Full Frontal Murder (23 page)

“Hmm.”
Best let that go unanswered
. “You have a new lawyer, don't you? What does he say?”

“He says my chances are pretty good. He wants to go to trial rather than make a deal for a reduced sentence.”

Her chances probably were pretty good at that, Marian thought. She hadn't tried to get away with the killing by doing it in secret or by hiring someone to do it for her. She'd not resisted arrest and had cooperated with the police. But most of all she was a distraught mother who'd thought she was protecting her child. That would go over well with a jury.

“Rita, I need your help,” Marian said. ‘A matter that may help us identify the man who sent you that phony letter about Hugh and Bradford Ushton. If we can nail him, that will take some of the heat off you.”

“Anything. Ask.”

“Julia Ortega—the private detective who posed as the cleaning woman? She found two deposits listed in your checkbook, five thousand dollars each. Remember them?”

Rita looked blank for a second but then remembered. “Oh, those.”

“Where did that money come from?”

“Those were Alex's checks. He was running short of cash and I let him have ten thousand. He paid me back in two hunks.”

“Your brother?”

Rita misunderstood her tone. “I'm sorry, Lieutenant. You were thinking it would be the man who … who engineered all this, weren't you?” Alex Fairchild was above suspicion, obviously.

“Are you positive it was Alex who wrote those two checks? Five thousand each?”

She was positive. Marian was so taken aback that she had no more questions. She thanked Rita for her help and called the guard.

Alex Fairchild?

On the bus back, she tried to puzzle it out. Fairchild was the one who'd
discovered
Julia Ortega going through his sister's bankbook—and who'd tossed her out of the house. And why would he hire Ortega to look for deposits he already knew were there? It made no sense.

Unless … unless the whole incident was just for show.

A harassing incident, designed to drive the wedge between Rita and Hugh even deeper. Say Fairchild hired Ortega to do something underhanded so he could rush in and play the hero. Ortega could have seen only Nickie Atlay in making the arrangements; she'd have no idea that the outraged brother was the same man who'd called Hector Vargas's number and engaged her services. It would have worked.

And Alex Fairchild would come out smelling like a rose—Defender of His Sister, Protector of the Sanctity of the Home. Alex Fairchild, who created trouble for his sister just so he could rescue her from it. And who watched gleefully when Rita blamed Hugh.

Possible. Entirely possible.

But opposed to that, there was the Alex Fairchild who'd sat in a rowboat on the lake in Central Park, gently comforting young Bobby Galloway after his father's death.

Which was the true man?

But I don't have to guess
, Marian thought grimly as the bus hurtled its way through Queens. There was a way to find out.

It was the cold that brought Holland back to consciousness. He was still fuzzy-headed from the drug, but awake. The first thing he noticed was that his shoes and shirt were missing.

“Well, Sleeping Beauty, you finally decided to wake up,” said a voice he'd heard before.

That was all he needed to bring him fully awake. He rolled over with his back to the other man and fumbled the rusty bottle cap out of his pocket.

“Come, come—this won't do. Stand up and face me.”

Holland grasped his chain with his free hand and pulled himself up, feeling the rubble on the ground cutting into his bare feet. “So, you've decided to show yourself, have you, Fairchild?”

Alex Fairchild stepped between two of the lanterns, smiling at him. “Oh, it was too much trouble hiding in the dark. I had to keep watching where I was stepping.”

Holland sneered. “Well, we can't have you put to any trouble, can we?”

Fairchild laughed. “Oooh, what sarcasm. Let's see if we can teach you better manners. I have a little surprise for you.”

“Where's Marian?” Holland demanded.

“Safe and sound, and probably weeping on her stalwart captain's shoulder. That's a pretty picture for you to contemplate, isn't it? The captain with his manly arms around his lieutenant, comforting her.”

“Is that supposed to make me squirm? You—
where are the four bodies?”
Holland had just noticed they were no longer there.

Fairchild waved a hand. “Dispensed with. We can't have them smelling up the place. I just left them here for you to see what I do to people I no longer need. Right now, I still need you. For a while.”

Holland had already figured it out. “To force the police to close the Galloway case. You're deluding yourself, Fairchild. That will
never
happen. The police can't allow themselves to be blackmailed by criminals. It's been tried many times, and it
never
works.”

His captor looked irritated. “First of all, I'm no criminal. Do you think I do this sort of thing for a living? And second, you had better pray you're wrong, because the possibility of getting the case closed is all that's keeping you alive. And third, only one member of the police knows you're missing, one person with the authority to close the case. I sent the tape to your lady lieutenant.”

Holland kept his face impassive. Fairchild didn't know Murtaugh was clued in and had set up a stakeout at Coney Island. And he sure as hell didn't know Marian. “What have you done with my shoes?”

“Taken them, and you're not going to get them back. You tried to kick my camera!” Accusingly.

“What a pity I missed.” Holland looked the other man straight in the eye. “Of course, I do understand why you're so afraid to come any closer.”

Fairchild glared at him. “You're an arrogant S.O.B., aren't you? Well, I've got something here that'll take that insolence out of you.” He disappeared into the darkness behind the lanterns and returned carrying a bullwhip. Fairchild held the whip out so Holland could have a good look. Then he snickered. “Absurd, isn't it? I had to go into one of those dreadful places around Times Square to get it. But your ladylove hasn't cooperated—the case is still open. We're going to give her a little incentive.”

He was going to be
whipped?
What kind of stupid melodrama was this? But the other man raised his arms and Holland tightened his muscles. When the whip came shooting out he jerked his arms up to shield his face; the lash cut into his chest, deflected slightly by the chain. The second blow fell lower, slicing his midriff. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Holland started dodging and weaving; he didn't have to be a
stationary
target. But the next lash caught his raised arms and one ear, setting his head to ringing. He could feel the blood running down his chest, working its way inside his trousers.

Fairchild got in a few more blows … then Holland lunged for the whip with his left hand, the right still gripping the bottle cap. The whip flicked harmlessly away.

“Oh well,” Fairchild said easily, “I suppose that's enough.” He examined Holland closely. “Yes, that looks good. Bloody ear and arms as well as torso.” He put the whip down and picked up his camcorder. “Now you just stand there and bleed prettily.”

Holland immediately turned his back and hunkered down into a fetal position, hiding his wounds from the lens.

“Get up!” Fairchild yelled. “You pigheaded fool! Don't you know you can't win? Get up!” The whip lashed out again.

Holland took six more blows across his back before he passed out.

When he came to a few minutes later, the first thing he saw was the nozzle of a gun.

“How long do you think you can resist a bullet, Pretty Boy?” Fairchild said, enjoying himself. “Come on, now. On your feet.”

“I don't know if I can,” Holland said thickly.

“Oh, do try.”

The effort to get up made him dizzy. Holland leaned a shoulder against the wall to keep from falling over. When he'd steadied a bit, he kicked out with his right foot.

But his movements were sluggish and Fairchild saw it coming. He danced nimbly out of the way and laughed. “Pigheaded.”

When the camcorder light came on, something in Holland snapped. His pride was wounded almost as much as his body, to be photographed in such a condition, bleeding and helpless. He roared out a stream of curses, straining toward the camera. “I'd like to tear your throat out with my bare teeth, Fairchild!”

His captor stopped taping. “Oh, that was naughty. Mustn't mention names.”

Fairchild rewound the tape and started over, impervious to Holland's roaring. After a few minutes the light went out. “That was very good,” Fairchild said, amused. “I'm sure your Marian will love it.” He put down the camera and picked up the whip again, hefting its weight in his hand. “I was never into the S-M scene. It always seemed ridiculous to me. But now I have to admit I'm beginning to see the attraction.” His moist eyes gleamed in the yellow light.

Holland tensed. When the whip came snaking out, he made a grab for it and got his left hand around the lash. In spite of his surprise, Fairchild didn't let go of the handle. Holland jerked hard, pulling his tormenter in close. Holland quickly dropped the whip and raised his manacled hands to slash at Fairchild's face with the bottle cap.

Fairchild screamed and jumped back out of reach. “You've cut my face!” he cried. “You've cut my face!”

“I missed again,” Holland panted. “I was going for your eyes.”

“What was that? What did you cut me with?”

“A rusty bottle cap.” Holland smiled slowly. “You'll need a tetanus shot.”

Fairchild swore and paced back and forth behind the lanterns, one hand to his cheek and his other trailing the whip. “You think you aren't going to pay for this? You think you won't pay?”

Something about the scene struck Holland as comical. He leaned back against the wall and began to laugh. And laugh.

“What's so goddam funny?”

Holland let his laughter die down. “You. You are funny. Here I've been knocked unconscious, abducted, chained to a wall, drugged, and flogged—and you're whining about a scratch on the cheek. I find that hilarious.”

Fairchild blew up. “Well, let's see if you find
this
hilarious!” He disappeared into the darkness and came back with a new plastic bucket which he set on the ground. He squatted down beside it and pulled out a bottle of Evian water. “Never been opened—untampered with.” He unscrewed the top and took a long swallow. “See? No drugs.” Then he pulled out a sandwich. “Roast beef.” Next he took out an apple. “I even brought you a piece of fruit.” He put everything back in the bucket and stood up. He swung the bucket by its handle a few times and sent it sailing off into the darkness. “Now, go hungry. Go thirsty.”

Holland sank to the ground. He didn't even watch as the glow of Fairchild's flashlight grew smaller in the distance.

23

The building manager was a smallish man with a stiff military bearing; he introduced himself as Major Saurian. He marched Marian into his office on the first floor of the West Side office building where Alex Fairchild maintained his studio. Once he had Marian squared away in a straight-back chair, he stood at parade rest and politely inquired what he could do for her.

The lieutenant asked the major if he had ever employed Nickie Atlay as a janitor in the building.

The major frowned. “Yes, until recently. I'm afraid I'm greatly disappointed in Nickie.”

Bingo
.

Quieting her excitement, she asked, “Disappointed? How?”

“He proved unreliable. Simply stopped coming to work. No notice, nothing. It was quite a surprise, really. He'd been a steady worker up until then. I took a chance in hiring him … Nickie's not quite bright, you know. But he could handle menial chores.”

“Major, do you know if Nickie ever ran errands for any of the tenants here? Outside his regular janitorial duties, I mean.”

“As a matter of fact, he did. I had no objection, so long as he confined his errand running to his own time. Since our cleaning crew works late at night, there was no conflict.”

“Did he ever perform chores for Alex Fairchild?”

“Mr. Fairchild?” He frowned. “I believe so, but I can't be certain. Why not ask Mr. Fairchild?”

Because he would deny it
. “I'm sorry to tell you this, but the reason Nickie stopped coming to work is that he died. He was murdered.”

The major looked disbelieving. “Nickie? Someone
murdered
Nickie? Good god. Excuse me, Lieutenant, but are you sure it's murder?”

“Two bullet holes in the chest, body tossed into the East River.”

He nodded slowly. “Forgive me for questioning you, but it's incomprehensible to me why anyone should want to kill Nickie. He was the most harmless fellow I believe I've ever met.”

Marian sighed. “Nickie knew something that made him a threat. He didn't
know
he was a threat, but the killer wasn't taking any chances.”

The major sighed too. “I'm sorry. Nickie wasn't a bad fellow. He just couldn't keep up with the world around him.”

And that, Marian thought, was a pretty good epitaph for poor, dim-witted Nickie Atlay. “Well, thank you for your help, Major.”

She raced back to Midtown South, hoping to catch Murtaugh before he left. He was just coming out of his office when she got there.

“We have a suspect,” Marian said.

Holland wasn't even aware that Fairchild was back until a bottle of Evian water rolled to a stop against his thigh. He uncapped the bottle and forced himself to drink in small swallows. The bottle was still half full when he replaced the cap.

“Oh my, such instinct for self-preservation,” Fairchild mocked. “You must be dehydrated but you're still thinking ahead.”