Dead Famous aka The Jury Must Die

Chapter 14

IT WAS A STANDOFF.

The crime scene was on the floor below Johanna Apollo's, and the front room was similar to her own, differing only in furniture and bloodstained drapes. The tension ratcheted higher and higher as men in suits and uniforms squared off against one another. Detective Janos, a large man with a thug's face, was flanked by two patrolmen, and all three were engaged in a quiet staring contest with an equal number of New York FBI agents. The police detective glanced at his wristwatch, and Johanna guessed that he was expecting reinforcements. The corpse on the carpet seemed almost incidental to this dogs' war over territory, but no one had yet pissed on the walls to stake a claim. The atmosphere was charged, and more energy was added with each person to enter the room. The outer hall, a contrast of noisy conversations, was filled with crime-scene technicians, men and women with nothing to do until this matter was settled.

The tension doubled when a fourth agent, Marvin Argus, returned from a hallway skirmish with a man from NYPD Forensics. And now the Chicago agent made a tactical error as he knelt down by the body – not his body, not yet. When Johanna had first entered this room in Argus's company, the New York agents had given the man a dour reception. His own people considered him an intruder on this crime scene, and he had made things worse by assuming an air of command unsupported by rank. The local FBI men now seemed more closely allied with the police, all but spitting in Argus's direction.

An imposing gray-haired man with a military air and posture stood in the neutral zone near the front door, and he was looking her way. With the evidence of his expensive suit and a medical bag at his feet, Johanna guessed that he was no minion, but the chief pathologist himself. He towered over his own people, two men wearing jackets emblazoned with the initials of the medical examiner's office, and they called him Dr. Slope. Though this distinguished man was a stranger to her, he gave her a nod of hello. Earlier, his face had been expressionless stone, but fault lines of kindness had since appeared. She would not describe his gaze as simple curiosity. No, after fine-tuning her intuition, she decided that his eyes held merely deep sadness on her account, and there was more to it than pity for the hunchback. The aspect was closer to empathy. For the first time since entering the hotel room, Johanna felt that she was not alone. She smiled at this good doctor, who was wasted on the dead.

More detectives, a score of them all flashing badges, came barreling through the door to make a stand behind Janos. Mallory, the only woman, stood shoulder to shoulder with the men to form a wall of police, and, though none of them held a weapon, the room was electrified, as if all the guns had gone off at once, and real violence could only be moments away. Riker, the last to arrive, broke through the ranks and aimed his whole body at Marvin Argus. No one had time to stop him – assuming that they would want to. He took Argus down with one closed fist to the face. The hapless agent lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling and bleeding from his nose.

The sudden mayhem shook Johanna with revulsion – and it was also oddly satisfying. This latter reaction was shared all around the room. She might have expected the New York agents to close ranks around one of their own, but they stood very still with their hands in their pockets, perhaps as a precaution against spontaneous applause.

"You stupid bastard." Riker stood over the fallen Argus, shouting, "I handed that poor man over to you! You were supposed to take care of him last night – all night! Did you go to sleep on the job?" He pointed to the corpse lying near the window and partially covered by a fallen set of bloodied drapes. "And why would you bring him to this hotel? You knew the Reaper was following Johanna. You knew he was watching this place. It's like you invited that freak inside for a clear shot at murdering MacPherson."

Apparently, this detail was news to the agents from the New York bureau. The senior man hailed one of the police by name, saying, "Lieutenant Coffey – a word?"

When the two men returned from their brief conference in the next room, the dispute over turf had been settled. Possession of the corpse was yielded to the force with the greatest numbers.

Very wise.

Or had the police lieutenant purchased this crime scene with a promise of silence on the embarrassing matter of federal incompetence?

The three New York agents were walking toward the door, then suddenly turned back and, as an afterthought, picked up the debris of Marvin Argus, lifting him from the floor and removing him from the room before his own blood could confuse the evidence by mingling with MacPherson's.

"Guys?" A nod from Lieutenant Coffey cleared more people from the room. "Watch where you step – not like it'll help much. Jesus. Did the crime-scene techs get any time in here?"

"Yeah," said Janos. "Everything was photographed and diagrammed before the feds showed up." The detective accepted a large, clear-plastic bag from a man in uniform, then held it up so his lieutenant could examine the dark clothing inside. "This suit and cap belong to the bellman. We found the guy half naked and stuffed in a trash bin. The suit was thrown on top of him. He's still breathing, but not making much sense. So I figure the Reaper hit him from behind and used this suit to protect his own clothes from blood splatters."

"Maybe we'll get lucky with hair and fibers." Coffey turned to face Johanna. "Dr. Apollo, you saw Agent Kidd's crime scene. Notice anything different here?"

"The writing on the wall." She turned to the single line of block letters scrawled in dried blood: Ten down and two to go. Beneath these words was the trademark reported in the newspapers, a red scythe. "Timothy Kidd's murderer didn't leave a drawing or a message." She watched the medical examiner roll the dead man on his back. "I think you'll find that his trachea is cut. That's different, too. Mac was drowning in his own blood." She turned to the smudges of blood on the wall by the window. "See those fist marks? That's frustration and a call for help. He couldn't cry out. All he could do was bang on the walls, but no one heard him."

Coffey glanced at the medical examiner, who nodded in the affirmative. The lieutenant turned his attention back to Johanna. "Anything else you can tell us?"

She pointed to sections of wall on both sides of the front door. "No blood in that area. The killer didn't cut him right away, not the second he walked in. There was probably time for a few words of conversation." She walked ten paces along an adjacent wall and paused by the line of red spots across a framed painting. "That's the fly of blood from the knife. Mac was standing here when he was cut." And this was only one of the lessons from her months as a crime-scene cleaner. She stared at other areas marked by fountains of MacPherson's blood. "At least one carotid artery was severed. That would account for those splashes on the wall. A cut to the jugular vein would've been more like a leak – more like Timothy Kidd's murder. Mac's death was quicker."

She pointed to a corner that was free of bloodstains. "That's where the killer stood – watching Mac die." Her head bowed as she studied the drops and small puddles of blood on the floor. "Mac was moving in circles. I would've expected that. He was losing so much blood – so fast. The larger puddles have a different pattern. No focus anymore, just mindless ambling, spending his blood, dying in profound shock and absolute terror." She turned to face the lieutenant. "Forgive me. I'm telling you things that you already know. I didn't mean to – "

"No problem," said Coffey. "Be as thorough as you like." He stepped up to the unbloodied section of wall, then turned to survey the room from a murderer's point of view. "How do you know the Reaper stayed to watch his victim die?"

"She's right about that," said the medical examiner. He held up a plastic bag with a note inside. "This was stuffed in the mouth – most likely after he was dead or there'd be more blood on the plastic."

A gloved crime-scene technician took the bag from the doctor's hand, opened it and extracted the typewritten note with tweezers. He read the message aloud, "'I'm too stupid to go on living.' That's all it says."

"I thought that was part of the message the Reaper always left on the walls," said Coffey.

"No, never," said Johanna. "But that's what the reporters were told. The note in the victim's mouth was the only detail the FBI could conceal from the media and Ian Zachary's fans."

Mallory stepped forward, eyes on Johanna, saying, accusing, "And now we've established that Agent Kidd gave you crime-scene details. Or maybe you – "

Riker caught Mallory's eye, and unspoken things passed between them. The younger detective fell silent and stepped back into the fold of police.

"Timothy thought I could help," said Johanna, "if I knew more about the ritual aspects." Head bowed, she stared at her clasped hands.

"Dr. Apollo?" Lieutenant Coffey touched her shoulder. "Does anything else resemble the crime scene for the dead FBI agent?"

"There was no note stuffed in Timothy's mouth," she said. "Nothing in Bunny's mouth, either. The ritual elements were only for the jurors. And Timothy didn't panic and run around in circles like this. There was a single line of blood on one wall of my reception room, a light splatter pattern from the blade. But the rest of the blood was confined to a small area. When his throat was cut, he just sat down in a chair and died quietly." Glances went from cop to cop all around the room, and she knew that she had not been believed.

Lieutenant Coffey was incredulous. "The FBI agent never put up a fight?"

"There were no defense wounds," said Johanna, "if that's what you're asking. He just sat down and died. He would've lasted longer that way, less movement, less blood lost. Apart from that, Timothy's death had more in common with Bunny's. They were a different class of victims, more wary of their surroundings. Their jugular cuts actually did less immediate damage. If I can guess your next question – yes, those two could've been saved with pressure on their wounds and prompt medical attention. Given the aspect of heightened paranoia, the Reaper wasn't quick enough to do his usual thorough job on either of them. Bunny might have screamed, but I doubt that anyone would've paid any attention to him."

She heard the sound of the body bag zipper, but kept her eyes cast down as the medical examiner's men rolled their gurney into the hall. She might have expected the crime-scene technicians to take over now. Instead, she watched the shoes of detectives returning to the room and surrounding her. Johanna took shallow breaths and braced herself for a new attack.

"What about Agent Kidd?" Coffey's shoes were only a few feet away. "You're saying he could've screamed, too? So you figure he was just sitting there in your reception room – patiently waiting for help – quietly." That last word carried the unmistakable tone of disbelief. "Was he waiting for you, Doctor?"

Mallory's running shoes stepped forward. "You were in the next room, isn't that right, Dr. Apollo?"

"Yes."

"But you never heard a thing." Janos's massive brogans lumbered toward her. "No screams, no scuffle – nothing."

All the detectives converged on her, all firing questions at once, enclosing her in a circle of bodies. One of Dante's outer rings? No. Johanna decided that hell was not a place after all, but an ongoing, endless event, a traveling creep show that followed her about.

She closed her eyes.

Her right hand was gently pulled away from her side, fingers intertwined with her own, and then – silence. She opened her eyes to see Riker standing beside her. The other police were backing off in a show of respect for this angry man.

Victor Patchock set his red wig on the dresser and surveyed his world of one room and a bath, bare walls and a patch of floor. Some time ago, he had removed the doors to the closet and the bathroom, and even the cupboard doors of the kitchenette, for they might also give cover to the enemy. But he could not remove the very walls to get at the smallest invaders, the mice. He could hear them tunneling day and night, the soft crumbles of plaster falling away under quick pink feet. Their movements inside the walls and the ceiling were constant, and he was alert to their every sound. They invaded his dreams. He dreamed them now, eyes wide open, staring at a bit of sky, all that he could see of it from the barred air-shaft window. The street window had been recently boarded up, lest he be seduced into exposing himself to the outside world on those shut-in days when the view of the air shaft was not enough.

His former life was so far removed in time and memory. It must have belonged to someone else. Victor wanted to go home again. He could not. And he was so changed, no one would recognize him. He ran one hand over his bald head, suddenly shocked, forgetting that he had mutilated himself by shaving off his hair.

He crossed the room to peer through a crack in the boarded-up front window. The street below had sparse pedestrian traffic, but soon people would be coming home from work, filling up the spaces all around him, above and below him, a hive of people stressed out and strung out. But the mice were always with him.

Victor selected a white cane from the four in his umbrella stand and whacked one wall to scare the rodent army that he could hear but not see. He beat the plaster harder, making cracks and gouges, infuriated that he could not get at them. His cane snapped; his mind snapped. He walked back to the air-shaft window and looked upward to the small square of daylight. The walls crumbled around him as the sky grew darker, and this was his only proof of hours passing, for he no longer had any clear sense of time. And now a new sound had been added. He could hear a thin stream of tinny music coming through the walls. The mice had a radio.

Lieutenant Coffey stood beside the sound engineer known as Crazy Bitch. She had introduced herself that way, as if she had no other name. Detective Janos waited outside in the hall, for her sound booth was a small space. Jack Coffey wondered if she had bathed or changed her clothes in recent memory. Her bare feet were dirty, and the matted spikes of her hair stuck out at odd angles. She sounded rational. Speaking into the microphone of her headset, she introduced the police lieutenant to her boss in the studio on the other side of the window glass.

Though it was not yet airtime, Ian Zachary was interviewing a guest with a baby face, torn jeans and new T-shirt with the call letters of the radio station. If this was the SoHo fan, then Mallory's information had been correct. Coffey wondered if she really did have an informant at the station. Or had she planted an illegal bugging device in the studio? He was a long ways from collecting his pension, and it was best not to dwell on that.

The shock-jock held up two fingers to tell the lieutenant that he would have to wait a few minutes.

Not likely. Jack Coffey gently removed the headset from the sound engineer's dirty hair and boomed into the mouthpiece, "NOW!"

Zachary flinched with the sudden pain from his earphones, and the lieutenant could hear a buzzer sounding in the hall as the security door was unlocked. When Coffey and Janos entered the studio, the Englishman stood up to shake hands with them. "Hello, gentlemen. Pull up a couple of chairs."

Jack Coffey sat down. Janos remained standing, going with his strength, silent menacing via looming over small civilians like the man in the torn jeans, who was introduced as Randy of SoHo. The youngster had a vacant look about him, and the lieutenant wondered if he was high on drugs today, or was the boy bone stupid all the time?

Coffey glanced at a clock on the wall. "Zachary, you're here early tonight."

"I'm pretaping the interview with Randy here. I should've mentioned that, Lieutenant. You're on tape now, too. You'll be able to hear yourself on the air in three hours."

Randy leaned into the conversation. "I thought we were on the air right now."

A bemused Zachary pointed to the clock. "Can you tell time?"

"It's six o'clock," said Randy, taking no offense. "Almost exactly six o'clock."

"And when does my show start?"

"Nine o'clock."

"So I guess we can't be on the air – not right now – can we?"

Randy actually gave this a moment of thought, then grinned and shook his head.

Zachary shrugged as he looked from one cop to the other. "I wish I could tell you that he's an atypical fan. So, what's this all about? Do I need a lawyer?"

"Oh, yeah," said Jack Coffey. "We just had a few questions, but you should have a lawyer sitting in your lap around the clock. And the bastards even told you that, didn't they? They told you never to talk to cops, not without a lawyer checking every word that comes out of your mouth. They treat you like an idiot, don't they? But you're safer that way. Now, if you like," he pulled a small card from his pocket, "you can waive the attorney, and then we can get this over with. Or we can take you downtown, and you can just drag this out all night. Your choice." He tossed the card on the console. "That lists all your constitutional rights. I know you've seen it before. Just sign it."

He turned away from Zachary, assuming the attitude of a man who did not care one way or the other. And of course the shock-jock signed the card.

Coffey's smile was genuine as he turned to the interview guest. "So you're the famous Randy? You're the one who ratted out that poor bastard MacPherson?"

The young man nodded and smiled, so pleased with himself, just so happy to be here with Ian Zachary and the cops. "We live in the same building. He's a real nice guy. He fixed my busted radiator."

Jack Coffey was slightly discouraged to hear the boy use the present tense, the living tense for the latest Reaper victim. So much hung on the words of this moron. The lieutenant slid another card from his pocket. "This is called a Miranda card – just like Zachary's." He handed it to the younger man. "Would you like to sign one, too?"

"Oh, sure." Randy accepted a pen from Detective Janos and signed the card, not bothering to read it. And now Ian Zachary was having second thoughts as he stared down at the card he had just put his own name to.

Too late.

Janos whipped the Miranda card out of the man's hand, slid it into his coat pocket, then collected Randy's.

Coffey's attention was still focused on Zachary's guest. "Randy, you say you were friends with MacPherson. So now that your buddy is dead, how do you like your game prizes?"

"Well, I couldn't win the trip to New York City, could I? I mean, 'cause I already live here. I got a place in SoHo. But they put me up in a great hotel for the night. I love the minibar." He turned to Zachary. "I get to keep all that stuff, right? The candy and those little bottles of booze?"

"You earned it," said Lieutenant Coffey, answering for the shock-jock. "So the minibar made it all worthwhile?"

"Well, sure, but being on the show – hell, that's the best part. Can I say hi to my buddies at the carwash?"

Coffey held his friendly smile. "When you turned in MacPherson on the radio, did you know what would happen next?"

Before the younger man could speak, Ian Zachary shook his head, saying, "Don't waste your time, Lieutenant. The pinheads never make that connection."

Coffey ignored this and leaned forward in his chair, widening his smile for the fan from SoHo. "That's not true, is it, Randy?"

"Give it up," said Zachary.

Coffey swiveled his chair around to face the talk-show host. "I understand that Randy is the first winner to get on the air before the murder. Am I right?"

"A minor departure from the format," said Zachary, all but yawning. "Randy doesn't have anything quite as sophisticated as e-mail, or even a telephone. And he only had a bit of change left for the pay phone."

"So you couldn't afford to lose the connection. I understand." He wondered if Zachary's attorneys had been quite so understanding. "Your producer tells me you spend a lot of time at the station."

"Needleman? You met him?" Zachary's gaze was fixed on some point beyond the lieutenant's chair.

"We had a long talk on the phone." Coffey glanced back over his shoulder, but all he saw was a dark window like the one that spanned the girl's lighted sound booth. "Needleman says you spend twelve hours a day in here. He told me you had this studio built to specs for prison security. Are you afraid of the Reaper?"

"Hardly." Zachary was speaking to the dark window. "The Reaper only kills morons. Why would I be afraid of him?"

"And that's what I told your producer." Coffey smiled. "I said, 'Needleman, those two monsters are partners, buddies.'" He splayed his hands in the air. "Am I right?"

"In a manner of speaking." Zachary leaned back in his chair, so pleased, so smug. "I suppose you could say the Reaper is my biggest fan."

"So you knew he'd be listening," said Janos, "when Randy here told you MacPherson lived in his building."

"Yeah," said Jack Coffey, not wanting to give Zachary a moment to consider this. "That was real cute, not giving up the exact address. Instead, you just got Randy to mention the restaurant next door. Very smart." Actually – a huge mistake. A first-year law student would never have approved of that ploy. "And then MacPherson was murdered. The Reaper couldn't have done it without you. Have I got that right, Zachary? Did I miss anything?"

"I'd say you've got the gist of it."

"So that's a yes." Coffey turned to Detective Janos, saying, "Cause and effect. One down."

Zachary was half risen from his chair. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Jack Coffey ignored the startled shock-jock and leaned toward the young fan, saying, "You never answered my question, Randy. What did you think would happen when you gave up MacPherson on the radio?"

"I told you," said Zachary, "the fans are idiots. They don't have the slightest clue – "

"Zachary, put a sock in it," said Coffey. Then, remembering that this man was British and slang-impaired, he added, "Shut up or I'll arrest you for obstructing an investigation. Clear enough?" The lieutenant turned all of his attention on the younger man, the dim-witted one. "Randy, when you made that call, what did you think would happen to MacPherson?"

With no hesitation at all, Randy raised his right hand. There was no malice in his face, only cheerful compliance, as he used one finger to make a chilling cutthroat gesture from ear to ear, the silent demonstration of a death.

And Jack Coffey said, "Close enough." He looked up at Janos, saying, "Cuff Zachary."

Janos moved behind Ian Zachary's chair and pulled out a pair of handcuffs, saying, "You're charged with the murder of John MacPherson."

And Zachary yelled, "This is insane! He tried to kill mel"

"Really? Did you report that to the police?" Coffey took the man's dumbstruck expression for a no. "Too bad. You were seen in a bar with MacPherson last night. We've got witnesses."

"He left before I did."

"So you're out drinking with a guy who tried to kill you." Janos slid the manacles over the man's wrists. "And you just let him walk away. No police report. You got a better story than that one?"

"The waitress says another customer opened your shirt that night," said Coffey. "You were wearing a bulletproof vest. That suggests another scenario for – "

"I always wear the vest. I get death threats. Ask the damn FBI!"

"Funny you should mention that," said Janos. "An agent named Hennessey called to tell us that he was assigned to your security detail. But you went out of your way to lose him last night. You wore a disguise and hired an impersonator to send him off in another direction."

Coffey smiled and shrugged. "So you can see why the feds don't exactly help your case."

The handcuff locks clicked shut.

"Ask Riker. He was with me."

Jack Coffey shook his head. "Not when MacPherson was killed. But even if you had a real tight alibi, it wouldn't help. You see, Janos misspoke. The charge is conspiracy to murder. You conspired with the Reaper – and your fans." He turned to look at Randy. "This one, for instance."

Zachary's eyes were rounding and his voice was louder, yelling, "You can't do this to me! I've got rights!" He sucked in his breath, then said more calmly, "Ask the damn ACLU. The law is on my side."

"Yeah, well, that was back in Chicago," said Coffey. "In New York City, we like to make up the rules as we go along. You and your fans aided and abetted a serial killer."

Young Randy had thus far been still and quiet in the rapt attention of one viewing this live action on television. He must have recognized himself in a criminal mention, for now he stood up and held out both of his hands, happily awaiting his turn to be manacled by Detective Janos – just like Zachary.

"No, not you," said Coffey to the youngster. "Morons are excused."

Randy nodded and smiled.

"Just kidding." Jack Coffey unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his own belt and did the honors himself, saying, "Randy, remember that card you signed? You have the right to an attorney during questioning. If you can't afford – Randy? Pay attention. This is the important stuff."

Charles Butler had a formal dining area, a waste of space in his opinion. Dinner guests invariably gravitated toward the kitchen, a warm and spacious room with rich ochre walls racked with spices and utensils that only a gourmet cook could identify. A red-checked tablecloth and a Vivaldi concerto created the atmosphere of an intimate bistro.

Mallory stood by the door, spying on Riker and Johanna Apollo in the front room. Charles left a pot of sauce to bubble on the stove and placed a glass of red wine in her hand. "So it's not working out quite the way you planned."

"No," she said. "Riker's not asking her the right questions."

"You mean he's not treating the woman like a criminal? Well, what a damn shame." Indeed, Riker was not behaving like a detective tonight, but more like a man in love. Charles knew all the symptoms. Obviously, Mallory did not.

She set down her wineglass and picked up a stack of dinner plates. He had thought it best to give her the chore of setting the table, since she would have rearranged anyone else's work. As she laid down the plates, napkins and silverware, he needed no ruler to tell him that every item was precisely one inch from the edge of the table.

He turned back to the stove and his task of stirring sauce. "Perhaps it was a mistake to expect Riker to work this out on his own." Oh, not likely that she would ever agree with that idea.

"Maybe you're right," she said.

And Charles lost his spoon at the bottom of the pot.

"He's too close to that woman." Mallory straightened the four chairs, then stepped back to survey her work, as if there might be a chance in hell that those chairs were not perfectly aligned with the table. "Riker's afraid to ask a question that might incriminate the doctor."

"In what crime?"

"She's holding out on me."

Oh, that crime. Well, from time to time, that would incriminate everyone Mallory knew. So the situation was not so serious after all, and he had hopes of getting through this dinner party without serious carnage. After retrieving his sauce spoon, Charles opened the oven, and the aroma of fowl roasting in its juices filled the room, mingling with that of garlic bread and the wine sauce. "Riker and the doctor look like they've put in a very long day. Perhaps we could put this business aside for the night."

"Don't you wonder how a smart woman could go along with that insane jury verdict?" Done with the table, hands on hips, she turned to face him. "You read the trial transcript. You know it wasn't an honest verdict."

"But Riker never read that transcript. He's taking the lady on faith."

"Faith? I'm talking about hard, cold facts. There's no way – "

"Mallory, if Riker set fire to a school bus full of nuns and children, then pushed it off a cliff, I'd have to assume that the nuns and children had it coming to them. That's faith."

She grappled with this for a moment, then rallied with a better shot. "People are dying," she said, as if he might need that reminder. "I need to know if Dr. Apollo kept in touch with MacPherson. If she did, then she probably knows where the other juror is hiding."

"Nothing easier." He picked up an open bottle of red and led the way back to his front room, where Johanna Apollo stood by the far wall, admiring an original painting by Rothko while Riker admired her.

Seen from the back, the woman's deformity was hidden by her long cascade of dark hair; it was more apparent when she turned in profile, allowing Charles to refill her wineglass. He knew that Riker was seeing a different image of the doctor. From the detective's point of view, the lady was without blemish, her ordinary face without peer. And from Charles's perspective, Riker had unexpected good taste in women, opting for intelligence and large brown eyes with a remarkable depth that appeared to see all the way to the soul – the eyes of a healer. The wine had called out his poetic bent, and he carried it further, likening her to a bouquet of roses, though her floral perfume was discreet. Her warmth and presence filled the room as the scent of flowers would do.

Mallory appeared, and the flowers – shuddering – closed. "My condolences," said Charles, "on the death of your friend Mr. MacPherson. Did you keep in touch with him after the trial?"

Dr. Apollo nodded.

Charles turned to Mallory, who was less than impressed with his interrogation style. She tipped back her glass. Riker, contrary to habit, had hardly touched his wine. Odd, that. And Mallory, with all her control issues, was drinking more than her careful allotment of precisely one ounce of alcohol. This promised to be an interesting evening.

Dr. Apollo excused herself and headed toward the kitchen. Of course, everyone wound up there eventually. However, given the example of the past hour, Mallory's mere presence was motivation enough for the doctor to quit any room. Charles topped off Riker's glass, then returned to the kitchen, where he found his dinner guest shredding lettuce for the salad. The doctor raised her face to his and smiled. Charles's own loony smile always had that happy effect on people.

They worked side by side, chopping vegetables in companionable silence, and then he took up Riker's cause, the complaint that her hotel was not safe. "My house is your house. I have two guest rooms, more than enough space, I assure you."

"Thank you, but it's better if I go back to the Chelsea."

"It's perfectly quiet here," he said. "Triple-pane windows, very thick walls. You could set off a cannon and never disturb the neighbors. So if you want some late-night distraction, music or television – "

"I'm just looking forward to a good night's sleep."

"I'm told you have a cat. If you're concerned about him, that's not a problem. I get along quite well with animals."

"No," she said. "Mugs isn't good with strangers. He's happier in familiar surroundings. We'll both be better off in the hotel."

"She's right," said Mallory from the open doorway. "Your walls might be too thick. If the Reaper was in your guest room, cutting the doctor to pieces, you'd never hear the screams. I'll stay in her hotel room tonight."

This was clearly not an offer on Mallory's part, but a hard statement of fact and no great favor to the doctor. Johanna Apollo was not smiling anymore.

Mallory stood by the spice rack, absently rearranging the bottles so that every label faced forward in perfect alignment, and the older woman watched with great interest. What would Dr. Apollo make of this show of compulsive neatness? Charles felt suddenly protective of Mallory, as though she stood naked, her vulnerability publicly exposed. He wondered what else had been observed and how close the psychiatrist might have come to a dangerous truth. And, if the doctor should guess right, how might she make use of that information?

Riker entered the kitchen wearing a happy glow that did not come from the wine. His glass was still full. "I'm hungry," he said.

Dinner was served quietly and without any more ceremony than the lighting of a single candle at the center of the table. Riker seemed unaware of any tension between the two women as he took his seat opposite Johanna Apollo, who might as well be the only occupant of the kitchen. He seemed – content. And this went deeper than his standard laid-back countenance; he was happy for the first time in many months. The cause could only be Johanna, and Charles's gratitude was boundless.

When the candle had melted halfway down and they were nearing the last course of dinner, the conversation turned to the subject of lawyers. "It's a fascinating dilemma for the ACLU," said Charles. Johanna nodded. "They always seem to pick the causes that paint them in a bad light, but this one is just too bizarre. The justice system is their raison d'etre, and here they are helping Ian Zachary to dismantle it." "One could almost feel sorry for them," said Charles. "Hey," said Riker, "they're lawyers!" In his economy of words, this meant that, whatever their predicament, the civil-rights attorneys had it coming to them.

While Charles busied himself with setting fire to the bananas flambe, he wondered why Mallory was the only one not on a first-name basis with Johanna Apollo. As he set down the flaming desserts in front of his guests, in one frightened corner of his mind, he theorized that she was keeping a professional distance from this woman. Perhaps Mallory did not expect the doctor to survive. However, there was an alternate and equally good explanation, and now he chose to believe that Mallory simply did not like sharing friends with other people.

A beeping noise interrupted his thoughts, and only Charles, the confirmed Luddite, sat perfectly still as the others checked their cell phones. It was Mallory's, and she rose from the table to take her phone call in the privacy of the next room.

Upon returning to the kitchen, she said, "That was Ian Zachary. He's out on bail, and he wants to see me tonight."

This did not sit well with Riker, who checked his watch. "They're gonna let him go back on the air?"

"Not tonight," said Mallory. "He's suspended pending a hearing tomorrow. That should minimize the damage. Even if he gets a lead on the missing juror, he won't expose the man till he's back on the air. We've got twenty-four hours to find the Reaper or his next victim." She stood behind Johanna's chair, leaning down to ask, "Any ideas about where we should start looking?"

Johanna lowered her head and remained silent.

"Never mind, Doctor. We can talk about that later." Mallory turned her back on the woman and walked toward the kitchen door, saying, "Charles will drive you back to your hotel." Her hand was on the doorknob when she added, with just the suggestion of a threat, "I'll catch up to you later."

"I'll go with you," said Riker.

Slightly annoyed, Mallory turned around, obviously preparing to tell Riker that he was not invited. And now she discovered that he had not spoken to her; his eyes were on Johanna Apollo. Only Charles took note of Mallory's expression, for it was quick to surface but more quickly hidden, and he put a name to it – abandonment.

"Needleman's using an alias." Mallory inspected the door to the producer's booth and its premium lock hyped as pickproof. But this was nothing approaching the advanced technology for the door to the studio. "The address you gave me is bogus and so is the social security number." In anticipation of Ian Zachary's next question, she said, "Your producer's contract is still legal as long as there's no attempt to defraud. You can report the fake number to IRS on suspicion of tax fraud, but I promise you – ten Treasury agents will not show up to break down this door."

"You have to do something."

"Why are you whispering?"

Zachary turned his back on her and paced the floor in front of the producer's booth, occasionally glancing at the locked door.

Mallory sighed. This was going to be a long night. "Needleman never threatened you, right? So what's the real problem?"

"He watches me. I know he does." Zachary's voice was more normal now that he had been shamed out of the whispering mode. "The bastard gives me the creeps."

"Needleman. A man you've never met." Could she make it more clear that he was wasting her time?

"His window is always dark," said Zachary, "but I can feel his eyes on me. I'm telling you this man is insane. Now, normally that's a prerequisite for my staff, but I'm not the one who hired him. He's under contract to the network."

"But your station manager knows Needleman, right?" "Yes, but they only met once for the interview. My lawyer got me a copy of Needleman's contract. There's a clause that says he never has to personally deal with me."

"So that's the problem. He's outside of your control. Smart man." If not for the wine drunk tonight, she might have dialed back the sarcasm. No, probably not. "You think Needleman knows you killed the last producer? You only mention that murder every night on the radio."

Zachary faced the door to the booth. "You see this lock? It's relatively new. I didn't have it installed, and my contract's supposed to give me complete control of security. Needleman put that lock on his door, and he has the only key. How paranoid is that? He's the only producer at the station who locks the damn booth while we're on the air."

His jitters increased when Mallory rested her hand on the knob. She smiled. "He might be a fan. That's what you're thinking, isn't it? Judging by the calls you get, I'd say most of them are a little disturbed."

"What if he's the missing juror? You were supposed to find that man for me, remember? Well, suppose, after all this time and money, he was right here, hiding in this booth all along?"

Mallory decided to give Zachary a little thrill by pulling out a velvet pouch of lock picks and allowing him to watch her in the act of breaking and entering, thus giving him some value for the very large check that Highland Security would never be able to cash.

"It's illegal to carry burglar tools," she said. "If you ever rat me out, I'll have to hurt you. Understood?"

Perverse bastard, he seemed to like that idea.

The lock yielded, and the knob turned easily under her hand. And now, to give him his full money's worth, she pulled her gun from the shoulder holster, then opened the door – to an empty booth. She flicked on the light to see the same meager floor space as the sound booth on the other side of the hall. It also had a window spanning the length of one short wall and looking in on the larger area of the studio. The console of this small room had one pair of speakers, a headset and little else in the way of technical equipment. Clipboards with schedules hung from hooks on the rear wall, and the wastebasket held more than one man's debris. "How many people use this room during the day?"

"Two producers for morning shows. The rest of the jocks don't rate a staff, but sometimes sponsors come by and look in on their shows."

Mallory ran one finger over the surface of the built-in console. There was no dust. Evidently, the cleaning staff had no trouble getting inside.

"Well, this is progress," said Zachary. "You can dust this place for fingerprints."

"But I won't. There's no point." She did not plan to waste much time exploding the civilians' television mythology of fingerprints. "The prints can only be matched by cops, and they need a good reason to use the national database. Too many people have access to this booth. Some of these prints have been here since the last time the room was painted, a hundred sets, maybe more. Now – if you die – the cops might run all those prints, but otherwise – "

"So what's the problem? Not money. Just bribe a cop and run them all."

"No cop can run a hundred prints without attracting attention and losing his job. Half the prints won't even be in the database." Baby-sitting Ian Zachary was tedious, and now one hand went to her hip, sign language to tell him that this discussion was over. "Why not do it the easy way?"

She led him through the door to his studio. When they stood before the dark window of the producer's booth, she pulled out a camera the size of a cigarette lighter. "Tomorrow night, palm this in one hand, then jam it up against the glass. It's small but the flash is bright. He'll never see it coming. When you've got his picture, I can tail him for you. Satisfied?" She gave him the camera. "I'll put that on your bill."

He looked down at the small object in his hand, smiling at this elegant solution. "Great. So what about Dr. Apollo? Did you get me some good dirt?"

"Suppose I find something that forces her into an interview? Wouldn't that spoil the Reaper's game? She doesn't fit his criteria of too stupid to live."

"What if she's the Reaper? Think about it," he said. "A shrink is good at mind games. Didn't you ever wonder why Dr. Apollo voted not guilty with the rest of them? She could've hung that jury all by herself. And here's another thing. She's a hunchback, a cripple. She could walk up to those people and slit their throats before they even got suspicious."

"But why?"

He splayed his hands in a gesture of frustration. "That's what I need from you. A motive. It could be the other juror, too, but I'm betting on the doctor. If I could get her on the air for ten minutes – "

"You think she'd expose herself – to you."

"Yes. I'm that good."

"What if she didn't do it?"

"Well, I'd hardly be inclined to let that get in the way of a good show. And I've still got one more juror if the lady flops on the air. That's assuming that you can find him for me."

Mallory turned to the dark glass of the producer's booth.

You're not coming with us." Johanna Apollo gently pushed Riker away from the car. "You can hardly keep your eyes open. Go inside and get some sleep."

Riker had no comeback for that. He was cold sober, yet his feet were dragging and so was his mind. He could only stand there and watch the Mercedes pull away from the curb.

When the car had reached the end of the street, a concerned Charles Butler looked back to see the man still standing there, as if he might have forgotten the way home – a door three steps to his left. "He's so tired. I hope he doesn't fall asleep on the sidewalk."

"It's my fault," said Johanna. "I'm guessing he never closed his eyes last night." She faced the windshield, and her voice was softer, lower now, in the range of conspirators. "All through dinner, I had this feeling that you wanted to talk to me in private."

"About Mallory," said Charles. "She tends to be a bit – Oh, how shall I put this?"

"Utterly ruthless?"

"I wouldn't have said that."

"No, you wouldn't. You're her friend, but that's her nature."

He began again. "There's a kind of purity in Mallory's character."

"And of course she's a sociopath," said Johanna, "but you already knew that."

They drove on in strained silence for a few blocks while Charles cast about in his great reservoir of words for exactly the right ones. "Mallory's foster parents were very sheltering people."

"And good people. That's what Riker tells me. He talks about the Markowitzes all the time. It's a pity they didn't get to that child sooner. I believe Mallory was ten or eleven when they took her into foster care."

He understood her meaning. Louis Markowitz had missed the wonder years when his foster daughter should have formed her socialization skills – but never did.

"I'll tell you where Mallory departs from the sociopaths I've treated," said Johanna. "She doesn't make any effort to be charming."

"She wouldn't even know how." Charles had intended this as a defense, but the words had come out all wrong.

"However, she lies true to form," said the doctor, "and much better than most."

"That's a skill that goes with her job." Did that sound egregiously defensive on his part? He kept his eyes on the road and softened his next remark. "The lying, well, that's to a good purpose." Indeed, that was sometimes the case. "Here's another departure you may not have noticed. She never lies to increase herself in someone else's eyes." And that much was certainly true. "She doesn't care what the world thinks."

"But the world should care what Mallory thinks," said Johanna Apollo, and her voice was tinged with a sadness. "That young woman lives large, edgy, risky – and she's dangerous."

"Dangerous," said Charles. "Well, of course she is. She's the police. And she was so much more than that. "Mallory's also gifted. High aptitude for mathematics and computers. My job is career placement for very bright people with unusual gifts, so I can assure you she'd make a fortune if she quit her job with Special Crimes."

"But would she have a gun and all that power? Don't you think she'd miss frightening people?"

The Mercedes came to a gentle stop at a red light, and he turned his face to Johanna Apollo's. Her eyes held nothing but compassion, but this would not weaken his adversarial resolve, for friendship was everything to him, and his precious logic was sometimes warped to the best intentions. "Mallory frightens people when she has a reason to do so. You, for example. She thinks you're holding back something important. Her instincts are remarkable – and very rarely wrong. And I've never found any false notes in her basic code. She's a cop, and a good one. She is the law." "I'm sure she knows exactly what she is."

Charles nodded, understanding these words on every intended level. "But don't be too sure that you have an easy diagnosis for Mallory. Even if you were right about her, I'd never have her trade places with someone – " "Someone normal? Less dangerous perhaps? You do understand her, and you wanted to warn me about her. Thank you. I'd be honored to have Mallory for an enemy. But I think she looks at me like a broken piece of machinery that won't cooperate in her scheme." "If you know who the Reaper is – "

"I'd never tell Mallory. Why ruin her game? She's beautifully equipped to work it out on her own. Oddly enough, I admire her. She makes no apologies, takes no prisoners."

"Actually, she does," said Charles as the Mercedes rolled forward again. "That's not just a figure of speech. She takes hostages. That was… the warning."

Riker watched the taillights of the Mercedes until they winked out with the turn onto Houston. He sat down on the front steps, preferring this to falling down. The cold air was doing him no good. Had he ever been this tired before? Jo was right. Tonight he would be useless to her. But he had no worries about the Reaper while the giant Charles was in her company, though Mallory would actually make a more formidable opponent, and she was the one he counted upon to keep Jo alive through the night. With any luck, the lady would sleep through the changing of the guard when her second watcher arrived at the hotel. And he could only hope that Jo had the presence of mind to lock up Mugs before the cat could annoy Mallory and die.

It was at times like this, when he was at his weakest, that unbidden memories flooded his mind. He covered his eyes, as if that would help him block out an image of the wild-eyed teenager sitting on his bloody chest. The young psycho had been so disappointed that there was not one bullet left so that he might shoot out Riker's eye. In the mornings, in that small space of time when dreams were not yet shaken off, he could feel the cold metal pressed to his eyeball and hear the click.

His head tilted back, and he stared at the sky where the stars ought to be. There were none. Chains of thought on the subject of heaven led him back to Mexico and starry nights in Cholla Bay. If he could only make it back to that place, that summer. He had finally found a way to kill his waking nightmare, replacing it with a picture of his younger self standing on the beach under a Mexican sun. This boy was waiting for the man to wise up, to come back to the only place where he had been truly happy. If Jo would go with him, he might save himself. A cop's pension would buy a life for two.

He shook his head.

No, you damn jerk. That's a pipe dream.

The boy with the guitar had had his chance and blown it, thrown it all away and gone home to New York. And the man, full grown and going gray, would surely die in this town. Falling short of salvation tonight, Riker thought he might settle for a drink or ten. He rose to his feet and headed down the street to a bar.

Hours later, closing time, he was home again and entering the apartment building, feeling insufficiently smashed and counting on a quart of bourbon in his kitchen cupboard to finish the job. Riker was off to his bottle and his bed, and, with any luck, a blackout night with no dreams.

When he stepped out of the elevator, the hall was pin-drop quiet. Pausing at the door, he fumbled with a ring of keys. Unlike most New Yorkers who only bothered with one lock out of three, he had lately picked up the habit of locking them all. The process of opening them took longer when he was drunk. Finally, after all combinations of keys and locks had been exhausted, he opened the door and felt along the wall till he found the switch and flicked it. No light.

The door was slammed shut, but not by his hand, and Riker only had time to track the sound of an intruder's quick shuffling footsteps in the dark. The gunshots were four explosions in rapid fire, and he did not stiffen this time. He folded to the floorboards, hitting with both knees and feeling no pain. Kneeling now, he faced a wall of blackness and never saw the light from the hall when the shooter opened the door behind him. Riker closed the door himself as his body completed its fall to the floor, toppling backward and slamming into the wood. Dust motes drifted down to settle on the lenses of his open eyes. He never blinked.