“It didn’t work out that way. Two weeks later the girl jumped out of the girls’ restroom from the third floor of her private school.”
“That’s when you quit the force, Taylor?”
“Yeah. But I had to do something to avenge Ellie. I beat the shit out of Uncle Bandy. I got him outside his three-million-dollar brownstone and I beat him to a pulp. I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t. Maybe something you taught me in the academy stopped me, maybe something that was inside me all the time. Who the hell knows? It was later he told me he would get me. I laughed, Barry, I laughed. I didn’t look at his eyes. If I had, I would have believed him.”
“We’re here.” The elevator opened onto a huge carpeted entrance area filled with eighteenth-century French antiques, fine prints, and soft recessed lighting.
A woman rose when she saw the two men. She was frowning and Taylor knew well enough that she knew they weren’t board members. They didn’t look right.
Joanna Bianco, efficient, astute, quickly stepped foward, saying in her smooth calm voice, “ Gentlemen, I’m sorry, but Mr. Ashcroft is in a board meeting at present. Perhaps if I could have your names I could—”
Barry flipped out his badge. “Sergeant Kinsley, ma’am. And this is S. C. Taylor. We’ll see Mr. Ashcroft right this minute.”
“Let me get him, then—”
“Oh, no,” Taylor said. “I want him right where he is. At the head of his big mahogany table, feeding a line of B.S. to a whole lot of gentlemen over the age of sixty, right? I want, in short, to humiliate him. He’s slime.”
Joanna Bianco looked him up and down, her expression unreadable. Then she said, “I gather he’s done something rather serious to be slime?”
“Dead serious,” Taylor said.
She stepped back and waved toward the doors. “Have at it,” she said, and there was a smile on her face.
Barry told the other two officers who had just arrived on another elevator to remain there. “Keep your eyes open, lads. You’ve seen his photo. If the guy comes bounding out, have a ball, but don’t kill him.”
Taylor very quietly opened the thick mahogany double doors. They parted soundlessly inward. The room was at least thirty feet long, carpeted in pale cream Berber, wainscoted with dark stained wood. Built-in bookshelves lined the far short wall. The long wall was all windows, covered at the moment with thick pale baize draperies. A long table stood in the center of the room. Silver water carafes sat on silver trays at intervals down the table. A crystal glass stood in front of each person. There was Uncle Bandy, Mr. Brandon Waymer Ashcroft, standing at the head of the table, holding a pointer in one hand, speaking about a chart that was on a stand behind him.
There were ten people seated in the plush chairs that surrounded the table. Only six of them were old men. There were three women, all over fifty, richly dressed, and one younger black man. All the men looked affluent, conservative, serious about what they were doing.
Taylor quickly saw that Ashcroft’s right hand was at his side. Lindsay had shot him in the right wrist.
“May I?” Taylor asked Barry.
“He’s all yours, lad.”
Taylor cleared his throat. One by one, all the board members turned to face him. Their faces held only mild interest. Ashcroft, on the other hand, stepped back and turned pale.
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your meeting, gentlemen, ladies. This is Sergeant Barry Kinsley. I’m S. C. Taylor. We’re here to arrest Mr. Ashcroft for attempted murder.”
There were gasps.
“. . . what the devil is this?”
“Brandon, what’s going on here?”
“Who the hell are these men, Ash?”
Taylor waited for their disbelief to dissipate. Ashcroft remained quiet; he remained pale as death. Taylor said, “I suppose most of you know about the attempted murder of the model Eden in an explosion in Washington Square? Well, Uncle Bandy here—Brandon or Ash—paid a man named Oswald to kill her. When Oswald failed twice, he came to the hospital not three hours ago to do the job himself. Unfortunately his victim is smarter than he is, and braver, and she shot him in his right wrist. Would you like to raise your right arm, Uncle Bandy?”
All the board members were now facing the man at the head of the table, staring at him as if at a stranger, some sort of alien being they’d suddenly realized they didn’t understand or even want to.
Brandon Waymer Ashcroft raised his chin. “This is all a ludicrous mistake, gentlemen. As for a wounded hand, that’s even more absurd. Now, if you would like to go into my office, I can spare a few minutes to straighten out this ridiculous mistake.”
Taylor merely shook his head and addressed the members. “Would you like to know why he was trying to have her killed? Well, let me tell you. A few years ago I was a cop and I came across a fourteen-year-old girl who was bleeding badly after being raped. Her Uncle Bandy had raped her; he’d been sexually abusing her since she was ten, maybe even younger. To make it short and sweet, Uncle Bandy here got off, his little niece killed herself, and I beat him up. His only punishment. He promised he’d get even with me. He tried to kill my fiancée, but he’s failed. It’s all over now and this time justice will come through.”
“You’re crazy! Get the fuck out of my office!”
“Another thing,” Taylor continued easily, “ Lindsay Foxe, or Eden, which is her professional name, has a photographic memory for faces. She described you right down to the ear hairs that stick out in a group of three from low in your right ear.”
There were more gasps, more astounded speculation, huffs of indignation, murmurs of doubt.
“I suspect, sir,” Barry said, stepping forward now, “that we’ll find a nice bullet wound in your right wrist. Also, we even have the sketch the police artist drew from Lindsay Foxe’s description.” Barry pulled a rolled piece of paper from his breast pocket. He unfurled it and handed it to the elderly gentleman who was sitting nearest him.
The old gentleman stared at the drawing. He said nothing. He handed it to the woman next to him.
“It’s you, Ash,” she said in the most emotionless voice Taylor had ever heard, and passed it on.
Taylor and Barry waited until each person at the table had looked at the sketch.
The black man was the last to look at the sketch. He stared down at it for a long time. He raised his head and said, “He’s right about the hairs sticking out of your right ear. I’ve always thought you should have them clipped.”
There was a nervous laugh.
“Now, how about a vote,” Taylor said. “All of you who recognized Mr. Ashcroft from the drawing, please raise your hands.”
The room was utterly silent. There wasn’t a sound. One old gentleman made a disgusted kind of sound and his hand shot up. It was followed by another and then another. All ten board members finally had their arms up.
“Are you ready, Uncle Bandy?” Taylor said.
“This is stupid, crazy. I’m not going anywhere with you fools!”
“Sorry, sir, but you are. Indeed you are.” Barry walked around the table toward Brandon Ashcroft. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.
“Do you want to do it the easy way or shall I rough you up just a little bit so you’ll know I’m serious?”
“Get away from me, you fucking moron! Damn you. You’ll see, Taylor, you’ll see. I’ll be out of custody in less time than it took me last time! You hear me? And then I’ll get that bitch, you’ll see!”