Full Frontal Murder

by Barbara Paul

  Alex Fairchild was standing there waiting for the elevator as the doors slid open to let Marian out. “Lieutenant Larch!” he said, surprised. “I hope you’ve come to tell us that Hugh Galloway is safely under lock and key.”

  “I’m sorry, no. How’s Bobby doing?”

  “Oh, Bobby’s doing fine. He’s the only one of us who is. He told his bodyguard that he’s staying here while his own house gets ‘fixed.’ He doesn’t understand what happened.”

  “He must know there was a fire.”

  “Only because we told him. All he remembers is that his mother woke him up before he was ready and carried him out-of-doors in his pajamas. He didn’t see much of anything.” Fairchild peered into the elevator she was holding open. “Where’s the professor?”

  He meant Perlmutter; with his wire-rim glasses and bush of wiry black hair, the detective did have a scholarly look to him. “He’s at home grading papers. Are your sister and Bobby in?”

  “Yes—Rita’s afraid to go out. Look, I’m due at a shoot. If you want to talk to me, do you mind coming along?”

  “Just one question and I’ll let you go. Who reported the cleaning woman to the service, you or your sister?”

  “I did. Why?”

  “The owner denies ever getting the complaint.”

  Fairchild made a tsk sound. “The charitable interpretation of that would be to say he forgot about it. But he’s lying, Lieutenant. He’s going to deny any of his employees ever did anything wrong.”

  Everybody lies. “What’s the owner’s name?”

  A smile played around his mouth. “A test?” But he concentrated on remembering. “It was an odd name.” He frowned. “Why am I thinking of a calendar … Gregorian?”

  Marian nodded. “Close enough. It’s Egrorian. All right, Mr. Fairchild, I won’t hold you any longer.”

  He stepped into the elevator. “Don’t forget Thursday,” he said just as the doors closed.

  Thursday? Then she remembered: a private showing of his photographs at the Something-or-Other Gallery on Fifty-seventh Street. Marian walked down the hall and rang the doorbell of apartment number 1404.

  A male voice came through the door. “Who is it?” One of the bodyguards.

  Marian held her badge up to the eyehole and waited. The door was opened by an unsmiling man in a conservative business suit. “I’m Lieutenant Larch, Midtown South. I need to see Mrs. Galloway.”

  He stepped back to let her enter, and then led her down a white staircase to an open area on a lower level where a television was playing with the sound low. Rita Galloway sat looking at the set with a glassy-eyed stare that suggested she wasn’t seeing what was on the screen. She jumped when Marian spoke her name.

  “Oh, Lieutenant!” She clicked off the TV. “Any news?”

  “A little.” She sat down on what looked like a pile of deep-blue pillows but turned out to be a chair. Alex Fairchild’s apartment was so ultra-modern it looked like the set of a futuristic movie. Airy and open, no clutter. The bodyguard took another chair near the foot of the stairway; he hadn’t spoken once. “Where’s Bobby?”

  “In the next room, with his guard. What’s the news?”

  “It looks as if you were right about the cleaning woman being a plant.” Marian went on to explain about Consuela Palmero. “It’s not her real name. But she’s a lead.”

  “To Hugh?”

  “Or to someone who’s after Bobby for the ransom. I know—you’re convinced it’s your husband. But until we find something that links him directly to these things that have been happening, we can’t arrest him.”

  “This is insane! Hugh tried to kill us last night and—”

  “Mrs. Galloway, stop and think. Does your husband want Bobby dead?”

  “No! He wants me dead!”

  “So how could he expect the same homemade bomb to get you but not Bobby? It doesn’t make sense. Fire is always dangerous, but neither of you was hurt, were you? That bomb was meant to badger you, not kill you.”

  Rita Galloway was silent a moment and then said, “That stained-glass dragon is irreplaceable, you know. It was one of a kind. The artisan who fashioned it died last year.”

  A door opened and Bobby rushed in, followed by another unsmiling man in a business suit. “Mama! I wrote my name!” He held up a sheet of paper on which “Bobby” had been drawn in green crayon.

  “Why, honey, that’s wonderful!” Rita fussed over him a few minutes and then shot a questioning look at Bobby’s bodyguard.

  The man spread his hands. “He wanted to know.”

  Rita gave him a big smile, the first Marian had ever seen on her face. Marian leaned forward toward the boy. “Hi, Bobby. Remember me?”

  He turned shy. “Mary Ann,” he said in a tiny voice.

  “Hey, you remember!” She leaned back in her chair: less threatening. “Good for you.”

  “I drew a cow,” he volunteered.

  “You did? Cows are hard to draw.”

  He nodded soberly. “I never see a cow.”

  “That should make it even harder.”

  “I see monkeys, and goats, and, and, and snakes—”

  “Bobby,” his mother interrupted gently. “Ah, Mary Ann and I need to talk right now. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Bobby dropped to his hands and knees and started chugging away like a choo-choo.

  Rita watched a moment to make sure he was absorbed in his play and then turned back to Marian. “Are you having Hugh followed?” she asked in a low voice.

  Marian had been afraid she’d ask that. “There’s no point. He spends most of his day at the office, doesn’t he? There are a dozen ways out of the Galloway Building. We can’t watch them all. And if he is guilty, he’s hiring someone to do his dirty work for him. He didn’t … ah …” She remembered just in time that Bobby was in the room. “He didn’t do the job outside the church himself. And it’s unlikely he ran the risk of being seen in your neighborhood last night.”

  Rita sighed. “That’s true.” Bobby had crawled under an end table that looked like an exhibit from the Museum of Modern Art, playing hide-and-seek with himself.

  “But accomplices … that’s another matter. We have a line on one of them, the Palmero woman. And we have the face of the other, the man you described for the computer portrait. And you seem well protected here.” Marian glanced over at Bobby’s guard. “What agency are you with?”

  “Vinni Security,” he said.

  Marian nodded. A reliable rent-a-cop outfit; no elderly retirees armed with guns they could barely lift. “Mrs. Galloway, I’d like you to consider seriously the possibility that your husband isn’t behind this.”

  “What do you mean? Of course he’s behind it! How can you—”

  “Please, hear me out. Your husband’s feeling as beleagured as you are, and you’re both accusing the other of being responsible for what’s happening.”

  Rita Galloway made a sound of disgust. “Hugh wasn’t the one who was firebombed last night!” Then she suddenly remembered Bobby was there and jerked her head around to see if he was listening.

  The boy was paying no attention to them; he was too busy trying to pull open a shallow drawer in the art museum end table. “It’s stuck,” he complained.

  “No, Bobby,” his mother said. “It’s locked.”

  “Why?”

  “Uncle Alex always keeps it locked.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Back to being a choo-choo.

  Rita returned her attention to what Marian had been saying. “Look, I know how convincing he can be. I fell for his line once myself. But I’m telling you—”

  “Mrs. Galloway, please listen. We have to investigate the possibility that an outsider is responsible.” Marian’s eyes traveled back to the locked end table drawer. “It might even be someone you know.” The other woman frowned. “He’s made two attempts. I’d like you to think over all the people you know—not just your friends but casual acquaintances and enemies too, if you have any. Try to isolate those who
need money, those who might want to hurt you.” The end table drawer was shallow, not more than four inches deep.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but that would be a waste of time. I know who’s responsible.”

  What could be kept in a drawer that shallow? A few papers. A gun. Marian raised her voice and said, “Bobby?”

  He peeked out at her from behind a sofa.

  “Bobby, that drawing of the cow you made? I really would like to see that. Will you show it to me?”

  His face lit up. “Sure!” He ran out of the room, followed by his guard.

  Marian stood up and walked over to the end table. “Quickly, Mrs. Galloway. What’s in the drawer?”

  “Oh, well, ah, this is Alex’s place—”

  “Answer the question. Is there a gun in there?”

  Rita Galloway slumped. “Alex got it for me. I refused to take it—I didn’t want a gun in the house with Bobby. But after what happened last night, I’ve changed my mind. Oh, it’s legal—Alex has a permit.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Ah … in the drawer with the gun, I believe.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Rita got up and moved over to something hanging on the wall that looked like a comet with a long tail; only then did Marian realize it was a clock. Rita reached behind the clock and took out a key.

  In the drawer was a .38 revolver and a box of shells, resting on top of a piece of paper. Marian slid the permit out and read it; it was in order, licensing Alex Fairchild to keep a weapon at his place of habitation. “This permit was issued only two weeks ago.”

  “Yes. Alex had no reason to think I was in danger before that.”

  “What if Bobby finds the key?”

  “Lieutenant, we just moved in here a matter of hours ago. Alex and I haven’t had time to childproof the place yet. We’ll work something else out.”

  She was just locking the drawer again when Bobby came bursting into the room, waving a piece of yellow construction paper. “Cow!”

  “Let me see.” Marian took the paper. Bobby had used a purple crayon to draw his cow; Gelett Burgess would have been pleased. The cow was recognizably a cow, even though the udder had nine teats. Marian wasn’t sure, but she thought the drawing was unusually detailed for the work of a four-year-old; perhaps the little boy had inherited his mother’s talent. “Bobby,” she said, “that is just about the best cow I have ever seen.”

  He grinned and hugged himself.

  Marian nodded. “It’s a wonderful cow. You take good care of this drawing.” She held the paper out to him.

  Bobby wouldn’t take it. “It’s for you!”

  She felt flattered. “You’re giving it to me? To keep?”

  “Yes!” He was jumping up and down. “To keep!”

  Marian hugged the little boy and thanked him. “I’m going to put this up in my office. A lot of people will see it.”

  “There you go, Bobby,” his mother said with a smile. “Your first exhibition.”

  Marian said good-bye. “I hope you’ll do what I asked, Mrs. Galloway. Try to think of people you know who need money or might act out of malice.” She started up the white staircase.

  “It would be a waste of time, Lieutenant.”

  Marian stopped halfway up the stairs and looked down at her. “Help us out here. Cooperate.”

  Rita Galloway shrugged and turned her back.

  7

  Marian used her pocket phone to call the Ninth Precinct station; she asked for Detective Sanchez. “Gloria? It’s a little early, but can you get away for lunch? I’m buying.”

  “I can always get away for a free lunch,” Gloria Sanchez replied lazily. “Your precinct or mine?”

  “How about meeting halfway?” They agreed on San Remo’s on Eighth Avenue in half an hour.

  As it turned out, Gloria was late; Marian had already ordered by the time the detective from the Ninth sat down across the table from her. “Sorrree,” Gloria said with a lilt in her voice. “DiFalco call’ me in at the las’ second.”

  “And how is dear old DiFalco?” No love lost between Marian and her former captain.

  “Gettin’ kinda twitchy, if you ask me, and you jus’ did.”

  “Twitchy how?”

  “Pre-paranoid. He don’ quite thin’ the worl’ is out to get ’eem, but he gettin’ there. What did you order?”

  That ’eem for him told Marian that Gloria had gone into Hispanic overdrive, something she did when she was irritated. Unless she was being African-American that day, in which case her speech would become mo’ po’ boy the more annoyed she got. Gloria switched between Hispanic and black as the mood suited her, one legacy of a mixed parentage.

  Gloria gave the waiter her order and then asked Marian, “When’s Kelly leaving for California?”

  “She flew to L.A. yesterday. Hates it already.”

  Gloria grinned. “A true Noo Yawker. I thought she lived there once?”

  “A long time ago. She didn’t like it then either.”

  “She’ll adjust. She always does.”

  Marian waited until their pasta arrived and they’d both taken the edge off their hunger. Then she said, “Gloria, I know you don’t like me to talk about this, but I have to. I want you to reconsider your decision never to take the Sergeants Exam.”

  “I’m goin’ to take it.”

  “If there’s anyone qualified to—What did you say?”

  Gloria laughed. “I say I’m goin’ to take the Sergeants Exam.”

  Marian almost dropped her fork in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned! You really are?”

  “I really are.”

  “Gloria, I’ve been after you for over a year to take that exam, and all I ever got from you was I don’ wanna talk about it. You want to tell me why you changed your mind?”

  “I was afraid if I passed the test I’d get transferred out of the Ninth.”

  Marian blinked. “You like working for Captain DiFalco?”

  “Shit, no! I don’ like workin’ for DiFalco any more’n you did. But I had my Gran livin’ with me, Marian. She’s old and frail, and I needed to run home and check on her whenever I could. I could do that from the Ninth Precinct stationhouse.”

  “Which you might not be able to if you were transferred.” Marian nodded. “I see. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “It dint seem right, usin’ Gran as an excuse.”

  Marian could see that too. “Where is she now?”

  “I took her to Alabama, where she was born. She don’ have much time left, and she say she don’ wanna die here. Her great-niece is takin’ care of her.”

  “You miss her, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I do. She’s the only family I had. But she’s better off where she is. At least she doesn’t have to stay locked in all day the way she did here,” Gloria said flatly.

  Marian grinned. “Do you realize you just switched from Rosie Perez to Nichelle Nichols?”

  “I did?” Gloria laughed. “Gran’s black, and I was thinkin’ ’bout her.” She tossed her head, making her gold loop earrings dance. “But I look like zee nice Puerto Rican gel, yes?” The lilt was back in her voice.

  “Oh, yes,” Marian agreed. “Well, this is great news, Gloria. You know we’re short one sergeant in Midtown South.”

  “You thin’ Captain Murtaugh put in a request for me?”

  “I’m sure he will. Especially since Sergeant Buchanan is retiring at the end of the year. We’ll be needing two sergeants.”

  “Whass wrong with Midtown South detectives? They no take the test?”

  “Six of them are going to. But, frankly, only one of them has any real chance.”

  “Don’t tell me—Perlmutter?”

  “Got it in one. So you see, we have to find another sergeant somewhere … and I’d just as soon it be you.”

  “’Sokay wi’ me!” Gloria agreed cheerily.

  They finished their lunch and went their separate ways. Marian was feeling exhilarated; Captain Mur
taugh had seen Gloria at work on two cases that had involved both Midtown South and the Ninth Precinct, and he knew what she could do. Marian loved the idea of having Gloria to work with every day, the way they’d once worked together in the Ninth. Gloria was not only a good detective, she was also a friend, someone Marian could trust in a way she could never trust, say, Sergeant Buchanan.

  At the stationhouse, she stopped by the captain’s office. “How do you feel about putting a little pressure on Personnel?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Give me a good enough cause and I’ll put pressure on anybody.”

  “Gloria Sanchez.” She went on to explain that Gloria would be taking the Sergeants Exam. “And since Midtown South has gone with only two sergeants for … how long now? A year and a half? Surely Personnel should be willing to give you first choice, don’t you think?”

  He smiled. “Sounds reasonable to me. But didn’t you once tell me Sanchez refused to take the exam?”

  “She had a family situation that was holding her back, Jim. But that’s resolved now, and she’s champing at the bit.”

  “Good. Okay, I’ll put in a name request, both for her and for Perlmutter. Now all they have to do is pass the test.”

  “Yeah, that’s all.”

  He scratched the side of his nose. “Perlmutter has a good chance. Does she?”

  “She does if she studies—and she’s motivated. Remember who her boss is.”

  Murtaugh half-laughed. “DiFalco’s going to raise holy hell if I take another of his detectives.”

  “Oh, let him. He doesn’t deserve Gloria.”

  “Meaning I do? Careful, Marian, that sounds like flattery.”

  “Ah. Gotta watch that.”

  When she reached her office, she found a phone message from O’Toole saying that Gordon Egrorian, the owner of Maids-in-a-Row, would be in that afternoon to help build a computer face for Consuela Palmero. Perlmutter was back from talking to Rita Galloway’s therapist. But first Marian took Bobby’s crayon drawing of a cow and taped it to her file cabinet. A cow! What did city kids know of cows? Bobby had seen pictures, of course; bovines probably seemed like exotic animals to him.

  “A purple cow?” Perlmutter’s voice said over her shoulder.

  Marian sat down at her desk. “Bobby Galloway’s work.”