SLEEPLESS, CHARLES BUTLER HAD TAKEN TO BAREFOOT WAN-derings at all hours. It was five o’clock in the morning when he padded down the narrow hall of Butler and Company to the office in the rear.
Mallory’s computer monitors were all aglow, and her knapsack lay on the desk alongside the remains of a take-out meal. The half-filled coffee cup was still warm. He faced her cork wall and the penultimate symptom of a neat-freak spiraling out of control – a violent sprawl of paperwork. Her case elements were pinned in a horizontal splatter pattern. How many hours had she spent on this? All night long? Yes, her loss of sleep was apparent in the abandonment of perfect alignments. The wall was so messy that, at first, he thought this must be Riker’s work. But no – there was a rudimentary order in the chaos. However primitive, this linear progression was very un-Riker-like and all Mallory. Her signature ruthlessness survived in the single-minded march of data across the wall.
When would she ever let it go?
When would he?
Charles sat down at the desk and covered his face with both hands, somewhat surprised to discover that he had grown a three-day stubble of beard. And how many days had he worn this bathrobe?
Grief and profound depression were exhausting him. Guilt was even more tiring, and he was not yet done second-guessing his time with Nedda Winter. That was the horror of hindsight: there were always a hundred different paths that one might have taken to a different outcome. What truly drove him mad was that he had not listened to Mallory. How many times had she warned him that Nedda might die? Accidental death or not, if he had only kept Nedda close, she would be alive.
At odd moments, tears streamed down his face. He had no control over them. Before him, there was always a picture of Nedda happy in the realization of a simple little dream, Nedda free of sorrow and pain – what might have been. He laid his head on the desk. He would never take on another patient.
Her burden was more difficult, more death than he was accountable for. Unaccustomed to failure, Mallory had never acquired the emotional muscles necessary to pick herself up when she tripped and fell from grace. How well he could empathize with that, but he could not help her. Spliced together, he doubted that he and she would make one complete and healthy human. The other impediment was their friendship. Friends did not call attention to one another’s bloodstained souls and psyches.
Half the contents of her knapsack had been spilled across the desk blotter. He picked up a bottle with the hospital’s pharmacy label. It was filled with pain medication prescribed for her broken hand. There was no need to count out the tablets; he knew that she had taken none of them. Mallory would not want to dull her beautiful brain, not while she was obsessing over all the details of one terrible night gone awry. However, he was also assured that she was not suffering, not likely to pay much attention to the aching throb of broken bones and damaged muscle. To paraphrase an old song from his youth, she did not have time for the pain.
And so – he felt the pain.
Thus crippled, he picked up her pen and passed an hour writing letters to Mallory, long sorry lines of apology, taking all the blame for Nedda’s death. And then he had the good sense to lay down the pen. How unfair to burden her with his own obsession. Charles smashed the pages into the pockets of his robe, then rose from the chair to stretch his legs. He walked the length of the giant bulletin board, a disaster zone on several levels.
Well… maybe not.
At first, her pushpin style had been perfect in every alignment of paper, and then, as she had continued down the wall, pinning up new documents, they hung increasingly askew, as if she had become more and more agitated in her rush from one end of the wall to the other. The new configurations of diagrams and photographs, text and sundry bits of paper were laid out like a jigsaw puzzle without any helpful irregularities in the pieces. He had only the gist of the thing: neither of them could quite let go of Nedda Winter. And, truly, it seemed impossible that such a person could be removed from the planet by a freak accident. Mallory’s linear paper storm relentlessly moved on down the wall toward that same conclusion.
At the very end of the wall, a report from the fire marshal knocked everything else out of his head. This was not possible. He read it twice. There were no portable radios in Winter House, none that would work without current, and the antique radio in the front room had not been in working condition for many years.
Oh, no. Madness was a recent thing with him, and there was nothing wrong with his memory.
Charles returned to the desk, took up pen and paper once more, then left a note pinned over the technical report. The bold lines of red marking pen stood out from all the rest, and this bit of tampering with her wall could not fail to annoy her the moment she walked in the door. It was a simple message – Mallory loved brevity – only three words writ large, This is wrong.
It was late afternoon when Bitty Smyth approached her own home like a thief, stealing through the park, keeping to the elongating shadows of rock formations and evergreens. The police vehicles were no longer parked in front of Winter House. The reporters were long gone, and there was a sense of emptiness about the place.
And desolation. As Aunt Nedda would say, „Poor house.“
Bitty eased herself over the low stone wall and sprinted across the wide boulevard, dodging traffic, her fugitive brown eyes darting left and right. She raced up the front steps and faltered with the keys, dropping them twice before she could undo the locks. Finally, she opened the door to an acrid smell of stale smoke and mildew. Three days later, the air was still dank from the water hoses. Fearing an electrical fire, she hesitated to turn on the foyer light. Fear of the dark finally weighted her decision to flip the wall switch. The lights flickered on and off.
And Bitty sucked in her breath.
Vandals.
The smoke-stained walls of the foyer had suffered fresh damage. They were cracked by huge nails driven into the plaster with great force. Each nail staked a sheet of paper.
Senseless violence.
As she scanned the papers, Bitty fancied that she could hear the echo of every nail hammered in anger: BANG! – a fire marshal’s diagram of her bedroom, the point of origin for the blaze; BANG! – another diagram showing the location of the cellar fuse box; BANG! – an official finding of arson.
Impossible.
The fire had been the pure accident of a candle falling into a wastebasket. Neither she nor Aunt Nedda had been near the candlestick when it had fallen off the bureau.
BANG! – a drawing of the cellar that marked the place where the pulled-out fuses and the spares had been hidden; BANG! – a forensic report on a flashlight recovered from the ashes of a bedroom closet; its round head matched to paint chips and a circular pattern of dust on the fuse box in the cellar.
BANG, BANG, BANG! A score of documents led to the end of the wall and turned a corner.
Bitty screamed.
No, no, no!
Rags. This was too cruel. Her pet cockatiel had been staked to the next wall, one nail for each tattered wing, and, for a few moments, the flickering lights gave the dead bird the illusion of flapping feathers and flight.
BANG! – beside Rags’s tiny carcass was Mallory’s witness statement. The detective had found three prone victims trapped above the fire’s point of origin. Most damning were the final words: The only survivor will inherit millions.
BANG! – an application to freeze the assets of the Winter fortune in probate limbo.
Though the house was utterly silent, absent all but imaginary hammers, Bitty’s hands rose up to cover her ears.
And then she held her breath – the better to listen.
She heard no voice or footfall, yet Bitty knew that she was not alone in the house. Creeping toward the threshold of the front room, her eyes were slowly adapting to the soft remains of sunlight slanting through the parted drapes and falling from the skylight dome at the top of the house. Now she could see every detail of a workman’s scaffolding inside the curve of the blackened staircase. It was a network of wooden planks and buttressing metal rods swirling upward.
Mallory, dressed in dusty blue jeans, a T-shirt and a gun, hung there in midair.
Bitty blinked.
No, the detective stood on a high platform at the center of this giant skeleton of wood and steel, a suitcase resting at her feet, so like a woman waiting for a train or a bus to pass by high in the air. And so patiently – as though Mallory had been waiting there all this time, days and days. One crippled hand in a plaster cast dangled at her left side. Her hair and clothes bore a darker dust of ashes that had come down from the second floor with the metal suitcase, the one that Aunt Nedda had kept under her bed.
Always locked.
The detective picked up the suitcase, held it high over her head and sent it crashing to the floor below. It fell open, disgorging leather-bound journals, the sort that came with small locks and keys – decades of diaries.
„I like money motives,“ said Mallory. „And now… you have one.“
Bitty was shocked into a calmer state than she could otherwise have managed. She moved farther into the room, drawn along, as people are drawn to accident scenes. The lawyer in her was surfacing, and it wanted a look at those diaries. At last, she stood before the scaffolding, believing that there was hardly any fear in her voice when she forced a smile and looked upward, saying, „What a droll sense of humor.“
„I’m not known for that.“
Still smiling, Bitty splayed her hands. „But I haven’t committed any crimes.“
„No?“ Mallory bent down to pick up two electrical cords. „Let’s count them.“ In a sleight of her one good hand, she joined the cords together, plug and socket. The room flooded with light from all quarters, brilliant spotlights, a dozen or more white-hot suns perched atop high poles. Bitty covered her face with both hands and closed her blinded eyes.
When she could see again, she turned in the direction that every light was focused upon. All the mirrors had been taken down from one wall. It was covered over with hundreds of papers and nails and cracks running jagged down the plaster. After a full minute of stunned silence, she looked back over one shoulder. The detective had not changed her stance, but was she at least one platform lower – closer?
„How did you get these trust documents?“ Bitty strived to convey a suspicion of theft. „No judge would ever sign a warrant to raid a law firm for – “
„Your father didn’t tell you? Why doesn’t that surprise me?“ Mallory stepped off the narrow wooden plank and dropped to the wider platform below. This time, her running shoes made noise with contact. „Old Sheldon didn’t like you much, did he? Well, maybe you pissed him off when you tried to blackmail his law firm.“
„You can’t be – “
„You threatened him with a very old crime.“ Mallory pointed to the wall. „Right below the trust documents, you’ll find the warrant for your father’s safety-deposit box. That’s where I found the restitution agreement for the embezzled trust fund. It proves that the law firm stole money from the Winter children. That was my partner’s favorite piece of evidence – proof of lawyers robbing orphans.“
Bitty turned to face the scaffold, one hand shading her eyes from the bright lights. „I swear to you, I never – “
„You knew. When you worked in your father’s firm, you had lots of time to study the trust fund documents. I also found a copy of his will. Two years ago, he cut you off without a cent. That’s how I know you didn’t leave on sabbatical. He fired you. I’ve seen the firm’s financials – yours, too. He paid you hush money – your allowance. That’s what he called it – ten percent of your old salary. You actually made less money as a blackmailer.“ The detective’s smile was derisive. „You just couldn’t stand up to him, could you? He called your bluff, and you folded. You crept away with a few pathetic crumbs like a good little mouse.“
Mallory stepped to the edge of the platform.
Bitty’s head snapped left toward the distraction of a faulty pole light blinking on and off. When she turned back to the scaffold, Mallory was gone, and this silent piece of work was more alarming than the sound of the crashing suitcase. Could Mallory have dropped to earth from such a high place without making the slightest noise?
Or could she fly?
„I know everything now,“ said Mallory.
Bitty jumped. Her heart banged. Her eyes went everywhere. Where had -
„When blackmail didn’t work, you came up with a new swindle.“
Bitty slowly revolved, her eyes alternately squinting at bright lights and peering into shadows. „I have no idea what you’re – “
„I know how you found your aunt.“ The detective stood under a spotlight at one end of the wall, as if she had simply materialized there. „It was a job that generations of good cops couldn’t do. That bothered me from the beginning.“
„If you had only asked – “ Bitty’s hands joined tightly, fingers interlaced, but not in prayer. „I would’ve told you about the investigator.“
„Joshua Addison?“
„Yes, my private investigator.“
„No, he’s mine now.“ Mallory ripped a sheaf of papers from the wall. „This is his statement – all your requirements for the job.“
Bitty nodded unconsciously. She knew this list by heart: find an old woman approximately seventy years of age, tall and fair and blue of eye, a woman without documents or memories of family and home.
„It was a shopping list for a doppelganger,“ said Mallory. „You weren’t even looking for your aunt. Any old woman would do, as long as Cleo and Lionel believed she was their sister. You didn’t even have to worry about a DNA test. By the time – “
„I wanted to please them.“
„No, you didn’t. They were horrified. That’s the way Nedda put it in her last diary, the one she started in the hospice. She mentioned you, too – in detail. It was her impression that you weren’t all that surprised by the reception she got from Cleo and Lionel. Now back to your Pi’s shopping list. Addison told me you were only interested in nursing homes. Good hunting grounds for old women who can’t even remember their names.“
Bitty eased herself down to the floor, fearing that if she did not sit down, she might fall on weakening knees. Mallory had erred on one point. Not just any old woman would do to separate her family from their money. It had taken years and all of her savings to find just the right one, a senile old crone with a resemblance to the Winter family. How astonished she had been to discover that the best candidate of the lot was the genuine article.
„I even know why you picked the state of Maine.“ Mallory was moving across the room, and it seemed to Bitty that the detective would walk over her or through her, but the young woman stopped suddenly, as a train would stop just short of collision. „Maine was close enough to keep tabs on your search,“ said Mallory. „But it was far enough from New York City so you wouldn’t have to worry about the Smyth name being linked to the Winter family. The PI was pretty lame, and I’m guessing that’s why you picked him. But he finally made that connection.“
Bitty was always looking up at people, and suddenly she tired of this. She fixed her eyes on a middle ground, and her voice was insistent when she said, „I didn’t break any laws. I never – “
„Your plan was too complicated.“ Mallory hunkered down to Bitty’s eye-level. „That’s why so many things went wrong. You had to improvise too much. But, in every new game plan, Nedda was meant to die. Your mother and your uncle would take the blame. You supplied them with a motive. Their uncle James planted the idea, but you’re the one who convinced them that Nedda murdered their family.“
As Bitty formed the idea that Mallory was using pure guesswork, the detective was shaking her head, saying, „I know how you poisoned them against Nedda. So you planned a revenge motive for Cleo and Lionel. They do everything together, don’t they? Get one, you get two. With them in prison, you’d control all the money.“ Mallory held a sheet of paper within an inch of the other woman’s face. „Now you get nothing.“
Pulling back, Bitty recognized the page torn from a book on New York State law. The underscored passage mandated that felons could not profit from a crime. She watched the paper drift to the floor. In one fluid motion, Mallory was risen, then gone, and Bitty was left to stare at the fallen page washed in bright light. „I didn’t commit any felonies. There’s no proof of – “
„Let’s start with Willy Roy Boyd, the scum you hired to kill Nedda.“ The detective ripped a newspaper clipping from the wall and held it up for Bitty to see. The headline recounted the capture of a serial killer. „This was your idea of the help-wanted pages. It cost you a lot of money to get him out on bail with that new hearing. He’d need lots more to keep his pricey lawyer. He would’ve killed a battalion of women for you.“ She let go of the clipping, and it drifted to the floor.
Bitty turned away. „You can’t seriously – “
„I’m dead serious.“ Mallory’s voice came from behind, and Bitty could feel the breath on her neck. „I talked to Boyd’s lawyer.“ Another piece of paper rattled close by Bitty’s ear. „I have the letter you sent with the payoff money.“
Bitty raised her head with new hope. „In my handwriting? I don’t think so.“ The letter had been typed on a computer.
„Don’t even try to run a bluff on me.“ Mallory’s face appeared in front of her, blotting out everything else in the world. „Your bedroom was the only one with locks, two heavy-duty bolts – recently installed. You were afraid that Boyd might get carried away and kill you, too. He never knew that you were the one who hired him.“
„No, there was an attempted break-in the previous week. You know that.“
„Right. I always wondered if that one inspired the second try, or did you arrange both of them? Was Boyd your fallback plan? Heavy guns, Bitty – a serial killer. But at least he was a proven commodity. He’d already killed three women. Must’ve been a shock when Nedda brought him down with an ice pick. You never imagined that, did you? Well, some plans only work on paper.“ Mallory stood up, suddenly impatient, and walked back to the wall. „Willy Roy Boyd died during the commission of a felony. You hired him to kill your aunt. By law, his death belongs to you.“
„That’s absurd.“
„Oh, really? Did you sleep through every class on criminal law? The next charge is conspiracy in attempted murder for hire. Pecuniary gain raises the ante on the penalty. Look it up.“
Bitty rallied and lifted her head, feeling braver when speaking to the younger woman’s back. „You have nothing to link me with that man.“
„You’re right.“ Mallory’s smile was a chilling piece of work. „In your original plan, Nedda would die and Boyd would survive. So you’d never give him anything that would lead the police back to you. But I’m sure you fed him enough detail to implicate your aunt and uncle.“
„Supposition.“
„Yes, it’s a very weak case. Lucky I have you for multiple murders.“
„No,“ said Bitty, head slowly shaking from side to side. „What are you – “
„Every death by arson is murder. I only have to prove one and the jury will throw in all the rest for free – including Willy Roy Boyd.“ The detective padded toward the scaffolding and knelt down by the open suitcase and its spilled contents. She picked up one of the diaries and flipped through the pages until she found an entry that she liked. „Listen to this. It begins, ‘Love me again.’ She means Cleo and Lionel. All Nedda wanted was a reconciliation with her brother and sister.“ The detective turned ahead a few pages. „For a while, she was making progress. Then it went sour after Nedda stabbed Boyd. That was your work, Bitty.“ She held up the book. „It’s all here. Oh, one more thing – I know what you did with the videotape, the one that went missing that night.“
„All right, I burned it to protect Aunt Nedda. I thought she’d killed an unarmed burglar.“
„Nice touch, Bitty. Always a good idea to work a little truth into the lie. I believe you burned the tape, but that’s not what I meant. Your car service logged the trip to the summer house the next morning – a very early ride. You showed that videotape to Cleo and Lionel, didn’t you? You wanted them to see Nedda’s handiwork with an ice pick – the same kind of weapon that slaughtered their family. It must’ve destroyed them to watch that film. Too bad you don’t have the tape anymore. It might’ve come in handy at your trial. The state will say you burned incriminating evidence. Boyd was dead before the lights came on, but maybe the tape showed you pulling out the ice pick and driving a pair of shears into his corpse.“
„I didn’t do that.“
„Bitty, I never thought you could do it. But will the jury believe you? Now – just take it a little further. The autopsy proves two strikes and two different weapons – maybe two killers. Maybe Boyd wasn’t quite dead when he was stabbed the second time. The prosecutor might argue that you were afraid Boyd could identify you as the one who hired him.“
„That’s not true.“
Mallory arched one eyebrow. „So?“ She looked down at the journals in her hands. „When the jury reads these diaries – Nedda’s little dream – they’re going to hate you, Bitty. They’re going to kill you, too. On the night before the fire, Nedda called you from SoHo. She was planning another attempt to reconcile with her brother and sister. That would’ve ruined all your hard work shoring up the revenge motive. So, you staged a suicide, and you cut it close, but then you expected Nedda home for dinner hours earlier. Charles Butler’s fault. He invited her to a poker game.“
The detective busied herself with picking up all the spilled diaries and putting them back into the suitcase. „Let’s see. More crimes. Oh, right – the night of the fire? You turned out the lights at the basement fuse box.
There was an old flashlight kept on that box. The arson investigator found it in your closet. Did you think you’d have time to plant the flashlight in someone else’s room after your aunt died?“
„The fire was accidental.“
„I know. So what were you planning for Nedda that night? A fall down the stairs? No, too uncertain. Most people survive that sort of tumble. You were the one who pointed that out on the night of the dinner party.“ Mallory reached back into the suitcase and pulled out a diary. „It’s all here. Your aunt was a great one for detail. You planned to push Nedda over the banister, right? According to you, that’s the way Edwina Winter died, a tried-and-true method.“ She opened the diary and turned the pages. „Here it is. Nedda describes you rushing Charles Buder at the banister. For a minute there, she thought he ‘d go over the rail. That was your dress rehearsal, Bitty. For the real thing, you had to pull the fuses – turn off every light. It’s the only way you could do a murder – behind the back and in the dark. The prime suspects would be Cleo and Lionel. But now that they’re dead, you inherit everything. Good motive for arson.“
„But you know it was an accident.“
„The fire was where it all went wrong, wasn’t it? The smoke and flames. You panicked. You ran up the stairs instead of down. Yes, I believe it was an accident. You’d never take that kind of risk. But, once again, Bitty, will the jury believe you?“
Mallory paced the floor, snapping her fingers. „Stay with me, Bitty. Do the math. Willy Roy Boyd counts as the first murder charge. When the arson investigation is finished, the body count will stand at five.“ She ripped a sheet from the wall. „This is the autopsy report on your father. It links the trauma of the fire to a fatal heart attack. Every death by arson is murder.“
„It was an accident!“
The detective smiled, and Bitty grasped the irony before it was voiced.
„After years of planning and scheming, you’ll get tripped up by something you didn’t do. But you did pull out the fuses and hide the spares. You lit the candles that set the house on fire – and those people died. Do you think I care if you only planned to kill one of them?“ Mallory’s voice was calm and all one note, almost bored as she walked along the wall, tearing off more sheets in quick succession. „So now I’ve got you for patricide, matricide, the murders of your aunt and uncle and Willy Roy Boyd. Too bad you couldn’t commit mass murder in another borough. Now the Queens DA won’t kill anybody, not even cop killers. But the Manhattan DA loves the death penalty.“
The wave of Mallory’s hand encompassed all the chaos of the wall and the suitcase of diaries. „Now you might remember this from a law class you didn’t sleep through. The DA calls it a preponderance of evidence. The sheer weight of it is enough to crush you to death. And there’s more. Juries love things they can hold in their hands, like the fuses and the spares you hid by the garden door. That’s what really sealed the arson finding. Then there’s the pack of diaries.“
„Aunt Nedda was insane. She had a history of – “
„No, according to Dr. Buder, all those diaries were written by a per-fecdy sane woman. So – things the jury can hold on to. There’s the flashlight – and the fire ax with your fingerprints on it.“
„You know why my prints are on the ax. I used it to – “
„Yeah, right. Little Sally Winter’s bones. That was another nice touch, Bitty. Some malicious slander to paint Cleo and Lionel as the kind of people who could murder a child. Why not Nedda? What you don’t know is that your mother was on the phone with my partner before the fire broke out. She was making plans to surrender the trunk to the coroner’s office in the morning. Cleo and Lionel only wanted to know how long it would be before the family could bury that little girl’s remains. That was all they cared about. Finally – a proper burial for Sally Winter.“
„You know I used that ax to get Sally’s trunk out of the closet.“
„Right, that’s what you said in your statement, but we only have your word on that. Your mother never mentioned you. So the DA will argue that you used that ax to keep those frightened people from escaping a burning house.“
„No, there was a witness who saw Nedda carry me out. I was unconscious. I couldn’t have stopped anyone from leaving if – “
„A witness? You mean the homeless man who called in the fire? The arson team went looking for him. Turns out someone bought him a train ticket to a warmer climate. Now where was I? Oh, right – the prosecutor’s closing remarks. He’ll paint a picture of you swinging that ax, scaring those poor people, driving them up the stairs and then setting the fire to trap them there. When he’s done with the jury, they’ll want to climb out of their box and kill you with their hands.“
„Is that what you’d like to do?“
„No.“ Mallory shrugged. „It’s all the same to me – nothing personal, just a job.“ She handed Bitty a small white card. „This has your Miranda rights. You’re under arrest. Read the card fast, Bitty. We have to go.“
„I know what you’re doing, Detective. So transparent. You want to scare me into a plea bargain – a guaranteed conviction instead of risking a lost trial.“
„No, I’ve never known a lawyer to confess to anything. And I’m counting on that. So is the district attorney.“
„You expect me to believe that all this – this spectacle – and what you did to my bird, nailing him to a wall – that was just fun for you?“
„Yes,“ said Mallory, „that’s exactly what it was.“
Bitty wished that this young woman would not smile. It was so unsettling. And those eyes. It crossed her mind that the detective might be seriously disturbed. Or was this calculated – just another part of the show?
„Now,“ said Mallory, „I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you, and that’ll be fun, too. The courts might unfreeze just enough money for a reasonable criminal defense. They will not give you millions of dollars to buy legal talent. When your cut-rate attorney sees the trial going sour, he’ll try to plead you out on the weaker case, the murder for hire, one death – Willy Roy Boyd. You’d be Nedda’s age when you got out of prison, but you’d be alive. Here’s the snag. Once the trial has started and all the facts are out, the DA can’t accept a plea on a lesser charge. He’s a political animal – it’s an election year – the voters would crucify him. You see the beauty of it, Bitty? You won’t plea-bargain until your case is sinking. But the DA can’t settle for less than mass murder and the death penalty, not if he’s winning. And – he – can’t – lose.“
The detective slung a coat over one arm, then picked up the suitcase of diaries. „We have to go now.“ She consulted a pocket watch. „You’ll be arraigned tonight. What’s your plea?“
This was the showdown or at least a countdown of sorts, for Bitty was tensing her body as Mallory tapped off the passing seconds with the toe of one shoe.
„Time’s up.“
The electric lights went out, leaving only the illumination from the skylight dome. Bright motes of dust swirled around Mallory, catching light and endowing her with a cylindrical aura. As the detective moved forward, Bitty backed out of the room, slowly retreating to the foyer, where the body of the dead bird was staked to the wall, but all she could see was the detective crossing the front room, coming closer and growing in height and mass with each footfall.
Oddly enough, a stone weight was rising from Bitty’s breast. Her nerves had calmed, and she could breathe more easily. She called out to Mallory, almost defiant, „You lied to me! This case was personal, wasn’t it?“
Mallory had been all too right about one thing: Bitty had no intention of pleading guilty to any charge. Done with hysterics, she was coolly plotting the destruction of the case against her, all circumstantial evidence. And, if she could not win at trial, she would win on appeal. If she confessed, all was lost. Her last thought was that the detective could read her mind and sense the rebirth of hope.
The suitcase dropped from Mallory’s hand to the floor.
Bitty knew this moment would be burned into memory until the day she died. Years from now, she might recall the angry young avenger standing there with a great sword in her right hand. And perhaps that peculiar fantasy would arise from a glint of gunmetal in the shoulder holster – that coupled with this stunning sight of Mallory with eyes burning bright and hair disheveled, as if she had just stepped from the whirlwind.
Only now, as the last few steps between them were closing, did Bitty understand that this case was indeed a personal matter to Mallory, that some great harm had been done to this young woman, deep damage beyond the evidence of her broken left hand. Oh, her eyes – that fixed stare, a cat’s dare for the mouse to move, even to twitch. And the gun in her right hand was on the rise.
BANG!