Killing Critics

“Can you tell us anything about the killer?”

“The killer was reasonably well dressed. This wasn’t the typical art show. The opening was black tie, invitation only, and it was a money crowd. Mr. Koozeman tells us that at least ten percent of the gathering crashed the party, but a shabby dresser would’ve been stopped at the door. So we have very little interest in the unemployed, badly dressed psycho in the FBI profile.”

“You think the killer was an artist?”

“Well the idea was just creative as hell, wasn’t it? It’s someone with a background in art, but it could just as easily be a collector.”

Another hand went up, and Coffey noted that all requests for time were going through Mallory now. With a curt nod, she recognized a woman in the front row.

“What about this art terrorist angle, Mallory?”

“That’s a joke. Only the lunatic on the roof of Bloomingdale’s has made that co

“So the FBI is dead wrong on almost all counts, is that what you’re saying?”

“But we certainly appreciate all their help,” said Mallory.

The reporters politely restricted themselves to sniggers and other sounds muffled by tight lips. When the FBI agent had lost his ramrod posture to sink down in his chair, and Beale’s eyes were glistening with emotion, a small sprinkling of applause followed Mallory as she left her chair on the dais and walked toward Coffey at the back of the room.

Coffey put one hand on her shoulder and walked beside her through the wide door and down the quiet hallway. “I’ve never seen Beale look so happy. After that performance, you could commit murder and not wind up on Beale’s shit list.”

“Really?”

Coffey only had one bad moment, when it crossed his mind that she might translate that into a free kill. The moment passed in confidence that Markowitz had raised her to repress any grossly antisocial acts. But he wondered what the FBI profilers might have done with Mallory’s psych evaluation. He made a mental note to hunt down all her records, and to destroy the most damning lines. He was a good political animal, and if this case should go wrong, he would not like to find himself in front of the Civilian Review Board explaining why NYPD had a sociopath on the payroll.

A tall man was blocking the hallway. As they drew nearer, he recognized him, though he had only seen J. L. Qui

Qui

“I think we’ve covered that, Qui

He put his hand on her arm to detain her. She looked down at his hand, and he drew it back as though she had burned him.

Coffey willed her to be careful. This man was money, influence and power.

“There must be some other way I could help,” said Qui

Jack Coffey was suddenly very alert. There was something not right about this man. All his instincts told him a likely suspect was the one who tried to insinuate himself into the investigation. Well, maybe the attraction to the case was something as simple as Mallory’s pretty face.

She was staring at the man as though he had just crawled out of a sewer. “Qui

The implication was What use are you to me?

“Well, I expect you’ll be taking the case in new directions. You may have new questions,” said Qui

“All right,” said Mallory. “I want to know who your sister’s friends are. I want to know all the places where Sabra hung out before she disappeared.”

Now Coffey saw regret in Qui

He wouldn’t.

Suddenly, Coffey understood that Mallory had spent the last few minutes digging a deep hole for Qui

And what’s this? Plaid trousers? Flared? Andrew Bliss leaned over the wall, bullhorn at the ready, target in his sights.

“You down there, the man with the plaid clown suit!”

The man stopped.

“Yes, you! The sixties are done. Get yourself a life. Men’s-on the first floor-and hurry, for God’s sake.”

It was afternoon when he saw A

Throughout the day, crowds gathered and dispersed, as he periodically retired into a bottle to rest his voice and kill the pain of the previous night’s bottles.

There was one small horror, realized on his second day out: he had no shampoo, deodorant, soap, none of the little niceties. And today, he was down to his last bottle of designer water for his morning espresso. He had thought to cart up two potted trees, but no toothbrush or paste. Though he had many changes of clothing, his body had begun to stink. His hair had become greasy and matted. Experimental bathing in champagne had only brought down a plague of flies. And then there was nothing for it but to get drunk and drunker, until he could no longer feel the flies ru

A fat dollop of water splashed the bridge of his nose, calling his attention to the sky and the coming rain. He began picking through the mounds of material, sheets, towels and silk pajamas, searching for the rope with which to make his canopy of raincoats. Now he uncovered a woman’s hand, and he drew back too quickly, losing his footing and landing on his rear end with a look of dumb surprise. On all fours, he crept close to the hand protruding from the pile of cloth. It was a ma

He uncovered the ma

A small bell tinkled over the door as Mallory and Qui

They settled at one end of the bar. There were patrons up and down the length of mahogany. Mallory picked up a cocktail napkin and stared at the logo for the Hilda-Godd Bar. “I thought it was called Godd’s Bar?”