It Happens in the Dark - M11

by Caroll O'Connell

  He looked down at a napkin and, upon that clean white field, re-created the earlier cork wall. Going back a bit in time, his job was made easier by Mallory’s meticulous pinning style, her creation of geometrical perfection. He saw it now, a square comprised of paper, each piece equidistant from the others to within the smallest increment of an inch.

  And one hole in her pattern.

  Yes, it was now very clear. The empty space was inches longer than the standard format for typing paper. He looked up to meet her eyes. “There was a blank spot in the upper left-hand quarter. . . . And it was the length of a legal document.”

  “That was the transcript for the sanity hearing. . . . Now Deberman has it. And that bastard has my margin notes. He knows Alan Rains is Bugsy . . . and Bugsy is crazy.”

  Guilt set in. Riker surely would have noticed the theft of the transcript that day—if not for the diversion of the thief dangling above the floor, shouting as he hung there, his feet kicking out in midair. Following that distracting scene, the hole must have been filled in by another piece of paper, someone else’s contribution to the wall.

  “Delusional or not, I need Bugsy to be legally sane,” said Mallory, as if that would make it so. And now she tacked on her deadline. “Today!”

  • • •

  Backstage, the actress reached out to grab Bugsy by the arm while he was on the run. He stumbled and stopped.

  Oh, shit! Alma was high—eyes like shooting marbles. Cocaine again? And maybe some speed? Yeah. The girl was twitchy and quick, blocking his only exit, her hands slicing air fast as blades on a fan, locking him in between the stage manager’s desk and a wardrobe rack. Had the twins been at her again? The gopher looked at his watch, though the battery had died years ago. He must hurry.

  Hurry where? Just now, he could not say.

  Alma pressed both hands to her ears. “I hear things—nails scratching on the blackboard. And I hear footsteps behind me, but there’s no one there. Nobody believes me, not even the cops. The ghostwriter wants to hurt me, maybe kill me!”

  Oh, Alma, come down from the ceiling. It’s not safe up there.

  Poor kid, she’d get the boot from Cyril Buckner if he saw her this way.

  “Hey, it’s not like you’re the only one to get spooked in this place.” Bugsy perched on the edge of the desk and nodded to the chair behind it. “Sit down. I’ll tell ya the story.”

  Alma did take a seat, but she could not sit still. Her legs moved up and down like pistons, like she could run somewhere in a chair.

  Bugsy told her the tale of another actress driven insane by a haunt. While he talked to her softly, she popped two pills, tiny white ones. Valium? Yeah. Good. And when his story was done, he said, “But here’s the kicker. That old bastard was alive when he drove that poor woman nuts. He wasn’t no ghost—not then. Ya get it? Nobody’s gonna get hurt. Theater ghosts don’t do shit like that. I’ll show ya.”

  He hopped off the desk and unlocked a drawer to pull out the stage manager’s laptop. “There’s maybe forty theaters in this town, and they all got ghost stories.” He powered up the machine and tapped in the words Haunted Theaters to call up a website. “It’s all there. All the ghosts that never hurt nobody. You’re gonna be fine . . . just fine.”

  She looked down at the lighted screen. And Bugsy ran away. He had nowhere else to be, but he could not be late.

  • • •

  More pills had gone down her throat to balance out the Valium, too much of it. She had crashed too fast, and nausea came on in a wave as she continued to scroll down the glowing pages of hauntings, though the words hardly registered anymore.

  But her faith was strong.

  Alma believed in the power of lucky shoes, broken mirrors, the jinx of the Scottish king—and the ghostwriter. Now the actress knew she was not going to find him on the Internet.

  He was behind her.

  Though there was not much space between the wall and her chair, she sensed a presence within touching distance. She could feel eyes on her. She was deaf to Cyril Buckner calling her name from the stage.

  “Alma?” Gil Preston touched her shoulder, stepping back a pace when she raised her arms to protect herself. “Alma, they need you onstage.” She stared at the beanpole boy, uncomprehending, and he had to say it again. “Cyril needs you now.”

  The actress upset the chair in her rush to stand, and it crashed to the floor as she ran through the scenery door to find her mark on the floorboards, and she stood there to face the actor on the brass bed.

  Axel Clayborne spoke his line, her cue, and—she—said—nothing.

  The new words were lost, and scary seconds were ticking by. Her mouth was dry. Her mind was blank. She turned to see Cyril Buckner’s angry face. Panic time. She fled the stage to collide with the stagehands in the wings. They followed her up the stairs to her dressing room. And when they were all locked inside, she looked down at her hands. Tremors! Christ! “I need something to—”

  “We know what you need,” said Joe Garnet.

  “I’m screwing up so bad. I’ll get canned if Cyril thinks I’m high, but my nerves—” And now her whole body quaked.

  “It’s okay, we got a pill for that.” Ted Randal dropped a yellow tablet into her open hand.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s what you need,” said the stagehand. “It’ll kill the shakes—real fast.” Ted produced another pill, a red one. “Give it a minute. Then take this chaser.”

  With absolute trust in a doctor-patient relationship with her drug dealers, Alma put the teenager’s pill into her mouth. The panic dissipated. And so quickly. She raised one spread hand. Rock steady. But her mind was still blank.

  Ted gave her the red pill. “This’ll get you up to speed.”

  And it seemed like the pill was no sooner down her throat than—speed indeed—she was zooming. Her opening line popped back into her brain, and then the next line and the next. Absolute focus. Moving quickly through the door, she descended the stairs, three at a time—she could fly—stumbling only once in her hurry. She ran toward the stage—then stopped.

  The actress shied back into the wings.

  The others had not waited for her. The dresser, Nan Cooper, was playing the scene with Axel Clayborne, speaking Alma’s words as an overhead light bounced off a balding patch on the woman’s scalp.

  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 ex
tended 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 Ds 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, do 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 aw
ay, 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’.”