Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

„ ‘Cause the rat’s sick, maybe dangerous.“

„Yeah, you never know with rats. So Oscar’s just about to take a slow dive behind the candy machine. That’s how he was gettin’ in. Damn hole in the wall, big as your fist. Just as the rat’s going into a roll, Mallory picks him off with one round. Nice clean shot.“

The desk sergeant held a sheaf of paperwork out to Riker. „This is the lab report from the Board of Health. Came in this morning. Mallory was right – that damn rat was diseased. Now the city docs are comin’ in to do blood tests on everybody.“

Riker scanned the sheets. They included a copy of the watch commander’s report. Less colorful than Sergeant Bell’s telling, it briefly described the lawful and necessary dispatch of a potentially dangerous animal.

„Harry, I want you to send all this paperwork up to Special Crimes. Make sure Coffey sees it.“ Riker lightly slapped the desk. „Right now, okay?“

„Sure thing. Did the lieutenant have something riding on the rat?“

„Yeah, he did.“ Riker was grinning as he strolled toward the front door.

Jack Coffey had been wrong about Mallory. She had a sense of humor. And he had been right about her, too. The kid truly was a monster. She had let the lieutenant run his mouth on deadly payback for gun-happy cops. And all the while, she had been patiently awaiting this official delivery of a world-class punch line from the Board of Health.

What a setup.

When the report hit Coffey’s desk, the lieutenant was going to implode or put his screaming head through a wall.

Riker left the station house with one fist raised high in triumph.

Mallory rules.

In a bid to outfox the law, the restaurant had sectioned off one quarter of the room. Enclosed by glass from floor to ceiling, people relaxed at their tables, lighting cigarettes and cigars. Their smoke plumed upward into the slow swirling blades of a ceiling fan.

Lest any illicit smoke escape the enclosure, an air-purification system was hard at work in the main dining room, vacuuming the atmosphere, suctioning out the aromas of wines and sauces, meats and pasta. In this odor-free section, nonsmokers observed the diners caged in glass as historical exhibits from the days before the sterilization of New York City.

The maitre d’ stood behind a lectern, turning pages in his reservation book and pretending not to notice the people queuing up in front of him.

A smiling waiter in a white dinner jacket walked toward the woman at the end of the line. „Detective Mallory? I recognized you from television.“

The celebrity alert had been sounded, and now she also had the attention of the maitre d’, who was admiring her black leather trench coat, the wildly expensive running shoes and a slightly less pricey handbag from Cartier. In the waiting line, more heads were turning, flashing movie-star-hunting eyes in her direction.

When she removed her coat, the black cashmere blazer and satin- trimmed jeans also passed inspection. The maitre d’ mouthed the words, Oh, yes. The people in his waiting line wore more formal attire, but Mallory was dressed in money.

The waiter took her coat and draped it over his arm. „They’ve been expecting you.“

„They?“

„Mr. and Mrs. Malakhai.“ He waved one hand toward the glass smoking section.

„Right, the invisible woman.“

Puzzled, the waiter looked toward the table where only Malakhai was seated. „His wife must be in the ladies’ room.“

„You’ve seen her?“

„Yes, of course.“

This man was reinforcing every bad thing she believed about civilian testimony to gunshots never fired, events that never happened – and now ghosts. She followed him to the smoking section. „Wait,“ she said, to stop him from opening the glass door. „What color is this woman’s hair?“

„It’s red. A bright fiery red.“

Mallory pointed toward the table. „He told you the color of her hair?“

„Well, no.“ The waiter seemed confused. „You mean it’s not real? But it looks so natural.“

As Mallory entered the glass room, she noted three place settings at the small round table, and a glass of wine had been poured for the corpse in the bloody blue dress.

Malakhai stood up as she set her new black handbag on the table beside the only clean wineglass. If her host had known her better, he would have been suspicious. She never carried a purse.

„Good evening.“ He dismissed the waiter before the man could pull out her chair. Now Malakhai performed this service himself. „You’re right on time.“ As Mallory sat down, he glanced at his watch. „And I mean to the second.“

In lieu of hello, she said, „You got a lot of mileage out of that German uniform. You wore it the day you took Louisa out of the transit camp – and again the night you shot her.“

Malakhai calmly took his seat and moved the wine bottle to one side of the table, the better to see his dinner companion – the living one. „I missed you all day. I kept looking over my shoulder, but you weren’t there.“

Back to that old game, simply ignoring what he did not want to deal with and diverting her to other things. Even his conversation was a magic act of misdirection. But tonight she had come prepared.

„You’re sure I wasn’t there? I know you had breakfast with Prado and St. John. In the afternoon, you worked on your act.“ According to the stage manager at Carnegie Hall, Malakhai had spent hours rigging strings and small anchor loops of metal.

„I gather you spent part of the day with Mr. Halpern.“ He blew smoke into the air. „And of course, your visit to the auction was on the evening news. Did you like Oliver’s version of the magic theater?“

„No.“ It had not lived up to the vision Malakhai had created for her in the basement. Oliver’s theater was only a pale copy that lacked the drama of wartime, smoke and wine, perfume and soldiers with guns. Even the corpse in Oliver’s platform had suffered a bloodless wound, more like an imitation of violence.

„About that uniform,“ she prompted him. „You were never in the German Army.“

He signaled to the waiter and pointed to the empty bottle, then turned back to Mallory. „I remember it well – superb tailoring. It belonged to an SS officer.“

„Did you kill that officer?“

„No. Sorry to disappoint you, Mallory.“ He blew a smoke ring and watched it rise into the blades of the fan. „I stole the man’s bag at a railway station. A mistake – I meant to steal his orderly’s clothes, a private’s uniform. I wasn’t old enough to pass for an officer. But then I realized that no one ever looked at the faces of the Gestapo. They only saw the SS insignia.“

She reached across the table and delicately plucked a hair from the sleeve of his dark suit. So this was the waiter’s evidence of a redhead. There was no root follicle for a DNA match. Even so, she made a show of folding it into a tissue and placing it in her purse. He followed this action with mild curiosity.

„You’re getting careless, Malakhai. I guess there wasn’t time to change clothes – after you stuffed that body into Oliver’s platform.“

„So his nephew had red hair. There were no pictures of him on the news.“ He set his cigarette in the ashtray next to one marked with Louisa’s lipstick. „I never met the boy. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.“

„You don’t remember hiding the body? Not surprising. I know about the strokes.“

„Courtesy of Mr. Halpern? He was so upset when I couldn’t remember how – “

The waiter appeared with a tray balanced at shoulder level. After unfolding a stand with his free hand, he set his burden down, then rearranged all the items on a tabletop barely large enough to accommodate three plates and silverware, glasses, a bottle, an ashtray and a purse. Mallory and Malakhai watched in silent fascination as the waiter altered the laws of physics to expand space, creating more room for a basket of bread, a candle, another wine bottle and a large plate of hors d’oeuvres.