Cold Day in Hell (23 page)

At least one question got answered: the connection between Cynthia Blair and Nikki Rossman. Nikki’s computer overflowed with correspondence between her and dozens of faux Foxes, or Fox-Trotters. Megan and Pope showed photographs of Cynthia Blair to everyone they interviewed about Nikki, trying to deepen the connection. They also had a team retrace their steps and re-interview everyone who had been contacted previously concerning Cynthia Blair’s murder, showing them photographs of Nikki Rossman. Nothing surfaced. Two women from two different worlds.

“Crazed fan,” Joe Gallo said to the two detectives as they sat in his office going over what were being dubbed the “prime printouts.” “I know you don’t like it coming back down to that. I don’t, either. That gives us something like six million potential suspects. But that’s still the link between these two women. One worked for Marshall Fox, and the other one cyber-flirted with a bunch of his clones. Somebody out there has a screw loose for this guy. Scour the fan sites. Check with the people at the studio. See if anyone can be identified who keeps popping up in the studio audience.”

Working with the different Internet providers, Rodrigo and his team had been able to identify the majority of the people Nikki Rossman had corresponded with. Of the Marshall Fox wannabes who had been identified so far, Megan and Pope were finding most of them fairly easy to eliminate. Gallo had given Brian McKinney to the detectives to assist in running down alibis. Megan appreciated the gesture.

There were eighteen Fox-Trotters who had yet to be identified. Gallo was skimming through some of the printouts. “Did this woman ever sleep?”

Pope answered, “Lieutenant, I think we’re talking about a woman who had a permanent on switch.”

Gallo looked up from one of the printouts. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be sitting here reading her private mail. Someone found the off switch.” He leaned forward at the desk and handed one of the printouts to Pope. “This one.”

“Some of these people dig themselves in pretty deep,” Megan said. “In cyberspace, if you don’t want to be found, you won’t be.”

“‘Won’t’ don’t cut it,” Gallo said. “You know that.” He indicated the paper as Pope passed it to Megan. “Unhide this one. This guy had Ms. Rossman spinning on her thumb, if you’ll excuse the bluntness. I want him in my office. I want to see if we can make
him
spin a little.”

Megan looked down at the printout. “Lucky Dog.”

“That one,” Gallo said. “Lucky Dog. Fetch.”

WATERCOOLERS.

Chat rooms.

Talk radio.

Joe Gallo was aware of the talk. How couldn’t he be? Hell, his own wife was practically addicted to the topic. Gallo hoped that if he ever had as much free time on his hands as Sylvie, he would find something more productive to do with it than sit around and gossip about people he had never met. For her part, Sylvie Gallo thought her husband was missing the boat.

“My girlfriends think you’re a dupe, Joey. Look at him, all smooth and contrite. I’m telling you, he’s throwing this thing in your face. My girlfriends can’t believe you haven’t locked him up yet. You’re too cautious, Joey. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you are.”

Marshall Fox.

Even though prevailing sentiment was that an unbalanced fan of the late-night entertainer would eventually be found to be responsible for the twin killings in Central Park, the drumbeat of speculation that Fox was actually the killer was building a steady rhythm across the airwaves, phone lines, cyberspace, backyard fences, all of it. The notion was too delicious not to bandy about. The name of O. J. Simpson was being invoked. “O.J. East,” people were saying.

“I don’t know,” Gallo said to Megan two days after Nicole Rossman’s burial. The homicide chief was sitting at his desk, fiddling with a $1.50 wicker tube from Chinatown. Chinese handcuffs. “Are we being stupid? Should we be taking a closer look?”

Megan shook her head. “Based on what? Equal treatment under the law, Joe. Fox doesn’t get cut any breaks for being famous, and we also don’t send out a premature lynch squad because he’s famous. I’m not about to be railroaded by the rumor mill. He’ll earn his way onto the suspect list just like everyone else. Reasonable cause. Nothing less.”

Gallo eased the tips of his index fingers into the Chinese handcuffs, then gave them the slightest tug. The wicker tightened instantly. “I got a call from Cynthia Blair’s mother this morning. She wanted to know what I thought about Fox as a suspect.”

“And you told her what?”

Gallo grinned. “I told her he’ll have to earn his way onto the suspect list like everyone else.”

“And here I thought I was being original.”

Gallo slithered one finger farther into the Chinese handcuffs, making a futile attempt to wiggle the other finger free. The toy did not cooperate. “This thing’s probably a metaphor,” the lieutenant said. “I just haven’t sorted it out yet.”

“The Chinese handcuffs?”

“Yes.”

“The harder you try, the worse it gets.”

“Right. But the more you just relax and try to give in, the worse it gets, too.”

“There’s your metaphor.”

“It’s a depressing one.”

“Welcome to the world.”

Gallo’s phone rang. He indicated his shanghaied hands. “Do you want to get that for me?”

“What? You get caught in a metaphor and suddenly I’m your secretary?” Megan leaned forward and answered the phone. It was the attorney Zachary Riddick.

“I’m looking for Gallo,” he said.

Megan winked at her boss. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riddick, the lieutenant is tied up for the moment. This is Detective Lamb. Can I help you with something?”

“I’m calling on behalf of Marshall Fox.”

“What about Mr. Fox?”

“I want it on record that we contacted you first.”

Megan’s eyebrows rose. She glanced over at Gallo. “Noted. You contacted us first.”

“I need to have a meeting with Gallo right away. Could you please get him on the line?”

“May I ask what specifically is the purpose of this meeting?”

“You may not.” If the lawyer was attempting to conceal his impatience, he was failing handily. “I need to speak with Gallo. Where the hell is he?”

“If you would like—”

“Would it help my cause, Ms. Lamb, if I tell you that this is an urgent matter?”

“That’s coming through.”

Behind his desk, Gallo was managing at last to wiggle a knuckle free of the wicker toy. On the phone, Riddick muttered something under his breath; Megan was unable to catch it.

“I’m writing down the time,” the lawyer said. “According to my watch, it is one-thirty-two.”

Megan checked her watch. “I’ve got one-thirty-six, Mr. Riddick.”

Riddick muttered again; this time Megan caught it. “It’s Lamb, right?”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask you a favor, dear? If it’s all the same to you, can you not fuck with me at this precise moment in time?”

Gallo had freed himself. Megan dropped a dollop of sugar into her voice. “Lieutenant Gallo can speak with you now. Please hold.” She clamped her palm over the mouthpiece and held it to her chest.

Gallo asked, “What are you doing?”

“At this precise moment in time, I’m fucking with him.”

ZACHARY RIDDICK’S EYES MOVED from Joe Gallo to Detective Lamb, where they lingered a few seconds. Megan entertained an image of whipping her elbow up into his nose. Instead, she maintained a deadpan expression.

Gallo spoke. “Afternoon, Zachary. I don’t recall if you’ve met Detective Lamb? Detective, this is Zachary Riddick.”

“You’re the girl who killed the Swede, right?”

The question landed in Megan’s stomach. “I’m not the
girl
who did anything,” she said evenly.

“Right. My apologies. You’re the woman who killed the Swede. I wasn’t aware you were back on the force.”

Gallo stepped across the threshold. “Are you going to invite us in, Zachary?”

“Of course.” Riddick stepped back, pulling the door the rest of the way open. “Straight ahead. They’re in the living room.”

Megan’s eyes remained fixed on her boss’s back as she went through the doorway. Riddick enjoyed her profile as she passed. With a low hum, he made sure she knew it.

The detectives followed a short hallway that opened up into a large room dominated by a spectacular view of the thick Central Park plumage. Seated on a tan leather couch was Marshall Fox. He was dressed in jeans and an open-collared blue shirt. His long legs were crossed. He was wearing a pair of mud-red armadillo boots and was picking at the pointy toe of one of the boots, as if trying to scrape away the scales and open up a hole. He looked up as Gallo and Megan Lamb entered the room. My God, Megan thought. He really
is
a handsome devil, isn’t he?

Fox smiled wanly. “They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, hee hee, ho ho.” Megan recognized the obscure novelty song of several decades previous. Rising from a matching leather armchair was Alan Ross, director of programming for KBS Television. He shot a pleading look at Fox. “Marshall.”

Fox lowered his boot to the floor. “Yes, dear,” he grumbled in a deliberately nasal monotone.

Ross stepped forward, hand extended. He aimed first for the senior detective. “Lieutenant Gallo. Nothing personal, but it would be nice if we could stop meeting like this. Thank you very much for coming.”

The two shook hands. Gallo nodded tersely. “This is Detective Lamb. She’s lead investigator in the Blair and Rossman killings.”

Riddick had stepped into the room. He took up a spot against the entry wall, arms crossed, a slightly bemused look on his face. Ross and Megan shook hands. “You both know Marshall, of course,” Ross said.

Fox rose from the couch, addressing Gallo: “No offense, Detective. But you probably could have gotten a lot more out of me the last time we met if you’d brought Miss Lamb along.” He crossed to the couple. “Marshall Fox, ma’am.”

“How do you do, Mr. Fox?”

“On balance? Does the phrase ‘I’d rather be having a voluntary root canal’ give you an idea?”

“Marshall.” Ross’s tone was a bit less pleading this time. The executive addressed the detectives. “Please have a seat. I know you two are busy. We’ll keep this as brief as possible.”

Riddick remained standing until the others had settled in. Taking an eye cue from Ross, the lawyer crossed to the couch, giving Fox a comradely pat on the knee as he sat down next to him.

The lawyer began. “Marshall has some information he would like to pass along to the authorities.” Fox opened his mouth to speak, but Riddick waved him off. “Hold up. Before Mr. Fox shares this information, we would like an assurance that this is a private conversation.”

“That’s fine,” Gallo said. “Except this isn’t a private conversation. Detective Lamb and I haven’t dropped by for tea. You have something you would like to share with us, Mr. Fox?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Riddick held his hands out as if a herd of cattle were bearing down on him. “Detective, we are making a voluntary statement here. On our own initiative. All we’re asking is that we don’t open the paper tomorrow and see the details of Mr. Fox’s statement splattered across the front page.”

“I’m not in the business of doing reporters’ work for them,” Gallo said.

“I’m not saying you specifically, Lieutenant.”

Gallo turned to Megan. She noted the light in his dark eyes. He said, “Are you and Jimmy Puck taking bubble baths together again, Detective Lamb?”

Megan had pulled out her notebook and flipped it open. She produced a ballpoint pen and clicked it. “I’m ready for your statement, Mr. Fox.”

Riddick blurted, “Wait. Hold on. We need to be on the same page here.” He turned to Ross. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Alan.”

Fox muttered, “I could use a drink,” and fell back on the couch, bringing his boot back to his knee and recommencing his excavation work.

Alan Ross cleared his throat. Megan had the sense that the executive had agreed to Riddick launching the conversation but was now pulling rank. The sense came as much from Ross as it did from the way in which Riddick let his arms drop to his sides with a poorly veiled petulance. If she needed confirmation, Fox provided it, mimicking Riddick with a pat to
his
knee.

Ross began. “Lieutenant Gallo, you know this from the last time we met. But for Detective Lamb’s edification, I am here as Marshall’s friend, not as a representative of the network. The network’s investment in Marshall as one of our most valuable talents is immaterial to my being here. I want there to be no sense of corporate coercion at play, you understand? I’m here on behalf of my friend. I probably don’t even have to be saying this, but just in case, I’d like us to at least be on
that
same page.”

He took the opportunity to give Zachary Riddick one of his repertoire’s less generous smiles, then continued, “My wife and I are responsible for Marshall having come to New York in the first place. I don’t think I’m betraying any confidences in telling you that Marshall has had more than his share of occasions over the past several years to wonder if gracing our city with his presence has been worth it to him in the big picture. Fame might look pretty fabulous from the outside, but Marshall will be the first to tell you that some of the costs can make a person wonder if it’s all worth it.”

From the couch, Fox cracked, “Alan, you’re going to make me cry.”

“Hold the tears, bubba.” Ross turned back to the detectives. “Lieutenant Gallo, Detective Lamb. I don’t mean to be making a speech here. I’ll shut up in a second. It’s just that you both know full well how huge Marshall is in the public eye. One of the downsides of being so huge is that you make an awfully easy target if someone decides it’s worth their while to take a shot at you.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “That’s what’s happened to Marshall.”

Gallo cut in. “Are you referring to the rumors, Mr. Ross?”

“The rumors?”

“About Mr. Fox and the Blair and Rossman killings.” Gallo turned to Fox. “No offense, but my wife and her cronies are thinking of checking you out for the Lindbergh baby at this point.”