Riker guessed that Zappata had been asked to turn in his fireman’s shield and identification. Soon there would be a hearing on charges of gross misconduct, the prelude to being fired from his new job.
Officer Waller blocked the entrance to the basement room.
“Get out of my way,” said Zappata. “I won’t tell you twice.”
Unimpressed, the policeman responded by tipping back a can of orange soda and draining it dry. The pissing contest was officially under way, and Waller was already winning. A true son of New York City, he bit into a bagel and looked up at the sky, ignoring the ex-cop, soon to be an ex-firefighter.
Zappata turned to see the two detectives step onto the sidewalk. He pointed to the senior man and yelled, “Hey, you!”
Riker so rarely answered to that form of address, and he liked the commanding tone even less. He waved the man off, saying, “It can wait.”
You weasel.
After opening the door to Waller’s patrol car, Riker motioned Duck Boy to follow him into the front seat. When the windows had been rolled up, he said, “Did you get all that?”
“All what?”
“Sparrow’s acting gig. We just expanded her social circle. I want names for everyone at that dress rehearsal. And the reporters were on the scene before the fire engines turned out. Even if the old lady was slow to call in the fire—they shouldn’t have beaten the engines. You’re gonna find out why that news van was in this neighborhood. And I don’t care who you have to sleep with. But you wear a condom when you bang a reporter. You don’t know where those bastards have been.” Riker reached across the other man’s chest and opened the car door. “Move!”
The young detective was quick to scramble out, and then he was off and running down the street. The duckling was launched.
Detective Riker took his own time stepping out onto the sidewalk. Now he was looking down at the short fireman.
Gary Zappata rolled back his muscular shoulders, gearing up for a fast round of King of the Hill.
Of all the stupid kid games.
The detective made a point of looking at his watch to convey that his own time was worth a lot more. He glanced at the fireman, as if he had just noticed him standing there. “Yeah, what?”
Zappata nodded in Waller’s direction. “He won’t let me in.”
“I got orders.” Officer Waller leaned down to attach the crime-scene tape to a gatepost. “Only Special Crimes detectives get in. Punk firemen don’t.”
Riker shot a warning glance at the man in uniform. Waller had never served with Zappata, the former loose cannon of the SoHo precinct. A nutcase ex-cop was too dangerous to have for a friend or an enemy.
“Where’s your damn partner?” Zappata demanded.
Right about now, Mallory should be walking into Macy’s department store in search of New York’s tallest whore. “She’s busy. So am I.” The detective was more blasé about making his own enemies. And now he flirted with the idea of putting this man on the short list for Sparrow’s hanging. Was that ludicrous? Would Zappata have the balls to beat up a Girl Scout in a fair fight? In this idle moment of indecision, Riker put a cigarette in his mouth, then slowly fished through his pockets for matches—just to make the man a little crazier than he already was. “You got one minute of my time.” Did that make the fireman angry? Oh, yes, and so tense his facial muscles were twitching. Some days, Riker really loved the job.
“Your partner got me suspended from the fire department,” said Zappata. “I guess I stepped on her toes last night.”
“Yeah, I heard about you playing detective on the crime scene.”
“That bitch is the one—”
“Nobody heard it from her. She never rats on anybody.”
“Then how—”
“You figure it out. And now maybe you can explain the damn lightbulb over the front door.”
“What?”
“Zappata, I got a witness who says that light was out when the firemen got here. Now, I don’t figure you guys carry spare bulbs on the truck, so I’m guessing some jerk figured the bulb might be loose. So this freaking idiot reached up, twisted it. And sure enough, it wasn’t burnt out—just loose in the fixture.”
Riker knew he was onto something. There was too much white in the fireman’s eyes—fear. “But this criminally stupid fireman never thought to mention it to the cops. I guess he figured we wouldn’t care if the perp was some stranger hiding behind the garbage cans, waiting to surprise that poor woman in the dark. Naw, better we should think Sparrow opened the door for somebody she knew. Then we could waste a few days spinning our wheels.”
There was no one Riker hated more than Zappata. If Sparrow had come down from the rope in time, her coma-blind eyes would not roll aimless in their sockets, and she would not drool.
He had one last salvo to take this man down. “I’m guessing this moron fireman took his gloves off before he touched the bulb.” Riker turned to the uniformed police officer. “Waller! Get a CSU tech over here.” He pointed to the light fixture over the door. “Have him take that lightbulb and dust it for prints.”
Riker turned his back on the subdued Zappata and walked down the street toward his next appointment on Avenue A, where he planned to kill off a ten-year-old girl for the second time.
The doors opened and the carnage began. Two inexperienced women were roughly pushed aside, and a man fell down on one knee. Shopping in the city was no game for tourists, otherwise known as the halt and the lame. Behind the display counters, men and women, flushed with adrenaline, waited on the enemy. Onward marched the hordes of customers—and one tall blonde in Armani sunglasses.
Everything Detective Mallory wore flaunted the idea that she was a cop on the take. The silk-blend T-shirt allowed her skin to breathe in style, and the dark linen blazer was tailor-made. Even her designer jeans bore the detailed handwork of a custom fitting. And with dark glasses to cover her green eyes, she bore no resemblance to a hungry child who had once robbed this store on a regular basis, ripping off items from the shopping list of a drag queen hooker.
Tall Sally had always been fanatically devoted to Macy’s and prized their goods above items stolen from any other store. Over time, the salespeople had become too familiar with Sal’s apprentice shoplifter, ten-year-old Kathy Mallory. Sometimes the clerks had departed from the armor of New York attitude to lean over their counters and wave. This had confused the little thief, for she had only targeted Macy’s once a week, and she had never been caught in the act of stealing.
How had they recognized her?
As a little girl, she had not seen the obvious answer in her own intense green eyes and a face that was painfully beautiful—unforgettable. The homeless child had passed by a hundred mirrors in this department store but failed to notice her own reflection in any of them. It had been a shock to discover that salesclerks could see her.
One day, the child had attempted to solve this old puzzle, deciding that unwashed clothing had made her stand out from the crowd. She had taken more care with her wardrobe, donning freshly stolen jeans before setting out for Herald Square. Her dirty hair had been swept up under a baseball cap, the better to blend with cleaner shoppers. And the little girl had added one more touch to her disguise, a pair of wildly expensive designer sunglasses with real gold frames—which no one in that middle-class throng could possibly afford.
And then she had felt truly invisible.
Fifteen years later, Detective Mallory had upgraded to even more expensive sunglasses, and the salespeople had also changed. She scanned the unfamiliar faces as she passed the counters, hunting a clerk who was seven-feet-tall with long platinum-blond hair. Apparently, staid old Macy’s had relaxed the hiring policy. Or perhaps Tall Sally had convinced them that a job in their store was the fulfillment of a lifelong dream—and this was true. She found the transvestite working behind a cosmetics counter. Of course. Now Sal could steal all the makeup in the world, and without the assistance of small children. Voice jacked up
to a high falsetto, the salesclerk said, “May I help you, miss?”
Don’t you know me, Sal?
No, there was no sign of recognition in the heavily painted gray eyes. Mallory held up her gold shield and ID. “This is about Sparrow.”
“Put that away.” Tall Sally’s voice dropped into a deeper, more masculine register. “Why’re you guys hassling me? I see my parole officer every damn week.”
Mallory lowered her badge. “Does Macy’s know about your rap sheet? . . . No?” What a surprise. Sal had lied on the job application, failing to mention convictions for grand theft and corrupting the morals of minor children. Mallory laid her leather folder on the counter, keeping the badge in plain sight. Sal’s eyes were riveted to the detective’s gold shield, regarding it as a bomb. “Sparrow used to work with you. Does that help?”
“It’s a big store, honey. What department did she work in? Can’t say I recall the name.”
What about me, Sal? Remember running out on me?
Aloud, Mallory said, “You and Sparrow were booked for prostitution in the same raids. You both gave the same street corner as your employment address. Don’t even try to jerk me around.”
“Well, back in the day, I knew a lot of whores. You can’t expect me to remember every—”
“Does Macy’s personnel director know that you’re a man?”
“I’m the real deal, Detective.” Sal thrust out a chest of formidable breasts. “In all my parts, if you know what I mean.”
“Sex change?”
Tall Sally nodded.
The parole officer had not mentioned this, and Mallory knew the thief had been incarcerated in an all-male facility. The surgery must have been recent. “Expensive operation. You didn’t get that kind of money working in a prison laundry. Doing your own stealing these days? Or do you still use little kids?”
“I had some money saved.”
In other words, Sal had stolen a lot of money. Mallory had a vivid memory of Sal holding a set of lock picks just beyond the reach of a child and making threats, saying, “Kid, if you get caught, forget my name, or I’ll mess you up real bad.” Ten-year-old Kathy Mallory had snatched Sal’s picks, then walked up to a delivery truck and opened the rear doors in record time. The student had surpassed the master.
Remember leaving me behind?
As always, the drag queen had been standing a safe distance away while Kathy had done the robbery alone, a little girl with puny arms struggling to unload VCRs into a grocery cart. At the first sight of a police car, Tall Sally had climbed into a station wagon, obeying all the laws and traffic lights while driving away and abandoning the child.
Two uniformed officers had seen Kathy standing just inside the open doors of the delivery truck—nowhere to hide, no way to run. The small thief had walked to the edge of the truckbed, raised one thin white hand and waved at the policemen. Big smile. Grinning, they had waved back, and their car had rolled on by.
All these years later, Tall Sally did not recognize the child all grown up and still holding a grudge.
“So it’s just a coincidence,” said Mallory. “You get a vagina installed about the same time Sparrow gets a new nose.”
“That junkie whore got her nose fixed?” Tall Sally’s voice had shifted back to fluttery high notes, for this was girl talk. “So tell me, how’s it look?”
And now Mallory could believe that the two prostitutes had no recent history. Tall Sally had always been an inept liar, embroidering details to death and advertising every falsehood—but not this time. There was no exaggerated protest. Sal had never seen Sparrow’s new face.
Along Avenue A, half-naked men with jackhammers ripped up the street, choking the air with particles and shaking the pavement in front of the bookshop. Riker had the taste of dust in his mouth as he stood before the display window and perused the titles of worn paperbacks. This morning, he planned to be the first customer.
John Warwick was walking toward him now, thin and wasted, moving slowly, doing his old man’s shuffle. He bowed his white head, unwilling to meet the eyes of passing pedestrians. And now he paused at the door to his shop.
“Hey, John. Remember me?”
The bookseller turned his face to the window and spoke to the detective’s reflection in the glass. “Riker. What’s it been, fourteen, fifteen years?”
“Sounds right. I came about that old western you tracked down for Lou Markowitz.”
The bookseller drew back, as if he feared that Riker would strike him. “It’s not for sale. You can’t have it. It belongs to the girl.”
“She’s dead,” Riker lied. “And you know that. Markowitz told you—”
“No.” Warwick shook his head. After fifteen years, he still believed that a ten-year-old Kathy had merely been lost. How close to the truth he had come. And he had sussed out his truth aided only by his paranoid distrust of police.
“So you still have the western?” This was impossible, for Riker had found that book in Sparrow’s apartment, but evidently Warwick had lost track of the shop’s inventory.
“Of course I have it. You think I’d give it to anyone but her?”
“It’s over, John. The kid’s never coming back.” And now he posed a question disguised as frustration. “When was the last time you heard anyone ask for that book?”
“Every day for the past two weeks.” Warwick winced. “This woman—a tall devil with blond hair.”
Close, but Riker knew that the man was not describing Mallory.
“Sparrow,” said Warwick. “That was her name. She wrote it down on a piece of paper—her phone number too. I threw it away.”
“But before this woman came along? Nothing, right? Not a whisper in fifteen years. Doesn’t that tell you—”
“The child is alive,” said Warwick. “You couldn’t catch her. No one could.” His thin arms were rising as if to defend himself from a blow. “And you can’t have her book.”
Riker wondered how he would phrase questions about Sparrow. He needed a time line for the last days of her life, but he could not interrogate this man in the name of the law. Given Warwick’s psychiatric history, that would mean knocking at the door of a very scary closet. “John? Can we sit down and talk about this? Just for a few minutes. Then I’ll go away.”
Warwick pulled out a gray linen handkerchief. He removed his glasses and made a show of cleaning them while casting about for something to say. “Markowitz put me through a lot of trouble tracking down that novel. He told me to—”
“She’s dead. She can’t come back for the book.”
“You can’t have it!” Warwick shouted, then shrank into himself, hunching his shoulders and furtively looking from side to side, as if he believed those loud words had come from someone else. He continued in a hoarse whisper. “Because she might come back.”
John Warwick was a member of Lou Markowitz’s choir. He would never give up his vigil, but the threat this posed to Kathy Mallory was very small. Riker was satisfied that this man had never known her name. In the worst possible case, the bookseller might meet her on the street one day and recognize the remarkable green eyes. Or was he still waiting for a ten-year-old child?
Riker stepped back to reappraise this fragile little person, who had always teetered on the edge of sanity. The threat of any authority figure terrified John Warwick. Yet, he was making a stand against the police, though he trembled to do it. And this was bravery in any man’s philosophy.
Please. Don’t make me do this the hard way.
The detective sat down on an iron bench in front of the store. Now that he no longer loomed over Warwick, the smaller man relaxed. “I can’t make you talk to me,” said Riker. “And I can’t go away until you do.” He would not risk another cop canvassing this street and stumbling onto a connection between Sparrow and a green-eyed child who loved westerns. He looked down at the sidewalk and whispered, “Please.”
Shaking his head, Warwick unlocked the door to his shop and shuffled inside. Two minutes lat
er, he was out on the street again, eyes wild and close to tears. “She stole it! Yesterday, that book was on the shelf behind my register, and now it’s gone. That woman stole it when my back was turned.”
Playing the public servant, Riker pulled out his notebook to take down a citizen’s statement on a theft. “You said her name was Sparrow? So she was in your store yesterday.”
“And every day for two weeks. Yesterday she was the last customer. It was just a few minutes before I closed the store. So I know she’s the one who stole it. You write that down.”
Riker glanced at the hours posted in the shop window. Poor Sparrow. She had wanted the book so badly, but there had been no time to read it before she was mutilated and hung.
4
The sunlit room was racked with gleaming copper-bottom pots, more spices than the stores carried and every cooking utensil known to God and Cordon Bleu—and even here, antiques prevailed. Charles Butler lit a flame under an old-fashioned percolator. He was dressed in yesterday’s shirt and jeans, and his eyes were sore from working through the night on Mallory’s account, though he would never get credit for mending her present, a waterlogged paperback western. Riker had never understood this man’s one-sided infatuation with her. Charles was hardly a virgin in the area of abnormal psychology, and he must know what she was.
The detective sat at the kitchen table and opened the restored book to the page with the inscription. Apart from Lou Markowitz’s lost signature, there was no sign of damage, and he toyed with the idea of actually giving it to Mallory. “Good as new. It’s magic.”
“The paper was very brittle.” Charles set the table with coffee cups and forks. “I had to treat it with a matte polymer so the pages wouldn’t crumble. Of course, that would’ve destroyed the value of a rare book. So I did some research first.”
Apparently, this was not a joke. Riker glanced at the stack of volumes on the kitchen table, all reference materials of an avid book collector. Among the titles he found The Role of the Western in American Literature. “The book is worthless, right?”
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