Dead Famous aka The Jury Must Die

Chapter 19

JOHANNA APOLLO HAD TAKEN THE LONG WAY HOME from the law firm on Madison Avenue. The zigzag journey had led her from evening into dead of night as she revisited the favorite streets of her adopted city.

She was hungry and cold, and she needed her meds to ease the pains of the day. One of her watchdogs awaited her in the hotel lobby. The young FBI man's face was washed with relief that she was still alive and his job was secure. Now he backed away from her, maintaining the discreet distance of a court order. She felt guilty, though she had never consented to this bodyguard service. No matter how the night might end, this young man and his partner would have some explaining to do come the morning. Too bad. Not their fault. They must wonder how she always managed to evade them, when she should be so easy to follow in any crowd of normal upright people. During the brief elevator ride, she consulted her wristwatch twice.

Less than an hour to go.

It was a short walk from the elevator to the door of her room, but the hallway elongated in a side effect of weariness. She had a pill for that, but nothing to cure the dread of this homecoming, the awaiting quiet and the sense of no one home anymore, no Mugs.

She put her mind to other things, arrangements still to be made, preparations for the night ahead. She entered the hotel room and flicked on the wall switch. Everything was as she had left it. Mugs's pillow still held the impression of his small body, and the object inside remained hidden. The suite was perfectly quiet for the first time since she had moved in, and yet she knew that she was not alone. The bedroom door was wide open. It had been closed when she left, and the hotel maids did no cleaning in the evening hours. Every detail of the room beyond the door was lost in the dark, and this moment would have held less terror if she had seen the sudden flash of a knife. She might have welcomed that. Instead, she heard the cat cry out.

The dead cat.

Mallory slowly emerged from the darkness, cradling Mugs's limp body in her arms. The cat lifted his head a bare inch, softly mewling, so enfeebled by heavy sedation.

"You followed me to the animal hospital."

"And I saw you run out of there crying," said Mallory. "Took me six seconds to work it out."

"So you intercepted the second shot."

"The deadly one." The detective walked into the front room and sat down in an armchair. The cat, reduced to a rag of fur, was now casually draped over her crossed legs. Mugs lifted his head once more, and his half-closed eyes struggled to focus on the one he loved, Johanna.

Mallory's slow smile was disturbing. "You think the cat knows you tried to kill him?" Her long red fingernails absently grazed Mugs's fur. "You're very good at ditching your FBI bodyguards, Dr. Apollo. That has to stop. I think we understand each other."

Oh, yes, Johanna understood terrorism, small scale and large. Mind games were her stock-in-trade. Mallory would have done well to remember that.

"And how much does Riker understand?" She was mentally squaring off against the young police. "Does he know how you manipulated him, calculated his every move – nearly cost him his sanity? Does he understand any of the damage you've done? Suppose he'd died that night in the parking garage."

"So you were there." Mallory's composure was eerie; she had missed the implication of some fault within herself – or dismissed it. Her voice was a cold monotone when she said, "Riker always knew what I was doing, but it didn't matter to him. He played the game for your sake – not mine – not his."

The silence was filled with awe and wonder, for Mallory had successfully transferred the blame for all that had gone before and whatever might happen before this night was done. She had neatly shifted past and future blood onto other hands, Johanna's. The psychiatrist, out of her depth, sank down on the couch and merely watched, helpless to do otherwise, as the younger woman, the ruthless one, reached behind the chair and pulled out the plastic pet carrier. Mugs was placed inside with only slightly more care than might be given to a stuffed toy. However, Johanna made no protest, for the box would hold no fears for Mugs while he was sedated.

"Putting the cat to sleep," said the detective, "that fits with the last meeting of your little therapy group in Tribeca."

"You bugged that room?" There could be no other explanation, for she had given that news to the group this evening.

Mallory ignored the accusation as her eyes roved over the furnishings. "This hotel room – so temporary, such an easy loose end to tie up. I know your type, Dr. Apollo. If you were going to kill yourself, you'd be one of those nice polite people who slit their wrists in the bathtub – so they won't leave a mess behind. But you'd never have the guts to do it. You can't even kill a cat. I've seen your drug cabinet. You've got enough stuff right here to put down a hundred cats, but you had to pay someone else to do it to him. So I know you're not planning suicide. You just can't count on living through the night." Mallory picked up the carrier and walked to the door. "Well, I can't force you into protective custody."

"Where are you taking my cat?"

The detective silently stepped into the outer hallway, heading for the elevator, and Johanna followed, saying, pleading, "You won't like Mugs when he's fully awake."

Mallory stood before the elevator, one red fingernail on the call button, when she turned her head with the slow swivel of a machine, and that disturbing smile was back. "Are you afraid I won't be nice to the cat?"

Johanna hurried to board the elevator as the doors opened and the detective stepped inside with her living cargo stirring, faintly crying inside the box. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Nothing personal," said Mallory. "The last two jurors have to survive. It's my game now, my rules. I'm the law." She watched digital numbers changing, numerals descending as they sank through all the floors of the hotel. "Riker thinks the feds are using you for bait. He hasn't put it all together yet. He can't. He's too close to you. Oh, I found the gun."

Johanna was so unsettled that she nearly asked which gun. She looked down at the small silver twenty-two in Mallory's hand. It was a lady's pistol, purse size, and that description alone would explain the look of derision on the detective's face.

The doors slid open, and the two women crossed the lobby in tandem. Johanna was pulled along by invisible strings, lured by the pet carrier in the detective's tight grip. Mallory paused at the cluster of armchairs by the window, then nodded to the FBI agent standing on the far side of the room. She turned on Johanna, saying, commanding, "Sit down." And Johanna obediently sank into a chair.

"Stay here," said Mallory, "where that fed can see you. Stay until I come back for you. And then I'll give you the cat."

The surprise visitors just kept on coming, but at least Charles Butler had brought a six-pack of imported beer. Riker had no theories on what Mallory might be up to. She had yet to divulge anything about the night she had followed the fake blind man from the cop bar on Green Street.

"Damn, Mallory."

Speak of the devil, and she will come.

When he responded to the next knock at his door, Mallory stood in the hallway, holding Jo's pet carrier with all the familiar scratch marks. He could see the cat's fur behind the wire opening, but Mugs was not in his usual bloodcurdling voice tonight. Riker bent low to open the small door, suddenly concerned that Mallory might have killed the poor critter. "Hey, Mugs, buddy." No claws, no hissing or threats of any kind. Well, this was a bad sign. He withdrew the small limp body and checked it for bullet holes.

Riker looked up at Mallory, but before he could ask what was wrong with the cat, she said, "I didn't do it."

Charles Butler entered the room from the kitchen with two cold bottles of beer in hand. "Ah, the famous Mugs. What's wrong with him?" And now he also turned to Mallory.

She was definitely on the defensive when she said, "Dr. Apollo's vet drugged him."

Riker smiled at Charles. "You don't want to be around when this cat wakes up. He'll take an arm off you." He stroked the cat's head, enjoying the novelty of getting this close to the animal who maimed him on the day they first met.

"You like that cat." Mallory's tone of voice said that this could not be a good thing, not a normal thing.

"You could say I admire his style." Riker folded the animal into his arms. Mugs lifted his head, saw a familiar face and closed his eyes again.

"So what's the deal?"

"Just keep him here for a while." She looked around the room, appraising the gleaming surfaces of furniture. The windowpanes were so clean that the glass had virtually disappeared. This was the trademark of a little cleaning woman from Brooklyn. "Put him in the bathroom. If Mrs. Ortega spots one cat hair, you'll never see her again." Mallory walked toward the door, saying, "I'll be back. I've got a litter box out in the car."

She had one hand on the doorknob, but Charles's larger hand pressed flat against the wood to delay her. He glanced back at the cat when he said, "Still taking hostages, I see."

Mallory glared at him, angry and biting down on her lower lip until sympathy pains forced him to step aside.

Johanna doubled over, as if the pain were sudden and not something that had been building for hours. Predictably, one of her bodyguards came on the run, defying the court order to keep his distance.

"My meds," said Johanna. "They're upstairs in my room."

"All right, Dr. Apollo, hold on." The agent pulled out his cell phone. "I'll get my partner. He's watching the rear exit."

"No need to bother him," she said. "I can walk." She rose from the couch. "Perhaps if you'd help me." She took his arm as they moved toward the elevator and rode up to her floor without exchanging another word until they entered her hotel suite.

"I have to take the pills on a full stomach," she said, "but I can't wait for room service. It takes too long. There's a restaurant across the street. I'll just get a warmer coat, if you don't mind waiting."

A minute later, she emerged from her bedroom wearing a hooded black poncho over her down jacket. While crossing the street with her escort following at the usual unobtrusive distance, she had a change of plans and led him instead to the subway. It was a simple matter to separate from him, hiding herself behind a staircase, but only for a few moments, time enough to hand off the poncho to an old woman bent with age, a fixture in this place. The elderly vagrant accepted the customary twenty-dollar bill. Johanna boarded a train and watched from a window as the agent spotted the black-hooded figure and followed the old beggar to the lower level and a southbound train. Johanna traveled north, unmolested.

The feds are watching her right now," said Mallory. "They won't screw up again." She carried the litter box into the bathroom where Riker was making a nest of towels for the cat.

He was wondering what Charles had meant by hostages. "So keeping the cat here – that was Jo's idea?"

"Yes." With that single word trailing off to a hiss, she managed to upbraid him for doubting her. And when that failed to work, she added, "The cat's sedative should wear off in another hour, and the doctor needs a good night's sleep." Unspoken were the words, And that's the truth.

There was a distinct ring of truth in there somewhere, though he was still planning to call Jo's hotel – but not just this minute. He could see that Mallory had something else in mind.

She shifted into attack posture, hands on hips – confrontation time. "I know Dr. Apollo was at the parking garage the night Zachary was ambushed. You lied to me about that."

"Mallory, don't get me started on the subject of lies."

"Did you know the doctor had a gun? A little twenty-two." She read his face and smiled. "You did know. You held out on me." She hunkered down beside him. Her voice was almost taunting. "And you never asked her what she was doing at the garage that night, did you?" Hands braced on the floor, as if set to spring, Mallory leaned over the body of the sleeping, helpless cat, saying, "I've got a fake blind man in custody." She pulled back. "You know the one I mean. And he's another little detail you forgot to mention."

Riker was staring at the bathroom tiles, wondering how she had managed that turnaround when she was the one who had -

"Time for the interview." Mallory rose to her feet and left the bathroom. He could hear her voice drifting down the hall. "Coming, Riker? Or don't you want to know what happened in that jury room?"

Johanna was admitted to a studio with the configuration of a large dark cave. Ian Zachary stood beside a tall Japanese folding screen that partially hid a console of light and dials. He waved her to a chair.

"Good to see you again, Doctor. It's been a long time since the trial. I can't talk you into waiting another hour?"

"It's now or never," she said.

"If you wish." He raised one hand to the young woman in the lighted window and spoke into the microphone of his headset. "Crazy Bitch? Rack it up." He turned back to his guest. "I can't change your mind?"

"No, I have other plans for later." She watched his eyes travel back and forth between herself and a square pane of glass, a dark twin to the brightly lit window of the sound engineer's booth. If this had been a police station in Chicago, there would be a watcher behind that glass.

When Ian Zachary sat down at his console, the Japanese screen cut off his view of the dark window, but the sound engineer's booth was still visible to him, and the girl held up one finger to indicate one more minute to go, though it was the middle finger.

Interesting.

"So, Doctor, what name are we using tonight? Johanna Apollo or the alias?"

"My own name." And now she was also captivated by the dark window, for the screen did not cut off her own line of sight; it only hid Ian Zachary from a watcher who might or might not be there. She tried to gauge his level of paranoia, a key element for every player in the game.