„But Nick isn’t aware of that. I never had the heart to tell him he was getting old.“ St. John turned to the side window to see a red sedan pulling up to the limousine’s broadside. The car’s windshield faced the limo’s side windows, and the driver was waving at them, flicking the air in a shoo-fly gesture, as if this would clear away the tons of metal stretched lengthwise across his path. St. John held up two fingers to the driver to tell him this wouldn’t take long, only a few minutes. He was wrong about that.
The hotel doorman was knocking on the rear passenger window, trying to get St. John’s attention. The luxury limousine was well padded against city noises, and the man’s voice was little more than the buzz of an insect, but Mallory could guess what he was saying. The opposite side window gave her a view on the driveway curving back to the busy artery of Central Park South. A cab had pulled up alongside the red sedan, its headlights a foot from the side of the limousine. As these vehicles were disgorging passengers and baggage, two cabs and another private car were queuing up behind them, locking them into the driveway.
The courtyard lit up with a flash of lightning.
She paid no attention to the more insistent rapping at both windows. Her tone was casual. „The doctor said your accident amounted to a nasty rope burn.“ Actually, the doctor had refused to say anything. A raid on the hospital computer had been more helpful. „Now what about Franny Futura? Is he dead yet?“
The bang caught up to the lightning bolt, louder than gunfire.
St. John turned to the window pocked with a smattering of raindrops. Another man was knocking on the glass and gesturing toward a yellow cab sandwiched between the limousine and the other cars.
Mallory tuned out the knocking man. „Where is Futura?“
St. John only shook his head, distracted by the men at the windows. The chauffeur retreated, but the doorman did not, and the cabby had escalated to the sexually graphic gesture of one extended finger, a traditional New York traffic signal directing St. John to insert his car into a dark orifice. Outside the baffle of thick glass, the chauffeur engaged the cabby in a dumb-show shouting match. More cars were pulling into the driveway.
„Where is Futura?“ There was no pressure in her voice. She had all day for this. Other drivers were gathering around the cabby and the chauffeur. Round eyes, Asian eyes and every shade of skin could be seen through the rain-streaked glass.
„Mallory, I’d tell you if I knew where Franny was.“
„Sure you would.“
The cabby had driven off the chauffeur with a raised fist, and now he renewed his attentions to the window, hammering on it with his fist. Though the law forbade the nonemergency use of car horns, Mallory ignored the lawbreaker who leaned on his horn in a continuous shriek. The line of cars was now stretching into the street. Backing up into traffic was not an option for any of the enclosed vehicles. Nor could they jump the curb thronged with activists. One of the protesters waved a giant photograph of an animal’s chewed-off leg left in the metal jaws of a trap. The mist had changed to a light rainfall, but none of the animal people showed signs of leaving. They had become an audience for the angry motorists assaulting the car.
„You’re not afraid, St. John. That’s not why you’re running back to Paris. You just don’t want to be here when another man dies.“
More drivers were carting bags from the back of the line and glaring at the limousine. Other men had joined the cabby, who was hammering on the hood with both fists, frustrated, eyes popping with an implosion of anger, trying to get at this rich bastard who was ignoring him. Other drivers were warming up their fists on the windows and the trunk of the car. Their mouths opened and closed with screams that broke through the barrier of thick glass. The words were muffled and some were foreign, but the sentiments were clear. It was easy to lip-read the word asshole and its many translations.
A gridlock of traffic blocked two lanes of Central Park South.
St. John was finding it more difficult to keep his tone civil as the windows were assaulted with more hands and angry faces pressed to the glass. „Mallory, this is old business that should’ve been taken care of long before you were born. In the war, I resolved the killing with my religion as – “
„You never resolved a thing. You still carry it around with you.“ She had hit home. It was in his eyes, the pain of a stab in the soft spot.
One of the cars at the end of the drive tried to back into the street and hit a carriage, freeing the horse from its traces, and now the old brown mare was running down the sidewalk and scattering pedestrians. Cheers from the animal-rights people penetrated the glass. The overturned horseless carriage cut off more traffic, and now the line of immobilized vehicles extended past the intersection.
A man in a gray suit was pressing his identification to Mallory’s window. Without turning to look, she knew he was hotel security. Now the gray suit was being roughly elbowed out of the way by men who were not so well dressed. On all sides, the car was being hammered by fists on the glass and metal. The animal people along the curb appeared to be rooting for the cabbies and supporting the illusion of a full-scale riot.
„I know why you’re leaving.“ She smiled pleasantly. Yes, it was shaping up to be a fine New York morning, full of confrontation and street violence. „You don’t want to watch this murder go down. Like that makes it all right, being somewhere else when a man dies.“
More car horns were penetrating the window glass.
„I know you want me to stop this. That’s why you locked me inside the platform, isn’t it? It was a message just for me. Cop logic. Coincidence is always suspicious.“
A man in a turban danced on the hood, then made a jump to the roof of the car. The crowd went wild with applause.
„And hiding the dead body in the platform? That was your work, St. John. You wanted me on this case – officially. You handed it to me with that dead body. But now you won’t help me stop a murder. You can’t choose up sides, can you? Fine, but don’t make me chase you down. Stay here and watch a man die. We’ll call it penance for the executioner.“
„In the war – “
„Don’t start with me. You’re pathetic, all of you. Old men playing war games. Futura’s dead, isn’t he?“
He winced, and she knew this was the truth, or it soon would be. A cheer went up from the animal people. St. John looked up to the roof of the car where feet were stomping on the metal.
„It’s a hard call. Will Malakhai die?“ Her words were in monotone. „Or will he get Prado first? You know I’ll get the last man standing, and maybe I’ll have to kill him. Is that what you want?“
The car was moving, rocking. Angry hands were pushing it in both directions. The crowd had spilled into the unobstructed half of the driveway for a closer view. They were waiting on the promised destruction of the long black limousine. The man in the turban made another leap to the hood and began a violent dance, denting the metal with his cowboy boots. And now he kicked at the windshield, but the thick glass would not give.
Only Mallory was serene as she studied St. John’s face. Was he reliving days of Maquis justice, the mobs, the killing mobs? Welcome to my war zone, New York – Fun City.
She could hear the sirens coming, only a shrill whine piercing the glass, but it was building in pitch. The lightning flashed and the bang was an instant behind it; the strikes were closer now.
„The day Louisa died, you told her the Germans were printing up posters with her picture. So they didn’t know where she was – not until someone informed on her. Isn’t that why Malakhai was wearing a German uniform when he shot her? He knew they were – “