"If I have to find those mistakes by myself," she said, "then I add them to the rest of the mess your people made of this case. I might hold a press conference – all the major networks – national publicity, all of it bad."
And those were the magic words.
Hennessey retrieved the wadded paper from the floor. "This sheet isn't total crap. When Agent Kidd was murdered, Dr. Apollo was our prime suspect for a copycat killing. She had her own history with psychiatric treatment, long-term therapy as a child and a teenager. Maybe our man said the wrong thing and she snapped. It happens. Or maybe he was the one who snapped, and the doctor killed him in self-defense. But we know the Reaper didn't murder Timothy Kidd."
"You're wrong," said Riker. "And that's one more screwup for the feds." He looked up at his partner. "Mallory, are you keeping score?"
Agent Hennessey might be on the defensive, but he was showing no signs of backing down from this theory. The FBI man was adamant when he said, "Timothy Kidd's murder didn't have the elements of a Reaper killing except for the penknife, and that detail was in the newspapers. There was no scythe drawn in blood, nothing written on the wall of the doctor's reception room. There was no note stuffed in his mouth. And even the cut to the throat was different, less damage and not as deep."
"But then that homeless man was killed with a penknife," said Mallory. "The same sloppy cut as the one that killed Timothy Kidd."
"Right," said the agent. "We figure the doctor killed Bunny, too. Argus misread the whole thing. He thought Bunny's death meant that the Reaper was keeping tabs on Dr. Apollo."
Mallory seemed genuinely offended, for the agent was putting no earnest effort into any of these lies. "You knew they were both Reaper victims, Bunny and the fed. Argus was tailing her long before that. He was using her as a lure for the Reaper, and then he did the same thing to MacPherson, hanging him out as bait."
"Argus wasn't on the Reaper investigation," said Hennessey. "His only job was coordinating juror protection, and he screwed that up. No one was authorized to use the jurors as bait. The agents in Behavioral Sciences were making a case for – "
"The profilers?" Mallory nodded. "Not a decent psych credential between them. If it hadn't been for their interference, the case would've been closed by now. You never asked the right question, the one that begins every cop's investigation – who benefits?"
"It's not that kind of crime," said Hennessey.
"Sure it is," she said. "You messed up because you were all trying to think like psychiatrists. Dr. Apollo was the only one thinking like a cop."
Jack Coffey's voice came over the intercom. "We've got the warrant. Let's move, people."
Hennessey was rising, perhaps believing that he was invited to go along.
A uniformed officer entered the room and set a formidable power tool on the table before Riker. "Big enough for you?"
"That'll do me. Thanks."
"What's the drill for?" asked Hennessey.
Riker plugged it into a wall socket to test it. "Ian Zachary's studio has a world-class security door, three inches of metal and an electronic lock. Can't force it, can't pick it." He switched on the drill for the full effect of a squadron of dentists from hell, then cut the power. "So we go right through the lock."
"Let's do this the smart way," said Hennessey, sincerely deluded in the idea that he might have some influence in this room. "We wait till the show's over. We'll let the doctor play it out, maybe collect more evidence that way – recorded evidence."
"Bad idea," said Riker. "She's locked in that room with a stone killer." He turned to the one-way mirror. "Ready when you are, boss."
"The Reaper can't be Ian Zachary," said Hennessey. "The man has an unbreakable alibi for Timothy Kidd's murder. Agents were parked right outside his door round the clock."
"Yeah, right," said Mallory. "He could never get past one of your guys."
It was rare and wonderful to hear Mallory's laugh, even if it was slightly evil, and Riker smiled as he followed the sound of her laughter through the door. Hennessey was right behind them when he met up with the immovable obstacle of Detective Janos.
Mallory's tan sedan took a corner and took his breath away. The car hung on two wheels for exactly four of Riker's heartbeats. Tonight, she had grudgingly used the siren and the portable turret light, thus giving civilian motorists fair warning before she climbed up their tails and scared them out of their minds.
"It was a great plan," she said. "Almost flawless."
Riker hefted the weight of the drill in one hand. "You know he'll be out on the street an hour after we book him." He watched the cityscape flying past the passenger window of Mallory's tan rocket.
"I promise you, we'll nail Zachary," she said. "But it was a good plan. The feds were always looking for some sick, twitchy law-and-order freak hiding in a dark room. But there he was, hiding right out in the open."
"And we'll never make a case against him. He'll never do any time for murder."
"We'll nail him cold."
"You mean – in the act, right? With Jo for bait."
"That was the doctor's plan," said Mallory.
Riker turned up the radio and Jo's voice saying, "Did I do the right thing? No, and I regret my errors every day. All those – "
Mallory reached out and turned down the volume. "What do you think she's doing? She's calling him out. He's rattled enough to go after her right now, but he won't. First, he'll want to set up an alibi. Maybe he'll try to use the feds to – "
The car stopped short of the curb, slinging Riker's body forward as his partner ripped open his suit jacket to expose the empty shoulder holster.
"Why aren't you wearing your gun?" She dug her nails into his arm. "Your gun, Riker! Where is it?"
And only now did he realize that Mallory, for all her crimes, was not the concerned thief who had made off with his weapon. "So you didn't pick the lock on my desk drawer?"
"Well, yeah, I did. But I didn't take your revolver."
His eyes closed as he recalled his lecture on the stopping power of a smaller caliber firearm than his own. "Aw, Jo. It had to be her. She's got my damn gun." He handed Mallory the drill. "She's planning to shoot that bastard, and she wants to do a proper job of it. You go. I'll wait here and cover the entrance."
Mallory had not expected that, not from him. Her hand froze on the door's handle and her eyes narrowed, so suspicious, unable to come up with any logical scenario where he would volunteer to remain behind, gun or no gun. Mallory did not trust him anymore, yet she opened the door. She had no choice but to leave him here. Upstairs in that building, there was a gun in play, and she was the only cop who knew about it. Time was precious; bullets traveled so fast. She broke off this conversation of the eyes and ran for the door.
When she had disappeared into the radio station, he slid into the driver's seat and put her car in gear. As he nosed it out into the street, he turned up the volume on the radio, confirming his suspicions. Words chopped off at the end of one segment were now repeated in the next, and this was the mark of an amateur at the switch. He watched the radio station recede in his rearview mirror.
At best, he could only count on ten minutes of lead time. It would not take long for Mallory to discover that she had been scammed. He headed the car toward the Chelsea Hotel, then glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he listened to Jo's prerecorded voice taunting a serial killer, calling him out for a showdown. There was no other way to read her intentions.
Calling for backup was not an option. Neither feds nor local cops would approve of Riker's plans for their material witness, Johanna Apollo. He intended to grab that woman, to rip his stolen revolver from her hands, then run with Jo to Mexico. No baggage, just her very life was all he wanted, all he needed. But first he must have his gun back so that no one would ever make it past him to get to her – not even Mallory.