Cold Day in Hell (8 page)

Robin’s first direct encounter with Fox came midway through the party, when she found herself cornered on the large patio by a large drunken British film director who had snared the last drink from her tray then locked a grip on her free arm as he looked her up and down with red bleary eyes.

“By
fuck
, if I couldn’t bend you over this rail right now and give that lovely USDA a proper nailing.”

In the process of attempting to free herself, Robin lost control of the empty tray, which clattered loudly to the patio floor. The director tightened his grip on her arm. As he moved closer, Robin was treated to a putrid exhaust of Scotch fumes.

“Let’s have us a fuckin’ kiss. Come here now.”

“Jeremy!”

Robin whipped her head around. It was Marshall Fox. As Fox made his way across the patio, he tossed his drink glass into the shrubbery. My God, Robin thought. Cowboy saves the day.

The Englishman gave Fox a sloppy smile. “Hallo, Marshall. Stinkin’ little bash, in’t it? I take it you’ve seen these lovely appetizers?”

“Let her go, Jeremy,” Fox said evenly. His voice held a low, liquid menace.

The director scoffed, “Fuck all, Marshall. Don’t be a prig.”

Fox glanced at Robin, then addressed the director. “Jeremy…
old chap
. How about for just one moment you pretend you’re not an asshole. Hmm? I know it’s hard,
old chap
. None of the rest of us have ever been able to do it. But why don’t you give it a try?”

Without warning, Fox’s left arm shot out, his open hand catching the Englishman square in the chest. As the director went tumbling into a deck chair, Fox grabbed Robin’s other arm and yanked her free. She stumbled up against him. Fox grinned and took a chivalrous step backward.

“I apologize for Jeremy. We don’t know who it was that let him off his leash.”

Still muttering, the director attempted to rise from the deck chair, but Fox placed a foot on the arm of the chair and succeeded in toppling it. The Englishman tumbled onto the tiles and went silent. Fox bent down and retrieved the tray that Robin had dropped and handed it to her. “It’s so hard to get good guests these days.”

He squeezed off another smile and left the patio by a nearby set of winding stairs, rejoining Kelly Cole, who was standing barefoot down on the grass, tolerating the stories of two overexcited young screenwriters. Robin had a sense that the entertainer knew full well she was watching him.

It wasn’t long after midnight that Kelly Cole lifted a martini from Robin’s tray, instructed Marshall Fox to get the hell out of her life
immediately
and then proceeded to launch the contents of her martini glass at him. The reporter’s aim was perfect, and the drink landed squarely in Fox’s face, the olive bouncing off his cheek. Robin had never seen a face as red with fury as Kelly Cole’s. The reporter’s expression was volcanic. For his part, Fox took a beat, then reached down to pick up the olive off the ground and blithely handed it over to his infuriated date. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I think this fell out of your ass.”

Cole’s slap seemed to echo back all the way from the boathouse. She stormed into the mansion. Fox produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his face and the front of his shirt. Conversation in the immediate vicinity had stopped, and Fox shared a bemused expression with astonished faces.

“Favor? The next time Ms. Cole orders herself a martini, could someone please ask the bartender if he can’t make it really, really,
really
dry?”

Soon afterward, Robin was down on the lawn, taking a moment to look out at the moon-blue water and the several boats that were anchored just offshore, when she became aware of a couple tangled together in a nearby hammock. Just as Robin realized that the couple were doing exactly what it sounded like they were doing, someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

“Hello there.”

Robin wheeled around. It was Marshall Fox. He offered his hand.

“The name’s Fox.”

Robin realized she was blushing mightily. She hoped it didn’t show in the moonlight. Fox made a show of guiding her hand into his and giving it a small squeeze.

“This is where you tell me
your
name. My name, your name. Then we’ve had what is called a communication.”

Robin withdrew her hand. “I’m…My name’s Robin Burrell.”

“It’s good to meet you, Miss Burrell. Though I feel like we’re old friends at this point, don’t you?”

“I meant to thank you before.” She indicated the patio.

“Jeremy? Hell, don’t mention it. By tomorrow that gin sponge won’t even remember it happened. He won’t remember a damn thing about the entire party. Which, now that I think of it, might not actually be such a bad thing. Tell me the truth, hasn’t this party been boring the pants off you? I’m dead serious, I can think of three thousand places I’d rather be. I love Gloria and Alan and all that, but this just ain’t really my kind of orgy.”

“I’ve never been to one of these parties,” Robin stammered.

“Well, you don’t want to make a habit of it, trust me.”

“People seem to be enjoying themselves.”

As if on cue, low moans rose from the couple in the hammock. Fox’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose they are. It’s a regular bunny farm around here, isn’t it? How about you? Are you enjoying yourself?”

Robin felt the color rising again to her cheeks. “I’m not supposed to enjoy myself,” she said. “I’m the hired help.”

Fox asked, “So where do you hail from, Miss Burrell?”

“I’m from Pennsylvania originally. New Hope. But I’ve lived in Manhattan the last six years.”

“Do tell. What part?”

“Upper West Side.”

“Jews and Commies, I know it well. Which are you? Are you a Commie?”

“Me?” She laughed. “No.”

“Jew?”

“I’m a Quaker.”

“Quaker? Good Lord woman. I love thou people’s oatmeal. Upper West Side, huh? Ever since I hit town I’ve been an Upper East Sider myself, though the fact is I ran away from home a few months ago. Maybe you heard. You probably have. My so-called private life seems to have taken up residence on Page Six these days. Now I guess I’m a Jew
and
a Commie.”

“Excuse me?”

“Upper West Side. I’m holing up on Central Park West.”

“I’m on Seventy-first,” Robin said. “About halfway down from the park.”

“You don’t say.” Fox touched her lightly on the arm. Robin could have sworn she felt a tiny electric shock. “How sweet is this? You’re practically the girl next door. You and I should meet up in the park sometime and walk our dogs together.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

Fox made a face. “I thought all of Manhattan’s beautiful women had dogs. We’ll have to do something about that. I’ll tell you what, New Hope. May I call you New Hope?”

Robin laughed. “If you want.”

“I want. Listen, New Hope. Maybe I can come by your place sometime and you can take
me
out for a walk. How does that sound? Forget the dog. Walk the Fox. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think you—”

Fox clapped his hands together. “Good. Excellent. I like this. This is good. You know, I’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of people long enough. This will be good. So when are you free?”

“I’m not sure if—”

“Tuesday?” He put a hand to his ear. “Is that what you said? Good Lord, I’m free Tuesday, too! What are the chances? Now, please don’t go getting yourself another dog between now and then, dear New Hope. I happen to be well trained, but I do still bite. Sometimes. Maybe you can do something about that for me. We’ll have to see.”

Up on the patio, one of the guests let out a peal of laughter that sounded exactly like that of the Wicked Witch of the West. Fox glanced over his shoulder then turned back to Robin. His voice lowered, as did his manic energy. He leaned closer. “Whatever you’ve heard about me, New Hope, I want you to know that only half of it’s true. Swear to God.”

In the wee hours of the morning, as Robin bunched her pillow under her chin and opened herself to the oncoming sleep, a voice in the deep recesses of her mind thought to ask the right question.

Which half?

THE COFFEE WAS COLD long before it was gone. I poured the final inch onto the snow. A squirrel that had been clinging stock-still to a nearby tree scampered down to investigate. He sniffed at the mocha snow then looked up sharply at me. With attitude. That’s your New York squirrel.

A light snow had started to fall. I was halfway across the park when my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket.

“Where are you?” It was Charlie Burke.

“You’ll never guess. You caught me on a beach in Tahiti. I wish the girls back home would take up this whole grass-skirt thing. It’s a winner.”

“You wish. Come on, where are you?” He sounded urgent.

“I’m in Bryant Park.”

“Well, you want to get up to Central Park right away. To the Boathouse.”

“And why do I want to do this, Charlie?”

“I spoke with Margo earlier today. She told me you’ve been helping that girl that got killed last night.” He paused, and I expected him to say that Margo had also told him we’d had an argument about it, but he didn’t go there. “She says you’re nosing around in the girl’s murder.”

“I never said that.”

“Right. Margo mentioned that, too. But she can tell. My kid’s got good instincts, Fritz. Besides, you don’t always hide things too good.”

“There are people who might consider that a virtue,” I said. “So what’s happening at the park?”

“I’ve been monitoring.” Ever since losing the use of his legs, Charlie had transformed the office in his house into what his wife called the House of Wires. Charlie was more up to speed on computers and the Internet than I’d ever be. He also had two television sets; he kept one tuned to NY1 and used the other for channel surfing. Plus, he monitored the police and fire department frequencies religiously. He went on, “Your girl with the cut throat? Looks like she’s got company.”

I stopped in my tracks. Literally. “There’s been another murder?”

“Somebody out there is a very busy boy,” he said dryly. “Not to mention a very angry one. This doesn’t look good, Fritz.”

“Who says it’s related to Robin Burrell?”

“First officer on the scene got a little too excited just now. Called in a thirty-c then started blabbing, ‘Same as last night, same as last night.’”

Thirty-c is police code for homicide by cutting. I switched directions and angled toward Sixth Avenue. “You said the Boathouse?”

“That’s what I’m hearing.”

“And you got this when?”

“It’s fresh, buddy. Not two minutes ago. You hurry, you’ll beat the mobs.”

I pocketed the phone and took off running.

THEY WERE STILL STRETCHING the tape when I arrived. A crime-scene photographer was leaning against a police van, fiddling with his camera. The snow was coming down a bit harder, and he was shading the camera from getting wet. The body was just off the trail leading up from the small parking area of the Boathouse Café into what’s called the Ramble. If you want to take a curvy path through the woods of Central Park, or if you want to go see rats the size of small dogs, or if having sex with a fellow anonymous adventurer of the same sex is your bag, then the Ramble is your place. The person who had happened upon the body and phoned it in was a pasty-faced blond man with a walrus mustache, a faded Greek fisherman’s cap and leather chaps. I don’t know, maybe he was looking at the rats.

Joseph Gallo was conferring with one of his officers. His long camel coat hung on him beautifully. Of course. He and his fellow officers were standing next to a large boulder, the trail twisting out of sight behind it. Atop the boulder, a pair of crows were pecking angrily at the snow. I waited next to a small tree until Gallo looked up and saw me. He said something to the uniformed cop then stepped over to me.

“Let me guess. You were just cutting through the park on your way to the ice rink.”

“Those aren’t the kind of guesses you can build a career on.”

“You seem to be my brand-new shadow, Malone. What gives?”

“Charlie Burke plucked the thirty-c out of the air. He says it smells like Robin’s killer.”

“Yeah, I was just giving Officer Loudmouth over there a talk about that. I told him next time why don’t you just call the media directly.” He shot his cuffs to tap a finger against his watch. “I give them five minutes tops.”

“You could seal off the park.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the precious First Amendment? What do you take me for, a stinking Commie?”

“Sorry, Joe. Must’ve confused you with someone else.”

Gallo grunted a laugh. “Believe me, after today I’m going to wish I
was
someone else. Goddamn back-to-backs not more than eighteen hours apart. This is most definitely not the way we’re supposed to start the New Year.”

“And we’re talking the same killer?” I asked. “You’ve already determined that?”

“We haven’t determined a thing. I only beat you by five minutes. I haven’t even introduced myself to the corpse.”

The lieutenant brushed at the snowflakes settling on his shoulder. “If you want to make yourself invisible, feel free. You’ve got to keep out of the perimeter. I like a clean crime scene.”

I pointed at the boulder. “How about that rock?”

“If you feel like mountaineering.”

Another cop was using a tree next to the boulder as one of his corners for the crime-scene tape. I ducked under the tape and scrambled up to the top of the boulder. With the leaves gone, I had a nice view of Central Park Lake below me, the row of overturned rowboats running along the south shore, the cast-iron Bow Bridge arching over the lake. The intensity of the snow was already increasing, and in just a matter of minutes, the overturned rowboats had already started fading to white. The lake itself was partially covered with a thin film of ice in a shape reminding me of a piece from a jigsaw puzzle. Directly below was the large flat rock where people like to go sunning in warm weather. It was abandoned now, of course, except for a trio of uninterested mallards.