would never believe that of you.’ He would not – even if he knew it to be true.
She stepped closer to study his face. Was she waiting for the red bloom in his cheeks that killed all possibility of deception and every chance of winning at cards? Well, she would not see him blush, not today. He was telling the truth. He would stake his own heart on the hope that she might also have one.
Lieutenant Coffey listened as an uptown desk sergeant told him on the telephone, ‘The coma guy’s got a visitor.’ That young woman was being detained by the officer on hospital guard duty. ‘And you got
another
leak in your case.’
After the lieutenant thanked the man for this brand-new wound to his stomach lining, he ended the call with a slammed-down receiver. Without opening the door of his office, he yelled loud enough to be heard by the entire squad, ‘Who’s got a copy of the
Daily
!’ He turned to his window on the outer room to see more than a few hands go up; this was not a
Wall Street Journal
crowd.
Janos rose from his desk with a newspaper in hand. The man was built like a refrigerator that could walk and talk; the five o’clock shadow of his beard appeared at nine every morning; and he had the most brutal face that God ever gave a detective – all of which made him invaluable during interrogations. He entered the private office on cat’s feet and delicately placed his copy of the
Daily News
on his boss’s desk.
Jack Coffey turned to page nine, as directed by the desk sergeant of the Upper West Side precinct, and there he found a picture of the surviving victim from Central Park, eyes closed and posed in a hospital bed beneath the headline:
Do You Know This Man?
‘And none of you guys caught this?’ Coffey looked up at his detective. ‘Does anybody on this squad read
anything
but the sports pages?’
Janos always politely considered his responses and delivered them softly. ‘I like the movie reviews.’
Though the
Times
had scooped the big story of the day, there was a reference to Central Park in this newspaper, too. But it was only a passing mention of the place where a dehydrated, naked man had been found. At least the photograph had been buried on the inside pages by an editor who favored rat-eaten little old ladies like Mrs Lanyard over unidentified coma patients.
‘Now our perp knows the guy’s alive,’ said Coffey.
Oh, and the article had thoughtfully provided the name and address of the hospital – so a killer would know where to go if he felt inclined to clean up this sloppy loose end of a living witness.
‘So Coco was hiding behind a door.’ Charles Butler had been restored to his rightful place in the universe. Mallory ruled. She always won.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The kid lied about the door.’
‘I doubt that. Her stories are for entertainment, not deception. Coco has no guile.’ Charles was staring at the raised section of floor on the other side of this spacious room. ‘Hel
lo
.’ He walked toward a short flight of steps leading up to that next level. ‘I knew something was off about this place. My parents had friends in this building. That’s a chimney wall. So you have to wonder . . . why wouldanyone wipe out a fireplace?’ That would be a real-estate sin in Manhattan. He climbed the stairs to stand on the higher floor, and Mallory joined him.
‘Coco was hiding here,’ he said, so confident of what he would find when he lifted the area rug to expose a handle set into the woodwork. ‘And she
was
behind a door – a door in the floor.’
Mallory leaned down to pull on the handle, lifting a square of wood to look into a dark hole. ‘This is where the bastard kept her.’ She ran one hand over the rough texture on the underside of the trapdoor. ‘He soundproofed it.’
‘It’s a pedophile’s dream house,’ said Charles. There would be no fear of a child’s rescue, not by the accidental discovery of a building handyman letting himself in to fix a broken pipe.
She stepped closer to study his face. Was she waiting for the red bloom in his cheeks that killed all possibility of deception and every chance of winning at cards? Well, she would not see him blush, not today. He was telling the truth. He would stake his own heart on the hope that she might also have one.
Lieutenant Coffey listened as an uptown desk sergeant told him on the telephone, ‘The coma guy’s got a visitor.’ That young woman was being detained by the officer on hospital guard duty. ‘And you got
another
leak in your case.’
After the lieutenant thanked the man for this brand-new wound to his stomach lining, he ended the call with a slammed-down receiver. Without opening the door of his office, he yelled loud enough to be heard by the entire squad, ‘Who’s got a copy of the
Daily
!’ He turned to his window on the outer room to see more than a few hands go up; this was not a
Wall Street Journal
crowd.
Janos rose from his desk with a newspaper in hand. The man was built like a refrigerator that could walk and talk; the five o’clock shadow of his beard appeared at nine every morning; and he had the most brutal face that God ever gave a detective – all of which made him invaluable during interrogations. He entered the private office on cat’s feet and delicately placed his copy of the
Daily News
on his boss’s desk.
Jack Coffey turned to page nine, as directed by the desk sergeant of the Upper West Side precinct, and there he found a picture of the surviving victim from Central Park, eyes closed and posed in a hospital bed beneath the headline:
Do You Know This Man?
‘And none of you guys caught this?’ Coffey looked up at his detective. ‘Does anybody on this squad read
anything
but the sports pages?’
Janos always politely considered his responses and delivered them softly. ‘I like the movie reviews.’
Though the
Times
had scooped the big story of the day, there was a reference to Central Park in this newspaper, too. But it was only a passing mention of the place where a dehydrated, naked man had been found. At least the photograph had been buried on the inside pages by an editor who favored rat-eaten little old ladies like Mrs Lanyard over unidentified coma patients.
‘Now our perp knows the guy’s alive,’ said Coffey.
Oh, and the article had thoughtfully provided the name and address of the hospital – so a killer would know where to go if he felt inclined to clean up this sloppy loose end of a living witness.
‘So Coco was hiding behind a door.’ Charles Butler had been restored to his rightful place in the universe. Mallory ruled. She always won.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The kid lied about the door.’
‘I doubt that. Her stories are for entertainment, not deception. Coco has no guile.’ Charles was staring at the raised section of floor on the other side of this spacious room. ‘Hel
lo
.’ He walked toward a short flight of steps leading up to that next level. ‘I knew something was off about this place. My parents had friends in this building. That’s a chimney wall. So you have to wonder . . . why wouldanyone wipe out a fireplace?’ That would be a real-estate sin in Manhattan. He climbed the stairs to stand on the higher floor, and Mallory joined him.
‘Coco was hiding here,’ he said, so confident of what he would find when he lifted the area rug to expose a handle set into the woodwork. ‘And she
was
behind a door – a door in the floor.’
Mallory leaned down to pull on the handle, lifting a square of wood to look into a dark hole. ‘This is where the bastard kept her.’ She ran one hand over the rough texture on the underside of the trapdoor. ‘He soundproofed it.’
‘It’s a pedophile’s dream house,’ said Charles. There would be no fear of a child’s rescue, not by the accidental discovery of a building handyman letting himself in to fix a broken pipe.
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