Yet Janos had not killed any of these people. That was not his way. He had merely loomed over the news director, one hand outstretched, saying, ‘Give me the tape.’
Another member of the staff, the anchorwoman, had expounded on freedom of the press, making it clear that she had never read the pertinent passage of First Amendment rights.
And Janos had replied, ‘Give me the tape.’
Half an hour had passed by before the network attorney arrived to yell at his clients, ‘Give him the tape, you fucking idiots!'
More time had been spent convincing an overworked support technician at One Police Plaza that he could not simply leave the tape and go; he needed a copy for his lieutenant. Mere looming had done the trick with the small man in the lab coat.
And now, finally, Janos carried his hard-won trophy down the hall to the incident room. He opened the door and paused on the threshold, taking a moment to admire a crude flat scarecrow nailed to the rear wall. The boys had been busy while he was away.
He looked down at a gray canvas bag near the baseboard. A pair of wadded gym socks had been dropped on the floor, apparently rejected as feet for the image on the wall. Janos agreed with this aesthetic decision – less was more. In the space below a tacked-up baseball cap was a photograph showing the back of a man’s head; this was in keeping with Miss Emelda’s sighting of a suspicious character in her tree, a man without a face. Beneath this picture, a T-shirt had been spread out and pinned to the cork. Sturdy nails supported a pair of blue jeans to fill out the lower half of the body. Crime-scene gloves were positioned where the effigy’s hands would be, and a nail had been driven into one latex palm to hold the strap of a cheap instant camera, yet another detail from Miss Emelda’s description.
Interesting.
However, the truly original touch was a halo of fat black flies impaled around the scarecrow’s cap. One was a large horse fly speared on a long pin, but still alive, twitching, buzzing -
At the sound of footsteps, Janos turned around to see the yellow-haired youngster from Lieutenant Loman’s squad. Judging by the slim build, Janos assumed that the scarecrow’s clothing belonged to this detective. And there was more damning evidence: Ronald Deluthe’s face was flushed red with sudden guilt – perhaps because he carried a living, squirming fly impaled on a hatpin.
‘Deluthe, you’re very young to be this jaded.’Janos smiled at the blushing whiteshield, who now realized that this was a compliment and resumed breathing.
This meeting place had been chosen to increase the prostitute’s anxiety, but Daisy was too stoned to appreciate the decor of framed photographs and citations that screamed, This is a cop bar! Detective Mallory kept fifteen feet of mahogany and five drinking men between herself and the aging whore with electric-red hair.
The skeletal woman perched on the edge of her stool, one eye cocked on the door. Riker was ten minutes late, and the woman would not wait for him much longer. Mallory put on her sunglasses when the hooker glanced in her direction, though it was doubtful she would be recognized; they had both changed so much. Kathy the child had grown into a woman, and Daisy the whore had become a superannuated corpse.
In the old days, this redhead had been a long-haired blonde who had shared heroin with Sparrow. They had done everything together. Mallory had a childhood memory of the two prostitutes vomiting in the same toilet bowl.
Daisy’s bright red mouth formed a suggestive smile for a male customer. The man turned to catch the attention of the bartender, another recent redhead, though, unlike Daisy’s color, Peg Baily’s was a shade found in nature. Also, Baily was softly rounded, glowing with good health, and, in her younger days, she had been a decorated police officer.
The customer arched one eyebrow to ask why a sickly hooker had been allowed to stay so long. Tradition demanded that Daisy be kicked into the street, literally, with the press of a boot on her backside. Peg Baily held up two fingers to let him know that the whore was on the way out in just a few minutes.
Trouble.
This was a new location for the bar. Perhaps it was a coincidence that Baily had moved her business to Riker’s neighborhood, but Mallory thought otherwise.
The bartender looked up at the clock on the wall, then turned to the detective. ‘Your partner’s not gonna show, kid. I’m tossing that hooker out of here right now.’
A whore wasting from AIDS was bad for trade.
Mallory turned to the window – and inspiration. The former Angie Riker was opening the door to a barber shop across the street. Riker’s ex-wife was leading a parade of four teenage boys, the brood of her second husband. Mallory wondered if it was pure accident that her partner had set this time for the interview. Or was he still keeping close tabs on Angie?
The bartender rapped the mahogany to get Mallory’s attention, saying, ‘Time’s up, kid.’
‘Quick question, Baily? You knew Riker when he was married, didn’t you?’
‘You know I did.’ Peg Baily’s eyes were suddenly unfriendly, silently asking, What are you up to? ‘I was his partner. You know that too. What’s this – ’
‘How come you never told him his wife was playing around behind his back?’ As a child, Mallory had learned many things by listening in on her foster parents’ late-night conversations. ‘You knew Angie was a slut. But even after the divorce, you never told Riker. He still doesn’t know you held out on – ’
‘You wouldn’t be threatening me, would you?’ Baily leaned on the bar. ‘I wouldn’t like that, kid. And if you say one word to him, I’ll mess your face up so bad.’
Mallory smiled, for she was younger, faster, and had no healthy sense of fear. Oh, and she was the one with the gun.
Riker had arrived. He stepped out of the car at the curb and watched Deluthe drive off in search of a parking space.
The two women fell into an uneasy silence. The bar’s lighting was low key. Mallory and Baily had no worry of being caught in an act of voyeurism, for Riker was standing in bright sunlight, and the plate glass would act as a mirror. He was slowly turning round, responding to Angie, who hailed him with waving arms. His ex-wife left her children on the curb and crossed the street, dodging traffic and mouthing a happy Hello! As the former Mrs Riker drew closer, Mallory realized that Peg Baily’s new hair color was the exact same shade of carrot red.
Riker faced the window again, pretending interest in the posted hours of his favorite bar as his ex-wife came up behind him. Angie was still a pretty woman, but he would not look at her. She stood beside him, cheerful and chattering, probably asking how he had been – as if they did not see one another all the time. His own apartment was only a block away from hers. However, it was enough that Riker could be near this woman, and that he could see her face every single day; he never spoke to Angie anymore – he never would again. It was just too hard on him.
The woman put one hand on her ex-husband’s sleeve.
Peg Baily’s hands curled into fists.
Riker lost his slouch and stood up straight, rigid and stone silent. He stared at the window, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Angie’s shrug said, No hard feelings. Then, giving up on him, she crossed back to the other side of the street.
Not wanting to witness any more of this, Peg Baily walked off to fetch a glass of club soda for her ex-partner, who never drank on duty. Mallory continued to watch the man lingering on the sidewalk, staring at his shoes and collecting his sorry wits. She was now convinced that there had been no affair between Riker and Sparrow. He was still in love with his ex. And why would he take up with a whore when Peg Baily was still waiting for her own turn?
He entered the bar and waved to Baily. She started to slide his soda down the bar when he put up one hand to stop her, then ordered cheap bourbon.