"Still, the story didn't hurt."
April smiled. "All right, I'll let you break the story when we're ready to make an arrest, okay?" That was a big concession. "But you'll have to keep your mouth shut about your source."
"Serious? How soon will that be?" Lily bounced in her chair.
"I have no idea. We're following leads. What was your take on Anderson?"
"Oh, it's the oldest domestic employment agency in the country still run by a family member. I did the piece as a human-interest service story just after 9/11 when thousands of people lost their jobs in the city and were looking for any kind of work, kind of like the Depression," she reminisced.
"I mean the owner," April prompted.
"Well, actually she did the interview with me because she wanted my help to write a book about her service to the rich and famous."
"No kidding." April woke up.
"I didn't have time to use what she gave me because the slant was the high-end field of domestic workers. But what she had was dynamite. She claims to have the inside dope on three generations of high-profile, wealthy clients. You should see her home. It's filled with memorabilia and photos of herself with megastars. She showed me gifts from movie stars and politicos, princes and presidents. Frank Sinatra, mob bosses. You wouldn't believe the people she knew. It's like a museum."
"What about her? What's she like?"
"This is the part that I thought would interest you. She kept files on everybody—the people she worked for, the staff members she placed, their friends. She made a point of knowing everything about everybody. Get this—she called it good business. She bragged to me about having their complete trust. She went into their places to water their plants when they were out of town. 1 thought it was kind of creepy. It seemed to me that if you had her or one of her people in your house, you were kind of harboring a spy."
April had already been alerted to that possibility. "That's very interesting," she said. "What happened to the book?"
"Oh, 1 referred her to some agents I know. She needed a writer, of course. And that got her all paranoid. She was afraid someone would steal her material."
"So nothing came of the book?"
"No. What do you want to eat?"
April glanced at the menu, then checked her watch. Five minutes to Woody time. "I'm really sorry. I have a long day, and 1 have to get cracking. "
Lily looked disappointed. "This was my day off," she grumbled.
"We'll do a long lunch soon, okay?"
"Right."
"One more thing. Where is Miss Anderson's home?"
"Beekman Place. She has a town house on Fiftieth."
"Fiftieth Street?" April's head jerked up.
Lily nodded. "I wouldn't forget something like that. It's a real freaky place, been in her family for a long time. Didn't you know?"
"Oh, the home address was on my list for today,"
April said slowly. Jo Ellen had been on her list for the day.
"It's close, right?"
"Yeah." April touched her hair. It was drying off now, absolutely flat on her head. It reminded her of another question she needed to ask. "By the way, what color hair does she have?"
"Jo Ellen? Gray."
"No kidding. She doesn't color it?"
"She didn't when I talked with her."
April started gathering up her things. "You've turned out to be a doll," she said. "I'm really grateful for your time."
"Was I useful?"
"Very useful. Where are you- going? Do you want a ride? I'll take you anywhere between here and Midtown North."
Lily laughed. It was almost a straight line west. "No, thanks," she said. "And good luck."
April nodded. She needed it.
Forty-five
Woody was right on time, waiting double-parked outside when April emerged from the restaurant at five past eight. The wind had picked up in the last half hour, and sleeting rain pounded the pavement.
"Morning, Boss. Was that Lily Eng?" Woody said as she scrambled into the car.
"Yes."
He knew better than to ask what they were meeting about. "The shop?"
"Yes. How are you doing, Woody?" She knew he hated to be left out.
"Me? I'm fine. It's quiet," he told her, as if crime was all that really mattered to him. He pulled the car out, angling across First Avenue through the traffic to make the turn west onto Fifty-seventh Street. For once, he did it without hitting the siren, and for that, she was grateful. At the red light on First Avenue they watched pedestrians fight the gusting rain as they crossed the street. The sky had darkened almost to night. As Mike would say. "Esta feo, feo." It was ugly weather. Woody whistled through his teeth.
"Turn up the box," she said anxiously. If something happened this morning, she didn't want to be the last to know.
For a few minutes only static blew in. Then the dispatcher's voice came on with business as usual. Woody stopped whistling before April told him to, and she was thankful for that, as well. The slightest positive thing helped on a bad day. She was feeling bloated and queasy from another of Skinny Dragon Mother's sticky breakfasts and the diner's rusty-nail tea. She hadn't drunk very much of it, only enough to know it wasn't going to be a health aid. "Anything new?" she asked after a pause.
"Looked like Charlie worked all night, and he's wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Maybe he didn't go home. I didn't see the sergeant," Woody reported.
"Anything else?"
"Barry was hinting around. He wants in."
Barry Queue was their former intelligence officer, the one who was so secretive and didn't try to make friends.
"What did you tell him?" It could be that Queue was someone's spy and she had to watch out for him. Or else he was coming around. She hoped it was the latter. She preferred team players.
"Didn't say nothing, just that I'd let you know."
"Thanks for the heads-up." She had more questions about a few other people but not the energy to pursue them right then. It occurred to her that as Iriarte had done before her and every other boss did, she was always gathering information on the whereabouts, activities, and personal habits of the people who worked for her. Part of it was simply chain of command. To run an efficient unit and
avoid surprises, one had to know what was going on. The question was, where did the job stop and controlling begin? And that was her question about the Anderson woman, too.
She'd been deeply troubled by what Lily had told her. It appeared that Jo Ellen Anderson was more than just intrusive with the girls she placed; she also meddled in the lives of her customers. She went into their houses and watered their plants. That was unusual, and particularly troubling because it gave her access to their private spaces. What else did she do there? And who else could have used those keys? April's thoughts raced ahead. Even more interesting was the fact that Jo Ellen lived in a town house on Fiftieth Street, two blocks from Maddy and even closer to Alison. She had gray hair. April's mind wandered back to the photos Woody had taken at the two houses. A gray-haired woman who fit Jo Ellen's description hadn't been in any of them, but she wondered if the woman had been questioned by anybody else during the canvass of neighbors, and the name just hadn't popped up yet.
"Are you okay, boss?" Woody asked.
"Yeah, fine," she said. But she didn't feel fine at' all. She'd lost her cookies only once before on account of something her mother had fed her. A few years ago when Lieutenant Bernardino had been in the car, she'd had to get out and barf on the street. The horrible feeling of that lost face still haunted her. She'd vowed never to do that again no matter how bad she felt.
"You sure you're all right?" Woody demanded.
"I said I was fine. Why are you bugging me?"
"You're groaning."
"Jesus." She held on for fifteen more agonizing minutes, concentrating on the rain -outside and her prayer that no one else would get hurt today. She was out of the car before it stopped in front of the station, and went straight to t
he public women's room, where no one would see or hear her. In a second she was on her knees, hugging the toilet seat in the stall farthest from the door. The smell of disinfectant was strong, but not strong enough to cover that chipped old toilet's decades of use. She heaved right away, and everything came up.
"Oh, God," she moaned. Most of the time she could overcome the quakes in her stomach. Even seeing Alison's body the day before didn't take her over the edge. But today her lifelong weakness had gotten to her. She felt like a wimp or worse, turning on cheap tea, the smell of human effluvia, and fear. It was Wednesday. She had only today and tomorrow before her scheduled cruise, and she didn't want anyone else to die. Her fear was another humiliation.
Someone came into the bathroom. She was on her feet, flushing the second she heard the door. The unseen individual tinkled in the stall next to hers, flushed, and then left without washing her hands. April' exited gingerly, not feeling much better. She washed her face, popped an Altoids into her mouth, and groaned again at the sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair was flat. Her face was pale, and for the first time in her life she looked to herself—distinctly old.
Shocked, she blinked and looked again. Suddenly she could see what she'd be like in ten years, middle-aged and still doing what she was doing now. Time had passed without her realizing it, and now she saw her future. Suddenly she understood why people left the Department, went to the private sector, and moved on. The facilities were the least of it. The truth was, the job was a mill that ground people down. There never was time for anything, not a personal day, not a vacation, not a single luxury. She remembered what Alison had told her on Monday: maintenance was important; men liked younger women. They got restless and drifted away. Right then it was clear that she was not maintaining herself. She didn't look like Lily Eng. She wasn't patient with Woody, or Eloise, or Charlie Hagedorn. Certainly not poor old Skinny Dragon, who'd been neglected for months. She did not have time to be with her mother. Crime never went away, and the victims never stopped talking to her, no matter how long they'd been dead. She remembered what Alison had told her, and like all the other times when victims had come first in her life, she pulled herself together for them.
"Good morning, everyone," she said a few minutes later to the four people she'd assembled in her office. "Charlie, do you have anything to tell us?"
Hagedorn cleared his throat and glanced at Eloise. Eloise was wearing black-and-white-checked pants, a red sweater, and a Glock. Her head was a mess of blond curls. April was going to have to talk with her. Her smoky eye shadow gave her a sultry look, and her tough-guy's mouth was twisted to one side. She nodded at Charlie, and her message was definitely mixed.
"The Anderson Agency was a private company until 2000. In 2000 the founder's daughter, Sally George Anderson,Jo Ellen's aunt, sold it to Hunter International, a much larger company. Hunter has a history of acquiring smaller agencies and over time consolidating them into their corporate structure. Their stand-alones include Harris Brown, a recruiter of business executives and support staff for overseas operations; ITEL, a company that specializes in business intelligence; and Crater Corp, which provides security personnel."
"You said it was a quirky place. How does it fit in with Hunter's objectives?"
"There's nothing on the Web site or anywhere else that says it's owned by Hunter. It's not clear what the deal is there. They may have acquired it for the name."
Eloise cut in. "There's a staff of only eight people. It's a small operation, very uncorporate in style. J0 Ellen may have a contract to stay for some period of years."
"Charlie, would you find out who's in charge at Hunter International and what the deal with the Anderson Agency is? What about the aunt?"
He made a note. "She passed away two years ago, left the house to J0 Ellen."
"What was the relationship between them?"
"It must have been pretty close. They lived together in the town house. The number is four twenty-five. It's right across the street from the Perkinses' house." He glanced at Eloise for some sign of approval, but she wasn't looking at him.
"That's good work, Charlie," April said, making a few notes.
"There's more. Since 2002, a bunch of complaints
came in from residences where Anderson placed staff, a couple of thefts. All of them in town houses. No arrests were made."
April wondered how he carne up with that information, since complaints that were dropped didn't' enter the record, but she didn't want to get into it at the moment. She turned to Queue, whom she invited on a tryout. "Barry, I want you to go downtown and get a search warrant for the Anderson house and agency. She has the keys to her clients' houses and lives across the street from Alison Perkins. I think that's probable cause for going in for a look-see, and the DA on the case agrees with me. Charlie, you're working on Hunter. Find out what the payment was for the company and what the deal with Jo Ellen is. Also, the status of the house,if anything is owed on it. Any personal information on Jo Ellen Anderson would be useful, too."
"You think it's her?" Gelo said.
"She was definitely exploiting both her clients and the nannies who worked for them. Looks like what she did was work on the mothers' concerns about reliability, etc., to get the girls in trouble so that she could replace them. Motive for that— probably greed. She could also have used her access to the houses for theft You said some jewelry was stolen."
They nodded.
"Okay, that's it. Woody, come with me. Eloise, you're in command here. You can continue on the Spirit case for the moment. Thank you all, we'll be in touch."
No one asked her what she was doing.
forty-six
Feeling personally humiliated by her boss, Eloise returned to her office to sulk. She didn't know exactly what she'd expected. But after her and Charlie's initiative on the case the day before, she didn't want to be the only member of the team left out today. She and Charlie could well turn out to have been the ones who cracked the case, and there was still a great deal of information-gathering to do on it. Returning to the work of shutting down strip clubs wasn't even a close second in importance, even though the chief of detectives had deemed it a priority on Monday. The clubs would be there tomorrow and the day after that. Time was on their side in nailing any of them. Today, two weeks from now It didn't matter when they made their move. They'd close them. For a while there would be a flap, and then they'd open again under new names. Big deal.
The homicides were different. Alison Perkins had been in their unit the day before she'd died. She'd sat in the very office where the detectives had just met, and she'd revealed a lot. Eloise had heard her voice lamenting the loss of her friend and the difficulties of having strangers in her house, who took care of her children and took advantage of her. Knowing how people exploited each other whenever they could, Eloise felt sad for Alison and wanted to see where she had lived and died. She wanted to continue with the investigation personally and be there for the resolution. Even Barry Queue was in it now. She wondered how that had happened andfelt deeply hurt at what she took as a personal affront, even a punishment, by her boss. It reminded her of Steve, and she was overwhelmed for a moment by a feeling of crushing loss.
Whenever unexpected emotion caught her off guard, this was what happened to her. Ever since 9/11 every stress and personal setback tended to spin her back to the catastrophes. Panicky nightmares came to her even when she was awake. She was lost in a copter inside the black cloud of collapsing buildings. People just out of reach screamed for her to rescue them, and when she couldn't, they jumped from high windows to escape the inferno. She, too, was burning alive, and the man she'd loved more than any other had left her behind for a new life in Florida. That day a dozen people she'd loved were taken from her—some instantly and some later on. Because of it, she'd lost her feeling of security and safety in her job and her city, and now any little thing could put her back there and make her question her reason for living.
Consciously, she w
as thinking about Jo Ellen Anderson, how much she wanted to be the one to talk to her again, find out everything about her morning habits, instead of backing off and leaving with only half the story as she had yesterday. Charlie had given her the bug. Someone beneath her in rank had taught her that they didn't have to be in a task force to be useful. They didn't have to sit in on endless briefing meetings and listen to idiots trying to connect dots they didn't even have. She could help from the outside. She could get it there on her own and get it. done. It was a dangerous thing to be thinking.
She glanced at her watch. It would take the lieutenant all morning and maybe longer to talk with Jo Ellen Anderson and her employees about all the issues that concerned her about the Anderson Agency and its former owner. After listening to the Alison tapes, she knew that April took her time. It would be a long dance before the music stopped. She wondered how long it would take Queue to get the search warrant. If she had it, she could get there first and be the one to search Anderson's town house. That idea grabbed hold of her and restored her mood.
forty-seven
By nine thirty April and Woody were in the Anderson Agency offices. It had the old-world atmosphere that Eloise had described the day before—gold paint on the moldings, French doors, heavy curtains, a vase of fresh red and yellow tulips on the table in the reception area. But instead of inspiring the confidence of old traditions, it was kind of creepy. A gray-haired woman worked the phone at an antique desk, apparently too busy to acknowledge them.
"Lieutenant Woo Sanchez from the police department to see Miss Anderson," April said as soon as she deigned to look up.
"She's not in yet. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"What time does she get in?"
The woman consulted a chunky gold clock with a cupid sitting on it. "She usually gets here around ten, ten thirty."
"We'd like to see her assistant."
"Certainly, please take a seat and I'll call her."
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