‘No,’ said Mallory. ‘Doing it this way, the perp would be out in the woods all night.’
‘Wrong.’ Smiling and smug, Pollard held up the cordless drill and clipped in the socket wrench. ‘I bolted a winch mount to a tree in ten seconds. Then I connected the battery to the winch, lifted a weighted sack, climbed up and tied it off with the rope.’ Pollard picked up the remote control. ‘I loosened the cable with this. Then I unlocked the chain, and the pulley dropped to the ground. I climbed down in one minute flat – removed the winch’s mount plate – another ten seconds. Start to finish, seven minutes was my best time. It only looks like the Hunger Artist did it the hard way. This is actually the fastest, easiest way.’
Mallory stared at the jumble of tools laid out on the table. ‘You got all this from screw holes in trees? That was the only real evidence, right?’
Heller was way too calm when he turned his face to hers.
And CSI Pollard prattled on. ‘The holes match a standard mount plate.’ He picked up a small plastic bag containing long screws with hexagonal heads. ‘These lag bolts fit the holes. One bolt would’ve worked, but he used two for every tree. Very clean holes, not what you’d find with a manual screwdriver. That’s how I know your guy used a socket wrench attached to a cordless drill.’
Who knew murder could be so tedious? Riker turned to his partner for support with this idea, but Mallory seemed almost too lethargic to pistol-whip John Pollard.
She stared at the two-wheeler dolly. ‘At least that makes sense.’
Riker agreed. The police on patrol would have stopped anyone found in the park after curfew. A footrace through dark woods offered better odds of escape than a car chase, and an abandoned dolly would be harder to trace than a vehicle with a license plate. And it moved silently – no noisy motor. It was actually the safest way to transport an unconscious victim through Central Park.
CSI Pollard removed the empty carton from the dolly’s platform. ‘Check out the tires. This brand matches tread marks from the first crime scene. Rubber inflatables – made to carry a heavy load over unpaved ground.’ And now, with a special smile for the pretty detective, he said, ‘I told you – this guy thought of everything.’ He popped off the balls of his feet – as if that would make him tall enough to appear on Mallory’s radar.
Oh, but now she did notice him. How unfortunate.
Mallory looked over the top of Pollard’s head to see Riker’s worried face, his silent plea – Don’t gut the little guy. They could not afford one more feud with Heller’s people. She nodded, and both detectives turned their backs on John Pollard to follow his boss down the hall to the private office, where another carton had been left on the desk.
‘You can take this with you.’ Heller opened the box to show them reams of paper, enough to make a dozen telephone directories. ‘This is from our database – lists of every product brand to fit the murder kit. You got model numbers for the past ten years, manufacturers, outlets. Some of these places went out of business, so we threw in global liquidators. No index. Sorry. I guess you’ll have to go through it page by page. I figure that’ll take you guys a few thousand hours.’ He smiled, perhaps for the first time in years. ‘Have a nice day, Detectives.’
Mallory and Riker exchanged looks that conveyed the same thoughts: Heller really knew how to hold a grudge – and they were totally screwed.
After dropping off the useless carton at Special Crimes, the detectives traveled north into Midtown, home to the Hunger Artist’s latest victim.
Despite a do-not-disturb sign hanging from the doorknob, the manager of the hotel unlocked the door to Willy Fallon’s room. ‘She’s been with us a little over six weeks. Her previous address was a hotel in Los Angeles.’ There was little more that he could tell the detectives about this guest. The description of a demanding bitch was couched in polite terms of ‘She can be difficult at times.’ And phone records showed no outgoing calls. ‘Not so unusual. Everyone has a cell phone these days.’
Or maybe yesterday’s party girl had no friends.
Mallory opened the door by a crack to see a cell phone lying on the floor next to a small pile of clothing. The manager was dismissed, and the detectives entered a clean and serviceable room, not a palace, but the kind of place where middle-management executives might stay on extended business trips – hardly the accommodations of an heiress to the Fallon Industries fortune. ‘Looks like the family put Willy on a budget.’
‘Well,’ said Riker, ‘the recession hit millionaires, too.’
‘The Fallons are billionaires.’ Mallory checked the bathroom to find towels draped over the side of the tub and an unwrapped bar of soap that agreed with the rumpled sheets on the bed. There had been no maid service since the kidnapping. Next, she opened the door to the closet. The clothes hanging on the rod were very expensive – and very last year. She emptied a purse on the dresser. No vials, joints or pill bottles, but there was a light dusting of white powder at the bottom of the bag. She wet one finger and dragged it across the satin material for a taste. ‘Cheap stuff. Willy’s cocaine is laced with cornflower.’
‘That fits the budget theory.’ Riker stood over the small pile of cast-off clothes and shoes. ‘So this is where the perp dropped her and stripped her. Willy felt safe turning her back on the guy. And then –’ He made a swing motion with one hand. ‘Bam, down she goes. You could kill somebody that way. The other woman, the dead one – she was pretty ripe. Had to be the first victim – the practice run. Maybe the Jane Doe was dead before she went into the sack.’
‘No,’ said Mallory. ‘Slope says our killer didn’t even use enough force to knock that one out – just enough to stun her and knock her off balance. I showed him Humphrey’s hospital X-rays. Same thing. I think our guy just got carried away with Willy Fallon. He hit her too hard. That’s why she can’t remember anything.’
Riker leaned back against the door and stared at wall decorations, cheap reproductions in plastic frames. ‘What’s our girl doing here? I could afford this place.’
Mallory retrieved the cell phone from the pile of clothing on the floor, and she flicked through the list of stored numbers. ‘I’ve got one for her parents. It’s a Connecticut prefix.’
However, Mr and Mrs Fallon were not at home to the police at this time. And concerning any future date, according to the secretary who made all their social appointments, the detective had a better chance of being thrice struck by lightning on a cloudless day. ‘But one can always hope,’ he said. And the line went dead.
Wilhelmina Fallon was pain-free and flying high on medication as she multitasked from her hospital bed, clicking through TV channels and flipping the pages of newspapers until she came to the photograph of a coma patient found naked in Central Park. It took a long time to make a telephone connection to the reporter on that story. Twice she had to suffer insults of ‘Willy who?’ from underlings, a reminder that her party-girl days were old news.
But not anymore.
After identifying the coma patient as Humphrey Bledsoe, Willy placed another call, this one to a TV news station. She was too impatient to wait for tomorrow’s newspaper to restore her to fame.
On the other end of a third phone conversation, a hotel bellman assured her that, yes, he had removed her drugs from the room in advance of the police dropping by. And, yes, the bellman would be happy to take a small cut of her stash in lieu of a cash tip.
Willy had no cash.
The last call was made to her parents, also known as the Bank of Mom and Dad, but Mr and Mrs Fallon were not at home to their daughter. This time the snippy social secretary fobbed off her call on old Birdy, the downstairs maid.