Speak of the Devil (8 page)

She said nothing, but she made a major show of settling into the chair opposite me. Our waitress came over. I ordered a seltzer with lime. Rebecca asked for a glass of chardonnay.

“Let me guess,” she said after the waitress had left. “You take the seat against the wall so you can keep an eye on the entire restaurant.”

“Elementary,” I answered.

“Everything I learned about law and order, I learned on my TV show.”

I couldn’t tell if she was trying to make a joke. And if you can’t tell, it’s not much of a joke.

“Fritz Malone,” she said. “What is that?”

“That’s me.”

“I know it’s you. I mean, it’s a funny name.”

“It’s German-Irish. I’m a melting pot.”

“You must drink a lot of beer. The Germans and the Irish.”

“What’s Gilpin?” I asked.

“English.”

“And may I say, you speak it well.”

“Oh, I see. He’s charming, too.”

I got down to it. “Mayor Leavitt is very concerned for your safety.”

The actress had pulled out a compact and checked in the little mirror to see if she was still there. She seemed satisfied that she was. She clicked it closed. “The police killed that monster who murdered all those people.”

Leavitt and Carroll had told me that Rebecca Gilpin was not being let in on the fact that Roberto Diaz had not been acting alone. She was under the impression that it was the concern over a copycatter that was the reason for my being hired.

“This town is full of kooks,” I said.

She was studying me. “You’re that man, aren’t you? I just recognized you. You’re the one who yelled up at me this morning just before the shooting started. You threw something at me.”

“Bagels.”

“Were you already protecting me? Did Marty hire you to keep an eye on me during the parade?”

I ignored the question. I had one of my own that needed answering. “Did Mayor Leavitt talk to you about canceling your appearance in the parade today?”

“Yes.”

“Did he explain why?”

“He said his police commissioner had made the request. It’s because Marty and I have been seeing each other. The commissioner just thought it would be a good idea if I kept a low profile. Hello? It’s called
show
business?”

Our drinks arrived. The waitress fawned over Rebecca. She mentioned that she had tickets to see the show. My guess was that the waitress was an actress herself. Waitress? This part of town? Not exactly an Olympian deduction on my part.

Rebecca lifted her glass. “You didn’t tell me what you thought of the show.”

“I don’t see a lot of musicals.”

“So you didn’t like it.”

“They’re not my flavor.”

“You can say it, you know. I won’t be offended.”

“I didn’t like it.”

“None of it?”

“I enjoyed the intermission.”

She paused with the glass near her lips. “That’s cold.”

She took the sip. She was dressed in a black sweater with a plunging neckline. Probably cashmere. It brought out the extraordinary alabaster of her skin.

“Do you have any reason to think that someone might want to hurt you?” I asked. “I don’t mean because you’re involved with the mayor. I mean because you’re you. Have you gotten crank letters in the past? Any problems with fans? Stalkers, that kind of thing?”

“I was on a popular television show for five years. I played the bad girl. I got letters from people who loved me and people who hated me.”

“The ones who hated you—any in particular who wrote you more than once?”

“I’m sure there were. You’d have to ask my publicist. I receive far more letters than I’ve got time to answer. Between the regular letters and the e-mail, we’re talking in the thousands.”

“That’s a lot of fans.”

“My character was extremely popular. Did you ever see the show?”

“I’m not big on television.”

“I’m getting the idea that you’re not big on entertainment in general.”

“That would be the wrong idea.”

She poked her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “What, then? I don’t see you as the go-to-poetry-readings type.”

“I pop up in all sorts of peculiar places,” I said. “That’s one of the great things about this town. More peculiar places than anywhere on earth.” I took a sip of my seltzer. “Okay. Here’s how it works. I’m going to be your shadow for at least the next couple of days. This means I’m in the lobby of your building when you leave in the morning, or whenever it is you leave. I’m there to wish you night-night. If you’re going night-night someplace other than your apartment, then I’m there as well. Not to be personal, but I’m guessing this would be Gracie Mansion. In which case I’ll pass you off to Martin Leavitt’s people. When you travel, I’m in your taxi. No subways or buses, but I suspect that’s not really a problem for you. If you go shopping, lucky me. I go, too. We don’t have to
be
together. If you’re having lunch with someone, I don’t have to be at the table. But you’re not out of my sight. And I’m going to give you a cell-phone number to call if you see or hear or taste anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. Anything. And I don’t want you opening your mail. Don’t even take it out of your mailbox. I’ll do that. We might suspend delivery and keep it down at the post office. The same with packages. Especially packages. I’ll have your doorman hold all deliveries. This guy Diaz worked for a messenger service. Nice way to deliver bad news, yes? And no takeout, obviously. If someone you know is coming to visit you, tell them to wait for you in the lobby. That’s where I’ll be. You’ll phone me on my cell and let me know and I’ll escort them up to you. I would prefer if you kept the number of people who know you’re under my protection to an absolute minimum. What people like to call a need-to-know basis. Certainly don’t tell the media. If I had my way, I’d have you stop doing your show for the time being, but I already know I’m not having my way. When you go places, don’t pause in doorways. Get in, get out. If you want to take a car service, I arrange for it, you don’t. During your show, I’ll be all over that theater, backstage and out front. I’d prefer if you didn’t go out for drinks after the show, but I’ll let you arm-wrestle me on that one if you’d like.” I gave her a smile. “Finally, don’t accept candy from strangers and don’t take any wooden nickels.”

“Will you be by my side to help me brush my teeth?”

“No, ma’am. But keep the bathroom door closed and locked when you’re doing it.”

She gave me an appraising look. “That was quite a monologue. Have you ever thought about taking up acting?”

“I can’t guarantee your safety, Miss Gilpin. But I can guarantee that anyone with an idea of wanting to harm you is going to have to work pretty hard to do it.”

“Rebecca,” she said.

The sound of the explosion came a half second behind the bright flash. It came in two stages, the second almost instantly atop the first. The first was like a large growl. A rumble. With the flash, I sprang to my feet and had already launched across the small table when the second sound arrived, and with it the bursting of wood and metal and glass.

Rebecca and I hit the floor together. I managed to slip my hand behind her head as we hit, giving it at least a little cushioning. Dishes and glass and wood and food and silverware rocketed over us. We were pelted, me more than her, as I had landed fairly square on top of her. A piece of the ceiling landed next to my head in a plume of plaster dust. I felt a sharp jolt to the small of my back, near my shoulder. At the same time, the roar was replaced by an anguished female scream from somewhere near the front of the restaurant. “
Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God
!”

The sound of a wailing car alarm was coming in from where the restaurant’s front window had been. My eyes stung from the plaster dust, but I opened them anyway. Rebecca’s face was inches away. There was a hook-shaped gash on her cheek and a nasty split in her lower lip. Her face was covered by a film of plaster dust.

Her eyes were not open.

A droplet of some sort plunked abruptly onto her cheek, followed by another, then another. The plaster dust absorbed the water where it hit and then began to streak in globby trails along her face. It was water from the sprinkler system. I twisted my head to see a pipe dangling from the ceiling. I also saw utter destruction up at the front of the restaurant. There was a big empty nothing where the coat-check closet had been.

I started to move, and pain shot through my left shoulder. I flinched. Water from the sprinkler was falling like mist from a fountain. Below me, Rebecca’s eyes fluttered open. I should have been relieved. Not to say I wasn’t on some level. But a mantra was already going through my head, which was beginning to feel like
it
had exploded.

Margo is safe. Margo is safe. Margo is safe . . .

I MUST HAVE RESEMBLED A KID BUILDING A PLAY FORT. WITH MY ONE arm that worked, I dragged two upended tables together in front of Rebecca Gilpin and created a little wall. Then I pulled my gun from my shoulder holster and, on my knees, rose up and peered over the wall.

Bang-bang.

Our waitress was on her hands and knees looking like someone trying to find a contact lens. Her blouse had been blown half off, and her exposed right arm was riddled with thick red dots. The restaurant had been only moderately full. Most of the patrons I spotted were moving, though some more slowly than others. There were groans and soft cries rising into the hazy air. I spotted a hand on the floor near where the waitress was crawling. When I realized that it was no longer attached to its arm, I bit clean through my lower lip. The sprinkler system had ceased. There were no fires. The floor was a thick milky puddle, with swirls of pinkish blood mixed in.

People were already coming in off the street to help or just to witness the chaos. I braced myself. This is what the more insidious bombers want, a fresh new crowd for explosion number two. Moths to the flame. I eyeballed each person who came high-stepping into the rubble. The other possibility would be that one of these people was picking his or her way through the mess to see if the target had been hit. I had no way to be certain, but I would have given better than even odds that the target was currently on the floor on her back, behind my little homemade fort.

The safety was off. My finger was on the trigger.

My heart was banging against its cage, trying to get out.

Rebecca let out a groan. “I can’t move.”

“Don’t try.”

She groaned again. I checked over the edge of my tables to be sure no one was marching toward us, then I turned and gave Rebecca a quick once-over. I didn’t like what I found below her waist. Specifically, the left leg. A nasty chard of polished wood was lodged in her thigh, just above the knee, which itself looked like a bruised apple. Blood was pumping in small steady pulses from the thigh.

I set down my gun and scrambled around for a pair of cloth napkins. I knotted them together, then took hold of the two ends and spiraled the cloth into a narrow coil. I grabbed a small column of wood that looked like it might have come from a chair leg.

“Excuse me.” Pulling Rebecca’s torn skirt up to her waist, I held the piece of wood in place on the bottom of her thigh with the doubled napkins, then brought the two ends up around the thigh, crossed the ends of the napkins and bore down with all my strength, tying them off in a secure knot.

Rebecca asked, “What are you doing?”

“Hold on.”

I located two more napkins, knotted them as I had the others, spiraled them and wrapped them around her thigh below the rig I’d just secured. I tied this one off even tighter than the first. Only then did I work the ugly sliver of wood from her leg.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

The blood was still oozing from the wound, but as I watched, the pulsing seemed to lessen. I picked up my gun and raised myself to look over the upturned tables.

A blue and red light was flashing on the faces of the people gathered outside the restaurant. The cavalry had arrived. I flipped the safety back on and holstered my gun. There was a small crowd of people standing near the remains of the coat-check closet. As I stood up, two of the people moved away, and I saw what they’d been staring at. It was the Asian coat-check woman. I recognized her red beret. It was still on her head, which was still on her shoulders, which were still part of her torso. But that was where she stopped.

My kicking the nearest upturned table proved enough—I discovered later—to run a hairline fracture on my little toe. I turned not a few heads from the grisly sight as I unceremoniously lost it.

“Goddammit!”

CAPTAIN REMY SANCHEZ OF MIDTOWN NORTH’S HOMICIDE DIVISION did some kicking of his own, but he had wisely picked a safer target: a harmless piece of plaster exploded into dust against the toe of his shoe.

“Copycat, my ass. What kind of a fool do you take me for, Malone?”

The fact is, I didn’t take Remy Sanchez for anything remotely close to a fool. Sanchez was a thirty-odd-year veteran of the force who, through patience, solid work and, some would say, an uncanny ability to learn little tidbits about his superiors that those superiors would as soon no one know, had climbed steadily up the thin blue ladder from his days as a beat cop in Fort Apache in the Bronx to the point where he could now look out over a vast array of uniformed men and women and tell them what the hell they were supposed to do. He was a gentle-looking man. The eyes of a poet. Tight black curls showing inroads of gray. Married with children. I had met his wife on several occasions. She was quiet, nice. One got the feeling that if anyone ever harmed a hair on her head, calm and steady homicide captain Remy Sanchez would quietly see to it that it was the last hair on the last head that the person ever had the opportunity to harm.

He obviously wasn’t buying the copycat story. I hadn’t thought he would, but it was my job to stick with it.

“Okay, Malone. Look me in the eye and tell it to me again. Roberto Diaz takes a shot at Miss Gilpin as he’s spraying bullets all over the Thanksgiving Day parade, and not fifteen hours later, some fry brain who has also gotten the bright idea to go after the mayor’s special friend is up and running with a fripping
bomb
that he manages to place in the coat-check room of a joint where Miss Gilpin is sipping merlot with a private eye?”