The music was welling up again, about to crash down on her in a crescendo. Her hands went up in a defensive posture. And then the music softened, like a living entity deciding not to bludgeon her with a heavy falling wall of sound. Mallory slowly rolled her body, and on her hands and knees, she crawled out of Malakhai’s box, dragging the CD player by the wires of her headset. And the music crept after her.
This isn’t real!
The score was climbing again, rising. In a rage, Mallory smashed her fist down on the music machine. A small rectangle of plastic broke away to expose the battery bay. Not an empty compartment.
She had believed that the old cadmium batteries had been thrown away, but there they lay, side by side – alive, recharged in the night.
Idiot.
Mallory touched the power switch. The music ended. She breathed deeply. So nothing was what it seemed. Even insanity was only a cheap trick.
Lieutenant Coffey opened the window blinds spanning the upper half of the wall. In the squad room beyond the glass, all his detectives were gathered around a small television set, and cash was being laid down. He guessed it was still an even-money bet, for no one but the mayor’s publicist knew how the TV script would play out this morning. He turned back to the larger television screen in the corner of his office.
Detective Sergeant Riker slouched in a chair, showing no enthusiasm for the coming event – perhaps because he had no money riding on it. He had been hustled through the office door before he could even make conversation with the gamblers in the next room.
Jack Coffey ran one hand through his hair, stopping short of the bald spot, which he attributed to stress and blamed on Mallory. In silence, he and Riker watched the weather segment of the morning talk show. Jack Coffey resented the smug weatherman, a happy idiot with luxurious, unmerited hair and a huge paycheck for presiding over a gang of cartoons. Smiling suns and frowning raindrops decorated the map in the background. A single large snowflake was menacing the entire state of Connecticut.
The lieutenant leaned forward and browsed through a fresh stack of paperwork on his desk.
What the hell?
He ripped off the top sheet and waved it at Detective Riker. „How did she get Heller’s crew to go along with this? I signed off on the platform inspection, not the parade float.“
Riker shrugged, and Coffey decided that his sergeant might be genuinely in the dark. Mallory had probably covered her partner with deniability for this less than legitimate work order.
Coffey looked back through the glass. Last-minute bets were going down while the weatherman laughed at the cartoon raindrop converging on New York State with incoming storms.
The screen image changed to a tourist’s home movie of the Thanksgiving Day parade. The camera was focused on Mr. Zimmermann’s wife and children. The little family was gamely smiling as Mrs. Zimmermann’s hair stood straight up in the wind. The children waved as they stood beside the giant snowman float. For no good reason at all, the video camera panned to a clear shot of the rocky knoll overlooking the rear end of the parade route. Mrs. Zimmermann and the children jostled one another as they hurriedly regrouped in front of the camera’s new position. Now they all moved backward toward the park, while every other camera in New York City was pointing at the spectacle of giant balloons flying in the opposite direction.
The image dissolved and was replaced by the stage set of the mayor’s favorite morning talk show. A man and woman were sitting on a couch. The ma-and-pa duo of broadcast journalism had not changed dramatically since Jack Coffey was a schoolboy. The anchorman had always worn a bad toupee, but the dark color no longer agreed with the facial crags and the triple chin of middle age. His female cohost was spookier. She had not aged at all, and she never stopped smiling. Her perpetual grin was rumored to be an accident of plastic surgery.
Riker leaned toward the set and turned up the volume as Heller walked out on stage. The head of Forensics appeared to be shaking hands with the TV people against his will. Perhaps Heller was only uncomfortable in the public eye. Or maybe Mallory was holding his family hostage in a remote location.
The large bear of a man sat down on the couch between his television hosts. Heller had great composure, hardly blinking as they mangled the list of his formidable credentials and previous triumphs in law enforcement. His slow-roving brown eyes turned to the monitor beside the couch. A split screen enlarged the same image for the television audience. It was a frozen shot of the rocky knoll above the head of the tourist’s smiling wife.
„Now watch the knoll,“ the anchorman instructed his viewing audience.
The still shot moved into the slow-motion action of Mrs. Zimmermann’s hair waving in the wind. The television host carefully pronounced each word. „See the dark shadow on the rocks? See it? See the puff of white smoke?“
Riker picked up the television guide and ran his finger down the column for morning programs, perhaps to reassure himself that the mayor’s publicist had not booked NYPD’s forensic expert on some kiddie program.
„Now that puff of smoke. That’s a gunshot, right?“ The anchorman turned to Heller. „Clear evidence that the policewoman didn’t act alone. Is that right, sir?“
„Detective Mallory didn’t act at all,“ said Heller. „The smoke is in sync with the sound track on the news films. The movement of shadows was also matched to the tourist shots. The smoke came from a rifle. We recovered the cartridge from two kids who were playing in the park that morning.“
The grinning woman touched Heller’s sleeve. „But are you sure it was the rifle shot that hit Goldy? I mean, the balloon was so big.“ She faced the camera as her hands made a wide arc to express big for the learning-disabled audience. „It could’ve been the gun, right? You couldn’t miss a thing like that with any weapon.“
„The balloon wasn’t the target,“ said Heller. „It was hit on a ricochet. My team examined the evidence on Detective Mallory’s suspicion that the float was the primary target. We found two holes in the material of the giant top hat. There’s an entry hole for the shot and an exit hole for the ricochet. I found corresponding marks on the metal armature underneath the hat material.“
The anchorman raised one eyebrow and held this pose. „You’re saying it was an assassination attempt on one of the magicians?“
„No,“ said Heller. „I’m saying a bullet ricocheted off a parade float. Beyond that, you might only have a gun-happy drunk.“
„Well, at least we’ve accounted for one of the bullets,“ said the grinning woman. „Now the shots – “
„One shot,“ said Heller, holding up his index finger, making no mistake about whom he was dealing with. They obviously needed this visual aid to count a single bullet. And this lent credence to Riker’s theory that they might indeed be watching a children’s program.
The male host countered with three fingers. „We have witnesses who heard three shots.“
There were two electronic bleeps to censor words in Heller’s response. Coffey suspected they were uncomplimentary adjectives for civilian testimony. Heller went on to reiterate this in more polite language. „You’ve run those tapes a hundred times. Did you hear three shots? No.“ His index finger was rising again. „One shot. Detective Mallory never fired her gun.“
Coffey turned to the wide window on the squad room. There were loud cheers and whistles behind the glass. Money was being grabbed up and jammed into pants pockets. A few wadded bills were flying through the air, propelled by unhappy losers.