Full Frontal Murder Read online

  She was laughing so hard she almost fell off the sofa. “You just described yourself!”

  He thought back over what he’d just said … and decided he was not displeased. He watched Marian hungrily as her laughter died down. Then: “You’re overdressed.”

  “Huh. You’re oversexed.”

  “Incompatible opposites. One of those two will have to go. Which shall it be?”

  She stood up and started taking off her clothes.

  11

  Friday started the same way Thursday had. With a homicide.

  “I wish your killer would stop dumping his victims in my precinct,” Detective Krantor complained on the phone.

  Marian grunted. “I’ll speak to him about it as soon as we catch him,” she replied, simultaneously resenting and understanding the need to treat violent death flippantly. “Are you sure it’s Consuela Palmero?” The phony cleaning woman’s body had been found in the East River at daybreak.

  “Sure looks like her to me. Spitting image of the computer picture. Same M.O. as yesterday—two shots to the chest.”

  “‘Palmero’ isn’t her real name.”

  “Yeah, I know. And before you ask, yes, we’re running the prints. I’ll get back to you if there’s anything on her.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Krantor.”

  After she’d hung up, she just sat there a few moments, letting it sink in. She’d been wrong. The spying cleaning woman was not an episode separate from the kidnapping, as she’d suspected. The Palmero woman was more than just an agent for Hugh Galloway in his fight against his wife, more than simply one more piece of nastiness in that nasty quarrel. She’d been hired by the same person who’d hired Nick Atlay to kidnap Bobby, and that person was eliminating everyone who could identify him.

  Was there anyone else? Had Nick Atlay been the one to heave the gasoline bomb through Rita Galloway’s dragon window—or would there be another body in the river tomorrow morning?

  Someone who knew that Rita and Hugh would blame each other was behind this. Someone who’d seen both attempts to grab Bobby Galloway fail and was now desperately trying to cover all trails that could lead to him. Desperately, because he’d had to resort to murder to assure his continuing anonymity.

  This time Marian called Alex Fairchild to come identify the body. Yesterday the sister, today the brother.

  She went out into the squadroom where Perlmutter and O’Toole were waiting. “First,” she told them, “pick up Hugh Galloway and take him to the morgue to see the body. Then tell him we want a list of everyone he knows who needs money, or bears a grudge against the Galloways, or in any way is capable of planning and executing a kidnapping. Then find a judge and get a search warrant naming only Rita Galloway’s address book, nothing else. Give her a choice of turning the address book over or of making out a list of possibles. If she chooses to make out the list, stay with her until she finishes.”

  Perlmutter raised an eyebrow. “Long shot.”

  “Yes, it is. But somebody who knows the Galloways planned the kidnapping and killed two people. And we don’t have a suspect.”

  “No suspect except Hugh Galloway,” Perlmutter stated.

  “Naw,” O’Toole said. “Not Hugh. Rita.”

  “You two are a big help. Go on, get going.”

  She hurried over to Captain Murtaugh’s office to tell him of the new homicide and that she was headed toward the morgue. To her surprise, he said he’d go with her.

  “You bring in Hugh Galloway two days in a row,” he pointed out, “you can bet your bottom dollar he’s going to have a legal cannon with him the second time.”

  Marian was annoyed. “And I can’t handle that?”

  “I know the Galloways’ lawyer—man named Bradford Ushton,” Murtaugh replied. “He’s the one who gave my name to Walter Galloway, that time Galloway called to say the attempt to kidnap Bobby was for ransom. Perhaps I can ease things a little.”

  Well, maybe he can at that, she thought. Murtaugh wanted to drive, so they took his car.

  Detective Krantor from the Thirteenth Precinct and Alex Fairchild were already at the morgue by the time they got there. The glassed-off room held the body of a slightly plump Latina in early middle age. She’d been a pretty woman, Marian noted sadly.

  “He’s identified her,” Krantor greeted them. “That makes it official. This one’s yours.”

  Marian introduced Murtaugh to the other two. To Fairchild she said, “This is the woman you caught going through Rita’s checkbook? The one you threw out of the house?”

  “She’s the one,” he said positively. “I’d know her anywhere.”

  Marian turned to the detective. “All right, Krantor, that lets you off the hook. Our case. Did you look through her personal effects?”

  “Naw, I left that for you.”

  Murtaugh spoke up. “She was found the same place in the river as the one yesterday?”

  “Pretty close.” Krantor went on to describe the exact location, and then the captain wanted to know who’d found the bodies. Dockworkers, in both cases.

  While they were talking, Alex Fairchild eased over to Marian and murmured in her ear, “I’m sorry we meet again under such unpleasant circumstances.”

  “I’m sorry the circumstances exist at all.”

  “I’d like to see you in a different setting. Le Vert-Galant, for instance. Are you free for lunch?”

  Marian was disgusted. “Mr. Fairchild, look where you are. There’s a dead woman lying on the other side of that glass.”

  He made a face of regret. “Yes, my timing is not the best, is it? I’ll try later. And please—call me Alex.”

  She just looked at him. “Thank you for helping us out. You’re free to go now.”

  He smiled a slow, easy smile. “I’m dismissed?” But he left without saying anything more. Marian watched him go, remembering that Holland had said this would happen.

  Krantor left too. Marian asked the morgue attendant to wait; there’d be one more coming to see the body. Then she and Murtaugh went to look at the personal effects belonging to Consuela Palmero a.k.a. somebody else.

  “No purse,” Murtaugh said when they’d emptied the storage bin onto a table.

  Clothing that was a better quality than what Nick Atlay had been wearing. Nothing in the pockets of the jacket. Some costume jewelry. And that was all. “The killer ditched the purse,” Marian said.

  The captain growled. “Sometimes I think we should all be tattooed with an ID number at birth. There’s nothing here—let’s go.” They went back to the viewing room and waited.

  Hugh Galloway was much calmer this time when he showed up a few minutes later. And Captain Murtaugh had been right: he had a lawyer in tow. Perlmutter stuck his head in the room long enough to say he and O’Toole were leaving unless the lieutenant had something for them? Marian waved him away, barely hearing. She couldn’t take her eyes off the lawyer.

  Bradford Ushton was surprised to see Murtaugh there. “Jim? You’re investigating?”

  “Hello, Brad.” The captain indicated Marian. “Lieutenant Larch is in charge of the case. This is a formality, you understand. We’re not charging your client. The lieutenant wants his help.”

  “And she’ll get it.” Ushton turned to Marian. “Please understand, Lieutenant, that Mr. Galloway is here voluntarily. He wants to help. A phone call would have brought him here. It’s not necessary to send two detectives into his office to take him away whenever you have a new body for him to look at.”

  “I’m hoping this is the last body, Mr. Ushton,” Marian said, keeping her face impassive.”

  “It’s standard procedure, Brad,” Murtaugh interposed. Ushton nodded.

  Without being prompted, Hugh Galloway stepped up to the viewing window; Ushton must have pounded it into him that yelling at the police and making threats was not the way to help his case. But all the time Hugh was looking at the body, Marian kept watching Ushton out of the corner of her eye. That silver hair, that face she’d seen only
the night before in one of Alex Fairchild’s photographs …

  Hugh Galloway spread his hands. “I don’t know this woman. I don’t remember ever seeing her before.”

  Marian asked, “You didn’t hire her to infiltrate your wife’s household?”

  With an effort, he kept his reaction mild. “No. I’ve had no contact with her whatsoever.”

  “And that should settle that,” Bradford Ushton said emphatically. “Lieutenant? Are you satisfied now?”

  “Yes, I am.” She signaled to the morgue attendant that they were through. “Thank you both for coming in.”

  They all went out into the hallway, where Ushton and the captain chatted about other matters. Marian took Hugh Galloway aside.

  “For what it’s worth,” she told him, “I don’t think you’re behind any of this.”

  His eyes widened, and then narrowed again in suspicion. “Why are you telling me?”

  “Because you’ve got it in your head that Rita has persuaded us you are a monster. I don’t want you doing anything rash.”

  He grinned wryly. “Ushton has pretty much taken care of that. Then you believe me about Rita?”

  “I don’t think either one of you is responsible. Mr. Galloway, there’s a third person involved here, someone who knows you and Rita would go for each other’s throats at the first sign of trouble.”

  He licked his lips. “Detective Perlmutter asked me to make up a list of possible suspects.”

  “Everyone who knows about your marital situation.”

  He nodded. “I’ll do it.”

  After another moment lawyer and client left together. Marian waited until she and the captain were in the car to bring up her discovery.

  This could be tricky. “Jim, how long have you known Bradford Ushton?

  “Brad? Oh, a good twenty years, I’d say. Why?”

  “Is he a close friend?”

  He smiled. “Cops and lawyers are never close friends. But Brad doesn’t practice criminal law, so we’ve never been in an adversarial relationship. I’d say we were friendly rather than friends. Again … why?” She was silent so long he had to prompt her. “Marian? What is it? Spit it out.”

  She took a deep breath. “He’s a pederast,” she said. “Fairchild has an exhibition of photographs in a gallery on Fifty-seventh Street, and one of those photographs shows Ushton propositioning a young boy in a men’s room.”

  This time Murtaugh was the one to let the silence grow. When he did speak, it was to say: “You’re certain it’s Brad.”

  “Let’s go take a look at the photograph. You can see for yourself.” She looked at her watch; almost eleven. “The gallery should be open by now.”

  “All right.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “Brad Ushton. Married and with grown children.”

  “And he’s a new player.”

  “What?”

  She sighed. “Right when I’m so hungry for a suspect I’m ready to grab someone off the street, along comes a man who fills the bill exactly. Isn’t that convenient? Ushton certainly is in a position to know how the battling Galloways would react if Bobby were kidnapped. Oh, I know, I know—the fact that he’s a dirty old man doesn’t make him a kidnapper. But I shudder to think of Bobby alone in a room with that man.”

  Murtaugh was thinking along another line. “It seems to me that anyone in possession of a photograph like that would be in a good position to go in for a little blackmail. Yet Fairchild hung the picture on a wall for all the world to see. Surely he must know Ushton is Hugh Galloway’s lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. He might not. We can find out from Rita.”

  Murtaugh found a fireplug on East Fifty-seventh to park by and they hurried into the Albian Gallery. No one was there except a fashionable young woman who backed off when they showed her their badges.

  The captain looked at the photograph once and turned away in revulsion. “That’s Ushton, all right,” apparently not noticing that his old acquaintance had stopped being the more friendly Brad. “No question. Open a new case file the minute we get back and put someone on it.” He glanced back at the fashionable young woman and said, “I suppose we’ll have to get a warrant before she’ll let us take that picture.”

  “That may not be necessary.” Marian asked the young woman who had the negatives for the photographs on display, and was told Mr. Fairchild retained all the negatives. “I’ll call him before I leave,” she said to Murtaugh on their way back to the car. “He can make up prints for us.”

  “Before you leave?”

  “I still have to get over to Hoboken today.”

  The drive back to the Midtown South stationhouse was silent and brief. Once back in her office, Marian called in Sergeant Campos and told him she had a new case for him. She explained about Bradford Ushton and said, “Put your best men on this one, Campos.”

  His jaw was clenched and his mouth a thin line. “I’ll put myself on it,” he said tightly. “These smug old men … I know what they do to young boys. I’ll get him.”

  Marian wondered the obvious, but didn’t ask. Himself? Someone he knew? God, how common this form of abuse had become! No, not true; it had always been common. It was just that everyone avoided talking about it.

  And she was doing the same thing. She changed her mind and said, “Campos? How do you know what they do to young boys?”

  He radiated an anger that made her flinch. “My brother. It was a teacher at the school. My brother, he was ashamed to tell anyone. He felt guilty. Then another boy talked, but the school just hushed the whole thing up. They didn’t do nothing but ask the teacher to resign. That’s when I first thought about becoming a cop. I was fourteen years old and I couldn’t protect my kid brother. Nobody would do anything.”

  Oh lord, what a thing to live with. “I’m sorry, Campos. What about your brother? Was he all right afterward?”

  “No. He has never been all right.”

  This was bad. She hesitated, and said, “Look, I didn’t know about this. If it’s going to be too—”

  “Lieutenant, don’t take this case away from me. I couldn’t get the teacher, but I can get this lawyer. And I can do it without beating the truth out of him, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Don’t take it away.”

  She considered, evaluating him. And decided. “All right. It’s yours.” He nodded once, abruptly. She decided to let Campos call Alex Fairchild for prints of the damning picture; she’d had enough of the photographer for a while. “We can get Ushton for solicitation of a minor on the evidence of that photograph alone,” she said, “but it would be better if you can catch him in the act. That’s going to be tricky. You mustn’t let a child be put in danger.”

  “Don’t you worry about that,” he said positively. “Do I show him the photograph?”

  “Up to you. Do what the situation calls for. Even if we get him only for solicitation, his picture in the paper might prompt some earlier victims to come forward. God, I hate putting kids on the stand!”

  “Yeah. But it’s the only way to get a conviction.”

  “Unfortunately. Use as many men as you need, but don’t lose him, even for a minute. And Campos—proceed with caution. There’s a slight chance Ushton could be a killer. Very slight, but keep your guard up just the same.”

  His eyes glistened. “Which case?”

  “The Galloway kidnapping.” She told him about the two bodies that had been fished out of the East River. “There’s not a shred of evidence linking Ushton to the killings. But he’s Hugh Galloway’s attorney, so he had certain inside knowledge. I’m not sure if that means anything or not. Probably not. But don’t take any chances.”

  He said he wouldn’t and left, eager to get started. Marian called Holland to tell him she’d be getting home late.

  Then she left for Hoboken, New Jersey, to find out what Ms Annie Plaxton could tell her.

  12

  Marian didn’t know her way around Hoboken, so she had to ask directions twice before she found Meegat Street. S
he was surprised at the size of Annie Plaxton’s new laundromat; she counted six rows of ten washing machines each. Dryers lined the wall, along with five of the huge washer/dryers for large jobs like drapes and bedspreads. There was a waiting area with tables and chairs and vending machines. And the place was packed; almost all the machines were in use.

  A young man was mopping up suds from the floor and explaining to an embarrassed woman that she mustn’t overload the washer. When Marian asked where Annie Plaxton was, he pointed with his head toward a door in the rear.

  Annie’s office was a small square partitioned off in one corner of the main room. Marian knocked on the door and held up her badge when it opened. “Lieutenant Larch, NYPD. I need to talk to you.”

  The other woman tried to shut the door, but Marian already had her foot in place. “What do you want?” the woman demanded.

  “Information. You know something I need to know. Open the door, Annie.”

  Reluctantly, she did. Annie Plaxton was a wiry-stringy little woman with some gray in her hair and a chip on her shoulder. “You got no jurisdiction here. This is New Jersey.”

  Marian smiled. “Do you really think police don’t help each other across jurisdictions? I didn’t go to the Hoboken police because I saw no reason to bring your name to their attention. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She was still suspicious. “A New York police lieutenant comes all the way here to find me and I’m not supposed to worry about it? Now tell me another. I spent thirty years cleaning other people’s houses and now I got a business of my own and nobody’s gonna take it away from me!”

  Marian put on a look of surprise. “Well, of course not! Is that what you think I’m going to do? I’m not here about your business or even about you. Just answer a few questions and I’ll be gone. May I sit down?” She sat down.

  Annie slowly took her own seat behind her desk, still not convinced. “What kind of questions?”

  “Where did the money come from to open this laundromat?”