The Red Queen Dies Page 12

  “Go to chapter five,” Soames said. “I don’t know if it has anything to do with your collector, but she mentions a book.”

  McCabe scanned the chapter. “The wealthy tycoon gives the struggling young actress the first edition of a book by her favorite author. ‘Not a practical gift, but a gift that she treasured.’”

  Baxter read, “‘An author Kate had adored since she was a child.’ As in Lewis Carroll?”

  “That would matchup with what Professor Noel told us about the ‘friend’ who gave Jessup a Dalí edition of Alice when she was still a poor unknown,” McCabe said.

  “So you think this little tale might really be based on Jessup’s life?” Soames asked.

  “Seems like it could be,” McCabe said. “That makes me curious about the identity of the lover.”

  “If he kept up that pace with young actresses,” Baxter said, “he’s probably dead by now.”

  McCabe scanned through the documents. “There’s nothing else on this ORB. Just those six chapters of her book.”

  Soames said, “And, of course, this couldn’t be the ORB that she took with her to Albany.”

  McCabe shook her head. “No, this one is a bonus. The ORB she had in Albany is still out there somewhere. I wonder if Jessup’s publicist knew she was writing a novel, too.”

  “We could interrupt that meeting she had with that other client and ask,” Baxter said.

  “Let’s do that.”

  McCabe took out her ORB.

  In spite of her distress about her client’s untimely death, Vivian Jessup’s publicist had not been able to find time that morning to meet with them. As she’d explained, she had been Jessup’s publicist for only a few months, since the publicist Jessup had been with for seventeen years had died. And the truth was, Vivian, whom she’d absolutely worshiped, so talented, had been a bit difficult to work with.… They just hadn’t been simpatico. And she had another client, who had a major emergency, was having an absolute meltdown, and needed her immediate attention.

  During that first call, Ms. Kirkpatrick had informed McCabe that she had deleted the tag from the Alice collector that she had sent to Vivian Jessup. No need to keep it. Yes, she understood forensics might be able to recover the tag. Reluctantly, she had granted access to her Jessup file.

  Before she could disconnect, McCabe had asked where she, Ms. Kirkpatrick, had been on Wednesday evening. Ms. Kirkpatrick was somewhat annoyed, since she had clearly been trying to reach her client, Vivian Jessup. However, she supplied the name and location of the reception she had attended, and the nonprofit fund-raiser she had gone to later that evening with another client.

  Ms. Kirkpatrick was not pleased to hear from McCabe again. When McCabe said she was calling to ask about the book Jessup had been writing, Kirkpatrick said. “I don’t know anything about it. She didn’t mention it to me.” A pause and a change of tone: “How near is this book to being done? It might be something that her family could pursue, even though poor Vivian…”

  McCabe said, “She had written only the first few chapters. I don’t think they’d want to bother.”

  “But I should follow up with them about the play. Call and offer my condolences and let them know I’m available to help … if they want to pay tribute to dear Vivian by going forward—”

  “I’ll let you get back to your other client and his emergency,” McCabe said.

  “Yes, I do have to run. But they are going to dim the lights on Broadway for dear Vivian tonight. At eight, if you’re still here. And please do keep me posted.”

  “We’ll absolutely do that, Ms. Kirkpatrick. Bye now.”

  “Nothing?” Soames said.

  “Other than Ms. Kirkpatrick beginning to think about how she might make some money off her deceased client?”

  “She was way slow on the uptake with that one,” Baxter said. “Guess the murder thing slowed her down.”

  * * *

  They were leaving Jessup’s condo when her neighbor’s door opened. An elderly woman wearing a caftan and a turban peered out at them. “Are you the cops?”

  McCabe nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective McCabe and—”

  “I have Vivian’s cats.”

  “Her cats?”

  “Kitty and Snowdrop. She asked me to feed them while she was out of town. Tell her daughter they’re here with me when she wants them.”

  “We will. Ma’am, could we speak to you about—”

  “I don’t know anything. I can’t help you.”

  “We’d just like to ask if you’ve seen—”

  “I haven’t seen anything.” She started to close the door, then opened it a crack to say, “I watch the cop shows. I know the kind of thing you’re looking for. If I knew anything that could help you find the son of a bitch who killed her, I’d tell you.”

  The door closed.

  “That was to the point,” Soames said. “Anyplace else I can take you guys before you catch the train?”

  McCabe glanced at Baxter. “Have you ever been to the Alice statue in the park?”

  “When I was a kid. Why?”

  “Just thought we might swing by and have a look. I’ve always liked it. And, who knows, maybe we’ll get inspired.”

  “You never know what might turn on a lightbulb,” Soames said. “No problem. It’s right across the street. My kids have all had their pictures taken with that statue.”

  When they got to the park, they walked down the hill, past the New Yorkers and the tourists who were enjoying Saturday outside. At the boat pond, a few of them were having brunch at the café. Small model boats sailed across the water.

  McCabe, Soames, and Baxter walked into the area of paths and benches that surrounded the eleven-foot metallic statue of Alice and her friends. A group of Japanese students was posing in front of the statue. Four middle-aged white women with southern accents were waiting their turn.

  When they were done, McCabe moved closer. She ignored Baxter’s grin as he watched her move around the circle, reading the quotes from the book.

  “Inspiration strike yet?”

  “Not yet. Could be I’m just picking up on Jessup’s obsession.”

  “Could be,” he agreed.

  Soames said, “Me personally, I’ve got this thing about obsessions. When a vic has one, I always wonder if it had something to do with getting him or her dead.”

  McCabe glanced up. “Me, too. But, in this case, we’ve got two other victims who have nothing to do with Alice in Wonderland or the theater.…”

  Baxter had his mouth open when she turned to him. “Damn,” he said.

  “What?” Soames said.

  “We didn’t look for that,” McCabe said. “With the first two victims, we didn’t look for whether they had performed in a middle school pageant or the senior play. We were looking at the present, here and now, with the first one. Who had reason to want her dead. And then when we had the second, when we knew they both had died the same way, we were looking at what connected them, what they had in common.”

  Soames nodded. “The same friends. Or going to the same clubs, or working out at the same gym, or being in the same dance class.”

  McCabe had her ORB out, waiting for the connection.

  Baxter said, “We checked for whether they had gone to the same schools or attended the same church. Volunteered for the same cause. Dated the same guy.”

  “But you didn’t ask if either of them had been in a school play when she was a kid,” Soames said.

  “Because there was no reason to ask that then,” McCabe said. “But now we have Vivian Jessup, the third victim—Lou, it’s McCabe.… We want to check something out.…”

  * * *

  McCabe and Baxter were on the train back to Albany when Lieutenant Dole got back to them. “I’ve got Yin checking with the victims’ families about the school play thing,” he said.

  “Thanks, Lou. It’s just an idea, but we didn’t want to miss anything.”

  “Meantime, McCabe, you’d bet
ter check out Clarence Redfield’s thread.”

  She reached for her ORB. “Is he threading about Vivian Jessup?”

  “The Givens case. Check back with me when you get into the station. Jessup’s daughter’s in town. The mayor’s already been over at Thornton’s house, paying her condolences. We need to set up an interview with the daughter.”

  “Yes, sir, we’ll let you know when we arrive.”

  “What’s up?” Baxter said as she disconnected.

  “The mayor’s been paying her condolences to Jessup’s daughter, and Redfield’s been threading again.”

  McCabe brought up Redfield’s node on her ORB.

  “Wonder if the mayor considered that Redfield might thread about how she didn’t pay her condolences to the families of the first two victims,” Baxter said.

  “Right now, he’s focusing on the Givens case.” She read Redfield’s thread, then passed the ORB to Baxter. “Here’s what Mr. Redfield has to say:

  “… I am forced to comment on the ineptness of the APD, particularly Detective Hannah McCabe, who was assigned to all three serial murder cases and to the case of Mrs. Margaret Givens. Not only have three women—including the Broadway star Vivian Jessup, a visitor to our city—died at the hands of this serial killer but last night Mrs. Givens, a poor black woman who had been terrorized by juvenile sociopaths and witnessed one of their violent crimes when they savagely killed the young man who came to her aid … last night, Mrs. Givens, forced to live in chronic fear in her crime-ridden neighborhood, became another Albany PD statistic when young hoodlums, who call themselves “droogies” after the violent, sadistic gang members in A Clockwork Orange, broke into her house and beat her … beat her so badly that she died in a hospital emergency room without regaining consciousness. We understand Detective McCabe was taking the evening off to have dinner at a club and listen to a little cool jazz. That’s what she was doing while Mrs. Givens was being murdered. Do your job, Detective McCabe, or give your badge to someone who can and will. You and the rest of the APD are failing to protect the citizens of this city.”

  Baxter passed the ORB back to her. “Want me to put a hit out on him for you?”

  “Actually,” McCabe said, “I have a friend who would probably be willing to punch him in the stomach for me.”

  “Would this be a man friend?” Baxter asked.

  McCabe looked up from the screen and caught his grin. “I keep my personal life personal, Mike.”

  “Does that mean you don’t have much of a personal life?”

  She closed her ORB. “After this, I may not have a job.”

  “Was that what the lou said when he told you to check it out?”

  “No. But the commander and the chief aren’t going to be thrilled about—”

  “Who cares if they’re not thrilled? You’re a good cop, and Redfield’s an asshole.”

  “And this is bad press. If any of the mainstream media pick it up…” McCabe shook her head. “If they start poking into my background—”

  “You mean what happened when you were a kid?’

  “So you have heard about that?”

  “I thought I’d let you mention it first,” Baxter said. “What’s the media going to make out of that? Way I hear it, you were a little nine-year-old hero.”

  “That,” McCabe said, “was the spin they put on it.”

  Baxter said, “You killed the man who had broken into your family’s home and who had just shot your brother.”

  “He shot my brother when I came in with my father’s gun in my hands. If I hadn’t done that, he might have just left.”

  “Or, the more popular theory, he would have shot your brother and then shot you because he’d been caught in the act and he’d come to the burglary with a gun in his pocket.”

  McCabe shook her head. “If the media should rehash the story, my brother, Adam, won’t be thrilled with me, either.”

  “Tough, because I bet that’s the way Jacoby’s going to go with this. He’ll tell your story to counter Redfield’s—”

  “Oh shit,” McCabe said. She leaned her head back against the seat.

  “It never came up before? Since you’ve been a cop?”

  “Once … when I graduated from the Academy. But since then … none of my cases … I’ve never been the lead investigator in a case that attracted so much media attention. And, of course, Redfield wasn’t around before.”

  “As I said, partner, Redfield can be made to disappear.”

  McCabe laughed. “Thanks. But if he pulls anything else I’ll just send my friend after him. She’s got a killer right hook.”

  “This friend of yours … you’re not by any chance hinting that you’re gay?”

  McCabe looked sideways at him. “What’s with this needing to know who I sleep with?”

  “Well, I’m not … gay, I mean.” He settled back in his seat, feet up on the metal footrest. “So if you’d ever like to have a fling with a much younger man…”

  McCabe threw her crumpled iced coffee cup at him.

  “That’s better,” he said, settling deeper in his seat. “Cops don’t cry.”

  McCabe sighed. “This one does. Last night for Mrs. Givens.”

  “Good. Holding in your emotions can shorten your life.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Baxter.” McCabe looked down at the scratch on the back of her hand from the fence two days ago. “How do you think Redfield knew what I did last night?”

  “Who did you tell what you did last night?”

  “No one.”

  “What about the cops who gave you the call about Givens?”

  “No. I just said I was on my way.”

  “Maybe they heard the music or the sounds in the background.”

  “They might have heard people talking and guessed I was in a restaurant. But no music was playing. The last set was over. And even if they had guessed where I was, why would they tell Redfield? So how did he know that I’d been out listening to jazz?”

  “‘Cool jazz,’ as he put it. And he said ‘club,’ not ‘restaurant.’”

  “Of course he did. ‘Club’ sounds worse.”

  “How much do we know about Clarence Redfield? Other than what you told me about the chemical engineering degree. And the mother he came back to Albany to take care of and the wife and baby who died.”

  “That’s about it. I think I should see what else I can find. If he wants to play games, I should be ready to play, too.”

  “Deal me in on that,” Baxter said. “Hey, where do you park your car at night?”

  “Park my car? At home.”

  “No, I mean, do you have a garage?”

  “Yes, but I don’t usually bother to put my car … Are you suggesting—”

  “That someone could have gotten to your car there or somewhere else and—”

  “A tracker?”

  “The guys in vice used them now and then,” Baxter said. “No way to know if you’ve got one without doing a sweep of your car.”

  “But if I do have a tracker on my car, that would explain how Clarence Redfield knew how I spent my evening.”

  18

  Albany, New York

  McCabe and Baxter drove across the bridge from the Albany-Rensselaer train station. The Egg looked like a granite spaceship tilted on its platform, and the towers of the Empire State Plaza stood out against the sky. They went through the underpass, by the parking entrances to the plaza. By the time, they reached the intersection for State Street, McCabe had finished her conversation with Lieutenant Dole.

  She put her ORB down and turned to Baxter. “Jacoby has a press conference scheduled later this afternoon. He’s going to provide updates on the case and respond, assuming it comes up, to any questions about Clarence Redfield’s thread. Since they don’t intend to bar Redfield from the press conference, they are pretty sure it’s going to come up.”

  “How are they going to handle it?”

  “By stating the facts. By explaining that the first two mu
rders happened a few weeks apart and I happened to catch each case because Jay O’Connell and I were available when the calls came in. By explaining that Thursday same thing happened to me regarding a case that came in three weeks after the second murder. That last night, I had completed my shift and was on my own time. And that Ms. Givens had told us on Thursday morning that she did not intend to testify.”

  “Jacoby going to mention what happened when you were a kid? I heard you ask them not to, but—”

  “Lieutenant Dole says that if it comes up, Jacoby intends to give them the facts about what happened. But he’s not going to push it.”

  “Guess I was wrong.”

  “For which I’m grateful. Turn left on Lark.”

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “A funeral home. The CO got a call from Ted Thornton. Jessup’s daughter is there making arrangement for her mother’s body. Thornton thought we might want to interview her there and save ourselves a trip out to his place. He and his fiancée, Lisa, are there, too.”

  Baxter made the turn. “This really sucks. I wanted to see Roz again.”

  * * *

  Greer Jessup St. John did not look like her mother. She was a plus-size woman who seemed comfortable in her skin. If her mother had preferred classic styles, Greer St. John went for the gusto. With complete disregard for any expectation that mourners should wear black, she was clad in a calf-length red-and-white-stripped halter dress and high-heeled red sandals. Her red earrings were retro hoops. Red-and-white-striped bangle bracelets clanked on her arms when she turned to meet them. Her lipstick and nail polish were matching shades of red. Her sable brown hair was caught up in a ponytail that dangled down her back. And somehow she managed to carry it all off.

  Eyes red and damp, she leaned into the sheltering arm of her tall, attractive husband, “Ron.” Dr. Ronald St. John, pediatric surgeon, whose mother-in-law had reportedly adored him.

  The meeting was taking place in one of the family “meditation” rooms. Ted Thornton had assured them that he and Lisa, who was in the ladies’ room, would be happy to wait outside until they had finished their talk.

  After expressing their sympathy, McCabe asked her first question.