An Officer and a Gentle Woman

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “We’re getting warrants for the Walker town house on Lex and the country house in Maine this afternoon.”

  Lafferty groaned. He’d had enough of sifting through drawers of lingerie and taking apart exercise equipment.

  “She couldn’t possibly have made it to Maine and back, Charlie, give me a break. Does she own a Concorde?”

  “Woods wants us to check it, we check it.”

  “Isn’t there enough of a case with the witnesses? Why do we have to go through all this?” he asked wearily.

  “Captain Cramer wants it wrapped tight as a drum,” Chandler said, turning back to him. “He’s got my vote. Aren’t you tired of assembling cases that go south for lack of evidence once they get before a jury?”

  Lafferty didn’t reply, looking around restlessly for a clean foam cup.

  “See you tonight, kid,” Chandler called, and vanished from the doorway.

  Lafferty located a cup that was only slightly stained and filled it with coffee smelling strongly of afterburn. The first sip confirmed that it was as old as Chandler’s jokes, but he drank it anyway, hoping to remain conscious long enough to make it back to his apartment. He was leaning against the chipped tile counter, contemplating whether he should have breakfast before signing out, when he saw Alicia Walker go past the glass door and into the visitors’ room, followed closely by a nervous-looking patrolman and Captain Cramer.

  Lafferty leaned back out of visual range and waited until Cramer had left the kid posted outside the door. Then he set his half-empty cup on the counter and went out into the hall. He didn’t even think about what he was doing; he was acting instinctively, responding to an autonomic directive as natural as the urge to breathe. He nodded to the patrolman as he passed, moving quickly before the boy could ask him what he was doing.

  Alicia looked up as he entered and her expression cleared.

  “Oh, Officer Lafferty,” she said.

  “Detective,” he said, correcting her.

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. That’s important, isn’t it?” she said, seemingly annoyed with herself for underranking him.

  “It was to me,” he said lightly. They gazed at each other. She looked as if she’d spent a sleepless night, but was still beautiful, her irises so clear that he was sure a side view would make them seem transparent. He was trying not to stare, but her features exerted a force on him, like the moon drawing the tides. He could not look away.

  “Is there something else I need to do?” she said sharply.

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was told they would bring my lawyer in here to see me. I’m to be arraigned at nine, whatever that means.”

  “It’s just a preliminary hearing for the judge to set bail.”

  “Will they let me out on bail?” she asked. “Hector, Judge Reynolds, said the district attorney might be trying to make an example of me and would argue to keep me confined.” She smiled thinly. “I understand the DA wants to land in the mayor’s office, and my misfortune may help him get there.”

  The fear underlying her bantering tone made him wait a long moment before answering. “You’re not a career criminal, Mrs. Walker. I feel sure they’ll let you out.”

  “I seem to be convicted already,” she said.

  “I can’t discuss your specific case outside the presence of your counsel, but I can tell you that in my experience people in your situation are usually released on bail. A high bail, but they get out.”

  “People in my situation,” she murmured thoughtfully. Then her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand, Detective. Why are you here to see me?”

  Good question, Lafferty thought. “I just wanted to see if there was anything you needed,” he said.

  She gazed at him warily. “How thoughtful,” she said, her words belying her expression.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he said.

  She looked blank. Then, “Oh, yes. I forgot to mention this to Hector and it’s been worrying me. It’s morning now and news of all this will have reached the schools where my children are staying. I don’t want them to hear...” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip.

  “Yes, of course. I understand completely. What do you want me to do?”

  “If you could contact my grandmother, Hannah Green, Hector has the number, and make sure she has called my children, I would appreciate it very much. To learn that their father is dead and their mother has been arrested for his murder—” She stopped abruptly. After a moment she began again. “Hannah would find some easier way of breaking it to them than letting them hear it from an announcer on the morning programs. And I’d like her to bring them back from school—children can be so unkind, and they should be spared as much commentary from their classmates as possible. Can you do that for me, call her? Would it be permitted? My grandmother may have talked to Hector about this already, but I won’t rest easy until I know for sure.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said quietly.

  “Are you sure you can?” she asked, her gaze measuring.

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and nodded, satisifed. He appreciated the way she took his word for it, which made him determined to scale fortress walls to complete the errand.

  They both looked up as Captain Cramer paused outside the door and looked in through the glass.

  “I have to go, Mrs. Walker,” Lafferty said.

  She laid her hand on his arm, touching his coat sleeve. “You’ve been very kind,” she said, her gaze direct and full of feeling. “No matter what happens to me, I will remember your kindness when I needed it most.”

  Lafferty found himself speechless, then turned away quickly before she could see his expression. He brushed past Cramer, who called his name sharply.

  “Later, Cap, I’m headed for the John,” he called over his shoulder, and kept going. He would figure out some excuse to give Cramer later, justifying his visit to Alicia Walker.

  First, he had to get in touch with Hannah Green.

  When the search team entered the Walker town house at Seventy-eight Street and Lexington Avenue, Chandler and Lafferty paused in the entry hall and looked up at the Lucite staircase ascending regally to the second floor. There was a moment of reverential silence.

  “I’ll be damned,” Chandler said, breaking it. “This looks like Joan Crawford’s house in Mommie Dearest.”

  Lafferty had to smile. It did. The whole place was done in a gray-and-ivory, Art Deco style reminiscent of the thirties, as cold and impersonal as a magazine illustration. Chandler led the way inside, and as they looked around Lafferty could see that this place was as different from the Scarsdale house as two dwellings could be. There were no pictures or flowers or personal touches, no indications that human beings actually lived here. Chandler placed a gloved finger on a counter and lifted a line of dust.

  “Maid comes in tomorrow,” he said.

  “What about Mrs. Walker?” Lafferty asked. “I gather her old man used this place when he was in town and she rarely ever came here.”

  “It looks it.” Chandler smiled. “Did you hear she’s out? Two million cash bail, what did I tell you? She’s probably on her way to Tripoli right now. First class.”

  “She’s not going anywhere, Charlie. Her kids are in school in Massachusetts and she won’t leave them.”

  “How do you know where her kids are?” Chandler asked suspiciously.

  “You should read the data sheets more often, Charlie,” Lafferty replied lightly, opening a drawer.

  “I leave that to you college boys,” Chandler replied. He sighed. “Let’s get to it,” he said.

  They had been searching for half an hour when Chandler, prying the grate off a heating duct, said, “Bingo.”

  Lafferty looked over at him, a sinking feeling in his chest.

  “What?” he said warily.

  Chandler extracted a package wrapped in canvas from inside the vent, handling it gingerly. He climbed down from the chair he was standing on and loosened
the canvas as the other cops crowded around him. Inside the package was a .32 revolver with a snub nose and a rubber pistol grip.

  Chandler picked it up with one gloved finger and left it dangling free for all to see.

  “Belong to anyone we know?” he asked, and grinned.

  Sandler Woods closed the Walker file on the desk in front of him and glanced out his window at the just-budding trees. With luck he would wrap this one up before the end of the summer.

  Sandy Woods had no qualms about shuttling Alicia Walker straight into a conviction for capital murder. He was a liberal democrat who had detested Joe Walker. The wife, smiling like a mannequin by Walker’s side and riding his questionable coattails into a luxurious life-style, he found little better. Good riddance to both of them, and if the publicity from prosecuting the case could carry him into Gracie Mansion, so much the better. He was salivating at the prospect of exposing Joe Walker as a sham and convicting his lovely widow as quickly as possible.

  He looked up as his assistant showed Drew Smithson through his door. Joe Walker’s press secretary looked gray around the gills and distinctly uncomfortable, but impeccably dressed, as usual.

  “Have a seat, Smithson,” Sandy said coolly.

  Smithson sat.

  “I’ve been reading the deposition you gave my assistant prosecutor,” Sandy said.

  Smithson said nothing.

  “It says in here that you can absolutely identify the shooter as Mrs. Walker, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Smithson sighed. “I knew the woman for fifteen years. I saw her almost everyday. It was Alicia.”

  Sandy nodded. “That brings me to my next question. What reason would she have to kill her husband?”

  Smithson was silent.

  “Can you think of any? My prosecutor didn’t really pin you down on this, but you’ll find I’m a lot more persistent.”

  Smithson wet his lips.

  “You’ll be subpoenaed, Smithson,” Sandy said quietly. “You might as well tell me now, because I guarantee I’ll get it out of you in court. You wouldn’t want to be charged with obstructing justice and hindering this investigation, would you?”

  Smithson looked down at his lap. “Joe played around. A lot. I don’t think he ever touched Alicia after their boy was born.”

  Sandy made a note in the file, feeling a stab of satisfaction. “Any particular woman?” he asked.

  Smitshon shrugged. “He liked prostitutes, escort services, you know. No muss, no fuss, no loose ends. There may have been one call girl he saw more than others, but nobody he was attached to emotionally.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “She made her life the kids, charities, cultural activities. The typical thing.”

  “No boyfriends?”

  “Joe made it clear that she would never see the kids again if she even thought about it, that she would be the big loser in a divorce. He could have done it, too. She knew that.”

  “So how did the wife take it? Was she ever treated for emotional problems, mental illness?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “So he had other women, in fact he never slept with her at all. She was ignored, restless, unhappy. Then with the additional pressure of his new involvement in politics, could she have flipped out?”

  “Isn’t counsel leading the witness?”

  “Would you say she was unstable?” Woods persisted.

  “I don’t know. She always seemed pretty tightly wound, like she had it all under control, but there had to be a lot of suppressed anger, had to be.”

  “Was there any physical abuse? Did Walker hit her, for example?”

  Smithson shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Well?”

  “I saw him swat her a couple of times.”

  “Swat?”

  “Slap, you know. Not hard. Just enough to...”

  “Show her who was boss?” Woods supplied sarcastically.

  Smithson looked away.

  “He sounds like a prince, your pal,” Woods observed. “What were they fighting about? The bimbos?”

  “Nah, after a while she just tolerated that. It was the kids. Joe wanted them sent away to boarding school, and she wanted to keep them with her and have them attend day classes. There was a lot of static about that.”

  “But he won.”

  “Joe always won,” Smithson said flatly.

  “Who else would want him dead?”

  “Wealthy people often have enemies.”

  “But his wife was the one who shot him in front of you,” Woods supplied.

  Smithson hung his head. “Maybe they weren’t Jane Wyman and Robert Young from Father Knows Best, but nobody deserves to go the way Joe did.”

  “So he had good qualities?”

  “Sure.”

  “Like keeping you employed for twenty years?”

  “I don’t think you’re donating your services to the city here, are you, Woods?” Smithson said, bristling.

  Sandy smiled slightly. “I think that will be all for to-day. If I need you again before the prelim I’ll let you know.”

  Smithson left the office in a great hurry, as if he were fleeing a burning building.

  Sandy grinned to himself as he slipped the Walker folder into place in the stand on his desk. He disdained computers; he liked to see everything written out before him in black-and-white. What he saw here was that he had motive, means, opportunity, eyewitnesses and evidence: Alicia Walker’s fingerprints were all over the gun.

  Even Harry Landau would not be able to save her.

  Chapter 2

  A middle-aged black woman with a lively, intelligent expression answered the door at the Walker house in Scarsdale.

  “Detective Lafferty, NYPD,” he said, flashing his badge. “Is Mrs. Walker in?”

  “She’s in the living room with Miss Fisher,” the woman said uncertainly.

  “Please tell her I’m here. I’ll wait.”

  The woman went inside and returned in seconds.

  “Mrs. Walker will see you,” she said.

  Lafferty was shown into the parlor. Alicia Walker was seated on one of the twin couches that faced the showy fireplace, across from a woman her age, a meticulously groomed redhead with a frank, observant face. The latter stared openly as Lafferty was led to the seated women.

  “Thank you, Maizie,” Alicia said. As the housekeeper left, she added, “Hello, Detective Lafferty. This is my friend, Helen Fisher. What can I do for you?”

  As Lafferty opened his mouth to answer, the beeper in his pocket went off loudly. He reached inside his jacket to silence it and then said, “I’m sorry. Is there a phone I could use?”

  Alicia gestured to the den across the hall. “Press the top button for an outside line. You can close the door for privacy.”

  As soon as Lafferty left, Helen said to Alicia, “Alicia Green Walker, you’ve been holding out on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? Who is that gorgeous creature?”

  “That,” Alicia said with exquisite irony, “is the policeman who arrested me.”

  Helen shook her head in amazement. “I must be doing something wrong. All the policemen I meet look like that actor from the old TV cop show, Broderick Crawford. Fat old guy with a fedora? He resembled a bulldog, if I recall correctly.”

  “It was hardly a romantic moment, Helen. He was taking me off to jail,” Alicia replied tartly.

  “You can’t tell me you didn’t notice him!”

  “I had just heard that Joe was dead and they were arresting me for his murder!” Alicia countered incredulously, at the same time thinking that she had noticed Lafferty. But she was not about to say that to Helen, who would seize upon the admission to pry further into Alicia’s confused and contradictory feelings.

  Helen’s expression changed. “You didn’t say anything to those policemen about you and Joe,” she said, lowering her
voice and glancing toward the door.

  Alicia shook her head. “No, but they’re going to find out anyway, Helen. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Lafferty returned, looking from one woman to the other as he entered the room.

  “I appreciate the use of the phone,” he said.

  “Detective Lafferty, would you like something to drink?” Alicia asked.

  “No, thank you. I’m on duty.”

  “Something soft? Cola?”

  “All right.”

  Alicia glanced into the hall. “I think Maizie went upstairs. I’ll get it.”

  She slipped out of the room and the minute she left, her friend said to Lafferty, “She’s up the creek, isn’t she?”

  Lafferty didn’t answer.

  “I know everybody thinks she did it,” Helen continued, “but I’m certain she couldn’t. Joe Walker was a louse and a phony and a damn hypocrite, but Alicia doesn’t have it in her to shoot anybody.”

  “If you want to help her you should call her defense attorney, Mr. Landau, and volunteer as a character witness.”

  “I’m not sure how long Mr. Landau will last. Alicia wants to replace him.”

  “That’s an idea that deserves close consideration, Ms. Fisher,” Lafferty said feelingly.

  Helen nodded. “Gotcha,” she said.

  Alicia returned with an iced drink for Lafferty, and Helen took that as her cue to go. She kissed Alicia goodbye, took another long look at Lafferty and left.

  “So, Detective, what brings you out here again?” Alicia said levelly, sitting once more.

  “You left your overnight bag in the property room at the station,” he said. “I brought it back for you. It’s in the hall.”

  “That’s very nice of Captain Cramer to send it out here. I’m afraid I was in such a hurry to leave that I never missed it.” She raised her brows delicately. “Is it usual to send a detective on such a minor mission?”

  He looked sheepish. “No, it’s not. The captain is, uh, anxious that the department—” He stopped.

  “Crosses all its Ts on this one?” she suggested archly.

  He nodded resignedly, then took a sip of his soda.

  “It’s almost lunchtime, would you like a sandwich to go with that?” she asked him. “My son will be coming back home shortly, and Maizie will be fixing him something”