Taking a deep breath, Gina began to mount the steps to 3A. The stairwell was dimly lit and overly quiet. She began to think it was a bad idea to have come alone.
“Maybe no one else even lives here,” she muttered to herself.
However, as she passed by 2A, an old woman glowered out at her through a slightly opened door.
Gina smiled at her by way of greeting, and the woman shut the door without saying a word.
When she reached the third floor, she found a small corridor with one door on either side, facing each other, one marked 3A and the other 3B. Gina pulled out the keys and inserted one of them into the door of 3A. Cautiously, she opened the door, unsure if she would be walking into the darkroom or Marty’s flat. Feeling for the light switch, she flicked it on.
It appeared that she’d entered Marty’s flat, with a living room space and a kitchen visible just beyond. There were another two doors as well, which she assumed led to a bedroom and a bathroom. All of the windows had been shuttered and the curtains were drawn as well. The place was a complete mess.
“What a dump,” she said out loud.
As she looked around, an uneasiness came over her. There was something about the nature of the disarray that bothered her. It reminded her of how her own home had looked after the break-in. The books on the shelf appeared to have been pushed over, knickknacks were facing in all directions, and some of the framed photographs were askew, as if someone had been looking behind them. There were lamps on end tables on either end of the sofa, but both were close to the edge, as if they had been picked up and moved without being replaced properly.
She waited for a moment, keeping perfectly still. She didn’t hear anything in the flat. If there had been an intruder, the person had long since fled. Still, as a precaution, she kept the door of the flat open as she began to explore.
Besides the combined living room and kitchen, there was just a small bedroom and a bathroom. She only glanced into the bedroom, which also looked to have things strewn around it. She shut the door, feeling like she had violated Marty’s privacy.
Moving back into the living room, she looked at some of the framed photographs on the shelves. Marty had taken lots of pictures of people in motion, but often when they were still as well. All were compelling, showing emotions and attitudes. Marty had been truly talented.
Leaving 3A unlocked, Gina crossed the corridor to open 3B, Marty’s darkroom. The smell of chemicals overcame her in a rush, and for a moment she felt faint. This flat was much darker; The shades had all been drawn, although some afternoon sunlight still streamed through them in places.
She reached to flick on the lights, as she had done in the other flat, but nothing happened. Marty did not seem to have connected lamps as he had done in his living area. There was just enough light to see a single lamp on a small wooden table, which she turned on. She then pushed back the shades and opened the windows so she could breathe more freely. She began to look around.
This living room space was far sparser, but there were clotheslines running across the length of the room, with a few photographs clipped to them. Some newspaper was messily spread underneath, most likely to catch drips.
Gina glanced through some of the piles of photographs, noticing some familiar sights, like the Goodman Theatre, Navy Pier, and Holy Name Cathedral, where Marty’s funeral Mass had just been held. There was another of the Harrison Street Bridge. When she saw that one, she shivered. That’s where his body was found, she thought, feeling momentarily queasy.
Moving along, she opened the door to the kitchen area, finding that Marty had converted this to the darkroom proper. While there was a sink, there was neither an icebox nor an oven. There was also a large metal tub on the floor, beneath several clotheslines. The windows were completely covered with black curtains, and a single red light hung from the ceiling. Gina flicked the light on and off, having never seen a red bulb before. On the counter, there were empty trays. Opening the cabinets, she found more pans, both large and small, a few pieces of odd-looking equipment, and some strange chemicals in containers marked simply A, B, and C.
She sighed. “How can I ever learn this?” she said out loud.
“Why do you need to?”
Gina whirled around. To her surprise, Nancy Doyle was staring at her, hands on her hips. Marty’s sister was wearing another gray dress, neat but otherwise not notable. “Just couldn’t wait to check out your inheritance, could you?” she asked, spite evident in her voice. “I didn’t think the will was considered valid yet.”
“Is anyone contesting the will? That’s not the impression I got the other day from your mother. Besides, I was given keys.” Gina’s voice was high-pitched, defensive. “From Mr. Dern. On behalf of the Doyles. You can ask him. I’m not trespassing.”
Nancy continued to glower at her, arms crossed over her drab coat. “Hmph.”
“In fact, I think you’re the one who’s trespassing,” Gina added, her backbone returning.
Nancy ignored her. “Wormed your way into the family quickly enough, didn’t you?”
Gina blinked, not sure how to respond. Perhaps Marty should have bequeathed his property to his sister, but for whatever reason, he had not done so. “Well, it’s not my fault that Marty cared more for my mother than he did for you.”
Nancy didn’t even flinch. “That may be so.” She opened one of the darkroom cabinets and scowled when she saw only chemicals. “Got anything to drink in this joint?”
Gina sighed. She wasn’t sure if she should take Nancy back to Marty’s flat, but it seemed worse to push her off. Besides, Nancy was her family, too, even if she didn’t seem willing to acknowledge their relationship. More importantly, Gina still had questions that Nancy might be able to answer.
“This way,” Gina said, gesturing to Marty’s flat. “I was going to check out what food he might have had anyway.”
Moving back into Marty’s kitchen, Gina opened the icebox and grimaced when the rank odor of spoiled goods reached her nose. She’d take care of that tomorrow. She shut the icebox door again quickly and began to open the kitchen cabinets to see what else might be on hand.
Nancy watched as Gina poked around in the metal containers and sniffed the contents of different jars and bowls. “You’re telling me that you didn’t know about Marty’s will when you started working at the Third Door?” Nancy asked. “Check up there.”
Standing on her tiptoes, Gina opened one of the upper cabinets, finding a half-full bottle of whiskey along with several mismatched glasses. “I didn’t even know Marty when I started working there.”
“So you said.”
“Well, it’s true.”
Nancy sniffed. “You know, I’ve never been here. Marty and I weren’t close. We were … estranged.”
“There’s no ice,” Gina said, sitting down. She uncorked the bottle. “It’ll have to be neat.”
“Neat’s fine.” Nancy watched Gina pour the amber liquid into the glasses. “Nice to know that even though we’d barely spoken in the last twenty years, we still shared a taste for the same whiskey. To Marty,” she said, before taking a deep swallow.
“To Marty,” Gina echoed, taking a far smaller sip. Still, the strong liquor made her bold. “Why were you estranged? Did you two have a falling-out?”
Nancy finished her glass. “After your mother left the family fold, it didn’t take too much longer for Marty to leave as well.” She poured herself another two fingers. “I find it hard to believe that you never met Marty. Before you came here, I mean. Given that your mother was his favorite.” Her words, while bitter, sounded more forlorn than angry.
“It’s true. Neither of my parents ever mentioned him. Not even once that I can remember,” Gina replied, before changing the subject. “Did you know my mama?”
Nancy turned back to look at her. “A little bit. She was younger than me, and I’m afraid she seemed silly to me, at the time. I remember the scandal when she ran off. How could I not? Everyone was furious.” She
rubbed her forehead between her eyes. “The last time I saw your mother was at your grandmother’s funeral. My aunt Mary—she’d died of cholera. Your mother came alone. From what I understand, she passed away shortly after.”
Gina forced herself to remember that terrible time when her mother had laid in her bed, dying. She’d been so young. The fever had taken her quick, Gina hadn’t even understood what was happening until after it was over. Her papa had always been so sad when she asked him about her mother’s death, and angry too. She wondered now if her mother had been nursing a deeply grieved and broken heart when she died.
“Marty and I were the only ones from the family to attend your mother’s funeral,” Nancy said, looking away. “My mother and father simply would not come. They felt she had marred the family’s name by marrying your father.”
“They seem to have accepted me now.” Gina frowned. “Or have they?”
Nancy eyed her. “You seem more perceptive than I remember your mother being. The truth is, I’m as surprised by this sea change as you are. Maybe they’ve come to regret how they treated Molly.” Nancy switched topics. “Do you like working in that gin joint of yours?”
“I like it well enough. It pays the bills.”
“You’ve come into money now. Isn’t that enough for you?”
There was something probing under Nancy’s questions. She was trying to find something out, and it made Gina uneasy. Now it was her turn to switch topics. “Do you like working for the police? What do you do?”
“Oh, I mostly work with female criminals—alleged and convicted. Mostly prostitution, some petty theft. Sometimes I’m the one to work with female victims, for other types of crimes.”
“Did you work Dorrie Edwards’s case?” Gina asked.
“Dorrie Edwards?” Nancy shook her head. “The name rings a bell. Who was she?”
“She used to work at the Third Door. I replaced her. She was killed on the L, just before Christmas. Stabbed.”
Nancy gave a low whistle. “You don’t say? Nah, I never get assigned to murders.” She pursed her lips. “Edwards was murdered just before you started working at the Third Door? And you took her spot?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t murder Dorrie for a chance to work at the Third Door!”
“Didn’t say you did.”
“What about Marty?” Gina asked. “Have they learned anything more?”
“Like what?”
“Like who killed him?”
Nancy looked annoyed. “Nah. They know he was my brother.” Correctly reading Gina’s skepticism, she continued. “No, it’s true. Even though I’m on the force, they still keep it from me. Being that I’m just a policewoman.” She began to drum her fingers on the table, looking like she wished she could drum some heads.
“Do you know Mr. Roark?”
“Yeah, I know him. His wife, too. He’s been off the force for a while. Mostly just taking crime scene photographs now, from what I understand.”
His wife? Gina hadn’t known Roark was married. She didn’t know why that surprised her, but it did. She wondered what his wife was like.
Nancy paused, looking like she was going to say something else. When she did, it was not what Gina was expecting. “You know, I saw him once. Marty. He was taking photographs, out on the street. I watched him for a while.”
Seeing that Nancy seemed to have a specific purpose in bringing this up, Gina waited for her to continue. “He’d take a picture, and then he’d scribble something into a little book.” She paused again. “You know, his camera hasn’t been found.”
“No?”
“It’s odd. There were some things still in his pockets. Money. His keys.” She nodded at the ring of three keys in Gina’s hand. “Those.”
Gina set them down on the counter in distaste. “I … I didn’t realize.”
Nancy went on. “His wallet and identification weren’t on him, either. Neither was his notebook. Have you seen it?”
Gina pictured the notebook in the camera case, hidden under the floorboard in her bedroom. She shook her head. “I haven’t had a chance to look through his things. I suppose it might be here.” She looked around. “Although I have the feeling that someone has already searched the place.”
Nancy nodded. “The police probably did. I can see if I can look in the file. See what they might have found.”
Might have been the police, Gina thought. Or perhaps it was someone else. Maybe even the same person who broke into our flat.
Nancy stood up then and stretched her shoulders. She began to study the faces in the photographs on the shelves.
“Anybody you know?” Gina asked.
“Marty was a mystery to me.” Like Gina, she seemed amazed by her brother’s work, but also a bit sad. “I knew he was talented, but this is incredible.” She poured herself some more whiskey without asking and took a long sip.
Gina wasn’t sure if she should say anything. Nancy definitely did not seem like the kind of woman who would take kindly to a hug or even a friendly pat on the shoulder.
Her sympathy dissipated, though, when Nancy began pulling out cabinet drawers, inspecting Marty’s belongings in a willy-nilly way that bugged Gina. A sister should show more respect.
“Hey, do you mind?” she asked.
“Funny that you ask. I do mind, actually.” Nancy slammed a drawer shut. “I mind that my brother thought more of you—or at least your dead mother—than he did of me.”
Her anger gave Gina pause. How would she have felt if Aidan had left his belongings to a stranger? Not very good, that was certain. “I’m sorry,” she said.
In her remorse, she almost offered to let Nancy come back and help her look through Marty’s effects. Then she recalled the image of him dying, trying to protect something or someone. She had to honor his final wishes.
“I need to get to my shift,” she said, pointedly opening the door. She gestured for Nancy to leave.
Frowning, Nancy set her emptied glass down on the table. As she walked out, she leaned down, so close that Gina almost gagged from the smell of whiskey on her breath. “I’ll go, but I’m not done here—or with you.”
With that, she stalked out of the flat, her serviceable matron’s boots clomping heavily on the stairs. When she reached the second-floor landing, she spoke to someone there. Probably Marty’s downstairs neighbor. Slowly, Gina shut the door, an odd feeling washing over her. Perhaps the Signora was not the only one with spies at her beck and call.
* * *
“So how did that camera work for you?” Benny asked, watching her wipe down the counter. He had a broom, which he was supposed to be using to sweep the floor, but he’d barely swiped it twice in the last thirty minutes. Nor had he restocked any of the shelves as Mr. Rosenstein had instructed before he had left the pharmacy to deliver some medicine to an elderly neighbor. A chemistry book was open on the counter. “Take any photographs yet?”
“I used up a roll of film, but I haven’t had it developed,” she replied. “So I’m not sure if the camera works well or not.”
“Just take the film over to the Kodak shop I told you about. They’ll be ready in a few days.”
“I know,” Gina replied. “I was thinking of learning to develop the images myself.”
Benny looked skeptical. “I’m sure, miss, it would be easier for you to simply bring the photographs in to be developed. Those chemicals aren’t cheap.”
“Oh, I’ve got a darkroom,” she said, a bit more airily than she intended. She regretted the admission a moment later when Roark came out of nowhere and sat down at the counter. She hoped he hadn’t overheard her comment. “What will you have?” she asked him.
“I’ll take an orange soda.” At her raised eyebrow, he grinned. “What can I say? I’ve gotta have my fizzy drinks like everybody else.”
Unfortunately, Benny continued their earlier line of conversation. “Well,” he said, “since you have your own darkroom, you just need someone to teach you.”
“Yes, I suppose,” she said hurriedly, as she poured Roark’s drink. Moving too quickly, she ended up slamming the soft drink in front of Roark, so that a few orange drops spilled on the white counter.
“Careful,” Roark said, wiping the drops away with his sleeve. “So, you’ve got photographs you’d like to develop? And access to your own darkroom? How interesting.”
“Well, it’s none of your beeswax,” she said, hoping that he would drop the subject. “I’d better go help Benny restock the shelves. We just got a new shipment in.”
“Gina. I told you before, you can trust me.” His voice was low, and unexpectedly he laid his hand over hers where it rested on the countertop.
The sudden warmth from the contact startled them both, and she withdrew her hand quickly. She remembered what Nancy had said earlier about knowing his wife, even though she hadn’t noticed a ring. He flushed slightly, and Gina realized that he had used his deformed hand to touch her.
Before she could explain her reaction, he had moved on, his voice harder now. “Just be straight with me. Whose darkroom do you have access to? Marty’s, right?”
Suddenly it didn’t seem to make much sense to keep the secret any longer. “Yeah.”
“How did you get this access?”
“He gave me a key, all right?”
“He did? Why did he do that?” There was an abrupt shift in his tone, to curiosity mixed with disappointment. “I didn’t know you two were so close.”
She knew exactly what he was getting at, and part of her wanted him to stew in his own juices. Of course, the other part of her wanted to preserve Marty’s reputation, and her own. “He and my mother were cousins. They were the ones who were close, at least when they were young,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I barely knew him.”
“I see. That’s why you were at his funeral. And you have the key because—?”
“He left me his equipment. I found out after, when I spoke to his family at the reception.” She corrected herself. “My family.”
Murder Knocks Twice Page 16
