Carol O’Connell - Crime School

‘I’d be guessin’.’ The prostitute’s hand closed over the money. ‘Only guessin’ – hear me? Sparrow might’ve mentioned Frankie D. You remember that twisted little bastard?’

Riker nodded. Frankie Delight had been that rare drug dealer who was not strictly cash-and-carry. ‘So Sparrow was trading skin for drugs?’

‘No, she’d never do that freak for a fix. I don’t care how bad she was hurtin’. No, darlin’, she was tradin’ brand-new VCRs. Still in the cartons. One of Tall Sally’s jobs went wrong and – ’

‘I know that story,’ said Riker. And ten-year-old Kathy Mallory would have been on the stealing end of that arrangement.

The great VCR heist.

He remembered the report from Robbery Division. A patrolman’s log had mentioned sighting suspicious persons in the vicinity of the crime, among them a little blond girl with green eyes. Lou Markowitz had read him the details, then said, in a tone between awe and pride, ‘The kid robbed a damn truck.’

Daisy nudged Riker’s arm to call him back to the world, asking, ‘Whatever happened to Frankie?’

Riker had never been certain until now. ‘I heard he left town.’ One could say that the dead were way out of town. ‘So, Daisy, what’s Sparrow been up to? You guys keep in touch?’ He doubted that this whore read the papers, and her television set would have been pawned long ago to buy drugs.

‘No, we don’t talk no more.’ She stared at the bottom of her glass. ‘Not for a long time. But I did hear a rumor today. Some bitch told me that Sparrow was the hooker who got herself strung up last night. Well, I knew that wasn’t true. My Sparrow got clean – kicked them drugs. And she stopped liftin’ her skirt for a livin’. That was years ago, darlin’. Years ago.’

He gave her another ten dollars. She snatched it from his hand, then climbed down from her bar stool and backed up all the way to the door, eyes trained on Peg Baily. Daisy whirled around and fled, rather than risk an injury by staying a second too long.

Riker ambled toward the end of the bar, where his partner waited, attracting stares from every man in the room. He sat down beside her. ‘Well, that was a waste of time. We’re not gonna find a stalker with hookers. Sparrow got out of the life years ago.’

Mallory the unbeliever shook her head. She would not seriously consider any good thing said about Sparrow.

Once a whore, always a whore?

‘How did it go with the theater group?’

‘That was a dead end,’ said Mallory. ‘Sparrow was a last-minute substitute in the play. None of those people met her before the rehearsal. And that was the day she was hung.’

‘Well, somebody got her that job. We might find a tie between Sparrow and Kennedy Harper.’

‘No, Riker. This wasn’t a Broadway production. She answered an ad posted on a supermarket bulletin board. The director gave her the part because she showed up in costume and knew all the lines.’

Riker tried to imagine Sparrow memorizing Chekhov. He drained his shot glass and laid his money on the bar. ‘So what’s next? Morgue time?’

‘No, Slope’s working on a fresher corpse right now.’

‘Okay,’ said Riker. ‘A local cop, Waller, looked over your videotape. He gave Janos a name and address for the man in the T-shirt and jeans. You know that big church on Avenue B?’

‘A priest?’

‘You got it.’ Riker stared at his empty glass, turning it over in his hands. ‘If you want off this case, I can work it alone.’

‘No.’ She gathered up her car keys, then left an obscene tip on the bar. ‘I’ll see it through.’

The East Village park was full of music, rock and rap, Hispanic and soul. It poured out of radios and CD players. Some youngsters sported earphones, and Riker had to guess their songs by the cadence of their struts, their bounces and glides.

At the heart of Tompkins Square was a stellar memory of the night his father had thrown him out of the house – an elegant solution to the problem of a teenager’s dissident music. Young Riker had waged a showdown in the old band shell, the spot claimed by another boy, whose music had been a self-portrait, cool and dark, a jazz riff played on a clarinet. Riker had shot back a volley of rock ‘n’ roll, louder and longer. And they had dueled awhile before laying down their instruments.

After a bloody fight, each boy had won his cuts and bruises. And after too many beers, they had ended the night blind drunk, arms wrapped round each other for support, one musically discordant creature in a four-legged stagger walk.

How he had loved those days.

Startled pigeons flew up in the wake of a passing boom box. Riker put out his cigarette and returned to the church, where he discovered that Mallory’s plan to torture a priest had somehow gone awry.

The church was no cathedral, but it held all the trappings of stained-glass windows, a giant crucifix and rows of votive candles blazing at the feet of plaster saints.

Mallory had laid out twenty dollars for a disposable camera just to rattle the priest, and the man’s laughter was a disappointment. He liked the idea of taking part in a photo lineup of murder suspects. ‘No, don’t smile, Father,’ she said. ‘So Sparrow belonged to your parish?’

‘Now how did you manage to make that sound like a guilty thing?’

Father Rose was having entirely too much fun sparring with her in this novel departure from a priest’s workday. She doubted that he would make her short list for a double hanging. She glanced at Riker, who sprawled in the front pew, waiting to play his role of the easygoing policeman, everybody’s friend.

Mallory lowered the camera so the priest could see her slow grin. She had a repertoire of smiles, and this one made people nervous. ‘A witness can place you at the crime scene last night.’

‘Yes, there was quite a crowd – even before the fire engine showed up.’ The priest turned to the side. ‘Want a profile?’ He froze in position, waiting for the flash. ‘Your witness is an old woman. Am I right? Very thick glasses? She was sitting in the window across the street, watching the whole show, and – ’

‘A show? Is that how you saw it, Father?’ She shot him again. ‘Why were you at the crime scene? Forget something?’

‘So I am a. suspect.’ He seemed almost flattered.

‘You were out of uniform last night.’

‘I leave the collar home when I work at the neighborhood clinic. I donate my time three nights a week. Mostly bandaging cuts, dispensing aspirins – that kind of thing.’

She looked up from the camera so he would have no trouble reading distrust in her eyes. ‘I want names. Who can vouch for your time – say an hour before the fire?’

‘The nurse who runs the clinic. We were leaving together when we heard the fire engines. Is this – ’

‘When did you talk to Sparrow last?’

‘Sunday, but I didn’t – ’

‘Did she mention any enemies? Somebody out to get her?’

The priest shook his head.

‘No? You don’t know or you won’t say? Want to lawyer up, Father? You have the right to an attorney during – ’

‘That’s enough, Mallory.’ Riker rose from the pew, acting the part of an annoyed superior. ‘Go check out his story.’

She walked down the altar steps, passing her partner as he climbed upward in dead silence. Riker was already departing from the script. There was nothing amiable in his face as he squared off in front of the priest. Mallory stayed to watch.

‘I know you tried to get access to that crime scene,’ said Riker. ‘My witness is no old lady. He’s a big hairy fireman.’

‘Yes, he must be the one who told me Sparrow was dead. Well, she’s Catholic. She was entitled to last rites.’