Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

„Mallory, we’re running late,“ said Riker.

She looked down at her pocket watch, not trusting him with the time of day. „I need the West Side report on Oliver Tree. Everything from the detective who caught the case. I want statements, evidence – “

„Not so fast.“ Coffey pushed her sheets back across the desk. „First you check out these leads – discreetly. Riker will do all the interviews. Officially, you’re on vacation. You got that, Mallory? You don’t interrogate anybody. If you get anything solid, then we’ll talk about stepping on toes in another precinct. Oh, and I’m keeping your gun for a while.“

Mallory didn’t like that, but she was clearly going to eat it. And why not? She had other guns at home. He believed she only carried a private cannon because the police-issue.38 didn’t make big enough holes. She stood up and cinched the belt of her trench coat, electing not to press her luck by staying any longer.

„Sit down, Detective,“ said Coffey. „I’m not done with you.“

Between a dead rat and a punctured balloon, Mallory had done herself a lot of damage, but she couldn’t see it yet. She was standing too far outside the closed society of cops.

He waited until she had settled back into the chair, then slammed his hand on the desk with enough force to send pencils and pens rolling off the edge. „Don’t you ever pull a gun inside this station house again! Even if you don’t get off one bullet – if you only pull the gun out of your holster – I will fire your ass!“

Behind her back, Riker’s face was solemn as he nodded in rare agreement with Coffey. Mallory could not afford to learn every lesson by hard experience. She would not survive.

Coffey let his words settle in for a moment and then pressed on. „That stunt with the rat? That’s gonna come back on you. You don’t want the reputation of a gun-happy screwup. It makes other cops nervous. Those uniforms who watched the rat get shot? Now they’re gonna be watching you, Mallory – waiting for more evidence that you’re dangerously nuts. And then, one day, you’ll be in trouble. You’re gonna look around for backup from the uniforms – and they won’t be there.“

Fellow cops might hear her calls for help on the radios of a dozen police cars, but they would turn stone deaf and let her die alone – waiting for them.

„No cop will raise a gun to you,“ said Coffey. „They’ll sit back and let some perp do that part. But you’ll be just as dead.“

Welcome to the darker side of NYPD.

Mallory was angry now, taking this as a threat. And she was right about that. Coffey turned to his senior detective for another kind of backup.

Riker came at Mallory from behind as she was rising. His hands pressed on her shoulders to gently force her back down to the chair. „You’ll appreciate this, kid – since you’re such a fanatic about neatness.“ Head bent low, his voice was soft, almost a whisper. „Back when I was in uniform and a cop went down that way – we called it ‘good housekeeping.’“

A white tie hung loose around Charles Butler’s open collar. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to the elbow, and his foot tapped in harmony with a Vivaldi mandolin concerto.

The kitchen was his favorite room, and today it fed all his senses. Sunlight brightened the yellow walls, set copper pots to gleaming and sparkled off chrome pans and spice jars. The air was ripe with the smell of fresh-baked bread slathered in garlic butter, and the aroma of roast turkey wafted up from the oven door. As Charles reached for the basting brush, he realized that his guest held an empty glass.

„Sorry, Nick.“ He searched the countertop, hunting for the recently uncorked wine amid the jumble of jars and plates, but the bottle was gone. Perhaps someone had taken it into the front room. He reached for another one from the case on the table.

„No need, Charles.“ The older man shook out a large dinner napkin, laid it on the chopping block, and as he delicately used two fingers to draw up the material, an open bottle of red wine materialized at the center of the wooden square.

Just like old times. Charles had been a small boy the last time Nick Prado came to dinner. Thirty years ago, this man’s hair had been lustrous black. Now it was a sparse iron gray. And his dark Spanish eyes had faded to an ordinary brown.

„When is Malakhai coming?“ Nick’s Latin accent was gone without a trace, and this was another disconcerting effect of time. The flavor was leaving every aspect of the man.

„Malakhai phoned his regrets.“ Charles filled two wineglasses. Though he towered over most people, it felt odd to be looking down at Nick, trading statures with the elder man who had once bowed his head to speak with a child-size Charles.

Nick turned to the wall rack of cooking utensils and admired his reflection in the chrome of a frying pan lid. Though he could well afford cosmetic dental work, he still had his natural teeth, evidenced by the gaps of receding gums and the yellow stains of a lifelong tobacco habit. Judging by the smile that showed every tooth to the frying pan lid, he must perceive his aged enamel as a sign of continuing virility, for despite the fading, the graying and the yellowing, this was still authentically Nick Prado in all his original parts. Apparently, the paunch at his belt line did not adversely affect this good opinion. He patted it now in a compliment to himself.

Another guest appeared in the kitchen, but only his head and a stretch of neck as he checked round the edge of the door to see that no one was there before he opened it wider. Franny Futura smiled, and his eyes became slits of gray, disappearing into the folds above them and the bags below. He stepped into the room and lightly tap-danced across the tiles, as if the floor might be hot. He was led to the oven by an upturned sniffing nose. „Oh, Charles, it smells wonderful.“ On a sadder note, he added, „We’re out of hors d’oeuvres again.“

The Frenchman spoke perfect English. And he was such a clean man, as if some insane housekeeper had been at him with an arsenal of solvents and powders, scrubbing his skin to a raw pink and scouring his dentures until they were too white to pass for the real thing.

Charles had met him only one week ago, but he guessed there had never been much of a chin to support Franny Futura’s face, and now the flesh fell past it to hang in a loose wattle. The slicked-back hair of his scalp was white, but his thick eyebrows had been made young again with black dye.

Franny stood at the kitchen counter, refilling his wineglass and carefully rolling the bottle to avoid spilling a single drop. „That lovely girl has disappeared.“

„Mallory?“ Charles dipped his basting brush in a pan of melted butter. „She’s probably in her office across the hall. She’ll be back.“

„An office across the hall?“ Nick Prado reluctantly turned away from his reflection. „But you said she was a real police detective. What’s she – “

„She’s a silent partner in my consulting firm.“ Of course, the word silent stood for covert. NYPD frowned on moonlighting and flatly forbade outside employment that required investigative skills.

„So, Charles, how does that work again?“ asked Nick. „This business of yours?“

„Well, institutes and universities send me people with interesting gifts. I evaluate them, and Mallory does all the computer work and background checks. She takes the raw data and – “

„Fascinating,“ said Nick.

But Charles could tell it was not at all interesting to either man. He was boring his guests. „Now Mallory’s regular job is miles more intriguing. She’s a – “