A Cast of Killers (52 page)

Auntie Lil was scrutinizing the new arrivals
carefully. Finally, she turned back to Lilah. "It was lovely of you
all to stop by," Auntie Lil began. "But why in the world is this
man and this man here?" She pointed to the bartender and private
investigator in turn. Both men shifted uneasily under her stare and
Mr. Hermann managed to look downright guilty.

"Oh, dear. Of course. I told you I wasn't
very good at this." Lilah hid her smile with her gloved hand.
"George is here to make a statement."

"Statement?" T.S. stared at the bartender.
"What on earth for?"

"They tried to poison you last night," Lilah
declared. "That awful Worthington and his girlfriend tried to
poison you."

"Knock you out, not poison you," George
clarified in his deep voice. "I believe, sir, that they tried to
slip you a mickey. That was why I interceded as I did. I did not
quite understand what I had seen until you went down, sir."

'Went down?" Auntie Lil demanded, looking to
T.S. for details.

T.S. was just as eager for details. Not,
however, in front of a roomful of people. "Are you sure?" he asked
the bartender.

George nodded. "I apologize for not realizing
what was happening sooner. I should have known when I saw what kind
of party it was. I was surprised to have the host request another
Dewars and soda for you so soon after your first one." He cleared
his throat in apology. "I knew it was for you, because you were the
only one drinking Dewars. Yet you did not seem to be the type to
guzzle his booze, as we bartenders say. If you'll pardon me for
speaking so bluntly."

"Not at all." T.S. waved for him to continue.
"What did he put in my drink?"

"I don't know for sure. He took your drink
and turned his back to the bar and handed it to the woman with him.
She, in turn, put the drink on a small shelf and took something
from her pocketbook."

"And you stood by and did nothing?" Auntie
Lil demanded.

George nodded. "I apologize. At the time, I
thought it was a packet of sugar substitute. She had another glass
with her and I convinced myself that she had gotten iced tea from
the kitchen because she was tired of drinking. Wishful thinking on
my part, of course. The woman in question did not tire of drinking
all night. But it was not until later—when you could hardly walk
and I could not figure out why—that I realized she may have poured
something out of the packet into your drink."

"What was in the packet?" T.S. wondered.

"A mickey," Lilah pointed out triumphantly,
relishing the slang. "Don't you see? George here says he isn't all
that surprised. I suspect he has his finger on the pulse of rather
seedy New York nightlife, don't you?"

"Unavoidable at times," George conceded.

"A mickey?" Auntie Lil demanded. "Why on
earth would someone bother to dope poor Theodore? Surely,
Worthington did not know that we suspected him of having anything
to do with Emily's death?"

T.S. shook his head. "I'm sure he didn't
know. I don't know why he would bother." The bartender's unusual
voice had triggered buried memories. Disturbing shapes were taking
form in his mind…  there was a hallway, shadows slipping past,
a blur of distorted faces and voices. Oh, dear. He stared balefully
at Lilah.

Lilah beamed at him and said loudly enough
for the entire room to hear, "You were very sweet, Theodore. A
perfect gentleman. We can discuss this later if you like."

"Let's do." T.S. loosened his collar and
became conscious that the fat private investigator was beaming at
him. He looked up and fairly snarled in return.

"Perhaps we should give these people their
privacy," Lilah's lawyer smoothly intervened. "Gentlemen?" He
graciously included Mr. Hermann in that group. "I suggest we speak
to the desk sergeant about arranging for Mr. Scarborough to make an
official statement. And, Mr. Hermann, you've been of great help but
I'm sure we can release you for a well-earned rest. Grady will be
glad to take you home. He'll be back just in time to accommodate
Mr. Scarborough with the same." He hustled the two men smoothly out
the door with a shower of murmured thanks. T.S. relaxed a bit. They
were in good hands, indeed. Mr. Hamilton Prescott was a pro.

"Miss Hubbert?" Santos' voice filled the room
with unexpected authority. Though tired, the detective looked well
pleased with himself. T.S. suspected at once that Leteisha/Rodney
was indeed talking. "I'm ready to take your statement now."

"You look optimistic," Auntie Lil said
eagerly as she hurried to the door. "What did you find out? Tell me
everything."

"Now, now, Miss Hubbert, it's your turn to do
the talking, remember?" He smiled thinly. "And I'll have the whole
truth this time, if you don't mind."

"Of course she doesn't mind," a commanding
voice interrupted. Mr. Prescott was back and firmly in place at
Auntie Lil's side. He had the unerring instincts of a highly
successful counselor. "She'll answer anything I decide is
appropriate with the utmost candor, won't you, Miss Hubbert?" His
eyes held a warning that not even Auntie Lil would dare to
ignore.

Detective Santos stared down at the lawyer.
"You are?" he asked evenly.

"Her lawyer." His confident voice implied
years of successful experience thrusting and parrying the finer
points of law. His manner reeked of decades of research and
millions of pages of knowledge at his fingertips. He saved his
effort for when it counted, his demeanor made plain, and he knew
clients' rights as surely as he knew his own name.

Santos knew he knew, too. He sighed and
gestured for them both to follow. T.S. stood in the doorway and
watched as they disappeared upstairs.

"I certainly didn't mean to interfere," Lilah
told him. "But it's always wise to have representation on
hand."

"Interfere?" T.S. pulled a chair close to her
and took her hands in his. The bandage on his injured hand made him
feel like he was wearing a baseball glove. "You are never an
interference, Lilah. Never, ever think that you interfere in
my—"

"Ahem." Herbert bowed politely and backed to
the door. "I feel the need for a bit of fresh air. Please excuse
me." He was gone in a flash.

"Terminally discreet," Lilah observed. She
gave a merry, tinkling laugh. "Now do you want to know what you
said to me last night?"

It was a dare he was not yet ready to
confront. "No, no. That's quite all right. Though if it was good,
I'm sure I meant it." He colored slightly. "But why does the name
'Albert' keep popping up in my head?"

Lilah shook her head and smiled. "Albert is
an old friend of my husband's, Theodore. They went to Yale
together, were both in banking and led pretty much parallel lives
until Robert managed to get himself stabbed to death. You met
Albert last night. He helped you to the car. But don't worry. He's
just a friend."

"What was he doing at Worthington's party?"
T.S. asked. "It seems a cut below him, if you know what I
mean."

"I can't figure it out," Lilah admitted. "He
spent our entire time together warning me not to invest."

"Warning you not to invest?"

"Yes. That was why he wanted to speak to me
alone," Lilah explained.

T.S. had a sudden flash of memory and saw
Lilah standing by a large potted palm, while a tuxedoed man hovered
around her. "He was practically nibbling on your ear," T.S. pointed
out with a lack of gentlemanly spirit. He couldn't help it. The
memory had flooded back with sudden clarity and it hurt.

"No, Theodore." She kissed him lightly on one
cheek. "Albert does not interest me in the least. He was bending my
ear, not nibbling it. It was a very curious thing. Here he was
investing tens of thousands of dollars in Worthington's play and
all he could tell me was that it stank and not to put any money in
and not to make the same mistake he was making."

"Let me get this straight," T.S. said.
"Albert has invested tons of moolah in the play but seems desperate
for you not to do the same?"

"Yes, I'd say that. Desperate."

"So why is he investing?" T.S. asked.

Lilah shrugged. "I honestly can't say. He
never let me ask any questions. I was confused even more because I
know he was just as conservative an investor as my late husband
was. Probably more so. Robert used to joke about it."

Something didn't fit. That much was clear.
T.S. sipped at a cold cup of cappuccino, hoping the caffeine might
clear his thoughts.

"I'll tell Santos about it and see what he
thinks. Worthington is guilty of more than we think," he decided.
Lilah nodded and patted his knee. "Why would he slip me a mickey?
If he had tried to knock Auntie Lil out, it would have made sense.
She is, after all, the nosiest human being this side of Jimmy
Durante."

"Except Worthington doesn't even know that
Auntie Lil exists," Lilah pointed out. She shivered delicately.
"There's something about him, Theodore. I just don't like that man.
He kept saying 'Live and let live' as if it meant something
profound. What did it mean? What does he have to do with
Emily?"

"And what possible profit could he get out of
drugging me?" T.S. added. "I know that we're missing something." He
stared at her for a moment. "What do you know about mickies
anyway?" he teased. "You sounded like an expert a minute ago."

"You can knock someone out by putting plain
old eye drops in their drink," she said confidently. "Or any manner
of drugs. Mr. Hermann told me." She continued to rub his hands with
her thumbs.

If he had his way, they would sit like this
forever, linked by Lilah's steady touch. He wanted to study her,
quietly, without interruption. How had she known what he was
thinking about Albert? He would never understand women, not ever.
Especially since he had learned about them from Auntie Lil, who was
not your usual female at all. She lacked the subtlety and the
capacity for delightfully erratic behavior that he found so
charming in Lilah. "What are you doing to my hand?" T.S. asked,
stalling for time.

"I think it's shiatsu or kung fu or
acupuncture or something Japanese. My daughter taught it to me.
It's good for headaches. Which I'm sure you have now or will have
before morning." She smiled at him.

Headache? He felt wonderful.

But their time together was interrupted by
the sounds of deep sobbing. T.S. looked up and the pathetic sight
framed in the doorway brought unexpected tears to his eyes. A thin
man with a curtain of scraggly blond hair on each side of his face
was being led past in handcuffs by two officers. He held a cheap,
long blonde wig in his tethered hands and the strapless gown he
wore was ripped up one side so that his pale white flesh peeked
through. He lurched forward, sobbing, wedged between the two
patrolmen.

"Oh, God. I know him," Theodore said sadly.
"That must be the other prostitute. The one who wouldn't hurt
Auntie Lil and got away. I've met him before."

"You know him?" Lilah's eyes followed his and
took in the pitiful sight. The man had stopped, slumped against a
grimy wall. A long scratch marred his bony shoulders and his black
hose were ripped from the thigh to the toes. Sobbing louder, he
proclaimed that he would never hurt anyone.

T.S. knew, from Auntie Lil's description,
that he was telling the truth. He hoped Auntie Lil would tell
Santos the same.

"You know him?" Lilah asked again.

"Yes. I have his card at home."

"What's his name?" Lilah was appalled but
intrigued at this rare glimpse into a world usually kept so
carefully hidden from her.

"I forget his real name. But I call him Peter
Pan. Poor guy. He just wanted to be a star."

By the time Santos returned
with Auntie Lil, Lilah had fallen asleep with her head slumped on
T
.S
.'s shoulder.
He could have slept himself, but it would have been a waste of the
wonderful feeling that flooded his heart.

Auntie Lil slipped quietly back into place
and gave T.S. a quick glance. "'Thank God for that lawyer," was all
she would say.

"Next," Santos announced, crooking a finger
and beckoning T.S. to follow. "Don't worry. Your lawyer is waiting
for you upstairs."

Even as T.S. followed Santos out the door,
Herbert materialized and slipped back in his place at Auntie Lil's
side.

An hour later, T.S. thanked Mr. Prescott and
sent the lawyer on his way. He returned to the room to find all
three of his companions fast asleep. Herbert was breathing quietly,
sitting completely upright. But he was, without a doubt, deep in
dreamland. Auntie Lil lay practically sprawled across his chest,
her own lusty breathing just this side of an unladylike snore.
Lilah had her head on the table and the silver glint of her hair
against the dull brown of the cheap Formica shone as finely as
precious metal amidst mud.

'"Thanks," Santos told T.S. quietly, patting
his shoulder. "Why don't you folks call it a night? I'll tell you
everything you want to know in the morning."

T.S. shook his head firmly. "We want to see
it through to the end."

Santos nodded like he understood. "You won't
have to wait much longer. Abromowitz made a phone call. Eight down
and two more to go."

Twenty minutes later—with T.S. still the only
occupant of the room left awake—he was rewarded for his vigilance
with the satisfaction of seeing Lance Worthington brought into the
precinct by four plainclothesmen. The producer wore his tan
cashmere coat thrown over a pair of matching purple velour sweats
and his hands were tightly linked by the metal bands of a pair of
sturdy handcuffs.

"Try pulling on your stupid little ears now,"
T.S. thought with grim satisfaction. "Dope me, indeed."

Sally St. Claire trudged in behind
Worthington, flanked by a pair of grim policewomen. Clearly, she,
like Worthington, had been awakened from a sound sleep. Her hair
was tangled and unkempt. Her pale face, devoid of makeup, gleamed
with a plastic harshness beneath the precinct lights. Her inner
hardness was emerging, T.S. thought to himself. One day, her
facelift would give way and she'd crack, lines blossoming across
her face until, within minutes, she'd shriveled up into an old
hag.