The Red Queen Dies (15 page)

He moved up to the entrance of the North Corridor. He needed to give her a head start.

She was wearing a red silk blouse and was easy enough to follow. Especially on a Saturday, when only a few state workers were around and no busloads of schoolchildren were milling through the miles of corridor.

But the lack of people also meant that he had less cover and had to stay farther behind her. He stepped out into the concourse.

She moved with a slender, long-legged stride past the closed bank, card shop, and flower stand, past the empty dining hall housing the food court, past the display of artwork, where she stopped to look at a painting, forcing him to turn and study the announcements on a bulletin board.

She moved on. He followed.

At the end of the corridor, she went through the glass doors. She took a few steps in the direction of the stairs leading up to the exit. Then she glanced to the left and toward the auditorium and the elevators and escalators leading up to the museum. She decided to go that way rather than outside and across the street.

But she was going to the museum. All this, and she was going to look at Indian wigwams and Adirondack wildlife. Maybe she wanted to ride on the damn carousel.

He waited a few minutes and then followed her up the escalator to the museum floor. He stepped back when he realized she had stopped at the information desk.

She spoke for a few minutes to the woman sitting there, and then she headed toward one of the exhibit rooms.

Ashby went in the other direction, circling around.

When he spotted her again, she was studying the artifacts from the archaeological digs in Albany—the distillery and the broken pottery and other items excavated years ago, before a parking garage had gone up.

Ashby watched her take out a palm-size camera. He sagged back against the wall and almost laughed out loud. Now the trip to the graveyard was beginning to make sense. Ted, giving one of his history lessons, had been talking last night about the British lord who was buried in the vestibule of one of the churches on State Street. The only British lord buried on American soil. Undoubtedly, she intended to amuse Ted with a photo montage of what he had described as “underground Albany,” all the bones and artifacts dug up or still buried in various places around the city.

He watched as she finished taking her photographs and slid the camera back into her bag. She turned back toward the lobby.

In the lobby, she paused, glanced toward the escalators back down to the concourse, then decided to go into the gift store.

Through the glass walls, Ashby watched her browse. Finally, she chose something too small to make out from where he was standing. She paid at the counter and slid her purchase into her bag. Then she came out and stepped onto the escalator.

Ashby waited until he was sure she was at the bottom of the second set of escalators. Then he followed. When he peered into the corridor, she was halfway to the glass doors leading back onto the concourse. When she had passed through them, he strode up the corridor. He waited at the glass doors until she was almost out of sight, then stepped into the concourse.

At the flower stand, she turned. She looked back along the length of the concourse, staring straight at him. She blew him a kiss.

Ashby choked, cold panic and colder rage spreading through him. He watched her walk away, disappearing in the distance. What the devil was he going to tell Ted? But she might decide it would be wiser to keep her mouth shut.…

 

17

 

New York City

They had set the ORB that Maggie Soames had found in Jessup's bedside table on the credenza. They projected the pages on the opposite wall.

“Is this what women call ‘erotica'?” Baxter said.

“Looks like she was writing it, not reading it,” Soames commented.

Baxter said, “Guess this was her leisure-time activity when she got bored writing that play about Lincoln, Booth, and the actress.”

McCabe said, “This is the kind of thing that makes you hope you'll have time to clean out all your closets and drawers before you die.”

Baxter slanted her a glance. “You about to confess to having a few secrets, partner?”

McCabe shrugged. “We all have secrets. Even if it's only a boxful of keepsakes that nobody else has ever seen. And we die, and someone comes in and starts pawing through them.”

Soames said, “Well, better that we found this before her family did.”

“Yes, definitely. And I'm really glad you found it, Maggie, because it might be useful. But—”

“You're just saying?” Soames said.

McCabe nodded. “I'm just saying.”

Baxter was reading. “This is about an actress. A young actress having an affair with an older married man.”

Soames said, “If you go back to the beginning, it's supposed to be set in 1995, when the young actress arrives in the City.”

“About the time Jessup would have arrived,” Baxter said.

McCabe said, “She calls the actress Kate Sheridan. And the older man, the lover, is Richard March.”

“And by chapter two, they're going at it hot and heavy, in all kinds of creative positions,” Baxter said.

“Didn't you say something about a book that Jessup was trying to buy from someone?” Soames asked.

McCabe said, “From a collector. Is there—”

“Go to chapter five,” Soames said. “I don't know if it has anything to do with your collector, but she mentions a book.”

McCabe scanned the chapter. “The wealthy tycoon gives the struggling young actress the first edition of a book by her favorite author. ‘Not a practical gift, but a gift that she treasured.'”

Baxter read, “‘An author Kate had adored since she was a child.' As in Lewis Carroll?”

“That would matchup with what Professor Noel told us about the ‘friend' who gave Jessup a Dalí edition of
Alice
when she was still a poor unknown,” McCabe said.

“So you think this little tale might really be based on Jessup's life?” Soames asked.

“Seems like it could be,” McCabe said. “That makes me curious about the identity of the lover.”

“If he kept up that pace with young actresses,” Baxter said, “he's probably dead by now.”

McCabe scanned through the documents. “There's nothing else on this ORB. Just those six chapters of her book.”

Soames said, “And, of course, this couldn't be the ORB that she took with her to Albany.”

McCabe shook her head. “No, this one is a bonus. The ORB she had in Albany is still out there somewhere. I wonder if Jessup's publicist knew she was writing a novel, too.”

“We could interrupt that meeting she had with that other client and ask,” Baxter said.

“Let's do that.”

McCabe took out her ORB.

In spite of her distress about her client's untimely death, Vivian Jessup's publicist had not been able to find time that morning to meet with them. As she'd explained, she had been Jessup's publicist for only a few months, since the publicist Jessup had been with for seventeen years had died. And the truth was, Vivian, whom she'd absolutely worshiped, so talented, had been a bit difficult to work with.… They just hadn't been simpatico. And she had another client, who had a major emergency, was having an absolute meltdown, and needed her immediate attention.

During that first call, Ms. Kirkpatrick had informed McCabe that she had deleted the tag from the
Alice
collector that she had sent to Vivian Jessup. No need to keep it. Yes, she understood forensics might be able to recover the tag. Reluctantly, she had granted access to her Jessup file.

Before she could disconnect, McCabe had asked where she, Ms. Kirkpatrick, had been on Wednesday evening. Ms. Kirkpatrick was somewhat annoyed, since she had clearly been trying to reach her client, Vivian Jessup. However, she supplied the name and location of the reception she had attended, and the nonprofit fund-raiser she had gone to later that evening with another client.

Ms. Kirkpatrick was not pleased to hear from McCabe again. When McCabe said she was calling to ask about the book Jessup had been writing, Kirkpatrick said. “I don't know anything about it. She didn't mention it to me.” A pause and a change of tone: “How near is this book to being done? It might be something that her family could pursue, even though poor Vivian…”

McCabe said, “She had written only the first few chapters. I don't think they'd want to bother.”

“But I should follow up with them about the play. Call and offer my condolences and let them know I'm available to help … if they want to pay tribute to dear Vivian by going forward—”

“I'll let you get back to your other client and his emergency,” McCabe said.

“Yes, I do have to run. But they are going to dim the lights on Broadway for dear Vivian tonight. At eight, if you're still here. And please do keep me posted.”

“We'll absolutely do that, Ms. Kirkpatrick. Bye now.”

“Nothing?” Soames said.

“Other than Ms. Kirkpatrick beginning to think about how she might make some money off her deceased client?”

“She was way slow on the uptake with that one,” Baxter said. “Guess the murder thing slowed her down.”

*   *   *

They were leaving Jessup's condo when her neighbor's door opened. An elderly woman wearing a caftan and a turban peered out at them. “Are you the cops?”

McCabe nodded. “Yes, ma'am. I'm Detective McCabe and—”

“I have Vivian's cats.”

“Her cats?”

“Kitty and Snowdrop. She asked me to feed them while she was out of town. Tell her daughter they're here with me when she wants them.”

“We will. Ma'am, could we speak to you about—”

“I don't know anything. I can't help you.”

“We'd just like to ask if you've seen—”

“I haven't seen anything.” She started to close the door, then opened it a crack to say, “I watch the cop shows. I know the kind of thing you're looking for. If I knew anything that could help you find the son of a bitch who killed her, I'd tell you.”

The door closed.

“That was to the point,” Soames said. “Anyplace else I can take you guys before you catch the train?”

McCabe glanced at Baxter. “Have you ever been to the Alice statue in the park?”

“When I was a kid. Why?”

“Just thought we might swing by and have a look. I've always liked it. And, who knows, maybe we'll get inspired.”

“You never know what might turn on a lightbulb,” Soames said. “No problem. It's right across the street. My kids have all had their pictures taken with that statue.”

When they got to the park, they walked down the hill, past the New Yorkers and the tourists who were enjoying Saturday outside. At the boat pond, a few of them were having brunch at the café. Small model boats sailed across the water.

McCabe, Soames, and Baxter walked into the area of paths and benches that surrounded the eleven-foot metallic statue of Alice and her friends. A group of Japanese students was posing in front of the statue. Four middle-aged white women with southern accents were waiting their turn.

When they were done, McCabe moved closer. She ignored Baxter's grin as he watched her move around the circle, reading the quotes from the book.

“Inspiration strike yet?”

“Not yet. Could be I'm just picking up on Jessup's obsession.”

“Could be,” he agreed.

Soames said, “Me personally, I've got this thing about obsessions. When a vic has one, I always wonder if it had something to do with getting him or her dead.”

McCabe glanced up. “Me, too. But, in this case, we've got two other victims who have nothing to do with
Alice in Wonderland
or the theater.…”

Baxter had his mouth open when she turned to him. “Damn,” he said.

“What?” Soames said.

“We didn't look for that,” McCabe said. “With the first two victims, we didn't look for whether they had performed in a middle school pageant or the senior play. We were looking at the present, here and now, with the first one. Who had reason to want her dead. And then when we had the second, when we knew they both had died the same way, we were looking at what connected them, what they had in common.”

Soames nodded. “The same friends. Or going to the same clubs, or working out at the same gym, or being in the same dance class.”

McCabe had her ORB out, waiting for the connection.

Baxter said, “We checked for whether they had gone to the same schools or attended the same church. Volunteered for the same cause. Dated the same guy.”

“But you didn't ask if either of them had been in a school play when she was a kid,” Soames said.

“Because there was no reason to ask that then,” McCabe said. “But now we have Vivian Jessup, the third victim—Lou, it's McCabe.… We want to check something out.…”

*   *   *

McCabe and Baxter were on the train back to Albany when Lieutenant Dole got back to them. “I've got Yin checking with the victims' families about the school play thing,” he said.

“Thanks, Lou. It's just an idea, but we didn't want to miss anything.”

“Meantime, McCabe, you'd better check out Clarence Redfield's thread.”

She reached for her ORB. “Is he threading about Vivian Jessup?”

“The Givens case. Check back with me when you get into the station. Jessup's daughter's in town. The mayor's already been over at Thornton's house, paying her condolences. We need to set up an interview with the daughter.”

“Yes, sir, we'll let you know when we arrive.”

“What's up?” Baxter said as she disconnected.

“The mayor's been paying her condolences to Jessup's daughter, and Redfield's been threading again.”

McCabe brought up Redfield's node on her ORB.