While Mallory went exploring, Riker opened the cabinet door wide and peered at the screen. Inside the door was a simple instruction guide for computer illiterates like himself. He pushed a button, and the screen became a slow-scrolling information sheet on scheduled maintenance, and now a notice of the tenants’ meeting to be held in the rooftop facility. This last item was tagged with an URGENT BUSINESS label and a request for full attendance at the meeting. More notes scrolled by, mentions of packages held at the lobby desk and the minutes of the condo board’s last meeting.
The tap on his shoulder made him jump. Mallory stood behind him, smiling Gotcha. The games went on. The old man had taught her that one, too. For a heavyset man, Markowitz had made even less noise than Kathy when he crept up behind her. By the time she was thirteen, the old man could no longer do that. She had surpassed him in the creeping game. Between Markowitz and Mallory, he sometimes wondered who had been the worst influence on whom.
“I found a room to set up in,” she said.
He picked up the cartons and followed her into a small library. He settled them on the desk, and she began to unload the computer equipment and the Minicam, the wiring and the works he couldn’t put a name to. Only the wiretap equipment was recognizable, and he averted his eyes from this, knowing there was no warrant.
Markowitz had not taught her this. Far from it—the old man had remained mechanically inept and computer-ignorant until the day he died. The less Markowitz knew about what she was up to with her machines, the more secure he had felt in the NYPD pension plan.
Mallory stepped off the elevator at the penthouse level. She had traveled only a few steps into the room when heads began to turn. She was wearing the black suit she had worn to her father’s funeral. The skirt provided a rare outing for her legs, displaying athletic calves and well-shaped ankles tapering above high heels. A dozen pairs of eyes, male and female, followed after her as she passed through the gathering of perhaps forty tenants.
She paused now and then to admire a few of the art deco pieces scattered about the rooftop facility, and generally disapproved of the clutter of objects on pedestals and sideboards. But every travesty of decorators was forgiven when she lifted her face to the skylight which spanned the whole of the wide room. A waxing moon kept two stars for company. A filmy cloud raced across the glass, gaining on the moon, then killing its light.
“Death becomes you, my dear,” said a cultured, dulcet voice.
“I’ve already heard that one today,” said Mallory, turning to look down at a woman with black hair and a face that was pushing sixty, not in the wrinkles, but in the pulled-back skin of the too-manyith face-lift. “I suppose you’re going to tell me how well-preserved I am for a corpse.”
The older woman smiled a thin line of crimson lipstick. “You’ve got a smart mouth for a dead cop.” And now the voice betrayed roots in Hell’s Kitchen when gangsters ruled, and the woman went up one notch in Mallory’s estimation.
“I’m Betty Hyde.”
“Mallory.”
“Kathleen Mallory, isn’t it? Formerly of NYPD, currently of the consulting firm Mallory and Butler, Ltd. You’re staying in the Rosens’ apartment for the next ten days while your own condo is being redecorated. They’re old friends of your family, and you have their proxy to vote on the swimming pool in the basement. I have spies everywhere, my dear.”
But Mallory counted only two spies. The concierge knew she had the Rosens’ proxy, and Arthur the doorman had been fed the rest of the story.
“And you sell gossip,” Mallory countered. “Your column is syndicated in fifty papers around the country. You have a five-minute spot on Channel Two News. You’ve lived here for the past fifteen years. You have a full-size pool table in your apartment, and you change young men the way I change my blue jeans. You should pay your spies better, Miss Hyde. They have no sense of loyalty.”
The woman widened her smile into a brilliant grin.
“Call me Betty. Everyone does. I like your style, my dear. May I call you Kathy?”
“No.”
“Even better. Well, Miss Mallory—”
“Just Mallory. Amanda Bosch gave me your name as a reference.”
She handed the woman a card, and Betty Hyde read the words aloud. “Discreet investigations? I love it.”
“Our clients are government departments and universities, mostly research projects and evaluations. Do you have anything nice to say about Bosch? If we hired her services, she’d be working on sensitive material.”
“I trust her with high-profile information, but I don’t trust anyone with the really good stuff. I do that research myself.”
“I had the impression she hung out with you from time to time.”
“Well, she does—or did, rather. She’s cut back on her activities for the past few months. I used to take her to parties. When I go fishing for young men, I need good bait. She attracts men nearly as well as you do.”
“And in return, you introduced her to the right people?”
“Yes.”
“Are any of the right people here tonight? Anyone else who could vouch for her?”
Betty Hyde’s mouth curled up on one side in the attitude of All right, let’s assume I believe this charade. Mallory took stock of that attitude, and parried with a smile to say, Yeah, let’s just assume that.
“I took Amanda to several gatherings in this very room. I imagine she’s met quite a few of the tenants. I don’t know which ones might have used her research services. Shall I introduce you around? And perhaps later you might accompany me to another party.”
Mallory was looking over the smaller woman’s head, her eyes fixed on the man standing by the long buffet table.
“I think I recognize Judge Heart from the Senate hearings.” Mallory nodded toward a tall man, graying at the temples and wearing a well-tailored black suit. He dwarfed the thin woman who stood next to him. Her gray-blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck.
“Yes, that’s him. And that’s his wife, Pansy. See the invisible strings? She can never get more than three feet away from him.”
Mallory did have the impression that he worked the woman like a puppet. Every utterance from his mouth called the woman’s face up to his with a smile that was too quick, too wide.
Betty Hyde said in a lower voice, “When you get closer, tell me if that isn’t a bruise under her makeup.”
“You’re kidding. I thought he was—”
“—riding into the Supreme Court nomination on his women’s rights position? Yes. Amusing, isn’t it? If I could nail him as a wife beater, I’d do it in a hot flash. If you hear anything, it’s worth gold, my dear Mallory. They live in the apartment above yours. Any screaming, the sounds of a woman’s soft body bouncing off the wall—I’d be interested in anything like that.”
Hyde stared up at the younger woman, and her smile became a tight line as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other in the uncomfortable dance of waiting on Mallory. For a professional gossip, that drawn-out silence would be like sunlight to a vampire.
“I’ve already surmised that your condo isn’t being redecorated,” said Hyde. “And Amanda Bosch is not taking on any new clients. If anything, she’s tapering off. I understand it’s a difficult pregnancy.”
Hyde smiled again.
And smiled.
Mallory, from the school of Never Volunteer Anything, continued to stare down at Hyde. Her face gave away nothing.
Hyde stopped smiling, and each woman squared off against the other, making measurements and mental notes, staking out the air between them with wires of tension. Hyde gave in first.
“Never mind the research projects. You’re a private detective, right? It’s a logical career move for an ex-cop. Am I right?”
Mallory shrugged, and Hyde showed all of her teeth.
“Now that you’ve moved into the private sector, let me give you a few helpful hints.” She entwined her arm in Mallory’s and led her b
ack to a corner of relative seclusion where only potted ferns gathered.
“Mallory, people in your trade carry professional habits into what should be passing for social life. You don’t ask questions—you interrogate. You sound like a cop. Just smile a lot. These people love to talk about themselves. So, you’re working on a case, we’ve established that much. And we can definitely place it in the money set, can’t we? Did Amanda put you onto something? As if I thought you’d tell me. I also know how to protect sources, if you get my meaning.”
“I think we can do business, Miss Hyde.”
“Call me Betty.”
“Over there, by the elevator—isn’t that Moss White, the talk-show host?”
“Yes, and the tan is real. He just got back from a week on location in California.”
“What day did he come back?”
“This morning.”
Scratch that one.
“Which one is Harry Kipling?”
“That one,” said Hyde, indicating a good-looking man, black hair, blue eyes, and tall. “He’s charming, but aside from his looks, he’s not remarkable. His wife is really miles more interesting. There she is. See that woman over there by the bookcase? Angel Kipling is a crime against nature. All trolls are supposed to be short. She’s as tall as you are.”
“You mean that middle-aged woman with the bad hair?”
“I’ve always liked the phrase ‘a woman of a certain age.’ ”
“The tall man with her—who is he?”
“The blind man? That’s Eric Franz.”
“He’s blind?” Scratch that one, too.
“Yes. Angel took away his dark glasses and the cane because she thought it might make him fit in better with the normal people. He’s terrified of her, so of course he never puts up any resistance. I think we’re all afraid of Angel. She’s one of those people who learned table manners late in life. She asks rude questions like how old you are, how much money do you make, and are those your own teeth. It’s hard on the nerves. A bit like a farting gorilla ripping through your peace of mind once a week or so. You never do get used to it.”
Mallory looked back to Harry Kipling. “It’s hard to see her and the husband as a couple.”
“Because Harry is so ridiculously good-looking? Because Angel looks like she escaped from a hole in a Grimm Brothers fairy tale? You might have something there.”
“Makes you wonder what she has on him.”
“I like the way your mind works, Mallory. Since you’re digging around anyway, dear, you might want to share with a new friend.”
“Harry Kipling—is he one of the heirs to Kipling Electronics?”
“No. Should I be wondering what these men have in common?”
“What’s his story?”
“The usual thing. He lives off his wife’s money and fobs himself off as an investment counselor. I doubt that he handles any of Angel’s money. I believe she gives him an allowance. All the charge accounts around town are in her name. Now you have to watch out for Angel. She was misnamed. She’s the heiress to Kipling Electronics. Her father started the company.”
“And then he named it after his son-in-law?”
“Harry took Angel’s family name. It was a condition of the prenuptial agreement. If you took more of an interest in gossip, you’d know that.”
“What’s his real name?”
“No one ever cared enough to wonder. If you’re thinking he might have an interesting past, I doubt it. Angel’s father would have had him checked out, and even checked behind his ears. Oh, hit the floor, Mallory, here comes the troll. She probably saw you looking at her husband. Did you bring a weapon, dear?”
In fact she had left her gun in the apartment.
Angel Kipling was crossing the floor in a straight line of terrible sure purpose. As she neared them, Betty Hyde backed up slightly, unconsciously. Mallory didn’t.
The Kipling woman had a poor understanding of personal space. Now her face was entirely too close, and matching Mallory’s eye level from a height of five-ten, plus high heels.
“I understand you’re a friend of the Rosens,” said Angel Kipling. “Is it true they keep a baby shark in their apartment?” She looked down at the older woman. “Oh, hello, Betty.”
Betty Hyde nodded to Angel and went through the introduction of, not Miss Mallory, but only Mallory.
Mallory could not take her eyes off the hairs extending from Angel Kipling’s upper lip. They were long like a cat’s whiskers, but not symmetrical. The body was a potato attached to toothpick legs and sausages for arms. The crown of her head was an interesting mix of three failed experiments in hair coloring, striping brown at the root into blond and then black.
A wealthy woman with do-it-yourself hair. Interesting.
“So tell me, Miss Mallory, what do you think of our building?”
“Just Mallory.”
“It’s an historical landmark, you know. Lillian Russell, the old time actress, kept an apartment here so Diamond Jim Brady could visit her on the sly.”
“And Dylan Thomas threw up on this rug,” added Betty Hyde.
Angel Kipling looked down as though there might be a recent stain. She turned back to Mallory. “Let me introduce you to my husband.”
The troll put up a hand with one pudgy finger extended as though she were flagging down a taxi or a waiter. From across the room, Harry Kipling’s body assumed the stance of attention and hurried toward her.
“Do you have children?” asked Angel Kipling.
“No, I don’t. Do you?”
“Oh, there’s Peter, but he’s away most of the year.”
The tall man entered the small circle of women. “Harry, this is Miss Mallory. She’s staying in the Rosens’ apartment while they’re out of town. I heard Hattie Rosen was going to the Mayo Clinic for cancer. Is that true? Miss Mallory?—Kathy, right?”
“Just Mallory.” And how did Angel Kipling know her first name? Perhaps Angel’s spies were as well paid as Betty Hyde’s.
Angel Kipling turned to the tall man with the dark hair and the cobalt eyes. “I was just telling Kathy about our building.”
Harry Kipling was more than good-looking. His shoulders were broad, giving him the aspect of an athlete—good baby-making material. What was he doing with the troll? If he had married for money, he could have done better.
“I use your wife’s computer chips,” said Mallory.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know a computer chip from a potato chip. Investment is my line.” His voice had a smoky quality, and it was seductive in the mellow notes.
Betty Hyde took Mallory’s arm, and smiling at the Kiplings, she led her away, saying, “You were staring too long at Harry. Don’t turn around. I think you’re his type. Of course he’s a little old for my tastes. I never touch a man over thirty, and he’s almost forty. No, don’t turn around. I’m watching his wife. She’s drawing a bead on you. If looks were bullets, you’d be on the floor and bleeding from a hole between your pretty eyes.”
“Excuse me,” said Harry Kipling, catching up to them, sans Angel, who had gone back to terrorizing the blind man. “Didn’t you die on television the other night?”
“Acting,” said Mallory.
“Oh, you’re an actress,” said Kipling.
“I thought you were a police officer,” said Moss White, the talk show host, who had suddenly appeared at Kipling’s side. White was the stuff television executives swooned over. The mouth was full and sensual, and the softness carried into the liquid brown eyes. He was born for television.
“So you’re an actress,” said White. “God, they didn’t get anything right, did they? I wonder if we could discuss a guest appearance on my television show? It might be good for your career. Just a spot where you tell the viewing audience what it’s like to be declared dead by the media. They thought you were dead when they found you in the park, right?”
She turned slowly to Harry Kipling, who was arranging his features into a piano’s worth o
f white teeth. His face had a rugged quality that made Moss White seem almost feminine by comparison.
Betty was pulling her away again, and they were drifting across the wide floor toward Judge Emery Heart, the candidate for the Supreme Court nomination.
“Moss White has an accent,” said Mallory. “England or Australia?”
“Indiana. He spent six weeks in London, four years ago. He’s been talking that way ever since. Moss is a quick study. I paid a hundred an hour for my accent, and it took me years.”
And now Mallory and Hyde were standing before an austere man who might have stepped out of an ad for middle-aged upscale clothing.
“Judge Heart, may I present Mallory, the well-known television personality?”
The judge gave off the unmistakable odor of a good politician. The smile was instant, and the brown eyes were intent. “Forgive me, I don’t watch very much television, Miss Mallory. What sort of program do you have?”
“I was only on for five minutes. I played a corpse.”
The smile faltered for a moment while the judge’s appraising eye was reassessing her importance in the scheme of things. Now the smile was back with full force. “Well, they say there are no small parts. This is my wife, Pansy.”
Mallory turned to the small anxious woman at his side. And yes, there definitely were strings that tied her to her husband.
“Isn’t that right, Pansy?” the judge prompted. “No small parts?”
The woman nodded automatically, stiffly. She smiled too quickly, and the sudden display of teeth was startling in the context of her eyes. And yes, there was a bruise below a heavy layer of makeup.
“Do you have family with you, Miss Mallory?” asked Pansy.
“Just Mallory. No, do you?”
The Man Who Cast Two Shadows Page 10
