You Have the Right to Remain Silent (28 page)

FiFi's was a new bar in the theater district, one that was trying hard to establish itself as a place where celebrities liked to drop in. So Kelly made as grand an entrance as she could, at the same time trying to generate a
don't-approach-me
aura. The bar was busy, but the conversation faded to a whisper as the crowd realized who was standing there—and then quickly resumed on a lower key as the patrons all began asking one another if they knew that was Kelly Ingram who'd just come in.

Page was sitting at a small table; he rose quickly and came to meet her. But before he could say anything, Kelly asked, “Trevor, could we sit at the bar? Not quite so exposed.”

“Of course,” he murmured and followed her there, himself the object of candid looks of curiosity and envy.

Kelly let her eyes slide over Ivan Malecki and the man named Romero down at the end of the bar. In the ladies' room Gloria Sanchez was waiting to take Page's I.D. off her hands once she had it. And outside in a car, watching, were Marian and that dark-eyed, brooding man who seemed to be at the center of all the trouble. All Kelly had to do was keep Page here until this Large Marge made her appearance, whoever she was. How
will I recognize her?
Kelly had asked. Romero had laughed and said she'd know her the minute she laid eyes on her.

After they'd been served their drinks, Page said, “Kelly, this is important. I want you to tell me everything Curt Holland said. Word-for-word, as well as you can remember.”

Kelly took a sip of her drink and looked deep into the eyes of the murderer. “Who
is
he? I never heard Marian mention any Curt Holland.”

“He's on our wanted list.” Page added no details. “What did he say?”

Kelly made a show of thinking back, and then started on the story she was to tell, taking her time and stretching it out. She told him Holland had seemed distracted, demanding to know where “Sergeant Larch” was—very formal, he was—and accusing Marian and Page of plotting against him. He'd made a number of unspecified threats, Kelly said, of the
I'll-get-him-before-he-gets-me
variety. She even imitated Holland's manner of speech, clipping off her words and overarticulating.

Page was convinced. “Did he say he was coming back? Did he drop any hint of where he was going?”

“Well-l-l,” she drawled, “he didn't exactly say he'd be back, but that was the impression I got. It's a little hard to be sure, you know—he didn't talk in complete sentences. He was always interrupting himself.”

Page frowned. “That doesn't sound like Holland—he must be distracted indeed. Did he—whoa!” He broke off as a brown-skinned arm the size of a leg of lamb suddenly draped itself across his chest from behind.

Large Marge had arrived.

Kelly had to tilt her head back to look at her face. Romero had been right; there was no mistaking Large Marge. The owner of the arm extending so nonchalantly across Page's chest was wearing a silver sequined top cut down to
there
and a Pepto-Bismol-pink skirt that was so mini it barely covered the essentials. And Marge had a lot of essentials. Well over six feet tall, big-boned, and not exactly skinny, instead of trying to conceal her size she flaunted it, much to Kelly's surprised delight. This girl was only sixteen? Incredible. Every eye in the place was on the young black woman; Large Marge was a
presence
.

“Hiya, sugah,” she said to Page. “We know each other, don't we?” Her other hand began to caress the back of his neck.

Page appeared both annoyed at the interruption and impressed. “No, ma'am. I'd remember
you
.”

“Well, mebbe I can help you remember.” Her hands were all over him.

“Uh, I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“Naw, I don't.” Marge pressed a honeydew-sized breast against Page's upper arm; her hands never stopped moving. “You
feel
familiar—y'know what I mean?”

He tried to put an end to it. “As you can see, I'm here with someone.”

Marge threw Kelly a cursory glance. “Oh, hi.” Then she oozed her way around Page's back and wedged herself between the two of them. “That's all right, sugah,” she said to Page. “I don't mind sharin'.”

Kelly felt something plop into her lap. Quickly she covered the I.D. folder with both hands.

“Sooner or later,” said a new voice smugly. “Yep, I knew that sooner or later you'd lead us to your connection, Margie-Pargie.” Jaime Romero grinned ferally at Page. “We got you now, you sucker.”

Page's jaw tightened in anger. “I'm not anyone's
connection
. I never saw her before a minute ago.”

“Sure you didn't.”

“You crazy, man,” Large Marge said. “Nothin' goin' down here.”

Ivan Malecki's long arm shot out and grabbed Page's wrist. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”

“I was reaching for my identification!”

“Do it slowly,” Ivan instructed. “One hand only.”

All talk in the bar had stopped dead. A drug bust? In FiFi's? The two bartenders exchanged anxious looks, not knowing what to do.

Romero was searching through Marge's handbag. Triumphantly he held up two small white packets. “Nothing going down here, huh? All right, you two—assume the position.”

“Excuse me,” Kelly said, and fled to the ladies' room.

The last thing she heard as she pushed open the door was Trevor Page's voice: “My I.D.! She stole my I.D.!”

Marian and Holland sat silently in her car across the street from FiFi's, waiting for the little farce in the bar to play itself out. Holland was miles away and Marian was struggling to find some kind of equilibrium for herself; the depression she felt was not the usual downer she went through when a case was nearing its climax. It was worse.

She'd been breaking the rules right and left; she'd even involved two civilians in the trap they'd set for Page. That was not her normal M.O.; most of the time she was able to observe the letter of the law as well as its spirit. But how easily she'd slid into subterfuge—disobeying Captain DiFalco's order to call the case closed, providing a hiding place for a man on the FBI's wanted list. That alone was a pretty strong indication it was time to start looking for a different profession. Providing she came out of this with her hide intact. The plan was for Gloria Sanchez to call Captain DiFalco and the FBI once they had Quinn in custody, but that might be too little too late.

It occurred to her that only nine days ago she'd been sitting behind the wheel of a different car with a different partner, when she and Foley had been waiting for the last of the Downtown Queens to show up. Things were different this time. Marian glanced at the man sitting tensely next to her. If it was bad for her, how much worse must it be for Holland. How very alone he must feel—falsely incriminated, sought by a killer … and the only one he'd had to turn to was a policewoman he barely knew. But Holland had never whimpered, had never once said
Why me?
or complained of the unfairness of it. Right then Marian was aware of his physical presence in a way she'd never been before. Before, he'd been only a problem, a key piece of an overcomplicated puzzle she had to solve; she'd forgotten him as a person. And that was another mistake she never used to make.

“You've been quiet all day,” she said. “What's bothering you?”

With an effort he came back from a great distance. “The locks. The way Malecki and Romero got into the Bleecker Street safe house using ordinary picks. Admittedly my experience of FBI safe houses is limited—I've seen only one, in Washington. But that one had a security system that would do a bank proud.” He swiveled his head slowly to look at her. “It's too easy.”

She nodded slowly, having wondered about the same thing herself. “A trap? Ivan got in safely, but the place was empty then. When Page has to leave Quinn alone, he's bound to take extra precautions. What's he likely to do?”

“Boobytrap the door, something, I don't know.” Holland brooded over it. “But all my instincts are screaming ‘Watch out!' That fire ladder down the outside wall … what do you say to going in that way?”

“I say it sounds like a good idea. That'll let us into the empty apartment and we can get into the other one through the hole in the pantry wall.”

“Then that's what we'll do,” he decided. He looked at the dashboard clock and then across the street to the entrance to FiFi's. “They ought to be coming out soon. I must say, Sergeant, I am impressed by your resources. Not only do three willing and able police detectives come running when you call, you are also able to pluck a Broadway star out of the air when we need one. When you said you knew a good actor, I had no idea you meant Kelly Ingram.”

Marian smiled to herself. Kelly had been flattered and excited when Marian asked for her help; she'd gone to Marian's apartment that morning to be briefed on what they wanted her to do. Gloria Sanchez had shouted, “Well, aw
right
!” when she saw who the actor was that Marian had called. Ivan already knew Kelly; he'd met her the same time Marian had, three years earlier. But Romero just stood there with his mouth open, unable to speak. “Kelly and I have been friends almost from the day we met,” Marian said. “It's so great when you find someone on the same wavelength as yours.”

“Yes, it must be,” Holland replied quietly. Marian shot him a look. “There they are,” he announced in a different voice.

Across the street, Ivan and Romero were bringing out Page and Large Marge, both in handcuffs, both protesting vociferously. It was a toss-up as to which of the two was making the more noise; Marge wasn't a bad actor herself.

In spite of his tension, or perhaps because of it, Holland barked out a laugh. “That's Large Marge? Oh, magnificent.” He laughed again. “And she picks pockets, too!”

Marian started the car; they'd waited only to make sure nothing had gone wrong. She pulled away from the curb even before Ivan and Romero had gotten their prisoners into their car. She sped through a cross street just as the light was changing and headed toward the Village and Bleecker Street.

They were both silent during the drive downtown. When they reached Bleecker, Marian spotted a fire hydrant to park by; the safe house was on up a block or two. They left the car and started walking.

They could hear the church before they saw it; high-decibel rock pounded through the chill evening air, offering eternal deafness if not eternal salvation. Marian and Holland paused to get their bearings. A pink neon sign spelled out
Souls on Parade
in script over the door, which stood open in spite of the cold weather. Marian was warm, too warm, inside her down jacket. Three teen-aged boys hurried inside without giving them a glance. The sidewalk separating the church from the building next door was so narrow Marian and Holland might have missed it if they hadn't known to look for it.

Holland led the way, playing a flashlight over the side of the building. The iron fire ladder was toward the back; it had a sliding bottom section that stopped a few feet over their heads.
I'll go first
, Holland mouthed over the music, putting his flashlight away. He jumped up and caught the bottom rung of the ladder and his weight slowly pulled the ladder down, the noise of its descent drowned out by the driving musical fervor pouring out of the Souls on Parade.

Marian waited on the ground, holding the ladder with one hand and shining her own flashlight up to the nearest third-floor window. When Holland reached the window, he motioned for her to turn her light off and took out his own. Carefully he examined the frame of the window, even peering inside the best he could. When he was satisfied the window wasn't wired, he placed his palms against the top frame of the bottom pane and pushed—and to Marian's surprise, the window lifted easily. Holland stepped through into the unused apartment.
There's another law broken
, Marian thought.

When he was inside, Marian climbed the ladder, which was on the shaky side. Her heart beating a little faster, she stepped over the windowsill and pulled out her flashlight again. Yes, the window had locks on the inside; why had Page left it unlocked? Behind her, the bottom section of the ladder pulled back up to its original position. Inside the building, the music took on a different quality; the melody dwindled to nearly inaudible while the bass line became more prominent. The wooden floor was vibrating in the empty apartment. Marian started hunting for the kitchen and the pantry.

She felt Holland's hand tugging her arm and followed in the direction he was leading. He opened a door and played his beam over a hole in the wall: the pantry. Marian crouched down and duck walked through to the adjoining pantry. The door between the pantry and the kitchen was locked, just as Romero had said it was. Marian held the light while Holland took out his picks; the first one he tried worked.

The apartment was dark. That was bad; could Page have moved his prisoner to a different hiding place? Or even worse, killed him? Still using her flashlight, Marian found the living room … and Edgar Quinn. He was alive, but there was a problem. He was tied to a chair, his mouth taped shut, and a bomb was strapped to his stomach.

Marian froze. Only when Holland found the switch and turned on the lights did her paralysis begin to dissipate. She caught a whiff of an unpleasant odor and it took her a moment to identify it as Quinn's sweat. Fear did have its own stench; nothing else smelled quite like it. Quinn's eyes were rolled up so only the whites showed, and he'd wet himself. The music pounded up through the floorboards.

Holland pointed. Marian followed his finger as he traced a trip wire connected to the outside door. That's why Page had left the window unlocked: so he could get back in. Holland pointed again; the bomb also had a timer, set for midnight—they had four hours. Page was protecting himself both ways; if someone found the safe house or if he himself was prevented from returning, the evidence against him would be blown to kingdom come—along with all the parading souls in the lower part of the building.