It Happens in the Dark (22 page)

Even that wardrobe hag was line perfect.

Alma came down from her high. Shrinking now, sinking to her knees, she fell to earth, all the air sucked out of her.

The players went on with the scene. No one looked her way. She was invisible to them—as good as gone. Alma pressed both hands to her mouth so no one would hear her crying.

•   •   •

Bugsy scrambled up the aisle, silently saying his new lines.

Pastrami on whole wheat, orange soda.

Really hoofing it now, he sped through the lobby.

Ham and Swiss cheese on rye, coffee light
.

Out the street door, onto the sidewalk, into the sunlight.
What?
Two cops in uniform—
watching
him.

Burger, fries and a Coke.

Turning left now, heading for the deli—one cop on either side of him.

Four-bean salad and coffee black.

“Alan Rains,” said the cop on his right, and he said it like a command to stop.

Cheese Danish and Perrier.

Their hands were on him. They dragged him away.

He was going to be late.

ROLLO:
Mothers are fierce. They fight just as hard when their arms are broken. They fight to the death.

—
The Brass Bed
, Act III

This was all wrong—like reading another man’s diary.

Carpetbagger.

Captain Halston had entered the incident room uninvited and unannounced. Playing prince of the city today, the new commander of Midtown North—
smarmy twit—
had explained his plan to cut the legs out from under Special Crimes.
Prick.
And then, in a show of no hard feelings—
Oh,
yeah
—the captain had extended his soft manicured hand, maybe expecting the lieutenant to kiss it. This interloper was leaning way too heavy on his higher rank.

In response, Jack Coffey had taken a seat in a metal folding chair—
no
handshake—and finished eating his sandwich.
Screw
Halston.

Now, done with his lunch, the lieutenant crumpled his empty deli bag into a wad the size of a walnut—while the captain from the Theater District strutted up and down the length of the cork wall. Another man from that precinct, paunchy Harry Deberman, trotted at his master’s heels.

Riker walked in the door and turned to his boss. “What’re they—”

“The deputy inspector from Midtown North retired. Halston’s filling his slot for a while. The captain tells me we now have a joint task force.” There was no need to add that placing a captain in charge of a busy precinct could only mean that man’s career was on the rise; it was an elaborate job interview for the next rung.

Riker nodded his understanding. “So Halston’s out to grab headlines—from
us.
”

Mallory entered the room in time to see the Midtown poachers ripping sheets from the wall. Jack Coffey disliked repeating himself, and so he said to her, “The chief of
D
s saw your ad on TV. He figured you could use a little help.” This was a lie, but he had no doubt that, by now, the chief of detectives
had
seen her impersonation of the actress on the local-news channel.

Mallory shook her head to say,
That’s not possible
.

Coffey smiled. This was her blind spot in life: She truly believed that dark glasses rendered her unrecognizable—not so pretty—all but invisible. That queer flaw of hers fueled a running squad-room joke that, like a vampire, she could not see herself in mirrors.

Harry Deberman hitched up his pants and waddled toward her, gloating as he held out a photograph of Bugsy. “You screwed up on the guy’s flophouse address. He hasn’t been there for months.”

“Very sloppy work.” Captain Halston tore another sheet from the cork, ripping it and scattering pins on the floor. “I had Alan Rains picked up outside the theater.” The man stepped back to survey the whole wall. “Well, I think we’ve got what we need for his interview.” When the captain turned around, he was quick to drop the smug attitude and startled to see Riker—one very pissed-off detective—standing on the far side the room.

Back in the days of Riker’s legendary drinking binges, before falling down through the ranks, he had been
Halston’s
captain. Drunk or sober, few cops in the NYPD commanded more respect, and so, in many ways, Riker still outranked this man. And now the detective issued an order to the captain. “Bugsy is Mallory’s informant. She’ll do the interview.”

Halston’s eyes darted toward the door. He had a history of retreating from every showdown, but that was not an option today. “My shop,” he said. “One hour.”

Riker nodded and the deal was done.

The captain summoned enough bravado to swagger out the door, followed closely by his dog, Deberman.

“An hour.” Jack Coffey caught Mallory by the arm. “That gives you time to go home and change. Don’t let me see you wearing that shearling jacket to Midtown. There’ll be reporters crawling all over that station house. We don’t want them confusing you with Alma Sutter again,
d
o
we?”

She looked down at his grip on her cashmere blazer, probably checking his fingernails to see if his hands were clean where they touched her. And where did he get off
touching
her? But this was a conversation of the eyes. Aloud, she said, “You
know
why they grabbed Bugsy.”

The lieutenant let go of her arm and shrugged. “Halston wants to put on a show for the media, and the gopher doesn’t have a pricey lawyer. He was the easy choice.”

Riker shook his head. “That’s not it. When they charge Bugsy with murder—”

“Ain’t gonna happen,” said Coffey. “We got a deal. Midtown’s only charge is a misdemeanor. And that’s just to make the arrest look solid. Halston’s real happy to let Special Crimes do the real work. But his squad delivers the first break in the case—Bugsy. Then the captain gets his headline and goes away.”

“Naw,” said Riker. “You can’t trust that prick. Halston’s planning to kill our case
today
. He’s gonna hang it all on Bugsy.”

“No way,” said Coffey. “He
can’t
. He’s got nothing to back it up. The
last
thing Halston wants is a murder charge.”

“You’re right, but he doesn’t need to go that far.” Mallory stared at her ravaged wall. “It all fits. The day you caught Deberman sneaking around back here? He stole the transcript for Bugsy’s sanity hearing. Now Halston knows Bugsy was institutionalized. So he’s got a patsy too crazy to stand trial. At the press conference, he only has to say the magic words—
a person of interest
. The reporters fill in the rest. . . . Case closed.”

“Yeah,” said Riker. “We’re dead the minute Halston trots that little guy out in front of the cameras.”

Mallory stood before a blank space on the cork wall. “They ripped off the interview notes for Beck’s lawyer. He can give Halston a motive. His client tried to get Bugsy fired. Not a great motive—but Bugsy’s crazy, isn’t he? And this won’t ever go to trial.”

The lieutenant raised both hands. “Enough.” He knew they were right. It was a case with no forensics—
thank you, Clara Loman
—and all they would ever get was circumstantial evidence. When the real killer stood trial, his defense counsel would only need to point a finger at the certified lunatic in custody—reasonable doubt for any jury. “Nothing I can do to stop it. But with Mallory doing the interview, maybe we got a shot at damage control.”

“Okay,” said Riker. “So what’s Halston’s bogus misdemeanor?”

“Interference with a corpse. If the little guy wasn’t totally nuts, that would be a six-hundred-dollar fine.” But custom dictated that lunatics undergo evaluation on a psychiatric ward. And there Bugsy would stay.

As Mallory turned to leave, Coffey said, “Hold it! You
will
lose that new jacket. And then you find something in your closet that does
not
say you rob banks on the side. You
got
that?”

•   •   •

Riker waited in the car, watching a skinny guy in gold braided livery usher his favorite tenant out to the sidewalk. Mallory must be a big tipper. Frank the doorman stopped just short of carrying the train of her coat.

And
what
a coat. This was no concession to Lieutenant Coffey.

Her long black duster was cut like something from an old western movie, but with miles more style and made of leather. The silk T-shirt had been replaced with a black cashmere turtleneck, and she had swapped out her pricey running shoes for a pair of wildly expensive high-heeled boots.

When she slid behind the wheel, Riker reached out to touch a leather sleeve.
So
soft. Calfskin. And he would bet that the sacrificial calves were so tender they had never made it out of their mothers’ wombs alive. “Coffey’s gonna shit a brick.”

And they were off.

As the car peeled away from the curb, Riker reached out to drape a Saint Christopher medal on her rearview mirror. This talisman for the patron saint of travelers was just to remind her that he very much wanted to live through this ride.

Mallory crawled up the rear end of her first victim’s car. “If the day goes sour, take the subway back to SoHo.” And the car up ahead sped out of her way.

“Okay by me,” said Riker, “but why?”

She turned to face him, taking her eyes off the road as she sailed through a red light and away from the sound of screeching brakes in the wake of terror left behind them. “Don’t
mosey
out the door. Get out of there as fast as you can.”

And the words
plausible deniability
came to mind.

•   •   •

This watchers’ room was missing the amenities of Special Crimes. Here, the one-way glass was not so wide, and Midtown North had nothing as fancy as rows of tip-up seats. A stack of folded metal chairs leaned against the rear wall, but every man remained standing.

The lieutenant stood beside a young assistant district attorney. Ten paces away, gunfight distance, Captain Halston had surrounded himself with four unnecessary detectives selected only for a show of force, a reminder to Jack Coffey that he was outnumbered. They all faced the glass and its view of the little man seated alone at the table in the brightly lit interrogation room.

Hunched over, Bugsy worried one hand around the other. All the way crazy and very scared, he was the most helpless creature God ever made. Every two seconds he looked up at the door, awaiting his interrogator.

“Detective Mallory’s late,” said Captain Halston.

•   •   •

Mallory was on the floor below, shopping in the Midtown North locker room, and she picked one lock after another to ransack the gym bags of cops who liked to work out at the end of a shift. She found what she wanted in a woman’s locker. After hiding the stolen goods under her duster, she passed down a hallway, unchallenged by uniforms and clerical personnel, though she wore no visitor’s name tag, and there was no gold shield on display.

In this cophouse that catered to celebrities and other VIPs, she was only wearing money today.

The detective climbed the stairs to the next floor and joined her partner outside the watchers’ room, where he stood in company with a bald man, who was unshaven and lumpy in a loud, checkered suit. He made Riker look well dressed.

“Mallory, you remember Eddy Monroe. He’s Bugsy’s lawyer.”

Who could forget the laziest hack in the Public Defenders Office? Monroe favored quick resolutions, sometimes dirty ones, and this character flaw carried into his personal hygiene. He smelled, and his fingernails were grimy.

“Bugsy waived his right to counsel during questioning,” said Riker. “What a surprise, huh? Poor Eddy had to hoof it over here for nothin’.”

Mallory turned on the lawyer. “Did you actually
talk
to your client this time?”

“Well, no.” Monroe spread his hands to ask,
What the hell for?
“Interference with a corpse—a penny-ante charge, and they’re not even gonna fine my guy. I got him a deal.” The lawyer raised one fat thumb. “First, you get his confession.” Next he held up his index finger. “Then I plead him out.” And last came the middle finger for the fuck-you finish. “And we all go home early.”

“
So
classy.” Riker turned to his partner. “The arraignment’s already on the docket, and Bugsy hasn’t even been charged yet.”

“Yeah,” said Monroe. “It was timed for the press conference. You got an hour, Mallory. Shouldn’t take that long. I hear my client’s bug-shit crazy.”

And the gopher could not be in worse hands.

•   •   •

Mallory was wearing her shades when she entered the watchers’ room, dressed like visiting royalty.

Late. No apology. No excuse.

Every cop turned her way, and the tension ratcheted up a notch. Only Lieutenant Coffey was smiling, far from pissed off with her new-and-improved wardrobe selection. He stared at her high-heeled boots. His detective was now two inches taller than the captain and half his men.

The young assistant district attorney rushed to the stack of metal folding chairs. Lifting one, he carried it to Mallory so the
lady
could sit down.

“What the fuck?” Captain Halston snatched the chair from the ADA and flung it back to the wall. “She won’t be staying!” He turned his anger on Mallory as he pointed at the glass window on the adjoining room. “Get in there.
Now!
”

Not so fast
.

She only looked
down
at the captain. And then she made a show of
slowly
turning to her boss, deferring to Coffey, a man of lesser rank. She stood there, motionless, a woman with all the time in the world.

And when Jack Coffey thought he could drag out the fun no longer, he gave her a nod and said, “Go.”

She turned on one heel and marched out like a good soldier. Later in the day, he would recall this moment as the one that should have set off warning bells.

•   •   •

Detective Riker had the public defender in tow, more like in custody. His hand was on the lawyer’s back as he propelled him through the door of the watchers’ room.

Surprised and then angry, Captain Halston glared at Eddy Monroe. Was he silently reminding the man that this was not their deal? Riker caught the captain’s eye and managed to convey that Monroe would
stay—
that this was the
new
deal.