Dead Famous Read online

  And now a new sound had been added. He could hear a thin stream of tinny music coming through the walls.

  The mice had a radio.

  Lieutenant Coffey stood beside the sound engineer known as Crazy Bitch. She had introduced herself that way, as if she had no other name. Detective Janos waited outside in the hall, for her sound booth was a small space. Jack Coffey wondered if she had bathed or changed her clothes in recent memory. Her bare feet were dirty, and the matted spikes of her hair stuck out at odd angles. She sounded rational. Speaking into the microphone of her headset, she introduced the police lieutenant to her boss in the studio on the other side of the window glass.

  Though it was not yet airtime, Ian Zachary was interviewing a guest with a baby face, torn jeans and new T-shirt with the call letters of the radio station. If this was the SoHo fan, then Mallory’s information had been correct. Coffey wondered if she really did have an informant at the station. Or had she planted an illegal bugging device in the studio? He was a long ways from collecting his pension, and it was best not to dwell on that.

  The shock-jock held up two fingers to tell the lieutenant that he would have to wait a few minutes.

  Not likely. Jack Coffey gently removed the headset from the sound engineer’s dirty hair and boomed into the mouthpiece, “NOW!”

  Zachary flinched with the sudden pain from his earphones, and the lieutenant could hear a buzzer sounding in the hall as the security door was unlocked. When Coffey and Janos entered the studio, the Englishman stood up to shake hands with them. “Hello, gentlemen. Pull up a couple of chairs.”

  Jack Coffey sat down. Janos remained standing, going with his strength, silent menacing via looming over small civilians like the man in the torn jeans, who was introduced as Randy of SoHo. The youngster had a vacant look about him, and the lieutenant wondered if he was high on drugs today, or was the boy bone stupid all the time?

  Coffey glanced at a clock on the wall. “Zachary, you’re here early tonight.”

  “I’m pretaping the interview with Randy here. I should’ve mentioned that, Lieutenant. You’re on tape now, too. You’ll be able to hear yourself on the air in three hours.”

  Randy leaned into the conversation. “I thought we were on the air right now.”

  A bemused Zachary pointed to the clock. “Can you tell time?”

  “It’s six o’clock,” said Randy, taking no offense. “Almost exactly six o’clock.”

  “And when does my show start?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “So I guess we can’t be on the air—not right now—can we?”

  Randy actually gave this a moment of thought, then grinned and shook his head.

  Zachary shrugged as he looked from one cop to the other. “I wish I could tell you that he’s an atypical fan. So, what’s this all about? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Jack Coffey. “We just had a few questions, but you should have a lawyer sitting in your lap around the clock. And the bastards even told you that, didn’t they? They told you never to talk to cops, not without a lawyer checking every word that comes out of your mouth. They treat you like an idiot, don’t they? But you’re safer that way. Now, if you like,” he pulled a small card from his pocket, “you can waive the attorney, and then we can get this over with. Or we can take you downtown, and you can just drag this out all night. Your choice.” He tossed the card on the console. “That lists all your constitutional rights. I know you’ve seen it before. Just sign it.”

  He turned away from Zachary, assuming the attitude of a man who did not care one way or the other. And of course the shock-jock signed the card.

  Coffey’s smile was genuine as he turned to the interview guest. “So you’re the famous Randy? You’re the one who ratted out that poor bastard MacPherson?”

  The young man nodded and smiled, so pleased with himself, just so happy to be here with Ian Zachary and the cops. “We live in the same building. He’s a real nice guy. He fixed my busted radiator.”

  Jack Coffey was slightly discouraged to hear the boy use the present tense, the living tense for the latest Reaper victim. So much hung on the words of this moron. The lieutenant slid another card from his pocket. “This is called a Miranda card—just like Zachary’s.” He handed it to the younger man. “Would you like to sign one, too?”

  “Oh, sure.” Randy accepted a pen from Detective Janos and signed the card, not bothering to read it. And now Ian Zachary was having second thoughts as he stared down at the card he had just put his own name to.

  Too late.

  Janos whipped the Miranda card out of the man’s hand, slid it into his coat pocket, then collected Randy’s.

  Coffey’s attention was still focused on Zachary’s guest. “Randy, you say you were friends with MacPherson. So now that your buddy is dead, how do you like your game prizes?”

  “Well, I couldn’t win the trip to New York City, could I? I mean, ’cause I already live here. I got a place in SoHo. But they put me up in a great hotel for the night. I love the minibar.” He turned to Zachary. “I get to keep all that stuff, right? The candy and those little bottles of booze?”

  “You earned it,” said Lieutenant Coffey, answering for the shock-jock. “So the minibar made it all worthwhile?”

  “Well, sure, but being on the show—hell, that’s the best part. Can I say hi to my buddies at the carwash?”

  Coffey held his friendly smile. “When you turned in MacPherson on the radio, did you know what would happen next?”

  Before the younger man could speak, Ian Zachary shook his head, saying, “Don’t waste your time, Lieutenant. The pinheads never make that connection.”

  Coffey ignored this and leaned forward in his chair, widening his smile for the fan from SoHo. “That’s not true, is it, Randy?”

  “Give it up,” said Zachary.

  Coffey swiveled his chair around to face the talk-show host. “I understand that Randy is the first winner to get on the air before the murder. Am I right?”

  “A minor departure from the format,” said Zachary, all but yawning. “Randy doesn’t have anything quite as sophisticated as e-mail, or even a telephone. And he only had a bit of change left for the pay phone.”

  “So you couldn’t afford to lose the connection. I understand.” He wondered if Zachary’s attorneys had been quite so understanding. “Your producer tells me you spend a lot of time at the station.”

  “Needleman? You met him?” Zachary’s gaze was fixed on some point beyond the lieutenant’s chair.

  “We had a long talk on the phone.” Coffey glanced back over his shoulder, but all he saw was a dark window like the one that spanned the girl’s lighted sound booth. “Needleman says you spend twelve hours a day in here. He told me you had this studio built to specs for prison security. Are you afraid of the Reaper?”

  “Hardly.” Zachary was speaking to the dark window. “The Reaper only kills morons. Why would I be afraid of him?”

  “And that’s what I told your producer.” Coffey smiled. “I said, ‘Needleman, those two monsters are partners, buddies. ’ ” He splayed his hands in the air. “Am I right?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Zachary leaned back in his chair, so pleased, so smug. “I suppose you could say the Reaper is my biggest fan.”

  “So you knew he’d be listening,” said Janos, “when Randy here told you MacPherson lived in his building.”

  “Yeah,” said Jack Coffey, not wanting to give Zachary a moment to consider this. “That was real cute, not giving up the exact address. Instead, you just got Randy to mention the restaurant next door. Very smart.” Actually—a huge mistake. A first-year law student would never have approved of that ploy. “And then MacPherson was murdered. The Reaper couldn’t have done it without you. Have I got that right, Zachary? Did I miss anything?”

  “I’d say you’ve got the gist of it.”

  “So that’s a yes.” Coffey turned to Detective Janos, saying, “Cause and effect. One down.”


  Zachary was half risen from his chair. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Jack Coffey ignored the startled shock-jock and leaned toward the young fan, saying, “You never answered my question, Randy. What did you think would happen when you gave up MacPherson on the radio?”

  “I told you,” said Zachary, “the fans are idiots. They don’t have the slightest clue—”

  “Zachary, put a sock in it,” said Coffey. Then, remembering that this man was British and slang-impaired, he added, “Shut up or I’ll arrest you for obstructing an investigation. Clear enough?” The lieutenant turned all of his attention on the younger man, the dim-witted one. “Randy, when you made that call, what did you think would happen to MacPherson?”

  With no hesitation at all, Randy raised his right hand. There was no malice in his face, only cheerful compliance, as he used one finger to make a chilling cutthroat gesture from ear to ear, the silent demonstration of a death.

  And Jack Coffey said, “Close enough.” He looked up at Janos, saying, “Cuff Zachary.”

  Janos moved behind Ian Zachary’s chair and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, saying, “You’re charged with the murder of John MacPherson.”

  And Zachary yelled, “This is insane! He tried to kill me!”

  “Really? Did you report that to the police?” Coffey took the man’s dumbstruck expression for a no. “Too bad. You were seen in a bar with MacPherson last night. We’ve got witnesses.”

  “He left before I did.”

  “So you’re out drinking with a guy who tried to kill you.” Janos slid the manacles over the man’s wrists. “And you just let him walk away. No police report. You got a better story than that one?”

  “The waitress says another customer opened your shirt that night,” said Coffey. “You were wearing a bulletproof vest. That suggests another scenario for—”

  “I always wear the vest. I get death threats. Ask the damn FBI!”

  “Funny you should mention that,” said Janos. “An agent named Hennessey called to tell us that he was assigned to your security detail. But you went out of your way to lose him last night. You wore a disguise and hired an impersonator to send him off in another direction.”

  Coffey smiled and shrugged. “So you can see why the feds don’t exactly help your case.”

  The handcuff locks clicked shut.

  “Ask Riker. He was with me.”

  Jack Coffey shook his head. “Not when MacPherson was killed. But even if you had a real tight alibi, it wouldn’t help. You see, Janos misspoke. The charge is conspiracy to murder. You conspired with the Reaper—and your fans.” He turned to look at Randy. “This one, for instance.”

  Zachary’s eyes were rounding and his voice was louder, yelling, “You can’t do this to me! I’ve got rights!” He sucked in his breath, then said more calmly, “Ask the damn ACLU. The law is on my side.”

  “Yeah, well, that was back in Chicago,” said Coffey. “In New York City, we like to make up the rules as we go along. You and your fans aided and abetted a serial killer.”

  Young Randy had thus far been still and quiet in the rapt attention of one viewing this live action on television. He must have recognized himself in a criminal mention, for now he stood up and held out both of his hands, happily awaiting his turn to be manacled by Detective Janos—just like Zachary.

  “No, not you,” said Coffey to the youngster. “Morons are excused.”

  Randy nodded and smiled.

  “Just kidding.” Jack Coffey unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his own belt and did the honors himself, saying, “Randy, remember that card you signed? You have the right to an attorney during questioning. If you can’t afford—Randy? Pay attention. This is the important stuff.”

  Charles Butler had a formal dining area, a waste of space in his opinion. Dinner guests invariably gravitated toward the kitchen, a warm and spacious room with rich ochre walls racked with spices and utensils that only a gourmet cook could identify. A red-checked tablecloth and a Vivaldi concerto created the atmosphere of an intimate bistro.

  Mallory stood by the door, spying on Riker and Johanna Apollo in the front room. Charles left a pot of sauce to bubble on the stove and placed a glass of red wine in her hand. “So it’s not working out quite the way you planned.”

  “No,” she said. “Riker’s not asking her the right questions.”

  “You mean he’s not treating the woman like a criminal? Well, what a damn shame.” Indeed, Riker was not behaving like a detective tonight, but more like a man in love. Charles knew all the symptoms. Obviously, Mallory did not.

  She set down her wineglass and picked up a stack of dinner plates. He had thought it best to give her the chore of setting the table, since she would have rearranged anyone else’s work. As she laid down the plates, napkins and silverware, he needed no ruler to tell him that every item was precisely one inch from the edge of the table.

  He turned back to the stove and his task of stirring sauce. “Perhaps it was a mistake to expect Riker to work this out on his own.” Oh, not likely that she would ever agree with that idea.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said.

  And Charles lost his spoon at the bottom of the pot.

  “He’s too close to that woman.” Mallory straightened the four chairs, then stepped back to survey her work, as if there might be a chance in hell that those chairs were not perfectly aligned with the table. “Riker’s afraid to ask a question that might incriminate the doctor.”

  “In what crime?”

  “She’s holding out on me.”

  Oh, that crime. Well, from time to time, that would incriminate everyone Mallory knew. So the situation was not so serious after all, and he had hopes of getting through this dinner party without serious carnage. After retrieving his sauce spoon, Charles opened the oven, and the aroma of fowl roasting in its juices filled the room, mingling with that of garlic bread and the wine sauce. “Riker and the doctor look like they’ve put in a very long day. Perhaps we could put this business aside for the night.”

  “Don’t you wonder how a smart woman could go along with that insane jury verdict?” Done with the table, hands on hips, she turned to face him. “You read the trial transcript. You know it wasn’t an honest verdict.”

  “But Riker never read that transcript. He’s taking the lady on faith.”

  “Faith? I’m talking about hard, cold facts. There’s no way—”

  “Mallory, if Riker set fire to a school bus full of nuns and children, then pushed it off a cliff, I’d have to assume that the nuns and children had it coming to them. That’s faith.”

  She grappled with this for a moment, then rallied with a better shot. “People are dying,” she said, as if he might need that reminder. “I need to know if Dr. Apollo kept in touch with MacPherson. If she did, then she probably knows where the other juror is hiding.”

  “Nothing easier.” He picked up an open bottle of red and led the way back to his front room, where Johanna Apollo stood by the far wall, admiring an original painting by Rothko while Riker admired her.

  Seen from the back, the woman’s deformity was hidden by her long cascade of dark hair; it was more apparent when she turned in profile, allowing Charles to refill her wineglass. He knew that Riker was seeing a different image of the doctor. From the detective’s point of view, the lady was without blemish, her ordinary face without peer. And from Charles’s perspective, Riker had unexpected good taste in women, opting for intelligence and large brown eyes with a remarkable depth that appeared to see all the way to the soul—the eyes of a healer. The wine had called out his poetic bent, and he carried it further, likening her to a bouquet of roses, though her floral perfume was discreet. Her warmth and presence filled the room as the scent of flowers would do.

  Mallory appeared, and the flowers—shuddering—closed.

  “My condolences,” said Charles, “on the death of your friend Mr. MacPherson. Did you keep in touch with him after the trial?”<
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  Dr. Apollo nodded.

  Charles turned to Mallory, who was less than impressed with his interrogation style. She tipped back her glass. Riker, contrary to habit, had hardly touched his wine. Odd, that. And Mallory, with all her control issues, was drinking more than her careful allotment of precisely one ounce of alcohol. This promised to be an interesting evening.

  Dr. Apollo excused herself and headed toward the kitchen. Of course, everyone wound up there eventually. However, given the example of the past hour, Mallory’s mere presence was motivation enough for the doctor to quit any room. Charles topped off Riker’s glass, then returned to the kitchen, where he found his dinner guest shredding lettuce for the salad. The doctor raised her face to his and smiled. Charles’s own loony smile always had that happy effect on people.

  They worked side by side, chopping vegetables in companionable silence, and then he took up Riker’s cause, the complaint that her hotel was not safe. “My house is your house. I have two guest rooms, more than enough space, I assure you.”

  “Thank you, but it’s better if I go back to the Chelsea.”

  “It’s perfectly quiet here,” he said. “Triple-pane windows, very thick walls. You could set off a cannon and never disturb the neighbors. So if you want some late-night distraction, music or television—”

  “I’m just looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’m told you have a cat. If you’re concerned about him, that’s not a problem. I get along quite well with animals.”

  “No,” she said. “Mugs isn’t good with strangers. He’s happier in familiar surroundings. We’ll both be better off in the hotel.”

  “She’s right,” said Mallory from the open doorway. “Your walls might be too thick. If the Reaper was in your guest room, cutting the doctor to pieces, you’d never hear the screams. I’ll stay in her hotel room tonight.”