“I think so,” she said quietly. “But he said he wasn’t interested in you anymore. He said he’d seen you at a bar recently, near your apartment, drinking like a fish.”
“Jesus.”
“I thought you were just out sick yesterday. I had no idea we were under surveillance. Terry never told me. He never tells me anything. I found out from Yale.”
Veronica took off her glasses. Without them she looked doughy and slightly cross-eyed, like an overgrown baby. “Poor detective Krull.”
Please don’t let her cry. I can’t take her crying right now. “Did . . . Evan . . . happen to say anything about model airplanes?”
“Um, no . . .”
“What about acrylic paint?”
“Paint?”
“Nothing about any hobbies he might have?”
“Just charities. Toys for . . . Tots.” She winced as she said it, as if she were just at this moment figuring it all out. She looked into my eyes, and before I turned away, I saw it there. The awful comprehension. The murdered children.
“I’ll talk to the police,” she said. “Anyone you want me to talk to, I will.”
“Thank you,” I said, but still, I couldn’t make myself look at her face.
After we phoned Art Boyle and told him about Evan Intaglio, Yale and I bypassed the guards, stuffed Veronica into a cab and sent her off to the Sixth Precinct.
It seemed like years since I’d been out of this hospital, and I was surprised at how normal everything looked. The reporters were gone. Krull’s doctor had given a press conference and presumably, they were all back at their newspapers, writing their stories. It was cold, and overcast, and people slammed past us in their thick coats, just like any afternoon on any day in late winter.
For the first time since Friday, I didn’t feel watched, and I wondered if Evan Intaglio had taken off his black scarf and his Magic Mirrors and left the city. If he were smart, he would’ve done that, maybe killed his girlfriend first for good measure.
I wondered how long it would take before her body turned up in a Dumpster or a footlocker or a cooler in the river, with her nails polished purple and paint in her hair. They make you so pretty for your funeral.
“I hate that motherfucker,” I said to Yale as we walked back toward the building.
“Try not to be so hard on her. She didn’t know.”
“Not Veronica,” I said. “Evan Intaglio.”
Yale stopped at the revolving door. “What kind of a name is that, anyway? There’s something made-up about it.”
“Oh really, Yale St. Germaine?”
“Well,” he said. “It is unusual . . . Hey, I’ve got an idea.”
“You’re not going to suggest we look him up in the phone book.”
“No, of course not. But we could call Peter, get him to talk to his contact lens salesman, and see if an Evan Intaglio ever bought Magic Mirrors from him. He might have a credit card or something, and we could give it to the police.”
I shook my head. “Krull said they’ve already collected receipts from every optical store that’s sold Magic Mirrors to anybody in the tristate area. Which is a hell of a lot of people—probably more now that they’ve made Liz Smith’s column.”
I remembered first seeing Miranda with them, on Monday night at the box office. She’d said Magic Mirrors would be “totally hot in about a week,” but it turned out she’d been off by a few days. The makeup artist on Addie? She’s got ’em too, and so does my friend William who works at Allure. I even saw this clerk at that toy and hobby store on Twenty-eighth who was wearing them. Scared my poor niece half to death . . .
“Where are you going?” said Yale, but I didn’t reply, just let him follow me as I rushed back towards the street and hailed a cab. I let him get in beside me as I asked the driver to take me to Twenty-eighth Street.
As the cab lurched along, I took out my cell phone, called the Sixth Precinct and asked for Boyle. When the desk sergeant couldn’t find him, I asked for every detective whose name I knew. Not one was available—not even Pierce—so I told her it was urgent that someone, anyone, meet me at the toy and hobby store on Twenty-eighth.
“Miss Leiffer, where are you right now?”
“I’m in a cab.”
“Headed?”
“I just told you!”
“What’s the address of the store?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the name?”
“I don’t know,” I said. Then the connection failed.
“Perhaps we should have clarified our plan before leaving,” Yale said.
“Screw you.”
“All right. Never mind. But I’ve got two questions.”
The cab turned east on Twenty-eighth. “Slow down please,” I said to the driver. “We’ll know it when we see it.”
“Question one: ‘What if the club kid Miranda saw working at this nameless toy store is not our Evan Intaglio?’ Question two: ‘What if he is?’ ”
“If he is, and the cops still haven’t found us, I’ll call 911. If he isn’t, at least we can feel like we’ve done something.”
“Sam, you’ve been shot in the back. I’d say you’ve done quite a bit already.”
The driver turned around and stared at me, but I kept my eyes out the window. “I just . . .” I said, “hate that he’s put himself in my mind.”
“Stop.” At first, I thought Yale was talking to me, but then the driver obeyed. As Yale fished money out of his wallet, I looked out his window, saw a small storefront on a crumbling brownstone with a sign that read, “Cinderella’s Toy and Hobby.” And not a police car in sight.
“That was her playmate’s name,” I said.
“Who?”
“Sarah Flannigan. Ariel. She had an invisible playmate named Cinderella.”
We were standing on the brink of the store’s three front steps. I tried calling the precinct again, but couldn’t get a connection; the phone’s battery was low.
Yale patted his pockets. “I left mine at Peter’s.”
“Oh, well.”
“Maybe we should wait for the police anyway.”
“They might never show.” I made myself walk up the steps. “What could happen anyway? It’s business hours. There are plenty of people outside.”
One, two, three . . . I held my breath, crossed my fingers, pushed open the door. Go!
The first thing I noticed was an electric train buzzing around a miniature, snowy mountain town atop a large table in the center of the store.
It looked like it had been set up for Christmas. There were tiny, multicolored lights in the miniature flocked evergreens, tiny people waving, frozen, out of cabin doorways, as the little train chugged by.
Glass counters encircled the train set area, filled with colorful antique toys. Shelves full of brightly labeled paints and hobby kits lined the walls, with completed projects interspersed—candles, mini-stainedglass windows, Christmas ornaments, jewelry, dolls.
A chorus line of vintage Barbies popped cleverly out of a pink silk hatbox against a wall. One was dressed like a stewardess, another was in a nurse’s uniform, still another wore a bikini. Not a Schoolteacher Barbie in the bunch.
There were plush stuffed animals in antique chairs, model airplanes and spaceships hanging from the ceiling. It was cheerier in here than I would’ve imagined—inviting really, despite a complete lack of human life. “Nice place,” said Yale. I wasn’t sure he’d followed me in until then.
There was a counter with an old-fashioned cash register and a silver bell, which I rang for assistance.
After several rings, a guy about my age lumbered into the room. He had spiky blond hair and a goatee, and he easily weighed 250 pounds. No way was he Evan. “Can I help you?”
I cleared my throat. “Does anyone work here—a man, who has Magic Mirrors contact lenses?”
His big face colored slightly. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Well . . . My girlfriend bought me a pai
r, and I wore ’em to work one time. Thought I looked cool until I made a little girl cry.”
Yale gave me a nudge. “False alarm.”
“Excuse me?”
Make sure. “You don’t happen to know an Evan Intaglio, do you?”
“No, but I know his brother, Earl Flangeneck.”
We stared at him.
He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Oh . . . Sorry. You’re seriously looking for somebody by that name?”
“Yeah.”
“Because Intaglio is a doll maker’s term. I’ve never heard of it as a last name.”
“I told you it was fake,” Yale said.
“What . . . does it mean?”
“Intaglio means concave in Italian, I think. It’s an effect done on antique dolls’ eyes. They scoop out the area, paint the iris in the concave space. Makes it look like the eyes are following you around the . . . Are you okay?”
The electric train whistled, turned a corner. Chugachugachugachuga . . .
“Do you want to sit down or something? You look kind of—”
Scoop out the area.
“Sam?”
Finally, I found my voice again. “Have you ever heard of . . . Liquitine paint?”
“Who hasn’t? I mean, in this business.”
“What’s it used for?”
“Everything, pretty much. Model building, paint by numbers, doll restoration . . .”
“Doll restoration.” Chugachugachugachuga . . .
“You can mix it with water to color dolls’ hair, use it to restore facial features or makeup. It’s pretty versatile.” Chugachuga woooooo.
I said, “They’re the right size.”
“Who is the right size?” said the clerk.
“Kids. Dolls.”
Yale said, “He’s a doll freak?”
Have you ever touched a corpse’s skin? It’s cold and stiff. Perfect. “The makeovers. He’s restoring them. The eyes . . .”
“Intaglio.”
“Right.”
“What is up with you guys?”
I looked at the clerk’s name tag: RANDY. “Thanks Randy, you’ve been a big help. See you later.”
Just outside the store, my cell phone rang. The battery was so low, I could barely hear the voice on the other end. After shouting “hello” a few times, I realized it was Sam, Krull’s guard from the hospital. “Where . . . you?” he said.
“I’m—”
“You’ve got . . . here. The . . . detective . . . see you.”
“What?”
“. . . nurse couldn’t find you . . . blood pressure . . . He’s really worried . . .”
“Oh, shit.”
“Just get back here. Please.” He hung up.
When I told Yale, he said, “You go to the hospital, I’ll go to the precinct house. We’ll confab later.”
A free cab pulled up and he let me take it. Like a gift from God, the driver had an old cell phone similar to mine, and a charger plugged into the cigarette lighter.
I held out the near-dead phone. “Please,” I said, and he quickly removed his cell, plugged mine in. Perfect fit. Thank you.
“Where to?”
“St. Vincent’s.” The driver sped off, leaving my stomach in his wake.
I read his ID tag; his first name appeared to be Enog. Gone spelled backwards.
After about a minute’s thought, I borrowed Enog’s phone, called the hospital and asked for the ICU.
“He’s stabilized,” said the nurse. “We gave him some more sedatives.”
“Can you do me a favor and just tell him . . . tell him I’m having lunch . . . in the cafeteria.”
“Will do.”
When I handed his phone back, Enog winked at me, as if I’d passed him a note in class, then kept driving. He jolted forward and stopped suddenly so many times, it became almost rhythmic. I found myself reminded of the train whistle at Cinderella’s. They scoop out the area, paint the iris in the concave space.
Finally, we arrived at the hospital. Queasily, I took my cell phone and got out of the cab, paid Enog his money and listened to him rev off. Chugchugachuga . . .
Just I was about to enter the lobby, the phone rang. I pushed “Send” and said, “I’m on my way up to his room.”
“Ms. Leiffer?” The voice was clear. I recognized it immediately.
“Daniel?”
“Yes . . . hi.”
I started to ask how he’d gotten this number, then remembered Krull had given it to the school. Terry must have posted it on the bulletin board.
“I miss you,” said Daniel.
“Me too, honey. But I’ll be back soon. You know, you really shouldn’t be calling this number. It’s for emergencies—”
“Ms. Leiffer, what’s your favorite color?”
“Daniel.”
“Please.” His voice trembled when he said it.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Please answer the question!”
“Green, honey. It’s green. Are you okay?”
Daniel started to cry.
“Where are you?”
“The monster’s going to make my hair that color!” he sobbed.
And a new voice took over. A cold whisper. “Gotcha.”
I could hear Daniel crying in the background. “Don’t you dare hurt him,” I said.
“More little corpses. I told you. Don’t you know what klein means in German?”
I wanted to hang up, call 911, call the Sixth Precinct, take the elevator to ICU and alert all those guards. But he’s got Daniel. Daniel’s with him, and he’s called me. He got this number, he’s got Daniel. Calm down. Calm down and get him to talk. Calm down and . . . “What do you want from me?”
“Interesting question.”
“Anything.”
“You’re small. Kleine Samantha.”
You fucking, fucking sick fuck. “Yes.”
“Not as small as Daniel. But you’re a girl and I like the girls better.” I could barely hear him. Why the whisper? Why the need for mystery now?
I made myself say it. “Do you want to make a trade?”
“Yes.” The s sibilant, like the hiss of a snake. I couldn’t hear crying anymore.
“Where is Daniel?”
“He’s here. Say, ‘Hello,’ Daniel.”
Daniel’s voice, a wet squeak. “Help.”
“Come here, alone, we’ll make the trade. Your body for his. Tell anyone, tell a soul, I slit his little throat and leave his eyes to rot.”
“Where do I—”
“Go to the northeast corner of Tenth and Sixth.”
The line went dead.
I tore down the sidewalk, slamming into the shoulders and legs of strangers, Krull’s leather jacket slapping at my sides. “Fuckin’ watch it!” someone said.
“Ouch! Hey!”
“What’s the rush, baby?”
Well, since you asked . . .
On the northeast corner of Tenth Street and Sixth Avenue was a parking garage. I scanned the entrance for Daniel, for Mirror Eyes, but all I saw was an empty glass booth where the attendent was supposed to be. I pulled Krull’s coat closer to me, felt a small, hard object against my chest. Making sure no one was watching, I checked the inside pocket. Miniature Swiss Army knife.
First, I tucked the tiny knife into the cuff of my sweater sleeve. Then I started towards the booth.
“Hello?” I said, but when I peered inside, I found no one hiding there. “Is anybody here?”
Like an answer, a black sedan pulled out of the garage and screeched to a halt beside me.
Behind the wheel was Randy, the toy and hobby store clerk.
16
The Last Laugh
We drove in silence, Randy and I, the garage shrinking in the rearview as the sedan headed west.
He’d taken my patchwork bag and Krull’s coat, reached into my jeans pockets to make sure they were empty. “Give me the cell phone,” he’d sa
id, just before shutting the back door. Not a word since.
I tried looking at him a few times, but he kept his eyes off mine, kept his eyes on the road like any good executioner. Nothing personal, you understand. Just doing my job.
He stopped at a traffic light, just before a crosswalk. I watched an older woman push a stroller in front of the car, and for a moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion—the woman, the stroller, Randy’s fat hands on the steering wheel. I watched the woman, pressed my gaze on her like my eyes could emit light and heat, thinking Look at me. Look at me and call the police. But she didn’t turn, just kept walking, and when the light switched to green I saw Randy’s eyes fixed on me in the rearview.
“He has a new fish,” I said.
“Who?”
“Daniel.” Without looking down, I checked my sweater cuff, touched the edge of the tiny Swiss Army knife.
The car lurched along. The street we were on was tree lined and peaceful, with brownstones and florists and specialty food shops. Then we crossed another avenue, and the buildings abruptly went boxy industrial and empty looking. The meat-packing district.
On the side of one windowless building was a faded mural of a pig in a chef’s hat. “Polowski’s Pork,” it read. I looked at Randy, then the pig on the mural. Stupid, grinning animal, happy to cook his dead friends.
The sedan turned up another avenue, then right on a side street, left through a wide alley and right onto another street full of walk-ups and old warehouses. Where were we going? Where was Daniel?
We stopped in front of one of the walk-ups—its old exterior black from grime, who knew what color it had been originally?—and a powerful chill shot up my back. Dead Man’s Fingers. “Little late.”
“What?” said Randy.
“Nothing.”
He double-parked, got out of the car, opened my door like a chauffeur. We’ve arrived at your destiny, ma’am.
This was the plan I had: Get Daniel to run away. Then scream. Then take the knife out of my cuff, stick it in the fucker’s eye. It’s good to know how to scream. It was good to have a knife too. Too bad it wasn’t bigger.
There were a few steps in front of the walk-up, leading down to a basement apartment. Randy nudged me toward the door, unlocked it. “Wait a minute,” he said.
Hide Your Eyes Page 20
