A Cast of Killers (40 page)

She wasn't quite sure how to go about it. She
checked the street for pedestrians and, other than a pair of
figures far up the block, no one was about. She inserted the hard
plastic into the doorjamb and began to jimmy it back and forth,
hoping to spring the heavy lock. Unaware that such a tactic was
useless against a deadbolt, Auntie Lil persisted for several
minutes until her card cracked and her temper did the same. She
kicked the door in frustration and contemplated her next round of
action. She'd fall back on an old favorite. She'd lie.

She pressed four buzzers before she got an
answer.

"Who is it?" a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Delivery," Auntie Lil announced in as young
a voice as possible. "East Side Floral Arrangements. And hurry,
this thing is huge."

She was buzzed in promptly but got no farther
than the front hallway before she was spotted. The superintendent
was backing out of her apartment with a large wheeled cart piled
high with laundry. She maneuvered it toward the front doorway and
saw Auntie Lil just as she tried to slip into the stairwell.

Her reaction was instant and curious. Her
face drained white and she began babbling so quickly in Spanish
that Auntie Lil could not catch a word. The woman made the sign of
the cross repeatedly as she spoke, then she took a small crucifix
hanging from a chain around her neck. Holding it out in front of
her like a talisman, she advanced on Auntie Lil and made a shooing
motion with her free hand.

"Out! Out!" she cried at Auntie Lil. "Get
out! Get out of my house!"

Auntie Lil opened her mouth to argue but the
superintendent was not in a mood to negotiate. Giving up on her
crucifix, she dashed to the small hallway closet, grabbed a large
push broom and advanced on Auntie Lil with it held in front of her
like a sword. "Get out, get out," she warned again. She jabbed at
Auntie Lil and narrowly missed poking her in the stomach. That
narrow miss was enough.

"I'll be back," Auntie Lil warned, slipping
out the front door. "I'll be back."

As she hurried down the front steps, Auntie
Lil saw the superintendent slumped against the hallway wall,
praying and mumbling in Spanish. Good heavens. You'd think she'd
seen a ghost.

Much to her embarrassment, Herbert was
sitting with Franklin on the steps of the building across the
street from Emily's. They were making little attempt to hide their
presence and were sipping fresh cups of coffee while staring glumly
at the front steps across from them.

"Not very discreet," Auntie Lil pointed out,
sitting gingerly on the cold concrete step beside them. Winter was
most definitely coming, that was certain. The stairs still held the
cool night air.

"No one alive around here this time of day.
Besides, I'm big enough to take care of anyone who gives us
trouble," Franklin pointed out. He had received new clothes from
the Salvation Army. The overalls had been replaced by deep green
pants like those favored by municipal workers. He also wore a
bright red sweater over a white shirt and was nothing if not
conspicuous.

"And I have discovered that no man is more
invisible than a man of the streets," Herbert replied calmly.
"Disguises are superfluous. New Yorkers supply their own blinders.
Besides, did I not just see you walk right down the front
steps?"

"Did you see what else happened?" Auntie Lil
asked lightly.

"No. Why? You discovered something
significant?"

Auntie Lil shrugged. She saw no reason to
alert Herbert to the fact that she'd just been chased from the
building with a broom. "Any news on your end?"

Herbert shook his head. "Nothing unusual. No
Eagle. The regular comings and goings."

"What about the ladies?" Auntie Lil
inquired.

"They don't hang out here at night," Franklin
pointed out. "We don't let them. Too dangerous, you know."

"Any sign of Eva?"

Herbert shook his head. "Not around
here."

"Anywhere else?" She looked at Franklin.

He shrugged. "Haven't seen her for a couple
of days," he realized with some surprise. "Come to think of it, she
wasn't eating yesterday, now was she?" His brow furrowed as he
worked on the puzzle. "She's usually on the block about five or six
in the evening. Stays until ten or so. But I didn't see her last
night. Did you?" He stared at Herbert, who shook his head
apologetically.

"I hope she's not trying anything foolish,"
Auntie Lil said somewhat pompously for someone who had taken as
many chances as she had.

"If anyone was going to try something
foolish, that would be Miss Eva," Franklin pointed out. He rose and
sighed deeply, then leisurely stretched out to his full height. He
looked like a bear emerging from months of hibernation. "Time for
bed," he told them good-naturedly. "There's a good doorway down on
the highway. Nice view of the river. Gets a good breeze. Some rock
and roll doo-wop club. Empty this time of day. Plus a nice warm
grate from the laundry next door keeps me warm if I need it. If
you'll excuse me," he nodded and ambled off down the block.

"I suppose I should offer him my couch,"
Auntie Lil said guiltily.

"He won't take it," Herbert told her. "I have
tried. He is a man of great independence with a fondness for the
river."

"A fondness for the river?" Auntie Lil
shivered. "Not me. Did you know that a woman died there yesterday?
An old woman. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought it was me
from the description."

Herbert looked up slowly. His face grew very
still and his eyelids came down ever so slowly until his eyes were
nearly obscured. "Description?" he asked softly.

Auntie Lil shrugged. "An old woman. Stout.
Wearing too young clothes. That was all I heard."

"Lillian." Herbert's tone was soft and very
sad. "Do you not think it a coincidence that one of us is missing?
One of us who is stout and old? And prone to wearing clothes that
are too young?"

Their eyes met. "How could I have missed it?"
she admitted softly.

Herbert's head bowed. "Let us pray that it is
not her."

It was nearly noon by the time T.S. awoke.
The sun streaming in his bedroom window only served to confuse him
more. He looked down at himself slowly. He was wearing pajamas. But
he could not remember donning them the night before. In fact, he
could not remember very much at all of the night before. There had
been that party at Lance Worthington's … and a man. A man named
Albert who knew Lilah.

Lilah. He sat up straight and winced as a
spear of pain pierced both temples. The last thing he remembered
was watching Lilah huddled in a kitchen corner with that rich jerk,
Albert. What in the world had happened after that and how in the
hell had he gotten home and into his own bed?

He'd never had a blackout before and, yet, he
didn't remember drinking all that much. But it hurt his brain to
ponder the situation for long. What he needed right now was
aspirin.

His body felt like it belonged to someone
else. His stomach was tender and, indeed, felt deeply bruised,
though no surface scars were evident. His legs were heavy and, when
he finally maneuvered them out of the bed, refused to hold his
weight at first. He stood, teetering gently, found his balance,
then made his way down the hall. Brenda and Eddie emerged from the
spare bedroom to watch his progress with reproachful attention and
berated him with indignant caterwauling. He had missed their early
feeding by hours and hours. Headache and mysteries of the night
before momentarily forgotten, T.S. wearily found and opened a tin
of chicken-and-cheese bits to still their incessant meowing. It was
like having children. Loud and greedy children who could not be
ignored.

The kitchen gleamed so brightly that it hurt
his eyes. He searched through the cabinets and found the jar of
aspirin. A few minutes later he had even managed to pry open the
childproof cap. He gulped three of them down then wandered through
the living room in his pajamas, sipping at a small glass of warm
water. His stomach did not feel as if it would tolerate anything
else. Something was not quite right about his apartment. He knew it
well and the air held a vaguely foreign scent. Something had
disturbed his beloved and rigid routine.

He spotted the coat and froze. A thin black
silk evening coat was slung over the entrance chair. Lilah's. But
if that was Lilah's coat, where was she? Feeling like one of the
three bears, he carefully searched his apartment, discovering fresh
evidence of an intrusion in the extra bedroom. The spare bed had
been neatly made, but not with his customary precision hospital
corners. It was clear that Lilah had slept there last night.

T.S. looked down suddenly at his pajamas… but
surely not? He blushed deeply and was glad that he was alone.
Especially when he discovered his best suit piled in a small heap
in one corner of his own bedroom. That confirmed it. He would
never, not under any circumstances, simply toss his attire in a
pile. Someone else had undressed him last night. But he must have
been unconscious, or, at the very least, deeply asleep, to have
missed an event as spectacular as Lilah undressing him.

He discovered the note taped to the bathroom
mirror. "Dear Theodore," it read. "I've had an idea. I'm going to
check on it and will stop by later. Don't worry about the pajamas.
It was imperative that you change clothes. I promise I looked the
other way."

Had it been anyone other than Lilah, T.S.
would have been positively scandalized. As it was, it left a warm
glow in his stomach, which was a sensation vastly preferable to the
one it replaced.

He reread the note. An idea? What idea would
be so important that she'd rush out early and forget her evening
coat? And why was it imperative that he change clothes?

That puzzle, too, made his brain ache to
contemplate. T.S. decided that what he really needed was an ice
pack, more aspirin and a few more hours of sleep. On his way to the
kitchen he noticed the answering machine. Its light blinked
furiously, demanding to be noticed. When he rewound his messages,
he discovered six from Auntie Lil, each one more incoherent than
the last. She wanted all details, immediately, of the party and of
his search at the Performing Arts Library the day before. But he
simply did not have the energy to talk to anyone, much less his
beloved but demanding aunt.

He erased the taped pleas, turned off the
telephone, retrieved the largest cooking pot that he could find,
and filled it with ice and water. He returned to the
bedroom—followed by a satiated Brenda and Eddie—and drew the
curtains tightly. The room grew dark and seemed instantly cooler.
It was as peaceful as a church. He took a large towel and dipped it
into the icy water, then draped it gratefully around his head.

He lay down stiffly in the center of his bed
and arranged the pillow so that it hit just above his shoulders.
His head lolled back gently, cradled in a cool balm. If he lay
very, very still and pretended he was in the Bahamas, floating on a
raft in a clear warm sea, the pounding in his temples actually
faded to a dull throb.

With any luck, he'd survive whatever it was
that he was going through. At least until Lilah returned to fill
him in.

All it took was a single sentence to the desk
sergeant at Midtown North—"The old woman found in the river had jet
black hair"—and Detective Santos was out in a flash. He did not
look happy. In fact, he did not even look well. His tie was loosely
knotted over a crumpled shirt, his eyes were red and bleary and his
thick hair stood up in small wispy spikes.

"Not here," he said firmly, leading Auntie
Lil toward a small set of stairs nearly hidden against one far
wall. They ascended and maneuvered a narrow second-floor hallway
that was littered with metal desks stacked at one end. At the very
end of the hall, they reached a tiny room containing one small
table with a scuffed plastic surface and three beat-up metal
chairs. Piles of cleaning supplies dominated an entire wall.

"Charming," Auntie Lil joked but the
detective's expression did not change. He was staring at her
intently and his mouth was set in a small, unpleasant line.

"It's obvious you know who yesterday's
floater was," he said grimly.

Inexplicably, Auntie Lil felt guilty and
looked down at her shoes.

"I know who she is, too," the detective
continued. "You see, we do some things right around here." He
stared harder at Auntie Lil and she looked away. What was he
leading up to, anyway?

"I called around the neighborhood shelters,"
he continued. "To see if anyone was missing. It was the same thing
I did when your friend Emily was killed. Only this time I got
lucky. I tracked her down to The Dwelling Place on Fortieth Street.
The Franciscan sisters there were very worried. One of their
residents had not returned the night before and the missing woman
was usually very reliable."

"She lived in a shelter?"

"A shelter," he confirmed. "Not a bad one as
shelters go, but a shelter just the same."

"Are you sure it was Eva La Louche?" Auntie
Lil asked faintly. "I was under the impression the woman I'm
seeking had her own apartment."

"It's the same woman," Detective Santos said
angrily. "Jet black hair. Only her real name is Eva Stubbs. Which
sounds a hell of a lot more believable than Eva La Louche." He
would not stop staring at her, not even when he pulled a pack of
cigarettes from his shirt pocket and began to smoke in her face.
His gaze was relentless.

"Why are you glaring at me?" she finally
asked in a voice that sounded remarkably like a little girl's.

"Because Eva Stubbs died with a contusion the
size of a softball on her head. And I want to know what she had to
do with you. And how you knew it might be her." He ground out his
cigarette on the table top, half finished, and promptly lit up a
fresh one.