by Barbara Paul
“Bartolomew, weren’t your orders not to let anyone in?”
“You mean Mr. Fairchild? He’s Mrs. Galloway’s brother, Lieutenant. I didn’t think I was supposed to keep family out.”
No, he wasn’t. “That’s all right, then. Where are they?”
Officer Bartolomew led them through a sitting room so full of light and color that it made Marian pause. A south wall fronting on East Seventy-fifth contained a floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window; the summer sun cast a pattern on the opposing wall—bold, vivid colors in the shape of a dragon. Wonderful combination of color and form, and an attention-catching one.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Bartolomew said with a grin. “It changes as the sun moves.”
“Ptolemy would love it,” Perlmutter said.
“They’re in the studio,” the officer told them, heading down a hallway and up a flight of stairs.
“What kind of studio?”
“Mrs. Galloway paints. Just watercolors, though.”
“Way I hear it,” Perlmutter said, “watercolor is one of the most difficult mediums for an artist to work in.”
“Yeah?” Bartolomew knocked and opened a door; they stepped into another bright and cheerful room with a number of worktables and easels displaying sketches and unfinished watercolors. Under one window sat a little boy at a child’s table covered with crayons, construction paper, blunt-end scissors, a jar of paste—busily working away on a project of his own. The two adults in the room broke off their conversation when Bartolomew said, “Here’s Lieutenant Larch to see you.”
O’Toole must have said she or her when he made the appointment, because Mrs. Galloway and her brother did not assume Perlmutter was the lieutenant, as often happened. “Lieutenant?” the woman said, approaching Marian. “Have you arrested Hugh?”
It was obvious these two were brother and sister just from looking at them. Both tall, with broad foreheads over wide-set, moist-looking eyes. Narrow shoulders, curly reddish brown hair, thin lips. Long thin fingers. Very intense looking people, but that could be a reflection of their concern over Bobby.
“Alex Fairchild,” the man said, sticking out a hand.
Marian shook it, and then explained that they had no evidence linking Hugh to the kidnapping. “That’s why we’re here. To see if you can tell us something more.”
“What more is there to tell?” Rita Galloway exclaimed. “Hugh knew we were going to that puppet show. How else did the kidnapper know where to find us?”
“He could have followed you there.”
Mrs. Galloway glanced over at the boy at the little table. “Let’s go outside.” Then, to the child: “Bobby, we’re going out on the balcony for a few minutes.”
“I’ll stay here,” Officer Bartolomew said before anyone could ask him to.
The balcony was a long one, running along the back side of the house with another door opening on to it; her bedroom, Mrs. Galloway said when Perlmutter asked. They were overlooking the patio; the furniture below was wrought iron with padded cushions on the seats and backs. The stone wall marking the property boundary was about ten feet high. “Is that wall wired?” Perlmutter asked.
It was; alarms would go off both there and at the security firm’s monitoring center. But Rita Galloway had already made arrangements for a new security system to be installed. “They’re coming tomorrow,” she said. “Hugh had the present system put in, and it’s not beyond him to cancel the contract without telling me. He could slip in any time he wanted to.”
“The locks have all been changed,” Alex Fairchild added. “But that wall could pose a danger. Anyone determined to get in could scale the wall and hurl one of those iron chairs through the glass patio doors. The alarms would all be going off, but the system was designed to deter burglars, not kidnappers. And the police officer can’t watch the front door and that wall at the same time.” He looked at his sister. “We’re going to have to hire some protection.”
She sighed. “I know.”
Marian remarked, “There’s a security-agency guard sitting outside your house right now.”
Fairchild laughed shortly. “Hugh’s man. Or his father’s man. Same thing.”
“He’s from a reputable agency. Why won’t you let him in?”
Brother and sister exchanged a look. She said, “He’s not there to protect us, Lieutenant. He’s there to spy on us, on Bobby and me. To look for evidence that I’m an unfit mother. And no, I’m not being paranoid. Hugh’s done it before. He replaced one of the cleaning service’s regular crew with someone he hired to snoop through my things.”
Fairchild confirmed her story. “I caught her at Rita’s desk, going through her checkbook. Credit card statements were out, so she’d probably gone through those as well.” He looked Marian straight in the eye, his own moist eyes gleaming. “Do you know how Hugh was able to replace one of the cleaning crew? He bought the business. He bought the whole goddam cleaning service. Just to put a spy in this house.”
No one spoke for a moment. Then Marian said, “Mr. Fairchild, could you take Detective Perlmutter around the house and show him the complete security system here?”
He looked amused. “The security system that’s being replaced tomorrow? Certainly. And how long should it take me to show Detective Perlmutter everything?”
“At least twenty minutes, I’d say.”
“I think that can be arranged. Detective?” The two men went back into the house.
Marian stepped closer to Rita Galloway. “Mrs. Galloway, did your husband ever strike you? Or threaten you?”
The other woman shook her head. “I’ve not been physically abused. Or threatened. Oh, no … Hugh is too civilized for that.” The sarcasm made her voice ugly. “Hugh is a master of emotional torture—the put-down, the belittling, the sneer that’s not quite a sneer, if you know what I mean. No, the abuse has all been psychological.”
“That’s a little harder to prove,” Marian said reluctantly. “But not impossible. If you want to—”
“In all the time we’ve been married,” Rita Galloway interrupted, caught up in her own thoughts, “I’ve been made to feel inadequate. I don’t quite measure up to the high standards a Galloway is expected to meet. Hugh’s just like his father—they’re never satisfied. Not to mention the fact that Hugh’s been cheating on me consistently from the day were married.”
“From the day you were married?”
The other woman’s mouth was grim. “That’s right, Lieutenant. He got up from our wedding bed and went to a prostitute.”
Marian was appalled and dubious at the same time. “How could you know that?”
“He told me. He took great pleasure in telling me. Laying down the ground rules, you see. He could do whatever he wanted, and I had to take it.”
Whew. “Why did you stay with him?”
“I was pregnant. When Bobby was born, Hugh did settle down pretty well. But it didn’t last. He’s back to his old habits now.”
“Are you legally separated? Did the court award custody of Bobby to you?”
“Legally separated, yes. The court, in its infinite wisdom,” more sarcasm, “decided Bobby would spend six months with me and then six months with Hugh. Next year when Bobby’s old enough to go to school the custody arrangement is to be reviewed. But this is my six months! Hugh has no right to him now!”
“How long have you been separated?”
“Only two months—no, it’s been ten weeks. Oh, what does it matter!”
“Mrs. Galloway, if you can give us something more than your supposition that your husband tried to kidnap Bobby, we can arrest him. The man who took Bobby—you’ve never seen him before?”
“No. And his picture wasn’t there either, in those I looked at at the police station.”
“Could you sketch him for us?”
She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m not much good at catching likenesses. Faces are my brother’s talent.”
“Then the next step is
for you to go in to the station and help one of our graphics technicians build a face on the computer. The sooner the better, Mrs. Galloway. Can you go in today?”
“Yes … yes, I’ll go today.”
“Has your husband tried to steal Bobby before?”
“He’s tried to pick Bobby up from preschool a couple of times—no, three times. I take Bobby in four mornings a week, so he’ll have other kids to play with. Three times Hugh showed up right before noon when I pick Bobby up, but the school director wouldn’t let him take Bobby. I’d informed her of the separation.”
Marian asked for the name and address of the preschool. “That was a violation of the court’s order. Did you do anything about it?”
“My lawyer advised me not to. He said Hugh would just claim it was a misunderstanding and I couldn’t prove otherwise. Like now. I can’t prove Hugh was behind the kidnap attempt.”
That struck Marian as odd legal advice, but she said nothing. “One thing. What if he succeeded in stealing Bobby away? How could he hope to get away with it? He’d be breaking the law.”
Mrs. Galloway was at a loss. “I’ve wondered about that too. But I’m sure he has something worked out. Hugh’s very deliberate about what he does. He never rushes into things. Like the time he tore up my watercolors. He didn’t do that in the heat of anger—he did it in cold deliberation.”
“He tore up your watercolors? All of them?”
“Not all of them. Just enough so that I would understand the extent of his displeasure. I don’t even remember what he was displeased about, that time. But he destroyed some good work, and I’ll never forgive him for that. Understand, Lieutenant, Hugh Galloway is a cold, calculating son of a bitch. Do you know what he’s doing now? He’s sending Bobby a present every day. Every day. Big, expensive presents, all with cards signed ‘From your Daddy, who misses you.’ He’s trying to buy Bobby away from me.”
“Are you letting Bobby keep them?”
“A few. Bobby’s only four years old—how can he understand what his father is doing? Most of the presents are locked away upstairs.” Her voice was bitter. “Now Hugh can go into court and claim I intercepted gifts he’d sent to his son. He wins either way.”
No wonder Rita Galloway suspected her husband; Hugh Galloway sounded like a grade A bastard. But Marian hadn’t heard his side of it yet. “Do you think your brother could stay with Bobby for a while? While you go to the police station?”
“Probably. I’ll ask him.”
They went back into her studio, where Marian asked if she could use the phone. Mrs. Galloway pointed to one on a work-table and went on out. Bobby had tired of whatever he’d been working on and was stretched out on his stomach on the floor turning the pages of a picture book. Officer Bartolomew was sitting on a high stool looking bored with his baby-sitting duty.
Marian called in and arranged for a graphics tech to be waiting when Rita Galloway got there. When she hung up, she turned her attention to Bobby. Such a quiet little boy.
And so small, to be the spoils of a war.
3
Bobby Galloway looked up from his picture book when Marian hunkered down in front of him. Black eyes full of curiosity. Hair not his mother’s reddish brown but coal black, thick and a bit long. Rather large ears. He looked like a little elf.
“Hello, Bobby,” Marian said slowly. “I’m Lieutenant Larch.”
He stared at her, unspeaking.
“Hmm, that’s a mouthful, isn’t it? Tell you what. You call me Marian. Mar-i-an.”
A little smile. “Mary Ann.”
“Yes, that’s better. I heard about what happened to you yesterday. That was scary, huh?”
He nodded soberly.
“You did the right thing when that man grabbed you. You yelled. You yelled, and the police heard you.”
Bobby lifted his right arm to display a now somewhat soiled Mickey Mouse Band-Aid on his elbow. “P’lice gimme.”
“Mickey Mouse, huh? Bobby, I’m with the police.”
The four-year-old scoffed. “You’re not p’lice!” He pointed to Officer Bartolomew. “He’s p’lice!”
“Well, I don’t have a nice uniform like the officer’s, but I am a cop. Bartolomew, tell him.”
“That’s right, kid,” Bartolomew said. “She’s police. In fact, she’s my boss. One of ’em.”
Bobby’s mouth made an O.
Marian said, “Bobby, that man who grabbed you—did you ever see him before?”
He shook his head. “He smelled funny.”
“You mean he smelled bad?”
“Not bad.” Bobby tried to think of another word but couldn’t. “Funny.”
Marian thought a moment. “It was a new smell? Something you’d never smelled before?”
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed. “New, funny smell!” He liked the sound of that and laughed. “New, funny smell!” he said again.
Thinking she needed to brush up on preschool humor, Marian got to her feet just as Perlmutter came in. “Mrs. Galloway’s calling a car service to take her to the station,” he said. “The brother’s going to stay here.”
“Did you get Fairchild’s address and phone number?”
“Yes, and business address too. He’s a photographer.”
“In business for himself?”
“Uh-huh.” Perlmutter grinned. “He seemed surprised I hadn’t heard of him.”
Marian sent Officer Bartolomew back to keeping an eye on the front entrance, informing him of the Heron Security man taking pictures from a parked car across the street. “He’s legit, I saw his ID. But he may be here for reasons other than surveillance. Don’t let him in under any circumstances.”
“He won’t get in,” Bartolomew assured her.
Marian turned to Perlmutter. “Talk to Bobby. The kidnapper had a distinctive smell that was unfamiliar to the boy. See if you can get him to tell you more about it. Sweet, sour? Like mothballs, shaving lotion? He said it wasn’t a bad smell.”
“Okay.” Perlmutter went over to Bobby while Marian made her way downstairs to the room with the stained-glass dragon.
Rita Galloway and Alex Fairchild were both there. He was peering through a piece of clear glass. “Car service is here.”
His sister said, “I have no idea how long this will take.”
He waved a hand. “Take as long as you need.”
“It shouldn’t be too long,” Marian told them. “Computerizing the process has sped it up enormously. You’ll be able to come up with the kidnapper’s face in less than half an hour, I’ll bet.”
Mrs. Galloway’s face brightened slightly at that. In the entryway off the dragon room, Officer Bartolomew opened the door for her and then stood in the doorway a minute after she’d left, a very visible cop-on-duty.
“I think I’ve persuaded her to hire a bodyguard,” Alex Fairchild murmured, still gazing through the dragon window. “Nobody likes a stranger hanging around all the time, but it’s going to be necessary until this business is settled.”
“I’m surprised she needed persuading,” Marian remarked.
“She’s still in shock, Lieutenant. She’d have thought of it herself in a day or two.”
Marian sat down on a white armchair and regarded him. An attractive man, in an offbeat sort of way, and deeply concerned about his sister and his nephew. “Do you think Hugh Galloway was behind the attempt to kidnap Bobby?”
He turned from the window. “Oh, there’s no doubt of that. What Hugh wants, Hugh gets.” Fairchild sat on a sofa, facing her. “What Rita has trouble accepting is the fact that Galloway married her because he needed a broodmare. She’s his second wife, you know. He divorced his first when they learned she couldn’t have children. Gotta keep that Galloway name alive, you know.”
“Bobby’s an heir to the Galloway money?”
“He’s the heir. The Galloways used to be a big clan, but most of them died off. Now it’s down to Walter Galloway and Hugh. Hugh’s a younger son, but his brother died seven or eight year
s ago. No children. So it all comes down to Bobby to perpetuate the family name.”
“Big responsibility for such small shoulders. Hugh could marry a third time and try again.”
“And he undoubtedly will. But Bobby’s his insurance policy. No, he’s not going to give up on Bobby. And don’t forget, Hugh did know where they were going to be yesterday.”
“How did he know?”
“How? Well, he called Rita and asked if she’d let him take Bobby to a ball game yesterday afternoon. She told him she’d already promised Bobby he could see the puppet show.”
“Were you on an extension phone when the call came?”
“Was I … no, of course not! I wasn’t even here.”
“Then you didn’t hear the conversation.”
Fairchild flared. “If you’re saying my sister is lying—”
“I’m saying Hugh Galloway is going to paint quite a different picture from the one I’m seeing here, and I need all the details I can get. Was he in the habit of calling and asking if he could take Bobby out?”
He relaxed, a little. “I think Hugh had called a couple of times before, but Rita always said no. The court granted no visiting privileges, to either one of them. Bobby is Rita’s alone for six months, and then he’s Hugh’s alone for six months.”
Marian let a small silence develop and then deliberately changed the subject. “You’re a photographer, Mr. Fairchild? What kind of pictures do you take?”
“Good ones.” He wasn’t joking. “I take the kind of pictures that magazine editors are currently calling Life Studies. I’ve been concentrating on New York’s street people lately. Hustlers, rap-dancers, hot dog vendors, mimes, twelve-year-olds who walk along Fourteenth Street talking on pocket phones. Those nuts who wear billboards announcing the end of the world by next Tuesday.” He smiled. “Cops.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s the faces that fascinate me,” Fairchild went on. “I don’t do straight composition photography anymore. I have to have a compelling face in there to bring the picture alive.” He gave her a searching look. “I’d like to photograph you.”
