You wanted a big audience for your work – not just the cops – civilians too. Fame? That’s what you want? Yes, he had even left an autograph, a signature of dead flies.
The door opened. Mallory rose to a stand, then whirled around to face Gary Zappata. The rookie fireman stood on the threshold. His sleeveless T-shirt and chinos were a size too small, the better to show offhis gym-sculpted torso. His dark hair was slicked back, still wet from a shower, and he stank of cologne.
‘This is a crime scene, Zappata. Did you forget the rules?’ She nodded toward the door in lieu of saying, Get the hell out.
‘Hey, I’m here to help.’ He shut the door, then sauntered into the room. There was arrogance in his smile and his every move. ‘So, Detective – ’ One hand waved about, feigning frustration, as if her name might be difficult to remember. ‘How’s it going?’
‘I’m working here. What do you want?’
He hooked both thumbs in his belt loops and strolled over to the couch. ‘Just tying up loose ends.’
‘Zappata, don’t waste my time. If you’ve got something – let’s hear it.’
That made him petulant, but he forced a smile. She was forgiven. ‘I can help you, babe. I know things about that fire. For instance, the candles had nothing to do with it.’
‘Great tip. Thanks for stopping by.’ Mallory turned her back on him to study the blackened wall of the burn area. After a moment, she glanced over one shoulder with a look that asked, Still here?
The fireman ignored this blatant dismissal and flopped down on the couch. ‘The guy’s not a pro.’ He draped one leg over the upholstered arm – just to let her know that he planned to stay awhile. ‘A real arsonist would’ve made a fuse to the door. You know, when a blaze gets hot enough, the air can ignite.’
‘Did you learn that in fire school?’
He disliked this reminder that he was new at his trade. Even when he had been a cop, his police career had not lasted long enough to lose the rookie status. ‘Listen, Mallory.’ This was an order. ‘The guy’s an amateur at homicide too. These freaks always stick with what worked in the past. So this is definitely our perp’s first try at murder. ‘Cause of the botched fire.’
Our perp?
Mallory looked up to the window, attracted by the silhouette of a man pacing across the makeshift curtain. His hat had the crown of a uniformed officer. Riker must have requested a guard for the crime scene. Bad move. This unapproved use of manpower would not sit well with Lieutenant Coffey.
Zappata left the couch to hover over the wet pile of flashy silks and rayon. He picked up the sparkling costume that Riker had so admired. ‘I wonder what the hooker looked like in this.’
‘Drop it!’ Mallory strode across the room, aiming herself at the man, planning to walk over him or through him. He backstepped to the door, clutching the costume to his breast in a lame attempt to hide behind a swatch of sequins and fairy wings.
‘Don’t touch her things!' She ripped the garment away from him. ‘Get out!'
His hand was on the knob when he noticed the guard’s shadow rushing across the bedsheet curtain. And now there were footfalls on the cement steps leading down to the basement door.
The fireman was as nervous as a schoolgirl afraid of losing her reputation. He puffed out his chest and summoned up a bit of bravado.
The cop outside was coming closer.
Zappata opened the door, yelling, ‘I’m done here, you bitch!' He stomped out of the apartment, as if this were his own idea.
Mallory wondered if the fire department knew that their rookie was a physical coward. But he was forgotten when she looked down at the ivory comb in her hand.
Sparrow, how did the hangman get in? Did he bring you presents, too?
Sergeant Riker could smell the apartment-house odors of meals cooked and eaten hours ago. His stomach rumbled as he stepped off the elevator.
The landlord’s floor was divided in two. On one side was Charles Butler’s apartment, and across the hall was a consulting firm of elite headhunters. And here Kathy Mallory broke the law in her off-duty hours, investigating the deluded, the grifters and other poseurs to weed them from a clientele of wildly gifted and generally unstable job candidates for think tanks. Riker called them Martians.
Lieutenant Coffey had given her a direct order to dissolve this business partnership, and tonight, Riker had his first glimpse of Mallory’s response, an elegant solution. She had nailed a new brass plaque on the old familiar door. Once, this had been the entrance to Butler and Mallory, Ltd. Now it was called Butler and Company. She had become a silent partner.
Attracted by the aroma of a recent meal, the detective strolled across the hall to the private residence. His nose for fast food told him it was Chinese take-out. Before he could knock, the door opened, and he was looking up – and up – at Charles Butler.
The man was at least a head taller than most of the world, and his nose was also above average, a wonderful hook that could perch a pigeon. His heavy-lidded eyes bulged, and the small blue irises were surrounded by vast areas of white, giving Charles a startled look that he shared with frogs and frightened horses. From the neck down, Mother Nature had gotten it right – better than that in Riker’s estimation, for the body was well made, aiming for the angels in form and power.
‘Riker, hello!' When Charles Butler smiled, he took on the aspect of a lunatic, but such a charming loon. Over the past forty years of his life, he had learned to be self-conscious about this idiosyncrasy. The line of his mouth waffled with embarrassment, apologizing for every happy expression.
‘Hey, how are ya?’ Riker noted his friend’s rare departure from Savile Row suits. The denim shirt screamed of money; nothing off the rack could fit so well. And apparently Mallory had introduced Charles to a tailor shop that customized her own blue jeans. The two of them were still struggling with the concept of casual dress.
‘I hear you’re on summer vacation.’
‘Yes, Mallory’s idea.’ Charles pushed a curling strand of light brown hair away from his eyes. He was always forgetting appointments with his barber. ‘No more clients until the fall.’ And now the man looked worried. ‘She’s all right, isn’t she? You didn’t come by to – ’
‘Oh, no. She’s fine. I should’ve called. Sorry.’ And Riker’s regret was genuine, for Charles must have thought that he was here to break the news of Mallory’s premature death. ‘It’s late. I should leave.’
‘Nonsense, I’m glad you stopped by.’ Charles stood back and ushered his guest inside. ‘I was only worried because we had dinner reservations, but she wasn’t home when I – ’
‘She never called to cancel? I’ll rag her about it.’ And that neatly explained the reek of Chinese take-out in the home of a gourmet cook. Riker passed through the foyer, then paused a few steps into the front room. ‘She rewired your stereo, didn’t she?’
‘How did you – ’
‘I’m a detective.’ Perfection was Mallory’s signature, and it was writ in what could not be seen. She had made the machinery, its wires and speakers invisible. And the sound was remarkably well balanced, creating the illusion of an orchestra at the center of Riker’s brain. The concerto was bright and hopeful, a portrait of Charles Butler in strings and flutes.
There were never any CDs lying about in Mallory’s personal car, and he sometimes wondered if she ever listened to music, perhaps something metallic with New Age clicks and whirrs.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a beer.’ Riker sprawled on the sofa while Charles crossed the formal dining room, heading for the kitchen.
Though the detective had been in this apartment many times, he scrutinized the room of paneled walls and antiques. Books and journals were piled on all the tables and chairs, the sign of a man with too much free time. Riker found what he had been looking for – food, a bowl of cashews partially hidden under a newspaper, and he had devoured them all before Charles returned with two beers foaming in frosted glass. Any man who kept his beer steins in the freezer was Riker’s friend for life.