And the time was now.
‘Makes sense,’ said Riker.
‘The hell it does. Natalie Homer’s dead body was in that apartment from Friday till Sunday night. Lots of time for the perp to come back with his rope. She’s forcing these cases to link.’
‘Everything she said panned out.’ And Riker would have regarded this as a miracle, but what were the odds that God was on Mallory’s side? ‘And you gotta wonder what else she found in Lou’s notes.’ He silently complimented his partner on her early departure with the notebook. ‘Give us a week. How’s it gonna look if another body turns up after you bounce Sparrow’s case back to Loman’s squad?’
‘That’s crap, Riker. There’s no connection here, and you know it. All you’ve got is two women with bad haircuts and lots of rope.’ Coffey covered his face with one hand, for it would never do to let the troops see his frustration. ‘So here’s the deal. You keep Geldorf and his file out of my shop. And he never gets a look at Sparrow’s evidence.’
‘Deal.’ The detective tapped out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe, then rose from the chair. He was uncomfortable with this win. It was going too smoothly.
The lieutenant gathered loose papers and photographs into the red folder. ‘And keep Geldorf away from the reporters. I don’t wanna read any headlines about a trumped-up case connection.’ He tossed the ME’s file to Riker, then dropped the rope into the cardboard box at his feet. ‘And get this crap out of my office.’
Riker leaned down and picked up the evidence carton. ‘I’ve got a place to stash everything – the old man too.’ The boss would not want to hear the name Butler and Company, no hint that Mallory’s ties to that firm were still binding.
‘Good,’ said Coffey. ‘If you can’t make a case in forty-eight hours, you lose the hooker to Loman.’ He lowered his head, pretending interest in the papers on his desk blotter. ‘I called the hospital. It doesn’t look good for the hooker. She’s going sour.’ He looked up. ‘Sorry about that. You and Sparrow go back a long ways, don’t you?’
Riker nodded. He understood everything now. His partner had entrusted him with the endgame, the humiliating part, for Jack Coffey had just made it very clear that this was only charity for an aging detective and a dying whore.
Lars Geldorf opened the door, and Mallory followed him into an apartment that stank of stale ashtrays and yesterday’s meals. The frayed furnishings and a small-screen television set were character references for an honest cop living within the means of his pension. A large mirror over the mantelpiece reflected light from windows overlooking Hell’s Kitchen along Eighth Avenue. There were no signs that a woman had ever lived here. The dust was thick, the window glass was yellowed with the nicotine of a million cigarettes, and the walls were all about Geldorf.
Framed newspaper clippings were grouped with photographs of his younger self posed with politicians and cops who had died before Mallory was born. One citation hung by itself in the most impressive frame. It was hardly evidence of a stellar career, but he obviously took great pride in it.
The retired detective paused to rock on his heels and smile, to allow time for his guest to admire these mementos. Then he led her into the next room, where another large mirror had pride of place. It almost covered a line of cracked plaster, but its real purpose was less functional. The old man stood before the looking glass, a peacock in a silk suit that was decades out of style. His gold pinky ring gleamed as he straightened his tie and smiled, loving what he saw. And now he pointed to another cluster of photographs. ‘That one in the middle was taken the night we cut Natalie down. I shot it myself.’
Mallory stared at the framed crime-scene photo. The hair had been removed from the victim’s mouth. The prone corpse lay on the floor, displayed in an open body bag, and two grinning detectives stood over the dead woman, posed as hunters with a trophy kill. But the real trophy was the third man, only a visitor on this scene, a celebrated cop who stood between the case detectives and a head above them. The two grinning men appeared to be restraining Louis Markowitz, an unwilling subject for a macabre souvenir. His face was slightly blurred by the sad shake of his head.
Below this photograph was a desk buried under papers and flanked by file cabinets. The most modern piece of office equipment was an early-generation fax machine. Cartons were piled on cheap metal storage shelves, and two large bulletin boards were littered with personal notes. The absence of a computer was no surprise to Mallory. This old man still lived in the century of the typewriter.
‘I don’t see why we can’t work out of my place.’ Geldorf pulled a large box from a shelf. ‘I’m all set up here.’
‘Coffey wants tight security,’ she lied. ‘And a downtown location is better.’
‘Tight security.’ Geldorf nodded. ‘Good idea.’
The box bearing Natalie Homer’s name had been half full when he began to load in more papers. Cartons this size did not travel with Cold Case files. A thick folder should have been sufficient for reports and statements. ‘You’ve been working this murder for a while?’
‘Oh yeah, I never let go of a case I couldn’t close on the job,’ said Geldorf. ‘After I retired, I just kept collecting stuff, scraps and pieces. When I was ready to do more interviews, I’d check out the Cold Case file and make it official.’
‘So you only work your own cases?’
‘That’s right. You should’ve seen this room twelve years ago. So many cartons, you couldn’t move. You had to go out in the hall to change your mind.’ He waited for her to smile at his little joke – and he waited. Then, slowly, he turned around to face the shelves that were bare. ‘So, one by one, I’d close another Cold Case file, get rid of another box, another ghost. Now I’ve only got a few left.’ He lowered his head and focused on the task of packing his box. ‘When I was on the job, I only got days to work a murder. Now I got years.’ His smile was sheepish when he said, ‘I shouldn’t have told you. Now you know what a lousy detective I was. But I’m gonna make it right. I’ll close ‘em – every one.’ He dropped more papers into his carton, then folded the cardboard flaps. ‘I’m all yours now – full time.’
‘And I appreciate that.’ She had already laid plans to keep him out of her way. The baby-sitting detail would be split between Charles Butler and Lieutenant Loman’s whiteshield, also known as Duck Boy.
She donned her sunglasses, then turned around for a sidelong look at the mirror and Geldorfs reflection. She had been wrong about the peacock trait. All the posturing arrogance fell away when he believed that he was unobserved. It must have been a great strain to keep up that facade. The old man in the looking-glass room shrank and sagged, and his eyes were full of worry. He must see every young cop as a potential threat to his dignity. Good.
Keeping him in line would be no problem. Geldorf sealed the box flaps with tape. ‘So now you’ll wanna talk to everybody who saw my crime scene.’ He glanced in her direction. ‘You’re wondering how your perp found out about the hair in Natalie’s mouth.’
Mallory turned around to smile at him. Crafty old man. ‘You knew it wasn’t a serial killing.’
‘Couldn’t be.’ His sly grin explained everything: He had simply wanted to come back to the job – to come in from the cold of his old age. ‘My prime suspect died nineteen years ago.’
She almost liked him. With only an exchange of nods and knowing glances, mutual admissions of lies were made and vows of silence taken. They were allies now, and neither of them would give the other away.
‘At best, what you got is a copycat.’ He lifted the heavy box in his arms, and she showed him respect by not offering to help with the load. Geldorf walked behind her, saying, ‘When I find out where your perp got his information, maybe I can close out Natalie’s case. Oh, yeah, I think we can help each other.’