“You gotta see the super. I’m not the super.”
I look around. “Where is he?”
He shrugs. “Probably in the basement. You want me to page him?”
Now he’s getting the idea. “If it’s not too much trouble,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.
He glares through his thick glasses, picks up the phone, and punches in a number. “I just paged him,” he says, then returns to his puzzle and shields it as though he’s afraid I might find him cheating.
Greco excuses himself and steps outside. A few minutes later, the black phone on the doorman’s desk rings. The guy extends his arm and tells the caller he’s wanted. Then he hangs up and says without looking up, “He’ll be here in a minute.”
I pace the floor, lifting my arm every so often to keep an eye on the time. After about five minutes I stop by my friend, who is oblivious to his surroundings. “Where is he?” I ask impatiently.
“He’ll be here,” the guy grumbles, seemingly stuck on a four-letter word for an annoyingly stupid person.
I glimpse his puzzle and say, “Jerk,” helping him along.
The guy drops his pencil and swears.
Greco is on his cell phone, probably talking to someone from the academy, because he’s giggling like school kid. Not that I’m jealous, mind you. He catches my stare and gives me a thumbs-up.
A few minutes later, a short, middle-aged man with a full head of brown curly hair and a cheap cigar stuffed in his mouth approaches. He checks my uniform and asks, “There a problem, Officer?”
I go through the same routine about Maggie’s apartment.
“You got a search warrant?”
Not that it’s any of his business, but I point to Greco.
The guy shrugs. “Follow me.”
I get Greco’s attention, then catch him throwing a kiss into the phone. We follow the super to the elevator and take it to the fifth floor. After he opens Maggie’s apartment, I bid the super goodbye.
“Just close the door on the way out, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, wondering if the guy’s cigar is pasted to his upper lip.
Greco and I step inside Maggie’s apartment and survey the living room.
“Hasn’t changed much.”
I turn. The super hadn’t left. “How’s that?”
“The place is pretty much the same as when they were married. I’m told she took the shrink to the cleaners.” He snickers.
“She invite you in here a lot?” I ask.
The super smiles through his cigar. “Only to fix things. Nice lady. Good tipper, too. She do something wrong?” he asks, ashes building on his cigar.
“I don’t think the lady would appreciate you smoking in her apartment,” Greco says.
The super gives him a look then removes the cigar from his mouth, ashes spiraling downward and landing on the carpet. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”
I nod.
“You’d think she would have wiped out the past by now.” This is coming from Greco.
“I was thinking the same thing,” I tell him. “Unless she was still in love with him.”
“Obsessed is more like it. Same as the other babe.”
I nod in agreement, then snap on a pair of latex gloves and enter Maggie’s bedroom. Looking around, I can’t help but realize just how emotionally hooked she was on Hunter. Photographs of happier days are perched on her night table like a shrine.
I shake my head and open the closet door. That’s when I find the missing painting of Hunter and Sheryl. Greco whistles.
I had forgotten about him.
“That isn’t the owner, I gather.”
“The murder victim.”
“That would explain the missing head.”
I nod, staring at Hunter straddling a headless Sheryl.
“I’ll check the other bedroom,” Greco says.
I sit at the edge of the bed, staring out the window through the hole in the painting. It was Maggie who told Hunter she was coming out to see him. Not Carol Warner. And when she arrived, Hunter was already dead. She must have found his suicide note, and in her own sick mind, thought she was responsible. That is, until she discovered that Hunter was murdered. That’s when Maggie Hunter decided to avenge her man’s murder.
I lean the painting against the wall to search the rest of the room. I get on my knees and lift up the dust ruffle, sticking my hand under the bed and feeling around, my fingers gliding along a coarse piece of cloth. I drag it out and discover it’s a blank canvas with a hole in the center. When I turn it over, my eyes become glued to the black X painted on it. Only this time Susan’s head is missing.
I drop the painting and rifle through Maggie’s dresser drawers, then her desk. I find nothing but bills and legal papers. Just as I’m about to close a drawer, I notice a piece of paper folded up, looking like it was headed for the wastebasket. I unwrap it, smooth it out. It’s a gun permit for a .25-caliber Browning automatic pistol.
I search the room again, but the gun is nowhere to be found. I call out to Greco and ask him if he’s seen one, but he tells me he hasn’t. Then I realize Maggie has the murder weapon with her.
I grab my cell phone and call the inn. Fortunately, Maggie is still there. I tell her I’d love to see her as soon as I get back to Eastpoint.
“Hank, I’ve been wondering when you were coming back,” she says, her voice seductive. “Where are you?”
“Bellevue,” I lie. “I found Carol Warner. I need to finish interrogating her. I’m pretty sure she killed Hunter.”
When Maggie doesn’t answer, I ask, “You there?”
“I’m here, Hank. I don’t know what to say. I’m relieved, of course.”
“Anyway, I’m dying to see you.” Poor choice of words.
“Gee, that sounds romantic.”
“Yes, romantic. How about waiting until I return? I’ll bring a bottle of champagne.”
“Can’t wait.”
I hang up and call Kate. “You need to get whoever is on duty over to the Country Inn and detain Maggie Hunter until I get there.” I pause. “On second thought, she’s probably armed, so send two deputies over and bring her in.”
“Hunter’s Maggie Hunter?”
“That one. She killed Sheryl.”
“I thought Paddy—”
“I’ll explain later. How’s he doing?”
“He’s fighting hard, but they think he has a good chance.”
“Thank God!” I hang up, motion Greco, and charge out the door.
The Midtown Tunnel traffic is flowing at a good pace, but by the time I reach the Queens-Nassau border, the expressway is like a parking lot. It’s half-past three, and I’m hoping to arrive in Riverhead in just over an hour. Then another half-hour to reach the stationhouse, where Maggie Hunter better be locked up and waiting for me to interrogate her.
Maggie Hunter, the woman I made love to last night. The woman now responsible for Sheryl’s murder. You’d think that after Hunter cheated and humiliated her, Maggie would have been glad to rid herself of him.
Instead, she loved him to the day he died. When she discovered he’d been killed, it fractured her already fragile mind. Someone killed her man. And that someone was going to pay. But Sheryl hadn’t killed Hunter. Her conclusion was speculation without foundation.
My thoughts are interrupted by a surge of brake lights. I flip on my overhead lights, aim for the shoulder, and am about a hundred feet from an accident, when, out of the corner of my eye, I see a car veering toward me. The driver of a BMW 6-Series, phone in ear, cigar in mouth, jerks forward upon impact, his head snapping in my direction, causing the cell phone to fly into the back seat. I’m cursing at the guy for being an asshole and leap out of my car.
The thirty-something driver in a business suit steps out of his car, dazed, and looks at the damage. “Shit!”
“What the hell were you thinking, asshole?” I blast.
“I just leased this car,” is his response. He becomes sullen and a
ttempts to rub my chrome off the side of his black fender.
“Well, you should have been paying more attention to the road instead of playing with the phone. It’s against the law anyway. You can get a fucking ticket!”
He glances over at me. “It was business,” he says, his tone suddenly filled with arrogance.
“Yeah, well, you just blew the deal.”
He gives me a “fuck you” look and swears to himself.
I point to a white and blue highway patrol car approaching. “I’m gonna leave you with him.”
After identifying myself and giving the officer the short version, I leave the driver in the hands of the HPB and pull out, leaving gravel in the guy’s face.
Exiting at Great Neck Road, I take the auxiliary road, which isn’t much better than the expressway. Traffic lights and construction trucks are slowing me down.
Kate’s voice comes alive on the radio.
“Maggie’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” I say in a panic.
“The innkeeper told Charlie she hadn’t checked out yet. Said she was going shopping and wouldn’t return until later. But when the maid went in to clean her room, it was empty.”
“Shit!”
“Seems Maggie left in a private taxi about twenty minutes ago.”
“The driver must have dropped her off near her car,” I say, thinking aloud. Where did you park your car, Maggie?
“You there, Hank?”
“Listen, Kate, you need to find out where the driver dropped her off. She’s driving a black Focus. Hold on.” I take a piece of paper out of my pocket and spit out the license number. “Call the county and tell them to keep an eye out.”
“Right.”
Where are you going, Maggie?
“That it, Hank?”
“For now. Keep me informed.”
The light ahead is turning yellow, but I step on the accelerator, missing an oncoming car by inches. At Glen Cove Road, I jump back onto the L.I.E. Damned parking lot. The road finally opens up at exit 63, and I keep the pedal floored until exiting at the end of the expressway.
Why were you returning to Eastpoint after you killed Sheryl? Was it for me, Maggie?
Then it dawns on me. I get on the radio and tell Kate to check with the innkeeper. “Find out if Maggie made any calls from her room today.” I hang up and call the hospital.
“Transfer me to Susan Reed’s room, please.”
I’m waiting to the sound of Kenny G, his horn irritating me. “Where the hell are you?” I yell into the phone.
Then a real voice comes on. “She was released a short while ago.”
“How short?” I ask impatiently.
“I’m not sure. Is it important, sir?”
“Gravely important. I’m her husband.”
“One second, please.”
Kenny G again.
When she returns, the woman tells me Susan checked out about a half hour ago.
“Someone must have picked her up. Can you find out who?”
A sigh. “I’ll check.”
“Just don’t put me on—
Kenny G finishing up.
“The nurse who wheeled your wife out front is on a break. Can you call—?”
I hang up and punch in the house phone number. Susan’s voice comes alive. Damned machine. I hang up and call her cell. When she doesn’t answer, I leave a quick message. “Susan, this is Hank. You gotta get out of there and drive directly to the stationhouse. I’ll explain later.”
I call Kate back.
“I was just going to call you. Maggie made one call.”
“Eastpoint Medical,” I blurt.
“How did you know?”
I ignore her question. “Maggie is going after Susan!”
“I don’t understand.”
“We gotta find Susan before Maggie does,” I say gravely. “Did you find out about the cab?”
Kate informs me the driver dropped Maggie off at Legion’s Park. Of course. It’s walking distance to the train station.
“Did the driver notice which direction she was going?”
“Nope, but he did say she was acting strange. Kept talking to herself. He thought it was weird, her taking an overnight bag with her to the park.”
“Listen, Kate, Maggie’s got the murder weapon she used to kill Sheryl. Get someone over to my house as fast as you can.”
I reach Route 58, the farms now in view. I’m watching out for Maggie’s car, but I doubt she’s heading my way. Not yet, anyway.
My cell trills. “Hank, Susan’s car is in the driveway but no one answers.”
It’s Charlie.
“Any other cars around?”
“Just hers.”
“Try the doors. Break in if you have to.”
A few minutes later I hear the smashing of pane glass. Then silence. Hurry up, Charlie.
“There’s no one here, Hank.”
“You sure?”
“Hank, I looked everywhere.”
“Okay, drive to the beach. Check every road in town!”
“We’ll find her, Hank.”
“Alive,” I beg.
The “Welcome to Eastpoint” sign is just ahead. As I pass Victory Lane, I slam on my brakes, back up, and take a hard left. Hunter’s driveway is empty, and I’m about to turn around when I remember the night of the stolen painting.
I shove the car into park and scramble across the lawn, the yellow tape now strewn on the ground. The late afternoon sun is not quite setting, but I notice a light on in Hunter’s secret room. The same light that was off the last time I was here.
The front door is locked, so I dash around the back. No luck. I don’t want to break glass and make noise, so I force-open the basement window and enter. I’m getting used to this.
I find the stairs, climb quietly, and enter the kitchen. I listen for voices, but all I hear is the sound of my own heavy breathing. I draw my gun and search the first level. The place is eerily calm.
I tiptoe to the second landing, enter the room below Hunter’s boudoir, and hear Maggie’s voice cascading from above. As I climb the ladder, her voice becomes louder, threatening. She’s admonishing someone, and I can only imagine that it’s Susan. At least my wife is alive.
My chin reaches the opening, but Maggie must have turned off the lights; the shades are drawn over the window, so my eyes are struggling to find Maggie’s location. Her imperious voice is echoing from the other side of the room, possibly near the sex bed. Susan is answering Maggie in a soft yet unwavering voice. “I swear to you, I’ve never slept with John. He was my therapist.”
Maggie laughs. “Right. John never told you he lost his license for screwing a patient? And that his therapy sessions include fucking the patient.”
“We never! I swear to you.”
“Don’t swear, or it’ll cost you.”
Susan pleads, tells Maggie she doesn’t understand what she wants.
“Oh, I think you do. You took my husband, now I’m taking yours.”
“Hank?”
“John and I were getting back together. He never told you that?”
A pause. “Why would he tell me?”
“Never mentioned it while he was doing you?”
“I told you—”
“Shut up, you whore! I’m tired of your lies. He told your friend.”
Another, longer pause. “My friend?”
“That blond slut. But neither of you would leave John alone. He was mine!” Maggie’s anger resonates throughout.
“You killed Sheryl?” Susan whimpers.
“I’m asking the questions, sister!”
I can’t tell if Maggie is holding a weapon, so I wait.
“If she hadn’t taken him away…” Her voice drifts.
“Oh, God!” Susan starts to break down. “Why?” she sobs.
“I just told you. Are you stupid or something? She wanted my John. I waited so long for him to come back to me. That slut and you tried to take him away. You k
illed him!” she rages.
“That’s not true,” Susan cries. “I wouldn’t kill John. He was my friend.”
“Yeah, right. And Hank and I are just friends.” Maggie’s laugh drips with sarcasm. “Or didn’t you know we’re lovers. He’s mine, little girl, and once I’m finished with you, I won’t have to share him with anyone. We’re gonna live in the city, none of this country shit.”
Thanks for being a kiss and tell.
“You can have Hank,” Susan says, her voice flat.
“Well, thank you very much. But I already have him, hon. And he’s great in the shower. You probably don’t do stuff like that, do you?”
“We haven’t made love in a while,” she says sadly.
“’Course not, you’ve been fucking my John.”
“That’s not true. Hank and I haven’t been…in love for a while.”
I’m wondering if she’s answering for both of us.
Then Susan says coolly, “I don’t care what you two do. In fact, I hope you leave town and take Hank with you.”
“Tst tst, tst. You sound hurt,” Maggie says with a degree of satisfaction. “As soon as you’re out of the picture, we will. You’re the last piece of the puzzle. Or should I say painting?” Maggie chortles.
“What painting?”
Maggie takes a step toward Susan. “Don’t act cute with me, you whore.”
Susan must be weighing her options, decides not to antagonize Maggie, and remains silent.
Maggie’s voice is directed in my direction, and I freeze. “I thought you might want to confess before you die. And none of this stuff that Hank’s deputy did it, either.” She turns back to Susan. “Don’t you want to tell me the truth before I use this on you?”
Susan moans.
“No? Too bad. You’re going to hell for your sins. Adultery is a mortal sin, you know. I was going to absolve you of it, but now I can’t.”
“Please don’t do this.” Susan sniffles.
“You’re right. You should see my face when I shoot you. Just like your friend. She should have never picked me up that night, the Good Samaritan,” Maggie cackles. “At least she admitted to having an affair with my John.”
When Susan doesn’t answer, Maggie says, “Your friend didn’t know I had the paintings. Disgusting positions, you two.” She stops, then giggles. “Hank almost caught me that night.”
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 20
