‘It will.’ His partner settled a heavy knapsack on the table, pulled out her phone and placed a call. When she had worked through the responding Hoffman, and when the lady of the house was at last on the line, Mallory said, ‘You’ve got cops on the roof.’
The three of them were gathered on the rooftop patio, and Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had selected Riker as the pushover cop. Her small talk was directed toward him, and then she won his heart by lighting up a proffered cigarette.
Mallory quietly endured the bonding ritual of smokers. And when the older woman finally looked her way, the detective flashed her a Gotcha smile and laid the old ViCAP questionnaire on the table. ‘I think you’ve seen this before.’
The society matron’s upper lip curled back with this unexpected and nasty surprise, but she was a quick-recovery artist. Turning to Riker, fellow smoker, one of her people, she insisted that he must call her Grace. ‘And what should I call you?’
‘Detective. Me and my partner, we got the same first name.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We were hoping you’d clear something up for us – Grace.’ He picked up the ViCAP questionnaire. ‘Rolland Mann was blackmailing you with this. So we figure it wasn’t his own idea to murder the Nadler kid.’
Mrs Driscol-Bledsoe never glanced at the sheets in his hand. Her smile was still in place when she said, ‘You suspect Rolland of extortion and murder? Poor dead Rolland. Well then, as I see it, your job is done. Good work.’
Riker feigned incredulity, and Mallory knew he had to fake it because nothing surprised him anymore. ‘Are you trying out your defense strategy on us? We don’t like Rolland for the Hunger Artist murders. And Willy Fallon didn’t string herself up in the Ramble.’
‘So we need another stone killer,’ said Mallory. ‘Somebody with the patience of a long-range planner.’ She turned an admiring glance on the environs. ‘That was smart – Grace – planting the trees back from the street – no sidewalk advertising for unreported income.’
‘Seven years ago,’ said Riker, ‘the Driscol Institute paid to reinforce this roof.’
‘The Institute is responsible for maintaining my house. Perfectly legal.’
‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘You needed the extra support for this damn park. How many tons of soil—’
‘A legitimate business expense,’ said Grace. ‘The Driscol Institute owns my house, and I host the charity’s fund-raisers.’
‘Not up here,’ said Mallory. ‘We talked to your caterer, the one who bills the Institute for your weekly fund-raisers. He’s never even seen the roof.’ The detective opened her knapsack and pulled out a heavy paperbound volume. She slammed it down on the table, and the glass ashtray danced close to the edge. ‘That’s the Institute’s charter. It covers bare maintenance on the mansion . . . no rooftop landscaping.’ The wave of Mallory’s hand encompassed all the trees and shrubs. ‘So the Driscol Institute paid a contractor to shore up the roof. I’ve seen the canceled check and a legitimate work order. But you’re the one who paid for the landscaping – in cash – lots of it. Where did all that money come from?’
Riker reached down behind his chair to pluck a brilliant pink flower, and Grace gasped. He twirled the stem in his fingers. ‘I’ve never seen one like this before. Real expensive, huh?’ He tossed the flower over one shoulder. ‘Did your landscaper pitch a fit when his dolly got stolen?’ And when her silence dragged out too long, he said, ‘A dolly – maybe you call it a hand truck. You know, two wheels, long handle. This one had a car battery attached. Your landscaper used it to power a joist. That’s how he lifted those trees up here – and tons of soil.’
‘Cheaper than a crane,’ said Mallory. ‘Easier to hide what you were doing – with unreported, untaxed income. Crane operators require city permits – a paper trail you couldn’t afford.’
‘But a joist is overkill,’ said Riker. ‘If you only wanna string up a few bodies, a light winch will do just fine – three times in a row.’ He laid down his notebook. It was open to a page that listed the brand names of items from the murder kit. ‘This particular dolly had a wider platform than most. You’d need something like that to transport an unconscious victim to the Ramble.’
The woman was slow to respond. When she finally spoke, her tone was condescending. ‘Is that how I did it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘You covered the theft of the dolly with cash and a sweet tip for the landscaper. No police report. What were the odds that the cops would ever trace it back to you seven years later?’
‘Indeed.’ The socialite seemed to agree with him – smiling, nodding, much too calm, even if she did have the best lawyers that dirty money could buy.
Mallory stared at Grace’s cigarette. The ash at the end had gone dark and smokeless. ‘You don’t inhale. That’s probably wise.’ She leaned forward and lightly touched the silver pendant chained to the older woman’s neck. ‘Will that gizmo work up here?’
Grace’s hand instinctively went to her breast to cover the medic-alert medallion that dangled there. ‘Yes, there’s an electronic responder in that little building over there.’ She nodded toward the small structure for the roof door. ‘Would you like a demonstration, Detective Mallory?’
‘I know how panic buttons work. It’s a service for old people – a lot older than you – and people with medical problems, the ones who live alone. But you’ve got Hoffman.’
‘You got a live-in nurse,’ said Riker. ‘And you’re still so freaked out, you wear that medallion. Don’t you trust Hoffman to call the ambulance? Afraid she might not like you that much?’
‘She can’t be too paranoid,’ said Mallory. ‘She’s already had a stroke.’
Riker made a show of consulting his notebook for the plunder of Mallory’s raid on insurance-company files. ‘She’s had two strokes.’
Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had the look of a woman stripped naked in public. She turned to the sound of the roof door opening. Hoffman was running toward them, yelling, hands waving. There were cops in the house. They were everywhere. Everywhere!
On every landing, doors stood open to reveal the search in progress, men and women in uniforms upending drawers and turning out closets. Two flights away from the ground floor, an officer handed Grace Driscol-Bledsoe the search warrant. She read the text as she spoke to the detectives standing beside her on the stairs. ‘I gather this only pertains to the Hunger Artist?’
‘No,’ said Mallory. Once they were assured of getting in the door, she had tacked on a few other charges and more items, like trees and plants. ‘We’re also looking for any loose cash you have lying around.’
‘Whoa,’ said Riker. ‘Looks like they found it.’ He backed up against the wall, and the others did the same to make room for uniforms coming down the stairs, carrying clear plastic bags filled with currency.
Mallory watched the money walk past them. ‘Grace, I don’t think your income will account for all that cash. Large bills, maybe three hundred thousand a bag? Does that sound about right?’ More officers with bags paraded past them. ‘So we’re looking at millions here.’
The older woman resumed her reading of the warrant. ‘The Driscol Institute owns this house – furnishings, paintings, even the silverware. My lawyers won’t have a problem extending that ownership to cover money, too.’
As they passed the first door on the next landing, Mallory looked into a room outfitted like a small clinic. ‘You do plan ahead.’ A pantry stood open to reveal an impressive larder of medical supplies. Detective Janos was pointing to shelves of pharmacy bottles as he questioned Hoffman.