Though it would have been some comfort to him, Riker could never share the story of Kathy’s best escape act. And now his mind reached back across the bridge, across the water to the sleeper in her coma dreams to tell her that she was not dying alone. Sparrow, the secrets are poisoning me.
Mallory watched Charles’s Mercedes drive off as her partner slid into the front seat of her tan sedan.
‘It’s that one.’ She nodded toward the building directly across the street. Natalie Homer’s sister lived in an area of Brooklyn prized for views of Prospect Park. Apparently Susan Qualen was doing well in the world. ‘It’s better if we catch her outside.’ Then the cop hater would have no door to slam in their faces. ‘The neighbors say she runs in the park – same time every day.’
‘Must be a health fanatic’ Riker wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘She’s gonna kill herself in this heat.’
The front door opened and a trim woman in shorts and a T-shirt appeared at the top of a short flight of stairs. Natalie’s sister was tall and blond with a familial face. Before the woman could descend to the sidewalk, the two detectives were out of the car and moving toward her, each holding up a leather folder with identification and a gold shield.
‘Miss Qualen? I’m Detective Mallory, and this is – ’
The woman’s face turned angry and hard. ‘Go away!’
Riker stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Ma’am? We’d rather do this at your convenience, but you – ’
‘I read about your last hanging in the papers,’ said Susan Qualen. ‘You bastards couldn’t cover up that one. Not so easy this time, was it?’
‘Ma’am,’ said Riker. ‘We don’t work that way. Sometimes we have to withhold details so we can – ’
‘I’ve heard that one before. Twenty years ago, the cops told the reporters my sister was a suicide.’
‘The cops didn’t tell you much, did they?’ Mallory moved up the staircase, advancing on the woman slowly. ‘They told you it was murder, and you knew about the rope.’ But no cop would have revealed the details of the hacked-off hair jammed in Natalie Homer’s mouth.
Mallory was one step away – touching distance. Nervous, Susan? ‘So how did you make the connection between your sister and a hanged hooker?’
‘I read the story in the damn papers.’
Mallory shook her head. ‘No, you’re lying. The link had to be more than rope. All those details in the paper – why did you connect them with – ’
‘I’m done with you.’ Susan Qualen started down the staircase.
‘Hold it.’ Mallory blocked her way. ‘Where did you get the – ’
‘My lawyer says I don’t have to talk to you.’
‘No,’ said Mallory. ‘That’s what people say when they haven’t talked to a lawyer. Your sister’s murder is still an open case, and you will talk to us.’
Riker climbed a step closer to the woman. His voice was more reasonable and friendly. ‘We turned up some inconsistencies in Natalie’s murder. We think her son might be able to straighten it out. So where’s the kid now?’
‘I don’t know where he is,’ said Susan Qualen.
‘I read a follow-up interview with the boy’s stepmother,’ said Mallory. ‘She claims you took the boy after his father died.’
And Riker added, ‘That would’ve been a year after Natalie’s murder.’ His tone of voice said, Hey, just trying to be helpful.
‘But we had a problem with that.’ The threat in Mallory’s voice was impossible to miss.
‘You see,’ said Riker, dialing back the tension, ‘the little boy never went to school after his mother died. When summer vacation was over – ’
‘So the family moved out of the school district.’
‘No, Miss Qualen,’ said Mallory. ‘The stepmother still lives at the same address.’ Mallory edged closer. ‘She told a cop named Geldorf that you had the boy. Why would she lie? And when that same cop called you, why didn’t you set him straight?’
There was confusion in Qualen’s eyes. Civilians were amateurs at deception, unable to remember the details of lies told in the distant past, and they were all so easily rattled. Riker smiled at the woman, as if they were old friends discussing weather and books they had read. ‘It would help if you could tell us what happened to Natalie’s son.’
‘And where he is now.’ Mallory made the short step from accusation to attack. ‘Talk to me! What did you do with him?’
Susan Qualen lost her hard-case composure and made a mad sprint down the staircase, slamming into both detectives in her haste to get away. Mallory hit the sidewalk at a dead run, and Riker lunged to catch her arm, yelling, ‘Whoa! First, let’s interview the stepmother. Then we can nail Qualen for obstruction. We’ll toss her in the lock-up cage for a while. It’ll be scary but legal.’
Mallory watched the woman’s hands flailing as she ran down the sidewalk, escaping. Passersby must believe that they had drawn guns on her. Even now, the distance could be so easily closed, and when Mallory caught up to Susan Qualen, the woman would be vulnerable, breathless and frightened.
‘Trust me,’ said Riker. ‘It’ll be more fun my way.’
Not likely.
William Heart cringed at the noise. The recluse was not good with human interaction and did what he could to avoid it. Worst was the knock at the door, the sound of a trap closing. He stood very still, hardly breathing, but his visitors would not go away, and now he heard the voice of the landlord saying, ‘I know he’s in there. Takes him all damn day to open the door. Bang harder.’
However, the stranger was more polite, only lightly rapping, as he said, ‘Thank you,’ to the dwindling footsteps of the landlord. And now the visitor spoke to the locked and bolted door. ‘Hello? Mr Heart? Your gallery gave me your address.’
The cultured voice was reassuring and carried the lure of a potential sale. William opened the door to see a fairy-tale bag of metaphors. This tall man had the body, the clothes and patrician air of a prince, but eyes like a frog and the beak of Captain Hook. The broad shoulders were threatening, magically enlarging in every passing second.
When William stepped back a pace, his visitor took this for an invitation. The man walked past him and paused by the couch, a threadbare affair of lumpy cushions and barely contained stuffing. It was the only piece of furniture that might accommodate his large frame. The chairs were made of flimsy wooden sticks.
‘May I?’
William nodded, and the frog prince sat down.
‘My name is Charles Butler.’ The man’s grin was so foolish, William smiled against his will as Mr Butler handed over a business card. ‘Your gallery dealer tells me you do crime-scene photography.’
‘No, that was a long time ago. I don’t do it anymore.’
Butler was staring at a radio on the coffee table, and William wondered if he recognized it as a police scanner. He cleared his throat. ‘I mean – I don’t work for the police anymore. I do car wrecks, that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, I know. Your work is almost tabloid genre, wouldn’t you say? High contrast, hard light, black shadow. And some cruelty in every image.’
The photographer vacillated between flight and a faint. Charles Butler was obviously an art collector and well heeled, but several of the degrees on his business card related to psychology. William distrusted head shrinkers.
‘I’d like to see your earlier work,’ said Butler. ‘The crime-scene photos. I’m particularly interested in Natalie Homer. Perhaps the name’s not familiar. It was twenty years ago. The newspapers called it a suicide by hanging.’
‘I didn’t keep – ’ William shook his head and began again. ‘I couldn’t do the job. My camera was broken.’ Even as these words trailed off, he realized that he was not believed. Charles Butler’s face expressed every thought and doubt. William could actually see himself being measured and evaluated in the other man’s eyes. He even saw a hint of pity there.