Dead Famous Page 18

  She had a death grip on the doorknob as her head moved slowly from side to side, so deep in denial that she almost missed his next words. And now Marvin Argus’s eyes were shocked wide by her inappropriate smile, for he had just put a name to the dead man, and it was not Riker.

  The meal had arrived a few minutes after Mallory. Their waitress never bothered with the formality of menus since they always ordered the same thing. The past six months had dissolved, and it was as it had always been, two partners eating eggs over easy and drinking coffee black.

  When their meal was done and the second cup of coffee poured, Mallory slapped a thick sheaf of papers on the table and said, “Sign it.”

  Riker looked down at the familiar appeal form to challenge his separation from NYPD. “How many of these things have you got?”

  “I can print them out all damn day. I can keep this up as long as you can.”

  He pushed the paperwork to one side. “What did Lieutenant Coffey say?”

  “He gave Commissioner Beale your field report.”

  “What field report?”

  “I typed one up for you. It gives Special Crimes Unit all the credit for locating MacPherson and placing him in Argus’s custody.”

  “And what about the other fed, the local man? Did you make him look like an idiot for losing Ian Zachary last night? That was your plan, wasn’t it?”

  “You mean Hennessey? I talked to him this morning—told him about what happened to Zachary in the parking garage. Then I told him I wasn’t planning to mention it to anyone.” She handed a folded sheet of paper across the table. “Read this.”

  He took the report and held it out at arm’s length, squinting at the text. There was no mention of the New York fed and his botched security detail, nor the shooting in the parking garage. Agent Hennessey was now in Mallory’s debt. Clever brat. She had no gift for making friends, but she knew how to build up the favor bank. She was even better at this than her old man. He folded the report and gave it back to her, glad that he had misjudged her—though perhaps not entirely. What she had done for Agent Hennessey also had blackmail potential.

  “Did he say anything about MacPherson?”

  “No,” said Mallory. “He had to ask me the name of the shooter. Interesting?”

  “Argus isn’t sharing information with the New York bureau.”

  “No.” She smiled. “So we’ll let the local feds find out the hard way.”

  “You’re setting up a war between the Chicago bureau and New York?” Yes, Mallory would find that irresistible, dividing them, weakening them. There was no doubt left that she was plotting a case takeover. “So what happens when Zachary makes out a complaint on the shooting?”

  “He won’t,” said Mallory. “I took care of that when he called me last night. I told him he’d look like an idiot with no corroboration—since the only witnesses hated his guts.”

  “And what about Jo?”

  “She was there?”

  And now he knew that Mallory had not stayed to watch the show, but he would always wonder if she had roughly predicted the outcome. Had she set him up to intercept MacPherson? No, that was crazy. He was giving her too much credit and pushing his trust issues over the edge. “No,” he said. “Jo wasn’t there. I just wondered if Coffey knows she needs police protection.”

  “Can’t justify the manpower,” said Mallory. “She’s already got feds watching her round the clock.”

  Riker shook his head. “Argus pulled them off that detail last night. He’s probably got them watching MacPherson full-time.”

  The next item of his agenda was the fake blind man Mallory had followed away from the bar last night. This was forgotten when he turned to the window, distracted by the sudden commotion on the street. Detectives were pouring out of the station house on the run, climbing into cars and peeling off down the street. Only Jack Coffey was still on foot and heading for the door to the café.

  Trouble.

  Riker turned to Mallory. “Any theories?”

  Before she could answer, Lieutenant Coffey strode through the door and crossed the room to their table.

  “Hey, boss,” said Riker, forgetting for the moment that he was no longer a detective in this man’s squad. “Who’s minding the store?”

  “Janos needs backup on a crime scene.” Jack Coffey picked up the breakfast bill and laid down his own cash. “I need both of you. Now!”

  “But, I’m not a cop anymore.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be turning in field reports, Riker. MacPherson’s dead, and you were one of the last people to see him alive.” Coffey’s thumb gestured toward the door. “Now get your ass in gear.”

  Mallory was already out the door and moving toward her car, running to catch up with the posse of homicide cops.

  14

  IT WAS A STANDOFF.

  The crime scene was on the floor below Johanna Apollo’s, and the front room was similar to her own, differing only in furniture and bloodstained drapes. The tension ratcheted higher and higher as men in suits and uniforms squared off against one another. Detective Janos, a large man with a thug’s face, was flanked by two patrolmen, and all three were engaged in a quiet staring contest with an equal number of New York FBI agents. The police detective glanced at his wristwatch, and Johanna guessed that he was expecting reinforcements. The corpse on the carpet seemed almost incidental to this dogs’ war over territory, but no one had yet pissed on the walls to stake a claim. The atmosphere was charged, and more energy was added with each person to enter the room. The outer hall, a contrast of noisy conversations, was filled with crime-scene technicians, men and women with nothing to do until this matter was settled.

  The tension doubled when a fourth agent, Marvin Argus, returned from a hallway skirmish with a man from NYPD Forensics. And now the Chicago agent made a tactical error as he knelt down by the body—not his body, not yet. When Johanna had first entered this room in Argus’s company, the New York agents had given the man a dour reception. His own people considered him an intruder on this crime scene, and he had made things worse by assuming an air of command unsupported by rank. The local FBI men now seemed more closely allied with the police, all but spitting in Argus’s direction.

  An imposing gray-haired man with a military air and posture stood in the neutral zone near the front door, and he was looking her way. With the evidence of his expensive suit and a medical bag at his feet, Johanna guessed that he was no minion, but the chief pathologist himself. He towered over his own people, two men wearing jackets emblazoned with the initials of the medical examiner’s office, and they called him Dr. Slope. Though this distinguished man was a stranger to her, he gave her a nod of hello. Earlier, his face had been expressionless stone, but fault lines of kindness had since appeared. She would not describe his gaze as simple curiosity. No, after fine-tuning her intuition, she decided that his eyes held merely deep sadness on her account, and there was more to it than pity for the hunchback. The aspect was closer to empathy. For the first time since entering the hotel room, Johanna felt that she was not alone. She smiled at this good doctor, who was wasted on the dead.

  More detectives, a score of them all flashing badges, came barreling through the door to make a stand behind Janos. Mallory, the only woman, stood shoulder to shoulder with the men to form a wall of police, and, though none of them held a weapon, the room was electrified, as if all the guns had gone off at once, and real violence could only be moments away. Riker, the last to arrive, broke through the ranks and aimed his whole body at Marvin Argus. No one had time to stop him—assuming that they would want to. He took Argus down with one closed fist to the face. The hapless agent lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling and bleeding from his nose.

  The sudden mayhem shook Johanna with revulsion—and it was also oddly satisfying. This latter reaction was shared all around the room. She might have expected the New York agents to close ranks around one of their own, but they stood very still with their hands in their pockets, perh
aps as a precaution against spontaneous applause.

  “You stupid bastard.” Riker stood over the fallen Argus, shouting, “I handed that poor man over to you! You were supposed to take care of him last night—all night! Did you go to sleep on the job?” He pointed to the corpse lying near the window and partially covered by a fallen set of bloodied drapes. “And why would you bring him to this hotel? You knew the Reaper was following Johanna. You knew he was watching this place. It’s like you invited that freak inside for a clear shot at murdering MacPherson.”

  Apparently, this detail was news to the agents from the New York bureau. The senior man hailed one of the police by name, saying, “Lieutenant Coffey—a word?”

  When the two men returned from their brief conference in the next room, the dispute over turf had been settled. Possession of the corpse was yielded to the force with the greatest numbers.

  Very wise.

  Or had the police lieutenant purchased this crime scene with a promise of silence on the embarrassing matter of federal incompetence?

  The three New York agents were walking toward the door, then suddenly turned back and, as an afterthought, picked up the debris of Marvin Argus, lifting him from the floor and removing him from the room before his own blood could confuse the evidence by mingling with MacPherson’s.

  “Guys?” A nod from Lieutenant Coffey cleared more people from the room. “Watch where you step—not like it’ll help much. Jesus. Did the crime-scene techs get any time in here?”

  “Yeah,” said Janos. “Everything was photographed and diagrammed before the feds showed up.” The detective accepted a large, clear-plastic bag from a man in uniform, then held it up so his lieutenant could examine the dark clothing inside. “This suit and cap belong to the bellman. We found the guy half naked and stuffed in a trash bin. The suit was thrown on top of him. He’s still breathing, but not making much sense. So I figure the Reaper hit him from behind and used this suit to protect his own clothes from blood splatters.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky with hair and fibers.” Coffey turned to face Johanna. “Dr. Apollo, you saw Agent Kidd’s crime scene. Notice anything different here?”

  “The writing on the wall.” She turned to the single line of block letters scrawled in dried blood: Ten down and two to go. Beneath these words was the trademark reported in the newspapers, a red scythe. “Timothy Kidd’s murderer didn’t leave a drawing or a message.” She watched the medical examiner roll the dead man on his back. “I think you’ll find that his trachea is cut. That’s different, too. Mac was drowning in his own blood.” She turned to the smudges of blood on the wall by the window. “See those fist marks? That’s frustration and a call for help. He couldn’t cry out. All he could do was bang on the walls, but no one heard him.”

  Coffey glanced at the medical examiner, who nodded in the affirmative. The lieutenant turned his attention back to Johanna. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  She pointed to sections of wall on both sides of the front door. “No blood in that area. The killer didn’t cut him right away, not the second he walked in. There was probably time for a few words of conversation.” She walked ten paces along an adjacent wall and paused by the line of red spots across a framed painting. “That’s the fly of blood from the knife. Mac was standing here when he was cut.” And this was only one of the lessons from her months as a crime-scene cleaner. She stared at other areas marked by fountains of MacPherson’s blood. “At least one carotid artery was severed. That would account for those splashes on the wall. A cut to the jugular vein would’ve been more like a leak—more like Timothy Kidd’s murder. Mac’s death was quicker.”

  She pointed to a corner that was free of bloodstains. “That’s where the killer stood—watching Mac die.” Her head bowed as she studied the drops and small puddles of blood on the floor. “Mac was moving in circles. I would’ve expected that. He was losing so much blood—so fast. The larger puddles have a different pattern. No focus anymore, just mindless ambling, spending his blood, dying in profound shock and absolute terror.” She turned to face the lieutenant. “Forgive me. I’m telling you things that you already know. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No problem,” said Coffey. “Be as thorough as you like.” He stepped up to the unbloodied section of wall, then turned to survey the room from a murderer’s point of view. “How do you know the Reaper stayed to watch his victim die?”

  “She’s right about that,” said the medical examiner. He held up a plastic bag with a note inside. “This was stuffed in the mouth—most likely after he was dead or there’d be more blood on the plastic.”

  A gloved crime-scene technician took the bag from the doctor’s hand, opened it and extracted the typewritten note with tweezers. He read the message aloud, “ ‘I’m too stupid to go on living.’ That’s all it says.”

  “I thought that was part of the message the Reaper always left on the walls,” said Coffey.

  “No, never,” said Johanna. “But that’s what the reporters were told. The note in the victim’s mouth was the only detail the FBI could conceal from the media and Ian Zachary’s fans.”

  Mallory stepped forward, eyes on Johanna, saying, accusing, “And now we’ve established that Agent Kidd gave you crime-scene details. Or maybe you—”

  Riker caught Mallory’s eye, and unspoken things passed between them. The younger detective fell silent and stepped back into the fold of police.

  “Timothy thought I could help,” said Johanna, “if I knew more about the ritual aspects.” Head bowed, she stared at her clasped hands.

  “Dr. Apollo?” Lieutenant Coffey touched her shoulder. “Does anything else resemble the crime scene for the dead FBI agent?”

  “There was no note stuffed in Timothy’s mouth,” she said. “Nothing in Bunny’s mouth, either. The ritual elements were only for the jurors. And Timothy didn’t panic and run around in circles like this. There was a single line of blood on one wall of my reception room, a light splatter pattern from the blade. But the rest of the blood was confined to a small area. When his throat was cut, he just sat down in a chair and died quietly.” Glances went from cop to cop all around the room, and she knew that she had not been believed.

  Lieutenant Coffey was incredulous. “The FBI agent never put up a fight?”

  “There were no defense wounds,” said Johanna, “if that’s what you’re asking. He just sat down and died. He would’ve lasted longer that way, less movement, less blood lost. Apart from that, Timothy’s death had more in common with Bunny’s. They were a different class of victims, more wary of their surroundings. Their jugular cuts actually did less immediate damage. If I can guess your next question—yes, those two could’ve been saved with pressure on their wounds and prompt medical attention. Given the aspect of heightened paranoia, the Reaper wasn’t quick enough to do his usual thorough job on either of them. Bunny might have screamed, but I doubt that anyone would’ve paid any attention to him.”

  She heard the sound of the body bag zipper, but kept her eyes cast down as the medical examiner’s men rolled their gurney into the hall. She might have expected the crime-scene technicians to take over now. Instead, she watched the shoes of detectives returning to the room and surrounding her. Johanna took shallow breaths and braced herself for a new attack.

  “What about Agent Kidd?” Coffey’s shoes were only a few feet away. “You’re saying he could’ve screamed, too? So you figure he was just sitting there in your reception room—patiently waiting for help—quietly.” That last word carried the unmistakable tone of disbelief. “Was he waiting for you, Doctor?”

  Mallory’s running shoes stepped forward. “You were in the next room, isn’t that right, Dr. Apollo?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you never heard a thing.” Janos’s massive brogans lumbered toward her. “No screams, no scuffle—nothing.”

  All the detectives converged on her, all firing questions at once, enclosing her in a circle of bodies. One of Dante’s outer rings
? No. Johanna decided that hell was not a place after all, but an ongoing, endless event, a traveling creep show that followed her about.

  She closed her eyes.

  Her right hand was gently pulled away from her side, fingers intertwined with her own, and then—silence. She opened her eyes to see Riker standing beside her. The other police were backing off in a show of respect for this angry man.

  Victor Patchock set his red wig on the dresser and surveyed his world of one room and a bath, bare walls and a patch of floor. Some time ago, he had removed the doors to the closet and the bathroom, and even the cupboard doors of the kitchenette, for they might also give cover to the enemy. But he could not remove the very walls to get at the smallest invaders, the mice. He could hear them tunneling day and night, the soft crumbles of plaster falling away under quick pink feet. Their movements inside the walls and the ceiling were constant, and he was alert to their every sound. They invaded his dreams. He dreamed them now, eyes wide open, staring at a bit of sky, all that he could see of it from the barred air-shaft window. The street window had been recently boarded up, lest he be seduced into exposing himself to the outside world on those shut-in days when the view of the air shaft was not enough.

  His former life was so far removed in time and memory. It must have belonged to someone else. Victor wanted to go home again. He could not. And he was so changed, no one would recognize him. He ran one hand over his bald head, suddenly shocked, forgetting that he had mutilated himself by shaving off his hair.

  He crossed the room to peer through a crack in the boarded-up front window. The street below had sparse pedestrian traffic, but soon people would be coming home from work, filling up the spaces all around him, above and below him, a hive of people stressed out and strung out. But the mice were always with him.

  Victor selected a white cane from the four in his umbrella stand and whacked one wall to scare the rodent army that he could hear but not see. He beat the plaster harder, making cracks and gouges, infuriated that he could not get at them. His cane snapped; his mind snapped. He walked back to the air-shaft window and looked upward to the small square of daylight. The walls crumbled around him as the sky grew darker, and this was his only proof of hours passing, for he no longer had any clear sense of time.