Late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Janek went down to Police Plaza to see Kit Kopta. This time the crusty red-haired sergeant who ran her office greeted him with warmth.
"How's the shoulder, Detective? The throat?" And before Janek could answer: "That was one close call. Too bad you had to wax the girl.
Luck of the draw, I guess. Anyway, Merry Christmas!"
Kit rose when he came in. "You look grand, Frank. I don't think I've ever seen you with a tan."
"Well, it was a great trip."
She smiled. "I can just imagine the two of you snuggling on some Mexican beach. What I'd give for a little vacation.
"Why don't you take one? God knows you deserve it."
She laughed. "Sure. Check into a Club Med. Have a three-day affair with a gorgeous Nordic ice god, the kind with a stomach so hard you can use it for a washboard. Make an ass out of myself trying to stuff my body into a bikini. Hang out at the bar, pay for drinks with little doodads off my necklace, and wish to hell I was back here in good old tit-freezing New York, where at least I don't have to act jolly or pretend I'm having a good time. "
Janek shook his head. "Are you always like this on Christmas Eve?"
"It's not as if I had a nice husband to go home to." She smiled. "I'll probably end the evening curling up with a bottle. But I'm not bitter. Maybe a little ironic, that's all." She sat down behind her desk, turned serious. "Now what's all this about you wanting to reopen the case?"
It took Janek twenty minutes to lay out his theory of the Wallflower crimes. Kit didn't interrupt him or nod encouragement; she just gazed steadily into his eyes. When he finally finished, she asked him what exactly he wanted her to authorize.
"An investigation."
")"at sort of investigation?" He squinted at her. Her tone seemed hard. "What's the matter? My theory too farfetched?"
She stood, walked over to the window, stared down at Police Plaza.
"Sure, it's farfetched. You know it is. But so is the theory you were too smart to swallow, the one Sullivan and his people seem to have bought whole hog.
"So what's the problem?"
She turned to face him. Her thick black hair framed her little face. "The problem is if you hadn't nearly gotten killed that night, I'd have put IA on your ass."
"What're you talking about?"
She glared at him. "You and Aaron and your phony story that you just happened to be watching when this burglar let himself into Archer's house@o you really think I bought that crap? Don't insult me, please!"
Janek stared at the rug. He'd made a point of forgetting that extralegal maneuver. Now, reminded of it, he felt ashamed.
"It was a look-and-see operation, wasn't it?" she continued. "Not the most subtle one I ever heard about either. I figure the black kid was Aaron's snitch from the time he worked Safes and Lofts."
Janek spread his arms. "It was my idea. It was wrong. I'm sorry I did it." "Still, it worked for you. Got you inside, got you a quick look at some stuff, and now you've built a pretty theory around it. Fine. Maybe you're right. Maybe this Beverly Archer is the evil, manipulative murderess you say. Anything's possible, Frank. But you'll never get her for it, not if you're going to carry on like that."
"I'm not going to carry on like that. I won't do anything like that again."
She looked at him, rolled her eyes, and returned to her desk. they spent the next ten minutes bargaining. He wanted to go to Providence and send Aaron out to Texas to look for Archer connections among the two I unconnected" families. Then he wanted another three weeks of travel for them both to try to discover what incidents may have occurred between Beverly and Bertha Parce, Cynthia Morse, and the MacDonalds. Then he wanted at least ten days in Cleveland, digging out everything there was to be found on the woman. Plus whatever additional travel and per diems might be necessary depending on the information all these interviews produced.
Kit stared at him, her large brown eyes sparkling beneath her Grecian brows.
"Basically you're asking for unlimited backing on a theory neither of us has the nerve to broach to the FBI."
"You always said my instincts were good, Kit. Here's a chance to back me up."
"Sure, back you up. Then you get impatient and pull another Leo Titus because your goddaughter was a victim. No thanks, Frank.
Forget it."
"I gave you my word. Want me to give it to you in writing?"
She laughed. "Then I'd really have to fire you, wouldn't I? Your written promise would be a confession you broke your oath." "Shit!" He stood up, angry. "She did it. I know she did. I'm going to nail her, Kit, no matter how long it takes."
Kit studied him. When she spoke again, he could tell by her tone that she'd made a decision.
"Even if you're right, and you just might be, it's the toughest kind of -case to make. Suppose you prove Archer was totally fucked over by every single person Diana Proctor killed? So what? You're talking mind murders, Frank. You've got no witnesses, no one you can turn. Diana, your coconspirator, is already dead. It's a dead-end case. You know it is."
Janek tried to interrupt, but Kit motioned him to keep quiet until she was finished.
"I'm telling you the facts of life. No D.A. will take on a case like that unless you bring him a full confession. How the hell are you going get one? I talked to the woman myself. She's a stone-cold hard-ass. She knows she's out of it; she knows there's no evidence. If you're right and she was behind it, then one of the main reasons she operated the way she did was to insulate herself from a criminal prosecution. So now, tell me, why should she confess?"
He shook his head. "I don't know yet. But she will."
"Going to inake her, Frank? Going to beat it out of her?"
"Of course not."
"Then how?"
"Underneath the smile she's totally crazed. A crazy person can be broken." "And you're the man to break her, right?"
"I'll sure give it my best shot," he snapped.
Kit grinned. "Fine. That's fine. I'll go along with that.
But unlimited backing…" She shook her head. "Between you and Aaron I'll give you three weeks' worth of travel. Split it up any way you like. Plus you can keep your office till the end of January. After that bring me what you've got and we'll reevaluate the case together. But you better bring me something good. Otherwise both of you are going to be reassigned."
It wasn't what he wanted, but he knew it was all he was going to get.
After he accepted her offer, she escorted him to the door. Just before she opened it, she lightly touched the scar tissue on his throat.
"I would have been very sorry if something had happened to you, my friend."
He turned to her, kissed her cheek. "You talk tough, Kit, but you're still a pussycat."
She smiled. "I'm glad you found someone, Frank. I liked what I saw of her, especially the way she shot over here when we called to tell her you'd been cut." She stood before him, took hold of both his hands, stared up into his face. "Listen to me. Don't poison the fruit," she warn ed quietly. "If Archer did it, I want you to nail her. But with a straight nail. Hear me, Frank? Make damn sure that nail goes in her straight…
When he left Police Plaza, the sky was dark, but the city seemed strangely void of rancor. It's the holidays, he thought. But then he remembered: Christmas was the season when New Yorkers turned their rage against themselves. It was the season of suicides.
He found a liquor store open on Nassau Street, went in, bought a chilled bottle of champagne, carried it home on the subway in a paper bag.