Riker detected a trace of the Southland in her accent. ‘Emelda Winston? I’m Detective Riker. May I call you Miss Emelda?’
‘Why, of course you may.’ Her eyes lit up, and even her red-painted toes were thrilled, curling and uncurling in her sandals. She belonged to him now, charmed by this old custom of address never observed in northern climes.
‘Now you boys come right in.’ She stepped back to open the door a little wider. ‘I’ve got a nice breeze goin’ in my parlor.’
When the two men had been seated awhile on a gigantic horsehair sofa, Miss Emelda returned to the front room, rolling a tea cart laid with white linen, glassware and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
‘So you’re here about Sparrow.’ She lifted the pitcher of lemonade and poured each of them a glass. ‘You know, I was the one who called in the fire.’
‘So that was you?’ Riker glanced at the younger man. ‘No one told me.’ He bit into a cookie that was definitely homemade, for it lacked the preservatives to keep it from turning to stone. ‘So, Miss Emelda, how well did you know Sparrow?’
‘Not well at all, I’m afraid. That poor girl. She just moved in a few weeks ago.’
‘Then you don’t know what she did for a living?’
‘Oh, yes. She was an actress. But I don’t see how she made a living at it. I went to her dress rehearsal yesterday. The play was in the basement of the elementary school, and they were only planning to charge a few dollars a ticket. I suppose they’ll cancel it now.’
Riker nodded. ‘I wondered why Sparrow was wearing those clothes. Long-sleeved blouse, long skirt – boots. So that was her costume for the play?’
‘Yes, they were doing a period piece, something by Chekhov, I think.’ The old woman smiled. ‘Sparrow was surprisingly good. A very moving performance.’
After consuming two more rock-hard cookies and nearing the dregs of the lemonade, they were old friends, Riker and Miss Emelda.
‘Ma’am,’ said Duck Boy, violating orders of silence, ‘why don’t you tell him about the angel.’
‘Oh, yes – last night. Well, the crowd parted, just for an instant, mind you, and there was the angel floating in front of Sparrow’s window.’ Miss Emelda clapped her hands. ‘Just glorious. But there was nothing about the angel in the morning papers.’
Riker continued to smile, as if she had just said something perfectly rational. ‘Can you describe the angel?’
‘I think it was a cherub.’ She fished in the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small Christmas tree ornament. ‘I showed this to the young man.’ She nodded toward Duck Boy, then spoke to Riker in a stage whisper, ‘But he didn’t seem to understand. He thinks I’m pixilated.’
Riker shook his head in sympathy. ‘Kids today, huh?’ He stared at the ornament in her hand, a pair of white wings attached to the disembodied head of a child with gold curls. The detective turned to the window behind the sofa and its view of Sparrow’s apartment across the street. And now he knew that the old woman’s angel was a cop. Last night, Mallory’s black jeans had disappeared in the dark; Miss Emelda had only discerned the blond hair and white blazer, a winged thing on the fly.
‘It was a miracle,’ she said, hands clasped in prayer.
Riker was satisfied that, thick lenses or no, the old woman could see well enough. He drained his glass, then leaned forward, speaking as one gossip to another, ‘Just between you and me, who do you think did it? Who hung Sparrow?’
‘The reporters. Naturally.’
Duck Boy rolled his eyes, then winced when his supervisor kicked him. This act was hidden behind the safe cover of the tea cart’s linen. It was a clear shot to the shinbone, and Riker hoped it hurt like hell. He turned back to his star witness and smiled. ‘I never trusted reporters myself She nodded. ‘They’re everywhere. Even in the trees – watching us all the time. I saw one of them out there with his camera. And that was before I smelled smoke. Very suspicious, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘So this reporter – did you get a good look at him?’
‘I’m sorry, no, not his face. His back was turned. I remember his camera. Oh – and he wore a white T-shirt and blue jeans. He might’ve had a baseball cap. Yes, he did. I’m sure of it now.’ She made a delicate moue of distaste. ‘I remember when reporters wore suits and ties.’
Riker glanced back at the window, attempting to judge the zone of Miss Emelda’s vision. She could not have seen anything across the street in great detail, or she would never have made Mallory into an angel. ‘How close was this guy?’
‘He was in a tree. Didn’t I tell you that? Oh, yes, right in front of my building. Then that van showed up with the other news people from the TV station. The name of the news show was painted on the side of the van, but I can’t remember which one it was – I’m so sorry. Well, as you can imagine, it was quite a time. The fire engines came a minute or two after that. Of course the fire didn’t amount to much – thank the Lord.’
‘Amen,’ said Riker. ‘So the guy with the camera climbed a tree before the news van showed up?’
‘Yes, and before I smelled smoke.’ Miss Emelda walked behind the sofa to stand before the window. She pointed at a nearby oak on the sidewalk. It was large, one of those rare specimens that thrived in cement. ‘That’s the tree.’
‘Ma’am?’ Duck Boy took out his pencil and notebook. ‘Did the suspect’s videocam have a network logo?’
A confused Miss Emelda turned to the senior detective, silently asking what language the youngster was speaking.
‘I know,’ said Riker. ‘All cameras look alike to me.’
‘I can show you mine.’ The woman bustled out of the room, then returned with an old Instamatic. ‘Now his was a bit smaller than this one, and maybe the brand was different. His could’ve been a Polaroid. But the pictures popped out the front, same as mine. They develop themselves right before your eyes. I’ll show you.’
Duck Boy was blinded by the flash and caught in the act of snapping his pencil in two.
The carpenter was gone when Riker emerged from Miss Emelda’s apartment and crossed the street with Duck Boy. He had one more piece of information from his witness, and – serendipity – the man he most wanted to hurt was within reach. Ex-cop Gary Zappata was starting down the steps to Sparrow’s basement apartment when Officer Waller grabbed him by the arm and roughly pulled him back to the sidewalk.
‘Back off I got business here!’ The shorter man puffed out his chest the better to display a fire department logo emblazoned on his T-shirt, as if this passed for credentials.
Riker guessed that Zappata had been asked to turn in his fireman’s shield and identification. Soon there would be a hearing on charges of gross misconduct, the prelude to being fired from his new job.
Officer Waller blocked the entrance to the basement room.
‘Get out of my way,’ said Zappata. ‘I won’t tell you twice.’
Unimpressed, the policeman responded by tipping back a can of orange soda and draining it dry. The pissing contest was officially underway, and Waller was already winning. A true son of New York City, he bit into a bagel and looked up at the sky, ignoring the ex-cop, soon to be an ex-firefighter.
Zappata turned to see the two detectives step on to the sidewalk. He pointed to the senior man and yelled, ‘Hey, you!’
Riker so rarely answered to that form of address, and he liked the commanding tone even less. He waved the man off, saying, ‘It can wait.’
You weasel.
After opening the door to Waller’s patrol car, Riker motioned Duck Boy to follow him into the front seat. When the windows had been rolled up, he said, ‘Did you get all that?’
‘All what?'
‘Sparrow’s acting gig. We just expanded her social circle. I want names for everyone at that dress rehearsal. And the reporters were on the scene before the fire engines turned out. Even if the old lady was slow to call in the fire – they shouldn’t have beaten the engines. You’re gonna find out why that news van was in this neighborhood. And I don’t care who you have to sleep with. But you wear a condom when you bang a reporter. You don’t know where those bastards have been.’ Riker reached across the other man’s chest and opened the car door. ‘Move!’