by Barbara Paul
Holland listened without interrupting. When she finally ran out of steam, he kept silent a moment longer. Then he asked, “What’s bothering you so much about this case?”
“The victims,” she said without hesitation. “An old man on a bus and a schoolgirl on a subway. How brave this killer is, facing such formidable opponents.” She didn’t try to hide her contempt. “Sneak attacks—no chance for the victims to defend themselves. Impersonal … killing on commission. Hit and run. Cowardly.” She paused. “He’s a piece of shit.”
Holland said nothing but pulled her over to him.
This time their lovemaking was slow and quiet, and this time neither of them wanted to talk afterward. Marian fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. She slept the sleep of the dead.
Holland was up before she was the next morning. “A few minor details to attend to before meeting with a new client,” he explained.
“Anything exciting?” Marian asked lazily, not quite ready to get up yet.
He was toweling his hair dry from the shower. “No, just another international banking concern that wants to see if I can break through their computer security.”
She laughed. “That’s not exciting?”
“It was once.”
He started dressing. Holland was a graceful man, and she liked watching him move. “But not now?”
“Not so much. Now that I get paid for doing it, a lot of the fun is gone. If I get caught, I won’t go to prison for it. Takes the spice out of the game.”
Marian tensed. She counted to five and then asked, quietly, “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Drop these little hints that you once had a sordid criminal past … and then never follow up, just leave me dangling.”
He laughed. “Because I love to watch you go for the bait. You always do, you know.”
“Is that nice? Baiting me?”
“No … it’s rather nasty, in fact. But Marian, you absolutely prickle when you think you’re on to something about my aforementioned sordid criminal past. You are a moralist, you know.”
“A moralist!” She sat up straight in the bed. “No one has ever called me a moralist before!”
“They were probably afraid to. But I’ve never met anyone so loyal to her own sense of right and wrong as you are. It’s not even a matter of belief with you. It just is.”
“Now you’re making me think of all the times I’ve bent the rules.”
“Then they were probably bad rules—the rationalizer’s favorite excuse,” he said with a laugh. “Besides, we all bend the rules at one time or another. We have to.”
“Like with Connie the Greek.”
His playful manner vanished in an instant. Slowly he came over and stood by the bed. “Ah. I see. You know about Connie.”
“Yes.” At least he was not trying to bluff his way out; she respected him for that.
A silence grew as he examined her face. “I’m not going to ask what you’re going to do. You’ll make your own decision without any prompting from me.”
She let the silence grow a little more. “I can’t do anything. Connie the Greek is dead. You’re safe. No evidence.”
A number of expressions flitted across Holland’s face, too rapidly for her to read. But Marian could see him, actually see him, deciding not to ask the question he wanted to ask. He looked at his watch. “I must go. We’ll speak of this another time. Or not.” And he was gone.
Marian knew the question he’d wanted to ask. What would you do about it if you did have the evidence?
When she went into the bathroom, she found that Holland had left his toothbrush and razor there.
It was all a matter of trust.
24
Detectives Walker and Dowd were waiting in her office when she got there.
Walker and Dowd were the two who’d been lax in pursuing the suspected fence, whose name was … Sanderson, she remembered with an effort. She’d chewed Campos out for not overseeing the two detectives more carefully, deepening his resentment of her—but that was a different problem. “Set-back in the Sanderson case?” Marian asked.
Dowd shifted his weight. “Naw, that’s all wrapped up, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Sergeant Campos said you wanted two more men on the Oliver Knowles case.”
And he’d sent her Walker and Dowd. Marian felt like laughing in spite of her irritation at the sergeant’s perverseness. “Just let me get settled here,” she said, trying to keep her face straight.
Since Dowd’s desk was right outside her office door, Marian had come to know him fairly well. But Walker was a virtual stranger. A too-thin black man in his early thirties, he spoke little and always seemed to be watching. Being careful.
“Okay,” she said when she had her coat off and was seated at her desk, “how are you two at leaning on people?”
“Who’s the perp?” Dowd wanted to know.
“A witness, not a perp. Name of Larry Hibler. He’s a student at NYU—you can get his address from Sergeant Buchanan. But there’s a lot of background you’ll need first. Dowd, can you bring in another chair? You’ll both want to take notes.”
Dowd found a chair that wasn’t bolted in place and brought it into the small office. Marian closed the door and started filling them in on the Robin Muller murder as well as summarizing what they’d learned in the Oliver Knowles case. Walker’s and Dowd’s pens were busy getting down all the names and other data. They filled several pages of their notebooks.
While Marian was giving them their briefing, Perlmutter appeared at the door and looked in through the glass. Without missing a beat Marian pointed to her watch and held up five fingers; Perlmutter nodded and disappeared. Marian handed Walker and Dowd copies of the computer portrait of the suspected killer.
When she’d finished her briefing, Dowd shook his head. “Whew. An organization of hit men and we didn’t know about it? Shit.”
“Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it?” Marian agreed. “But they’ve managed to keep under cover until now.”
Walker spoke for the first time. “This new hit man—we’d better find him fast.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a mistake,” the detective said. “This ring has been operating for years without our tumbling to it. But the guy with the hooked nose gives it away? We’d better find him before Virgil does.”
Marian thought that over. “Virgil doesn’t know we know about him—at least, we don’t think he does. How could he? But I suppose it’s a chance we shouldn’t take. All right, I’ll pass the word. Now go pick up Larry Hibler. And let me know when you get back.”
Walker and Dowd left. Perlmutter and O’Toole, who’d been hovering outside, came in and sat in their chairs.
Marian lifted a finger. “One phone call.” She tapped out Gloria Sanchez’s number at the Ninth Precinct. When Gloria came on the line, she told her they were picking up Robin Muller’s boyfriend and planned to give him the grilling of his life.
“Shee-ut,” Gloria said. “You beat me to it.”
Aha. “You didn’t believe him either?”
“At the time, I did. But I got to thinking about it later—no way he couldna known what she was doing.”
“That’s what we think. You’re invited to the party, by the way. Come anytime.”
“I’ll be there. This is no single hit man we’re dealing with here, is it?”
So she’d figured it out. “It looks like a whole network of them. And Gloria, when you come, could you bring along copies of your reports on the Muller shooting?” She looked at Perlmutter and O’Toole. “I’ve got two detectives here who’re just salivating to get in on the action.”
“Sure thing,” Gloria said.
“Something else.” Marian passed on Detective Walker’s suggestion that Virgil might be looking for Hook Nose too.
O’Toole looked at Perlmutter and mouthed Hook Nose? The other detective just shrugged.
Gloria didn’t think much of Walker’s suggestion. “Hey
, this has all happened too fast. The portrait’s only been on the street a few hours. They don’t know we know.”
“Hook Nose might have been aware that he was noticed.”
“And he’s gonna run tell Virgil about it? Fat chance.”
Marian admitted it wasn’t likely. “Nevertheless, let’s make this hunt highest priority.”
“Honeychile, it’s already double-highest-super-fuckin’-duper priority. It cain’t get no higher.”
“All right, then,” Marian said with a laugh. “See you in a bit.” She hung up.
Perlmutter inquired politely, “We’re salivating to do what?”
“The Knowles killer has claimed another victim. But this time he was noticed.” She pushed another copy of the portrait across the desk. “Read the reports when they get here. But now, tell me what you found at Oliver Knowles’s place.”
O’Toole was still staring at the portrait. “Boy, I’ll know that guy if I see him!”
“A memorable face,” Perlmutter agreed. “We found something, and we didn’t find something,” he told Marian.
“Perlmutter. It’s considered bad manners to be cryptic this early in the morning. Spit it out.”
“We checked through Knowles’s papers at his place. Surprisingly few of them,” Perlmutter said. “Checking account but no savings account. Checks were all made out to cover normal household expenses, phone bills, like that. Regular deposits of a check from O.K. Toys. That’s what we found.”
“So what didn’t you find?”
“Cash withdrawals. There’s not a single one. Yet Knowles paid for his own toys in cash, like that fancy train layout that takes up two rooms. That stuff’s not cheap. But where did the cash come from?”
Marian nodded. “Unrecorded income. Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. I want you to track down that accountant from the DA’s office and get a preliminary report from him. Also, ask him to print out a list of the vendors O.K. Toys does business with.”
O’Toole asked, “What are we going to do with that?”
“Why, you’re going to call every name on the list, that’s what you’re going to do with it.”
Perlmutter nodded. “To verify that O.K. Toys really does do business with them. They could be keeping a set of fake books that would look okay to an outside auditor.”
“That’s the idea,” Marian agreed. She sent them on their way and closed the door behind them.
She needed to make some personal calls, now, before Walker and Dowd got back; things might get a little hectic later. Her part in making sure the wedding of Ivan Malecki and Claire Yelincic went smoothly was just about finished; she still had to find one more car for transporting members of the wedding party from the church to the banquet hall. Limousine for the bride and groom; anything that moved for everybody else. Marian was having dinner at the Yelincic house that evening, and she wanted all the details nailed down before she got there. Like reporting to my captain, she thought, and laughed. She got busy.
She found her last car, and was just working out the details with Claire Yelincic’s second cousin once removed when a tap at the door sounded. Marian looked up to see Gloria Sanchez waiting outside—in her latina persona today: bright clothing, lots of jewelry and make-up. Marian wound up her conversation and waved her in.
Gloria dropped a folder on the desk. “Here are zee reports. Not much een them so far.”
Marian tipped her head to the side. “‘Een’ them?”
Gloria grinned. “Too much, huh?”
“Hm. Where’s your coat?”
“Oh, I found an empty hook out there somewhere,” she said, slipping easily into her nonethnic speech pattern. “You got Larry Hibler yet?”
“No, and they should be back by now. Maybe he wasn’t home.”
“Then I’ll wait. I’m not going back to the Ninth until Captain DiFalco’s had a chance to cool off.”
“What’s the matter now?”
“He’s pissing acid because Midtown South got the jump on him. Going after the boyfriend, I mean.”
Marian was stricken, “Oh, Gloria, I got you into trouble. I’m sorry!”
But Gloria scotched that. “If it wasn’t that, it’d be something else. DiFalco’s jealous of Murtaugh. It’s obvious as hell. And then there’s you. You know what he calls you? He calls you ‘my reject’.”
Marian’s mouth dropped open. “I am his reject? When I told him I’d quit the force rather than work for him any longer?”
“Yeah, well, selective memory, you know. But it really pissed him to see Murtaugh take in his ‘reject’ and even recommend you for promotion. Just seeing you at the stationhouse last night was enough to set him off.”
Marian was furious. “Oh, that ridiculous man! He turns everything into politics!”
Gloria smiled sadly. “Marian,” she said softly, “you have a real enemy there. Be careful.”
Marian pressed her lips together and nodded, grateful to Gloria for the warning.
Gloria went through some sort of mental shift and was the overstated latina again. “Zo. Zees Murtaugh, you like workin’ for heem, yes?”
“Yes,” Marian echoed, willing to change subjects. “He’s helpful without being intrusive. A good boss.” She wanted to add that Gloria could be working for him too if she’d take the Sergeants Exam but restrained herself.
Right then Sergeant Buchanan came up and stuck his head through the doorway. “Lieutenant, Walker and—” He broke off when he caught sight of Gloria. “Oh, sorry, didn’t know you had somebody in here.”
“It’s all right,” Marian said. “Come on in.”
“’Allo!” Gloria trilled.
Buchanan stepped into the office and squinted his eyes. “Sanchez? Is that you?”
“Sí!”
“No shit. God, I didn’t know you!”
Gloria flashed her eyes. “Zat’s zee idea, beeg boy.”
Buchanan got a kick out of that. “Call me Buck.”
Marian sighed; he’d never told her to call him Buck. “You have something to tell me, Buchanan?”
He was all business again. “Walker and Dowd are back with Larry Hibler. They have him in interrogation room three.”
“Then let’s go,” Marian said.
25
Larry Hibler was proving a tougher nut to crack than Marian had thought. Robin Muller’s boyfriend looked like a scared kid, in over his head and not knowing what to do about it. But he was sticking to his story that he didn’t know anything about Robin’s job.
Captain Murtaugh stood behind the one-way glass with Marian and Gloria Sanchez, watching Walker and Dowd work the witness. Gloria and Buchanan had already spelled them once, and now they were back for a second go. They were observing the letter of the law, but just barely. When Hibler said he needed the men’s room, Walker and Dowd had let him squirm until he’d asked four times. When he hoarsely requested a drink of water, they let him get a little thirstier before bringing him one.
“That kid’s hiding something,” Murtaugh muttered. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Damn! The more he delays telling us, the more he increases our chances of losing the trail.”
Marian raised an eyebrow. “Rubber hose?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
They watched a little longer. Gloria Sanchez said, “They’re getting close. He’s not gonna hold out much longer.”
“I hope you’re right,” Murtaugh said. “Keep me posted.” He left.
Walker and Dowd had an interesting technique. It wasn’t good cop/bad cop; it was more like sophisticate/oaf. Walker was the sophisticate, using long words and increasingly complex sentences, his tone measured and reasonable. Dowd had turned into an angry street tough, the kind that can’t get through a sentence without saying fucking at least once. Not surprisingly, it was Walker that Hibler was responding to, actually edging away from Dowd and his loud, abrasive voice.
“Want me to go out and get us some lunch?” Gloria asked.
“Oh, that
would be great,” Marian said, thinking of last night’s cardboard-sandwich supper.
Detective O’Toole opened the door of their observation cubicle, a huge grin on his face. “Lieutenant?”
“You’ve got something.” Marian felt a stab of anticipation.
“Oh boy, have we!”
The two women stepped out into the hallway and closed the door to the little room. “What?” Marian asked.
“The vendors we’ve been calling.”
“O.K. Toys did not do business with them?”
“They’re phonies,” O’Toole said excitedly. “Not one of the suppliers O.K. Toys says they’re doing business with even exists! Sham, fake, make-believe. The whole thing is a front!”
Marian raised two fists over her head. “Yessss! Now we got them. Where’s Perlmutter?”
“In the squadroom.”
“O.K. Toys?” Gloria Sanchez asked.
Marian let O’Toole fill her in as they hurried back to the squadroom. Perlmutter was just hanging up the phone as they reached his desk. “The accountant says they have invoices to back up every transaction they’ve got listed on the books. You know what they did, don’t you? They had a bunch of business forms printed up, different phony vendors, and just made out the invoices to themselves. It’s all a big scam to keep the IRS satisfied. The feds aren’t going to check any further than the invoices.”
“And they’ve been getting away with it for years,” Marian said in amazement.
“Pick up David Unger?” O’Toole asked.
“Oh, yes, indeedy. I’ll have the warrant by the time you get back. If he wants his lawyer, pick him up too. He had to have been in on the scam himself.”
“Elmore Zook,” O’Toole added for Gloria’s benefit.
“What about Austin Knowles?” Perlmutter asked.
Marian said no. “He had nothing to do with the running of the toy company—that was his daddy’s bailiwick. If we can prove he had guilty knowledge of what was going on, we can pick him up later. But for now, leave him alone. Okay … let’s go.”
The next few hours moved like lightning. The attorney from the DA’s office said he was calling in a federal prosecutor, that the charge against Unger would be tax fraud. He complained that the police still hadn’t linked Unger to the hit man who killed Oliver Knowles. Marian assured him they were getting to that.
