The Apostrophe Thief (28 page)

Kelly's eyes were enormous. “You know who killed that man?”

“Yes, I do. I could make the arrest right now, except for that one piece of evidence.”

“It's someone I know.” Kelly's voice was small. “Someone I work with …”

“Kelly—”

“No, I'm not going to ask—I know better than that. But dammit, Marian, you have to know this is
killing
me!” Then she thought of something. “You're right on the verge of making an arrest?”

“That's right.”

Kelly looked at her oddly. “Then why aren't you depressed?”

With a shock, Marian realized it was true: she wasn't depressed in the least. That punishing, enervating emptiness that came over her whenever she arrested a killer—not a sign of it. Ever since she first won her gold shield, she'd known she had days of bleakness to look forward to whenever she solved a case; but she felt none of that now. Now she felt anticipation, satisfaction.

“It's gone, Kelly,” she said wonderingly. “The depression is gone!”

Kelly let out a whoop and jumped at her, almost knocking her over. Marian laughed and hugged her friend, and felt better than she had for years. It was gone! It was completely, thoroughly, forever-and-ever-she-hoped gone! That dark, suffocating tunnel was no longer her “reward” for a successful investigation.

Marian sat down to think while Kelly finished getting ready. Looking forward to nailing a killer was a new feeling to Marian, and she examined it gingerly. If ever there was a time to feel depressed, it was now, when she was about to arrest a man she knew personally and had rather liked. But the only thing that was truly worrying her was the possibility that the Sûreté would say no major jewel robbery had taken place in France recently. If that was the case, then they'd just have to try Antwerp, Amsterdam, London.
Sooner or later we'll find out where the jewels came from
.

We? We who? She and Murtaugh. She and the NYPD. She and the whole damned system of law enforcement—
of which she was a part
. All along she'd considered her unwillingness to go on enduring depression as part of her reason for wanting to resign; but now it occurred to her that it might be the only reason. It was the same reason that she'd equivocated when Holland asked her to come work with him. It wasn't the job or the people or police politics; it was something
in her
that she had to work her way through, that sense of failure and loss she experienced every time she pointed her finger and said:
You are a killer
. It was a form of private exculpation, she now thought, a way of absolving herself for spending her life in the pursuit of losers, people whose humanity had failed them when the crunch had come. But that was behind her now, that debilitating misgiving. She no longer felt a need to apologize to herself for what she did.

Marian would not resign. She was a cop, not a private investigator or a politician or a short order cook or anything else. Police work was what she did. It was what she knew and, god help her, what she loved.

So what lay ahead? What if she was passed over again for promotion? What if she had to go back to the Ninth Precinct to work for a captain who soon would have reason to hate her guts? What if, god help her, Foley wriggled free of his suspension and ended up her partner again? Well, she'd handle it. She'd wrangle a transfer, she'd challenge Personnel if her promotion didn't come through, she'd do
something
. And if she had to have enemies, she couldn't think of two better ones than Foley and DiFalco.

Yes. She would not quit.

Marian looked up to see Kelly dressed and ready for the next act, quietly watching her. “Are you back?” Kelly asked.

“I'm back,” Marian said with a smile.

“You're not going to resign, are you?”

Marian was startled. “My god, am I that transparent?”

“Only sometimes. You aren't going to quit, are you?”

“No. That was a bad decision. I'm going to stay with the police.”

Kelly gave her a sweet smile. “I'm glad, Marian,” she said simply.

Marian glanced at her watch and stood up. “It must be getting close to time. I know you need to concentrate, so I'll leave you alone now.”

“There's no need to go.”

“No, I'll just be a distraction. Knock 'em dead, Kel.”

Marian's step was buoyant as she left; an enormous weight was off her shoulders and she felt ready to take on the world. In fact, she felt so good that when she saw Holland standing there, she walked over and kissed him. Right in front of everyone.

“I'm glad somebody's having a good time,” John Reddick said gloomily. “I might as well have gone to
Don Giovanni
.”

“Hel-
lo
,” Holland said softly.

“Let's find a quiet place. I have something to tell you.”

Elsie/Anne-Marie was not in the costume room, so they went in there. Marian closed the door and told him what she'd decided.

He wasn't surprised. “I've seen this coming. I won't say I'm not disappointed, because I am. But if this is what you want, then I wish you success and satisfaction.”

“Thank you.” She couldn't tell if he was hurt or not. “I'm sorry, Holland.”

“Yes. We would have made good partners.”

She didn't care for the implications of that. “That almost sounds like goodbye.”

He looked at her a long moment, and then said, “Aren't you saying goodbye to me?”

“No!” That came out more emphatically than she'd meant. “No,” she repeated in a more moderate tone.

Slowly, the downturned corners of his mouth lifted. “Well, then. Perhaps this isn't such a devastating day after all.” He reached for her.

They broke apart when the door suddenly opened and the wardrobe mistress walked in on them. “Sergeant!” She sounded scandalized.

“Uh, sorry, Anne-Marie.” Marian grabbed Holland's arm and dragged him out, trying not to laugh.

They checked with the stage doorkeeper; Murtaugh hadn't arrived yet. “What time is he supposed to get here?” Holland asked.

“We didn't set a time. But he should have been here before now. I can't make an arrest until I get an all-clear from him. One bit of outstanding evidence still to be nailed down.”

“Which one is it—the producer or the director?”

“The producer.”

“Well, all we can do is wait,” he said. “Meanwhile, let's watch the play.”

“By the way,” Marian said, “how is it you're able to get into this theater any time you like?”

“Kelly. She had the doorkeeper add my name to his list.”

“Um. As far as that goes, how did you know I was here?”

His sardonic smile returned. “You're not the only detective here, you know. When you didn't come back, I looked up ‘Zingone' in the phone book and went to their place. One of them had eavesdropped on your conversation with Murtaugh and told me where to find you.”

So they'd listened in; she wasn't surprised. “I did try calling once. The line was busy.”

“That was Gloria Sanchez. She wanted to tell you that Foley has been found guilty of neglect of duty and is being allowed to resign without a pension.”

Marian caught her breath; rough justice, of a sort.
One down; one to go
.

They found a place in the wings to watch from. The second act had just started, and the actors were giving such a high-energy performance that Marian soon got caught up again in the action. Several minutes passed before she realized she could see Captain Murtaugh standing on the other side of the stage. When he knew he had her eye, he lifted one hand in an OK signal.

Marian raised both fists above her head and silently shouted
Yeah!
Holland had witnessed the exchange and nodded at her when she turned to go. She borrowed a flashlight from one of Leo Gunn's assistants and followed the dim red beam around behind the set to the other side of the stage.

Murtaugh beckoned to her and said to John Reddick, “May I use your office?”

“Why not? Everyone else does.”

Marian followed the captain into John's office and closed the door. “What?”

“Right outside Paris,” Murtaugh said, perching on the corner of the desk. “Over four million in diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, coming by armored van from Antwerp. Three men in ski masks shot out the tires and used a laser beam to cut into the van. The guards were roughed up a little, but no one was seriously hurt. The Sûreté has a good idea of who the three are, but without the stones they can't prove anything. I told them about Ramsay and suggested they look for a connection.”

“Four million,” Marian repeated. “One mil apiece, if they split equally.
Now
we've got a motive.”

“We've also got a warrant to open that safe over there. That's what took so long—I had to track down Judge Agostini.”

“Where's Ramsay?”

“I sent two uniforms to pick him up. They'll be here in a few minutes.”

“Good. That'll give me time to bring you up to date on something that's happened. DiFalco was here.” She went on to tell him about the order transferring the case to the Ninth Precinct, and how DiFalco worked it out for himself that a fur-smuggling operation was behind Ernie Nordstrom's murder.

Murtaugh was both amused and aghast. “The letter's coming through Monday? If those gems aren't in that safe, we've got a problem. And you know DiFalco can suspend you for misleading him, don't you?”

“Captain, I didn't tell him anything that wasn't true. I'm not responsible for
his
mistaken assumptions, am I? I told him repeatedly that I didn't have evidence of a fur-smuggling ring.”

“But told him in a way that made him suspicious?”

Marian shrugged. “DiFalco's quite good at jumping to the wrong conclusion. He does it all the time.”

“Seems to me you're on thin ice there.” He sighed. “But I'm grateful to you for diverting him, even though there'll be repercussions later. I'll see what I can do when the time comes. Right now I want you to go wait by the stage door for Ramsay. Leave one of the officers there.”

“Yes, sir.” She opened the door to go. “There's one other thing. I've decided not to resign.”

His face broke into a smile. “A wise decision, Sergeant. I've felt all along you belong on the force. You enjoy the hunt, you know you do.”

“I've always enjoyed the hunt. It was the kill that bothered me.”

“And now it doesn't?”

“Now it doesn't.”

He nodded approval. “You'll have my recommendation for lieutenant on Monday.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She went out to the stage door to wait for Gene Ramsay.

19

The stage doorkeeper was edgy, sensing that something was up. He didn't feel any better when the two uniformed officers appeared with the play's producer in tow.

“Marian, what the hell's going on?” Gene Ramsay demanded angrily. “These two won't tell me anything.”

“We'll tell you all about it now,” she said. “In John's office.” She told one of the officers to stay by the door.

Captain Murtaugh was sitting behind the desk; Marian pointed to the chair facing the desk. Ramsay sat down and said, “Well?”

The second police officer closed the door and stood with his back to it; with four people in the small room, the office was uncomfortably close. Murtaugh put a folded court paper on the desk. “That's a warrant,” he said, “entitling us to examine and recover the contents of that safe in the corner. You have the combination. Open it.”

Ramsay turned white as Marian watched. He swallowed and said, “Why on earth do you want to open that safe? I don't think there's anything in it.”

“Let's find out, shall we? Open it.”

“I don't remember the combination.”

“Then get it. Or I'll get a police locksmith in here. That safe is coming open, one way or another.”

Ramsay heard the determination in the captain's voice and abandoned that line of resistance. “Oh, very well. I think I have the combination written down here.” He made a show of taking out his billfold and looking for it. “What do you expect to find in the safe?”

“Gems. Stolen gems.”

“Oh, really?” His hand was shaking when he turned the dial, but he got the safe open.

Marian moved him aside and looked in; a good-sized canvas carryall made up the entire contents of the safe. Her heart beating rapidly, she put the carryall on the desk in front of Murtaugh. At his nod, she opened it; it held a number of small black velvet bags. Marian picked one up, loosened the drawstring, and upended the bag. About two dozen emeralds spilled out on the desk.

“Jesus,” exclaimed the uniformed officer.

“Sergeant,” Murtaugh said.

She turned to Ramsay. “You have the right to remain silent. You have—”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he cried. “You aren't arresting
me?
I didn't put those stones there!”

“Yes, you did,” Marian said. “You're the only one with the combination to the safe, and you're the only one who could have smuggled those stones into the country.” She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out one of the amber velvet sleeves; Ramsay made a choking sound at the sight of it. Marian looked at his stricken face and said gently, “Gene, it will go easier for you if you cooperate. Once these gems are identified as the ones stolen in France, we have an airtight case. Don't you see? It's all over.”

He did see. He buried his face in his hands and shuddered. When he raised his face again, he looked ten years older.

“Your confederates who stopped the van wanted to get the stones out of France,” Marian said. “That's where you came in. You bought the Bernhardt jacket, substituted the real gems for the stage fakes, and got them through customs that way. But back home you had a problem. Everyone knew about the jacket and expected you to donate it to the museum. So you gave the jacket to Kelly Ingram to wear for a few performances and recruited Ernie Nordstrom to burglarize the theater for you—that way no blame would be attached to you when the jacket disappeared. But I don't understand why you didn't just replace the real gems with the stage fakes again. Nobody would have known the difference.”