Full Frontal Murder Read online

  The only part of the plan that Marian really liked was asking the public’s help in locating the building where Nickie worked. If the building’s owner or superintendent read or watched, they’d be a giant step closer to their killer. “Just one more thing,” she said. “I’ve never made a press announcement before.”

  “Hmm, well, it can be a little disconcerting the first time, flashbulbs going off in your face and all those TV cameras pointing at you. Just try not to sweat when you’re on camera.”

  “Ah. Don’t sweat on camera. What helpful advice. Thank you.”

  “And don’t let them rattle you when they start yelling questions. Just make your announcement and then leave the room.”

  Four hours later, for the first time in her career, Marian Larch faced a barrage of lights and cameras as an official spokesperson for the NYPD.

  The next day she put O’Toole on the hot line for incoming calls about Nickie Atlay. By eleven o’clock there’d been nothing but the nuisance calls Captain Murtaugh had predicted: people who only thought they knew Nickie, people who didn’t give a hoot about Nickie but enjoyed bugging the police, lonely people trying to insert a little drama into their lives. Plus two confessions to the murders … with more undoubtedly to come.

  Marian hated the way she’d looked on TV the night before; but even more than that, she hated the way she’d sounded. Holland said she was a little stiff, but other than that it was a pretty good debut performance. But the next time Jim Murtaugh wanted an announcement made to the news media, she was going to suggest strongly that he do it.

  “Yes, ma’am,” O’Toole was saying patiently on the phone. “Let me see if I got that. Your upstairs neighbor just started working as a janitor, so you think he killed Nick Atlay to get his job?… I see … yes … All right, ma’am, we’ll look into it. Thank you for calling.” He hung up and turned a whipped-puppy-dog look on Marian. “Why do you hate me? What have I done?”

  She grinned and said, “Come on, O’Toole—you know I had to put our smoothest talker on the job.”

  He muttered something she didn’t ask him to repeat.

  But a couple of hours later it was Captain Murtaugh who was climbing the walls, not O’Toole. “Doesn’t anyone other than nutcases read the paper or watch the news anymore?” he asked rhetorically. “We’ll have to ask the TV stations to rerun part of your announcement. We should have used morgue shots.”

  “No, the computer picture is better,” Marian said. “Nickie’s recognizable from that.”

  “Why is it so hard to find out where one man worked? This should be so simple. What’s the difficulty?”

  “The difficulty is that no one ever really saw Nickie. He was one of those people everyone looks right through. Nickie could disappear from his job and most of the tenants in the building would never even know he’d been there in the first place.”

  “The tenants, maybe. But somebody hired him.”

  “Somebody who’s out of town right now. Somebody who fell asleep watching the news. Give it a few more days.”

  He looked her in the eye. “I want this case closed,” he said harshly.

  Normally Marian would have responded It will be. This time she said nothing.

  The street leads Perlmutter and O’Toole had picked up were dwindling down; Perlmutter alone was following through on those few that were left, with no real hope of finding anything other than the same vague responses they’d encountered so far. Walker and Dowd said the lists of possibles supplied by Rita and Hugh Galloway divided neatly into artistic types on her side and wheeler-dealers on his. Marian told them they might save some time if they took Hugh’s list to his father; old Walter Galloway probably had the lowdown on every name there.

  A little later she’d just returned from meeting Gloria Sanchez for lunch when the news broke.

  Sergeant Buchanan took the call and came straight to Marian’s office. “Bad news, Lieutenant,” he said bleakly. “Rita Galloway just shot and killed her husband.”

  Marian was stunned. She asked Buchanan to repeat what he’d said.

  He did. “No doubt she did it. Seven witnesses. She barged into a meeting at Galloway Industries and shot him four times before anyone knew what was happening. They’re holding her at the office.”

  Rita? It was Rita all along?

  Marian snapped out of her daze and asked Buchanan to find someone to replace O’Toole on the hot line. She told O’Toole to come with her and went to get Captain Murtaugh.

  The drive uptown to Galloway Industries was silent except for O’Toole’s self-satisfied comment that he’d known it was Rita right from the start. But Murtaugh was as taken off-balance by the news as Marian herself had been.

  Three uniformed officers were stationed at the entrance to the Galloway Building, not letting anyone in or out. One TV news crew was already there, and the reporter recognized Marian. She thrust a microphone into her face and started asking questions. “Later,” Marian said, pushing the mike away. They asked directions of the bluesuits guarding the entrance.

  In the elevator on the way up, Marian said, “How’d that TV crew get here before we did? Someone in the building must have called them.”

  “There’ll be more when we come out,” Murtaugh replied.

  Another bluesuit was waiting for them when they got off the elevator, a woman named Ravella. She led them to a conference room where Hugh Galloway lay sprawled in a chair at the head of a rectangular table on which a gun lay. His face was barely recognizable under all the blood.

  Marian found it ugly-ironic that these would be the conditions under which she first saw Hugh Galloway surrounded by his accouterments of power. Before, he’d always been the outraged, beleaguered father trying to reclaim his only child … or else the unscrupulous, manipulative monster his wife claimed he was. Even now, Marian didn’t know which was the more accurate picture of the man. But either way, the ending was the same; before the hour was out, what remained of Hugh Galloway would be carried out in a body bag for its journey down among the dead men.

  “Ozymandias,” Murtaugh muttered.

  “What?” she asked. But he just shook his head.

  “We protected the scene,” Officer Ravella said. “Nothing has been disturbed.” She pointed to the gun on the table. “One of the men in the meeting took it away from her.”

  “It looks like the .38 her brother gave her,” Marian told Murtaugh. She asked the officer, “These other people who were in the meeting—where are they?”

  “We got ’em in an office down the hall.”

  “O’Toole, check their stories.” The detective followed Ravella out.

  Murtaugh was bending over Hugh Galloway’s body. “Four shots. She wanted to make sure he stayed dead.”

  “What could have provoked her to do this?” Marian wondered. “Now, I mean.”

  “We’ll ask her.” The captain was silent a moment. “I’ll tell Walter Galloway for you, if you like.”

  “No, I’ll do it.” Her responsibility. Voices in the hall made her look around. “Crime Scene Unit’s here.”

  She and Murtaugh got out of the way, leaving the photographer and the lab boys to do their thing. Officer Ravella was back. “The ME’s not here yet?” the captain asked her.

  “He’s on his way,” she told them. “Guy over there you want to talk to. Says he came here with the Galloway woman.”

  The man she led them to looked as if he was in shock. Marian recognized him; he was one of the bodyguards Alex Fairchild had hired to protect his sister and nephew. He said his name was Lindor. “What can you tell us?” Marian asked him.

  “Nothing, really.” Lindor was sweating. “She went out, I tagged along. I rode over here in a cab with her. She didn’t say a word to me the whole time.”

  “How was she? Angry, upset?”

  “Just the opposite. I’ve never seen her so icy calm.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then she demanded to see her husband,” Lindor said, “but the se
cretary told her he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. So Mrs. Galloway just pushed right by her and went on into the conference room. I called out to her to stop and hurried to catch up. Next thing I know, I hear four shots and everyone’s yelling and screaming.”

  Murtaugh asked, “So you didn’t actually see the shooting?”

  “No, I got there about two seconds too late. I saw the men rush her and take the gun away.” Lindor pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “Jesus, I thought she was in danger from him.”

  Marian pressed her lips together. “Lindor, where’s Bobby?”

  “With his uncle. Mr. Fairchild took him along on a shoot.”

  “Where?”

  “In the park. At the boathouse. By the lake?”

  “Yeah, I know it. Okay, Lindor, we’ll need a statement from you. Hang around.”

  Murtaugh spoke to the officer. “Where are you holding Rita Galloway?”

  “Last office, down at the end of the hall.”

  Marian said, “Let’s check with O’Toole first.”

  They moved down the hall until they came to the room where O’Toole was getting the names and addresses of the witnesses. O’Toole saw them looking in and held up a finger: one minute.

  It was more like five. O’Toole came out and said, “They’re all telling the same story. Rita Galloway came charging into the conference room with Hugh’s secretary right behind her, trying to stop her. Hugh said, ‘Goddammit, Rita!’ and started to get up when she took the gun out of her purse. By the time the others in the room had time to react, she’d fired four times. Two of the men jumped her and a third took the gun away. Then they held her in another office until the bluesuits could get here. And that’s it. The secretary and the four men and two women in the meeting all agree.”

  “No attempt at subterfuge there,” Marian commented. “She expected to get caught.”

  “Or just didn’t think far enough ahead,” Murtaugh replied. “Her lawyer can make a good case for diminished capacity there.”

  “Yeah, well, it was a crazy thing to do. Okay, O’Toole, tell those people we’ll need statements. Send them on in to the station, and call Buchanan and let him know they’re coming. Then you come to the last office at the end of the hall.”

  “What’s down there?”

  “Rita Galloway,” Marian said.

  17

  She looked like a dead woman, propped up thoughtlessly on a chair to get her out of the way. Her color was bad, her eyes unfocused, her mouth open. Her hands lay in her lap palms up, motionless.

  “She’s been like that ever since I got here,” the officer guarding her said.

  But she stirred when Marian spoke her name. Slowly she came back from wherever she’d been and looked around her. She frowned at the sight of Captain Murtaugh and the uniformed officer and then came back to the one face she knew. “Lieutenant?”

  Marian pulled up another chair and sat facing her. “Rita … why?”

  Her chest started heaving and she gasped for breath. “Because he was evil,” she finally blurted out. “He was evil and he couldn’t be stopped! Not any other way. I had to stop the evil.”

  Murtaugh said, “Do you suppose you could be more specific?”

  “Bobby,” she said, her face filled with pain. “I had to protect Bobby.” She started when O’Toole stepped into the room. “Who are these men?”

  “We’re all police here,” Marian said, in no mood to make introductions. “What do you mean, you had to protect Bobby? Had Hugh threatened him?”

  “Worse than that. He was going to give him to that child seducer. His lawyer. That was the deal they had. One day a week.”

  “What deal? What are you talking about?”

  Rita made an impatient gesture. “If Bradford Ushton could get Bobby away from me permanently and legally, Hugh promised him he could have Bobby one day a week for … for as long as he wanted him. I saw the letter.”

  Marian sat back in her chair, aghast. The three men in the room all had the same appalled looks on their faces. “Hugh was willing to turn his own son over to a pederast?”

  “Yes! That’s what I’m telling you! It was in the letter.”

  “What letter?”

  “It’s a letter Ushton wrote to Hugh, stating the conditions of their agreement. It’s on his letterhead stationery, and I have a photocopy.”

  Ohhhhhh … lots of things wrong here. But before Marian could say anything, Murtaugh spoke up. “Mrs. Galloway, don’t you realize such a letter would convince the courts to award you permanent custody of your son?”

  Her head whipped around. “You don’t know Hugh! He’d have me killed before he’d let me use that letter against him! The only way to stop him was to kill him first!”

  “Let’s back up a little here,” Marian said. “How did you get this letter?”

  “The private detective sent it to me by messenger. My lawyer hired an agency to see what they could dig up on Hugh … for the divorce. I, I guess she must have stolen it from Hugh’s files. I never asked where the papers came from. Just every once in a while she’d send photocopies on to me. My lawyer told her to.”

  She, her. “Rita, what’s her name? The private detective.”

  She put her hands to her head. “Oh, I don’t remember! I never met the woman. It was something Hispanic.”

  “Like, Julia Ortega?”

  Rita looked up. “Yes! That’s it!”

  Marian exchanged a long look with Murtaugh. O’Toole said, “Boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy. Mrs. Galloway, what’s your lawyer’s name and address?” He pulled out a notebook and wrote down what she told him: Dorian Yates, with offices on Fifth.

  “A new player?” Murtaugh remarked dryly. “This stage of the game?”

  “Uh-huh,” Marian said. Another new suspect handed to them on a platter. “Rita, did Dorian Yates actually tell you he’d hired Julia Ortega?”

  “In person? No, but there was a letter from him in the first envelope she sent.”

  “Explaining Julia Ortega was working for him? And you accepted that as valid? Okay, then. This other letter, the one from Ushton to Hugh about Bobby. When did it come?”

  “Right after lunch today.”

  “Was there anything else with it?”

  “Just a note from the Ortega woman.”

  “Was the note dated?”

  “Ah … yes, it had today’s date. Why?”

  Captain Murtaugh was shaking his head. “Machiavelli is alive and well and living in Manhattan.”

  “Rita,” Marian said softly, “you have met Julia Ortega. She was the cleaning woman your brother found going through your checkbook.”

  “What?”

  “And she couldn’t have written that note or sent you that letter this afternoon. Julia Ortega has been dead for four days.”

  She looked frightened. “Dead?”

  “She was murdered.” Marian let that sink in and then said, “Tell me—have you ever seen Bradford Ushton’s letterhead stationery before the envelope arrived today?”

  The first dawning of doubt appeared in her eyes.

  “I … I think so. But who remembers letterheads?”

  “Think it through. Say Ushton and Hugh did have such an agreement as the letter claims they did. Is either one of them such an utter fool as to put it in writing? And on letterhead stationery yet? Well?”

  Rita Galloway’s face crumpled. “It … it isn’t true?”

  “You never questioned it at all? You never stopped to think how improbable it was? No, you didn’t. Instead, your first instinct was to reach for a gun. Rita, you were manipulated into killing your husband, and you followed your cues perfectly.” Marian stood up, disheartened by the ugliness of what had happened. “Bobby was in no danger from Ushton. He likes boys six or seven years older than your son. Where’s the letter?”

  She had to repeat the question twice before the other woman heard her. “It’s in my purse.” Like a sleepwalker, she got up and started
looking for it.

  “Where’s her purse?” Murtaugh asked the uniformed officer. He didn’t know.

  O’Toole said, “Bring Dorian Yates in for questioning?”

  Marian said yes. “Go to Bradford Ushton’s office first and get a sample of his letterhead stationery. When you get back to the station, call in Perlmutter, Walker, and Dowd.”

  Rita asked, “What’s going to happen?”

  “Right now we’re going to look for your purse. Then we’re taking you downtown, where you’ll be charged with first-degree murder. Your lawyer will be there shortly.”

  O’Toole left on his assignments. Marian and the captain started asking the bluesuits about the purse. The Crime Scene Unit had it; they’d found it under the conference table in the room where Rita had shot Hugh. The contents had all been bagged and itemized; Murtaugh held the plastic envelope by the edges while he and Marian read the letter that had sent Rita Galloway off to kill her husband. The letter said exactly what she’d told them it said.

  “Ten to one Rita Galloway’s lawyer knows nothing about all this,” Murtaugh said, discouraged.

  “No bet,” Marian responded in the same tone. “Dorian Yates is just another patsy that’s been offered up to us. Our killer wouldn’t write a letter saying ‘I hired Julia Ortega’—that’s tantamount to a confession of murder. We need to ask Rita Galloway about those other envelopes Ortega is supposed to have sent.”

  “Maybe she did send some of them.” Murtaugh was scowling. “But either using Ortega or acting on his own, the killer kept sending envelopes to Rita until he finally hit on the one thing that would prod her into action. A threat to Bobby’s well-being.”

  “Yep. Makes you wonder how much of the trouble between Rita and Hugh was real and how much was fabricated by the killer.”

  The captain looked at her. “That’s a thought.” He considered for a moment. “Does Rita have a lover?”

  Marian shrugged. “Hugh said she slept around.”

  “But Hugh can’t be considered a reliable source of information as far as his estranged wife is concerned. We know the killer is male, though, so unless Hugh swung both ways, it would have to be her lover. A jealous lover—yes, that would fit. A lover who got in over his head with his machinations. A lover who had to resort to murder when things got out of hand.”