In the pile of clothes at her feet, she found an old thrift-shop garment that would do nicely. Then she went off to make another mess of the kitchenette, emptying the catch-all drawers in search of a pen to make a large X on the back of the blouse.
The ground floor of the SoHo police station was packed with actresses, all sizes and every color of hair, though Special Crimes Unit had specifically requested blondes. Jack Coffey stood near the street door and stared at the double-parked news vans. Reporters were roaming the sidewalk in gangs.
He turned to Detective Wang. ‘Exactly what did you say to the talent agencies?’
‘Just what you told me. I said we were investigating vandalism on the subway.’
Detective Desoto folded his cell phone and turned to the lieutenant. ‘One of the agents tipped the reporters. She told them we were hunting a sex maniac with a thing for blondes.’ He looked toward the open door and its view of reporters milling on the street. ‘But none of those bastards made a connection to Special Crimes Unit.’
Lieutenant Coffey silently thanked the city accountants for being too cheap to paint the name of his unit on the door at the top of the stairs. ‘Okay, take the actresses up to the squad room, ten at a time. And pass the word – nobody mentions Special Crimes. I don’t want anybody handing out cards to these women – I don’t care how pretty they are. Now weed out the brunettes.’
Coffey watched the actresses being herded toward the staircase, where Desoto pulled out the women with dark hair. The first group of blondes climbed the stairs behind Detective Wang. They were all so young, so unprepared for what was going to happen to them.
A few minutes later, when Lieutenant Coffey entered the squad room, the actresses were lined up in a tight row, all but standing at attention. Detective Janos played the part of their drill sergeant, pacing back and forth in front of them, inspecting his troops. ‘If you’re jerking us around to get your names in the paper, you’ll be charged with obstruction of justice. That means time in lockup.’
Though the man had a gentle voice, he also had a thug’s face and the gravitational mass of a small planet. The blond heads turned in unison, following his movements back and forth.
‘Our lockup isn’t very clean. Fleas, lots of fleas.’
Two dishwater blondes were edging toward the stairwell door while the other women were still debating flight.
‘Oh, and lice are a problem, too.’ Janos sighed. ‘So you’ll be stripped and deloused in a gang shower.’
After the mass exodus of actresses, all that remained was one intrepid blonde in the fairest range, and the large detective engaged her in a staring contest. She burst into tears, then ran toward the door, where another ten women were waiting in line. And Janos hollered, ‘Next!’
CHAPTER 11
Charles stood apart from the others as they argued in Mallory’s private office at Butler and Company.
Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope said, ‘No, Riker, I’m not going back to that hospital, not for at least ten years.’ And now that the subject of the dying coma patient was closed, he turned back to his study of Natalie Homer’s new and improved autopsy photographs blown up to many times the original size.
Mallory’s magic had created sharp definition from grainy enlargements, using her computer to refine light and shadow, replacing ambiguity with certainty and exposing details never seen in the originals. Although it appeared to be the camera’s eye of truth, Charles suspected that she had cheated the pieces, the pixels that made the pictures, and the result was only the best guess of artificial intelligence.
‘Okay,’ said Riker, somewhat testy. ‘Can you give me a second opinion on this?’ He handed the pathologist an X-ray of Natalie’s head, something Mallory had not retouched.
The doctor held up the film to the light of the windows. ‘You’re right. It looks like my predecessor missed everything but the cause of death. It’s a skull fracture. I can’t tell if it rendered her unconscious, but it certainly stunned her. The fracture agrees with a blunt object. I could swear to that much.’
Next, Riker handed him an enlarged photograph of Natalie’s right hand. ‘This is the burn shot.’
Dr Slope shook his head. ‘Can’t help you on this one. No way to tell if the flesh was burned before the insects got at it.’
Riker consulted a transcription of Louis Markowitz’s notes and pointed to a line of type. ‘Right here. Lou says the hand was burned.’ And another argument had begun.
‘That’s because of the roaches,’ said Charles, stepping into the conversation in the role of a peacemaker. ‘Louis saw them clustered on her hand. That would indicate the presence of grease. If it was hot from the frying pan – ’
‘Speculation,’ said Edward Slope. ‘I only testify to facts.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Unless there’s something else – ’
‘About Sparrow,’ said Riker. ‘Maybe you could just talk to her doctor on the – ’
‘Not a shot in hell,’ said Dr Slope. ‘Now Charles could take on that lightweight intern. He knows all the jargon.’
‘Sparrow’s dying,’ said Riker. ‘I need a medical opinion.’
‘If it’s coma related, then Charles is your man.’ Edward Slope walked toward the door, saying, ‘I promise you, nobody on that hospital staff knows more about the human brain.’
The door closed, and a defeated Riker slumped into a chair behind the desk. ‘Sparrow’s doctor hates cops. He won’t even talk to me. Can you help?’
‘Well, Edward exaggerates,’ said Charles. ‘I only published one paper on the comatose brain. However, I could probably negotiate a conversation with her doctor.’
‘Sounds good. Thanks. But Mallory doesn’t need to know, okay?’
Riker closed his eyes and put his feet up on her desk, a sign that she was not expected back for the duration of a catnap. And Charles was left to wonder why Riker would keep the hospital visit a secret. Surely his own partner had an equal interest in this crime victim. It was an interesting problem, and the solution lay in the certain knowledge that Mallory would not forgive any act of concern for an enemy.
Both men jumped at the sound of a crash in the next room.
‘Kids.’ Riker’s feet hit the floor. ‘You can’t turn your back on ‘em for a second.’
When they entered the office kitchen, they found Ronald Deluthe dressed in a replica of Natalie Homer’s apron, ruffles and all. He was holding an unplugged electric skillet. There were spills on every surface and puddles of water on the floor. Wet enlargements of crime-scene photos were spread across the tabletop.
‘This is my fault,’ said Riker. ‘I told him to work out a fly-on-the-wall scenario.’
Charles looked down at a splash of water near the stove. ‘So that’s supposed to be grease from Natalie’s sausages?’
‘Yes, sir. Watch.’ Deluthe filled the frying pan with more water, then treated them to a demonstration of backswings and overhand strikes. Most of the liquid spilled behind him, and the remainder sloshed forward toward an imagined assailant, splattering an innocent refrigerator. His right hand was wet, and the rest of him remained dry. ‘It never spills on the apron. So she wasn’t using the frying pan for a defensive weapon. I figure the killer was holding it.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Riker. ‘Slope confirmed the skull fracture. Maybe the perp used the pan on her head. Good job, kid.’
‘Now clean up the mess.’ Mallory had materialized in the doorway. Her eyes roved over the wet floor and the rivulets streaming down every wall. She turned to Deluthe in stone silence.
He scrambled to grab a sponge from the sink, then knelt on the tiles and began to wipe the puddles.
‘You’re wrong about the frying pan,’ said Charles. ‘Natalie did use it as a weapon. But the mistake is understandable.’ He pointed to the electric skillet with its built-in computer panel for timing meals. ‘That’s aluminum, and the handle never gets hot.’