Carol O’Connell - Killing Critics

Coffey studied the man behind the desk, who filled a chair to overflowing, his body gone to soft flab, and skin the sallow color of sickness. The office had the smell of opulence, an odor that always made Coffey suspicious. The rugs were not the standard city expenditures on civil servants. The desk was miles too broad to have any efficient use. All over the walls were souvenirs and proofs of power. Blakely appeared in photographs with famous and important people. Every portrait represented the currency of a favor owed or a favor paid.

Two years ago, Coffey had been invited to sit down in Markowitz’s office for a chat with an FBI agent. The agent had asked him if he thought the mob owed Blakely any favors. Coffey had said no to the agent, never mentioning the rumors that said otherwise. He remembered Markowitz nodding his approval behind the agent’s back. It was best to keep the dirty stories in the family, and stories were all they ever were. But now Coffey looked at the photographs again, almost expecting to see Blakely frozen in a warm handshake with a Mafia don.

He continued to wait while Blakely read his newspaper. From the opposite side of the desk, Coffey stared at the upside-down photograph of Mallory in a ball gown, dancing with a white-haired man. A cup of coffee sat at Blakely’s left hand and the aroma blended with a hint of rot. The patches of bad wood in the exposed floor near the baseboards might account for that, but he could not lose the idea that the decay originated with Blakely.

The chief folded back the paper to frame the photograph. He held it up to Coffey. “You’ve seen it? This shot of Mallory and Gregor Gilette?”

“Yes, sir. She went to the ball with Charles Butler, an old friend of Markowitz’s. Butler has some social connection to the Gilette family. It’s only natural that she should dance with the man. She probably danced with a lot of men.”

“I thought I told you to pack her off to Boston.”

“That was before the press conference.”

“Nothing has changed, Jack. She goes.”

“This can’t be the commissioner’s idea. He loved every minute of Mallory torching that fed in public.”

“She’s going today. She can embarrass the feds in Boston, too. I know what you did at that press conference, Jack. You sicked her on that poor bastard, Cartland. And I know why you did it. And it worked for a while. Beale thinks she walks on water. But now it’s time for her to move on to another case. We’ll leave it to the feds to clean up the Starr murder.”

“They’ll screw it up.”

“And they’ll take the heat. This time you will do what I tell you to do.”

“What’s the real reason for losing Mallory?”

“I don’t need one, Jack. Insubordination is a bad mark on the record of a man who’s bucking for a captain’s rank.”

“Who suggested it? The city attorney? Is he that worried about a lawsuit from the crazy artist? Heat from the Quinn family? Or maybe it’s Senator Berman. It wouldn’t look too good for the ex-commissioner if it turned out Markowitz could have proved Watt didn’t do it-if his hands hadn’t been tied.”

“Jack, think about your pension, your job. Oh, and your promotion, which is all but in the bag as we speak. Then shut your mouth and get out of my office while you still have all of that in your future.”

Andrew Bliss understood what it was to suffer for one’s art. As he leaned over the retaining wall, he felt dizzy. He pulled back and pondered the vitamin content of wine. He was weakening more each hour now, and his stomach was a churning knot of cramps.

Lately, the avenue had been dominated by K-mart escapees. That tyranny must end, and he didn’t care how he brought it about. He had no time to ruminate on the morality of terrorism. He was on a mission. Ruthlessly, he would strike out at every passing offender.

And he had been true to his cause, jump-starting his heart each morning with espresso and Russian cigarettes which were actually manufactured in New Jersey. The traffic-watch helicopter flew by. Andrew returned the cheery wave with a harsh critique of the traffic reporter’s tasteless, low-rent, polyester jumpsuit. The copter veered off sharply.

And to every ragged panhandler, he screamed, “GET A JOB AND A CHARGE CARD!”

After a time, Andrew’s bullhorn fell silent. Green-haired children from SoHo and tourists from Iowa were allowed to stroll the avenue unmolested.

No sign of life could be detected around the canopy of raincoats, nor through the leaves of the browning potted foliage which Andrew had thoughtfully watered with wine.

The Koozeman Gallery was quiet today. And the walls were bare. The gallery boy left them alone in the main room, where Starr had died. Charles scrutinized the floor, disappointed that there was not at least the drama of a chalk outline to mark the place where the dead man had fallen. “Where was Dean Starr standing when he was stabbed?”

Mallory walked to the center of the right-hand wall and paced four feet straight out. “Here. Slope said he lived for at least a full minute. So he might have been able to walk a few feet in any direction, but this is where he fell.”

“So he might have been standing closer to the wall.” Charles ran one finger along the painted surface behind her and smiled broadly. “I bet I can sneak up behind you and stab you.”

“Yeah, right.”

The sarcasm was well placed. Sneaking up behind people had always been her own special talent. How many times had she frightened him out of his skin, coming up behind him when he was convinced she was rooms away or even miles. Well, this would be fun. “Lunch, right? That’s the bet.”

“It’s a bet, Charles. Go for it.”

Charles left by a side door leading to a back room, saying, “I’ll be right back. Don’t move from that spot.”

Three minutes later he opened a section of the wall behind her and said, “Mallory, you’re dead. Oh, and you owe me one lunch.”

Mallory turned slowly, and he was somewhat disappointed that she hadn’t jumped. Had anyone ever taken her by surprise?

She examined the section of wall. There was a beveled overlap at the edge of the wall, and a similar overlap lined the edges of the door. “It’s a perfect job. Nearly seamless.”

When she opened the door wider, she saw the white curtain hanging over the opening. She looked up to the overhead track lights which illuminated the curtain, killing the dark hole of the small hallway beyond and maintaining the illusion of an unbroken wall, even when the door was slightly ajar. “Perfect.” Now she closed the door, and the wall became a single plane. She pushed lightly on the wall. The door opened. “Pressure lock. Just perfect.”

“Like his shows. You never see anything but the art. Let’s say you had an interest in a particular artist, but his work wasn’t on display. Koozeman would position you with your back to this wall. A gallery boy would open the door, hand him a painting, and you’d think it had just materialized behind your back. He’s always been quite a showman. It’s the main reason I attend his openings- for the magic act.”

Three gallery boys entered the room with buckets of whitewash, a ladder and brushes. One boy stood off to the side, unraveling the cord on a large industrial waxing machine.

“Koozeman had the place freshly painted and waxed for the funeral,” said Mallory. “Why is he doing it again?”

“Well, that’s pretty standard. You said there was artwork on the wall during the filming of the television movie. Now they’ll fill in the holes in the wall with plaster and paint again. Then the floors will be waxed.”

“He always does that?”

“Yes, always.”

“Did you ever go to one of his shows at the old East Village location?”