Full Frontal Murder (7 page)

What could be kept in a drawer that shallow? A few papers. A gun
. Marian raised her voice and said, “Bobby?”

He peeked out at her from behind a sofa.

“Bobby, that drawing of the cow you made? I really would like to see that. Will you show it to me?”

His face lit up. “Sure!” He ran out of the room, followed by his guard.

Marian stood up and walked over to the end table. “Quickly, Mrs. Galloway. What's in the drawer?”

“Oh, well, ah, this is Alex's place—”

“Answer the question. Is there a gun in there?”

Rita Galloway slumped. “Alex got it for me. I refused to take it—I didn't want a gun in the house with Bobby. But after what happened last night, I've changed my mind. Oh, it's legal—Alex has a permit.”

“Where is it?”

“Ah … in the drawer with the gun, I believe.”

“Let me see it.”

Rita got up and moved over to something hanging on the wall that looked like a comet with a long tail; only then did Marian realize it was a clock. Rita reached behind the clock and took out a key.

In the drawer was a .38 revolver and a box of shells, resting on top of a piece of paper. Marian slid the permit out and read it; it was in order, licensing Alex Fairchild to keep a weapon at his place of habitation. “This permit was issued only two weeks ago.”

“Yes. Alex had no reason to think I was in danger before that.”

“What if Bobby finds the key?”

“Lieutenant, we just moved in here a matter of hours ago. Alex and I haven't had time to childproof the place yet. We'll work something else out.”

She was just locking the drawer again when Bobby came bursting into the room, waving a piece of yellow construction paper. “Cow!”

“Let me see.” Marian took the paper. Bobby had used a purple crayon to draw his cow; Gelett Burgess would have been pleased. The cow was recognizably a cow, even though the udder had nine teats. Marian wasn't sure, but she thought the drawing was unusually detailed for the work of a four-year-old; perhaps the little boy had inherited his mother's talent. “Bobby,” she said, “that is just about the best cow I have ever seen.”

He grinned and hugged himself.

Marian nodded. “It's a
wonderful
cow. You take good care of this drawing.” She held the paper out to him.

Bobby wouldn't take it. “It's for you!”

She felt flattered. “You're giving it to me? To keep?”

“Yes!” He was jumping up and down. “To keep!”

Marian hugged the little boy and thanked him. “I'm going to put this up in my office. A lot of people will see it.”

“There you go, Bobby,” his mother said with a smile. “Your first exhibition.”

Marian said good-bye. “I hope you'll do what I asked, Mrs. Galloway. Try to think of people you know who need money or might act out of malice.” She started up the white staircase.

“It would be a waste of time, Lieutenant.”

Marian stopped halfway up the stairs and looked down at her. “Help us out here. Cooperate.”

Rita Galloway shrugged and turned her back.

7

Marian used her pocket phone to call the Ninth Precinct station; she asked for Detective Sanchez. “Gloria? It's a little early, but can you get away for lunch? I'm buying.”

“I can always get away for a free lunch,” Gloria Sanchez replied lazily. “Your precinct or mine?”

“How about meeting halfway?” They agreed on San Remo's on Eighth Avenue in half an hour.

As it turned out, Gloria was late; Marian had already ordered by the time the detective from the Ninth sat down across the table from her. “Sorrree,” Gloria said with a lilt in her voice. “DiFalco call' me in at the las' second.”

“And how is dear old DiFalco?” No love lost between Marian and her former captain.

“Gettin' kinda twitchy, if you ask me, and you jus' did.”

“Twitchy how?”

“Pre-paranoid. He don'
quite
thin' the worl' is out to get 'eem, but he gettin' there. What did you order?”

That '
eem
for
him
told Marian that Gloria had gone into Hispanic overdrive, something she did when she was irritated. Unless she was being African-American that day, in which case her speech would become mo' po' boy the more annoyed she got. Gloria switched between Hispanic and black as the mood suited her, one legacy of a mixed parentage.

Gloria gave the waiter her order and then asked Marian, “When's Kelly leaving for California?”

“She flew to L.A. yesterday. Hates it already.”

Gloria grinned. “A true Noo Yawker. I thought she lived there once?”

“A long time ago. She didn't like it then either.”

“She'll adjust. She always does.”

Marian waited until their pasta arrived and they'd both taken the edge off their hunger. Then she said, “Gloria, I know you don't like me to talk about this, but I have to. I want you to reconsider your decision never to take the Sergeants Exam.”

“I'm goin' to take it.”

“If there's anyone qualified to—What did you say?”

Gloria laughed. “I say I'm goin' to take the Sergeants Exam.”

Marian almost dropped her fork in surprise. “Well, I'll be damned! You really are?”

“I really are.”

“Gloria, I've been after you for over a year to take that exam, and all I ever got from you was
I don' wanna talk about it
. You want to tell me why you changed your mind?”

“I was afraid if I passed the test I'd get transferred out of the Ninth.”

Marian blinked. “You
like
working for Captain DiFalco?”

“Shit, no! I don' like workin' for DiFalco any more'n you did. But I had my Gran livin' with me, Marian. She's old and frail, and I needed to run home and check on her whenever I could. I could do that from the Ninth Precinct stationhouse.”

“Which you might not be able to if you were transferred.” Marian nodded. “I see. Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“It dint seem right, usin' Gran as an excuse.”

Marian could see that too. “Where is she now?”

“I took her to Alabama, where she was born. She don' have much time left, and she say she don' wanna die here. Her great-niece is takin' care of her.”

“You miss her, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do. She's the only family I had. But she's better off where she is. At least she doesn't have to stay locked in all day the way she did here,” Gloria said flatly.

Marian grinned. “Do you realize you just switched from Rosie Perez to Nichelle Nichols?”

“I did?” Gloria laughed. “Gran's black, and I was thinkin' 'bout her.” She tossed her head, making her gold loop earrings dance. “But I look like zee nice Puerto Rican gel, yes?” The lilt was back in her voice.

“Oh, yes,” Marian agreed. “Well, this is great news, Gloria. You know we're short one sergeant in Midtown South.”

“You thin' Captain Murtaugh put in a request for me?”

“I'm sure he will. Especially since Sergeant Buchanan is retiring at the end of the year. We'll be needing two sergeants.”

“Whass wrong with Midtown South detectives? They no take the test?”

“Six of them are going to. But, frankly, only one of them has any real chance.”

“Don't tell me—Perlmutter?”

“Got it in one. So you see, we have to find another sergeant somewhere … and I'd just as soon it be you.”

“'Sokay wi' me!” Gloria agreed cheerily.

They finished their lunch and went their separate ways. Marian was feeling exhilarated; Captain Murtaugh had seen Gloria at work on two cases that had involved both Midtown South and the Ninth Precinct, and he knew what she could do. Marian loved the idea of having Gloria to work with every day, the way they'd once worked together in the Ninth. Gloria was not only a good detective, she was also a friend, someone Marian could trust in a way she could never trust, say, Sergeant Buchanan.

At the stationhouse, she stopped by the captain's office. “How do you feel about putting a little pressure on Personnel?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Give me a good enough cause and I'll put pressure on anybody.”

“Gloria Sanchez.” She went on to explain that Gloria would be taking the Sergeants Exam. “And since Midtown South has gone with only two sergeants for … how long now? A year and a half? Surely Personnel should be willing to give you first choice, don't you think?”

He smiled. “Sounds reasonable to me. But didn't you once tell me Sanchez refused to take the exam?”

“She had a family situation that was holding her back, Jim. But that's resolved now, and she's champing at the bit.”

“Good. Okay, I'll put in a name request, both for her and for Perlmutter. Now all they have to do is pass the test.”

“Yeah, that's all.”

He scratched the side of his nose. “Perlmutter has a good chance. Does she?”

“She does if she studies—and she's motivated. Remember who her boss is.”

Murtaugh half-laughed. “DiFalco's going to raise holy hell if I take another of his detectives.”

“Oh, let him. He doesn't deserve Gloria.”

“Meaning I do? Careful, Marian, that sounds like flattery.”

“Ah. Gotta watch that.”

When she reached her office, she found a phone message from O'Toole saying that Gordon Egrorian, the owner of Maids-in-a-Row, would be in that afternoon to help build a computer face for Consuela Palmero. Perlmutter was back from talking to Rita Galloway's therapist. But first Marian took Bobby's crayon drawing of a cow and taped it to her file cabinet. A cow! What did city kids know of cows? Bobby had seen pictures, of course; bovines probably seemed like exotic animals to him.

“A purple cow?” Perlmutter's voice said over her shoulder.

Marian sat down at her desk. “Bobby Galloway's work.”

“Yeah?” He peered at the drawing closely. “Not bad for a four-year-old. Not quite anatomically correct, but careful otherwise. The kid thought about what he was drawing.”

“So, what did you get from the therapist?”

Perlmutter took a chair. “Not a whole lot. Rita Galloway's been seeing Dr. David Zukan for fourteen months. He says she consulted him for help in dealing with her frustration and anger generated by a stressful marriage. Her anger was affecting her work as an artist, but she had made great strides in learning to deal with the anger.”

Marian growled. “‘Learning to deal with'—that's one of those phrases like ‘come to terms with'… they don't
mean
anything. Is she overcoming her anger or just co-existing with it?”

“I don't know, Lieutenant. Zukan wouldn't get any more specific than that. When I asked him if she was a pathological liar, he objected to the word ‘pathological.' But then he added that all his patients lie to him at one time or another.”

“So Rita Galloway does lie, but Hugh Galloway overstated the extent of her lying?”

“That's the way I read it, yeah.”

“Who made the arrangements for therapy, Hugh or Rita?”

“Rita. Zukan has never met Hugh, and knows him only through Rita's eyes.”

“Yet it was Hugh's insistence that she go into therapy—or was it? Did he say that, or do we just have Rita's word for it?”

Perlmutter took out his notebook and flipped through it. “He said only that she was in therapy. And that he'd been paying the bills for over two years—but it's been only fourteen months.”

Marian discounted that. “That's the sort of exaggeration any aggrieved husband would make. He did say she was in therapy for her lying and her nymphomania, though. And Zukan said she came to him for help in dealing with her anger.”

“Those could be the same thing,” Perlmutter pointed out. “Zukan wouldn't tell me how her anger expressed itself. Patient confidentiality.”

Marian mulled that over and conceded the point. “God, these are slippery people! Impossible to pin down.”

“Talk to friends, associates?”

“Not yet. If it looks likely that the kidnapping and the bombing are the work of neither Rita nor Hugh—which I suspect is the case—then I don't want to waste any more time on the Galloways' domestic problems. Let's wait and see what O'Toole turns up about the cleaning lady who isn't a cleaning lady.”

It was over an hour before O'Toole brought the news that he'd run into a dead end. The address on 177th Street was a garage. He'd asked there and in a few other places nearby, but no one knew a Consuela Palmero. O'Toole had volunteered the opinion that they wouldn't have told him even if they had known. But the owner of Maids-in-a-Row was downstairs right then working with the graphics tech to reconstruct Palmero's face.

Someone
was going to a lot of trouble to cover his/her/their trail. There were three incidents that marked Rita Galloway and Bobby as targets: the spying cleaning lady, the attempted kidnapping, and the small-scale firebombing of the house. But the first didn't fit with the other two.

Kidnappers didn't disguise themselves as housecleaners, for whatever reason. Kidnapping was not a subtle crime; those who attempted it were blunt and crude and frequently quite stupid. And kidnapping was not a criminal ‘career,' the way burglary or counterfeiting was—except in Italy, and even there kidnapping-as-profession had pretty much been brought under control. But most kidnappers hoped to score enough from one kidnapping to keep them in clover the rest of their days. It was an outrageous crime, the trading of a human life for money—if indeed the trade was made. Too many kidnap victims never emerged from their ordeals alive.

Kidnappers would certainly spy out the land before attempting to snatch Bobby Galloway, but what could be gained by placing a spy inside the household? The fact that Consuela Palmero (whatever her real name was) had been checking Rita's finances rather than the layout of the house made Marian think that that incident was not linked to the other two. Hugh Galloway could have engineered the placement of the Palmero woman in his wife's household and still be innocent of the crimes of attempted kidnapping and fire-bombing.