„I don’t need your protection, thank you.“
„But you’re doing the hangman routine – stoned on drugs. Now there’s a murder in the making.“
She held up a slip of paper with a doctor’s name and address printed across the top. „Recognize it?“ This was the sedative prescription she had taken from his pocket the night of Oliver’s wake. „There’s already been one accident with the hangman illusion. And you’re going to be stoned out of your mind for that performance. There’s no other way you can stand on that gallows and watch it collapse. That’s what happens, isn’t it? The gallows will fold, and you’ll be swinging thirteen steps off the ground with a rope around your neck. It’s already failed once. Are you sure it’s not a setup? Are you very sure you don’t need my protection?“
He was pulling himself together, rebuilding his facade. And now she could see that something had just occurred to him. He was smiling again, self-possessed and confident.
„Malakhai is a killer. You got that much right.“ Prado picked up the flyer for Carnegie Hall and waved it in the air like a small flag. „So here’s something else to think about. Charles isn’t handsome like his cousin. But I promise you that every time Malakhai looks at him, he sees Max Candle’s face.“
„So? Max and Malakhai were friends.“
„Were they?“ Prado turned to the mirror and fiddled with the knot of his tie. „Malakhai spent years torturing his old friend with the Louisa illusion. He brought his dead wife into Max’s home and sat her down at the man’s dinner table. Max was very much in love with Louisa. He took her death very hard. And then, there she was, back from the grave and sitting right beside him at the table. Interesting? And then there’s Charles. Max loved his little cousin like a son. Did you know that? It’s a pity you never worked out the Lost Illusion, just to be on the safe side. When Charles performs at Carnegie Hall, he shouldn’t be taking any help from Malakhai.“
„Malakhai would never hurt him.“
„Are you willing to bet Charles’s life on that?“ Prado glanced at the mirror before he sat down again. „Hours before Louisa died, I dropped by Oliver’s apartment. It was early in the afternoon. Louisa and Malakhai had the room upstairs. We could hear them up there, going at it like animals. They rocked the bed on its feet and made it dance all the way across the ceiling. Poor Oliver turned bright red and pretended it wasn’t happening. So provincial. What an American he was. But it wasn’t Louisa’s husband in that bed with her. You see, Malakhai walked into Oliver’s room while the bed was still dancing upstairs. Oh, the look on his face when he stared at that ceiling. He was devastated. No – he was destroyed.“ Prado leaned across the table, smiling. „Are you quite sure Malakhai didn’t mean to kill his wife that same night?“
„You’re lying. Max and Louisa told him about the affair. That’s how he found out.“
„Is that what Malakhai said? Well, maybe they did confess. But I promise you, Mallory, that dancing bed was the first he knew about the affair. Don’t let Charles – “
„He won’t hurt Charles.“
„No? Don’t you wonder why Malakhai wouldn’t help you work out the Lost Illusion? How long do you think he’s been planning to share his stage with Max’s cousin?“ He spoke to her, but he played to his imagined audience in the mirror. „Well, maybe Charles will survive. You never know.“ He picked up his hat. „You’ll excuse me? I have to rehearse Emile’s routine. I may need to hang myself ten times. Practice makes perfect.“
„Dangerous trick, Prado. And strung out on drugs? Maybe when St. John bowed out, he was helping Malakhai set you up for the kill.“
„What of it? I know you’ll be there tomorrow night – watching my back. You can make my finale after Malakhai’s act. But you’ll have to hurry, Mallory. Timing is everything.“
He waved one hand in the air, still performing for the watchers he believed were behind the mirror. And now he was unlocking the catch on the doorknob.
„Prado!“ She rose from the chair and leaned over to press her hands flat on the table, allowing her blazer to open and show him the gun. „If Franny Futura turns up dead, I’m going to kill you. And it won’t be a bullet – not a quick death. You’ll never guess the day I come for you. It might be a month or a year. I’m real patient that way.“
Now that should assure him that there was no one behind the looking glass.
Jack Coffey sat alone in the dark room behind the mirror. Mallory’s interview was done, and he knew he should leave now. Yet he remained in his seat, watching her through the one-way glass as she sat down and covered her face with both hands.
He was past the point of a supervisor overseeing a case. This was borderline voyeurism. Coffey shifted in his front-row chair, so like a theater seat. Though he knew he was alone, he turned to check the elevated row of stationary chairs behind him.
But why should he feel guilty? Mallory was the one who just made a death threat against a suspect. Maybe she had only intended to rattle Prado. But then Coffey had to wonder if he should believe every word. He hoped Prado had believed her. It might keep Futura alive awhile longer.
Every good instinct told him to take Mallory off the case. But who else could have done so much with damn little help? Riker’s evaluation had been correct. Inspector Markowitz had been the best of cops in his prime, but his child was better.
She was also dangerous.
Coffey wondered what Mallory was thinking, sitting there still as death. He wished he could see her face.
As if responding to this thought, her hands fell away, and she slowly turned her head toward the one-way glass. Hers was not the vague, roaming glance of Nick Prado, who had only suspected a watcher. Mallory was staring into his eyes. Coffey took little comfort in the knowledge that she could not see through the mirror. This was only her paranoia tuned to a fine instrument for fun and terror. She knew he would take the center chair and where his eyes would be.
What would Lou Markowitz do if he could come back from the dead and see his daughter now? Would he laugh or cry?
As if she were reading his mind, Mallory smiled – just like the old man, a Markowitz smile.
Jack Coffey closed his eyes and continued to sit in the dark after Mallory had abandoned the interview room. He listened to her footsteps in the hall. She stopped at the door and tried the knob. Now he heard her working the lock. He was bracing for the confrontation. He would be caught in the act of a voyeur watching a lone woman in the interview room.
The door opened by only an inch. Mallory never looked inside.
What for? She already knew he was there.
Her footsteps continued down the hall. Was she laughing? Or was that Markowitz?
A newspaper lay on the floor, headlines screaming about the hanging of Emile St. John. Franny Futura lay back on the pillows. He had not left his bed since the maid brought him the morning paper. The woman had accepted a cheap ring as payment, for he had no money to bribe her.
He had not changed his clothes since his arrival. The suitcases were in the closet, unopened – a neat stack of symbols for his entire existence, always packed and ready to run.
Franny watched the shadows crawl from one side of the room to the other, slowly edging across the walls, and some crawled along the ceiling. Now that darkness had fallen, the headlights of cars in the parking lot created more diverting dark shapes and jerky flashes, dashing across the walls to take him by surprise. Every pair of lights announced another visitor to the motel.
Any moment now.
He had lived his entire life rehearsing for a knock on the door. In dreams, it always happened at night. As often as he had imagined the moment, he could never see beyond the point when the door began to open. On the other side, something awaited him.