Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
CRIME SCHOOL
“Kathy Mallory has become the fictional personification of New York City. And it’s all due to the rock-solid writing talents of Carol O’Connell, America’s answer to Ruth Rendell. O’Connell is that rare mystery/thriller writer who finds complex characters to be as important as intricate plots . . . [A] fascinating series . . . O’Connell plunges deep into the minds of all her characters . . . intriguing . . . Once hooked, readers will gladly surrender to O’Connell’s narrative wiles.”—The Denver Post
“Easily one of the most original and striking crime fiction protagonists to appear in the last few years . . . Mallory is a rare literary accomplishment—an authentic female antihero . . . Multilayered, serpentine in plot, Crime School is a rich, evocative novel that will not only please fans of traditional genre fiction but will delight aficionados of adventurous prose.”—St. Petersburg Times
“Mallory is the most interesting fictional detective I’ve come across in years . . . and she’s surrounded by an excellent cast . . . That O’Connell has created such fascinating characters and develops them with a ring of truth and street-hardened humanity puts this novel in some mighty rarefied air . . . a standout among modern mysteries.”—San Jose Mercury News
“O’Connell’s crime-scene investigation techniques ring true, her plotting is breathtaking, and her psychology acute. Searing suspense.” —Booklist (starred review)
“More is revealed about how the always intelligent, always scary Kathy Mallory got that way . . . O’Connell delivers all the best parts of suspense fiction—plot twists, chilling details, and a rapid pace—while simultaneously delving into the psyche of her protagonist. She displays not only the dark horrors of the criminal mind but also what lurks in the hearts of those who try to protect us.”
—Library Journal
“Fans of Mallory actually get to see her as a child surviving by her wits on the street . . . fascinating . . . [a] complex yet likable heroine.”—Midwest Book Review
“One of the most poetic yet tough-minded
writers of the genre.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
Praise for the Kathleen Mallory novels by Carol O’Connell
MALLORY’S ORACLE
“Mallory’s Oracle is a joy ... exciting, riveting ... Kathy Mallory is a marvelous creation.”—Jonathan Kellerman
“A classic cop story ... one of the most interesting new characters to come along in years.”—John Sandford
“An author who really involves you, and makes you care.”
—James B. Patterson
“Wild, sly, and breathless—all the things that a good thriller ought to be.”—Carl Hiaasen
THE MAN WHO CAST TWO SHADOWS
“Even more satisfying than Mallory’s Oracle. And that’s high praise indeed.”—People
“Beautifully written.”—Harper’s Bazaar
“The suspense is excruciating.”—Detroit Free Press
KILLING CRITICS
“Darkly stylish ... highly original ... This is great fun.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A tight, twisting mystery.”—Newsday
“[A] crafty page-turner.”—People
STONE ANGEL
“Mallory makes a hard-edged, brilliant, and indomitable heroine. Stone Angel, as much Southern novel as mystery novel, is rich in people, places, and customs vividly realized, with mordant humor, terror, and sadness.”—San Francisco Chronicle
“O’Connell conjures up a world of almost Faulknerian richness and complexity. In Stone Angel, her imagination truly takes wing.”
—People
SHELL GAME
“An intricate whodunit.”—Chicago Tribune
“One of O’Connell’s best.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“The plot’s hairpin twists and turns are dazzling.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Rich, complex, memorable . . . another superb effort from one of our most gifted writers.”—Booklist (starred review)
Also by Carol O’Connell ...
JUDAS CHILD
“Breathtakingly ambitious suspense... A brilliant twist... mesmerizing.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune
“More than enough darkness and tension to make fans of Mallory take notice . . . Solidly crafted . . . a compelling tale.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Her most stunning novel yet . . . more chilling, twisted, and intense with each page . . . [a] soul-shattering climax.”
—Booklist (starred review)
Titles by Carol O’Connell
CRIME SCHOOL
SHELL GAME
JUDAS CHILD
STONE ANGEL
KILLING CRITICS
THE MAN WHO CAST TWO SHADOWS
MALLORY’S ORACLE
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
CRIME SCHOOL
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Copyright © 2002 by Carol O’Connell
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced
in any form without permission.
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punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions,
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eISBN : 978-0-515-13535-0
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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For the Teachers
Thelma Rantilla once said, “Every child, at the age of ten, should be dropped on its head in the center of New York City and forced to find its own way home.” Thus, this school-teacher put a dull knife into the heart of every parent—and twisted it—slowly. For this and additio
nal outrages, she became my personal hero. However, because she went everywhere in a rarified air of distraction, I believed she had no idea that I was on the planet.
The last time I saw her, she was carrying a carton with the year’s end debris of papers and books. Her hair was a dangerous nest of sharp pencils, and her head was tucked in to avoid eye contact with anyone who might slow her quick trot to the door and flight into summer vacation.
As I pursued her down the hall, hurrying to keep up, I had no idea of what I might say beyond good-bye.
Miss Rantilla suddenly halted, then turned on me and said, “You know, every once in a while, you show a flash of talent—just a flash.”
I was stunned, stopped cold and speechless. This bought her the time she needed to make her escape.
Prologue
High in the sky, apartment windows were smudges of grimy yellow, and this passed for starlight in New York City. Loud Latin rhythms from a car radio drifted down First Avenue. The sedan turned sharply, brakes screaming, narrowly missing a small blond girl with fugitive eyes. The child stood on tiptoe, poised for flight, arms rising like thin white wings.
A book was knocked from the hands of a woman on the sidewalk as the little girl sped past her in a breeze of flying hair and churning legs, small feet slapping pavement in time to the music of a passing boom box—a rock ’n’ roll getaway. The eyes of the running child were not green, not Kathy’s eyes, yet the startled woman saw her as a familiar wraith rocketing through space and years of time.
Fifteen years, you fool. And Kathy Mallory was not so small anymore, nor was she dead—not the makings of a ghost.
Sweat rolled down Sparrow’s face. If not for the stolen book, would her mind have made that stumble? Again, the woman looked back the way she had come, but there was no sign of the man who had followed her from the bookshop. She had circled round and round, taking the long way home to lose him, and he had not hurried his steps to keep up with her. He had moved with inexorable resolve to the measured beat of a march. His body had no language, no life.
If a dead man could walk.
Sparrow’s hands were clammy, a sign of anxiety, but she blamed it on the weather, so hot and muggy in this gray hour after sundown. And she blamed her costume for the stares from other pedestrians. The mutton-sleeve blouse and long skirt were too bizarre for a twenty-first-century heat wave. A match flared close beside her as a man, a harmless type, lit a cigarette, then passed her by. Her heart beat faster, and she rationalized away the second warning, taking it for guilt.
If not for the book—
She looked down at her empty hands and panicked—then sighed. The precious paperback lay on the sidewalk at her feet, and she bent low to snatch it back. On the rise, another figure, quiet as smoke, moved alongside her in the half-dozen mirrors of a drugstore window. She could still be surprised by these chance encounters with herself, for the surgically altered face needed no makeup to cover a history of broken bones and ravaged skin. The blue eyes of her reflection looked back across a gap of seventeen years, fresh off a Greyhound bus from the Southland.
Sparrow nodded. “I remember you, girl.”
What an unholy haunted night.
She hid the book behind her back, as if a tattered novel might be worth stealing. In fact, she planned to burn it. But the book was not what the stalking man wanted. Sparrow looked uptown and down. He would be so easy to spot in this crowd of normal humans. Apparently, she had lost him at some turn of a corner. Yet every inch of her prickled, as though a thousand tiny insects crept about beneath her skin.
She hurried homeward, not looking back anymore, but only paying attention to a voice inside her head. Fear was a good old friend of hers, who broke into her thoughts to say, Hello, and then, Ain’t it gettin’ dark? And now, Run, girl!
1
Greenwich Village had lost its edge long ago, becoming a stately old lady among New York neighborhoods. One of the grande dame’s children stood beneath the great stone arch in Washington Square Park. The boy wore trendy camouflage pants, all dressed up for a revolution—should one come along the way buses do.
A guitar case lay at his feet, open to donations from passersby, though no one slowed down to drop him a dime. People marched past, sweating and cursing the heat of August, hurrying home to cold beers and canned music. It would take spectacle on a grander scale to get their attention tonight.
An unmarked police car crawled by in air-conditioned silence. Detective Sergeant Riker rolled down the passenger window and listened to a ripple of melancholy notes on soft nylon strings.
Not what he had expected.
Evidently, the teenage musician had missed the point of being young. Thirty-five years ago, Riker had been the boy beneath the arch, but his own guitar had been strung with steel, electrified and amplified, ripping out music to make people manic, forcing them to dance down the sidewalk.
What a rush.
And the entire universe had revolved around him.
He had sold that electric guitar to buy a ring for a girl he had loved more than rock ’n’ roll. The marriage had ended, and the music had also deserted him.
The window closed. The car rolled on.
Kathy Mallory took the wheel for every tour of duty, but not by choice. Torn between drinking and driving, her partner had allowed his license to expire. The detectives were nearing the end of their shift, and Riker guessed that Mallory had plans for the evening. She was wearing her formal running shoes, black ones to match the silk T-shirt and jeans. The sleeves of her white linen blazer were rolled back, and this was her only concession to the heat. If asked to describe the youngest detective on the squad, he would bypass the obvious things, the creamy skin of a natural blonde and the very unnatural eyes; he would say, “Mallory doesn’t sweat.”
And she had other deviations.
Riker’s cell phone beeped. He pulled it out to exchange a few words with another man across town, then folded it into his pocket. “No dinner tonight. A homicide cop on First Avenue and Ninth wants a consult.”
The jam of civilian cars thinned out, and Mallory put on speed. Riker felt the car tilt when it turned the corner, rushing into the faster stream of northbound traffic. She sent the vehicle hurtling toward the rear end of a yellow cab that quickly slid out of the lane—her lane now. Other drivers edged off, dropping back and away, not sporting enough to risk sudden impact. She never used the portable turret light or the siren, for cops got no respect in this town—but sheer terror worked every time.
Riker leaned toward her, keeping his cool as he said, “I don’t wanna die tonight.”
Mallory turned her face to his. The long slants of her green eyes glittered, thieving eerie light from the dashboard, and her smile suggested that he could jump if he liked. And so a nervous game began, for she was watching traffic only in peripheral vision. He put up his hands in a show of surrender, and she turned her eyes back to the road.
Riker held a silent conversation with the late Louis Markowitz, a ghost he carried around in his heart as balm for anxious moments like this one. It was almost a prayer, and it always began with Lou, you bastard.
Fifteen years had passed since Kathy Mallory had roamed the streets as a child. Being homeless was damned hard work, and running the tired little girl to ground had been the job of Riker’s old friend, Louis Markowitz, but only as a hobby. Lost children had never been the province of Special Crimes Unit, not while they lived. And they would have to die under unusual circumstances to merit a professional interest. So Kathy had become the little blond fox of an after-hours hunt. The game had begun with these words, spoken so casually: “Oh, Riker? If she draws on you, don’t kill her. Her gun is plastic, it fires pellets—and she’s only nine or ten years old.”
After her capture, the child had rolled back her thin shoulders, drawn herself up to her full height of nothing, and insisted that she was twelve years old. What a liar—and what great dignity; Lou Markowitz could have crushed her with a laugh. Instead,
with endless patience, he had negotiated her down to eleven years of age, and the foster-care paperwork had begun with this more believable lie.
Now Kathy Mallory’s other name was Markowitz’s Daughter.
The old man had been killed in the line of duty, and Riker missed him every day. Lou’s foster child was taller now, five ten; she had upgraded her plastic gun to a .357 revolver; and her partner was not allowed to call her Kathy anymore.
The homicide detectives were speeding toward a crime scene that belonged to another man. The East Side lieutenant had sweetened his invitation with a bet, giving odds of “Ten’ll get you twenty” that they had never seen a murder quite like this one.
Revolving red and yellow lights marked the corner where police units and a fire engine blocked the flow of traffic along the borderland between the East Village and Alphabet City. All the action was on a side street, but the fire escapes were crowded with people hanging off metal rails, as if they could see around corners of brick and mortar. Cars honked their horns against the law, and hollered obscenities flew through the air.
Mallory’s tan sedan glided into the only clear space, a bus stop. She killed the engine and stepped out onto the pavement as her partner slammed the passenger door. Riker’s suit was creased and soiled in all the usual places, and now he loosened his tie to complete the basic slob ensemble. He could afford dry cleaning, but he was simply unaware of the practice; that was Mallory’s theory.
The sidewalks were jumping, buzzing, people screaming, “C’mon, c’mon!” Crime made do for theater in this livelier part of town. Young and old, they ran in packs, off to see a free show, a double bill—murder and fire. And these were the stragglers.
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