Winter House by Carol O'Connell Page B

dinner with the family tonight. You’ve been invited by my ex-wife. I’m sure Bitty would like to properly apologize for the unpleasantness with the police.“
    „I assure you there’s no need for that,“ said Charles, shifting his legs beyond Mallory’s long reach.
    „Say yes,“ said Smyth. „I’m asking as a favor. Bitty’s so easily crushed. Tell me you’ll go.“
    In Mallory’s version of subtlety, she examined her fingernails – as if they might need sharpening.
    „Of course,“ said Charles.
    After signing a tab for the luncheon and leaving instructions to care for his guests, Sheldon Smyth departed, and the energy level of the dining room was diminished by half.
    Moments later, Riker arrived, and he proved to be another head turner, attracting attention from every quarter of the dining room. He moseyed toward the table, followed closely by a waiter, who no doubt suspected this badly dressed man of a scheme to steal the silverware. Charles stood up to greet the detective, and the waiter, somewhat relieved, melted away.
    When Riker had been apprised on the fine points of Mallory’s interview, he sipped his coffee and grinned at Charles. „So Mallory promoted you to snitch. Good job. Take a nose count when you show up for dinner. There might be somebody living there that we don’t know about, maybe the one who wrote this letter.“ He handed over a clear plastic bag containing a sheet of paper. „We took that from the dead man’s lawyer. It came with a boxful of money.“
    Charles read the scant information neatly typed. It mentioned the name of the client and an arrangement for more money if the bail hearing was successful. „My God, I should’ve recognized him from his picture in the newspaper. This is the dead burglar, isn’t it? Willy Roy Boyd?“
    „Keep that to yourself,“ said Mallory. „Can you tell us anything helpful?“
    Charles shook his head. „Bare sentence fragments. No style or turn of phrase to give the writer away. I can tell you that you’re not dealing with an idiot. Does that help you?“
    No, apparently not.
    „Sorry.“
    A n afternoon of begging for warrants had come to a bad end. District Attorney John J. Buchanan had personally turned down the last request for assistance from his office. In a rare exception to protocol, he had granted an audience to mere detectives, and that alone had been enough to make Riker suspicious.
    The DA had made it clear that the Smyth firm was unassailable and off-limits to the NYPD. That directive had included Bitty Smyth, a former member of that firm.
    It was dark when the partners returned to SoHo, and Riker was gearing up for another unpleasant confrontation as they left the car and headed down the street to a familiar haunt. „Well, it’s an election year,“ he said, as they walked along. „Smyth must be a big contributor to the DA’s war chest. Damn Buchanan.“
    They stopped by the window of a brightly lit cafe across the street from the station house. The table on the other side of the glass was littered with guidebooks and cameras, and the chairs were filled with middle-aged ladies.
    Damn tourists.
    All the cops in sight had had the decency to take other tables. A gray-haired woman sat in the chair once occupied by Mallory’s foster father. Unaware that she was trespassing, this tourist looked up to see the young homicide detective’s face close to the window and those cold eyes like oncoming bullets. Apparently the mayor’s new handout sheet for visitors had included tips that were actually helpful, like – never make eye contact with the sociopath, for now the woman quickly looked down at her menu, wishing the green-eyed apparition away.
    Riker nudged his partner. „They’re ordering dessert. We can come back later.“
    No, that would have been too easy.
    The woman seated in the dead man’s chair looked up to the window again, and now her companions were also curious. This was Mallory’s cue to clear the table –