So he was still inside the public telephone booth by the highway, and now he was fully awake and full of dread. When he stood up, his knees buckled, and there were searing pains in all his joints and muscles. He slumped against a transparent wall, pressing his forehead to the glass.
When had he ever been so hungry and tired – so cold? What was he to do? The motel room was just across the parking lot. Franny’s eyes never left the door as he winced at fresh pain from an Achilles tendon. The door was a hundred miles away for one who lacked the good legs to carry himself across that dark patch of ground.
A pair of headlights entered the lot. The car was aiming straight at him, rushing toward the telephone booth and blinding him with brilliant light magnified in reflections on four walls of glass. Two thousand pounds of steel and chrome stopped just short of the booth, with a squeal of brakes and tires spitting gravel.
Which one of them was playing with him now – torturing him? This was too cruel. Was it Nick Prado or Mallory?
Chapter 19
On this dark morning, lightning split the sky over the treeline of Central Park. The stone steps of the fountain were wet with mist, and Mallory’s hair was netted with fine pearls of water. Across the wide driveway that separated the hotel from its courtyard, a high wind rustled the multinational flags that decorated the landmark facade.
She could not have orchestrated nature any better.
Another gift to the cause was a crowd of animal-rights activists ganging along the sidewalks. A small army of angry people held up giant photographs of wounded animals. Others waved signs defaming a hotel guest, a film star who wore furs in public.
A bellboy was loading suitcases into the trunk of a long black limousine. When the chauffeur walked to the rear of the car to settle the tip, Mallory sprinted out from the cover of the fountain and pushed her way through the crowd on the sidewalk. She opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the steering wheel. On the other side of the glass partition, Emile St. John was the lone passenger in the back seat. Mallory turned around to smile at him. Hers was not an expression of warmth – more like a promise of something nasty. And St. John was taken by surprise.
She depressed a button on the dashboard. The door locks clicked shut all around the car. Another button rolled down the glass wall that separated them. „Good morning.“ She managed to make this sound like a threat as she turned the key in the ignition and fired up the engine.
„Is this a kidnapping?“ St. John had recovered from his jolt, and now he seemed merely amused. „Nick will be so envious. Where are we going?“
„Nowhere.“ She maneuvered the long car across the lanes of the driveway. Grille and bumper nearly touched the parked cars at both curbs and effectively blocked the flow of traffic. The engine idled as she turned to face him, not smiling anymore. „You were a good cop for a lot of years, St. John.
It’s not your style to run away.“
„I’m afraid I’ve aged into a coward. I’m too old to do Max Candle’s routines.“ He waved one hand in the air to say, It’s that simple.
The chauffeur was politely tapping at Mallory’s window. She ignored him. „You asked Nick Prado to take over the hangman act. He’s about your age, isn’t he?“
„But Nick isn’t aware of that. I never had the heart to tell him he was getting old.“ St. John turned to the side window to see a red sedan pulling up to the limousine’s broadside. The car’s windshield faced the limo’s side windows, and the driver was waving at them, flicking the air in a shoo-fly gesture, as if this would clear away the tons of metal stretched lengthwise across his path. St. John held up two fingers to the driver to tell him this wouldn’t take long, only a few minutes. He was wrong about that.
The hotel doorman was knocking on the rear passenger window, trying to get St. John’s attention. The luxury limousine was well padded against city noises, and the man’s voice was little more than the buzz of an insect, but Mallory could guess what he was saying. The opposite side window gave her a view on the driveway curving back to the busy artery of Central Park South. A cab had pulled up alongside the red sedan, its headlights a foot from the side of the limousine. As these vehicles were disgorging passengers and baggage, two cabs and another private car were queuing up behind them, locking them into the driveway.
The courtyard lit up with a flash of lightning.
She paid no attention to the more insistent rapping at both windows. Her tone was casual. „The doctor said your accident amounted to a nasty rope burn.“ Actually, the doctor had refused to say anything. A raid on the hospital computer had been more helpful. „Now what about Franny Futura? Is he dead yet?“
The bang caught up to the lightning bolt, louder than gunfire.
St. John turned to the window pocked with a smattering of raindrops. Another man was knocking on the glass and gesturing toward a yellow cab sandwiched between the limousine and the other cars.
Mallory tuned out the knocking man. „Where is Futura?“
St. John only shook his head, distracted by the men at the windows. The chauffeur retreated, but the doorman did not, and the cabby had escalated to the sexually graphic gesture of one extended finger, a traditional New York traffic signal directing St. John to insert his car into a dark orifice. Outside the baffle of thick glass, the chauffeur engaged the cabby in a dumb-show shouting match. More cars were pulling into the driveway.
„Where is Futura?“ There was no pressure in her voice. She had all day for this. Other drivers were gathering around the cabby and the chauffeur. Round eyes, Asian eyes and every shade of skin could be seen through the rain-streaked glass.
„Mallory, I’d tell you if I knew where Franny was.“
„Sure you would.“
The cabby had driven off the chauffeur with a raised fist, and now he renewed his attentions to the window, hammering on it with his fist. Though the law forbade the nonemergency use of car horns, Mallory ignored the lawbreaker who leaned on his horn in a continuous shriek. The line of cars was now stretching into the street. Backing up into traffic was not an option for any of the enclosed vehicles. Nor could they jump the curb thronged with activists. One of the protesters waved a giant photograph of an animal’s chewed-off leg left in the metal jaws of a trap. The mist had changed to a light rainfall, but none of the animal people showed signs of leaving. They had become an audience for the angry motorists assaulting the car.
„You’re not afraid, St. John. That’s not why you’re running back to Paris. You just don’t want to be here when another man dies.“
More drivers were carting bags from the back of the line and glaring at the limousine. Other men had joined the cabby, who was hammering on the hood with both fists, frustrated, eyes popping with an implosion of anger, trying to get at this rich bastard who was ignoring him. Other drivers were warming up their fists on the windows and the trunk of the car. Their mouths opened and closed with screams that broke through the barrier of thick glass. The words were muffled and some were foreign, but the sentiments were clear. It was easy to lip-read the word asshole and its many translations.
A gridlock of traffic blocked two lanes of Central Park South.
St. John was finding it more difficult to keep his tone civil as the windows were assaulted with more hands and angry faces pressed to the glass. „Mallory, this is old business that should’ve been taken care of long before you were born. In the war, I resolved the killing with my religion as – “
„You never resolved a thing. You still carry it around with you.“ She had hit home. It was in his eyes, the pain of a stab in the soft spot.
One of the cars at the end of the drive tried to back into the street and hit a carriage, freeing the horse from its traces, and now the old brown mare was running down the sidewalk and scattering pedestrians. Cheers from the animal-rights people penetrated the glass. The overturned horseless carriage cut off more traffic, and now the line of immobilized vehicles extended past the intersection.
A man in
a gray suit was pressing his identification to Mallory’s window. Without turning to look, she knew he was hotel security. Now the gray suit was being roughly elbowed out of the way by men who were not so well dressed. On all sides, the car was being hammered by fists on the glass and metal. The animal people along the curb appeared to be rooting for the cabbies and supporting the illusion of a full-scale riot.
„I know why you’re leaving.“ She smiled pleasantly. Yes, it was shaping up to be a fine New York morning, full of confrontation and street violence. „You don’t want to watch this murder go down. Like that makes it all right, being somewhere else when a man dies.“
More car horns were penetrating the window glass.
„I know you want me to stop this. That’s why you locked me inside the platform, isn’t it? It was a message just for me. Cop logic. Coincidence is always suspicious.“
A man in a turban danced on the hood, then made a jump to the roof of the car. The crowd went wild with applause.
„And hiding the dead body in the platform? That was your work, St. John. You wanted me on this case – officially. You handed it to me with that dead body. But now you won’t help me stop a murder. You can’t choose up sides, can you? Fine, but don’t make me chase you down. Stay here and watch a man die. We’ll call it penance for the executioner.“
„In the war – “
„Don’t start with me. You’re pathetic, all of you. Old men playing war games. Futura’s dead, isn’t he?“
He winced, and she knew this was the truth, or it soon would be. A cheer went up from the animal people. St. John looked up to the roof of the car where feet were stomping on the metal.
„It’s a hard call. Will Malakhai die?“ Her words were in monotone. „Or will he get Prado first? You know I’ll get the last man standing, and maybe I’ll have to kill him. Is that what you want?“
The car was moving, rocking. Angry hands were pushing it in both directions. The crowd had spilled into the unobstructed half of the driveway for a closer view. They were waiting on the promised destruction of the long black limousine. The man in the turban made another leap to the hood and began a violent dance, denting the metal with his cowboy boots. And now he kicked at the windshield, but the thick glass would not give.
Only Mallory was serene as she studied St. John’s face. Was he reliving days of Maquis justice, the mobs, the killing mobs? Welcome to my war zone, New York – Fun City.
She could hear the sirens coming, only a shrill whine piercing the glass, but it was building in pitch. The lightning flashed and the bang was an instant behind it; the strikes were closer now.
„The day Louisa died, you told her the Germans were printing up posters with her picture. So they didn’t know where she was – not until someone informed on her. Isn’t that why Malakhai was wearing a German uniform when he shot her? He knew they were – “
„Yes, yes!“ The car was nearly rolled on that pass. St. John clung to the armrests to keep his balance. His face showed no overt expression of fear, but he could not control the sweat of his upper lip, the whitening knuckles. Fist-fights were breaking out among the drivers and the people in hotel uniforms, treating St. John to the sight of real blood as the men outside the car were going off like bombs.
Mallory’s voice was almost a whisper. „The informer – was it Franny Futura?“
He only stared at her, as if she were insane to be so calm in the center of this human storm. At any moment it would spill into the car – or they would be dragged out. A bloodied face was slammed into the window by St. John’s head, and he jumped in his skin. It was not fear in his eyes, but pain. This was the flip side of the Maquis, the target’s view of the mob – new insight, fresh hell.
„Was Futura the informer?“
The limousine rocked with renewed violence. The sirens were louder now. The vehicle settled down on all four wheels as two police cars pulled to the curb.
„No, it wasn’t Franny.“ St. John’s head lolled back on the upholstery, eyes fixed on the blood-smeared glass. „Informing on Louisa was Oliver’s job.“
„His job? You all killed Louisa?“
„I liked the other setting much better,“ said Nick Prado. „More atmosphere. That caged drug addict was a priceless prop.“ He stood before the mirror at the far end of the formal interview room, brushing nonexistent lint from his tie as an excuse to be closer to his own reflection. „So, Mallory, what became of your little pet?“
„The junkie?“ She closed the door and locked it. „We shipped him off to a bigger cage, and someone put a shiv in his back. The other cons will tell you all about it when you get there.“
He smiled at the mirror and tapped its surface. „It’s a window, isn’t it? A one-way glass? Are people watching us right now?“
„No, Prado. Whenever you have that uneasy feeling that you’re being watched – that’s usually me.“ Mallory sat down at the table. A theater ticket lay on top of her thick manila folder. A messenger had delivered it to her desk in the squad room of Special Crimes, wrapped in a recently printed publicity flyer.
So Charles Butler was going to perform the Lost Illusion at Carnegie Hall. This tribute to the late Max Candle was scheduled to follow Malakhai’s performance.
And whose idea was that?
Prado pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down. He reached out to tap the flyer. „I see you’ve heard the news. Brave boy, our Charles. Not too many people are surviving his cousin’s illusions these days.“ There was a swagger in Prado’s voice. His words strutted up and down in inflection.
„Ready to arrest me?“ His face was half a grin, half a leer. He stretched out his hands to be cuffed. „Pity you don’t wear a uniform. In my fantasy – “
„I’m not that far from a warrant. Don’t push your luck.“ She set the ticket and the flyer to one side. „How do you plan to get out of doing Emile’s act – the gallows trick? Thirteen steps to a small rickety stage, right? Given your fear of heights – “
„My what? I don’t know what you mean. I’ve already done one rehearsal this morning. Ask Emile’s assistant.“
No, she could not be wrong about this.
Mallory leaned far forward, the better to see his eyes when she flashed a hand across his face. He never blinked, and the irises were slow to react when the strong light from the window was blocked. She tossed him a pencil, and he fumbled the catch.
„So, how many sedatives did you have to take just to climb the stairs of the gallows?“
His expression of pure hate only lasted a moment.
Mallory lowered her eyes to the stack of folders. „All right, Prado, let’s talk about the homicide of Oliver Tree.“ She didn’t look at him as she riffled the sheets of the first folder. „You’re the only one who knew how he was planning to do that trick.“
„I see you’re still obsessed with the Lost Illusion.“
„Not anymore. Oliver gave away every trick he worked out – gifts to his old friends.“ She pulled out a small notebook and flipped back the pages. „Thanksgiving at Charles’s place.“ She looked up at Prado. „You said you got your props and instructions months ago. But you’re the only one who didn’t plan to perform in the magic festival.“
„I’m doing all the publicity. It’s very time-consuming.“
„No, you were the one who got the solution for the Lost Illusion. Originally, Oliver never intended to perform that trick in public. I think he knew his shortcomings. He had a lot of respect for the rest of you – the real magicians. The post loops were set too high for a man his size. He made the platform for a taller man, someone Max Candle’s size – your size.“
She uncovered what she had been searching for. The material was pressed between the sheets of paper. „Oliver invited you to share the bill with Franny Futura. But you turned him down. You convinced him to perform the trick himself – a publicity stunt to kick off the festival.“
„How did you arrive at that?“ There was nothing in his f
ace to tell her if she had guessed right.
„Oliver’s will didn’t mention the platform. I always had a problem with that. Then I realized he’d already given it away – to you. Now that’s important, nailing down premeditation. You brought the cuff key to the park. You shined it up to look like new.“ She tossed the green velvet key bag on the table. It was encased in a plastic cover with the attendant paperwork of evidence. „You substituted the bags. This one is yours. It’s the one I took off Oliver’s body.“
Actually, it was the one taken from Charles’s tool chest.
Prado looked down at the velvet bag with mild curiosity. „All of Faustine’s apprentices had those bags.“
Mallory bent over her notebook. „So you’re admitting that you had the green bag.“ This was not a question, and she gave him no time to contradict her. „You don’t mind contributing a blood sample, do you? I need it for the DNA tests. I also need the suit you were wearing that day in Central Park. I have to match it to the clothing fibers on the bag.“ Fat chance Lieutenant Coffey would give her one more dime for a forensic test.
Mallory looked up at him with a show of surprise that was not intended to fool a half-bright ten-year-old. „No? You don’t want to cooperate? Well, after I charge you, the best criminal lawyer in town can’t stop me from draining off a little blood.“
She turned her attention back to the pages of her folder. „Now Louisa’s death was more involved. I underestimated you, Prado.“
„Thank you. And may I return the compliment? You’re beginning to think like a magician.“
„No, thinking like a magician is a waste of time. It was harder to get into the mind-set of a ditsy teenage boy – but more productive. The plot to kill Louisa was all you, Prado. Gross stupidity. Too complicated – too much flash. It’s like you hung a neon sign on her corpse. I don’t know how you survived as a juvenile delinquent in Paris. Now that was impressive.“
„I prefer faint praise, Mallory.“
Shell Game Page 34
