Full Frontal Murder Page 7

  Holland closed his eyes, opened them again. “Until ten minutes ago, I was unaware of the existence of this sterling establishment dedicated to the dispensing of libations. This lack of knowledge quite naturally precluded any perception on my part of the morphology of frozen H2O favored by your vice president in charge of ice.”

  She gave him a funny look and moved away to tend to a another customer.

  “I think you offended her,” Murtaugh remarked.

  “That evens things out, then. She offended me.”

  “How? She was just being friendly.”

  “That’s what offended me.”

  A pause. “You enjoy baiting people, don’t you?”

  Holland smiled. “I find it a great deterrent to inane chatter.”

  At that moment a small group of people came in, making enough of a stir that every head in the place turned in their direction. At the center of the group was a stunningly beautiful young woman, fashionably thin, expensively dressed and made up. She listened with a little smile on her face as the three men and one woman with her all talked at once, each one trying to get her attention. Just as they were sitting down in a semicircular booth, she locked eyes with Holland.

  “Who’s that?” Murtaugh asked.

  “I have no idea,” Holland murmured.

  Murtaugh motioned Maisie back and asked her.

  “Oh, that’s Shari Tyce,” she said. “You don’t recognize her? She’s just about the hottest supermodel in New York!”

  “This week,” Holland commented. “Cherie? C, h, e, r, i, e?”

  Murtaugh said, “Probably S, h, e, r, r, y.”

  “No, it’s S, h, a, r, i,” Maisie told them. “But she’s on a billboard in Times Square right now, and you can’t go to a new-stand without seeing her face on a magazine cover. Or three or four, more like it. She has her own calendar, and I hear she has an exercise video coming out. Do you think she’d mind if I asked for her autograph?”

  “I’m sure she’d love it,” Murtaugh said. The bartender looked around for a pen and piece of paper and made her way over to where Shari Tyce was sitting. Murtaugh shot one more look at the celebrity table and turned back to his drink. “If models get any skinnier, they’re going to vanish altogether.”

  “And what a loss to the world that would be,” Holland said sourly.

  The police captain laughed. “You’re in a helluva mood today.”

  “Oh? You know me well enough to gauge my moods?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Do share your penetrating insights. I’d be fascinated.”

  Murtaugh finished his drink and asked Maisie for a refill. “Look, Holland, don’t try that with me. God knows you’ve made your dislike for me clear enough every time we’ve met. I’m not going to ask why, because I don’t give a damn. But I don’t like being needled, or baited, or anything else you feel like doing to keep yourself amused. So, back off. Back all the way off. Are you hearing me?”

  Holland smiled. “At least we know where we stand. Shall we agree to be friendly enemies? I think ‘inimical friends’ is beyond us at the moment.”

  Murtaugh sighed. “I’m not going to play your game.”

  “But you already are playing it. And not badly at that.”

  The empty bar stool that separated them was suddenly occupied … by none other than Shari Tyce herself. She sat sideways, facing Holland, oozing glamour and healthy young sex. “Don’t I know you?”

  He was annoyed at the interruption. “No,” he said shortly.

  “I think I do know you. Do you know me?”

  “Your name is Shari Tyce and you live by selling your looks.”

  “Oh, you do know who I am!”

  Holland aimed a forefinger at Maisie. “She told me.”

  “Then you asked about me.”

  “I asked,” Murtaugh said.

  She didn’t even spare him a glance. “Well, then, I should know you,” she said to Holland. “What’s your name?”

  “Impeccable logic,” he replied dryly. “I know your name, therefore you should know mine. Surely you have enough people dancing attendance? Look at the consternation you’ve caused among your devotees. Go on—look.” The three of them seated at the bar—and Maisie—all looked over at the booth Shari Tyce had just left. Her four followers sat there unspeaking, watching the model anxiously. “You see how distraught you’ve made them?” Holland continued. “Be content with that.”

  She turned back to him. “Oh, they’re just people I work with.” She began stroking his arm. “But you—you look like someone I want to know.”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “What?”

  “I said no. Go back to your minions. You’ll be happier there.”

  She kept stroking his arm. “I’m not used to being told no.”

  Holland cocked his head to one side and looked at her through half-closed eyes. “Yes, you do have a pampered look to you. You always get your way, and someone else does your thinking for you? Or perhaps you simply lack the intelligence to understand ‘no’ when you hear it. Concentrate, now. Are you concentrating? N, o. No.”

  She jerked her hand back as if it were burned. She glared at him a moment and then called him a prickless mama’s boy. Back to her booth she went.

  “Jesus, you’re nasty,” Maisie said.

  Holland leaned both elbows on the bar. “Maisie, I regret my earlier churlishness. I should have saved it all for that anorexic pop icon over there.”

  “You should have shoved it up your ass is what you should have done.” She moved down to the end of the bar, disassociating herself.

  Murtaugh stood up with a sigh. “Holland, you have a real talent for driving people away. You must genuinely enjoy your own company.” He walked out without a backward glance.

  Holland finished his drink alone, all he had wanted in the first place.

  9

  Thursday began with a homicide.

  The call came from a detective in the Thirteenth Precinct. A man’s body had been found in the East River, two bullets in his chest. The body had snagged against one of the pilings supporting the Department of Sanitation’s dock jutting off Roosevelt Parkway. The corpse hadn’t been in the water long enough for bloating to occur and the features were recognizable. The detective said the dead man looked very much like the computer simulation of Bobby Galloway’s attempted kidnapper that Midtown South had circulated.

  Marian called in Perlmutter and O’Toole. “O’Toole, go pick up Rita Galloway and take her to the morgue—let’s see if we can get a positive ID. Perlmutter, call her and tell her what’s happened. Tell her O’Toole’s on his way and to be ready. Wait forty-five minutes and then call Hugh Galloway and tell him the same thing. Then go get him.”

  “He’s not going to admit knowing the kidnapper,” O’Toole scoffed.

  “Just covering all the bases. Then we’ll have it on record that he lied if it turns out he did know him.”

  Perlmutter looked at her quizzically. “You don’t think he did it, do you, Lieutenant?”

  “No, I don’t. But let’s get him in there anyway. I’ll be waiting for you at the morgue. Well? Go!” They went.

  Marian thought about reporting to the captain before she left, but there was nothing to report unless Rita Galloway could identify the dead man. If she couldn’t, then the murder was the Thirteenth’s problem. The detective from the One-Three who’d called—Krantor, his name was—had said he’d get to the morgue as soon as he could.

  Traffic wasn’t yet heavy at eight-thirty in the morning, so Marian drove down to the City Mortuary on First Avenue—down among the dead men. She made the arrangements for the body to be shown and asked to see the deceased’s personal effects. The plastic storage bin contained precious little: a few bills wadded together by river water, a few coins, a pack of gum, a key ring with only one key. No billfold, no scrap of paper with anything written on it. The clothing was off-the-rack, commonplace.

  Then Marian went to the v
iewing room to wait. She watched through the glass partition as the morgue attendant wheeled the body into the small adjoining room and turned on the lights.

  Only five minutes passed before O’Toole arrived with a fearful Rita Galloway in tow. Marian spoke to her soothingly, apologizing for the grim chore she had to perform but emphasizing that she was the only one who could identify Bobby’s kidnapper. Mrs. Galloway straightened her shoulders and held her head up: ready.

  Marian nodded to the morgue attendant. He pulled down the sheet covering the dead man’s face and stepped back.

  Rita Galloway reluctantly approached the window. After a moment she said. “I can’t be sure, just from his profile.”

  Marian said to the speaker mounted near the glass partition, “Has rigor passed? Can you turn his head to face us?”

  A blast of static was her answer, but the attendant used gloved hands to move the head as requested. The face was rather nondescript except for the overfull bottom lip.

  “Oh!” Rita Galloway took a hasty step backward. She turned her back to the window. “That’s the man. He’s the one.”

  “Are you sure?” When she didn’t answer, Marian said, “Mrs. Galloway, I know this is a gruesome business, but you must be absolutely sure this is the same man. Please. Look one more time.”

  She turned reluctantly but this time managed to stare at the dead man without flinching. “Yes. That is the man who grabbed Bobby. I am positive of it.”

  O’Toole said, “Looks just like the computer picture.”

  “Did you say he was shot?” Mrs. Galloway asked.

  “Yes’m,” he replied. “Twice, in the chest.”

  She shuddered. “How can people do things like that to each other?”

  Marian thought of the .38 revolver Rita Galloway now felt she needed, but didn’t mention it. Instead, she thanked her for her help. “There’s a little paperwork to be taken care of, and then Detective O’Toole will drive you home.”

  “This way, Mrs. Galloway.” Just as O’Toole was reaching for the door, it opened from the other side. A man Marian didn’t know stood back and let the other two leave before he came in.

  “Lieutenant Larch?” he asked. “I’m Detective Krantor, Thirteenth Precinct. We spoke this morning.”

  “Yes, I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Did you get an ID?”

  “Yep. You’ve got a good eye, Detective,” she said. “Looks as if we’ll be taking this one off your hands.”

  He grinned. “You’re welcome to it. Was that the kid’s mother who just left?”

  Marian said it was. “The father’s going to be along in a few minutes. I wanted them brought in separately because they both tend to go for the jugular every time they’re under the same roof together.”

  “Ouch. Do you need two IDs?”

  “This is just a long shot. The father wasn’t even there when the attempt was made. But we need to check.”

  “Then the father isn’t a suspect?”

  “Not officially, no.” She looked again at the dead man. “Were fingerprints taken?”

  “Yeah, we’re running them now. If we got anything on him, I’ll fax it to you.

  She nodded. Then she tapped on the glass partition to get the morgue attendant’s attention. “Who’s doing the autopsy?”

  He checked the toe tag. “Dr. Wu” was the staticky answer.

  The door opened and an angry Hugh Galloway charged in, followed by Perlmutter. “Now what, Lieutenant?” Galloway demanded. “What do you want of me?”

  Marian introduced Detective Krantor, but only Perlmutter acknowledged the introduction. Hugh Galloway was staring through the partition at the dead man, a sobering sight for guilty and innocent alike. Behind his back Perlmutter looked a question at Marian. She nodded; positive ID.

  “I have never seen that man before,” Galloway said with certainty. “Is that what you brought me in here for? To look at some poor stiff I don’t even know?”

  “Mr. Galloway—”

  “Is that going to be the pattern from now on, Lieutenant? You’re going to drag me down here to look at every dead man that comes along? You’re really going to put me through the wringer? This is nothing but harassment, and if you think you can get away with that—”

  “Oh, stop it,” Marian said sharply. “We’re not harassing you and you damned well know it. We’re doing our job, and you just helped us do one small part of it. Therefore, thank you very much. Now—go away.”

  Perlmutter took his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Galloway shook off his hand. “I’m calling my lawyer!”

  “You do that,” Marian said as the door closed behind him.

  Detective Krantor grinned. “And he’s not a suspect?”

  “Unfortunately.” She thanked Krantor for his help. On her way out, she left word for Dr. Wu that she’d like to know the caliber of the bullets as soon as he had them removed.

  Marian stopped for a quick cup of real coffee on her way back to Midtown South. Jim Murtaugh wasn’t in his office; she left a note on his desk. When Perlmutter and O’Toole returned from delivering the Galloways to their separate homes, the three of them huddled in Marian’s office.

  “Let me tell you what I’m thinking,” Marian said. “I’m thinking the spying cleaning woman might not have anything to do with the kidnapping and firebombing. Hugh Galloway could have put Consuela Palmero into his wife’s house but still have no connection to the guy in the morgue and the kidnapping.”

  “So we forget about Palmero?” O’Toole asked.

  “No. We pin her down. If we can finger that particular bit of chicanery as part of the Galloway marital wars, then we drop it. That’s for the divorce courts. But I want to know.”

  “How? She used a phony address.”

  “Think back. The owner of Maids-in-a-Row, Egrorian—what’s his first name?”

  “Gordon.”

  “Gordon Egrorian said that this Consuela Palmero showed up looking for a job on the same day one of his regulars quit. Doesn’t that strike you as just a little too convenient? Who was this regular, why did she quit without giving notice, where is she now?”

  Perlmutter was nodding. “Yeah, that’s right. We missed that.”

  “I want you both on it. Get hold of a picture of both Galloways, and take along the computer likenesses of Consuela Palmero and the guy in the morgue. Find that employee who resigned, and find the connection. O’Toole, did you talk to the rest of the cleaning crew?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t know nothing,” he said. “They just met the Palmero woman that day, and Rita Galloway’s house was the first one they cleaned. The brother threw her out when he caught her snooping, and that’s the last the crew ever saw of her. They knew her maybe an hour is all.”

  “Yet she was bonded in the name of Palmero,” Marian mused. “Could her bond papers have been faked? Well, leave that for now. Find the employee who quit. And do it fast. The One-Three is running the dead guy’s prints and once we get an ID, I’m going to have to put you on that. So let’s move.”

  She heard from Dr. Wu in the medical examiner’s office first. “I got only one bullet,” he said. “The other one passed right through the body and presumably is still at the location where he was shot, wherever that is. The Crime Lab boys tell me it’s a nine-millimeter. Makes a big hole.”

  Not Rita Galloway’s .38, then. “Can you tell me anything about him?”

  “Nothing that will help you.” Marian could hear the shrug in his voice. “I haven’t finished the autopsy yet, but so far there’s nothing unusual. Male Caucasian, mid-thirties, six two. Slightly overweight, but not seriously so. General health was good. The only thing wrong with this guy is two bullet holes in him. One of them caught the heart.”

  “If you do find anything else, will you call me?”

  “Sure, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Doc.”

  “Don’t call me Doc,” he said crossly and hung up.


  It was another two hours before the promised fax arrived from the Thirteenth Precinct, and it told Marian what she was waiting to hear; the dead man’s prints were indeed on file. The man identified by Rita Galloway as the one who’d attempted to kidnap Bobby was named Nick Atlay. He’d done short time twice, once on a burglary rap and once for grand theft auto. He’d been questioned but not charged in two petty burglaries and one B and E. The name of the arresting officer in the burglary case was a familiar one.

  Marian stepped out into the squadroom. Sergeant Buchanan was at his desk typing up a form while a young black man sat handcuffed to a metal chair. Marian went up to the desk and said, “Sergeant, I’d like to see you when you finish here.”

  “I’m finished now,” he said, pulling the form out of the typewriter. “Just let me put this loser in the tank.” He unlocked his prisoner and led him away.

  Marian sat on the metal chair and waited.

  Buchanan was back in a few minutes and sat down with a wheeze. “Okay, Lieutenant, I’m all yours.”

  “Four years ago you arrested a perp named Nick Atlay. Stole some TV sets and other appliances. Remember him?”

  Buchanan half-grunted, half-laughed. “Nickie Atlay. Is he in trouble again?”

  “You could say that. He’s been killed.”

  The sergeant’s bushy gray eyebrows came together in a scowl. “Nickie? How?”

  “Shot twice in the chest, then dumped in the East River.”

  Buchanan shook his head. “Why would anyone want to kill Nickie Atlay?”

  “Tell me about him,” Marian said.

  A deep sigh. “Nickie wasn’t none too bright, Lieutenant. He couldn’t hold a steady job, so he took any kind of work that came his way. Most of it was legit—I’m not sure he always knew the difference. He’d deliver groceries, wash dishes, like that. Then some little shrimp wants to heist a few TV sets, he gets Nickie to come along and do the lifting. No difference to Nickie. You seen his rap sheet? No violent crimes. Tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I felt kinda bad about sendin’ him up that one time. Prison’s no place for a guy who can’t take care of himself.”