Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

As I clicked robotically from station to station, I knew that Joseph Gallo could not be enjoying his morning coffee. I felt a little bad-but only a little-that I had lied to Gallo the night before. When I’d told one of the cops on the scene outside Robin Burrell’s building that I needed to speak with the detective in charge, it was primarily a preemptive move. I wanted to explain why it was that a competent check of the various fingerprints that were no doubt being lifted inside Robin’s apartment at that very moment was going to include the name of Fritz Malone in the results. I’d explained to Gallo that Robin Burrell had asked me into her home a few weeks before to take a look at the mail she’d been receiving as a result of her televised participation in the Fox trial. I told him that I had taken some of the letters and the printed-out e-mails out of the apartment, to give them some additional study. The e-mails weren’t so important-the police would be able to retrieve those from Robin’s computer-but I had the only copies of the letters.

My lie had been in telling Gallo that the letters were in Queens, at Charlie Burke’s house. Charlie is my friend, my former boss, my former partner, Margo’s father, all of the above. I told Gallo that I’d taken the letters and e-mails out to Charlie’s so that he could go over them with me. If the homicide chief had known that they were actually right across the street at Margo’s, he’d have had me fetch them right away. Gallo made me promise to bring the letters into precinct headquarters first thing in the morning.

I showered and broke a bagel with Miss Margo. She was still glued to the tube. I was feeling heavy and sluggish, and I guess it showed.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” Margo asked. “That is one of the advantages of being self-employed, you know.”

“It can also be one of the downfalls.” The TV was driving me nuts. It usually does. A photograph of Robin Burrell came on. I aimed the remote and clicked the set off, tossing the remote on the coffee table.

Margo frowned. “Hey.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, were they saying something new?” I hadn’t intended the note of sarcasm that leached in.

Margo smirked. “If it’s going to be another scintillating lecture about the media, please hold on while I get my notebook. I wouldn’t want to miss something.”

“Sorry.”

“I’ll say. You’re dragging around here like you’ve got a hairball you can’t cough up. Maybe you should go back to bed and get up on the right side. What’s going on?”

“I should have told her to get out of town for a while.”

Margo’s eyes narrowed. She lifted her coffee cup with both hands, floating it under her chin. “Oh. I see.”

“What do you see?”

“I see a little blame-gaming, that’s what.”

“She was concerned.”

“Of course she was concerned. There is a world of wackos out there, and she was exposed to God only knows how many of them. That doesn’t mean if one of them got to her it was your fault.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t look like you know that.”

“I could have told her to be more careful.”

“Stop it right there.” Her cup rattled to the table. “Look at me. Robin Burrell did not hire you. Okay? She was not one of your clients. She was not your responsibility. Capisce ? She was a neighbor to whom you were nice enough to lend an ear and take a look at some of her screwy fan mail.”

“One of her screwy fans, as you put it, might have slit her throat and trussed her like a calf and run a nail through her heart.”

“Maybe so. And thanks for the graphic reminder while we’re at it. But maybe not. There may be a hundred other answers to who did it, you don’t know. You do know what my dad says about jumping to conclusions.”

I did know. Charlie Burke was a walking, talking rule book of investigation techniques and pointers. Back when he was whipping me into shape, I wanted to strangle him sometimes, the way he peppered me with his aphorisms.

“The Sayings of Chairman Daddy,” I grumbled.

Margo’s voice lowered. “We can turn this thing nasty if you’d like.”

“Now who’s getting up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Hey, I’m trying to help you here.” She gestured toward the window. “You spent an hour in the woman’s apartment. You came over here with a pile of the woman’s mail. Maybe you even went and talked to her a second time, I don’t know. And now she’s dead. You have no connection with that whatsoever. You were the good guy. I don’t happen to think you have a single thing to regret.”

“I regret that she’s dead.”

I regretted something else, too. Immediately. I regretted saying what I’d just said in the particular heavy tone I’d said it in. I was sluggish. I wasn’t picking up on Margo’s cues quickly enough. Maybe you even went and talked to her a second time . Margo crossed her arms then instantly uncrossed them. Suddenly, they were awkward appendages.

“You’d better get that stuff off to your cop.”

I shook my head slowly. “Not on this note.”

She leveled her look at me. “I saw you standing at the window last night. You thought I was asleep.”

“I wasn’t thinking about whether you were asleep or not.”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m going to apologize. But I’m not sure for what.”

“Then don’t.”

“Look, a woman who asked me for some help was murdered right across the damn street. I know it’s not my responsibility, but sue me, I feel bad about it. I woke up and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I went to the window and took turns feeling sorry for the dead woman and feeling sorry for myself. I can’t justify the pity party, but there it is. I think that’s pretty much the whole picture.”

She let my words hang in the air. “I accept your apology.”

“You forced my apology.”

“I know I did. I accept it anyway.”

I looked at my watch. “This is pretty early for daytime drama, don’t you think? It’s been swell fighting with you, lady, but I’ve got to be going.”

Margo’s voice was without inflection. “You’re going to get involved with this thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m taking the letters to Joe Gallo. I have to do that.”

“But you said you were going to copy them first.”

“That’s right.”

“If you need something to read, I’ve got a zillion books right here.”

I went into the bedroom and grabbed my coat off the chair. I fetched a PBS tote bag from the closet and went into the living room and collected Robin Burrell’s letters and e-mails and put them in the tote. When I popped into the kitchen to say goodbye, Margo was still at the table, holding her coffee cup up near her chin once more.

“ Did you see her a second time, Fritz?”

I took a beat. “Would it actually matter if I had?”

Even though she was already stock-still, I got the impression that she froze just a tad more. Maybe it was her eyes.

“Not the answer I wanted to hear.”

I hoisted the tote bag onto my shoulder. “Yes,” I said. “I did. She needed to talk again. We got together a second time.”

Margo took a sip of her coffee. Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “I know.”

HOMICIDE DETECTIVE JOSEPH GALLO had never met a mirror he didn’t like. I know that’s an old saw, but its cut is nonetheless true. If Gallo ran his hand down his silk tie once in the twenty minutes we spoke together in his office, he did it a hundred times. Gallo’s face was handsome the way Dracula’s face is handsome. Good bones, seductive black eyes set in deep sockets. There are no fewer than three dapper television detectives Gallo has been overheard claiming to be the model for. The thing is, he might be right. Central casting could do a hell of a lot worse than Joseph Gallo.