by Barbara Paul
“Monday morning,” Marian repeated, trying not to feel panicky. “But until that letter arrives, I’m still under Captain Murtaugh’s command.”
He smiled ferally. “You’re that close to cracking it, are you? Nailing it down this weekend? All right, Larch, fill me in.”
She licked suddenly dry lips. “I think we’d better wait until Captain Murtaugh gets here.”
He leaned toward her across the desk. “I’ve had just about all the prima donna behavior from you I’m going to take. I’m in charge here, Sergeant. I gave you an order. Fill me in.”
Not seeing any immediate way out, Marian started telling him what she’d done and what she’d learned, going into more detail than necessary, stretching it out as long as she could. Where the hell was Murtaugh? She told DiFalco how the burglary had been staged to get one specific item out of the Broadhurst, and how Ernie Nordstrom had been killed for that item. How the killer had taken more than one item with him when he left Nordstrom’s apartment.
“Uh-huh,” said DiFalco. “Muddying the waters?”
“That’s what we thought.” At first.
“Okay, what was missing?”
Marian told him, including the notebook computer and the shaving mug—after all, they were not found in Nordstrom’s apartment. The fact that they had never been in Nordstrom’s apartment didn’t alter that.
“What costumes?” DiFalco wanted to know.
“A jacket, a dress, and a fur coat.”
“Real fur?”
“Two people say not.” Marian cleared her throat. “Based on the label.”
“The label saying it was synthetic? Maybe it was the label that was fake and not the coat. Labels can be changed.”
“Captain, I don’t know that’s what happened.”
He leaned even closer. “But that’s what you think.”
“I didn’t say that. I have no evidence the labels were switched.”
“But if they were …” He mused a moment.
She helped him along. “It doesn’t seem likely that only one coat would be involved. But I can’t prove anything illegal about the coat.” Which was true.
“Fur smuggling?” DiFalco said. “With phony labels sewn in to disguise them as fakes? And one coat accidentally gets sold and ends up being paraded on the stage of the Broadhurst. Yeah, I like it. The fur that got away … it could blow the whole racket.”
Marian said carefully, “Do you understand I am not saying a fur-smuggling operation is using New York as either a conduit or an outlet? I have no proof of any such operation.”
“Yah, yah, I got it. But there’s such a thing as being too careful. More likely an outlet than a conduit—big market here.”
“Which brings up the problem of where the contraband furs would be kept—if there are any, I mean. Real fur needs cold storage.”
“That’s right, it does. Have you checked out all the cold-storage places in town? Sure you haven’t missed one or two?”
“Captain, I haven’t had a chance to check any of them!” Which was also true.
He gave a contemptuous snort. “What kind of chickenshit operation is Murtaugh running? You’ll start on that Monday, and you’ll have help. Murtaugh’s coming here this afternoon?”
“He should be here any time.”
“Why? What are you two planning to do here?”
Careful. “He’s trying to get some evidence linking the play’s producer with the stolen item.” There, that was accurate.
“What’s the producer’s name?”
“Gene Ramsay.”
“Ramsay … okay. Is he here now?”
“Not unless he came in during the last ten minutes. He’s rarely here before the performance.” Or during. Or after.
DiFalco scowled. “And if Murtaugh does show up with this evidence, you’re just going to ask Ramsay politely to tell you where he has the goods stored? Dumb move. He’s not going to tell you anything about those furs.”
“I agree,” Marian said honestly.
A grunt. “At least we see eye to eye on that. You have to locate the goods first.”
“No argument there. Without the goods, we’ve got nothing.” She was careful not to look at the safe in the corner.
DiFalco stared at her a long moment. Then he got up and walked around the desk where he could tower over her. “Larch, if you’re lying to me, I’ll have your ass.”
“I’ve told you the truth, Captain.”
“Because if you’ve been feeding me a line—”
“If you have a polygraph on you, I’ll take a test. I haven’t told you one single lie.”
He grunted again. “Has Murtaugh made any announcement to the news media?”
“No.”
“Is he going to?”
“He didn’t say. I don’t think so.”
That’s what he wanted to hear. “All right, when Murtaugh gets here, you tell him about the letter from the Chief of Detectives and that you briefed me. I can’t give him orders, but I would prefer that he didn’t talk to this Ramsay today. No point in spooking him and giving the game away. And Larch, I’m counting on you to make sure he understands what my wishes are.”
“I’ll give him your message,” she promised wholeheartedly.
DiFalco indicated they were through and opened the door, to find John Reddick waiting outside. The director placed a finger over his lips and said in a low voice, “The performance has started.” DiFalco nodded and walked away softly; Marian ignored the curiosity on the director’s face and followed the captain.
They stopped for a moment to watch the scene being played; there was Frieda Armstrong on the stage, resplendent in her fake fur. DiFalco whispered, “That’s not a real fur?”
“Don’t whisper,” Marian said in the same low voice John Reddick had used. “Whispers carry. That’s a fake.”
“You could have fooled me,” DiFalco said softly. “Doesn’t that look like real fur to you?”
“I don’t know anything about fur,” Marian replied truthfully.
Onstage, Ian Cavanaugh turned his back to the other actors and surreptitiously dropped a key into the fish tank. Marian and DiFalco watched for a few more minutes, and then the captain turned to go. Marian followed him to the stage door, and only when she saw him leave the building did she let out the breath she’d been holding. She sank down on the doorkeeper’s chair and gave in to a moment of trembling. Close. Damned close. And when DiFalco found out about the Bernhardt jacket, he was going to come looking for her with a shotgun. And if he called a news conference and made a fool of himself talking about a nonexistent fur-smuggling ring … somehow the thought of that cheered her more than it frightened her.
When she’d calmed herself, she went back and watched the play from the wings, being careful to stay out of Leo Gunn’s way. Marian tried to keep the little knot of excitement in her stomach under control; she didn’t want to make a mistake this close to winding up the case. Intermission finally arrived, and all the actors came rushing off the stage, adrenaline pumping. Kelly grabbed Marian’s hands and did a little dance. “Come on—I have to change.”
John Reddick intercepted them before they got to the dressing room. “Ah, Kelly, that was magnificent! Keep up that level for the second act and you’ll have the rest of the cast flying with you!”
“Thanks, John,” Kelly said, and pushed Marian into the dressing room ahead of her.
“And don’t worry about Xandria,” John went on. “I think I’ve got her straightened out.”
“Good, good.” She closed the door before he could come in. “Whew.”
“Problem?” Marian asked.
“No problem.” Kelly started taking off her costume. “I just don’t want him hanging around, that’s all.”
“I thought you liked John.”
“I do, but not as much as I used to. He drinks too much, for one thing. And he’s getting to be a pest. Would you mind hanging this up?”
Marian took the costume from her
and put it on a padded hanger. “Be gentle.”
“I was gentle! Didn’t you see me being gentle? I didn’t tell him to get lost, did I?” Marian laughed. Abruptly, Kelly asked, “Marian, why are you here? I mean, you had a purpose in coming this afternoon, didn’t you?”
Marian could see no reason not to tell her. “We’re close to wrapping up the case. If some evidence I think exists comes through, we’ll make an arrest before the day’s over.”
Kelly’s eyes were enormous. “You know who killed that man?”
“Yes, I do. I could make the arrest right now, except for that one piece of evidence.”
“It’s someone I know.” Kelly’s voice was small. “Someone I work with …”
“Kelly—”
“No, I’m not going to ask—I know better than that. But dammit, Marian, you have to know this is killing me!” Then she thought of something. “You’re right on the verge of making an arrest?”
“That’s right.”
Kelly looked at her oddly. “Then why aren’t you depressed?”
With a shock, Marian realized it was true: she wasn’t depressed in the least. That punishing, enervating emptiness that came over her whenever she arrested a killer—not a sign of it. Ever since she first won her gold shield, she’d known she had days of bleakness to look forward to whenever she solved a case; but she felt none of that now. Now she felt anticipation, satisfaction.
“It’s gone, Kelly,” she said wonderingly. “The depression is gone!”
Kelly let out a whoop and jumped at her, almost knocking her over. Marian laughed and hugged her friend, and felt better than she had for years. It was gone! It was completely, thoroughly, forever-and-ever-she-hoped gone! That dark, suffocating tunnel was no longer her “reward” for a successful investigation.
Marian sat down to think while Kelly finished getting ready. Looking forward to nailing a killer was a new feeling to Marian, and she examined it gingerly. If ever there was a time to feel depressed, it was now, when she was about to arrest a man she knew personally and had rather liked. But the only thing that was truly worrying her was the possibility that the Sûreté would say no major jewel robbery had taken place in France recently. If that was the case, then they’d just have to try Antwerp, Amsterdam, London. Sooner or later we’ll find out where the jewels came from.
We? We who? She and Murtaugh. She and the NYPD. She and the whole damned system of law enforcement—of which she was a part. All along she’d considered her unwillingness to go on enduring depression as part of her reason for wanting to resign; but now it occurred to her that it might be the only reason. It was the same reason that she’d equivocated when Holland asked her to come work with him. It wasn’t the job or the people or police politics; it was something in her that she had to work her way through, that sense of failure and loss she experienced every time she pointed her finger and said: You are a killer. It was a form of private exculpation, she now thought, a way of absolving herself for spending her life in the pursuit of losers, people whose humanity had failed them when the crunch had come. But that was behind her now, that debilitating misgiving. She no longer felt a need to apologize to herself for what she did.
Marian would not resign. She was a cop, not a private investigator or a politician or a short order cook or anything else. Police work was what she did. It was what she knew and, god help her, what she loved.
So what lay ahead? What if she was passed over again for promotion? What if she had to go back to the Ninth Precinct to work for a captain who soon would have reason to hate her guts? What if, god help her, Foley wriggled free of his suspension and ended up her partner again? Well, she’d handle it. She’d wrangle a transfer, she’d challenge Personnel if her promotion didn’t come through, she’d do something. And if she had to have enemies, she couldn’t think of two better ones than Foley and DiFalco.
Yes. She would not quit.
Marian looked up to see Kelly dressed and ready for the next act, quietly watching her. “Are you back?” Kelly asked.
“I’m back,” Marian said with a smile.
“You’re not going to resign, are you?”
Marian was startled. “My god, am I that transparent?”
“Only sometimes. You aren’t going to quit, are you?”
“No. That was a bad decision. I’m going to stay with the police.”
Kelly gave her a sweet smile. “I’m glad, Marian,” she said simply.
Marian glanced at her watch and stood up. “It must be getting close to time. I know you need to concentrate, so I’ll leave you alone now.”
“There’s no need to go.”
“No, I’ll just be a distraction. Knock ’em dead, Kel.”
Marian’s step was buoyant as she left; an enormous weight was off her shoulders and she felt ready to take on the world. In fact, she felt so good that when she saw Holland standing there, she walked over and kissed him. Right in front of everyone.
“I’m glad somebody’s having a good time,” John Reddick said gloomily. “I might as well have gone to Don Giovanni.”
“Hel-lo,” Holland said softly.
“Let’s find a quiet place. I have something to tell you.”
Elsie/Anne-Marie was not in the costume room, so they went in there. Marian closed the door and told him what she’d decided.
He wasn’t surprised. “I’ve seen this coming. I won’t say I’m not disappointed, because I am. But if this is what you want, then I wish you success and satisfaction.”
“Thank you.” She couldn’t tell if he was hurt or not. “I’m sorry, Holland.”
“Yes. We would have made good partners.”
She didn’t care for the implications of that. “That almost sounds like goodbye.”
He looked at her a long moment, and then said, “Aren’t you saying goodbye to me?”
“No!” That came out more emphatically than she’d meant. “No,” she repeated in a more moderate tone.
Slowly, the downturned corners of his mouth lifted. “Well, then. Perhaps this isn’t such a devastating day after all.” He reached for her.
They broke apart when the door suddenly opened and the wardrobe mistress walked in on them. “Sergeant!” She sounded scandalized.
“Uh, sorry, Anne-Marie.” Marian grabbed Holland’s arm and dragged him out, trying not to laugh.
They checked with the stage doorkeeper; Murtaugh hadn’t arrived yet. “What time is he supposed to get here?” Holland asked.
“We didn’t set a time. But he should have been here before now. I can’t make an arrest until I get an all-clear from him. One bit of outstanding evidence still to be nailed down.”
“Which one is it—the producer or the director?”
“The producer.”
“Well, all we can do is wait,” he said. “Meanwhile, let’s watch the play.”
“By the way,” Marian said, “how is it you’re able to get into this theater any time you like?”
“Kelly. She had the doorkeeper add my name to his list.”
“Um. As far as that goes, how did you know I was here?”
His sardonic smile returned. “You’re not the only detective here, you know. When you didn’t come back, I looked up ‘Zingone’ in the phone book and went to their place. One of them had eavesdropped on your conversation with Murtaugh and told me where to find you.”
So they’d listened in; she wasn’t surprised. “I did try calling once. The line was busy.”
“That was Gloria Sanchez. She wanted to tell you that Foley has been found guilty of neglect of duty and is being allowed to resign without a pension.”
Marian caught her breath; rough justice, of a sort. One down; one to go.
They found a place in the wings to watch from. The second act had just started, and the actors were giving such a high-energy performance that Marian soon got caught up again in the action. Several minutes passed before she realized she could see Captain Murtaugh standing on the other side of the sta
ge. When he knew he had her eye, he lifted one hand in an OK signal.
Marian raised both fists above her head and silently shouted Yeah! Holland had witnessed the exchange and nodded at her when she turned to go. She borrowed a flashlight from one of Leo Gunn’s assistants and followed the dim red beam around behind the set to the other side of the stage.
Murtaugh beckoned to her and said to John Reddick, “May I use your office?”
“Why not? Everyone else does.”
Marian followed the captain into John’s office and closed the door. “What?”
“Right outside Paris,” Murtaugh said, perching on the corner of the desk. “Over four million in diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, coming by armored van from Antwerp. Three men in ski masks shot out the tires and used a laser beam to cut into the van. The guards were roughed up a little, but no one was seriously hurt. The Sûreté has a good idea of who the three are, but without the stones they can’t prove anything. I told them about Ramsay and suggested they look for a connection.”
“Four million,” Marian repeated. “One mil apiece, if they split equally. Now we’ve got a motive.”
“We’ve also got a warrant to open that safe over there. That’s what took so long—I had to track down Judge Agostini.”
“Where’s Ramsay?”
“I sent two uniforms to pick him up. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Good. That’ll give me time to bring you up to date on something that’s happened. DiFalco was here.” She went on to tell him about the order transferring the case to the Ninth Precinct, and how DiFalco worked it out for himself that a fur-smuggling operation was behind Ernie Nordstrom’s murder.
Murtaugh was both amused and aghast. “The letter’s coming through Monday? If those gems aren’t in that safe, we’ve got a problem. And you know DiFalco can suspend you for misleading him, don’t you?”
“Captain, I didn’t tell him anything that wasn’t true. I’m not responsible for his mistaken assumptions, am I? I told him repeatedly that I didn’t have evidence of a fur-smuggling ring.”
