It Happens in the Dark by Carol O'Connell Page B

another job.
    Mallory was running a game on
Heller’s
heart.
    •   •   •
    Axel Clayborne saw the ground floor of the SoHo station house as a landmark from the era of Boss Tweed and Tammany Hall.
Marvelous.
Century-old molding and hardwood floors remained intact. Civilians and police walked to and fro, paying the film star no attention until he removed his dark glasses and muffler. A policewoman stopped to gape at him, and another officer thrust a pen and paper into his hand, saying, “You mind? The wife’s a big fan.”
    Axel smiled as he personalized his autograph with the name of the officer’s spouse. Then he handed the man two complimentary theater tickets. “They’re for the end of the week. Tonight’s performance sold out in six minutes.”
    After enduring profuse thanks, the actor explained the errand that had brought him here, and the officer called out to a man behind a tall desk. “Sarge? Mr. Clayborne’s here for the goggles.”
    A visitor’s card on a chain was strung around Axel’s neck, and he was escorted up the staircase to Special Crimes. The stairwell door opened into a large, bleak room that smelled like a breakfast menu of various foods, though the aroma of coffee prevailed. There were cups and deli bags on every abandoned desk. The sole occupant of this space was a hulking brute in street clothes. He had the low brow of a great ape and the face of menace incarnate, yet he introduced himself in a voice of surprising softness. “I’m Detective Janos. . . . We’ve been
waiting
for you.”
    Did that sound just a bit ominous? Oh, yes. Good touch.
    The actor followed the large detective to the end of a hallway, where a door was opened. With a gentle wave that was almost dainty, Axel was ushered inside a small room. The promised box of night-vision goggles sat on a small square table ringed with chairs. As he picked up the carton, the door closed behind him. His guide was gone, and a metallic click told him the door had been locked. He turned around to see his reflection in a framed mirror. All the cop roles played in his formative years had not been for naught, though it
was
clever to disguise an interrogation room with a vending machine, a refrigerator and a coffeemaker. He bowed to the audience he could only imagine on the other side of that one-way glass. And now, with no stage direction necessary, he sat down to wait for the priceless opportunity to be grilled by actual police.
    And he waited.
    Every few minutes, he stole glances at the clock on the wall. A half hour passed before the door opened.
At last.
    When Detectives Mallory and Riker entered the room, he had the sense that they were somehow displeased with him. The tall blonde folded her arms, and her voice was a bit testy when she said, “We were expecting Bugsy.”
    “And you wound up with me, the star . . . instead of the gopher. Well,
now
I understand your disappointment.” Collecting the box had been a ruse. He had been asked to come here—to charm the police and sleep with whomever he must so that the play could go on. But his own incentive was purely to see her again. She had seduced him with indifference. And the gun had also made her wildly attractive.
    The less lovely Detective Riker flopped down in a chair. His hooded eyes presupposed a lie before he asked the first question. “The stage manager told us he’d send Bugsy over to pick up the goggles. So where
is
the little guy?”
    Axel Clayborne splayed his hands to ask,
Who knows or cares?
“He’s an errand boy. He comes and goes. Everyone else is still at the press conference. The stagehands, too. So I was—”
    “Yeah, yeah,” said Riker. “How well do you know him?”
    “Bugsy? We don’t travel in the same circles. My wine bottles have corks. You need an informant in the screw-cap crowd.” He turned to the mirror, imagining the amusement of watchers beyond the looking glass.
    Detective Mallory was also staring at the mirror, though it was not