Dead Famous aka The Jury Must Die

Chapter 4

Zachary's personal slave, the most recent in a long line of disposable employees, entered the room carrying a covered tray. She wore a secretive smile as she set it down before him. And there were other warning signs. The girl had not combed her hair today, but that was only mildly interesting. It appeared that she had misplaced her shoes, for she was walking barefoot through corporate America. And were those the same clothes she had worn last night? Yes. He smiled with genuine affection for her, his best find in months. It was a pity that she could not last much longer. His genius lay in the ability to spot fracture lines in a damaged psyche. He had known what she was on the day of her hire; he had seen it in her eyes, a bit too wide, too bright. The less astute personnel director had mistaken the girl's manic chatter for enthusiasm.

Her smile turned ghoulish as she lifted the silver tray cover to reveal a generous serving of steak tartare. "Mr. Needleman said this was your favorite."

"My producer? You talked to him?"

"Yeah, he called me this morning." She sat down at the table and lowered her head until her nose was only inches from his food, then watched his plate with great concentration.

"The bastard never calls me." And now he also stared at his lunch. "So you pissed on it, right?" When she raised her face to his, he saw deep disappointment in her eyes. "Sorry." He pushed the tray away. "I spoiled your fun."

She rallied with a triumphant smile. "Mr. Needleman gave me the call-in figures for last night. He said the listener response was over the moon."

Evidently, the producer had also told her that she was the inspiration for most of those calls. The fans had wanted to know if she had been fired or not, for the show had ended abruptly with the last caller's find of a live juror in Manhattan. Bless Randy of SoHo. Whenever the juror death rate remained stagnant for too long, Zachary worried that the game would become stale, that he would lose the high ratings of his shock-radio audience. Sometimes he had to skate by on his talent for torturing the hired help. The sound engineer had proved a huge success as his new whipping girl, and she knew it.

"So now you think you're bulletproof, don't you, babe?" He shook his head. "No way." He could kill her with words any time he wanted to. She would break and fold before tonight's show was over. Or maybe not.

The girl picked up a fork and began to eat the red meat, which obviously had not been pissed on. "Jerk-off," she said.

And his new term of endearment for her was "You crazy bitch."

She looked up from the lunch plate, responding to this name, and grinned as another thought occurred to her. "That window in my booth, is that bulletproof?"

"Absolutely unbreakable." Zachary had insisted upon that specification before he would sign with the New York media giant. Thick glass on the booth windows was a necessary precaution, a lesson learned the hard way when his show had been based in Chicago. One memorable night in his old studio, the security door had held up through a pounding – but the engineer's window had not. A crazed woman had broken the glass to get at him. She had nearly bled to death, clumsy fool, after cutting herself on the shards. And all the while, he had taped a play-by-play account of the action to the rhythm of a security guard banging on his door. The ambulance crew had provided the climax, asking for Zachary's autograph while strapping a bleeding woman to a gurney bound for a hospital psychiatric ward. His most current crazy bitch was stuffing food in her mouth with her fingers. The concept of silverware was quite beyond her now.

"Maybe I'll take over the show," she said, "when they take you off the air." "They? Who? The FCC?" He shrugged. "They can try." In fact, lately he had wondered why they did not try harder. He missed his daily visits from frustrated bureaucrats who had failed to shut him down. Perhaps they were afraid of more formidable attorneys. Or had they simply tired of losing every legal action to the American Civil Liberties Union?

"Maybe the network will get rid of you," she said. "Sooner or later, somebody's going to sue you for – "

"I get sued all the time." He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, warming to his favorite subject. "Usually it's the outraged relatives of dead jurors, looking to make some fast cash. The network accountants crunched the numbers. Given the current advertising revenues coast to coast, it's cheaper to pay off the families." 'Then the Reaper will get you."

Oh, I doubt it. He couldn't find the jurors without me and my fans. He's probably my most loyal listener." What if he's saving you for last?"

He nodded, as if considering this. In reality, he was wondering why her cognitive reasoning remained unimpaired, and he made a mental note to work on that.

"If you die," she said, "I could be your replacement. I could be bigger than you."

"Well, you can dream." Zack smiled at his newest candidate for induced psychosis. He had to admire her stamina. She was the only one who had remained with him after that moment when her mind had gone elsewhere. "You crazy bitch."

Johanna Apollo almost dropped the pet carrier. Kathy Mallory was a jarring sight on any occasion, but this was such a gross invasion. The uninvited visitor stood at the end of the narrow foyer, somewhat annoyed by Johanna's intrusion into her own hotel suite.

Riker appeared at the young woman's side. "Hey, Jo."

Johanna entered the living room and set the pet carrier on the floor at her feet. "How did you two get in here?"

"Same way we got into this thing." Riker stood before her open armoire and nodded to the tall blonde. "She has a way with locks."

Mallory strode toward the front door, causing Johanna to move out of the way or be trod upon. One foot in the outer hall, the younger woman's face was turned toward the glass door that gave a view of the elevator. She called back over one shoulder, "Hurry it up. We've only got a few minutes."

"Get out now," yelled Riker.

"I'll call from the lobby." Mallory dropped a cell phone and kicked it to the end of the foyer, and then the door closed behind her.

Riker picked up the phone and pocketed it, then resumed his chore of ransacking the armoire. Johanna stared at the empty shelves and cubbyholes. Her red suitcase lay open on the floor, and it was filled with file holders and loose papers. She was being robbed.

"I didn't have time to wait for you, Jo. I'm one jump ahead of the cops."

"But Mallory's a cop. You're a cop."

"Not anymore. They pensioned me off." He pulled out a drawer and upended it, sending the contents into the suitcase. "And Mallory was never here. Remember that, Jo – when Flynn comes."

After replacing the drawer, he hit the wood hard with the heel of his palm to bang it shut, then moved on to the next one. She could not tell if this was done in anger. For as long as she had known him, he had slammed every drawer and door, though that quirk did not fit with his easygoing nature. This was a man with a great deal of unresolved anger, and he no doubt believed that he was hiding it well.

"If you've got anything else that's incriminating," he said, "go get it. I have to take it out of here before – " "Incriminating? You can't believe I – "

"Jo, if I was still a cop, I'd lock you up – right now!" He hunkered down to open the bottom drawer filled with wine bottles, all the same vintner, the same year. This was Timothy Kidd's drawer. Riker looked up at her. "Is the hotel maid pilfering your bottles?"

"Something like that." It was nothing like that, but only now did she see her error, and it was too late to call the words back.

Riker's eyes strayed to the wine rack on the other side of the room. He had once commented on the high cost of her vintages, for the price labels had never been removed, and now he was checking the stickers on the bottles in the drawer, a lesser wine trove than the one in plain sight and reach of the hotel staff. Gallant man, he never called her on that lie. He simply closed the drawer on the wine, then dropped Timothy's file into the suitcase. "The cops got a warrant to search your rooms." "Since when does an innocent bystander – "

"They upgraded you to a suspect." He closed the suitcase and stood up, the better to scrutinize her face, perhaps looking there for tells of guilt. This is what Flynn told the judge who signed the warrant. Back in Chicago, you destroyed evidence before the cops could secure the scene of another homicide – same cause of death, same weapon he found this morning at the playground." He was staring at the contents of her suitcase. "And now it looks like murder is a hobby with you." Riker leaned down and picked up a newspaper clipping for one of the Reaper's kills. "If Flynn saw this, he'd put you in a lockup. Oh, and he knows you're not on good terms with Bunny's lawyer, but that was my lie, not yours. So just say as little as possible. Don't give him a reason to arrest you." He turned back to the gutted armoire. "Get me some stuff to put in this closet."

She understood. Her rooms should not have the appearance of hastily removed evidence, and now she helped him load in papers and items from other drawers in the kitchen and her bedroom. When they were done, the armoire had the messy look of a catchall closet that had not been recently disturbed.

"Is there anything else in this apartment? Anything Flynn shouldn't see?" He stared at her, and she wondered if he knew she was holding out on him. It was so hard to tell with Riker. Suspicion was built into the very shape of his eyes.

"Jo, there's nothing you can hide from a police search. The toilet tank, the light fixture, stuff taped behind a drawer – they know every damn hiding place."

Johanna glanced at the cat's pillow basket, a hiding place that would only be secure while the cat was loose. "No," she lied. "There's nothing else."

He looked down at the growling pet carrier that was rocking in place on the floor. "Keep Mugs locked up. Flynn might get pissed off and shoot him." The cell phone beeped in Riker's pocket. "That's Mallory. They're coming, Jo. Take a deep breath and try to act surprised, okay?" He picked up the red suitcase and crossed over the threshold.

Johanna put out one hand to prevent him from slamming the door. "Riker? Why take the risk? If you get caught with…" Her words trailed off as he passed through the fire door leading to the staircase and the elevators. He was taking her on faith and going against his old religion of a police.

Riker disappeared down the stairs as the elevator opened. Johanna quickly closed the door to her suite, then released Mugs from the pet carrier. She rushed to the cat's basket and unzipped the pillowcase. Reaching toward the back of the pillow, she retrieved a packet of letters and concealed them in her jacket pocket.

The knock at the door was a bang, bang, bang. A man's voice yelled, "Police! Open up!"

Mugs waited to greet them, scratching the rug, warming up to shed some blood. The cat had had a bad day at the animal hospital, and the next one to enter this room would pay for that. Johanna cracked the door by a few inches, and the cat's front paws slipped into that narrow opening to snag anything within reach.

Detective Flynn stared at the frenzied animal. "Let's do something about the cat, okay?"

"I have to get my gloves," said Johanna, as Mugs desperately tried to widen the crack in the door so he could maul his first pair of pant legs. "Unless – you'd rather – " "Make it fast."

She held the door shut with one shoe as she donned a pair of gloves from her pocket. She picked up the cat, minding the place along his spine that caused him pain. "You can come in now." Flynn opened the door wide, and Mugs growled. "I'll just put him in the pet carrier," said Johanna. "That can wait, Doctor." Flynn entered the room leading a parade of three men in suits and a woman in uniform.

The detective handed her a photograph, and Johanna looked down at the image of herself at the playground in the company of police.

"Bunny's social worker identified your picture," said Flynn. "She told us you were the psychiatrist who recommended Bunny's hospitalization and surgery. Odd you never mentioned that when I questioned you." "I was upset. I didn't – "

"The social worker says you used the same alias you gave us – Josephine Richards. But we couldn't find any shrinks by that name. So we pulled your prints from the playground bench. That's how we tracked you down to Chicago. Those cops remember you very well, Doctor – you and that dead FBI agent. But they call you Johanna Apollo." And now for his finale, there was a flourish of folded papers as Flynn handed her a search warrant.

She stared at this document, all too familiar from past experience with the Chicago police. "Can I put the cat away before you start?"

"Not yet." Flynn nodded to another man. "Check that thing out."

The younger man walked over to the pet carrier and turned it upside down to shake it. After a look inside, he pronounced it "Clean. No false bottom."

Mugs leaped out of Johanna's arms, but he did not attack. Perhaps the cat was overwhelmed by this embarrassment of riches, so many potential victims in one place. He stood beside her, eyeing the company of police as they spread across the room, pulling out drawers and sofa cushions. His ears flattened back, and he showed every sharp tooth in his mouth when he hissed.

"Mugs, it's all right," she said, then read the warrant with some relief. It included no search of her person, no discovery of the letters in her jacket.

"Mugs," said the female officer. "That's his name?"

"Yes." Johanna turned to look at the other woman's sensible black shoes, tightly laced and double knotted beneath the cuffs of uniform trousers. "It's short for Huggermugger." And now she looked up to the young face beneath the tricornered cap.

The police officer hunkered down for a closer look at the animal, not minding the warning of the arched back and bristling fur. This woman was definitely a cat person, for she engaged the animal's eyes, then imitated his slow blink. Mugs began to purr as he walked toward her. "Huggermugger. Cute name."

"More like a warning. Don't – "

"It's all right. Cats like me." Mugs rubbed up against the woman's thigh, then turned on her, biting her hand and drawing blood.

Johanna gathered up the cat before it could make another strike. "Sorry, so sorry."

"What the hell's wrong with him?" The policewoman was staring at the holes in her flesh as they pooled up with blood.

"Old nerve damage." Johanna pushed the cat inside the plastic pet carrier, using both gloved hands to corral the whirlwind of fur and flying claws that tried to prevent the door from closing. The cat's small face appeared at the wire window of his jail. Mugs growled as loud as any dog. Johanna glanced at the woman's injured hand. "I can fix that for you." She led the wounded officer into the bathroom. "This won't take long."

As she opened a cupboard below the sink, Johanna listened to the activity in the next room, sounds of drawers opening, objects hitting the floor, the cat alternately growling, hissing and screaming. She pulled out her first aid kit and found the bottle of antiseptic. "This might sting." She took the officer's hand in hers and irrigated the tiny holes. "These tooth marks aren't deep. There won't be any scars." When she was done with the bandaging, she reached into the back of the closet where she kept a physician's gladstone bag. Inside it she found a block of paper, each page bearing the medical icon of a caduceus beneath her name. "I'm prescribing a topical antibiotic and another one in pill form. Animal bites are easily infected." Done writing, she tore off the two sheets and handed them to the officer.

"I thought you were a shrink." The young woman stared at the prescriptions, dubious now, maybe wondering if this was illegal.

"I was a psychiatrist," said Johanna, "so I also have a medical degree. I'm sorry about the cat. I did try to warn you about the – "

"Can't you do anything for him? An operation or something?" "There was an operation. A veterinary surgeon severed the damaged nerve so Mugs wouldn't feel the pain anymore. But he'd lived with it for too long before I found him. Now he only feels the phantom nerve, but the pain is very real to Mugs. The cat's quite insane. Perfect pet for a shrink, wouldn't you say?" "And you still keep him."

Johanna suspected that this cat lover's approval was genuine. "Yes, I keep him. No one else would have him." She turned to leave the bathroom.

"Not yet, Dr. Apollo." The policewoman handed her a second warrant, this one for a personal search. "Sorry," she said, as she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves.

So this would be a very personal search. Johanna could even guess the order of violation: first oral, then vaginal, then anal.

You'll have to remove all your clothes." The officer touched the collar or the denim jacket. "I remember this." She looked down at Johanna's legs. And those are the same jeans you wore this morning, right?" Johanna nodded as she removed her jacket, then pulled her sweatshirt over her head, catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. The deformity was more grotesque in the fleshy knotted muscles curving into a hump. The younger woman turned away, not enjoying this moment. Johanna removed her jeans, eyes fixed on the floor. She felt the heat rising in her face, the deep red flush of humiliation, as she unhooked her bra.

"You can keep the underwear on." The policewoman removed her gloves in a giveaway act of compassion. There would be no cavity search today.

"Thank you," said Johanna.

The officer gave her a curt nod. "But if anyone asks – "

"Understood. I'll tell them you were very thorough."

"I don't know why that detective even ordered it. Flynn says we're only looking for documents. Letters, records."

Johanna nodded. These were the sort of things she had destroyed on the day when Timothy Kidd was murdered.

The policewoman searched a pocket of Johanna's jacket where the bundle of letters had recently rested. All she found was spare change, a subway token, and some folding money, all of which she handed to Johanna. "We're taking your clothes with us. You'll get a receipt for everything." She nodded toward the robe hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. "Why don't you put that on?"

Johanna wrapped the robe about her and watched her work boots and socks disappear into a plastic bag. Barefoot, she followed the policewoman into the front room, where Mugs was in the hissing mode, and men were testing couch cushions for suspicious lumps. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied on the floor. One man had climbed on top of a table, scratching the finish with his shoes as he reached up to unscrew the overhead light fixture.

Detective Flynn stood by the armoire desk, where financial records had been piled to cure its recently raided appearance. His low whistle gave away the discovery of her stock portfolio and an income in the highest tax bracket. Now there would be questions about her most recent employment and the unhealthy interest in crime scenes. She was a woman of means. No need to work for her living. And she lived in a hotel suite, while these people rented small, cramped apartments on the wages of civil servants.

Yes, she would have a great deal to answer for.

The policewoman guided her to a kitchen chair that had been dragged into the front room for no other purpose than to deny her comfort. Johanna sat down on the hard wood, wrapping the robe closer about her person. The searchers circled around her in their travels, never making eye contact, treating her as a floor lamp or an incidental table in their way. Detective Flynn pulled up another straight-back chair, though his was padded with embroidered upholstery. He turned it around to straddle it and rest his arms on the back. He seemed so relaxed while Johanna shifted in her own chair. She understood why he had requested a full cavity search, a probe of every orifice in her body. That kind of trauma was most efficient in tearing down a suspect's ego. She also realized that it was nothing personal.

This time it would be different from her interview with the Chicago police. This New York detective would not invite her to visit his station house. The hotel room was an excellent choice for an interrogation, no lawyers around to prevent them from stripping her to a flimsy bathrobe and rattling her with ongoing violations of her life, her personal letters and -

The uniformed officer stood in the narrow hallway that led to the bedroom. She sought out Johanna's eyes to beg some explanation for the child-size pair of dancing shoes, black patent leather with metal cleats at toe and heel. The concept of a tap-dancing hunchback was too difficult for this young woman.

Johanna only shrugged to say, Old dreams. I guess you had them, too.

She had been eleven years old when thoracic kyphosis had become so apparent that it could no longer be put off to bad posture. Dancing classes had been cancelled for the remainder of childhood. It was too hard to tap dance in a heavy brace that could not fly with her across the long, mirrored classroom, and no one could do the Buffalo Shuffle in body armor.

The policewoman put the lid on the old shoe-box dream and returned to the bedroom to continue the search.

Johanna faced Detective Flynn. Everything about this man, his posture and his eyes, informed her that his power was unlimited, all but saying to her, Give up – you're lost – you're mine. She shrank in size. She had no substance in this room. It belonged to them now, the searchers. She was the visitor here.

A man with plastic gloves was examining the drawer of wine bottles, and she ceased to breathe for a moment. Through the open bathroom door, she could hear the sounds of the medicine cabinet being ransacked. They would find all the pain medication, the pills to help her sleep and others to keep her awake. What would they make of the large store of pet tranquilizers? They would note her brand of toothpaste, examine the underwear in her hamper, attracted by spots of blood, and follow the scent of menstruation to the tampon in the trash basket. Would the searcher be delighted with this find – this perfect sample of DNA? Would he fold this treasure away in an evidence bag?

And what would the tag say? Lady on the rag?

Her toes curled as her bare feet drew back under the chair. "What do you want?"

Flynn was looking past her, as if the pictures on the wall were more interesting to him. "Most people go their whole lives and never stumble on a murder victim." He turned his eyes to hers, and his voice doubled in volume. "You found two dead bodies, lady! An FBI agent back in Chicago and that poor homeless bum this morning." He leaned far forward, startling her, and she recoiled. "That would've been enough to get my attention, but both of 'em had their throats slit. The Chicago cops tell me you made a little bonfire in your office wastebasket before you called 911. You destroyed all your patient records. And all the while, there's a man bleeding to death in your waiting room."

"He was dead when I found him."

"You're pretty cool under pressure, Doctor."

No, she was more vulnerable now.

"So, Dr. Apollo, you wanna cut the crap and – "

"Sir?" A man in uniform waited for the detective to acknowledge him before he said, "You have to stop the interview. There's a guy downstairs in the lobby. He says – "

"Hold it!" Flynn put up one hand in the manner of a traffic cop, and the other man fell silent. The detective turned on Johanna. "You called a damn lawyer, didn't you? You knew we were coming. Who tipped you off, Doctor? Was it Riker?" Not waiting for an answer, he fired his next question at the man in uniform. "Chase down that bastard Riker and drag him in. Now!"

"Wait," said Johanna. "About that man in the lobby." She dipped one hand into the pocket of her robe where she had put the money taken from her blue jeans. "I've got at least fifty dollars here. I'm betting he's not an attorney. Put up or shut up, Detective."

But Flynn was already satisfied that no one had tipped her off to the search warrant, for the anticipated visitor was standing in the open doorway and flashing his FBI credentials for all to see.

"Hello, Johanna." Special Agent Marvin Argus made a slow turn to acknowledge the others in her company and deigned to grace them all with his most condescending smile.

One night's sleep and he was back in arrogant form with all the old confidence that so annoyed her. Johanna's politics were pacifist, and yet she wanted to smack this man each time they met. Everyone did. He was from the Chicago bureau, and all the people in this room would be strangers to him, yet there was overt hostility in every face that turned his way – and a bit of confusion as well. Argus might be their first encounter with a male-heterosexual princess.

"So which one of you is Flynn?" He grinned at the angriest man in the room, the detective who sat with Johanna. "You? Well, this is my case now. Check with your lieutenant if you like. I won't be offended. But this interview is definitely over. And all the evidence your guys collected? That's mine."

No one paid any attention to Johanna as she rose from her chair and walked toward the pet carrier. This was where she had hidden the packet or dangerous letters in a sleight of hand while locking the cat inside. With no sane regard for the possible discovery of this evidence, she opened the carrier's door, and Mugs flew out. No, he shot out of that small opening, all but flying across the room, as if she had deliberately aimed him at Special Agent Marvin Argus.

Only a few more minutes passed before she had her life back again, her possessions and her peace. She closed the door on the departing invaders, then turned to the cat, who delicately sniffed the abandoned bags of papers and clothing. Mugs had won the hearts of all the police. And the bleeding FBI agent had not been offered any first aid for his wounds.

Oddly enough, it had been a profitable afternoon – reassuring and informative. The New York detective might have been a formidable opponent, but now Flynn was officially off the case. And the Chicago police had been miserly in sharing information with him. He had tied her to only two murders, a very modest body count.