by Blake Banner
She winced at her own question. “Would you say she was a flirt?”
He produced his comfortable chuckle again and nodded. “Oh, yes. She was definitely a flirt. But not in a malicious way. I think a lot of younger men would have mistaken her flirting for a come on. She was not skilled, but she loved the game. In my youth, these things were better understood, but today, sadly, I see a youth that wants immediate gratification for every whim and desire, and also a youth that is deeply confused about its own identity. She loved the whole game of flirting, but I was aware that she had not yet found a man that she wanted a serious relationship with.” He shrugged with his eyebrows and sadness altered his features. “Perhaps she flirted with the wrong man.”
I grunted. “Did she have many male visitors?”
He watched me awhile with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I liked her, Detective Stone, I was fond of her, but I didn’t spend my life watching her through my window. I have children and grandchildren, and a girlfriend to keep me busy.”
“None of that surprises me, Mr. Smith.”
“I just wanted to make sure you understood that. The answer to your question is that the only men I saw visiting her were the Mexican artist and his friend, sometimes together and sometimes separately. How long they stayed I have no idea, and as to whether there were others, there may well have been. But those two were the only ones I saw.”
We were silent for a moment, then I asked him, “Did you form any private opinion or theory about who might have killed her?”
He shook his head. “No, I simply didn’t know her well enough.”
We chatted a little longer, then thanked him for his help and left, no wiser than we had been when we’d arrived.
SIX
There were patches of ice-blue in the sky. The sleet had stopped, leaving the pavements wet and slippery, but the temperature had dropped to several degrees below freezing, causing patches of black ice to form on the roads. A cruel wind was gusting in off the East River and the last few dead leaves that had been clinging on, like rotten teeth in an old man’s head, were finally letting go of their branches and falling to be crushed and trodden into sludge. Soon it would snow heavily. You could feel it in the air.
As we drove slowly back, through the damp cold, toward the 43rd, I played an old Mammas and Pappas song in my head and wondered about Cyril’s sister in California.
“I’m going to talk to the inspector,” I said. “We need to know about Cyril’s background. I also find it hard to believe that his sister doesn’t know where he is.”
“Good,” she said from under her shapeless woolen hat. “While you do that, I’m going to call the library, and also track down Cyril’s landlord. Maybe we can have a chat with him before we go to Cali’.” She glanced at me and shrugged. “To be honest, we’re clutching at straws, Stone. I don’t hold out much hope for this case. I think this is the one that got away. But you never know, right? When he gave notice, he might have said something about where he was going.” She sighed. “We also need to know more about Sue’s past. If I have time, I’ll get started on that too.”
I parked and we made our way unsteadily across the icy road to the entrance. There, Dehan went into the detectives’ room and I climbed the stairs to Deputy Inspector John Newman’s office. I knocked and went in. He was standing, watering a bonsai fig tree on his windowsill. Outside, the sunlight had faded on Story Avenue, leaving a gray translucence in its place.
“Good morning, John,” he said, and smiled without looking at me. “What can I do for you?”
I closed the door. “We’re looking into the Sue Benedict case, sir.”
He frowned and shook his head at the diminutive fig tree, like it was a naughty fig tree. “Nope,” he said.
“It’s twelve years old. Young woman found raped and murdered in her apartment on Patterson Avenue. They got a perfect DNA profile and a perfect set of finger and thumb prints from her throat, but there was no match on CODIS, IAFIS, or among the people who’d attended the Halloween party she was at.”
He made a small ‘harrumph’ noise, gestured to a chair and returned to his own behind the desk. “A case worthy of your and Dehan’s talents,” he said and smiled in the same comfortable way Bob Smith had. “How do you plan to tackle it?”
“There was just one guest, sir, who was not tested. Cyril Browne. He was a member of the same art class she went to, and he was also at the Halloween party that night. However, next morning he had vanished without a trace. The curious thing was that he had given both his landlord and his job notice that he was quitting, two months earlier.”
The inspector frowned and picked up a pencil, wagging it by the eraser as he narrowed his eyes. “He had planned to kill her for two months, then he struck after the Halloween party?”
“It’s possible. We are trying to track him down. His only known relative is his sister, but lives outside Sacramento, in California.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “How do you manage it, Stone? Every winter you come up with a case that requires a trip to California.”
I spoke without expression. “It was Dehan who chose the case, sir.”
He chuckled and for a moment I wondered if he was related to Bob Smith. It was the same comfortable chuckle. “Can this woman not be contacted on the telephone?”
“Back in the day, Detective Rafa Montilla did just that. I believe his investigation was pretty exhaustive. However, she stonewalled him, and my gut is telling me that she has at least some idea of where Cyril is.” Before he could challenge me on the accuracy of my gut, I moved swiftly on. “In fact, sir, I am pretty certain that his family plays an important part in this case. From what we have been able to assertain from other witnesses, he seems to have been a rather…” I hesitated. “A rather troubled young man: extremely withdrawn, introverted, and, according to one of the witnesses, possibly obsessed with the victim. I think it’s important that we get some insight into his background, to help understand him and track him down, and for that I think we need to confront his sister in person.”
He nodded. “You know I trust your judgment, John. Just don’t turn it into a holiday. I know you won’t. What else are you doing, back here?”
“Re-interviewing the witnesses, having a second look at the DNA and fingerprints, running them through the databases again in case he has offended since and been caught. And we are going to talk to his ex-employer and his landlord, see if they know anything.”
He pursed his lips in a way that said he approved, and gave a single nod. “Good, keep me posted on any developments. Let me know when you’re heading off for Sacramento. You’ll fly, I take it.”
I told him we would and trotted back down the stairs to find Dehan clutching a large paper cup of coffee and staring at her laptop. I dropped into my chair, stretched out my legs and laced my fingers over my belly. “You keep drinking so much coffee your hair will go frizzy and your eyes will start bulging.”
Mo, at the desk across the aisle, looked over and nodded. “It’s true, that happened to a friend of my cousin in Detroit.”
We both narrowed our eyes at him.
He shrugged and went back to his work. “Whatever.”
Dehan said, “I called the library and spoke to the current manager. She vaguely remembered Cyril. She said he was a pain in the ass and never spoke to anybody. He certainly gave no indication of where he was going, and nobody cared anyway. They were just glad to see him leave. The manager at the time died five years ago, so I couldn’t speak to him. So that was pretty much a dead end.”
“OK, how about his landlord?”
“Amir Javid. He now occupies the house Cyril had back then, corner of Thieriot and O’Brien. Apparently he has several properties he lets out, but this is the nicest, so he lives there now. He’s a chatty guy. He remembers Cyril because of the murder and he is happy to see us in the next half hour, if that suits us. How did you get on?”
I smiled over at Mo and raised my voice slightly.
“The chief gave us the go ahead to fly to California as soon as we’re done with Javid.”
Mo turned a baleful stare on me.
I kept smiling at him and talking to Dehan. “He said he agrees with me that it is essential to the investigation that we fly to California as soon as possible, and take as long as we need there.”
Dehan snorted and Mo shook his head. “You, you two, you just… you’re so… yah!” He flapped his hand at me and turned back again to whatever it was he was doing.
Dehan stood and pulled on her coat, grinning. “What you working on, Mo? Something interesting? That mugging on Lafayette?”
“Go to hell!”
“First California,” I said, “then hell.”
We left behind us an unsympathetic silence.
Cyril had lived just one block from Sue’s apartment. It was the last house before the park, on the corner of Thieriot and O’Brien Avenue. Beyond the park was the river, and there was a freezing, blustery wind coming off the water when we arrived. The house was set back from the road among well-kept lawns, behind a very elaborate, green, wrought iron fence. The first thing I saw as I entered the drive was the garage, then a small path that led off to the side and took me to the front of the house. Javid saw us approaching through the living room window, waved and hurried to let us in.
“Please,” was his first word, as he opened the door and gestured us toward the living room, where a log fire was burning in the hearth. “Please,” he said again, “Make yourselves comfortable. My wife is making coffee. It is a most inhospitable day. Can I offer you anything else? Something to eat, perhaps?”
We showed him our badges, confirmed who we were, and I added, “Please don’t trouble your wife, Mr. Javid. We won’t take up much of your time.”
We sat in front of the fire, each of us perched on the edge of our chairs, as though we were all trying to get closer to the heat of the flames.
He said: “You want to know about Cyril Browne? There is not much I can tell you. He was a very private man. Always paid very punctually. No problems there at all. He gave me notice that he was leaving in two months, as per our contract…”
Dehan cut in. “Did he give you any idea why he was leaving, or where he was going?”
He became abstracted, winced slightly at the memory. “He didn’t speak very clearly. No, that isn’t true.” He tilted his head and wagged his finger in the negative. “That isn’t true. He spoke clearly enough, all right, but very quietly. So it was very difficult to catch the things that he said. And his face was always averted, as though he were ashamed or embarrassed by eye-contact. But, once I thought he said that he was going home. It was jumbled in with a lot of other stuff that he was saying, but I got that impression. ‘Time to go home,’ or ‘time to come home.’ Something like that. But why he was leaving? He never said anything about that. Unless,” he shrugged, “it was because it was time to go home!”
It didn’t make a lot of sense to me, so I asked: “How well did you know him, Mr. Javid? Did he ever talk to you about back home, about his family?”
Javid shook his head and smiled. “No, no, never anything like that.”
“Was there anything he said, any passing comments that might give us a clue as to the nature of the man, what made him tick, interests, anything…?”
He shook his head again. “No, no, as I say, he spoke little and what he said was very quiet. He certainly never invited intimacy, friendship or conversation.”
He paused and Dehan gave me a look that was eloquent of despair. We were up against a brick wall and I could sense her thinking this was going to be the case we couldn’t crack. But I could also see Javid frowning, hesitating. I said, “What is it, Mr. Javid? However insignificant it may seem, it might turn out to be helpful.”
“Well, there was one thing…” A look of severity came over his face and his lips stretched into a tight, thin line. “It is a little embarrassing, but, after he had gone, while I was cleaning up and making the place ready for the next tenants, I found, tucked down the side of the cushion on his preferred armchair, a card.”
I frowned. “What kind of card?”
“A business card, belonging to a woman. Her name was Xara, with an ‘X’, X-A-R-A, and she offered services that were very explicitly sexual. I do not know why America permits this kind of thing. Imagine if a family with children had taken the house, and found that card! It is very immoral and offensive to God.”
I looked at Dehan and she was frowning back at me. I said, “Mr. Javid, this could be extremely important. Do you happen to remember anything else, at all, about this card? The number, perhaps…?”
He straightened his back and dignity stiffened his neck and made him raise his nose and chin in the air. I thought he was going to tell us he threw the card straight in the trash, but instead he said, “In fact, as it happens, I made a note of the details in my address book, because I thought maybe one day the police might be interested.”
“That was very perceptive of you, Mr. Javid.” I tried to keep the irony from my voice and avoided Dehan’s eye. He stood and went out to the hall. There he pulled a slim, black diary from his coat pocket and returned to sit down.
“She goes by the name Xara, Xubmissive. Her telephone number was…” He recited the number and added, “I have never called her, obviously, and this was twelve years ago, so I don’t know if she will still be in New York or if she will be of any help to you. This kind of people are often liars and very duplicitous, as I am sure you know from your work, but I am quite sure he used to visit her.”
Dehan smiled blandly and blinked. “There isn’t much we haven’t come across in our work, Mr. Javid, and we certainly know how to spot a duplicitous lie, believe me.”
He looked uncomfortable and turned to me. “That really is all I can tell you about him. I suppose the most notable thing about Cyril was that there was absolutely nothing notable about him. Apart, of course, from his apparent penchant for naughty women.”
We thanked him, shook hands and stepped out into the icy wind again. We stood at the car a moment, Dehan gazing out at the inky, choppy waters of the river, I gazing up along Thieriot Avenue, toward the corner with Patterson. “What is that?” I said. “Three hundred yards? Two strides per second, a hundred and fifty seconds, two and a half minutes…”
Dehan nodded, and pointed out at the dark water. “And that right there is where the knife and his blood-stained clothes are.” She turned to look at me. “Let’s go talk to the submissive Xara before we go to California.”
I sighed. “For sure. Rogers works Vice. Why don’t you give him a call? He might know her.”
We climbed in the car and as I pulled away, she was dialing. After a moment, she asked to be put through to Detective Rogers, in vice, then said:
“Rogers, hey, it’s Dehan… Yeah, not bad. He’s good too. Listen, we’re looking for a hooker…” She paused, watching the road go by. “Uh-huh, that’s funny. I never heard that one before…” She looked at me, rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No, yeah, things are great with us, don’t worry about it. He told me he wanted me to moan more. I told him, ‘Such a day I had! I never stop working. The car broke down. Now I have no car…’ but apparently that’s not what he meant. Yeah, I thought you’d like that one. Now listen to me, will you? Her name is Xara Xubmissive, Both with an ‘X’ instead of an ‘S’, apparently she’s submissive. Subtle, right?... Yeah? You know her? No, not in the biblical sense. Right, give me her number and address, will you?” She took out her pen, grabbed my left hand and jotted down the number and the address on my palm. “Yeah, thanks Rogers, you’re a real asshole. Take it easy.” She hung up and said again, “Asshole. Thirteen oh nine B, Seneca Avenue. The number has changed.” She grinned. “So Javid hasn’t called in a while.”
SEVEN
Thirteen oh nine Seneca Avenue was across the river in Hunts Points. It was a redbrick box with an arched porch and a dead tree in the front yard. We rang and hammered for five m
inutes until we heard the slip and flap of slippers approaching the door. It was yanked open and a large, peroxide blonde in her early fifties stood squinting at us through two coils of smoke that were issuing slowly from her nostrils. She was wearing a large pink bathrobe and pink fluffy slippers. Between her bathrobe and the slippers she had plump white legs that needed shaving. She said:
“You look like cops.”
Dehan was smiling and breathing condensation into her palms. She pulled out her badge and showed it. “I’m Detective Dehan, this is my partner, Detective Stone. Are you Xara, with an ‘X’?”
“Yeah, I’m Xara with an ‘X’, ‘X’ for sex, ‘X’ marks the spot. What do you want?”
“We just want to ask you some questions about Cyril Browne.”
She screwed up her face like she’d bitten into a lemon. “Who? Are you Vice? Why ain’t Rogers with you?”
“Can we come in, Xara? It’s kind of cold out here.”
She sighed a big, noisy sigh, turned and walked away, leaving the door open. I said, “I think that means we can go in. After you, Detective Dehan with an ‘H’.”
We followed her down a dark green, threadbare carpet to a small kitchen at the back of the house. There was a vinyl floor, a sink stacked with dirty dishes, a fold down table made of steel tubing and Formica, and two chairs of the same design. She sat on one of them, beside a mug of coffee, an overfilled ashtray and a cell phone.
“I was working,” she said, as though in answer to an unspoken question. “‘Swhy I couldn’t open the door. They pay before they get put through, so you gotta finish the session, or they don’t call back. You can’t leave the guy half way, right?”
