the paperwork faxed from the West Side precinct.
„And she was supposed to read that through his back pocket while he was running away? And what about that old guy who died last week? The Central Park magic show? He was killed with crossbows – four of ‘em.“
„Okay,“ said Coffey. „The arrest was a righteous call. But don’t tell me you’re going for a connection to the park accident.“
Mallory sat down and leaned back in her chair, suddenly more cheerful – always a bad sign. „What if it wasn’t an accident? Suppose I can prove Oliver Tree was murdered?“
Coffey had a problem with that. Mallory was too hot to get clear of the balloon assassination. She might cheat the pieces to come up with a diversion. „No way. It’s a closed case. Accidental death, cut and dried.“
„When did anyone ever die in a cheesy magic act?“ She had a good point, but he would never admit it – not to her. „There’s no reason to question another detective’s report, not unless you enjoy making enemies. So forget it. And now there’s still the little matter of a bullet missing from your gun.“
„Mallory fired her gun yesterday,“ said Riker, with great reluctance. „I found four witnesses, all patrol cops.“
Coffey made a rolling motion with his hand. „Come on, what’s the rest of it?“
„She killed Oscar the Wonder Rat. Picked him right off the top of the candy machine in the lunchroom.“ Riker pointed one finger like a gun barrel and cocked his thumb to fire. „Single shot.“ No, no, no!
Coffey stared at the ceiling for a moment, outwardly calm, inwardly screaming at Mallory, Are you nuts? Totally nuts?
„Okay, Riker. Leave the missing bullet out of the paperwork. I don’t want the reporters to know she gunned down a rat with a pet name.“
He had to wonder about those four uniformed officers who had watched her pull a weapon inside the station house. What had gone through their minds when they heard a gunshot in the one place where they were supposed to feel safe? Most cops would have twenty-year careers without ever firing a gun on duty.
Had the uniforms downstairs already pegged her as a loose cannon? In that paranoia unique to cops, were they watching her more closely now? And how long would it be before the rat story crossed the line between the patrolmen and his detectives?
And now he understood why those two men in uniform had not taken part in humiliating Mallory. Cop, accountant or postman, the rules were the same: It was not a sane idea to antagonize a dangerous coworker.
The uniforms would find another way to deal with her.
Mallory was pulling papers from the deep pockets of her trench coat.
She unfolded a sheet of text and set it on his desk blotter. It bore the mast-head of the tax assessor’s office, and by the date, this information was a week old.
„Oliver Tree left an estate worth millions,“ she said. „That’s just the tangible property. I haven’t even looked for cash holdings yet.“
In Malloryspeak, this meant she had the bank statements, but he would not like her method of acquisition, and neither would the bank appreciate her computer skills, her high-tech lock-picking.
Riker was leaning forward to stare at the list of property holdings, clearly surprised by this information. So Mallory was a week late in sharing the money motive with her own partner. Well, that was typical.
She tapped the sheet with one red fingernail. „Forty years ago, the old man bought up a row of condemned brownstones. Got them for a song and did the renovations himself. He still owned three of them when he died. And he owned a small theater in a prime real estate location.“ On top of this paperwork, she laid down her own report on the parade shooting. „The crossbow shooter was related to Oliver Tree. I don’t know how he figured in the old man’s will – not yet.“
By the look on Riker’s face, he was also hearing this for the first time.
Coffey scanned the lines of text underscored in red ink. The bowman’s name was Richard Tree, nephew of the magician who had died a week ago – killed by four arrows.
She laid a three-year-old arrest report on top of this sheet. „The nephew has a juvenile record for drugs. Maybe the parade stunt was a fake. But a junkie would kill his own mother for cash, and that kid was in the park the day his uncle died. So I’ve got motive and opportunity.“ And then, as if she had read his mind, she added, „I didn’t raid sealed juvie records. I talked to the cop who busted him.“
Of course, she had found that officer’s name in a raid on sealed juvenile records, but Coffey let that slide.
„I like money motives, too.“ Riker was looking at his wristwatch again as he stood up and buttoned his coat. He averted his face, hiding the anger from his partner. There were many lessons that Mallory had yet to learn, but apparently Riker intended to handle this one privately. One hand was on the doorknob when he glanced back at Coffey. „I’m sure the mayor’s office wants the park death to stay accidental. High murder stats are bad for tourism. But you know she’s got something here.“
Coffey sat back in his chair, not surprised that Riker would back his partner, even if he thought this was crap, and he probably did.
„Mallory, we’re running late,“ said Riker.
She looked down at her pocket watch, not trusting him with the time of day. „I need the West Side report on Oliver Tree. Everything from the detective who caught the case. I want statements, evidence – “
„Not so fast.“ Coffey pushed her sheets back across the desk. „First you check out these leads – discreetly. Riker will do all the interviews. Officially, you’re on vacation. You got that, Mallory? You don’t interrogate anybody. If you get anything solid, then we’ll talk about stepping on toes in another precinct. Oh, and I’m keeping your gun for a while.“
Mallory didn’t like that, but she was clearly going to eat it. And why not? She had other guns at home. He believed she only carried a private cannon because the police-issue.38 didn’t make big enough holes. She stood up and cinched the belt of her trench coat, electing not to press her luck by staying any longer.
„Sit down, Detective,“ said Coffey. „I’m not done with you.“
Between a dead rat and a punctured balloon, Mallory had done herself a lot of damage, but she couldn’t see it yet. She was standing too far outside the closed society of cops.
He waited until she had settled back into the chair, then slammed his hand on the desk with enough force to send pencils and pens rolling off the edge. „Don’t you ever pull a gun inside this station house again! Even if you don’t get off one bullet – if you only pull the gun out of your holster – I will fire your ass!“
Behind her back, Riker’s face was solemn as he nodded in rare agreement with Coffey. Mallory could not afford to learn every lesson by hard experience. She would not survive.
Coffey let his words settle in for a moment and then pressed on. „That stunt with the rat? That’s gonna come back on you. You don’t want the reputation of a gun-happy screwup. It makes other cops nervous. Those uniforms who watched the rat get shot? Now they’re gonna be watching you, Mallory – waiting for more evidence that you’re dangerously nuts. And then, one day, you’ll be in trouble. You’re gonna look around for backup from the uniforms – and they won’t be there.“
Fellow cops might hear her calls for help on the radios of a dozen police cars, but they would turn stone deaf and let her die alone – waiting for them.
„No cop will raise a gun to you,“ said Coffey. „They’ll sit back and let some perp do that part. But you’ll be just as dead.“
Welcome to the darker side of NYPD.
Mallory was angry now, taking this as a threat. And she was right about that. Coffey turned to his senior detective for another kind of backup.
Riker came at Mallory from behind as she was rising. His hands pressed on her shoulders to gently force her back down to the chair. „You’ll appreciate this, kid – since you’re such a fanatic about neatness.“ Head bent low, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. „Back when I was in uniform and a cop went down that way – we called it ‘good housekeeping.’“