Winter House (9 page)

„Hello, dear. Kiss, kiss,“ said Cleo in lieu of actual affection for her daughter. „I’ve decided that we ‘11 have a small dinner party tonight. I think I can arrange for the frog prince to come.“

Bitty’s feet were frozen in place on the last step, and one hand drifted to her heart, as if her mother had shot her there.

„Yes, dear,“ said Cleo. „Your beloved Charles Butler. Won’t that be nice!“

Bitty nodded meekly, then turned away from them and crept back up the stairs.

L
ieutenant Coffey was enjoying a rare hour of calm. Two homicides had been closed out before noon, a banner day. There would have been three cases closed by now if Riker and Mallory had only cooperated. But they were both exhausted and badly in need of a rest. They had logged more overtime than anyone else on the squad. And this was how Jack Coffey rationalized his irrational behavior of the morning, allowing them three days to work a bogus case.

Red Winter, my ass.

When he stood up to stretch his legs, he saw the wadded balls of paper he had tossed on the floor. Sooner or later, he would have to uncrumple them. He gathered them up and smoothed the pages out across his desk. Next, he picked up Mallory’s report. He had the time to read it now, but his eyes could not move past the address for the crime scene. She had included the landmark credit with the formal name of the property. Miss Winter was not just another taxpayer with a common surname. She lived in Winter House.

The lieutenant stole guilty glances at the glowing computer screen only a few feet from his desk. The cold-case file would not be there, not a case dating back to the forties. Almost against his will, the chair slowly wheeled toward the computer workstation. He typed Red Winter’s name into the search engine and came up with a selection of several hundred Web sites. After weeding out the sellers of books, videotapes and memorabilia, he settled upon a site for true-crime junkies.

Colorful.

Bloodred skulls marked every selection on the menu, and the Winter House Massacre was listed near the end of this alphabet of bones. When the screen changed again, he was staring at the famous nude portrait of a child with long red hair, and he could see that she had been tall for her age, all out of proportion to the surrounding furniture. Civilians and cops who knew the case had always called her Red Winter. Here, her true name was given as Nedda, the same as the woman – a
tall
woman – who had stabbed Willy Roy Boyd. Riker had guessed her height at five ten or eleven, and Mallory had placed her age at seventy. Nedda would have been a twelve-year-old girl in the year that Red Winter had disappeared.

No, no, no!

It was easier to believe that he was being set up for an elaborate pratfall. And how many bets were being made on him
this
time?

Though his blinds were not drawn and the door was not closed, no one disturbed him. His people had sensed that he was best left alone as he sat there staring at a blank space on the wall. From time to time, the men would approach the glass of the goldfish bowl to see if the position of the boss’s body had changed any. And now Jack Coffey gave them a little thrill. His head moved slowly from side to side as his chair rolled back and away from the computer.

It seemed that two of his detectives had found the lost child, Red Winter, the most enduring mystery in the annals of NYPD. And he had only given them three days to expose Stick Man and break the case of the century.

RIKER WAS TELLING HIS PARTNER A STORY TO DISTRACT HER from a favorite sport of near-death adventures in traffic, and so the tan sedan rolled safely down Madison Avenue.

Mallory pulled up to the curb. Legal parking spaces were impossible to come by in midtown, but bus stops like this one were plentiful. She cut the engine. „Why did they call him Stick Man?“

„The lead detective on the Winter House Massacre –
he
named the freak.“ Riker stepped out onto the sidewalk. „There’re only two or three cops who’d remember why he picked that name, and they’re in nursing homes.“

He paused to light a cigarette, striking three matches in the wind. Impatient, Mallory slammed her car door, and still he took his time, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he walked toward an office building at the middle of the block. „One of the Winter kids was holding a crayon drawing when they found him. It was a stick figure, no detail. You know the way kids draw, and this litde boy was only four years old. There was one small hole in the paper and some blood from the stab wound to his heart. So the lead detective – Fitzgerald was his name – he framed the kid’s picture and hung it up in the squad room. At first, only the cops on the case knew how important that drawing was.“

„So Fitzgerald thought the boy drew a portrait of his killer?“

„Yeah“ said Riker, „and, in a way, he did. There were thirty detectives assigned to the massacre. They worked it for a solid year, and they never had one lead to flesh out a suspect. You see? The kid’s drawing of a stick man fit the case. It hung on that wall for years. It drove them all nuts.“

He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if he gave a damn about the weather. He was wondering how much of the story he should hold back. In Mallory’s puppy days, when he was still allowed to call her Kathy, she had loved his grisly cop stories, the more blood the better – but never ghost stories. Eventually, he would have to tell her that Stick Man’s killings had begun in 1860.

And then she would have to shoot him.

„My grandfather didn’t work the case,“ said Riker, „but it was all he ever talked about.“ And it was all that Granddad had really cared about. The old man had made a science of icepick wounds that spanned a full century. But Mallory did not need to know that, not yet. And now that they had reached the address of Willy Roy Boyd’s attorney, the story hour was over.

The two detectives pushed through the glass doors of the rat maze, floor upon floor of lawyers’ offices stacked up to the moon. Riker flashed a badge at the security guard who wanted to stop them from using the penthouse elevator. They stepped inside a carpeted box paneled with mirrors and lit by a tiny crystal chandelier. It was a style that New Yorkers would call piss elegant. The elevator doors closed and they rode upward through the tower of law firms, aiming for the most expensive one. Riker was looking forward to this meeting, and he had no plans to restrain Mallory’s enthusiasm for payback.

They exited at the last stop and breezed on by a young woman at the reception desk, paying no attention to her as she called after them, asking if they had an appointment. The next woman to ask this question was a more formidable brunette, whose desk stood guard before a lawyer’s door. The secretary spoke only to Mallory, or, more accurately, to Mallory’s clothes, the silk T-shirt and tailored blazer, money on the hoof that blended well with the luxurious surroundings. The brunette made it clear that Riker’s suit really ought to have arrived on the delivery elevator at the rear.

Mallory’s clothes leaned over the desk and said, „We don’t need an appointment.“

Did the dark-haired woman find her unsettling, possibly dangerous?

Oh, yeah.

The secretary sat very still, hands tightly folded and knuckles turning white, as the young detective reached across her desk to press the button that would admit them to the inner sanctum of Sid Henry, Esquire. Riker followed his partner through the door, glancing back at the cowed woman behind the desk.

Good job.

The door swung open on panoramic windows and brilliant light. The lawyer was reclining in a leather chair and sunning himself like a lizard in very expensive threads. The man even moved like a reptile, his head jerking upward, startled. As the attorney rose from his desk, preparing his first verbal assault, he suddenly shut his gaping mouth. Was it the sight of Mallory’s lovely face? No, Riker guessed it was probably the very large gun, a .357 Smith and Wesson revolver. She had one hand on her hip, her blazer open and pulled to one side, and there was no way he could fail to see that cannon.

Sid Henry sat down – quietly.

Riker luxuriated in these passing seconds, for Mallory had not yet produced her shield, and, considering this attorney’s recent client, a serial killer, the poor bastard sincerely did not know if she was crazy or a cop. Would he live or die?

It was Riker who ended the suspense, holding up his own gold shield.

Mallory pulled a manila envelope from her knapsack, tore it open, and held up the morgue photograph of a body on the dissection table –
after
the dissection, minus all the vital organs, and looking very pale. „Recognize your former client? No? Well, it’s a bad photo. Willy Roy Boyd was the psycho who butchered three women, gutted them with a hunting knife. And you got him out on bail.“ She dropped the photo on his desk. „Remember now?“

„Blame it on NYPD.“ Sid Henry grinned at her, entirely too confident that she would not hurt him. „The case against my client wasn’t exactly flawless.“

Mallory slammed her fist down on the desk with the force of a hammer. „My case was
perfectl“

The attorney flinched, and his eyes widened with sudden clarity, for now he understood his error: she was the lead detective on that case – and she did not respond well to criticism.

„I looked up every precedent you cited at that bail hearing,“ she said. „You had nothing. It was all smoke. You knew that judge would never admit he didn’t know case law on search and seizure. You were right on the edge of perjury.“

„So,“ said Sid Henry, „this is retribution? You plan to scare me to death?“ He tapped the photograph. „This is so unnecessary.“ He turned the picture over. „The dramatics, this disgusting picture.“

Riker had predicted that the man would rally quickly. According to police lore, lawyers were as resilient as cockroaches, and one who had been decapitated could litigate for up to three days.

Mallory walked back to the door and closed it –
slowly
– smiling as she shut out all sound and sight of witnesses, and this little gesture was not lost on Sid Henry.

„So, Sid, let me guess,“ said Riker. „You’re just an associate, right? Not a partner in the firm? Naw, you’re too young. I’d bet even money those old geezers don’t know you took a fee to bail out that butcher.“

„Maybe,“ said Mallory, „you told them it was
pro bono.
All the money you made on that hearing didn’t go through the firm’s billing office.“ At least, she had found no record of it while raiding the firm’s database. However, she
had
found a large deposit in the lawyer’s personal bank account.

By Sid Henry’s silence, Riker knew they had the man cold for pocketing money that belonged to his firm, and now they owned him. Oh, and best of all, there would be no charge of police harassment at the end of the day – even if Mallory left marks on him.

„You didn’t ask how your client died,“ said Riker, not giving the lawyer any time to wonder how the police could access the firm’s billing office.

„It wasn’t in the newspapers. Not on the tube, either. But you don’t seem surprised.“

„I haven’t seen Willy since the bail hearing.“ Sid Henry picked up the photograph of his late client and forced a smile as he handed it back to Mallory. „So he’s dead. Can I assume this is your work, Detective? Rather excessive use of force.“

Mallory ignored the photo and let it hang in the air between them until the man’s arm got tired and he lost the idea that he could win a staring contest with her. She pulled out the pocket watch that had once belonged to the late Louis Markowitz. „You’ve got two minutes to clear yourself on a charge of murder for hire.“ This little trick of time, the pressure of a ticking bomb, was another hand-me-down from her foster father. „If you can’t do that, then we get to parade you out of here in handcuffs.“ She waited out the silence, her eyes cast down to the face of her watch. „One minute, fifty-five seconds.“

Sid Henry’s voice cracked. „If you think you can – “

„We wanna know who paid for that bail hearing.“ Riker snatched the photograph from the lawyer’s hand. „And don’t give us any crap about attorney-client privilege. That won’t cover the bastard who hired you. We know Willy couldn’t afford fifteen minutes of your time. So who paid your fee?“

„One minute, fifty seconds,“ said Mallory.

„You’ve got no right to – “

„This is a warrant.“ Riker waved a folded sheet of paper. It bore no judge’s signature, but it worked well as a prop. „The charge is attempted murder. Your client tried to kill another woman last night – a
rich
woman. Now the older lawyers, the guys with their names on the door of this outfit, maybe they even know her. All these rich people know each other, don’t they?“ He turned to his partner. „Curious, Mallory? We could ask them on the way out.“

She nodded, saying, „One minute, thirty seconds.“

Riker pulled out his handcuffs, then tossed a Miranda card on the desk. „I think we can assume you know your legal rights. I’m guessing you plan to use the right to remain silent.“

„One minute, fifteen seconds.“

Riker grinned at her. „I think your watch is slow, kid. I say we just
do
him.“

It happened very fast. She had reached the other side of the desk before the lawyer knew she was after him. Now he was half risen from the chair and pulled forward by her hand dragging his necktie – no visible bruising that way. He was quickly bent over the desk, face pressed to the blotter, as she worked his arms behind his back.

Riker threw her the handcuffs, and, while she did the honors, he stood back and smiled, wanting always to remember this special moment – Sid Henry bending over and exposing his ass to all comers.

Evidently, the lawyer saw his own posture as a portent of things to come in lockup. „I don’t
know
who hired me!“ he yelled.

No – call it a squeal.

„That’s not what we wanted to hear,“ said Mallory.

„I couldn’t tell you if I
wanted
to!“ And now, his words came out all in a rush. „It was a cash payment – anonymous. Ask my secretary. She opened the first package. There were two installments, one before the bail hearing and one afterward.“

„And you gave the secretary a cut to keep her quiet, right?“ Riker pocketed the warrant, producing instant relief in the attorney’s eyes. „Okay, I don’t think we have to pursue this –
if
your story holds up.“ He took one last look at the man bent over his desk, then turned to his partner. „Can we take a picture of this before you uncuff him?“

No, he could see that Mallory was in a hurry to get on to the next interview. Well, one lawyer down and one to go. Their second target of the day was the attorney of record for the Winter family trust fund. He was also the father of Bitty Smyth.

T
he reception hall of the Harvard Club had the hallmark of wealth and power – wasted space on an obscene scale. The high ceiling was close to God and deceased alumni.

It was rare for Charles Butler to set foot in this place. As a child prodigy, he had not made many friends among his older classmates. Today’s luncheon was at the invitation of Sheldon Smyth, scion of the oldest and most venerable law firm in New York City. Smyth had mentioned that his son, Paul, would also be dining with them. The old man harbored the delusion that Charles and Paul had been great friends at school.

Untrue.

Paul Smyth had been shoehorned into Harvard as the son of a wealthy alumnus, while Charles had been a sought-after child, the center of a bidding war among the finest schools on the Eastern Seaboard. There had been only one occasion when he and Paul had met on campus – in passing. At eighteen, Charles had been on his way out, one semester away from submitting a Ph.D. dissertation, and Paul had just arrived as an incoming freshman. No thought had been given to this – schoolmate – in decades. However, last night, the birthday party photographs in Bitty Smyth’s bedroom had raised old grudges dating back to the sandbox.

The main dining room, a grand oak-paneled affair, was lined with the portraits of patrons immortalized in gigantic oil paintings, their names and deeds long forgotten. However, the club’s famed cheese dip was memorable.

He crossed the room behind a waiter. If not for this escort, he would never have chosen the right table, for his old enemy was so altered by time. Paul Smyth’s hair had thinned, his belly had expanded, and his chin had tripled. But Charles was recognized at once, so little changed was he, with a full head of hair and only the one chin. So it
was
a balanced universe after all. Paul stood up to shake hands with him.

In peripheral vision, Paul’s father was a thatch of silver hair with thick black eyebrows. Now the older man rose from his chair to match Charles’s stature of six-four. Sheldon Smyth extended one hand across the table to greet his luncheon guest. The old man’s eyes were the magic mirrors that every narcissist prayed for, clear blue reflections of the egoist coda, saying to the beholder:
My God, I think you’re wonderful.
¹
Aloud he said, „So good of you to come, such short notice and all.“