It Happens in the Dark (21 page)

Charles turned to the window. The moon was indeed lit like the slanted grin of a vanishing Cheshire cat.

Edward Slope killed all her joy in his own slaughter by simply laying his cards facedown in surrender. In a deviation from their personal war games, he failed to make the usual allusion to her childhood habit of dealing from the bottom of the deck. “I know what’s bothering you, Kathy. It’s all about style and odds. Am I right? Dickie Wyatt was the victim of a poisoner—not a slasher.”

What?
Three surprised men turned to the doctor, and Charles spoke for the lot of them, saying, “That was
murder
?”

Mallory glared at the chief medical examiner, who correctly interpreted her expression—her intention to gut him—and he smiled.

“Your secret’s safe.” After a glance around the table, Edward said, “They won’t tell anybody. . . . So first, Wyatt was poisoned. It would’ve been more logical to kill Peter Beck the same way. Why fool with success? And the two victims were on opposing sides. The motive for Beck’s murder won’t work for Wyatt. That’s also a problem, right?”

“But you’ve got it all figured out.” She tapped her long, red fingernails on the deck of cards, a clear warning that he was annoying her—and that should
stop
.

Delighted
, the doctor continued. “Your suspect pool is a small one—all theater people. Not a street gang, not a drug cartel. So you’ve got zero odds of
two
killers with unrelated motives. Fair enough? . . . Well,
I
say the director was poisoned in a failed attempt on the playwright. Now you’re down to only
one
killer, one motive for murdering Beck. And Wyatt’s death gets written off as collateral damage. Neat, isn’t it?” He puffed on his cigar and taunted her with a smile. “You
like
neat.”

In unison, the other three players, who comprised the gallery for this new game, turned to Mallory’s side of the table, awaiting her counter shot.

And she said, “You
know
Wyatt’s last bowl of chili was heavy on meat. But Beck only ate rabbit food. So, even if we make the stretch, and
assuming
those two would ever sit down at the same table—it’s not like they could’ve eaten the wrong meals by mistake. . . . I thought you
liked
logic.”

The three spectators turned back to Edward Slope for the next slam.

“That’s what
saved
the playwright,” said the medical examiner. “If the poisoner didn’t know—”

Mallory put up one hand to prevent him from finishing that thought. “The cast and crew ate lunch together. Everyone knew Beck was a vegetarian—everyone who might want him dead. Does that
simplify
things for you?”

The gallery nodded in unison, all three of them silently awarding her the game point. Ah, but wait. The doctor was showing signs of a rally.

“There
is
such a thing as vegetarian chili,” said Edward. “In any case, my logic still holds. You can’t argue with indisputable odds.”

Now it occurred to Charles that Mallory may have wanted that hair-strand test to look for evidence of a previous attempt on the playwright’s life—by a poisoner, lately turned slasher. Had this occurred to Edward? No, the doctor showed no poker tells for a trump card yet to play.

Edward Slope expelled cigar smoke, and now came the barely repressed smile that always accompanied a winning streak. “The odds are what they are, Kathy. You only get one motive to cover both victims.” His smile changed to the one that advertised his intention to needle her. “No other scenario is plausible . . . because you’ve only got
one
killer.”

“Sounds like a bet.” And perhaps just to drive the doctor insane, she said, “What are the odds I’ve got
four
killers?”

Edward’s smile was cagey. “You mean . . . conspiracy? That might only indicate guilty knowledge.” He had clearly seen that one coming, and now he dismissed it with a wave of his cigar. “Every conspirator faces a murder charge—even if they don’t do the hands-on killing.” He shook his head, feigning sadness, a suggestion that Mallory was off her game tonight.

Wrong.
That much was evident at a glance.

Working around the bylaws of the game, rules designed so that no player could lose more than ten dollars in one sitting, she held up a hundred-dollar bill, stating no bet, only saying, “I say what I mean. I don’t need conspiracy charges.
Four killers
.”

Judging by his rare air of confusion, Edward Slope knew nothing of the Rinaldi twins and their possible link to an old massacre. Yet now, for all the world and every poker chip thrown in, this esteemed forensic pathologist—who would have cheerfully bet against
two
killers—could not tell if Mallory was running a bluff with
four
of them.

It was a stellar moment in the annals of poker night. Charles knew that Robin and the rabbi shared this thought with him, and they were all somewhat humbled by it.

Poor Edward
had
to wonder. A poisoning and a slit throat were solo acts, were they not? And his morgue was short a few victims to fit her four-killers scenario. Or was there a cheat of words he had missed, some verbal variation on palmed aces and marked cards? The doctor had only to nod and the bet would be made—such easy money—but he just sat there, considering her angles,
paralyzed
with his wondering.

What was she was up to? Even Charles, a master of poker tells, could not tell.

Mallory’s
gotcha
smile was in place as she rose from her chair and left the table on that maddening note of impossible odds for a game that was not rigged—or even a game that was. And of
course
it was, though damned if the doctor knew how.

Ah, but making people crazy was her favorite sport and the only possible objective in this gambit. Or was it?

Well,
no
.

Charles now recognized Mallory’s sideways you’ll-never-see-this-one-coming maneuver. And it was foreseeable that Edward Slope would lose a night’s sleep. Come morning, the man would still lack a resolution for her wildly illogical count of killers. And then there was the wager. By habit, she only made sucker bets that she
could not lose
. And so,
starved
for logic, Edward would do the hair-strand test that she wanted for Peter Beck. Oh, yes. That seed planted, the doctor would first look there for something,
anything
that might have gotten past him, rather than face the humiliation of her
explaining
it to him.

How predictable.

Mallory had won, even though Edward, a most decisive man, was still stuck in wager limbo when she walked out the door.

ROLLO:
Granny was the last one. I remember the soles of her feet. Wet. Red. She’d walked through the blood of her daughters and her granddaughters.

—
The Brass Bed
, Act II

This stretch of Broadway had seen an era of elegant dining dissemble into honky-tonk days of performing fleas and whorehouses that later gave way to peep shows and then a drug trade, which in turn was replaced by giant cartoon characters, Jumbotrons—and a pizza parlor.

Charles Butler was accustomed to white linen laid with fine china and crystal—a far cry from the bare Formica tables and paper plates of this hole-in-the-wall establishment. It was smashed into the grand-scale circus of Times Square, where electronic animation and dazzle laid down a carbon footprint to shock the world—and
no
shame. He rather liked it.

The Theater District was the neighborhood of electricity. It was in the very air and also wired into one of his companions. There was a tempo to the gopher’s nervous energy. Feet tapping the floor, hands lightly slapping the tabletop, he was waiting—
waiting
—anticipating the psychologist’s first taste.

“This pizza crust is superb.” Charles smiled at the little man who had led them here. “Excellent choice.”

Bugsy ducked his head under the weight of this praise. The little man obviously lived to please, and now he continued his conversation with Mallory, she who
must
be pleased at all cost. “No, it was nothin’ personal, but Dickie never wanted Alma for that part, not from day one.”

After wolfing down his slice of pizza, the gopher elaborated on this for Charles’s benefit. “Ya see, the playwright rammed this girl down the director’s throat. That didn’t help. An’ we’re talkin’ Broadway here. Alma just wasn’t good enough to make the cut. . . . But, ya know? At the beginning, she wasn’t that bad. There were times when she made Dickie’s eyes light up. The talent was always there, but her boyfriend didn’t believe in acting classes. Peter didn’t have no use for directors, neither.”

Charles could tell that this was old news to Mallory. Nevertheless, she pushed her untouched paper plate toward the gopher—a reward that said,
Good dog—
and he grabbed up the pizza slice. She leaned back to watch him demolish his food. And when he was done chewing, she asked, “So how did Alma feel about the director?”

“She worshipped Dickie,” said the gopher. “He was God to her.”

This was clearly not what Mallory had expected. Her eyes narrowed as she leaned toward the gopher. “You told me he was riding her all the time.”

“He
was
. And Alma worked her tail off—just to get one payoff smile from him. That always put her over the moon. After Dickie left, her acting went down the tubes.”

“Something happened,” said Mallory, prompting him.

“Blame the drugs,” said Bugsy. “They make people crazy.”

The detective’s mouth was a grim line, a sign that her patience was frayed. She had been seeking an event, not a diagnosis.

Bugsy turned to Charles’s friendlier face. “Alma’s a little squirrelly. She thinks the ghostwriter’s after her. The poor kid.” The gopher’s sympathy was there to read in the simple lift of one thin shoulder. “She works so hard. But it’s hard to be good when she’s scared all the time . . . stoned all the time.” The little man looked down at his watch. “I gotta go. I can’t be late. This job’s all I got.” His anxiety was palpable, and yet he sat there waiting on the detective to release him. She nodded and, that quick, he was out the door and gone.

Mallory turned to Charles. “
Don’t
tell me he has a split personality. I don’t want to hear that.”

“Oh, no, nothing of the kind. Multiple personalities begin with early childhood trauma. Bugsy’s personality was fully formed long before his wife died. Based on what his mother told me, this current behavior was triggered by grief and—”

“Behavior? He’s
delusional
.”

Well, of course. So simple. Why had he ever bothered with all those years of schooling and training? “According to Mrs. Rains, her son was clinically depressed after the death of his wife. Now
that’s
a documented mental illness. I promise you Alan Rains did
not
wake up one morning as Bugsy the gopher. But it takes more than twenty minutes to do a proper evaluation. I’d need a few sessions alone with him.”

He was losing Mallory. She preferred speedy bullet replies over considered, thoughtful ones. Patience exhausted, she pushed back her chair and rose from the table. Raising one hand in goodbye, she walked toward the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” said Charles. “About that old sanity hearing years back. The court document might be useful if you can get me a copy.”

Well,
that
stopped her. Mallory turned around to face him. Was that surprise or suspicion in her eyes? Either way, this could not be a good thing.

“You’ve already
seen
it,” she said. Not asking.
Insisting
.

Charles shook his head.

The detective sat down at the table. “You’ve seen everything, the
whole wall
.”

“But no court transcript.” And it was not as if eidetic memory would allow him to forget a document like that one—or even a fly speck on her cork wall of papers, photographs and diagrams. “If it had been there, I would’ve—”

“No!” Mallory slapped the flat of her hand on the Formica. The table rocked on its uneven legs. And then she spat out, “Deberman!” At the mention of that name, Charles felt the heat of a blush coloring his face. She leaned toward him. “I believe you
met
him.” And, with more sarcasm, she said, “You
remember
that day.”

He was unlikely to forget grabbing a detective by the lapels of his coat and lifting the man off the floor—in defense of her honor. When word of that foolish altercation had gotten back to Mallory, had she laughed? The others did. Or had he merely annoyed her?

“
Think!
You were in the incident room. Where was Deberman standing when you went after him?”

“He was in front of your case wall. But I didn’t read any material that day. I was just waiting for—”

“After Deberman left, was there a blank space on that wall?”

Recently, her wall had become a bit jumbled with paperwork tacked up in the haphazard way of normal people who did not possess her mania for neatness. Though, he must say she had done her best to right many a wrong-hanging sheet. But on
that
day, the wall had been different; he had only taken notice of it because the paper display had been so obviously shaped by Mallory’s pathology—machinelike precision.

He looked down at a napkin and, upon that clean white field, re-created the earlier cork wall. Going back a bit in time, his job was made easier by Mallory’s meticulous pinning style, her creation of geometrical perfection. He saw it now, a square comprised of paper, each piece equidistant from the others to within the smallest increment of an inch.

And one hole in her pattern.

Yes, it was now very clear. The empty space was inches longer than the standard format for typing paper. He looked up to meet her eyes. “There was a blank spot in the upper left-hand quarter. . . . And it
was
the length of a legal document.”

“That was the transcript for the sanity hearing. . . . Now
Deberman
has it. And that bastard has my margin notes. He knows Alan Rains is Bugsy . . . and Bugsy is
crazy
.”

Guilt set in. Riker surely would have noticed the theft of the transcript that day—if not for the diversion of the thief dangling above the floor, shouting as he hung there, his feet kicking out in midair. Following that distracting scene, the hole must have been filled in by another piece of paper, someone else’s contribution to the wall.

“Delusional or not, I need Bugsy to be
legally
sane,” said Mallory, as if that would make it so. And now she tacked on her deadline.
“Today!”

•   •   •

Backstage, the actress reached out to grab Bugsy by the arm while he was on the run. He stumbled and stopped.

Oh, shit! Alma was high—eyes like shooting marbles. Cocaine again? And maybe some speed? Yeah. The girl was twitchy and quick, blocking his only exit, her hands slicing air fast as blades on a fan, locking him in between the stage manager’s desk and a wardrobe rack. Had the twins been at her again? The gopher looked at his watch, though the battery had died years ago. He must hurry.

Hurry where? Just now, he could not say.

Alma pressed both hands to her ears. “I
hear
things—nails scratching on the blackboard. And I hear footsteps behind me, but there’s no one there. Nobody believes me, not even the cops. The ghostwriter wants to hurt me, maybe
kill
me!”

Oh, Alma, come down from the ceiling. It’s not safe up there.

Poor kid, she’d get the boot from Cyril Buckner if he saw her this way.

“Hey, it’s not like you’re the only one to get spooked in this place.” Bugsy perched on the edge of the desk and nodded to the chair behind it. “Sit down. I’ll tell ya the story.”

Alma did take a seat, but she could not sit still. Her legs moved up and down like pistons, like she could run somewhere in a chair.

Bugsy told her the tale of another actress driven insane by a haunt. While he talked to her softly, she popped two pills, tiny white ones. Valium? Yeah.
Good.
And when his story was done, he said, “But here’s the kicker. That old bastard was
alive
when he drove that poor woman nuts. He wasn’t no ghost—not
then
. Ya get it? Nobody’s gonna get hurt. Theater ghosts don’t
do
shit like that. I’ll show ya.”

He hopped off the desk and unlocked a drawer to pull out the stage manager’s laptop. “There’s maybe forty theaters in this town, and they all got ghost stories.” He powered up the machine and tapped in the words
Haunted Theaters
to call up a website. “It’s all there. All the ghosts that never hurt nobody. You’re gonna be fine . . . just fine.”

She looked down at the lighted screen. And Bugsy ran away. He had nowhere else to be, but he could not be late.

•   •   •

More pills had gone down her throat to balance out the Valium, too much of it. She had crashed too fast, and nausea came on in a wave as she continued to scroll down the glowing pages of hauntings, though the words hardly registered anymore.

But her faith was strong.

Alma believed in the power of lucky shoes, broken mirrors, the jinx of the Scottish king—and the ghostwriter. Now the actress knew she was not going to find him on the Internet.

He was behind her
.

Though there was not much space between the wall and her chair, she sensed a presence within touching distance. She could
feel
eyes on her. She was deaf to Cyril Buckner calling her name from the stage.

“Alma?” Gil Preston touched her shoulder, stepping back a pace when she raised her arms to protect herself. “Alma, they need you onstage.” She stared at the beanpole boy, uncomprehending, and he had to say it again. “Cyril needs you
now
.”

The actress upset the chair in her rush to stand, and it crashed to the floor as she ran through the scenery door to find her mark on the floorboards, and she stood there to face the actor on the brass bed.

Axel Clayborne spoke his line, her cue, and—she—said—
nothing.

The new words were lost, and scary seconds were ticking by. Her mouth was dry. Her mind was blank. She turned to see Cyril Buckner’s angry face.
Panic time
. She fled the stage to collide with the stagehands in the wings. They followed her up the stairs to her dressing room. And when they were all locked inside, she looked down at her hands. Tremors! Christ! “I need something to—”

“We know what you need,” said Joe Garnet.

“I’m screwing up so bad. I’ll get canned if Cyril thinks I’m high, but my nerves—” And now her whole body quaked.

“It’s okay, we got a pill for that.” Ted Randal dropped a yellow tablet into her open hand.

“What’s this?”

“It’s what you need,” said the stagehand. “It’ll kill the shakes—
real
fast.” Ted produced another pill, a red one. “Give it a minute. Then take this chaser.”

With absolute trust in a doctor-patient relationship with her drug dealers, Alma put the teenager’s pill into her mouth. The panic dissipated. And so quickly. She raised one spread hand. Rock steady. But her mind was still blank.

Ted gave her the red pill. “This’ll get you up to speed.”

And it seemed like the pill was no sooner down her throat than—speed indeed—she was zooming. Her opening line popped back into her brain, and then the next line and the next.
Absolute focus
. Moving quickly through the door, she descended the stairs, three at a time—she could
fly
—stumbling only once in her hurry. She ran toward the stage—then stopped.

The actress shied back into the wings.

The others had not waited for her. The dresser, Nan Cooper, was playing the scene with Axel Clayborne, speaking Alma’s words as an overhead light bounced off a balding patch on the woman’s scalp.