Laughing, laughing.
At the top of the stairs, she turned around to see that the chase was done-and so early this time. Her pursuer had reached the bottom step and could not climb another. The fat man was in some pain and out of breath. One hand went to his chest, as if he could stop a heart attack that way.
The little girl mouthed the words, Die, old man.
They locked eyes. His were pleading, hers were hard. And she gave him her famous Gotcha smile.
One day, she would become his prisoner-but not today-and Louis Markowitz would become her foster father. Years later and long after they had learned to care for one another, each time Kathy Mallory gave him this smile, he would check his back pocket to see if his wallet was still there.
1
It appeared that the woman had died by her own hand in this Upper West Side apartment. It was less apparent that anyone had ever lived here.
The decor was a cold scheme of sharp corners, hard edges of glass and steel, with extremes of black leather and bare white walls. Though fully furnished, a feeling of emptiness prevailed. And the place had been recently abandoned-unless one counted the stranger, the corpse left behind in Kathy Mallory’s front room.
The gunshot to the victim’s heart made more sense after reading the handwritten words on a slip of paper that might pass for a suicide note: Love is the death of me.
“If only she’d signed the damn thing,” said Dr. Slope.
The homicide detective nodded.
Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope had turned out for this special occasion of sudden death at a cop’s address.