Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

“And this person contacted both of you?” Gallo asked.

Riddick answered, “That’s right. Short and sweet. ‘I’ve got Marshall by the balls, now what are you going to do about it?’”

Megan addressed Fox. “So you decided to tell us the news before this friend of yours did?”

“I never called her a friend.”

“But that’s what you decided?”

“That’s right. If you’re going to hear this anyway, I want it to be from me. Mouthpiece here wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. My word against hers and all that. But I’m not a fool. How would I look if I held back on this and you found out from some other source?”

“You did hold back,” Megan reminded him.

“Well, I’m laying it out now, aren’t I?”

Gallo said, “It would help if you’d be willing to tell us the identity of this person.”

Fox shared a glance with Riddick, then with Alan Ross. “We’ve all sort of decided there’s no point in that, Lieutenant. If she’s looking for publicity, we’re damn well not going to give it to her.”

“I’m correct, though, that this is someone close to you?”

Alan Ross answered, “A person in Marshall’s position attracts a lot of people. They’re like barnacles. This was one of his barnacles.”

“I understand.”

“The point is,” Fox said, “all those calls you’re probably getting, this one would have credibility. So I decided to preempt it. I thought I’d go ahead and take me a chance with the truth.” He smiled at Megan. “Hell of a concept, isn’t it?”

AN ELDERLY COUPLE WAS on the elevator when it arrived. Megan and Gallo rode in silence. Once they reached the street, Gallo asked, “What did you make of all that?”

“He killed her, Joe. He killed them both.” Megan craned her neck, looking up at the apartment building. “Bastard.”

Gallo unlocked the driver’s-side door. “He got the woman pregnant. It’s a far leap from that to murder.”

“When I went to look for the bathroom, I made a wrong turn and found myself in Fox’s bedroom.”

Gallo’s eyes narrowed. “Very clumsy of you.”

“Yes, it was. Since I was there, I went ahead and conducted a quick unlawful search. The unflappable Mr. Fox likes to play with handcuffs, Joe. I found a pair in his bedside table. Top drawer.”

“Lots of people have handcuffs, Megan. You have handcuffs.”

“But do lots of people have this?” She pulled something flat and pale blue from her pocket.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a sympathy card for Cynthia Blair’s family. It never got delivered. It was in the top drawer, too.”

“A sympathy card.”

“A blue one.”

“And you’re making a point with this card?”

Holding the envelope by the edges, Megan worked the card out and handed it to her boss. Gallo handled it gingerly. The fuzzy photograph on the front was of a disembodied hand holding a large bouquet of flowers.

IN SYMPATHY FOR YOUR LOSS

“When Nikki left her apartment the night she was killed, she had a square blue envelope with her. Open it.”

“Anything we learn from this is completely inadmissible. This is stolen property.”

“I’ll return it when we’re arresting Fox.”

“You mean plant it?”

“I mean return it.”

“I don’t like this, Megan.”

“Sorry, but I don’t want him destroying it. He’s been a fool to keep it as it is.”

“Taking something from a suspect’s residence is just as foolish.”

“Fine. He’s a fool and I’m a fool. But he’s a fool who killed two women in cold blood. The way I score it, this makes me the one with some latitude. Why don’t you just look at the card and we can talk about it later.”

Gallo opened the card and read the printed inscription. It was a six-line verse, a message of sympathy as disembodied as the fuzzy hand on the front. But it wasn’t the inscription that was holding the detective’s focus. It was the personalized scrawl beneath it. Gallo gazed at the inscription for nearly ten seconds while Megan dropped onto the hood of the car. “Well?”

Joe Gallo turned his gaze to the apartment building. Specifically, up to the twenty-sixth floor. His whistle was low and strong.

“Well, holy shit.”

“WE HAVE JUST LEARNED that Marshall Fox has surrendered to authorities in the matter of the brutal slayings of Cynthia Blair and Nicole Rossman. The popular late-night entertainer, accompanied by his wife and his lawyer, was taken into custody at approximately ten-thirty this morning at the couple’s Upper East Side apartment and brought here to police headquarters at the Twentieth Precinct. Sources tell me that at this moment, Mr. Fox has not yet been formally charged, but we do expect within the hour to hear that the host of Midnight with Marshall Fox will in fact be charged in the slayings of Ms. Blair and Ms. Rossman. It’s all quite something. Just several days after Ms. Blair’s murder, not yet a month ago, Mr. Fox vowed tearfully on his television show that he would do anything in his power to bring his former colleague’s killer to justice. It’s too early to say with anything approaching certainty, but it may well be that with his arrest this morning, Mr. Fox has begun to make good on his promise. This is Kelly Cole, reporting live from the Upper West Side. Back to you in the studio.”

ROSEMARY FOX EYED the scrum of reporters and cameramen gathered on the sidewalk outside her building, and she instructed her driver to keep driving.

“Anywhere. Just get away from here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rosemary lit a cigarette and cracked the tinted window half an inch. She stared dully at the passing buildings. Marshall was sitting in a jail cell this very minute. Unbelievable. Totally fucking unbelievable. At least Zachary had promised that Marshall would be issued his own cell. Fine. But he had also promised a discreet and orderly arrangement for Marshall to turn himself in that morning, and instead, that blond cookie had slapped handcuffs on Marshall and dragged him through the front lobby of the building like a common criminal. Infuriating. The poor boy. Rosemary had never seen such a look of helplessness on her husband’s face. All his cocksure silliness and charm had drained away at the sight of the handcuffs coming off that girl cop’s belt. She’d said something to him in a low voice, but Rosemary had missed it. In the insanity of the next several hours, she’d forgotten to ask Marshall what it was the little girl Kojak had said to him.

The phone mounted on the door chirped. Rosemary eyed the caller ID. Gloria Ross. Rosemary wasn’t sure she wanted to talk with Gloria right now. It was one thing if either of them had to be out on the coast the day Marshall was being arrested. That was the job. New York and L.A. But Alan was out there, too. He’d flown out suddenly two days before. How convenient, an entire country separating the Rosses from their soiled prodigy.

Maybe I’m just being harsh, Rosemary thought. I mean, really. What could Alan have done if he’d been in the East? Hold Marshall’s hand? He could make Marshall famous, he’d proved that, but he couldn’t make him invulnerable. Marshall had been an idiot. He’d knocked up his producer, and then he’d let himself get involved with that flat-backed, round-heeled, half-pint Barbie-doll tramp on the Internet. You plays your games, you takes your chances. Big. Stupid. Cowboy.

Rosemary lifted the phone.

Gloria sounded flustered. “Rose. I’m so glad I got you. Where are you, honey?”

“Hello, Gloria. I’m holed up in the backseat of the Town Car. I’m getting a tour of Manhattan. How’s the coast?”

Gloria Ross answered, “Dry, sunny, stale and full of phonies. Listen, honey, Alan is going to be back in the city tomorrow afternoon. He’s tied up in meetings all day. He’s over in Century City as we speak. He told me to tell you he’s thinking of you. How’s Marshall doing?”