The young detective stood at the window. Something on the street below had distracted her. There was a sudden tension in the rising hand that held the gun. She laid the weapon down on the desk blotter, saying, “It’s fully loaded, so don’t touch it. Just think of it as a bomb. You still think he’s got years?” She crossed the room quickly and the door closed behind her with a bang.
Johanna stared at the revolver, then looked up to see Charles Butler standing on the far side of the room. He must have heard a good part of the conversation, for his face was sad and sympathetic.
“Riker does that, too,” said Johanna. “Always slamming doors.”
Charles strolled over to the desk, picked up the gun with obvious distaste and shut it up in the drawer. “Mallory only does it when she’s irritated.”
“Or to intimidate.”
“That, too.” He joined her on the couch, easing down on the cushion and giving her a foolish smile as he hunted for some way to arrange his long legs.
Mallory took the stairs at a dead run, feet touching down on every third step and landing in the hall. She ran to the door and pushed into the street. The man she had seen from the window was heading for the subway. She followed at a distance, descending the stairs to the underground train, following the red wig, the black coat and white cane. The man’s movements were quirky as he turned to see her coming up behind him. She made no attempt to hide. He dropped his cane, and she stood very still, patiently waiting for him to retrieve it. He backed away, and she took two steps forward. He turned and ran, pausing at the stairs to the lower level, then clutching the rail in his stumbling descent. Cat and mouse, they rode the trains uptown and down.
Johanna stared at her hands. “I thought Mallory was using Riker to get to me . . . so she could play the game.”
“And now,” he said, “you realize that it was quite the other way around. Riker needed help. Her dragging him into this mess, that was brutal—and necessary. I couldn’t have done it. Neither could you.”
She nodded. “I’m wondering if Mallory might be the better psychiatrist.”
“Oh, hardly. What she did to him was dangerous. Though I don’t think anyone could’ve predicted this outcome. But Riker’s still alive, isn’t he? You know, it was Mallory’s idea to move Riker in here. You might say that was for her convenience—so she wouldn’t have to drive all the way to Brooklyn to check up on him.” Charles’s eyes slowly took in the entire room. “This was the only safety net she could devise for him. Now, this is a bit of a stretch for you, given what you think of her, but—”
“She saw Riker’s breakdown coming.”
“Yes, and long before I did. She always knew how much trouble he was in. Her instincts are superb, and that’s quite a compliment to you. She seems to have great confidence in your ability to—”
“She thinks I can fix him in a day. Impossible. There’s more to this than a single frightening incident. It could take months just to uncover his history before I could even begin to deal with the anger issues. That’s why he slams doors. On some level, he’s angry all the time.”
“But that’s a recent thing with Riker. I agree there’s a complex problem here, but you might want to consider the idea that it all began six months ago. Before that—”
“Before that, he drank too much. That’s been going on for years, hasn’t it?”
“Well . . . yes.”
She studied the room, the signs of depression spread in long tentacles of debris, a tangible malaise. Just looking at this clutter made her tired. “Charles, I recall him saying that he’s known you for four or five years. In all that time, has he ever been a particularly tidy man?”
“No, but his old apartment wasn’t nearly as bad as this.” Charles’s foot nudged an open carton containing an object that was only recognizable as pizza by the wedge shape of the fungus. “And all the really moldy food? That was kept in the refrigerator.” His hopeful smile wavered. “All right, granted Riker has other issues, but he was never unbalanced. Nothing about him indicated an unstable mind. And he never slammed doors.”
Johanna nodded, for this supported Mallory’s theory. Riker’s anger was tied to recent history.
Mallory’s mouse in the red wig had learned quickly. She never came closer than twenty paces. Now he actually stopped to place a phone call from the Wall Street station. And then they were off again, more trains, more stations, all around the town. And all the while he was showing more signs of being rattled, dark glasses sliding down his sweaty little nose. The next time he looked back at her, she smiled, and he stumbled. She knew with a certainty that his next stop would be Grand Central.
Johanna leaned forward, already forgiving Charles Butler as she laid one hand upon his arm. “Now, tell me what you’re holding back. Something intensely personal?” Yes, she was right. His face was flushing, apologizing for him even before he spoke.
The man’s words were hesitant at first. “This has to be in confidence.”
“One doctor to another,” said Johanna.
“I heard this story from a third party, Louis Markowitz.”
“Mallory’s foster father.”
“Yes. Louis was also the commander of Special Crimes Unit, and he was rather worried about Riker.” Charles paused, perhaps realizing that he had just supplied her with more evidence of a man in trouble long before the day he had been shot. “This wasn’t an actual consultation. You see, I don’t treat patients. It was more like a conversation to put Louis’s mind at ease. He couldn’t handle this problem internally. He described the police psychologist as a hack and somewhat less than discreet. So I was the only one Louis could talk to. It seems that Riker had been fixated on his former wife. At the time, they’d been divorced for fifteen years or so. As obsession goes, I thought it rather mild.”
Charles smiled as he accurately read her mind. “I know. Given the time frame, you’re thinking I must be mad. But there was no overt behavior problem. Riker took an apartment a block away from his ex-wife. He kept close tabs on her routine, knew where she’d be on any given day—so that they might pass one another on opposite sides of the street. Oh, and this is what got Louis Markowitz’s attention. Riker used police privileges to track down all her parking tickets, scads of them. And he paid them for her—anonymously. That was the extent of his obsessive behavior. He never approached his ex-wife, never even wanted to talk to her. And I don’t think he loved her anymore—just the idea of her—of their life together.”
“A romantic ideation?”
“Yes. Despite appearances, I believe he’s a deeply romantic man. Now, if you were to repeat that, I think Riker might shoot me. So his ex-wife merely represented a part of his old life, and he simply couldn’t move past it.”
“His old life, when it was good.” She had made her point, for Charles lowered his eyes as he nodded. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she prompted him, saying, “And then?”
“Well, then he did get past it. Riker was talking about moving out of that neighborhood even before he was shot. Before that happened, his frame of mind was improving. Hardly a man in decline. And that’s why I believe Mallory’s diagnosis is correct.” He smiled apologetically. “Sorry. That’s jarring, isn’t it? But I don’t think this problem requires burrowing years into his past. And Riker wouldn’t want you to know the history with his ex-wife . . . not you . . . of all people.”
He held her gaze a moment to be sure that she understood the import, the very reason for this disclosure. And there it was, inescapable, as if Charles had writ the words within a heart carved upon a tree, Riker loves Johanna Apollo.
16
THE JANITOR HAD FINISHED SWABBING THE FIRST toilet bowl when he realized that he was not alone. A sign had been posted to close the men’s room while he cleaned it, but a patron had slipped silently past him when his back was turned. He watched the stall door at the end of one row slowly, softly closing. And he detected a scent unrelated to cleaning solvents, piss and defecation. It was no
t cologne, for he knew all those smells. Odors were his life. Perfume?
Well, if there was a transvestite back there, he was a quiet one. And, absent the sound of a zipper, what might the pervert be doing? Shooting drugs of course—so predictable. He also knew that the addict would be a newcomer to this downstairs rest room. All the permanent residents, homeless men who made their beds in the stalls, would know better than to enter this place while his cleaning cart barred the door.
After ten years in Grand Central Terminal, the janitor was never taken by surprise. His job had gone stale; he had seen it all and sometimes saw it ahead of time. He could even roughly describe the next person to enter the facility by the light tap of a cane on the floor beyond the door. A blind man was an easy guess—too easy. It was hardly worth the trip around the corner to the section of urinals and sinks. The door opened, and, surprise (yeah, yeah), a white cane preceded—a blind woman? Oh, no, the janitor was not so easily fooled. That was definitely a man behind those dark glasses. Apart from the long, red hair, everything was masculine. So what he had here was a blind drag queen dressed for a day job from the neck down.
But not a redhead.
The wig disappeared into a pocket of the black coat, and the blind man’s own snow-white hair was mussed. Leaning toward the vaguely shiny metal that passed for a vandal-proof mirror, the old geezer ran his gnarly fingers over his scalp to smooth down the wild strands.
Not blind either.
But this was hardly surprising. Grand Central was a mecca for bogus beggars. The janitor leaned on his mop, bored by the ongoing striptease, but this was all the spectacle he had. The old man’s dark glasses were now secreted in the breast pocket of a very fine suit that really belonged in the posh ticket-holders’ rest room upstairs, and the white cane was hooked in the crook of his arm, then hidden beneath the folded black coat.
When the crazy old bugger had closed the door behind him and the janitor believed that the rest room held only one drug-shooting, cross-dressing occupant, he turned in the direction of the toilet stalls. His mouth fell open, and his heart banged against the wall of his chest. A tall, green-eyed blonde blocked his way to the stalls. He quickly stood aside as she marched across the tiles, heading for the door in hot pursuit of the old man. And she was no transvestite, no sir—no Adam’s apple on her. This one was all girl and strictly uptown in that long, black leather coat that must have cost the world.
The janitor’s heart calmed down. He smiled. Life still had a few surprises for him.
Mallory glared at the old man’s back. He stood at the center of the great hall and the crisscrossing traffic of commuters. Once again, she had followed a fake blind man with a long red wig. He had led her back to this same place. But this time, she had passed the young man by, entering the men’s room well ahead of him—only to watch him grow old before her eyes. Somewhere along the route of changing subway trains, this elderly man had donned the disguise of the younger one, and she planned to make him pay for that deception. Mallory reached out and clamped one hand on his shoulder, then spun him around. A cellophane-wrapped cigar flew from his hand, and he could only stare at her in bug-eyed surprise.
“Where is he?” She grabbed the old man’s arm in a tight grip. “Where?”
“You’ll have to be more precise, my dear. I know so many people.” The cultured tones of an educated man were a good match to his tailored suit. She had counted on a little stammering, signs of frayed nerves, the typical response of civilians in sudden encounters with police. So why was this man smiling?
“The guy who gave you the wig and the cane—the young one—where is he?”
“Oh, I really couldn’t tell you. Sorry,” he said, though his grinning face put a lie to that. “Well, I expect you’ll want to arrest me now. Obstruction of justice or some such thing? As if the city doesn’t have enough lawsuits for false arrests.” He put out his hands awaiting the manacles, entirely too gleeful.
Mallory regarded him as she would a bag of snakes and cockroaches, for she suspected him of being a lawyer. Near his feet was the cigar he had dropped, but littering was only worth a ticket. She stepped closer to him and feigned a swoon, eyes closing. He reached out to break her fall, grabbing her by both arms.
“That’s assault!” Her voice was loud. Heads turned all around the hall. “You just assaulted a cop!”
The old man’s eyes were bulging, and he lacked the presence of mind to take his hands off her shoulders. He was staring at all the faces turning his way. People were slowing down, then stopping to watch, and two young policemen were running toward him.
Johanna Apollo opened the door to find Mrs. Ortega standing in the hall, clutching a large plastic bag with a pharmacy logo. The cleaning woman wordlessly moved into the room and dumped out the medical supplies on the coffee table. Then, breathless from running all the way, she hurried down the short hall to the bedroom. Johanna followed, intending to approach this wiry little person with greater caution than she had taken with Riker’s other protectors.
In the bedroom, Mrs. Ortega was fretting over the sleeping man, tucking the blanket under his chin and smoothing stray hairs from his brow. Such simple services—and done so awkwardly. Clearly, acts of tenderness were outside the character of this rough-spoken New Yorker. The cleaning woman exuded anxiety, and she no longer had her mask of bravado to disguise the fact that she was coming undone.
“He’s in deep trouble.” Mrs. Ortega continued to fuss with the blanket, picking off tiny wadded balls of wool as she spoke her piece. “All the drugs in the world ain’t gonna help him.”
“I know,” said Johanna, and not in any condescending manner. “But the prescriptions always make the friends and family feel better.”
“Gotcha.” Mrs. Ortega nodded as one conspirator to another, but her sorry eyes remained concentrated on Riker. “I should’ve got to him sooner. I seen this kind of thing before.” The cleaning woman waved one hand in the air to say that she had borne witness to the whole sorry range of humanity. “Riker’s got nothin’ and nobody. Holes up like a hermit since he got shot. I mean the time he was really shot, real bullets. Now look at him. I seen it before—maybe not this bad. Say one of my customers loses his job. Well, life gets a little crazy, sure, but that guy’s still got his nice clean home—real clean.” She pressed one hand to her bosom and said with great pride, “I do windows.” She turned back to the man on the bed. “Most people in trouble, they still got friends, family—something normal. You know what I’m sayin’?”
“I know,” said Johanna.
“Riker’s home was in Brooklyn.” Mrs. Ortega pulled a rag from an apron pocket. “He can’t go back.” She absently polished an uncluttered corner of the small table by the bed, the rag running round and round as she spoke. “So how does this happen—gettin’ ambushed again?” She wagged one finger at Johanna. “I’ll tell you how. He cut off his friends, lost his job. He’s off his game. If he’d gotten one piece of his life together just a day sooner, nobody could’ve taken him down this way. Not Riker. No, ma’am. If I’d only got to him sooner.” She sat down at the edge of the bed, slowly folding her lean frame, as if deflating, losing air and will, and her voice was smaller when she said, “I could’ve fixed him.”
“How?”
Mrs. Ortega looked up, suspecting derision. Instead she found compassion in Johanna’s eyes and also the encouragement to keep going, and so she continued. “It’s like everybody’s life sits on three legs. You got your home—that’s a big one. And then there’s work, then friends. Well, say one thing goes wrong, maybe two—you can still stand on one leg, right? But what’s Riker got?” Mrs. Ortega’s eyes were unfocused, looking inside where the guilt was stored. “No wonder he fell down. I should’ve got to him sooner.”
“He’s still fixable.” Johanna pulled a wad of money from the back pocket of her jeans. “I’d like to rent your cart of supplies for the rest of the day.”
“Naw.” The woman waved away the proffered money. “This
is my day off. That’s why I stopped by to finish up with my charity case here.” The old New Yorker attitude was creeping back into Mrs. Ortega’s voice, and her face showed the more normal state of contempt as she threw up her hands. “You think this slob would ever pay for a cleaning woman? Never. So I’ll stay and finish the job—for free.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Johanna. “You’ll like it.”
And Mrs. Ortega did like the plan. She loved it. It reeked of the pop-psychology cures found in her self-help books and television programs. For Johanna’s part, it was merely an entrée, a means of walking around inside Riker’s head.
The elderly lawyer stood in the company of policemen and a hundred other people.
He was not the focus of everyone’s attention, for the most dedicated travelers, obviously out-of-towners, were bent on catching trains of overground rail and underground subway, and selectively blind to the show. But a hardcore New York crowd was assembling in a wide circle, maintaining the distance of an experienced audience for live theater.
The old man waited with great trepidation as the two young officers spoke with the pretty blond police who had accused him of assault. Detective Mallory smiled as she turned his way, and he took this as a good sign that their recent misunderstanding would be presently and pleasantly resolved.
She looked down at one of her black running shoes, and her face was somewhat petulant when she said, “You scuffed it. Do you have a handkerchief?”
“Ah, yes.” What a small price to pay for freedom, a very small price indeed. With a courtly bow, the old man pulled a folded square of monogrammed Irish linen from his pocket and handed it to her. She held it for a moment, her eyes meeting his with a cold stare. When she opened the handkerchief, a twenty-dollar bill appeared in the fold of material. He stared at it aghast. There was no way it could have—
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