Carol O’Connell - Winter House

When Riker had been apprised on the fine points of Mallory’s interview, he sipped his coffee and grinned at Charles. „So Mallory promoted you to snitch. Good job. Take a nose count when you show up for dinner. There might be somebody living there that we don’t know about, maybe the one who wrote this letter.“ He handed over a clear plastic bag containing a sheet of paper. „We took that from the dead man’s lawyer. It came with a boxful of money.“

Charles read the scant information neatly typed. It mentioned the name of the client and an arrangement for more money if the bail hearing was successful. „My God, I should’ve recognized him from his picture in the newspaper. This is the dead burglar, isn’t it? Willy Roy Boyd?“

„Keep that to yourself,“ said Mallory. „Can you tell us anything helpful?“

Charles shook his head. „Bare sentence fragments. No style or turn of phrase to give the writer away. I can tell you that you’re not dealing with an idiot. Does that help you?“

No, apparently not.

„Sorry.“

An afternoon of begging for warrants had come to a bad end. District Attorney John J. Buchanan had personally turned down the last request for assistance from his office. In a rare exception to protocol, he had granted an audience to mere detectives, and that alone had been enough to make Riker suspicious.

The DA had made it clear that the Smyth firm was unassailable and off-limits to the NYPD. That directive had included Bitty Smyth, a former member of that firm.

It was dark when the partners returned to SoHo, and Riker was gearing up for another unpleasant confrontation as they left the car and headed down the street to a familiar haunt. „Well, it’s an election year,“ he said, as they walked along. „Smyth must be a big contributor to the DA’s war chest. Damn Buchanan.“

They stopped by the window of a brightly lit cafe across the street from the station house. The table on the other side of the glass was littered with guidebooks and cameras, and the chairs were filled with middle-aged ladies.

Damn tourists.

All the cops in sight had had the decency to take other tables. A gray- haired woman sat in the chair once occupied by Mallory’s foster father. Unaware that she was trespassing, this tourist looked up to see the young homicide detective’s face close to the window and those cold eyes like oncoming bullets. Apparently the mayor’s new handout sheet for visitors had included tips that were actually helpful, like – never make eye contact with the sociopath, for now the woman quickly looked down at her menu, wishing the green-eyed apparition away.

Riker nudged his partner. „They’re ordering dessert. We can come back later.“

No, that would have been too easy.

The woman seated in the dead man’s chair looked up to the window again, and now her companions were also curious. This was Mallory’s cue to clear the table – quickly and efficiently. Before his partner could casually draw back one side of her blazer to terrorize these out-of-towners with the display of her shoulder holster, Riker said, „No, let me do it this time. Just wait here, okay?“

He entered the cafe and hunkered down by the ladies’ table. Softly, he spoke to them about the young woman on the other side of the window glass, the one with the very disturbing eyes. Really just a kid, he said to them. He talked about her foster father, a late great cop, and how Kathy Mallory had never come to terms with the fact that she would never see him again. It was too hard to believe that Lou Markowitz would not be sitting at this very table each time she came by the cafe. And here Riker paused a beat to rap the table – softly.

There was always this little moment of pretend, he told the ladies, before the kid turned to the window to see that the old man’s chair was empty. And then she would come in and sit down to wait for him because, bless the old bastard’s soul, he was always late. And, just for a little while, Lou was still alive. He had never died in the line of duty and left his kid all alone in Copland.

Just a kid, he said once more.

And he told them about Gurt, the waitress who had kept this table clear of other patrons at this same hour, until the day, not long ago, when she had retired. So now the girl had also lost another fixture in her life. Ah, Gurt, he said to them, that saint (a sarcastic old bat who should have retired years ago). And so, as the ladies could see – he pointed to Mallory now – the kid did not handle change very well. It… disturbed her.

They all turned to the window, as if waiting for Mallory to cry. They would wait forever.

He was still talking as these women rose from their chairs, all smiling with their kind faces from the heartland of America, where all the good people lived. They picked up their plates and glasses, silverware and napkins, and moved to a vacant table at the back of the room. Riker faced the window, but Mallory was gone.

„What did you say to them?“ She was behind his back, and he jumped. One hand went to his heart – still beating – just checking.

„I told them the truth,“ he said, and that should shut her up. Mallory had difficulties with that simple concept. And the idea of human kindness would give her even more trouble.

When they were seated and waiting for their meal, Riker continued to parcel out the story of Nedda, a.k.a. Red Winter.

„You’ve seen the painting,“ he said. „I guess everybody has. But back in the day – remember this is the forties – a nude painting of a little girl was a shock and a half. In the other paintings the kid had clothes on, but the nude was the biggest one, nine feet tall. And Nedda was only eleven years old then. The cops raided the art gallery and took all the paintings away.“

„The artist was her father, right?“

Riker nodded. „Her rich father. I guess that’s why the whole thing blew over – one headline in the papers, then nothing. Some of the books about Red Winter figured her for a runaway because Daddy was a freak. And some say she killed him.“

„And everyone else in the house?“ Mallory shook her head. „A little girl on a murder spree doesn’t work for me.“

That had been predictable. His partner favored money motives.

„Hey,“ said Riker, „I can only tell this story the way it was told to me. You wanna hear it or not?“

He knew that she did. Her chin lifted slightly, a vow to behave, and she was his old Kathy for a moment, just another little girl sitting around a cop-shop, surrounded by men with guns and human scum in handcuffs.

Riker had sometimes done midget duty in the after-school hours, making sure the tiny, semireformed street thief would not rob the place while her old man had been occupied with more hard-core criminals. Riker had kept Lou’s foster child honest by telling her all of his handed-down family stories from the days of Legs Diamond, Lucky Luciano and Murder Incorporated – murders by the dozen in every tale.

What a deal.

Young Kathy had never gotten such bloody treats at home. Her foster mother would never have allowed it. Gentle Helen Markowitz had always held the strange notion that Kathy Mallory was a normal child, one who might have bad dreams of the bogeyman. What Helen had never understood was that little Kathy had the early makings of the bogeyman’s nightmare.

„Anyway,“ said Riker, „after the raid on the art show, Quentin Winter’s daughter is famous. Everybody, uptown and down, has a theory on what goes on inside Winter House. Then one day, a year later, the cops get a call from another litde girl. She tells ‘em she just got home from the park with her brother, Lionel. The whole house is dead – that’s the way she put it – except for the baby. And the baby’s crying. The litde girl on the phone says her name is Cleo. She was only five years old.“