Part 7 (2/2)

”Now, where are we going, and why are we idiots?” I asked.

”What was Mayor Spellman's biggest-no, make that his only-concern?”

”Arrest the Hazmat Killer before next Tuesday, or he'll be former mayor Spellman.”

”Exactly,” she said. ”If we do it on Spellman's watch, he'll hog the glory and tell the world that the tough-on-crime candidate is already in office. If we haven't cracked it by the time the voters go to the polls, Sykes will blast the mayor for being weak and impotent. So what do you think she wants us to do?”

”s.h.i.+t,” I said. ”Not catch him.”

”Bingo. It's in her best interests to slow us down, and she may have figured out how to do it. There was a break-in at campaign headquarters early this morning, and guess what? Evelyn's computer was stolen.”

”You're right,” I said. ”We are idiots. We were so busy being cops that we never looked at the big picture. Politics.”

Kylie swerved around a cabbie who was either too slow or too arrogant to get out of the way. We barreled across 86th in our race uptown.

”Wait,” I said. ”Campaign headquarters are on Fifty-Fifth. Where are we going?”

”Ninety-Fourth and Park. Evelyn Parker-Steele's apartment. The same place where she murdered Cynthia Pritchard two years ago.”

”What's there?”

”Muriel Sykes. And I'll bet a year's salary on what's not there,” she said. ”Evelyn's personal computer.”

”Son of a b.i.t.c.h,” I said, pounding the dash with the flat of my fist. ”Screw Code Two. Floor it.”

Chapter 18.

As Park Avenue buildings go, Evelyn's was rather modest. It wasn't one of those grand old dames built at the turn of the last century. It was a 1960s-era redbrick building, and Evelyn probably bought her two-bedroom co-op for a couple of mil, which in this zip code is practically Walmart pricing.

Of course, Evelyn and her husband, Jason Steele, owned an eighty-million-dollar horse farm in Pound Ridge. So for her, 1199 Park was just a simple crash pad, tastefully appointed with a few million bucks' worth of modern art and antique furniture.

We didn't have to wave our badges at the doorman. The flas.h.i.+ng lights on our double-parked Ford was all he needed.

”You're here about Mrs. Parker-Steele,” he said, holding the door for us.

”That's right,” Kylie said. ”Mrs. Sykes is upstairs. She's expecting us.”

”Fourteen A. The elevator's over there,” he said. ”Shame about what happened. She was a good tenant. Never any problems.”

Except for that one time she tossed her girlfriend off the terrace. It's amazing how much you can block out about someone's past when you've seen them being tortured on the Internet.

The door to the apartment opened before we could ring the bell. Muriel Sykes let us in. She had played NCAA lacrosse at Penn State. Thirty years and four kids later, she still had an imposing athletic physique. Her casually styled chestnut-brown hair and her slate-gray skirt/jacket ensemble were age and image appropriate for a woman who wanted to appeal to voters across a broad economic spectrum.

”Thank you so much for coming,” Sykes said as if we had accepted her gracious invitation and not as though we'd bolted out of the precinct when we realized she was trying to undermine our investigation.

Evelyn's apartment was blandly tasteful and remarkably inoffensive. The walls, the furniture, and even the art were all varying shades of beige. The one thing that popped out was the sour-faced octogenarian in the black suit and red turtleneck sitting on a minimalist ecru sofa, a silver TV remote in one hand, a bright green can of Canada Dry ginger ale in the other.

”This is Evelyn's father, Leonard Parker,” Sykes said, introducing us.

We did the usual sorry-for-your-loss routine. He thanked us but seemed more interested in the stock ticker crawling along the bottom of the TV screen.

”She's not gay,” he said, looking up from the TV. ”They tortured her into saying that. Evelyn and Jason were happy as a couple of newlyweds.”

He made no attempt to deny the fact that his daughter was a murderer-as long as we didn't walk away thinking she was a homicidal lesbian. What a dad.

”You find this Hazmat b.a.s.t.a.r.d for me,” he said, forgetting that Kylie and I worked for the city and not him. ”We'll get the truth out of him. I have people.”

Sykes jumped in before he could spell out his revenge plot. ”Leonard,” she said, ”this is all very stressful. I desperately need a cigarette.”

He looked at her as though she'd said she was about to pee on the carpet. ”Not in here,” he said. ”I have to sell this place. Buyers will smell that s.h.i.+t from the lobby. Take it outside.”

Sykes walked us over to a sliding gla.s.s door and opened it.

This was the famous terrace where Cynthia Pritchard had spent her final moments. Because it had belonged to a wealthy woman, I had always pictured it as a s.p.a.cious yard in the sky filled with expensive Frontgate patio furniture and lush vegetation. This wasn't that.

This was a balcony. Just another one of those small shelves you see hanging off high-rise buildings where storage-starved city dwellers cram their bikes, rusted-out hibachi grills, and other c.r.a.p they don't want inside.

There was no place to sit, and we stood there waiting for Sykes to light up a Capri, one of those ultralong, ultraslim cigarettes preferred by women who want to look sophisticated while they inhale nicotine-infused carcinogens.

”No photos, please,” she said after taking a drag. ”It's bad for my image.”

”Tell us about the break-in,” Kylie said.

”All they took was a couple of computers,” Sykes said. ”I'm sure it was Spellman's people. You know politics. You'd think people would have learned something from Watergate, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I guess the mayor will do anything to save his a.s.s.”

”Did you report the theft?” Kylie said.

”Someone from my staff called it in.”

”Then why are you here instead of at campaign headquarters?” Kylie asked.

”Leonard is a dear friend. He's trying to cope with his grief, and he asked if we could spend some time here alone. He's a crusty old codger, but Evelyn was his only daughter, and he adored her. I think he wanted to have a quiet moment to commune with her.”

All politicians are full of s.h.i.+t. Muriel was fuller than most. From what I could see, her dear friend Leonard was more concerned about her cigarette smoke lowering property values.

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