The Red Queen Dies (16 page)

“Wonder if the mayor considered that Redfield might thread about how she didn't pay her condolences to the families of the first two victims,” Baxter said.

“Right now, he's focusing on the Givens case.” She read Redfield's thread, then passed the ORB to Baxter. “Here's what Mr. Redfield has to say:

“… I am forced to comment on the ineptness of the APD, particularly Detective Hannah McCabe, who was assigned to all three serial murder cases and to the case of Mrs. Margaret Givens. Not only have three women—including the Broadway star Vivian Jessup, a visitor to our city—died at the hands of this serial killer but last night Mrs. Givens, a poor black woman who had been terrorized by juvenile sociopaths and witnessed one of their violent crimes when they savagely killed the young man who came to her aid … last night, Mrs. Givens, forced to live in chronic fear in her crime-ridden neighborhood, became another Albany PD statistic when young hoodlums, who call themselves “droogies” after the violent, sadistic gang members in A Clockwork Orange, broke into her house and beat her … beat her so badly that she died in a hospital emergency room without regaining consciousness. We understand Detective McCabe was taking the evening off to have dinner at a club and listen to a little cool jazz. That's what she was doing while Mrs. Givens was being murdered. Do your job, Detective McCabe, or give your badge to someone who can and will. You and the rest of the APD are failing to protect the citizens of this city.
”

Baxter passed the ORB back to her. “Want me to put a hit out on him for you?”

“Actually,” McCabe said, “I have a friend who would probably be willing to punch him in the stomach for me.”

“Would this be a man friend?” Baxter asked.

McCabe looked up from the screen and caught his grin. “I keep my personal life personal, Mike.”

“Does that mean you don't have much of a personal life?”

She closed her ORB. “After this, I may not have a job.”

“Was that what the lou said when he told you to check it out?”

“No. But the commander and the chief aren't going to be thrilled about—”

“Who cares if they're not thrilled? You're a good cop, and Redfield's an asshole.”

“And this is bad press. If any of the mainstream media pick it up…” McCabe shook her head. “If they start poking into my background—”

“You mean what happened when you were a kid?'

“So you
have
heard about that?”

“I thought I'd let you mention it first,” Baxter said. “What's the media going to make out of that? Way I hear it, you were a little nine-year-old hero.”

“That,” McCabe said, “was the spin they put on it.”

Baxter said, “You killed the man who had broken into your family's home and who had just shot your brother.”

“He shot my brother when I came in with my father's gun in my hands. If I hadn't done that, he might have just left.”

“Or, the more popular theory, he would have shot your brother and then shot you because he'd been caught in the act and he'd come to the burglary with a gun in his pocket.”

McCabe shook her head. “If the media should rehash the story, my brother, Adam, won't be thrilled with me, either.”

“Tough, because I bet that's the way Jacoby's going to go with this. He'll tell your story to counter Redfield's—”

“Oh shit,” McCabe said. She leaned her head back against the seat.

“It never came up before? Since you've been a cop?”

“Once … when I graduated from the Academy. But since then … none of my cases … I've never been the lead investigator in a case that attracted so much media attention. And, of course, Redfield wasn't around before.”

“As I said, partner, Redfield can be made to disappear.”

McCabe laughed. “Thanks. But if he pulls anything else I'll just send my friend after him. She's got a killer right hook.”

“This friend of yours … you're not by any chance hinting that you're gay?”

McCabe looked sideways at him. “What's with this needing to know who I sleep with?”

“Well, I'm not … gay, I mean.” He settled back in his seat, feet up on the metal footrest. “So if you'd ever like to have a fling with a much younger man…”

McCabe threw her crumpled iced coffee cup at him.

“That's better,” he said, settling deeper in his seat. “Cops don't cry.”

McCabe sighed. “This one does. Last night for Mrs. Givens.”

“Good. Holding in your emotions can shorten your life.”

“Thank you, Dr. Baxter.” McCabe looked down at the scratch on the back of her hand from the fence two days ago. “How do you think Redfield knew what I did last night?”

“Who did you tell what you did last night?”

“No one.”

“What about the cops who gave you the call about Givens?”

“No. I just said I was on my way.”

“Maybe they heard the music or the sounds in the background.”

“They might have heard people talking and guessed I was in a restaurant. But no music was playing. The last set was over. And even if they had guessed where I was, why would they tell Redfield? So how did he know that I'd been out listening to jazz?”

“‘Cool jazz,' as he put it. And he said ‘club,' not ‘restaurant.'”

“Of course he did. ‘Club' sounds worse.”

“How much do we know about Clarence Redfield? Other than what you told me about the chemical engineering degree. And the mother he came back to Albany to take care of and the wife and baby who died.”

“That's about it. I think I should see what else I can find. If he wants to play games, I should be ready to play, too.”

“Deal me in on that,” Baxter said. “Hey, where do you park your car at night?”

“Park my car? At home.”

“No, I mean, do you have a garage?”

“Yes, but I don't usually bother to put my car … Are you suggesting—”

“That someone could have gotten to your car there or somewhere else and—”

“A tracker?”

“The guys in vice used them now and then,” Baxter said. “No way to know if you've got one without doing a sweep of your car.”

“But if I do have a tracker on my car, that would explain how Clarence Redfield knew how I spent my evening.”

 

18

 

Albany, New York

McCabe and Baxter drove across the bridge from the Albany-Rensselaer train station. The Egg looked like a granite spaceship tilted on its platform, and the towers of the Empire State Plaza stood out against the sky. They went through the underpass, by the parking entrances to the plaza. By the time, they reached the intersection for State Street, McCabe had finished her conversation with Lieutenant Dole.

She put her ORB down and turned to Baxter. “Jacoby has a press conference scheduled later this afternoon. He's going to provide updates on the case and respond, assuming it comes up, to any questions about Clarence Redfield's thread. Since they don't intend to bar Redfield from the press conference, they are pretty sure it's going to come up.”

“How are they going to handle it?”

“By stating the facts. By explaining that the first two murders happened a few weeks apart and I happened to catch each case because Jay O'Connell and I were available when the calls came in. By explaining that Thursday same thing happened to me regarding a case that came in three weeks after the second murder. That last night, I had completed my shift and was on my own time. And that Ms. Givens had told us on Thursday morning that she did not intend to testify.”

“Jacoby going to mention what happened when you were a kid? I heard you ask them not to, but—”

“Lieutenant Dole says that if it comes up, Jacoby intends to give them the facts about what happened. But he's not going to push it.”

“Guess I was wrong.”

“For which I'm grateful. Turn left on Lark.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“A funeral home. The CO got a call from Ted Thornton. Jessup's daughter is there making arrangement for her mother's body. Thornton thought we might want to interview her there and save ourselves a trip out to his place. He and his fiancée, Lisa, are there, too.”

Baxter made the turn. “This really sucks. I wanted to see Roz again.”

*   *   *

Greer Jessup St. John did not look like her mother. She was a plus-size woman who seemed comfortable in her skin. If her mother had preferred classic styles, Greer St. John went for the gusto. With complete disregard for any expectation that mourners should wear black, she was clad in a calf-length red-and-white-stripped halter dress and high-heeled red sandals. Her red earrings were retro hoops. Red-and-white-striped bangle bracelets clanked on her arms when she turned to meet them. Her lipstick and nail polish were matching shades of red. Her sable brown hair was caught up in a ponytail that dangled down her back. And somehow she managed to carry it all off.

Eyes red and damp, she leaned into the sheltering arm of her tall, attractive husband, “Ron.” Dr. Ronald St. John, pediatric surgeon, whose mother-in-law had reportedly adored him.

The meeting was taking place in one of the family “meditation” rooms. Ted Thornton had assured them that he and Lisa, who was in the ladies' room, would be happy to wait outside until they had finished their talk.

After expressing their sympathy, McCabe asked her first question.

Greer St. John sighed. “I make puppets,” she said. “I'm a professional puppeteer.”

McCabe wasn't sure how to respond to that. The question she had asked was about the last time Greer had communicated with her mother.

“That must be interesting,” she said.

“What I meant was that my mother and I were working on a puppet show for a fund-raiser. We do the show together every year in D.C. at Thanksgiving for the children of soldiers.”

“Oh, I see,” McCabe said. “So you and your mother spoke about the puppet show that you—”

“On Wednesday afternoon, when she called.”

“Was this going to be an
Alice in Wonderland
puppet show?” Baxter asked.

Greer shook her head. “We always do something Alice, but this year we had planned to do scenes from
Through the Looking Glass
instead of
Wonderland.
I've been working on flower puppets and insects. Mom … my mother called to see how they were coming along.”

She twisted her hands in her lap and looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

McCabe said. “If you don't mind my asking … Greer is a lovely name. It makes me think of Greer Garson. But I would have thought that you mother would have named you—”

“Alice?” Greer St. John smiled through her tears. “That would have been overkill, even for Mom. But Greer is an
Alice
reference. Greer Garson starred in
Mrs. Miniver,
and if you've ever seen the movie—”

“I have,” McCabe said. “But it's been so long ago that I don't remember—”

“There's a scene when Mrs. Miniver and her husband, Clem, are in the bomb shelter with their children. She—”

“Oh, of course, I had forgotten that. She reads
Alice in Wonderland
to the children to get them to sleep.”

“And by naming me Greer when everyone would have expected her to name me Alice, my mother provided herself with endless opportunities to point out the influence of Lewis Carroll on popular culture. Luckily, I do happen to like the name.”

“So do I,” McCabe said. “When you spoke to your mother on Wednesday, did anything seem to be bothering her?”

“No, she was really upbeat … upbeat in a creative person's way. She said she was ripping her hair out by the roots over one of Henrietta's monologues in the play. But she was excited about how it was all coming together.”

“Did your mother mention any plans that she had for the rest of the day?”

Greer shook her head. “I had a minor crisis on my end. We have a new German shepherd puppy and he'd gotten one of the baby's shoes. And I told my mother that I needed to go … to get…”

“The shoe from the puppy?”

Greer nodded. “I told her I would call back later, but then there was one thing after another. And … I was going to call her back the next day when I had more time to talk. I … oh God…”

Her husband held her. “Detectives, I think that's about all my wife—”

“Yes,” McCabe said. “Just one more question, Mrs. St. John.”

Greer raised her head and swiped at her eyes. “Yes, I'm sorry. Please, what do you need to know?”

“Did your mother mention an Albany collector who offered her a Dalí edition of
Alice in Wonderland
?”

“Yes, she did mention that. You don't think that man—”

“We don't know who he is at this point. Your mother's ORB is missing, and her publicist deleted the tag that she forwarded to your mother. Forensics will try to recover the tag, but did your mother happen to tell you the man's name? Or anything else that might help us to locate him?”

Greer shook her head. “No, she just told me about being contacted and that she was trying to arrange to see the Dalí volume and the stamp case.”

“That was what she told you on Wednesday afternoon?”

“We didn't talk about that on Wednesday. We really didn't cover anything other than the puppet show and her update on her play … and then I said good-bye and went to chase the puppy.”

McCabe said, “I'm sure she understood that. Normally, it would have been nothing that either of you would have thought twice about.”

Greer St. John straightened and nodded. “Thank you for saying that.”

“It's true,” McCabe said. “Things happen and you do what seems the right thing to do at that moment.” She stood up. “If you should think of anything else, please give us a call. Here's my card.”