Crazy Bitch played the tape for a commercial break during the police-enforced interlude. Her eyes were trained on Mallory, who was evidently not Zack's own private cop.
One of the uniformed officers carried the drill into the hall and knelt down before the lock on the producer's door. Inside the studio, the two police in street clothes stood before the booth's window, admiring the sheet spread across it. Far from the effect of a cartoon ghost, the black slashes that stood for eyes were eerie. The thick glass was scratched but intact, and the remnants of a broken chair lay on the floor below.
Detective Mallory walked toward the console, intractable as a slow train wreck in the making. She wanted an explanation – right now.
"Zack did it," said Crazy Bitch, so easily prompted by a vision of Mallory's footprint on her face. "He left before the show started." She affected a deep frown as she turned to the producer's booth. "At least I think Zack's gone."
Was she overdoing this? Yes, she must be, for the blonde had one hand on her hip, and, in the other hand, the drill was slowly swinging like a pendulum.
"I've been playing pretaped interviews. You can't have dead airtime. I could lose my job for that. So how do you like the show so far?"
The drill crashed to the floor. The blond police braced both hands on the top of the console, leaning forward to communicate that Crazy Bitch should not to try her patience for one more minute.
Lieutenant Coffey interceded, calling out, "Hey, kid, what happened here?"
"I'm pretty sure Zack wanted to kill Needleman."
"The producer?" Coffey turned to face the draped window. "Is he in there now?"
"Who knows? Well, Needleman's door is always locked," said Crazy Bitch, "so Zack tried to break through bulletproof glass. And that was really nuts. He even knows the glass is unbreakable, but there he is, red in the face, banging that chair against the window. Then he racked up a few hours of old canned interviews and ran out the door. But I really liked the tape he made tonight. So, after he left, I changed the – "
"Shut up," said Detective Mallory.
The lieutenant was more polite, but just barely. "When Zachary left, was he carrying a weapon?"
"No, not that I could see, but I wouldn't take chances if I were you. I mean look at what he did to that chair." She stared at the sheet covering the producer's window. "Zack might be in there. If you kill him, can I still finish the show?"
Ian Zachary stood over the inanimate body of Riker. "Well, that solves the immediate problem. Is he dead?"
"I'm a doctor." Johanna, knelt on the floor, checking life signs and finding them strong. "I know how to place my shots." The blow had split the skin of Riker's scalp, and his blood was on her right hand.
Zachary leaned into the hallway. "I love this town. All these people behind their closed doors. They don't want to get involved. Ah, New Yorkers."
"They probably didn't hear anything. The walls are very thick – just like Riker's place. I know what you did to him, and that was a mistake. He had no idea you were the Reaper."
"Oh, the blanks? Yes, I suppose it was a pointless plan – but great fun. He actually fainted."
Johanna shook her head. "He scared you, didn't he? Riker caught you by surprise that night, but you'd never go up against him with a knife. So you picked up the first weapon that came to hand, Mac's gun – Mac's bullets. No, that wasn't planning, Zachary. That was just another mistake."
She looked up at him, only a glance to gauge the fall of his confidence, then her eyes were cast down as she stared at her hand, at Riker's blood. "You can still walk away from this," she said. "My fingerprints are on the bottle that hit him."
"He saw me point the gun at him."
"That's not a problem. Side effect of concussion – it can wipe out ten or twenty minutes of memory, and Riker only saw you for a second. But what if he did remember? So what? He knows I'm the one who stole his gun. You can say you took it away from me, that you saved him from the Reaper – me. Don't you see? You don't need one more dead body to make the case. Just pick up the phone and call 911. The story's more believable if you're the one who makes that call."
"You're good, Doctor. And you're right. Your little plan might work. But that would still leave the loose end of Victor Patchock."
"He won't make a credible witness in court."
Zachary was no longer listening to her. His smiling eyes were lit with some new inspiration. "You have a much more interesting choice now." He pointed the gun at Riker. "I can kill him – or you can get Victor Patchock over here. Pick one." He waved the gun from side to side. "Who lives? Who dies? Up to you."
"I'll think about it," said Johanna, as if Riker's life meant very little to her. She rose from the floor, the bottle still gripped in one hand. "First, I'm going to wash up. And then I'm going to pour myself a drink." She turned toward the bathroom, fighting down the impulse to look back at Riker and see which way the gun was pointing now.
"Dr. Apollo? Hold it! I'll tell you where you can go and when."
"Then shoot me." She turned around to face him. "No, you can't do that, can you? A gun – that's not the Reaper's style." She took one step toward him and raised the bottle as a reminder that she had just brought down a bigger man, a better one. "Now how do you like your chances with that tiny knife? Like I said, Zachary, you're no good at improvising. And there's another flaw in your plan. That business card with my personal invitation? That note is in my secretary's handwriting," she lied. "I haven't seen that woman since Timothy died. Do you want the police to find that card in your pocket? No, I didn't think so. While you're burning that little piece of evidence, I'll be washing up." Bottle gripped tight in her right hand, she left him standing there and closed the bathroom door behind her.
No, I said Zack might be inside." Crazy Bitch stared at the recently opened door of the producer's booth. "He really wanted to get in there."
"But you're the one who glued the locks shut," said Mallory. "Yeah, just in case he was in there. Well, he's crazy, isn't he?" "And you didn't want anybody to know that you were running the show tonight." Mallory inspected the interior, then pointed to the sheet spread across the window. "Is that your work?"
"How could it be? The producer's door is always locked." "But you had a key, didn't you?"
Crazy Bitch gave her a wobbly smile as she backed up to the door of the studio. "The commercial break is over. I have to get back to my show. It's my show now."
"Just a minute." Jack Coffey appeared behind her, blocking her backward exit. "Where can we find this guy Needleman?" "Probably home in bed. It's a school night."
Mallory loomed over the shorter woman, willing her to make sense with a glare that promised unspeakable violence if sense was not immediately forthcoming.
Crazy Bitch hurried to explain that Needleman was the station manager's nephew. "He's only fourteen years old."
"A payroll scam," said Mallory. "So the station manager pockets the extra paycheck?"
"You didn't hear that from me, okay?"
"Tell me how you know," said Coffey.
"Well, the station manager goes home at six. So it was my job to unlock the producer's booth after Zack left for the night. A couple of real producers use it for the morning shows. I was told it was a joke, just a way to get back at the bastard and drive him nuts. And that was fine with me, but I didn't believe it. If that was true, why not just give the other producers keys of their own?"
Lieutenant Coffey seemed smug as he turned on Mallory, saying, "Good reasoning. I might give this kid your job." Crazy Bitch sensed a note of payback in his voice as he rested one hand on her shoulder, saying, "Go on, kid. Tell us how you cracked the payroll scam."