Cold Judgment (17 page)

He was missing something. Curt picked up the phone and dialed Mac at home. No answer. He'd keep trying every half hour until he got through. The key to this whole thing was Mac, and it was time for some answers.

Should he go to the captain? Curt sighed deeply. Sure, Mac was connected to all three deaths, but that didn't mean he was personally involved. If he went to the captain without giving Mac a chance to explain, he'd feel like a traitor. Mac was a good friend, and loyalty counted for a lot.

Curt wadded his Kleenex into a ball and lobbed it into the wastebasket. Two points. Then he sneezed again. The damn cold was getting him down. Somehow he had to stay on top of this whole thing. If he found a common thread linking Feldman, Marx, and Stanford and solved the case on his own, he'd be a cinch to make lieutenant.

 

 

“Where's your little automatic, Kay?”

“It's in my bedroom. I put it back in the drawer. Why?”

“Look, Kay . . . I don't want to scare you, but I think you'd better carry it in your purse today. Bring it down and I'll load it for you.”

Kay frowned. “But, Mac! Don't you need a permit to carry a gun? I don't want to do anything illegal!”

Mac sighed. It was almost funny. Kay's life was in danger and she was worried about a lousy permit to carry her gun.

“Don't worry about it, Kay. I doubt if the killer's got a permit either. Just go up and get it and leave the legalities to me.”

Debbie waited until Kay had gone upstairs. Her face was pale as she turned to Mac.

“Do you really think she'll need a gun?”

“It can't hurt. I've got a little Beretta I'll give you. Do you know how to shoot?”

Debbie nodded. “I took a 4-H course in gun safety. My dad insisted.”

In a moment Kay was back. She held the gun gingerly as she handed it to Mac. Debbie and Kay watched as he cleaned and loaded it.

“This is the safety, Kay.” Mac pointed. “All you have to do is click it off and pull the trigger.”

“Charles made me practice when we got it.” Kay's voice was shaking. “It makes me nervous to carry it, Mac. You know what happened the last time I had a gun in my purse.”

“This time it's for real.” Mac slipped the gun in her purse and snapped it closed. “I want you to carry it with you until you leave town. Then you can turn it over to Charles if you like.”

“Thank you, Mac.” Kay managed a smile. She was beginning to relax a bit. She was sure nothing would happen at the fashion show. Debra was staying with her in the dressing room and Mac would sit in the audience. The killer wouldn't dare to try anything in front of all those people.

She looked down at her purse and began to grin. Mac didn't know much about fashion shows. She was modeling a bathing suit and an evening gown and neither outfit called for a purse. The gun would have to stay in the dressing room the whole time, unless she used it as an accessory.

Kay almost laughed out loud as she imagined the sensation she'd cause if she appeared on the runway brandishing a pistol.
“Mrs. Charles Atchinson is wearing a George Stavropoulos classic evening gown, with side gathers and spaghetti straps, in a luxurious Crillon Blue satin. Her train is of matching chiffon. Diamond earrings and necklace by Van Cleef. Sidearm by Browning.”

CHAPTER 24

Dr. Elias snapped off the alarm clock and blinked in the morning light. Two pigeons were perched on the sill outside his window, regarding him with expressionless black eyes. They watched as he reached for the syringe by the bed and gave himself an injection.

He would be able to move comfortably in a moment. Dr. Elias leaned back against the pillows and waited for the drug to enter his system. One of the pigeons ruffled its feathers and hopped the length of the sill, head bobbing back and forth jerkily with each step. Its head seemed directly connected to the tendons in its feet. Pigeons reminded Dr. Elias of children's windup toys; they moved in such an awkward, mechanical manner. It was easy to imagine a series of springs and cogs controlling their actions.

The distress eased slightly and Dr. Elias sat up, sliding his legs over the side of the bed. He was still alive, muscles working normally, heart beating strongly in his chest. Perhaps he would live to see Christmas after all. It was only three days away.

There was still a little discomfort as he got to his feet and walked across the floor to the bathroom. The dosage of the injections would have to be increased very soon. He could not function with pain as a handicap while there was work left to be done.

Dr. Elias examined his face in the mirror over the sink. The jaundice was worse today. Even the whites of his eyes had a distinct yellow tinge. It made him look vaguely Asian, he thought.

He smiled at his reflection. Physical deterioration could be an advantage. His appearance had aged drastically since the onset of his disease. Lines had deepened in his face and the weight loss caused his cheekbones to protrude sharply. It seemed unlikely that any of his colleagues or former patients would recognize him. If he was spotted on the street today, he might be mistaken for an ancient Chinese gentleman.

Dr. Elias continued to smile as he conducted his daily regimen of tests. All vital signs were meticulously recorded. It was an accurate account of the progress of his disease. The results were as he expected. He had been correct in escalating his work schedule. There was no time to spare.

He closed the notebook and stepped into the shower. The hot water eased the stiffness in his joints and he felt remarkably agile as he dressed.

Kay had canceled her therapy appointment for the second time. She had promised to call her doctor after the holidays, but Dr. Elias knew she could not maintain without help for that length of time. There was no alternative. He must do his duty. Today's fashion show at Dayton's Sky Room would provide the perfect opportunity.

Dr. Elias prepared two sterile syringes and slipped them into the leather briefcase he planned to carry. There was much to do today and he would certainly require his injections before he finished. He had researched every aspect, and the tools he needed to complete his task were already in the briefcase. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be successful. By the end of the day, his work would be finished.

 

 

Curt Holt put the phone down and sighed. Mrs. Feldman had not known Mac. The same was true for the priest's housekeeper. Father Marx had never mentioned Richard Macklin, and his name was not listed on any parish records. Curt had tried to contact Nora Stanford's partner, Elena Ribakoff, but she was heavily sedated in Fairview Southdale Hospital. He had struck out on all three counts and Mac was nowhere to be found. Curt had tried calling his house repeatedly, with no answer.

There was nothing to do but wait. Curt leaned back in his chair and popped another vitamin C chewable into his mouth. He stared at the institutional green paint on his office wall. Mac's office next door was beige. Green and beige. He remembered the same color scheme in the classrooms at South High. The city must have gotten a real buy on those two colors. Curt was willing to bet that Captain Meyers's living room was painted green and beige. The captain wasn't known for his originality.

At least Curt had a door to close. That was a step up from the little three-quarter-walled cubicle he'd used when he was Mac's assistant. And it would be even better once he made lieutenant. Along with the raise in pay, lieutenants got to pick their own color scheme if they paid for the paint. That was something to shoot for. These damn green walls brought back sickening memories of the South High cafeteria and the mushy macaroni and cheese they served on Fridays.

His mind was wandering again. Curt sat up straight in his chair and checked his city-issue appointment calendar. The janitor from St. Steven's was coming in at noon, but Curt doubted that he'd be able to shed any more light on Father Marx's death. The parish papers were already here, in a box by his desk. Fortunately Marx had been blessed with legible handwriting. He had gone over every scrap of paper last night.

Bazookas should be back from Feldman's office soon. Curt had sent her over to pick up the dental records. He took out his pen and jotted her name on a requisition form. Miss Carol Deluca. He'd ask for her as a temporary aide. Bazookas could help him go through Feldman's files this afternoon. And she could make the trek to the squad room to bring back his coffee.

Curt checked the list of notes that he had clipped to Feldman's folder. He had two men in the field doing legwork. Wednesday they had checked out the health clubs; Feldman belonged to three. They had shown Feldman's picture to members and personnel, but nothing had turned up. Everyone said he was a nice guy with no enemies.

They had spent Thursday morning interviewing Feldman's neighbors and friends. A total strikeout. And in the afternoon, they covered the personnel at the dental office. The girls said Feldman was the perfect boss—no quirks, no complaints, no mystery expenditures in the office ledger or checkbook. Curt had gone through the list of charges that came in from Feldman's credit cards. No motels in the middle of the day. No perfume or nightgowns for anyone other than his wife. No leads at all.

Yesterday he had concentrated on the priest. He'd sent his men to St. Steven's to interview parish members while he went to the archdiocese. Marx was a model priest.

Northwestern Bell had done a computer check of their recent telephone records this morning. He'd asked for a comparison of Feldman's, Marx's, and Stanford's calls. They had found no common numbers.

The Chicago police would be contacting him this afternoon. A Cook County coroner was doing an autopsy on Nora Stanford. Curt had a hunch it would turn out to be murder. Mac's tips were seldom wrong.

It was a quarter to twelve and all the bases were covered. Curt had exhausted every lead he could think of and he still didn't have any hard evidence that the murders were connected.

Curt remembered what Mac had told him when he was in training. A good cop opened his mind to every hunch, even if it seemed ridiculous. Murderers didn't play by regular rules. The best way to solve a crime was to suspect everyone until they were cleared.

By his own advice, Mac was a suspect. Curt couldn't see any way around it. He knew that Mac had mental problems. It was all there in his personnel file. As unlikely as it seemed, Mac could have killed off Feldman and Marx. And Stanford, too, if the autopsy came up murder.

There was no use fighting it. Curt picked up the phone and called Ma Bell's business office. He needed a complete record of Mac's calls. His hunch was probably wrong, but he'd feel a lot better if he checked it out.

Every instinct told Curt that Mac was innocent. Mac was a nice guy, a moral man incapable of cold-blooded murder. Look how upset he'd been over shooting that kid. And that was a clear-cut accident.

Curt didn't like the way his mind was racing. His thoughts were disloyal to Mac, but he couldn't seem to stop them. What if Mac was having another mental breakdown? What if he had deliberately fed Curt the information to put it all together? What if Mac was crying out for Curt to stop him?

Maybe he'd seen too many movies. Curt rubbed his tired eyes. That theory was really far-fetched. When Mac came in to work tomorrow, they could have a good laugh over it in the squad room.

Unless he was right.

 

 

Mac chose a table for two in the center of the room for his vantage point. He could see anyone who came in the door and the models would walk directly past his table.

“Cream and sugar, sir?”

The waitress flashed a professional smile as she poured his coffee from a small silver pot. Mac watched her carefully. She seemed a bit nervous. Perhaps she was new at her job. Or there could be a more sinister reason for her anxiety. The black tea apron she wore had deep pockets. Along with her order pad, she could be concealing a weapon. No one was above suspicion. The killer could be anyone, man or woman, young or old.

“Could you leave the pot?” Mac returned her smile. “I hate to make you dash over here every time my cup's empty.”

“Sure.” She set the pot on the table behind the arrangement of fresh flowers. “Do me a favor and keep it out of sight, will you? It's against the rules and the manager's in a bad mood today.”

Mac nodded. That explained her nervousness. He watched the doorway as she hurried off to cover her other tables. The Sky Room was filling up fast now. The storm predictions hadn't kept anyone away.

The killer would probably be alone. Mac concentrated on a man sitting near the front at a table for two. He looked agitated, and as Mac watched, he picked up his napkin to polish his glasses for the second time in the past ten minutes. Then he glanced at his watch and reached into his briefcase. Mac tensed until he saw what the man had in his hand. It was a small Instamatic camera. A teenage girl hurried to his table and slid in beside him. His daughter, no doubt. And his wife was probably a model.

A large woman sat alone at a table near the door. There was something just a little wrong about her mannerisms. Too feminine? Mac frowned. She crooked her little finger as she drank from her teacup. It was almost a parody of a society woman.

Mac sighed in relief as he saw a man take the seat next to her. It was Georgie Girl, the notorious gay hairdresser from St. Paul. The “lady” was obviously in drag, trying out a new outfit on the straight public.

The announcer was taking her place now. The fashion show was about to begin. Mac put his cup down on the saucer and leaned forward. He really didn't think that anything would happen in front of the audience, but he was ready, just in case.

 

 

“Isn't this ridiculous?” Kay turned from the mirror and shivered. “It's the middle of winter and they're showing bathing suits. Fur coats in July and bikinis in December. I'll never understand high fashion.”

“They made the right choice this time.” Debra smiled. “That white suit looks lovely on you.”

“That's why I'm a model.” Kay laughed self-consciously. “They needed someone who could stay in Minneapolis through the winter and still have a suntan.”

Debra picked up the accessories, a floppy beach hat and a pair of high-tech sunglasses. She followed closely as Kay led the way down the carpeted hallway to the restaurant. Several women met them as they neared the Sky Room door.

“Knock them dead, darling!” A tall woman in a flower-print sundress kissed the air near Kay's cheek. “It's a full house and every woman there has a Dayton's Gold Card burning a hole through her handbag.”

“Mrs. Wesley Ashton,” Kay whispered to Debra as they walked on. “She cheats at bridge.”

Kay felt better when she saw Mac sitting at a table in the center of the restaurant. One of the Dayton granddaughters was modeling a skimpy bikini, and Kay watched her pause and smile as she answered a question at one of the tables. There was something totally unreal about the scene, the potted palms, the beach hats, the mod sunglasses. It was schizophrenic to wear a bikini in the dead of winter while gusts of icy snow rattled against the windows. Nothing quite made sense. For the first time, Kay knew how Alice in Wonderland must have felt when she fell down the rabbit hole.

“You're next, Kay.” Debra squeezed her hand. “Go ahead. It'll be fine.”

Kay tried to step out into the room, but she couldn't move. Her feet seemed glued to the rug. Suddenly she was terrified. Someone out there might try to kill her as she walked the path between the tables. She wanted to turn and run back to the dressing room.

“Go, Kay!” Debra's voice was urgent. She gave a little push and Kay found herself moving forward, going through the motions of modeling without any conscious thought. She stopped at the artificial palms and turned around twice, exactly as she had done in rehearsal. Then she stepped down into the room, to follow the path that wound around the tables.

“Mrs. Charles Atchinson wears a white maillot suit especially designed for Dayton's by Lois Melin. A deep V neckline sports adjustable straps that cross in back. Detailed shirring at one side and a darling low-cut back are flattering to every figure. A matching three-quarter-length mesh knit cover-up makes this the perfect outfit on the beach or at poolside. Earrings and bracelet by Moira Adams of California are available in Dayton's Mod Shop.”

Kay waited until the announcer had finished. Then she turned again and started down the path between the tables. She had to make a circuit of the entire room so the audience could ask questions about the outfit. A heavyset man with a beard sat at one of the front tables. He looked vaguely familiar. Kay shivered as he reached into his pocket. She had to use all her self-control to keep from whirling and running toward the exit. He could be reaching for a gun!

Her knees began to shake as she approached the table. Then she saw his name tag and almost laughed out loud in relief. Ralph Santiago. No wonder he looked familiar! She had met him at rehearsal. He was the publicist for Dayton's.