pect. And after all, what did I have to lose? If he knew I was lying, he’d call me on it.
‘‘I’ve left half a dozen messages at Mr. Hyer’s office and on his answering machine at home,’’ I went on, ‘‘but he never got back to me.’’ Carl was staring at me with icecold eyes, making it extremely nerve-wracking to continue. But it was too late to stop now. ‘‘I even went to his house a few times. I guess he doesn’t stay home much, though, huh?’’ I concluded lamely.
‘‘How come you’re lookin’ for him here?’’
‘‘Well . . . um . . . I had a talk with this cousin of Hyer’s—
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he’s mentioned in the same will that Hyer is—and he told me he came in here with him once. Says Hyer’s a regular.’’
‘‘Drops in maybe twice a week,’’ the bartender said with
out inflection. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘‘And you came out in this kinda weather just in case he showed up?’’
‘‘I drove in from New York, and it wasn’t even raining when I left my office. Besides, I was hoping that if I didn’t catch him, I could leave a message with you explaining what this is all about.’’
Carl was no dope. ‘‘Ever thought of sendin’ him a letter?’’
‘‘I did—or anyway the attorney did, asking Hyer to get in touch with him. But Hyer never called. Maybe the letter got lost in the mail. So is it okay if I just give you a note for him?’’
Carl shrugged. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’
I rummaged around in my attache´ for a piece of paper and, with my back to the bar, pretended to write on it. Then I put the blank sheet in an envelope, scribbled Hyer’s name on the front, and sealed it.
‘‘Uh, I was just thinking,’’ I said, handing the bartender the envelope. ‘‘The last time I was in Hillsdale—on Febru
ary tenth, it was, sometime in the evening—I was parked in front of Hyer’s house for three hours, waiting for him to come home. That was a Monday, by the way. Anyhow, it would be ironic if he was right in here all that while, wouldn’t it?’’ I asked with this insipid little laugh. Purposefully putting the envelope down on the bar, Carl leaned toward me. His eyes were mere slits now, and his face was so close to mine, I could almost taste his stale breath. ‘‘I was wondering when you’d get around to that,’’
he said in an unnaturally quiet voice. For a moment, I felt afraid. Then he straightened up. ‘‘Look, lady, I know what this is really about,’’ he informed me.
My cheeks felt as if they were catching fire. ‘‘What do you mean?’’ I asked weakly.
‘‘I mean that Roger told me days ago that I should ex
pect to hear from you. He asked me to tell you whatever you wanted to know.’’
‘‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the beginning?’’ I actu
ally had the nerve to be indignant. (It’s really humiliating being on the losing end of a cat-and-mouse game. Even if you did it to yourself.)
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‘‘I hated to spoil the fun,’’ was the man’s response. But he didn’t appear the least bit amused.
‘‘Look, I’m sorry. I just thought it might be easier to get you to level with me if you didn’t know I was investigating a crime. Hyer says he was here the night of February tenth and that you might be able to verify it.’’
‘‘He was here.’’
‘‘That was two weeks ago. How can you be sure?’’
‘‘Because my daughter got married the day before, and it was Roger who recommended the florist. So the night after the wedding—that Monday—he wanted to know if the guy did a good job for me.’’
‘‘It was definitely the very next night? It couldn’t have been two nights later?’’
‘‘No, it couldn’t.’’
‘‘What time did he come in? Do you have any idea?’’
‘‘Around eight.’’
‘‘You’re sure of the time?’’
Carl gave this exasperated sigh. ‘‘Listen, Roger always comes in around eight, give or take a few minutes. It woulda registered on me if he came in at a different time.’’
‘‘All right. But I hope you’re being straight with me. Two young girls—one of them Hyer’s former fianceé—got their faces blown off that night, and I know you wouldn’t want to cover for the person responsible.’’ The bartender’s eyes began to narrow again. ‘‘Of course you wouldn’t,’’ I told him quickly.
I was out of there three minutes later.
Chapter 19
At a little after ten on Tuesday morning, I stopped off at the Twelfth Precinct, hoping to catch Tim Fielding. Fortu
nately, he was in, sitting at his desk. What’s more, he didn’t grumble for more than three or four minutes about people who expect you to be at their beck and call whenever it suits them. He wasn’t even all that unpleasant when he said, ‘‘I don’t suppose you thought of picking up the phone to see if I was available before you came bursting in here.’’
Now, considering how I just about managed to drag my
self over there that morning, I definitely did not ‘‘burst.’’
However, I appreciated that this was not the time to get involved in semantics.
‘‘I know I should have called,’’ I admitted, ‘‘but I was on my way to the office when I decided to drop in here first. If you could spare me just a few minutes—’’
‘‘Who are you kiddin’? Remember me? I know your few minutes.’’
I took two containers of coffee and half a dozen donuts from the brown paper bag I was carrying. I had this plead
ing look on my face when I set them on Fielding’s desk. I can’t say for sure whether it was the look or the do
nuts—eight to one it was the donuts—but Fielding mut
tered, ‘‘Okay, sit down.’’ Then he reached for the chocolate donut with the walnut sprinkles. ‘‘But don’t get too com
fortable; you won’t be staying long.’’
I sat on the chair alongside his desk and slipped off my coat—which produced an immediate frown. ‘‘Here,’’ I said, handing him the container marked with a B, ‘‘black, no sugar.’’ I opened my own coffee and picked out a jelly donut, getting in a few quick bites while Fielding was busy doing the same.
‘‘Well?’’ he said about ten seconds later, drumming his fingers on the desk.
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‘‘I just thought it was time we compared notes.’’
‘‘Which, judging from your past performances, means you’re here to find out what I know.’’
‘‘Absolutely untrue,’’ I responded huffily. ‘‘I have plenty to tell you this morning; you’ll see.’’
‘‘Fine. I’m waiting.’’
This was not the way I’d arranged the agenda in my head, but I was on shaky ground. ‘‘Well, I thought maybe we could start with the twins’ finances.’’
‘‘Really? And just what information do you have on their finances?’’
‘‘For one thing, I can tell you they paid over a million for the apartment.’’
‘‘A million and a half, to be exact. Cash.’’
‘‘Cash?’’
‘‘You heard me. They handed over a certified check for one and a half big ones. What else have you got for me?’’
‘‘Peter doesn’t think Mary Ann made a will.’’
‘‘He told me that almost two weeks ago. Anything else?’’
‘‘Look, Tim, I do have some news for you, I swear, and I’ll fill you in in just a couple of minutes. But right now can we talk about who would profit from their deaths? Do you have any idea yet?’’
I braced myself for a hard time. Instead, Fielding sounded almost apologetic. ‘‘I really wish I had something to tell you, Dez. Besides your client, I’ve checked with the brother and Meredith’s boyfriend—Shields. No one admits to knowing anything about a will.’’
‘‘May
be the girls didn’t have one; they were pretty young.’’
‘‘That’s certainly possible. But for the time being, I’m going to go under the assumption there are a couple of wills out there someplace.’’
‘‘If they exist, they’d probably be in a safe-deposit box, wouldn’t they? Would the police even be able to get into the box? I mean, since neither of the victims can be de
clared legally dead.’’
‘‘Not without showing probable cause, most likely. But you’re way ahead of yourself. The first thing to find out is if either of them even had a box. We checked with every bank in New York City, and guess what?’’
‘‘No box.’’
‘‘You got it. Not only that—and this is the really strange
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part—the only record we could find of a bank account for either of them is a joint checking account with a little over three thousand bucks and a business account of Mary Ann’s with a couple hundred in it. Doesn’t add up, does it?’’ Fielding mused. ‘‘The way I see it, anyone who can afford one and a half big ones for an apartment should have some other assets, too.’’
‘‘Maybe the rest of their money is in stocks and bonds,’’
I suggested. ‘‘Their father was a broker.’’
We looked at every piece of paper in that apartment, and
we couldn’t find a damn thing—no statements, no record of
anything like that. Nothing.’’
‘‘Wait a minute. That certified check for the apartment . . . ?’’
‘‘Drawn on a checking account at Chase. They opened it in September, right before they bought the place, and once the sale was completed, they closed the account.’’
‘‘Maybe they figured the apartment was a great invest
ment, so they sunk every penny they had into it.’’
‘‘Yeah, could be, I guess. But I dunno, something just doesn’t feel right.’’ Fielding reached for another donut.
‘‘Okay, now before you have to leave, I think there was something you wanted to pass along to me.’’
‘‘It’s about Mary Ann’s fiance´. His name’s—’’
‘‘Roger Hyer,’’ Fielding said before I could. ‘‘Foster told us. In fact, Corcoran spoke to Hyer on the phone yesterday. He’s going to be in town tomorrow, and he agreed to stop in and talk to us for a few minutes. Oh, and incidentally,’’
he deadpanned, ‘‘Walt’s off today; I hope you’re not too sorry you missed him.’’
I assured him there was no way Walter Corcoran, his asshole of a partner, would ever be missed. Then I told him about my meeting with Hyer on Friday. ‘‘He claims to have been in a bar in New Jersey the night of the shootings. I went out there last night to see the bartender, and it seems to check out.’’
‘‘Seems to?’’
‘‘There’s always the chance the bartender’s a friend of Hyer’s—he calls him Roger, by the way. There’s also the possibility that Hyer paid him to confirm the alibi or even that he blackmailed him.’’
‘‘Okay. We’ll see what we can get out of this bartender after we’re through with Hyer. Now, what else?’’
‘‘Well, I wanted to bounce something off you. I was talk
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ing to my niece Ellen the other day—you remember
Ellen—and she had this idea—’’
‘‘Swell. Now I’m gonna get a lesson in police work from a saleslady at Bloomingdale’s.’’
‘‘Assistant buyer—and it’s Macy’s,’’ I corrected, scowling at him. ‘‘And you didn’t let me finish. Ellen’s idea got me thinking, that’s all. Besides,’’ I added, just for his informa
tion, ‘‘Ellen happens to be very bright. Very.’’
With that off my chest, I told him how I came to remem
ber the twins’ childhood prank and how regarding the shootings as a crime of passion might very well explain their bizarre nature.
‘‘Let’s start with Larry Shields,’’ I said when I was through laying the groundwork. ‘‘He could have been mad enough at Meredith to blast her in the face. I mean, who knows with these lovers’ quarrels? And once he realized that Mary Ann had put one over on him—’’
‘‘Hold it right there. What’s this about a lover’s quarrel?’’
Fielding asked, coming to attention.
‘‘You didn’t know?’’
‘‘Me? I’m only a dumb cop. It’s you hotshot P.I.s and your helpers from Macy’s who manage to dig up all the juicy stuff.’’
I proceeded to impart the next-to-nothing I knew about Meredith’s argument with Shields. ‘‘But I haven’t finished nosing around yet. I’ll keep you posted,’’ I promised. Fielding nodded and mumbled something. It might even have been ‘‘Thanks.’’ Then he said, ‘‘I guess I can figure out for myself how this crime of passion thing would apply to Collins, so spare me. And incidentally, in case you’re not aware of it, Collins not only lost her part, she also lost her boyfriend to Meredith Foster.’’
‘‘I heard.’’
‘‘I should have figured,’’ he responded tartly. ‘‘One hitch occurs to me right away, though. If the idea was to off Meredith, it would make sense to try and get at her when she was alone. And neither of those two knew the sister was supposed to be out that night.’’
‘‘You’re just assuming that. Maybe Meredith said to Shields at the theater on Monday—you know, casually, in conversation—‘Mary Ann’s got these plans with her friend tonight, so it looks like I’m going to be all by my lonesome.’
Maybe she even said, ‘Why don’t you come over later and keep me company?’ And maybe Lucille Collins overheard
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that little invitation and also overheard Shields saying he couldn’t make it, that he was going to his mother’s.’’
‘‘I’ve never heard so many ‘maybes’ in my life. But go on. How does this crime of passion/mistaken identity busi
ness work with Hyer—or doesn’t it?’’
‘‘Oh, it does. But in his case it works a little differently.’’
‘‘I’m listening.’’
‘‘Okay, suppose Hyer finds out the girl he’s been carrying a torch for these past six months just got engaged to some
one else. Well, he rushes over there out for blood—in his frame of mind, he wouldn’t care who else was around—
and let’s say he gets Mary Ann to open the door by telling her he’s a delivery man or a maintenance man or some
thing, and then he forces his way inside. Now, we know Mary Ann would definitely not want to see this guy, right?
So what does she do?’’
Fielding recognized a cue when he was fed one. ‘‘Pre
tends to be her sister so she can get rid of the guy.’’
‘‘Exactly. Only Hyer doesn’t leave. They go into the liv
ing room, and Mary Ann—as Meredith—says something
that sets him off; it wouldn’t take much. And besides, the man drinks—I mean really drinks—which would only have aggravated the situation. At any rate, he lets the real Mary Ann have it, and then he waits for the woman he thinks is Mary Ann to come home.’’
‘‘For argument’s sake, I’ll go along with you so far,’’
Fielding said, ‘‘not wholeheartedly, you understand, but I’ll go along. Here’s where you lose me, though. Why in hell would he blast them both in the face?’’
‘‘Well, I’m not really sure, of course—’’
‘‘Big of you to admit it,’’ he commented wryly.
‘‘But anyway,’’ I went on, ignoring the remark, ‘‘maybe he just couldn’t bear looking at that face, so he destroyed it. Twice. Or maybe with all the alcohol he consumed, he just got muddled. Who knows?’’
‘‘Well, I certainly don’t,’’ Fielding responded, shaking his head. ‘‘This theory of yo
urs has so many goddamn ‘maybes’
and ‘ifs’ and ‘possibles’ that you gotta forgive me if I don’t jump up and down. Anyway, I imagine a crime of passion would let Foster off the hook. Or am I just jumping to conclusions?’’
‘‘Don’t be so cute. It would let him off the hook. I’m inclined to think that if Eric Foster killed his sisters, it was
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because, as their next of kin, he stood to inherit a minimum of one and a half million dollars—the value of the condo.’’
‘‘Assuming,’’ Fielding said pointedly, ‘‘there’s no will around to change all that. Because if there is, we’ve got ourselves a whole different ball game. But tell me—and I’ll probably hate myself for asking—you got any theories to explain those shots in the face if money’s the motive?’’
‘‘No. At least not yet. But there’s also another possibility with Foster. Maybe there was more to his feud with Mere
dith than anyone’s aware of. And maybe that had some
thing to do with his blasting them in the face.’’
Abruptly, Fielding got up. ‘‘I can’t take any more ‘may
bes.’ Thanks for the donuts, Dez, and let me give you a hand with your coat.’’
‘‘Just two more minutes; I’m not quite through yet.’’
‘‘Oh, yes, you are,’’ he informed me, helping me to my feet and draping the coat around my shoulders.
‘‘The gun,’’ I put in quickly, ‘‘I don’t suppose you found it?’’
‘‘We did not.’’
‘‘And when am I going to be able to see that apartment?’’
‘‘I’ll let you know. Now go to work, will you? I’m gonna go take a couple of Tylenols. And listen,’’ he called out as I reluctantly walked away, ‘‘if you and Ellen come up with any more little theories like that, please, don’t feel obli
gated to share them.’’
That night, I met a friend of mine for dinner.
Pat Martucci, formerly Altmann formerly Greene for
merly Anderson, had just broken off with her most recent sig
nificant other, and she was as down in the dumps as I’d ever seen her. (As you can probably gather just from all those sur
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