Angel of Death. Christian Russell
a very warm welcome, I’m afraid,” Paulardis said. “Well, that’s it! Tell me something, though: is there any chance my making the front page of The New Yorker might affect your option for the Halloween ball?”
Mary shook her head firmly. And to avoid further discussion on the topic she asked. “Does anyone know if there’s any coffee left in that machine in the hall?”
No one answered her as the much longed-for Dr. Milles and Kurren had just come in through the door. Milles went straight to Mark’s desk with a bundle of papers in his left hand while Kurren greeted O’Gavin cheerfully.
“Hi, Mary. Let me tell you I’ve got three choices for the outfit: a vampire, a mummy, or a ghost. Which would you prefer?”
The young woman didn’t have time to answer as Sean cut in. “But you don’t need to wear an outfit for any of them, Burt! Go to the ball the way you are. As for Mary, I suggest you keep your charm away from her. If you don’t, I might get upset!”
“Really? And what might that do to me?”
“I don’t know,” the Greek answered, “maybe some massive irradiation coming from about a dozen X-rays.”
Kurren looked at Mary and saw her flushing, lowering her head into her hands. He was almost ten inches taller than Paulardis so he drew close and reprimanded him. “You’ve got a big mouth, Sean, did you know that?”
“Yeah, I did. Actually, everything I own is big!”
Mark sprang to his feet and positioned himself between the two roosters.
“Calm down, boys! The fact that ‘cute little Mary’ works on my team is no reason why you should turn this office into a battleground. Women do that sometimes, start conflicts. First it was Helen of Troy, now it’s Mary of Poplar Bluff. I’m sure she’d love to smack you both right now. Come on, shake hands!”
The two shook hands somehow reluctantly. Mark took Kurren to the door and told him. “Burt, take my advice and choose your costume yourself. That’ll show you’ve got personality and women just love that in a man.” Then he returned to his desk. “Sorry for wasting your time, doctor. Let’s hear what you’ve got for us.”
“Hmm. Not vey much, I’m afraid. Druller was shot with a .9 mm Beretta, a recoilless gun, with a fifteen-bullet magazine, the kind pros use. No carbon monoxide in his blood. No soot at the ends of his trachea. He was dead when the Ford caught fire.”
“Have you identified him properly?” Mark asked. “Are you absolutely sure it’s Eddie Druller?” He was intrigued by the fact that the car had had a full tank and two big cans in the trunk. It looked as if, by burning the car, the killer had wanted to make his identification impossible.
“Yes. First of all he had his papers on him. Several unburned fragments have been recovered. The police also showed pieces of his clothes to some neighbors who identified them. I looked for his dentist and got his X-rays. We took our own set. The lower jaw one is a perfect match. We found about fifty points in common. And you only need twenty for a positive identification. That’s about all I can tell you, Mark.”
Meanwhile Paulardis had managed to pull a file from under the doctor’s arm and was looking through it, a pervert’s grin on his face. “Good-looking naked chicks,” he said. “What about them, doc?”
“It’s for the Vice guys. Some hookers, kidnapped and molested.”
While he was still looking at the pictures, Sean asked Steimberg. “Arty, got any nude pictures of your wife?”
“’Course not, you, maniac.”
The Greek pretended to look closer at one of the pictures. “And wouldn’t you like one?”
Everyone in the office was silent. Obviously this time Sean’s humor had gone too far. Dr. Milles recovered his file and left the office, embarrassed. Steimberg drew close to Paulardis and looked at him sadly and spitelessly.
“You shouldn’t have said a thing like that, Sean. The woman you’ve just offended is a mother. The mother of three wonderful children. When you meet a girl you want to care for, when you understand a baby’s more than a sperm spurt, well, then you’ll see how stupid your joke is and how much it can hurt. I’m going out for a breath of fresh air,” Arty said and left the office.
Mark frowned at Paulardis. “What the hell is wrong with you today, man? As far as I can remember you were shot in the shoulder, not in the head. Give me one good reason for doing that!”
“But it was just an innocent joke,” the Greek said. “We do that sometimes among friends and colleagues.”
“Maybe that’s something you did in the Bronx,” Mark replied sternly. “Now you’re an FBI agent, man. And Arty’s your colleague. One who’s never let you down. You don’t like him? I couldn’t care less. This is not a ballroom to like your partner. In this job partnership is based on respect and complete trust.”
“I’m sorry, Mark,” Sean seemed to be finally accepting his guilt. “I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings. I do care about him, you know? Maybe you’re right. There is something of a Bronx bully in me. The problem is what can I do now?”
Mary sprang from her desk, still flushed. “You’d better get an appointment with Dr. Kevorkian.”
Mark calmed her down with a wave of his hand. Then he grabbed Sean by the arm. “Go and apologize to him. Arty’s such a good guy he might even forgive you.”
As soon as Paulardis left, Mary said to her boss indignantly. “I’ve told you before, Mark, if someone considered an anima in this office, the result would be navy blue.”
But the agent did not have time to answer her as the phone started to ring. He picked up the receiver. “Hello!”
“I’d like to speak to Agent Mark Du Nancy,” he heard a voice that made his heart throb.
“This is he, Miss Wheller.”
“Dorothy,” she corrected him. “Have you forgotten already? Tell me, Mark, have you got any plans for Sunday evening?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Sunday’s my father’s birthday and we’re having a little party at my uncle’s villa, near South Mountain Reservation. We’d all appreciate it if you could come. You can bring your wife with you if you want.”
The agent wondered why she had mentioned Cathy but never thought to ask about Steimberg and especially Paulardis who had taken the bullet for them. He weighed the unfair omission against the perspective of a new meeting with the actress. To his surprise, the latter weighed more. To numb his conscience he said to himself that they probably believed Sean was still in hospital.
“I don’t know what to say. Anyway, I can’t bring my wife with me. We’re hardly on speaking terms.”
“Well, come alone then! I’m going to leave some openings on my dance card for you. And you don’t have to wear your tux. It won’t be anything formal. It’s a mixed party: both outside and in the reception room.”
“What time?”
“If you tell me where to send the limo, the chauffeur will pick you up around 5:00 p.m. so that you can be here at 6:00.”
Mark gave her the address, thrilled at the thought of seeing her again, feeling her body against his while dancing. Only after he hung up did he recall his decision and realize that he had given her the wrong address. That’s all right, he’d call her tomorrow and tell her the name of the hotel at which he was staying.
After that he could not think of anything else. His colleagues (in the meantime the two reconciled agents had returned) did not ask him any questions, although they were all dying to know.
Mark heaved a sigh of relief when the workday was over. As he was heading for the coat rack, he said to Steimberg. “Listen, Arty,