„And people?“
„He might not recognize certain people from his past. It depends on the severity of the strokes.“
Riker looked at his shoes, hoping to hide his surprise from Slope – and the humiliation. What else might Mallory be holding out on him?
„Right now, he’s only having small strokes,“ said Mallory. „Could he have committed a recent murder and then forgotten it?“
„It’s possible,“ said Slope. „But unlikely at this stage. It’s not like Alzheimer’s. Usually the present remains intact, and the distant memories go first. But you were the one who told Malakhai how his wife was murdered. Doesn’t that preclude a revenge motive before the poker game?“
Riker was angry, for he had not been privy to this information either. He tried to catch her eye.
Mallory pointedly ignored her partner, turning her face away, speaking only to Slope. „Malakhai already knew how his wife died. Maybe he didn’t have all the details, but he knew she didn’t bleed to death from a shoulder wound. He’s seen more corpses than you have. And he’s had worse wounds than Louisa’s.“
Dr. Slope shook his head. „Why would he wait more than fifty years for revenge?“
She didn’t notice that Riker was edging away from her. „I don’t know.“ Mallory was staring at the locker that housed her junkie. „But that body was a prime piece of misdirection.“ She held up a small green velvet bag. Riker recognized it as the one Charles had given her when he showed her the key rod from Faustine’s Magic Theater.
She handed it to the doctor. „Look familiar?“
Slope examined the embroidered F. „It’s just like the one we found on Oliver Tree’s body.“
„We?“ asked Riker, hoping that Slope was referring to his assistants. „Did I miss something here? There was an autopsy for an accident victim?“
Slope lowered his glasses. „A violent accident, and very high-profile. Sure we had a look at the body. No cutting. Nothing fancy. Mallory was the only cop who bothered to show up for it. She didn’t tell you?“
„Must’ve slipped her mind.“ Riker slumped against a locker, feeling suddenly wasted.
Mallory took the velvet bag from Slope’s hand and turned to her partner. „I told you Oliver’s killer only had to substitute the keys – exchange the new one for the old one with a little sleight of hand. The key bag made it easier. Any garden-variety pickpocket could’ve done it.“
Riker would not look at her as he put on his hat and buttoned his coat. She did not seem to notice that he was angry. More likely, she did not care. He left Mallory talking to the air as he pushed through the swinging doors. He had walked half the length of the corridor before he heard the slap of her running shoes on the floor.
„Riker, wait!“
He kept on moving, only wanting the fresh air of the sidewalk and some solitude. She caught up and walked alongside him. He would not look at her – he could not.
„Where are you going, Riker?“
„To the theater.“ He checked his watch. He would be late for his appointment with Franny Futura. „I’m pulling the crime scene tapes so the magicians can – “
„Not so fast. I need some specs from the room inside Oliver’s platform. I’ll meet you there. We’ll have lunch, okay?“
„I’m not hungry, kid.“ He was almost to the end of the hall, the end of his patience with her. „We’ll do lunch some other time – when you’re a grown-up.“
He felt her hand on his sleeve, and now he stopped dead and turned on her. Was that surprise in her eyes? Yes. She was reading his face, probably wondering how he could be angry with her. Empathy was not her strong point.
„You never changed, Mallory. As I recall, you never did learn to share your toys with the other kids.“
„The other kids wouldn’t have anything to do with me, and you know it.“ She had delivered this line without complaint, as a dry fact of life. It was a good shot, well placed.
In all the years of watching Kathy Mallory grow, he had never known her to have one playmate her own age. She had made do with the cops of Special Crimes, and computers had replaced the playground jump rope. She had frightened children from more traditional homes than cold streets and cast-off refrigerator cartons.
His voice softened, as if he were speaking to Kathy the child. „You know this is no way to treat your own partner. I gave you every piece of information I had. But you – “
„And every time I gave you evidence, you picked it apart. Every time, Riker. You couldn’t just be on my side.“
Now she was the one who was angry. He had blinked once, and their roles had reversed – but how?
She squared off, hands on hips. „What if I had mentioned Oliver’s autopsy? That day on the parade float – wouldn’t you have laughed at me anyway? Then you double-teamed me with Coffey.“
No, wait. This was not going to work on him – not today. She was in the wrong, and this was not going to wind up as his fault.
„Fine,“ he said, undoing his coat buttons. „You want your damn present back? You got it.“
„No, stop.“ She reached out and put her hands over his. „You earned the coat.“ The storm was over. She wore a vague smile as she carefully redid his buttons. And then she brushed the shoulders and inspected him for other debris. She was Kathy when she smiled, ten years old again.
This was not a fair fight.
„The coat is payback,“ she said. „For the day you nailed the dentist.“
„What?“
Mallory turned around and walked back toward the morgue, leaving him in confusion and nursing a small heartache. That was her style, hit and run – unchanged in fifteen years.
The dentist?
He had not thought of that incident in years. How old had she been that day – eleven? He had volunteered to take her to an appointment after school. In the reception room, the dentist had greeted him with a smirk. „So where’s Inspector Markowitz?“ He had pointed to the little girl at Riker’s side. „Did she kill him?“
Young Kathy had not seen the humor in this. She had been moving her foot toward a clean shot at the man’s shinbone, but Riker’s tight grip on her coat collar had restrained her youthful enthusiasm for violence.
In love with his own wit, the dentist had said, „Can we handcuff the little monster to the chair this time?“
After Riker had shoved the dentist against the wall and pinned him there, he further terrified the man by asking if any other little girls had been manacled to his chair. And did the little bastard think that was normal?
There had been one excited, gleeful moment in Kathy’s eyes, when she thought the dentist would lose all his teeth, but Riker had disappointed her and released the man.
Then he had taken the child by the hand and led her outside to a quiet hour of feeding squirrels in Washington Square Park. He had talked about life and warned her that it could be unfair, unkind. What an idiot. As if the former street kid had needed that reminder, she who had dined out of garbage cans on days when she could not steal her dinner. When he asked if the dentist had hurt her with words, the little girl had shaken her head in the silent but emphatic lie, No, of course not, fool.
In that brief moment, he had gotten to know her better; it was something about the lower lip tucked under her front teeth – stoic Kathy. If she had only cried or made some complaint – just once – she would never have this hold over him today.
Now he looked down at his new topcoat. Payback? That was the last time she could remember him being on her side?
Chapter 13
Mallory’s hand blocked out the low-riding afternoon sun, as she stared up at the man on the ladder. He was working on an old-style marquee lined with yellow lightbulbs and topped with a row of elegant gold type. The workman bolted down the last letter to spell out ‘Faustine’s Magic Theater.’ Less permanent text appeared in the white areas on three sides of the square overhang. Among the magicians listed for the upcoming performance, Franny Futura was the h
eadliner and the only name she recognized.
The building was twenty-five blocks north of the theater district, but it was Broadway. Not a bad address for the man Charles had described as a tired museum of magic.
Mallory turned to the glass doors trimmed with thin wheels of steel. Riker had removed the yellow crime scene tapes. Was he still here? Still angry? Her birthday gift should have covered a multitude of sins, payback for crimes she had not yet thought of committing. Actually, she had bought the coat because his old one was too threadbare to keep him warm in winter. But this simple explanation would have cost her too much.
She paused by the entrance to inspect a recently installed display case of chrome and glass. Photographs of Oliver’s grandmother were arranged in a circle around her memorial plaque. In a clockwise history of snapshots and publicity photos, Faustine aged from a slight dark-haired girl to a portly diva sporting an obvious wig. In the most recent portrait, hard black lines rimmed her eyes, and the mouth was made wider with dark lipstick. Among the traits that had remained constant throughout Faustine’s long life was a look of hunger, a prominent determined chin and heartless eyes. Mallory wondered if anyone had ever crossed this woman. She thought not.
Pushing through the doors, she stepped into a small lobby. More alterations had been made since the auction. This intimate space was decorated with a dark green couch. The smell of new leather mingled with the odor of fresh plaster. A tarnished brass spittoon sat on the floor beside a standing ashtray. The walls and carpeting were paler shades of green. Faustine had obviously had a penchant for this color – and for attractive young boys.
The old woman’s apprentices were ganged together on a giant theater poster framed in ornate gold. Mallory read the small brass plaque on the wall to her right.
So this photograph had been rescued from 1940, while Faustine was still alive; before the theater seats had been ripped out to accommodate dining tables; before the war had marched into the city in the gray uniforms of occupation forces. It would be two years before Louisa arrived in Paris. Oliver Tree was not listed in this company of boy performers in tuxedos and top hats. Evidently his own grandmother had not considered him a magician. Young Max Candle stood in the background, barely contained inside the borders of the frame. There was a boy’s explosion of energy in his body language. He was set to fly, to escape the camera and rush into real life. In his eyes was an expectation of things to come – wonderful things.
But there was so much more to Malakhai, though he could only have been fifteen that year. He was the dynamic center of the photograph, enthroned in a high-backed chair, a boy king with long hair spread across his broad shoulders. In a sense, Mr. Halpern had been correct – only Malakhai’s hair had grown old. Something of the boy and his beauty had stayed with the man.
The others had followed the more natural course of time, morphing into entirely different faces and forms. The young version of Emile St. John was glorious, with thick curling hair and the body of a god – a remote god, for his eyes were focused on some interior landscape. Franny Futura had been delicate, almost girlish with his full pouting lips and long eyelashes. But Mallory could barely recognize the teenage Nick Prado, sleek and saturnine. Standing a bit apart from the others, he was a dark figure with liquid Spanish eyes and a wicked grin that said, Yes, I am beautiful, aren’t I? There was not enough resemblance to make Prado the father of this graceful boy. All that survived was the love affair with himself.
Mallory turned toward the sound of laughter. She peered through a glass circle in the lobby door. Three of Faustine’s apprentices were on the stage. Emile St. John stood against the backdrop of a green curtain. Nick Prado and Franny Futura sat on wooden crates, passing a wine bottle between them. The auction tables were gone, and so was Oliver’s platform. The movie people must have taken it. Damn you, Riker.
He knew she wanted another look at the interior room, yet he had allowed the new owner to ship the platform out to the West Coast. Angry now, she pushed open the swinging door and marched down the wide center aisle.
„What are you people doing here?“ Three heads turned her way. „I’m guessing this isn’t a wake for Oliver’s nephew.“
„Well, hello.“ Nick Prado smiled and sucked in his paunch. „Just collecting the spoils of the auction.“ He held up a set of keys. „Sergeant Riker let us in.“ He looked down at the champagne bottle in his hand. „And of course, we had to properly christen Oliver’s theater.“
Squinting to see her better, Franny Futura walked perilously close to the edge of the stage. Normally a clean and tidy man, his tie was awry, and so was his mouth; it wobbled in a foolish smile. He was holding a plastic wineglass and weaving in an intoxicated line when he tangled his feet and tripped, landing on his backside. Eyes round and innocent as a startled gray-haired baby, Futura sat bolt upright on the floor of the stage, legs splayed out. He stared at his glass and the miracle of unspilt wine, mumbling something incoherent, which might have been, „There is a God.“
Mallory climbed the stairs to the stage. „Where’s the platform?“ If it had been collected recently, it might be in the city and still within reach.
„Not to worry.“ Emile St. John parted the backdrop curtain to give her a glimpse of the large wooden structure behind it. All the crossbows were in position and pointing up toward the wooden posts at the top of the staircase. „Riker told the Hollywood people they couldn’t ship it for a few more days.“
„Oliver’s lawyer adores you.“ Prado was at her side and standing too close, exhaling fumes of wine with every word. „That corpse probably doubled the opening bid on the platform. And of course, Franny loves you, too. His performance is sold out for the entire festival.“ He looked down at Futura, who sat on the floor calmly sipping his champagne.
„And you thought this place was too far from the theater district to pull in a crowd.“ Prado bent down to clap Futura on the back. The man’s torso slumped forward, then slowly toppled the other way. Now he lay flat on the stage, and the wine was still unspilled.
Emile St. John left off the chore of uncorking another champagne bottle. He wrapped one massive hand around Futura’s arm to lift the smaller man from the floor. „Enough wine, Franny?“
Prado’s smile was all for Mallory as he flicked his wrist to snap a disk of black silk, popping out the crown of the top hat. „You’ll excuse Franny? He’s not himself.“
Too bad.
Futura was leaning on the arm of St. John, grinning at her and utterly impervious to fear – but that would change. Tomorrow morning when he was sober, she would officially own this case. Just for the fear value, she would order two uniformed cops to haul Futura downtown. She didn’t think much of his chances for holding out more than five minutes into the interview.
Nick Prado straightened Futura’s tie. „He’s not much to look at now, is he? I wish you could have met Franny when he was young and beautiful. Faustine only hired the most alluring boys in Paris. Ah, what time can do to the human body.“
Apparently, Prado did not include himself in the aging process. What an odd mirror this egoist must have, a looking glass that blinded him to time, perhaps something like Max Candle’s carnival mirror. Oliver Tree’s replica of that prop had been laid across a wooden crate. The distorted glass surface served as a makeshift tabletop for champagne bottles and an assortment of delicatessen containers.
She followed St. John’s shifting form in the mirror, alternately thinning and expanding. His aging had been less dramatic. The serenity of the boy in the poster was still in evidence, and he carried his excess pounds as ballast in the world. This man would not be shattered easily. As an interrogation subject, he posed the most interesting problem.
Mallory surveyed the leftovers of their impromptu picnic. The carnival glass was littered with remains of gourmet items on paper plates. She stared at Futura until she caught his wandering glazed eye. „You didn’t invite Malakhai to the party?“
„I’m sure he’ll be along in a
while,“ said Futura, unruffled and entirely too happy. „He’s prowling around Charles’s basement.“
St. John pulled a plastic wineglass from a paper bag. „Now where is the other champagne – “
„I’m on it, Emile.“ Prado was working the cork off a fresh bottle. It popped like a gunshot. A moment later, Franny Futura jumped in a delayed reaction.
St. John handed Mallory a wineglass and poured from a vintage bottle that must have cost the moon. He lit a cigar, also very expensive.
„Cuban,“ said Mallory, staring at the discarded wrapper. And he nodded, apparently not caring that he was flaunting contraband in front of the police. She addressed her remarks to the wineglass in her hand, hoping to make them seem casual. „So Malakhai didn’t find what he was looking for in the basement?“
St. John only shrugged to say that he had no idea. „Charles might know. We were running low on food, so he’s making a deli run with Detective Riker. They’ll be back soon.“
„You think Malakhai might be looking for a photograph of his wife?“ She set the wineglass down on the mirror. „I understand pictures of Louisa are scarce.“ She turned to Futura. He smiled and slowly put up both his hands to show her that he had nothing she wanted. Mallory moved a step closer. „Do you remember what she looked like? How long was her hair the first time you saw her?“
Futura gestured to a point just past his shoulder. „About so long.“
„As I recall, her hair was very short.“ Prado poured wine into the moving target of the drunken man’s glass.
„But that was later,“ said Futura. „The first time I saw her – “
He lost the thread of this thought as Prado raised a wineglass to propose a toast.
„To more glamorous days at Faustine’s.“
St. John clinked glasses with him. „Glamorous? Oh, Nick, you liar.“ One hand made a wide gesture that encompassed the surroundings. „Oliver made a few improvements. The original Faustine’s was wonderfully seedy. After the old lady died, we turned it into a dinner theater. The air was always full of smoke. The floor reeked of whiskey and wine.“
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