What had the house done to the intruder?
„My father doesn’t even know I have this stuff,“ said Riker. „You stole it from him?“
Riker shook his head. „I came by it the night Gran died. That old man literally worked this case right up to the end. He had coroners’ reports from six states, patching time lines and murder contracts together, but nothing after the date of the Winter House Massacre. So, it’s twenty years later, and the trail is as cold as it ever gets. That’s when Gran figures Stick Man must’ve died back in the forties, the year of the massacre.“
„Well, he was only off by two years,“ said Mallory, examining her nails, „if Nedda killed Stick Man in Maine.“
„Yeah. Too bad the Maine police weren’t on Gran’s radar. He might’ve closed out the case.“ Riker knew she was wondering when this family saga would finally end. He was always trying to connect with her on some human level, forgetting who and what he was dealing with.
„Your dad,“ she said, prompting him for an explanation of why this door was closed to them.
„Okay,“ he said. „Now remember, Gran and my dad worked this case together for years – from the day my grandfather retired until he died. Well, Granddad was always pumped. Dead or alive, he wanted to bring Red Winter home. All those nights at the kitchen table, looking at clues and kicking around ideas – that was the only time my father’s old man ever talked to him.“
And this family custom of stone silence had carried into Riker’s generation.
„The only time Dad was really happy was when he was rilling the kitchen with cigar smoke, emptying a whiskey bottle with my grandfather and talking shop. So it was hard to understand what Dad did when his old man died. That was the night my father brought home a twenty-two-year-old autopsy report on the second fortuneteller, the one who died after the Winter House Massacre. After Granddad read it, he got all excited. He couldn’t get the words out. He stood up, hugged my dad – for maybe the first time ever – then fell across the kitchen table dead.“
„Later that night, my mom was out on the porch, waiting for a hearse from the mortuary. And Dad was in the kitchen with his father’s corpse. I can still see him on the floor, crawling around on hands and knees, picking up all the papers that scattered when Gran had his heart attack. After my father had the whole file all bundled together, he dropped it into the garbage can and never talked about the case again.“
The files young Riker had rescued from the trash still bore faint stains of what the family had dined on that night.
„As much as your dad couldn’t stand the sight of that file,“ said Mallory, „that’s how much he loved your grandfather. It was just too much pain. That’s why he tossed it in the garbage can.“
Riker nodded. He had come to understand that over the passing years, but Mallory the Machine should not have been able to work it out – and so quickly. „But that’s not the reason I can’t ask for Dad’s help with this case.“
„I know.“ Mallory pushed her empty beer botde to one side. „It’s because now you understand why your grandfather was so excited he couldn’t talk. For those twelve days between the massacre at Winter House and the fortuneteller’s murder in the police station – Nedda was learning to read tarot cards.“
That was the pattern: a new fortuneteller to replace the old one. What other reason could a hitman have for stealing a child? And what a tall child; one who could pass for a woman, but so much easier to control – an heiress who could one day reappear to claim a fortune.
This last piece dropped into place so neatly, he could almost hear an audible click in the gears of Mallory’s mind.
Riker stared at her for what seemed like a very long time, perhaps no more than a minute, but how those seconds crawled along. She could still surprise him, and sometimes this caused him pain. He had watched her grow up, but he could never really know her. And, fool that he was, he was always tripping over himself each time he underestimated her – and yet he never learned.
He nodded now. She had gotten it right.
When his grandfather had felt the onset of a massive coronary, when joy had overpowered fear and pain, that must have been the moment when the old man realized that the stolen child could still be alive. Riker looked down at the sprawl of papers on his own kitchen table – the family tradition of fathers and sons.
„My father was a great cop. None better. That murdered fortuneteller was the key. If he’d gone on working this case, Dad would’ve followed through on Humboldt. He would’ve run him down to the ice-pick stabbing in Maine and a red-haired girl.“
Mallory nodded. „He would’ve brought Red Winter home forty years ago.“
„I can never tell him that.“
„We have to stop meeting this way. People will talk.“
„Yes, ma’am.“ Officer Brill gallantly strained to smile at this line, which had been an old one before Nedda was born. After opening the cellar door, he clicked on his flashlight, and she followed him down the stairs. The yellow beam roved over the broken glass on the floor. He had found one piece that he liked and put it into a plastic bag. „Is that blood on the glass?“
„Yes, ma’am, it is. Did you cut yourself?“
„Not my hands.“ She examined the backs of them. „And I had shoes on my feet.“
„You didn’t stab anybody, did you, ma’am?“
„No, I’m off that now.“
Officer Brill’s polite smile widened into a genuine grin. „Good to know.“ He looked up as he redirected the beam of his flashlight to the broken bulb overhead. There was more blood on one of the shards that still clung to the socket. „So, we’ll be looking for a tall man wearing a bandage on his head. That’s more of a description than we usually get.“
Back upstairs again, the patrolman accepted her offer of tea, but insisted on preparing it himself. He seemed at home in a kitchen. She guessed that he had a grandmother her age, and, during the course of their conversation, this proved true. The young man lived in the Bronx with a large extended family that included both of his grandparents. He spoke of them warmly as he pulled out a chair for Nedda and seated her at the table.
When the kettle released its steam in a shrill whistle, he was quick to kill the flame of the burner. As he poured hot water over the tea bags in their cups, he noticed the tarot deck on the kitchen table, and he smiled. „My grandmother spends ten dollars every Monday to have her fortune told.“
„Well, that’s cheap. She must know an honest fortuneteller.“
By the expression on the young man’s face, Nedda could tell that he considered this an oxymoron. How could a fortuneteller ever be honest?
„An old woman taught me to read tarot cards.“ Nedda unboxed the deck. „These belonged to her.“ She selected the card that most resembled the young policeman. „This is your significator, the Knight of Swords. It’s what you are. Now think about the problem that troubles you most.“ She shuffled the cards. „I’m guessing that’s me.“ After cutting the cards three times, she laid them out in three piles. „Put the deck back together and hand it to me.“
He did as she asked, and she knew it was only to humor an old woman, for he was a child of the new century, a firm believer in scientific explanations for everything.
She lifted one card from the top and laid it down upon the knight. „This covers you.“ And with the next card laid lengthwise, she said, „This crosses you for good or ill.“ In quick succession, she placed four cards at compass points all around the first three, then dealt four more cards in a row to one side.
„And now you’re going to tell me my future.“