10
Kate Mulgrew was the first to die.
She died on Sixth Avenue, at night, when the first light
was still more than two hours to the east. Janet's voice quiv
ered over the radiophone of the blue Oldsmobile.
“Mr. Harrigan?” The pain was evident even in those two
words.
“What happened, Janet?” he asked softly.
“Katy ... Katy's dead. Your man Mr. Dugan at the War
wick
...
He found her in a car
...
Oh, Mr. Harrigan.”
Harrigan chewed his lip. “Finish your report, Janet.”
“She was sitting in the back of a parked car with her face
against the window. Like she was watching people walk by.
Just staring. At first Mr. Dugan thought she was ...”
”I know, Janet. I know, darlin'. ” Harrigan kept his voice
even. “Janet, you must tell me what Mr. Dugan said and
what he did.”
“He said he opened the door and she almost fell out, but he caught her and he laid her down on the back seat, but he
knew she was dead. He said to tell you there was a little
puncture wound under her chin. And there was a pen stuck
in her mouth like the way you hold your pipe.”
“What sort of pen?”
“Mr. Dugan said to tell you it was an ordinary ballpoint
pen. Why would anyone . . ” Janet's voice made a hiccup
ping sound and she swallowed hard to regain control. Harri
gan reminded himself that she was new. Less than a year.
She had not seen death before. Not this kind of death. In ad
dition to the puncture wound that had popped through
Katy's palate and into her brain, Stanley Levy had left a
message. Katy had almost surely taken a pen gun when she
went out. Levy was announcing that he had it now, along
with at least one unspent cartridge of cyanide crystals. But why? Who was the message for? What could Stanley Levy know of Connor Harrigan?
“Go on, Janet,” he hushed. “What about Mr. Dugan?”
“He asked if he could leave his post to bring her in.”
Good girl, thought Harrigan. She was managing to hold a
level. “He said he could boost the car she's in.”
“Yes, Janet. Tell him to do that before it gets light. Then
tell him to join me here. Do you have anything else for me,
darlin’?”
“No sir
...
Yes. A woman from the Celebrity Register
called. I had to give her a Washington number so she could
verify. Then she called again and said there were three
women who answered your description. Mario Dunne, an opera singer, she's staying at the Regency. Tanner Burke is
at the Plaza until Sunday. Then there's an English actress
named Gwen Leamas who's staying down at the Helmsley
Palace.”
“Thank you, Janet. You've done very well.” Harrigan
could have kicked himself for not anticipating the verifica
tion call. If Katy had been there, she would have given a
Washington number that routed back to her own call direc
tor. She would have answered the call herself in a southern accent or some such. Well, spilt milk. But the call was now
logged. And coming in the dead of night, it might just arouse
Duncan Peck's curiosity before Harrigan wanted it aroused.
As for the names, thought Harrigan, assuming Baker's
new friend was one of them, Tanner Burke is the way to
bet. Gwen Leamas's hotel is just too far from the park. The
Regency was closer, but Mario Dunne probably wouldn't be familiar to Biaggi. Biaggi wouldn't know opera from
root canal. Tanner Burke, however, was all over the maga
zine racks and on the TV screen. You're elected, Tanner Burke. At least you're worth a peek. But first, one or two changes in the lineup might be useful. And Janet needs to be succored if she is to keep a clear head for the next few
hours.
“Janet,” he said at last into the mike, his voice bereaved,
“
K
aty would be proud of you for holding up so well. I know
that. She and I were quite close.”
”I know, Mr. Harrigan. I mean
...
I heard.”
“Yes Janet” he whispered, “very close indeed. But she
would expect us both to put aside our grief until we can
honor her memory in a proper way. Are you able to do that,
Janet?”
“Yes sir.” Janet made an effort to sound strong.
“After you call Mr. Dugan, please contact Michael Bi
aggi. He is now somewhere on Fifty-eighth Street, watching
the back entrance of the St. Moritz. Tell him about Tanner
Burke and ask him to move down the street a bit so that he
can watch the rear entrance of the Plaza.”
“The Plaza. Yes sir.”
“Now Janet.” Harrigan dropped his voice even further, “Be sure you mention Tanner Burke and the Plaza to ab
solutely no one but Mr. Biaggi. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good girl, Janet.”
Harrigan closed his eyes after cradling his microphone
and sat very still for several minutes. Oh, Michael, he
thought. A thousand Hail Marys. A thousand Hail Marys is
what I'll say if I have grievously wronged you in my heart.
But if I have not, and if another living soul now shows an in
terest in Tanner Burke, then Mary herself and all the blessed
saints will not save you.
He blinked to clear a hotness that he felt inside his eye
lids and looked out into the fading night. And you, Stanley Levy, he thought. Truth be told, Stanley, I did send Katy to
do you in. Truth be told, you had an equal right. But life isn't
fair, is it, Stanley. You're going to answer, Stanley, for the
death of Katherine Mulgrew because someone must if I am to find peace. And when you do answer, you'll wish to God that your life was all I took.
Baker had given up trying to sleep. It would not come.
Twice, he'd felt his body become heavy and warm to the
point of drifting off, but each time his thoughts would fall
upon the softly breathing body next to him. He thought of
what it might be like to wake up with her each day. To
linger in bed on a chill winter morning. To feel the joy and the fire and the thrill of— Damn! He felt himself begin to
stiffen.
Annoyed, and. fearful that she might reach to touch him
in her sleep and discover his condition, he rose quietly from the bed.
There was a hot plate in the bathroom for making tea and
instant coffee. As silently as he could manage, Baker pro
duced a steaming cup and walked with it to the window fif
teen floors above the expanse of Central Park. He stood
watching and thinking. And listening.
Just west of the zoo he could see the strobing blue lights
of police cars. Three of them. And the red and amber of a
single ambulance. There was something about the blue
strobes of a police car at night. They're like a scream, he
thought. He remembered the way those lights lashed across
his house the last time he saw it. Baker shook away the
image.
The red lights moved. They were dipping through the
trees as they crossed from left to right. The ambulance was
leaving the park by the Sixty-fifth Street exit. Right through
the zoo. In his mind Baker could almost see the animals
sniffing after the blood scent that the ambulance trailed be
hind it.
Blood.
Baker didn't remember much about the one called Jace.
Only the snap of bones. And those puncture marks. Ab
sently, he touched the pocket that held the felt-tipped pen
Abel had used. It struck him that Abel had never toyed with
anyone like that before. He'd never gone out of his way to
mark anyone. Usually, it was the way it had been with
Sumo. Baker winced. He saw in dim memory the way Sumo
had jerked and danced as the knife pushed through his or
gans. The way his body had arched into an obscenely stiff
and prolonged tremor as if it had touched a
third rail.
The way he shook even after he fainted. That one would almost certainly die. And Abel killed him. Why? Why these two?
Baker frowned and cocked his head. Someone else had
died, he thought. A woman. What woman? The only woman he knew here was sleeping safely behind him. Was there an
other woman? ... Tina?
His stomach twisted. “Tina?”
In Greenwich, Tina awoke suddenly from a dream. A dumb
dream. She was in this cave, just napping there, and her fa
ther rushed in all excited to find out if she was all right, and she said sure. And then he just let out a breath and went out
again. Dumb dream. She turned over and closed her eyes.
Baker relaxed. It wasn't Tina. Who was it, Charley? He
pressed close to the glass to look down at the deadened
street. He couldn't see the sidewalk. Who's there, Charley?
Who's moving around down there?
Never mind. He really didn't want to know. Time enough
to deal with it when daylight came and there would be
crowds of people rushing to work. People in too much of a
hurry to notice a man who didn't look quite right. To notice
Abel.
For now, Baker felt safe from those who were moving
around on the street. Taking positions. And if he was safe, so were they. From Abel. “Count your blessings,” he whispered
aloud.
He raised the cup to his lips and sipped. A thin haze of
steam coated the window as he did so, blurring the reflection of his face. The image he saw glowed red from the dim light
of the digital clock near Tanner's bed. For an instant, he
thought he saw Abel's face looking back at him. Slowly, he
raised his left hand and covered that side of his face so that
only the right half showed. The image of the right half
glared back.
“Go back to sleep, Abel.” Baker wiped away the haze and
stepped away from it. Then he drew a chair toward the win
dow and sat listening again.
Connor Harrigan had folded a blanket from his trunk into six
thicknesses and placed it on the pavement outside the stone
wall of the park. The place he chose was in deep shadow.
From one coat pocket, he drew a quart-size thermos of tea and from the other a small binocular of the type used by birdwatchers. These he laid beside his transceiver and he eased to a sitting position.
At that spot, the wall of Central Park South turned north,
perhaps thirty yards short of Fifth Avenue. There was a sign
there, a green metal legend of the park, that further obscured
his position. From it, he could not see the blue Oldsmobile
where Tom Dugan now manned the radiophone. But he
could see the main entrance to the Plaza and the fountain en
trance as well.
It was not quite dawn. The streetlamps still gave more
light than the morning sky, and the streets were largely empty. Anyone passing, he thought, would see him as a
sleeping bum if they noticed him at all. Harrigan realized
idly that the horse-drawn hansom cabs that normally would
have blocked his view were gone. He wondered where.
Where does one keep a horse in New York? Certainly not at
the Plaza. And only a single taxi sat at the Plaza's hack
stand, its driver dozing. No doorman could be seen. Up the street, he could hear the grind of a garbage truck.
Harrigan focused his field glasses and studied the cab dri
ver's profile for a few moments before deciding that he was
legitimate. None but a trained actor could have simulated the
heavy-lidded boredom of a taxi driver during the first hours
of a four-to-noon shift.
Nor did Harrigan expect much of a disguise on the part of
the visitor he was waiting for. But a visitor there would be.
He or she was somewhere near. Probably arguing with a su
perior. Arguing that it would be better to wait until full morn
ing. Until the breakfast crowd or at least the joggers began
moving through the lobby. And the superior would be argu
ing back. No, he would say. We have to know if he's in there with her. We don't even know if she's the one. Go there and
ask the night clerk. One hundred dollars, and all he has to do
is tell you whether she's there with a man. Say it's not her
you want. It's him. Say you just want to slap a subpoena on
the terrible man for not paying child support on the four lit
tle girls he abandoned, the dirty dog. Gets them every time.