Full Frontal Murder by Barbara Paul

bond later, but he never saw her again. He tried to call when she didn’t show up the next day, but the phone number she left wasn’t a working number.”
    â€œUh-huh. And what do you want to bet that her name isn’t Consuela Palmero and she doesn’t live on 177th?”
    O’Toole grimaced. “Not even a penny. But I’ll check it out anyway.”
    â€œTalk to the others on the Galloway cleaning crew. See if this Consuela let anything drop about herself. Slim chance, I know—but this woman’s our only link to whoever’s behind the trouble. Let’s get that owner of Maids-in-a-Row … Gordon Egrorian? Get him in here for a session with the graphics tech. Set it up, O’Toole.”
    â€œOkay.” He scribbled a note to himself. “And I asked Mrs. Galloway if her husband was in therapy, like you said. She says no, Hugh looks upon needing a therapist as a sign of weakness. She says that’s one reason he insisted on her going into therapy. An insult. That lady’s very bitter, Lieutenant.”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œWhat about her therapist?”
    â€œPerlmutter’s at his office now. I don’t expect he’ll tell us much. All right, O’Toole, go check on the elusive Consuela.”
    â€œRight, Lieutenant.” He hurried away.
    Marian looked in the case file and found the West Side address for Alex Fairchild that Perlmutter had put there. She had legitimate police business with Fairchild and his sister, but mostly she wanted to see how Bobby had weathered this newest trauma in his young life.
    Alex Fairchild was standing there waiting for the elevator as the doors slid open to let Marian out. “Lieutenant Larch!” he said, surprised. “I hope you’ve come to tell us that Hugh Galloway is safely under lock and key.”
    â€œI’m sorry, no. How’s Bobby doing?”
    â€œOh, Bobby’s doing fine. He’s the only one of us who is. He told his bodyguard that he’s staying here while his own house gets ‘fixed.’ He doesn’t understand what happened.”
    â€œHe must know there was a fire.”
    â€œOnly because we told him. All he remembers is that his mother woke him up before he was ready and carried him out-of-doors in his pajamas. He didn’t see much of anything.” Fairchild peered into the elevator she was holding open. “Where’s the professor?”
    He meant Perlmutter; with his wire-rim glasses and bush of wiry black hair, the detective did have a scholarly look to him. “He’s at home grading papers. Are your sister and Bobby in?”
    â€œYes—Rita’s afraid to go out. Look, I’m due at a shoot. If you want to talk to me, do you mind coming along?”
    â€œJust one question and I’ll let you go. Who reported the cleaning woman to the service, you or your sister?”
    â€œI did. Why?”
    â€œThe owner denies ever getting the complaint.”
    Fairchild made a tsk sound. “The charitable interpretation of that would be to say he forgot about it. But he’s lying, Lieutenant. He’s going to deny any of his employees ever did anything wrong.”
    Everybody lies . “What’s the owner’s name?”
    A smile played around his mouth. “A test?” But he concentrated on remembering. “It was an odd name.” He frowned. “Why am I thinking of a calendar … Gregorian?”
    Marian nodded. “Close enough. It’s Egrorian. All right, Mr. Fairchild, I won’t hold you any longer.”
    He stepped into the elevator. “Don’t forget Thursday,” he said just as the doors closed.
    Thursday? Then she remembered: a private showing of his photographs at the Something-or-Other Gallery on Fifty-seventh Street. Marian walked down the hall and rang the doorbell of apartment number 1404.
    A male voice came through the door. “Who is it?” One of the