He wondered what Charles would think if he could see her pinning up notes and printouts in a sloppy, unMallory way. Maybe Charles would know what to do with this aspect of Mallory which was dissembling, push pin by push pin.
She went to the small refrigerator, a recent addition to the den, and pulled out a bottle of beer. "Now, what have you got on Redwing?" She popped off the cap and slipped the cold bottle into his hand to replace the empty one which had disappeared without his noticing.
"Okay." He looked down at his open notebook. "She has three arrests for extortion and fraud. The charges were dropped in each case."
"I've got that already."
Of course she did. She could break into the NYPD computer system in her sleep.
"I want the personal notes of the cops who busted her. The computer file won't tell me why the charges were dropped."
"They were dropped for lack of cooperation from the complainants. You know how hard it is to prosecute this kind of fraud even when the victims do cooperate."
"Any earlier records under another alias? Maybe a little violence on her record? Assault charges?"
"No, but she's a big lady. I'd bet even money she could take you." He slugged back his beer in a long thirsty draught.
"No address yet?"
"Still working on it. It's no good backtracking any of the cabs. They all pick her up in different locations and most of them are gypsy cabs, no logs." Riker looked down at his magical, bottomless beer bottle.
"So, now that Coffey has the seance connection, he must be really hot on conspiracy theories again."
"Oh yeah, he is. He's taking a real strong interest in Redwing. It's got to tie in with one of her scams, right?"
"Does Coffey understand that none of these women are going to be cheated by a small-time con artist?"
"I don't know. I think he sees every old lady in the image of his grandmother."
"What else have you got?"
"You're gonna love this. Here." He handed her a typewritten note. It was still enclosed in an evidence bag.
"Oh Jesus. Just when you think you've seen it all, somebody comes up with a new angle for a protection racket. Where did you get it?"
"One of the old ladies gave it to us during the interview. Fabia Penworth. Course she passed it around to all her friends before we ever saw it. We had to fingerprint the whole pack of them for elimination prints."
"And she was just delighted with the letter, right?"
"Yeah. Go figure. So now Coffey's off on this theory that all the old ladies who went down got death threats like that one, and either they didn't pay their own ransoms, or they were killed right after the pay-offs."
"And the old ladies back that up?"
"Nope. This is the first letter they've seen, any of them."
"Then it didn't go down that way. You tell something to one of them, and you tell it to all of them. If there were other letters they'd all know about it. Coffey's met them. What does he use for brains?"
"Hey, Kathy, ease up. Coffey didn't grow up with the old man, but he's learning. That guy don't sleep so good at night, he wants to catch this perp so bad. It's not like he's dragging his feet."
"If he knew you were feeding me – "
"Okay, that tears it. And just what do you use for brains, kid? Of course he knows. He always knew. What I don't know is if he figured he couldn't cut you out, or he shouldn't. And if you don't mind a little constructive criticism – and even if you do – Coffey's not half green enough to make the mistakes you've made. Your kiddy days in the department computer room don't count for squat. You got zero time in undercover work, nothing in surveillance. You figured the team in Gramercy Park didn't spot you 'cause you parked in the right place? Gimme a break, you brat. You just figured you were smarter, and maybe you are, but they got you on film. If they got you, the perp probably spotted you, too. In fact, I think we can count on that. You underestimate everybody, Kathy. That'll get you killed. And Coffey shows a damn sight more respect for the old man. He figures if the perp was smart enough to kill Markowitz, he's gonna play his troops close to the vest. He can't spare one man, but he's got two of them in that Gramercy apartment, every day, dawn to dusk – one to watch the other's back. And then he's still got time to worry about you."
"And you're my babysitter."
Oh, kiss a dead rat. He was only confirming what she already suspected. He'd been had. That was in her face, though he had to give her points for not gloating. He threw up his hands and spilled more beer in the same motion.
She turned away from him. She'd heard what she wanted to hear. He'd run his mouth nicely at ninety miles an hour, given her information, thanks, but he could stuff the rest. He stared down at his bottle. How many beers had she slipped into his hand today?
"Maybe you overestimate Redwing," she said.
"No I don't. You're right about her being small-time, little fish. When she does go for gold, she screws it up. It's a history with her. But she's smart enough to beat the charges and mean enough to do you some damage. You don't want to get too close to her."
"So she does have an assault on her rap sheet."
So much for his idea of not disclosing information on Redwing.
"You stay the hell away from Redwing."
"I know you've got a new address on her. Give it to me."
"No way." There were limits. Kathy had done a number on him, a first-class mugging, but he couldn't give her everything. How many beers had he had? And did he just tell her that he had the address?
"Kid, you just never listen. Coffey's covering for you. You make a bad mistake and he goes down with you. You don't want to screw up the way Markowitz did. Nobody goes near her without a backup. Two of the arresting cops let me read their personal notes on Redwing. The charges were dropped in one case because the complainant disappeared. Another one died of a heart attack. In the case officer's opinion, the guy was scared to death."
He stared at her mask of a face in profile as she went back into the details of the bulletin board and was lost in there. He had been wrong. She did know how to listen and how to bait. Hadn't she listened as he told her the feed worked both ways, that he'd been holding out on her and shadowing her? All he had left was Redwing's address. Markowitz's daughter had the makings of a great cop.
"I was just trying to help you out, Riker. If your team is waiting for her to come back to the hole on Hudson Street, you're in the wrong neighborhood. She only uses that place because it has an underground access to a building on the next street. That's how she loses the surveillance team."
He lifted his bottle to the light and stared at it. If he put the mouth of it to his ear like a conch shell, would he hear Markowitz laughing at him?
Edith was making the kitchen noises of preparing lunch for Charles. He stood at the center of the carpet, turning slowly, sensing that something was out of place, but not knowing what it might be. The farther back he had to reach into the archives of his photographic memory, the more flaws he was likely to find.
The address had changed since he was a child, but not the character of the rooms. Edith and Max had recreated the interior architecture of the old house in Gramercy Park. The windows had been redone and the walls covered with matching wood panels and wallpaper. Upon his first and final childhood visit to this Soho address, at the age of nine, he had helped them to match the lesser details of each room with the photographs of his remarkable memory. They had given him this game to play during the week he had lived with them while his parents were at the other end of the world attending a conference. He had not stopped until each piece of antique furniture, each bit of bric-a-brac, photograph and painting was set in its accustomed place.
Ten years had passed between that visit and the next. As a boy of nineteen, he had noticed one change immediately. She had taken the portrait of Max off the wall of the front room and replaced it with a good hunting print. But for that one change, Edith had kept to the original integrity of the rooms. The same museum-worthy figurines, silver dishes and ashtrays appeared on table surfaces. The same clutter of photographs and candles sat on the mantelpiece. Doilies graced the tables, and antimacassars protected the brocade of the chairs. The telephone was circa 1910. The late twentieth century was hidden away in a back room where Edith kept her computer.