Full Frontal Murder (16 page)

“What did he tell her to do?”

“He said go to this cleaning service, Maids-something, and apply for a job early the next Tuesday.”

“Did she have phony bond papers with her?”

“Naw, we don't do no fake paper.”

“The owner of Maids-in-a-Row says she was bonded.”

“He's lying.”

Or you are
. “Okay, she gets the job. Then what?”

“Then she's supposed to go through this Rita Galloway's checkbook, looking for deposits of five thousand dollars. Sounded to me like the guy was being blackmailed anonymously, and he suspected this Galloway broad of being the one.”

That's what he wanted you to think
. “Then what?”

He shrugged. “Then somebody in the house caught Julia goin' through the checkbook and threw her out. But not before she'd found two deposits of five thousand each. Arlen was satisfied, and he kept her on the payroll.”

“Doing what?”

“Tail jobs. She tailed this Rita for a while and then her brother. Photographer, name of Fairchild.”

“How'd she report to him? Did he give her a phone number?”

“Naw, he called the office. Some people won't give their phone numbers out to nobody.”

“What about an address?”

“No address neither.” Vargas looked at her closely. “And his name ain't really Tony Arlen, is it?”

“You can bet money on it. But whatever his name is, he's the one responsible for Julia's death. Mr. Vargas, the man who killed your niece also killed Nick Atlay—Nickie, the big fellow who brought you your money. He also tried to have Rita Galloway's little boy kidnapped. This guy is bad news from every angle.”

Vargas's mouth dropped open.
“Ay, díos mía!”

“Is there
anything
else you can tell us?”

“I wish to god there was,” he said earnestly. “I'da never sent Julia out if I'da known. But why did he have to kill her?”

“He killed Nickie because he could identify him. Most likely that's the same reason Julia died.”

He sat there, stunned. Marian looked at Walker and Dowd. They both shook their heads; no questions. Marian thanked Vargas and told him to call in immediately if he thought of anything else.

Walker moved aside to let the private detective pass. Vargas paused in the doorway and looked back at Marian. “You really are gonna look for this guy?”

“You're damned right we are,” she said emphatically. Reassured, he left.

Dowd waited until Vargas was out of earshot and then snorted. “He thinks the killer called him because he wanted a Hispanic. He
called
him because he wanted some low-rent outfit that'd do anything for a buck, no questions asked.”

Marian barely heard him. “Interesting how he zoomed in on two people with, ah, defects. Nickie with his slow wit and Julia Ortega with her drug problem.”

Dowd was skeptical. “He knew about Ortega's drug problem
before
he called Vargas?”

“Oh, probably not. It just struck me as curious. Well, any thoughts?”

Walker said, “Only two possibilities. First, Ortega and the killer did meet face-to-face and he got rid of her to protect himself. Or, second … he panicked. Killed someone he didn't need to.”

Marian nodded, pleased he'd caught that. “A chink in the armor?”

“Yeah. Wouldn't that be nice.”

“But Ortega's still just another dead end,” Dowd said sourly. “Vargas was our only line to the killer, and he didn't tell us nothing we didn't already know. Or not much.”

“So we look elsewhere.” Marian opened the Galloway case file. “The killer is someone who knows the Galloways. Rita and Hugh both drew up lists of people they know who might be suspects, and I want you to start checking them out.”

They both groaned. “Needle in the you-know-what,” Dowd said.

“Maybe not.” Marian handed one list to each detective. “Make copies and return the originals to the case file. Look for names that appear on both lists—start with those. Ignore any women's names—two people the killer has talked to on the phone have identified him as male.”

“Two?” Walker asked. “Vargas and who else?”

“The woman he bribed to quit Maids-in-a-Row so Julia Ortega could move in. Listen, you two … push on this. Push hard. And push fast. We're running out of time.”

“Yeah, the trail gets a little colder every day,” Dowd said. “Okay, Lieutenant, we'll push.” He and Walker left.

There was another reason Marian wanted them to push. She was afraid Jim Murtaugh might be running out of patience.

Late that night, Marian called Kelly Ingram. She needed to hear a cheerful, upbeat voice.

But the news from Hollyweird was gloomy. “These people are
idiots!”
Kelly screamed. “They're doing everything they can to turn a beautiful, original play into a clone of everything else they grind out here! Abby and the director are about to come to blows!”

Abigail James, who'd written the screen adaptation of her own play. “But you've just gotten started,” Marian said. “Maybe—”

“I know, that's the worst part! If they show this little respect for the script the first week, think what it's going to be like later!” Kelly went on at length, detailing all the shortsighted changes that had been made, until at last she was able to speak without exclamation points. “They're making changes just for the sake of making them,” she moaned. “Ego games, that's all it is.”

“Who's making the changes?”

“The director, the producer, the umpteenth assistant director, the set designer, the F/X man—”

“F/X? Special effects in
The Apostrophe Thief?”

“Yeah, would you believe it, they've got me riding a roller coaster during a fireworks display that gets out of control. Ducking and dodging rockets, that's what I'm doing. The director says that when it's edited, the final cut will be ‘real surreal.'” She made an unladylike noise.
“Real surreal.”

Marian groaned in sympathy. “And Abby can't stop it?”

“Abby has less clout on the set than the guy they send for coffee. Once the script was finished, she was just a fifth wheel. Ian and I back her up every time she objects, but it doesn't help. This movie is going to hell in a handbasket. Why do they say
hand
basket? What else would you carry it with—your teeth? Anyway, I thought Abby was going to belt the director this afternoon.”

“Maybe that's what he needs.”

Kelly laughed. “He's six foot six and weighs close to three hundred pounds. Abby's … what, five two? She'd have to stand on a chair.” Then, more seriously: “I'm really discouraged, Toots. I had such high hopes for this movie.”

They talked for a while longer, commiserating over work gone wrong. Marian told her friend she was stuck on a case but gave no details. They wished each other luck and promised to talk again in a few days.

Marian went into the room where Holland kept his computer. He looked grouchy; he'd spent all of Sunday afternoon and evening at the keyboard without finding what he was looking for. Something was out of kilter at his agency; nothing major, just little things not working the way they were supposed to. The professional breacher of other people's computer systems suspected that someone had breached
his
system.

She went up behind him and rested her chin on the top of his head. “About ready to be interrupted?”

“One moment.” The screen changed five or six times before he gave up and shut down. “Every gateway we use is secure. Everyone who's been using them has a legitimate reason for doing so. So where's the problem?”

“In the modem,” Marian said.

He moved his head from under her chin and twisted to look up at her. “In the
modem?”

She shrugged. “It's a word I know.”

He grunted. “That makes as much sense as anything else.” He stood up and stretched. “Did you talk to Kelly?” Then, without waiting for an answer: “I need to get away from this for a while. Let's go out.”

“Do you know it's after midnight?”

“Oh.” A pause. “Bed?”

“Bed.”

16

Monday dawned without anything new having been learned. Captain Murtaugh summoned his lieutenant in for an accounting.

“The Ortega line of investigation is a dead end,” Marian explained. “Vargas never saw the man who hired them. Presumably Julia Ortega did and that's why she's dead. But Vargas can't give us what he doesn't know.”

“What about Atlay?”

“We're still looking for the office building where he worked. It's a tedious process, Jim. Nobody paid much attention to Nickie Atlay. He was just available muscle for hire, nothing else. Perlmutter and O'Toole are following through on every lead they can get.”

“Say you find the office building. Then what?”

“Then we take a list of the tenants to the Galloways to see if they know any of them. The killer must have office space there or work for someone who does. How else would he link up with the likes of Nickie Atlay?”

Murtaugh thought that over and nodded. “What else are you doing?”

“Checking out a list of possibles supplied by the Galloways.” It sounded like pitifully little. Marian sighed. “If you can think of another line of investigation, I'm open to suggestion.”

He was pondering something. “Not a line of investigation—but what about a prod? If we're at a dead end, let's goose this guy a little. Look.” He picked up a copy of the
Daily News;
the front page prominently displayed a picture of Bradford Ushton and an article about his arrest on a child molestation charge. “This is a second-day story. Think what they'd do with a new murder story to milk for all it's worth.”

“Now, wait a minute—”

“Hear me out. So far the news media have not made the connection between Nick Atlay and Julia Ortega. Just two more bodies fished out of the East River on different days as far as they're concerned. Say you call a media conference. You announce that Atlay and Ortega are victims of the same murderer, a man who has twice attempted to kidnap the young son of a prominent New York family—don't mention the Galloways by name.”

“Jim—”

“Admit the police are still trying to identify the building where Atlay worked as a janitor and ask for the public's help. We'll set up a hot line to handle the calls—most of them will be nuisance calls. You further announce that you have a suspect and you expect to make an arrest shortly. Then make a quick exit without answering any questions.”

“That would be a big mistake,” Marian said heavily. “Jim, this is a guy who solves his problems by killing people. We can't take that risk—it's just too dangerous.”

“Who's left to kill? He's eliminated the two who could identify him.”

“Who's left? Annie Plaxton in Hoboken. Hector Vargas. Whoever sold the killer his gun. Someone who might have seen him talking to Nickie Atlay. Other people we haven't even thought of.”

“Oh, that's a stretch.”

“No, it's not. We don't know for sure that Julia Ortega could have identified him. It could have been a panic killing. What do you think he's going to do when he reads that we've got a suspect?”

They went on arguing about it. Captain Murtaugh could have just ordered Marian to make the announcement. But before it came to that, they reached a compromise. Marian would make the announcement, but she'd omit the part about their having a suspect. She'd say instead something like
We are pursuing several lines of investigation
.

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.”