‘A police aide was supposed to fax it from the – ’

‘This article mentions an ambulance. Where’s the attending physician’s report?’ She turned to look at him. It was obvious that he had no answers. Still, she would not follow her first inclination, which involved a bit of violence. Mallory never lost control of her temper. The incident with the fireman did not count, not in her scheme of denial. She had not struck Zappata in anger. That blow had been the simple expedient of getting Riker through the day without a suspension. Yes, Riker was the one with the bad temper, or so she decided, founded on absolutely no proof of this defect in his character. And she, of course, had reined in her own temper, safely gauging her punch to harm no more than the fireman’s ego. She had hardly tapped him. Though Mallory had created this version of events only moments ago, she found no flaws in it.

The whiteshield detective stood beside her, nonchalantly gazing at the photograph of a recently assaulted blond actress, who lived in the East Village. Could this woman have more precisely fit the profile of the next murder victim?

Deluthe had his excuses ready now. ‘I was going to call the actress again. But I had to put it off. Sergeant Riker – ’

‘That was a mistake.’ Mallory’s words all carried the same weight, and she kept her eyes on the board when she spoke to him. ‘Don’t phone her. Go to her apartment. Get a statement.’

Still he lingered, and then she said, ‘Now, Deluthe. Before she dies.’

Mallory followed in the wake of the running rookie, though at a slower pace. Her feet were dragging, and she was feeling other effects of lost sleep. She pulled out a cell phone and placed a call to the police station with jurisdiction on the actress’s assault.

Ten minutes after making contact with a midtown sergeant, she was sitting in the squad room. Her head rested on the back of her chair, and her eyes closed as she waited for the man to locate paperwork on Stella Small’s stabbing. Finally, he returned to the phone, saying, ‘Sorry, Detective. I found the statement, but it won’t help. Our police aide, Forelli – she’s been doing creative writing on the job again.’

One hand tightened around the phone, but Mallory’s voice was calm when she said, ‘Read it to me.’

‘All right. „Professional bimbo collides with camera. Damn every tall blonde ever born.“ You see the problem?’

Mallory’s face was devoid of expression as she studied her right hand. The pain had ebbed away since decking Zappata. She flexed her fingers, then curled them tight, and her fist crashed down on the desk, bringing on fresh hurt and restored focus. And then, so that clarity would last a while longer, she smashed her fist into the wood a second time – crazy naked pain.

CHAPTER 16

A fence of iron bars protected a tiny courtyard and the red door to Stella Small’s apartment building. Mallory stood outside the gate and pushed the intercom buttons. When none of the residents responded, she pulled a small velvet wallet from the back pocket of her jeans, then unfolded it and perused her collection of lock picks. At the age often, she had stolen this set from her mentor Tall Sally, then lost it for a time – the rest of her childhood. The velvet wallet had turned up in the safety deposit box of the late Louis Markowitz. Sentimental man, he had not been able to throw away baby’s first toys.

Before she had made her selection of tools to work the fence lock, Ronald Deluthe came through the red door and crossed the small courtyard to open the gate. ‘There was nobody home,’ he said, ‘so I left my card under her door.’

‘How do you know she’s not home?’

‘I’m telling you,’ he said, ‘there’s nobody in there. I checked.’

Mallory pocketed the velvet wallet, though she did not believe that he would recognize burglar tools. ‘You checked. And how did you do that?’

‘Well, I banged on the door. No answer. I couldn’t hear anybody moving around inside. It didn’t sound like – ’

‘What does a hanging woman sound like, Deluthe?’

‘Right.’ He walked back to the red door and unlocked it.

‘Where did you get that key?’

‘The management company down the street.’ Deluthe held the door open for her, then slipped past her to lead the way up the stairs to the second floor. ‘They wouldn’t give me a key to her apartment – not without a warrant.’ He stopped at the door to 2B. ‘This is it. You’re sure it’s legal to go in there?’

‘Yes, if we believe she’s dying.’ Mallory did not appreciate having to repeat a lesson that he should have learned at the police academy. Deluthe had obviously not excelled in academics. So far, in every way, the son-in-law of the deputy commissioner was a mediocre candidate for the NYPD Detective Bureau.

He motioned for her to move away from the door. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

Yeah, right.

Mallory stood to one side, arms folded.

Apparently, Deluthe had learned nothing on the subject of locked doors either. Putting all his might behind his right foot, he kicked the door dead center, and, of course, the locks held. There was not even a dent on the heavy metal surface. Mallory decided that some lessons should be learned the hard way, and so she waited patiently as he made a second attempt to break his foot, then asked, ‘Are you done?’

It was gratifying to see him limp as he backed away from the door. She pulled out the velvet wallet, selected two pieces of metal and worked close to the door, blocking Deluthe’s view. First she opened the top lock, the one reputed to be pick-proof.

He edged around to one side of her, trying to see. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m using a bobby pin,’ said Mallory, who owned no hair pins. ‘I always carry one for emergencies.’ And now she was done.

Like most New Yorkers, Stella Small had not bothered with the other two locks. The knob turned easily, and the door opened on to a room of cheap furniture and cheaper clothes strewn about amid the general clutter of dirty dishes and an unmade bed. A couch cushion lay on the floor, half covering a copy of Backstage.

‘Looks like she’s been robbed,’ said Deluthe.

Mallory shook her head. She recognized Riker’s modus operandi in this mess. ‘Stella was only looking for something to wear.’ In Riker’s case, he would have been hunting for the wardrobe item with the fewest stains and cigarette burns.

‘No corpse hanging from the ceiling.’ Deluthe looked up at the light fixture and smiled. ‘I told you she wasn’t home.’ A pale blue garment lay in a heap on the floor – in plain sight, yet he did not find this at all interesting.

‘That woman you guys were chasing,’ said Mallory. ‘What was she wearing?’

‘A light blue suit,’ said Deluthe. And now he noticed the material on the floor. Sheepish, he picked up the blue blazer and unfolded it to display an X on the back.

‘Stella Small is the next victim,’ Mallory said, believing that this needed to be spelled out for him. She took the suit jacket from his hands and checked the label of a very respectable designer. The lines were good and so was the material. She walked among the piles of clothing and hangers on the floor. With an eye for what was out of date, she could tell that most or all of the wardrobe was secondhand. Yet there was an innate sense of style in a few good pieces of vintage clothing. The ruined blue suit was the best of the lot. Though Mallory’s blazers were all tailor made, she pronounced this one excellent. A cash receipt in the pocket bore out her suspicion of a discount house, a liquidator of unsold designer stock.

A pile of unopened letters lay on a table near the door. The loose stack was labeled with a yellow Post-it that bore the words hate mail – all bills and none of them paid. Mallory opened the table drawer and hunted among the contents till she found a checkbook. All the actress had listed in the register were check recipients – no amounts, no running balance, and none of the checkbook entries were for credit card companies. So the woman was flat broke and would not be doing any more shopping today.