Full Frontal Murder (24 page)

What Holland had been thinking was that the plastic bottle would make a good weapon—not against Fairchild, but against the rats. “How long?” he asked huskily.

“Since the last time I was here? Fourteen hours.” Fairchild was wearing a bandage on his cheek. “Before that, about ten hours. And since you missed your last meal, we'll just say you've been fasting for twenty-four hours.” He slid a brown paper bag toward Holland. “Make it last. I'd love to stay and chat, but I want to be home in time for the news. Let's see if your ladylove takes the hint this time.” He started to walk away.

“Bring …”

Fairchild stopped. “What?”

“Bring something for rat bite,” Holland said hoarsely. “It's the blood. It attracts them.”

Fairchild stared at him a long moment, and then turned and left without speaking.

O'Toole was the last to arrive at Captain Murtaugh's office. He'd been hurrying and was short of breath. “What's up? Has something happened?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Perlmutter replied lazily. “Just that while we were all crawling through dilapidated buildings in Brooklyn, Lieutenant Larch figured out who the killer is, that's all.”

“That's
all?
Well? Who is it, for chrissake?”

“Alex Fairchild,” Murtaugh told him. “We still don't have any hard evidence, but Fairchild kept a studio in the building where Nick Atlay worked as a janitor.”

“The brother?” O'Toole was stunned. “He did all that to his own sister? But why?”

“He had to be after the Galloway money. Whoever controls young Bobby Galloway controls the money. And at this moment Bobby is living with Fairchild. Right from the beginning, Fairchild was out to discredit
both
parents.”

“How'd the lieutenant finger him?”

“She checked with the building manager where Fairchild keeps a studio. Nickie Atlay was working there at the time of his death.”

O'Toole looked at Perlmutter. “We never thought to check Fairchild's building. He wasn't a suspect.”

Perlmutter spread his hands. “That's why she's a lieutenant and we but lowly toilers in the vineyard.”

Sergeant Campos was frowning. “Bobby's grandfather might have something to say about all that. He's not going to let Bobby be brought up by the brother of the woman who shot his son.”

“Walter Galloway is old and in poor health,” the captain said. “When he dies, Alex Fairchild will be the boy's only remaining relative, since Rita is out of the picture. Fairchild will be in a perfect position to plunder the Galloway fortune at his leisure.”

“Where's Lieutenant Larch?” O'Toole asked.

“She went to her place to see if another videotape had been delivered.”

Walker spoke for the first time. “Say we nail Fairchild, and then Walter Galloway dies in a couple of years. Who's going to take care of Bobby then?”

No one had an answer to that.

Ten minutes later Marian came in, clutching a mailing bag. “Another one.”

Murtaugh loaded the tape into the VCR and worked the remote. The tape began to roll.

Marian cried out and the men all gasped. Holland's wounds were still fresh enough that they could see the blood running down his body. His right ear was a mess, the whip cuts in his body appeared deep, even his feet were bloody.

“Good god in heaven,” Murtaugh muttered. “Are we back in the Middle Ages?”

O'Toole yelled, “The son of a bitch! Let's pick him up right now!”

“And what would happen to Holland then?” the captain asked sharply. “Fairchild would leave him to die there before he'd admit to anything.”

Marian had both hands pressed against her mouth to keep from screaming. She felt a couple of comforting hands on her shoulders but didn't know whose they were because she couldn't take her eyes off the screen. Bleeding, lacking the energy he'd shown in the first tape, and none too steady on his feet—Holland was still raging at the camera, still defiant.

The tape was short. The poster board at the end said only:
It can get worse than this
.

Marian was afraid, more afraid than she'd ever been in her life. More afraid than the times when she was still in uniform and chasing dangerous perps down dark streets. Holland was in the hands of a madman, a sadist, a ruthless and conscienceless man. And if the police made even one false step … Holland would be gone.

They watched the tape one more time. Marian ached for Holland, feeling every one of his cuts, bleeding with him. The fact that he was being tortured as a way to get to
her
was salt in the wounds. And for a man as proud as Holland, the ordeal he was going through must be doubly difficult.

“We can't announce the case is closed,” Campos said gruffly. “That would kill 'im for sure.”

The captain agreed. “Tail job—that's the only way. Fairchild has to go to wherever he has Holland hidden to take those pictures.”

Walker suddenly said, “That wobbly camera—he was doing that deliberately! So we'd think the guy handling the camcorder was an amateur.”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose so. Campos, set up a surveillance schedule,” Murtaugh said. “Two-man teams, around the clock. And for god's sake, don't let him make you. I don't know how long Holland can hold out, but our only chance of finding him is to let Fairchild lead us to him.”

“I'm on it.”

“And make sure your teams are made up of people Fairchild doesn't know. That lets out the lieutenant, and Perlmutter, and …?” He looked at O'Toole.

“Never met him.”

“Okay. Get a team on him
now
, Campos.”

“Right.” The four detectives filed out.

Murtaugh looked at Marian. “Try not to worry,” he said gently. “They'll find him.”

“I'm sure they will,” she said.

A polite lie.

Holland poured the antiseptic over his wounds, welcoming the sting. One place on his chest looked as if it were already infected; he pinched off the crusted blood and reopened the cut, dousing it thoroughly. There wasn't much he could do about his back. He poured the antiseptic back over his shoulders and hoped for the best.

Fairchild had returned about an hour after Holland had told him about the rat bites. He'd brought a big bag filled with various kinds of antiseptic medicines, and plenty of them. There was one patent medicine “to combat infection,” according to the label. Holland swallowed a couple of the tablets without expecting much; what he needed were antibiotics.

Fairchild had also added three more bottles of Evian water and a box of cheese crackers. Evidently he'd just gone into the first drugstore he came to and grabbed up whatever was available.

But if that was the case, why had it taken him an hour? There were drugstores everywhere in New York; you never had to go more than a couple of blocks to find one. How far did Fairchild have to walk from here to get back to civilization anyway? Just where the hell
was
he?

Or maybe it hadn't really been a full hour. Holland could no longer trust his sense of time in this place.

He finished the first bottle of water Fairchild had brought and hefted the empty plastic container in his hand. Not much weight, but it would give him something to hit with the next time he opened his eyes to see a rat sitting on his chest.

Abby James took one look at Marian and poured her a drink.

Marian found herself being steered into Abby's big kitchen, where she slumped down at the table, vaguely aware of the aroma of something good simmering on the stove. Her body felt so heavy she could barely keep her head up. She stared at the ice melting in her glass and remembered to take a swallow.

After a few minutes Abby reached across the table and touched her arm. Hesitantly, she asked, “Is he dead?”

Marian looked up at Abby and shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Oh!” Abby let out the breath she'd been holding. “From the way you look, I thought … I thought …”

“There's been another tape.”

Marian described what was on the tape, in detail. Abby's eyes teared up and she kept saying
Oh
…
Oh
while Marian talked. “My god, that's … that's
medieval.”

Marian nodded; that's what Jim Murtaugh had said too. “Our killer's enjoying what he's doing. He's been enjoying all the manipulating and the creating of misunderstanding, all the things he's been doing. And now he's enjoying torturing Holland.”

“And you still don't know who he is?”

“Yes,” Marian said dully. “Now we do.”

Abby knew better than to ask a question Marian couldn't answer. “Have you arrested him?”

Marian shook her head. “He'd just refuse to talk. If we let him run loose, he ought to lead us to where he has Holland hidden.”

“So he's being watched?”

“Around the clock.”

Abby was silent for a long moment. “You know, don't you, that Holland isn't the only one this man is torturing? You're the one he really wants.”

“I know.”

“Oh, Marian, I'm so sorry! I can't begin to imagine what you must be feeling!”

“Guilt,” Marian said. “I feel guilt.”

24

The next morning the surveillance teams reported Fairchild had stayed in his West Side apartment except for a quick trip to his studio and an hour he spent with Bobby Galloway in one of the Central Park playgrounds. The team on duty at the time said Bobby didn't seem to want to play with the other children.

Well, of course he doesn't want to play
, Marian thought. His father dead and his mother in prison—though how much of that Bobby understood, she didn't know. But if such a traumatic thing had to happen to a child, it was better that it happen at Bobby's age than, say, when he was entering puberty.

Fat comfort in
that
.

Her flesh crawled to think of Bobby in the care of a man who
enjoyed
killing and torturing. But Fairchild was taking good care of his nephew, trying to help him lead a normal life again. Marian remembered the first time she'd met the two of them, the uncle bouncing the little boy on his shoulders and both of them laughing and having a good time.

But no matter how much Fairchild cared for the boy, Bobby Galloway would never be allowed to reach adulthood, marry, and beget children—of that Marian was sure. Sooner or later the last Galloway would have a tragic accident … and Alex Fairchild would be a rich, rich man.

Perlmutter was contact man for the surveillance teams to report to; so when he appeared in Marian's doorway, her heart skipped a beat. Perlmutter held up a hand and said, “He's in his studio.”

Letdown
. Then: “Is Bobby with him?”

“No, and that's what I came to tell you. Fairchild's hired a nanny—live-in, name of Verna Muller, forty-three, strictly legit. Somebody stable who's there all the time—that's gotta be good for the kid.”

Yes, that was good. “Have you thought about what's going to happen to Bobby if Fairchild gets away with this?”

“Yeah, that kid's days are numbered. But he isn't going to get away with it, Lieutenant. If Holland can just hold out until the next time Fairchild goes wherever it is, then—” He broke off. “Was that my phone?” He hurried back to his desk.

Marian waited, tense. Time dragged.

When he at last came back, his face told her the bad news even before he spoke. “They lost him.”

“Jesus Christ!”
Marian hit at the desk, sending the desk calendar flying to the floor. “How could they lose him?”

“Freak accident. Campos and O'Toole were following his taxi when they ran into a bottleneck on West Fifty-second. Car and a bakery van collided, traffic backed up for two blocks. Everybody just sitting until the vehicles could be towed. Campos stayed in the car while O'Toole went to check on Fairchild. But by the time he could work his way through the bumper-to-bumper cars, Fairchild had got tired of waiting and had already left his cab.”

“Damn!”
This wasn't supposed to happen!
“Where was the cabdriver taking him?”

“Astor Place, O'Toole says.”

“Astor Place? But that's in …” She thought quickly. “Perlmutter, go tell the captain what you just told me. It looks as if Holland's being held somewhere in the Ninth Precinct instead of in Brooklyn.” She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and took out her bag.

“Where will you be, Lieutenant?”

“Home,” she said grimly. “Waiting for the next tape.”

This time Fairchild had brought a pull truck with him, piled high with boxes and bundles. One of the wheels was squeaky; Holland had heard it even before he'd noticed Fairchild's flashlight bobbing in the distance.
What in the hell does that maniac have in mind now?

Among the things Fairchild had brought were two lights on stands, which he set up quickly and expertly. “Since this will be your farewell performance,” he told Holland, “we want everything to look just right.”

A chill ran down Holland's back. “It's time to kill me.”

“Oh, no. At least, not now. No, I meant this will be your last chance to persuade the reluctant lieutenant to put an end to the investigation. So make it good, Pretty Boy. That woman is as pigheaded as you are.”

“And if she won't?”

Fairchild made a kissing sound. “Bye-bye!”

Holland knew why Marian was refusing to close the case; the minute she did, his usefulness to Fairchild would be ended. He also knew she'd played the tapes for Murtaugh and was even now drawing upon the resources of the NYPD to locate him. But how could anyone ever find him …
here?

“All right, I'm ready,” Fairchild announced. “Stand up. And strip.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Strip. Take off those trousers and whatever you wear under them. Let's get a look at what our lady lieutenant finds so fascinating.”