Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

Fox asked, “So where do you hail from, Miss Burrell?”

“I’m from Pennsylvania originally. New Hope. But I’ve lived in Manhattan the last six years.”

“Do tell. What part?”

“ Upper West Side.”

“Jews and Commies, I know it well. Which are you? Are you a Commie?”

“Me?” She laughed. “No.”

“Jew?”

“I’m a Quaker.”

“Quaker? Good Lord woman. I love thou people’s oatmeal. Upper West Side, huh? Ever since I hit town I’ve been an Upper East Sider myself, though the fact is I ran away from home a few months ago. Maybe you heard. You probably have. My so-called private life seems to have taken up residence on Page Six these days. Now I guess I’m a Jew and a Commie.”

“Excuse me?”

“ Upper West Side. I’m holing up on Central Park West.”

“I’m on Seventy-first,” Robin said. “About halfway down from the park.”

“You don’t say.” Fox touched her lightly on the arm. Robin could have sworn she felt a tiny electric shock. “How sweet is this? You’re practically the girl next door. You and I should meet up in the park sometime and walk our dogs together.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

Fox made a face. “I thought all of Manhattan ’s beautiful women had dogs. We’ll have to do something about that. I’ll tell you what, New Hope. May I call you New Hope?”

Robin laughed. “If you want.”

“I want. Listen, New Hope. Maybe I can come by your place sometime and you can take me out for a walk. How does that sound? Forget the dog. Walk the Fox. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think you-”

Fox clapped his hands together. “Good. Excellent. I like this. This is good. You know, I’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of people long enough. This will be good. So when are you free?”

“I’m not sure if-”

“Tuesday?” He put a hand to his ear. “Is that what you said? Good Lord, I’m free Tuesday, too! What are the chances? Now, please don’t go getting yourself another dog between now and then, dear New Hope. I happen to be well trained, but I do still bite. Sometimes. Maybe you can do something about that for me. We’ll have to see.”

Up on the patio, one of the guests let out a peal of laughter that sounded exactly like that of the Wicked Witch of the West. Fox glanced over his shoulder then turned back to Robin. His voice lowered, as did his manic energy. He leaned closer. “Whatever you’ve heard about me, New Hope, I want you to know that only half of it’s true. Swear to God.”

In the wee hours of the morning, as Robin bunched her pillow under her chin and opened herself to the oncoming sleep, a voice in the deep recesses of her mind thought to ask the right question.

Which half?

THE COFFEE WAS COLD long before it was gone. I poured the final inch onto the snow. A squirrel that had been clinging stock-still to a nearby tree scampered down to investigate. He sniffed at the mocha snow then looked up sharply at me. With attitude. That’s your New York squirrel.

A light snow had started to fall. I was halfway across the park when my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket.

“Where are you?” It was Charlie Burke.

“You’ll never guess. You caught me on a beach in Tahiti. I wish the girls back home would take up this whole grass-skirt thing. It’s a winner.”

“You wish. Come on, where are you?” He sounded urgent.

“I’m in Bryant Park.”

“Well, you want to get up to Central Park right away. To the Boathouse.”

“And why do I want to do this, Charlie?”

“I spoke with Margo earlier today. She told me you’ve been helping that girl that got killed last night.” He paused, and I expected him to say that Margo had also told him we’d had an argument about it, but he didn’t go there. “She says you’re nosing around in the girl’s murder.”

“I never said that.”

“Right. Margo mentioned that, too. But she can tell. My kid’s got good instincts, Fritz. Besides, you don’t always hide things too good.”

“There are people who might consider that a virtue,” I said. “So what’s happening at the park?”

“I’ve been monitoring.” Ever since losing the use of his legs, Charlie had transformed the office in his house into what his wife called the House of Wires. Charlie was more up to speed on computers and the Internet than I’d ever be. He also had two television sets; he kept one tuned to NY1 and used the other for channel surfing. Plus, he monitored the police and fire department frequencies religiously. He went on, “Your girl with the cut throat? Looks like she’s got company.”

I stopped in my tracks. Literally. “There’s been another murder?”

“Somebody out there is a very busy boy,” he said dryly. “Not to mention a very angry one. This doesn’t look good, Fritz.”

“Who says it’s related to Robin Burrell?”

“First officer on the scene got a little too excited just now. Called in a thirty-c then started blabbing, ‘Same as last night, same as last night.’”

Thirty-c is police code for homicide by cutting. I switched directions and angled toward Sixth Avenue. “You said the Boathouse?”

“That’s what I’m hearing.”

“And you got this when?”

“It’s fresh, buddy. Not two minutes ago. You hurry, you’ll beat the mobs.”

I pocketed the phone and took off running.

THEY WERE STILL STRETCHING the tape when I arrived. A crime-scene photographer was leaning against a police van, fiddling with his camera. The snow was coming down a bit harder, and he was shading the camera from getting wet. The body was just off the trail leading up from the small parking area of the Boathouse Café into what’s called the Ramble. If you want to take a curvy path through the woods of Central Park, or if you want to go see rats the size of small dogs, or if having sex with a fellow anonymous adventurer of the same sex is your bag, then the Ramble is your place. The person who had happened upon the body and phoned it in was a pasty-faced blond man with a walrus mustache, a faded Greek fisherman’s cap and leather chaps. I don’t know, maybe he was looking at the rats.

Joseph Gallo was conferring with one of his officers. His long camel coat hung on him beautifully. Of course. He and his fellow officers were standing next to a large boulder, the trail twisting out of sight behind it. Atop the boulder, a pair of crows were pecking angrily at the snow. I waited next to a small tree until Gallo looked up and saw me. He said something to the uniformed cop then stepped over to me.

“Let me guess. You were just cutting through the park on your way to the ice rink.”

“Those aren’t the kind of guesses you can build a career on.”

“You seem to be my brand-new shadow, Malone. What gives?”

“Charlie Burke plucked the thirty-c out of the air. He says it smells like Robin’s killer.”

“Yeah, I was just giving Officer Loudmouth over there a talk about that. I told him next time why don’t you just call the media directly.” He shot his cuffs to tap a finger against his watch. “I give them five minutes tops.”

“You could seal off the park.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the precious First Amendment? What do you take me for, a stinking Commie?”

“Sorry, Joe. Must’ve confused you with someone else.”

Gallo grunted a laugh. “Believe me, after today I’m going to wish I was someone else. Goddamn back-to-backs not more than eighteen hours apart. This is most definitely not the way we’re supposed to start the New Year.”

“And we’re talking the same killer?” I asked. “You’ve already determined that?”