"That it was ransacked?"
T.S. intervened. "We just heard, that's all. Never mind." He kicked Auntie Lil under the table, not anxious to be booked for breaking and entering by a drunken detective. "Are you sure that the young woman lived there?"
"Look. I talked to the resident. I talked to the super. There's no old lady living there at all. Just some babe with dyed blonde hair and an aerobically fit actress body."
Auntie Lil was angry; T.S. was mystified.
"What about The Eagle?" Auntie Lil demanded. "Have you found him?"
"The Eagle?" Santos shook his head like he thought she was crazy and looked to T.S. for confirmation.
"Don't you look at him like I'm insane," Auntie Lil ordered. "A man swears he saw The Eagle behind Emily that day. He's probably the one who poisoned her."
The detective sighed. "We don't know anything about an eagle. No one we interviewed mentioned an eagle." He was quiet, staring into his drink. "My guess is that you people were given the wrong apartment number. Sounds to me like you went there. I wouldn't want to know if you did." He shrugged. "Maybe it was burglarized, maybe it wasn't. If it was, the woman who lives there doesn't want me to know."
"Why wouldn't she?" T.S. asked.
"You must be joking." The detective took a healthy swig of gin. "It was probably drug-related. What's she going to do? Report ten grams of coke missing?" He laughed as if he'd said something funny, but neither T.S. nor Auntie Lil was amused. He fell silent, staring into the bottom of his drink.
"Can't you tell us anything?" Auntie Lil demanded after a moment of fruitless silence.
Santos jumped, as if he'd forgotten they were there. "I can tell you that if this case had ever mattered in the least, they would not have given it to me." He raised his large brown eyes to them and blinked sadly. "I am not at the bottom of the barrel, you understand. I still manage to stay sober during my shift. But I'm pretty damn close. Everyone knows that I'm a drunk, no one gives me any real work and the only reason I'm probably still on the force is that the lieutenant is too stupid to figure out yet what a loser I am." He shrugged. "And that's nothing but the facts, ma'am."
There was nothing more to say. They left the detective behind and snagged cabs that could take them home and away from the Westsider as quickly as possible.
T.S. was thoroughly depressed by the time he reached his apartment. Brenda and Eddie met him at the door and he was so distracted that he opened two cans of wet cat food and they snagged a bonus feast. But he was immediately cheered by two minor developments. Lenny Melk had called and tracked down the building's real owner. He'd divulge the information the following morning, as soon as T.S. met him with payment in cash. So much for trust. But at least he had the information.
The second message was even more uplifting. Lilah had called to say that her day had been productive but boring, and that she'd missed the chance to detect by his side. It wasn't the same as saying that she'd missed him, technically speaking, but it was enough to inspire him to sing the theme song from The Impossible Dream in the shower before he hit the sack.
9
Lenny Melk's office turned out to be a coffee shop at the corner of Centre and Duane Streets. He was waiting for T.S. out front. "You're the guy, right?" he said, eyeing T.S.'s charcoal gray sweater.
"It's nice to be so unforgettable," T.S. answered drily. "I knew you in a minute."
"I'm kind of a distinctive guy," Lenny admitted, automatically brushing the dandruff flakes off of his shoulders. He wore the same suit he'd worn two days before. It had not been dry-cleaned in the interim.
"Let me buy you a bagel," he offered T.S. "They got great lox here."
Lenny actually did spring for the bagel, but first T.S. had to hand over his cash payment. "I don't like to carry a lot of cash around with me," the entrepreneur confided to T.S. as they waited for their order. "Too dangerous."
"I agree. It's much safer to let your bookie hold it for you."
Lenny stared at T.S. closely and couldn't decide if he'd been joking. So he compromised and ignored the remark. "I've got that information for you," he said, after they had found a spot outside on a nearby low brick wall. "Let's sit here. We can watch all the secretaries going in to work. Take a look at that one, would you?"
T.S. did not indulge in petty ogling of unknown women. He took a look at his bagel instead and then took a bite. Lenny was right. It was excellent. They chewed in silence for a few minutes. Or, at least, T.S. chewed. Lenny Melk went right to the swallow.
"They got a whole string of dummy companies set up," Lenny finally confided, as he licked extra cream cheese from the paper wrapping. "But it's easy to find your way through if you know what you're doing. Like me."
"What's the bottom line?" T.S. mumbled through a mouthful of bagel.
"Everything seems to come back to some guy name of Lance Worthington. He runs an outfit called Broadway Backers. Last listed address is 1515 Broadway. Ring a bell?"
T.S. shook his head. "Never heard of the guy."
"Me, either. Must not be any kind of mover or shaker." Lenny bit off a chunk of bagel with gusto. "Speaking of movers and shakers," he sputtered, nodding his head toward a young woman late for work, who had abandoned decorum in favor of speed.
"You find out anything else?" T.S. was nearing the end of his bagel and was ready to move on to more dignified tasks.
"Well, the guy owns a couple of buildings in the neighborhood. One of them is two doors down. The other's on Tenth Avenue." He gave T.S. a crumpled wad of paper. Several addresses were scrawled across the center of the page and the margins were filled with notes like, "19-1/Stormy Spirit: 2nd at Aqueduct."
"Thanks," T.S. told Lenny. "Perhaps we shall meet again one day." He shook the man's hand firmly and ignored the small smear of cream cheese that squeezed between their fingers like putty. It was vastly preferable to watching Lenny Melk wipe his hands on the pants legs of the already well-abused suit.
"A pleasure doing business with you," Lenny declared. By the time T.S. reached the corner and turned toward the subway, the self-proclaimed real estate consultant was already heading for a nearby telephone, optimistically patting the wad of cash in his pocket.
Auntie Lil and Herbert were waiting for T.S. at the Delicious Deli. It was obvious from their faces that something big had happened. After introducing him to the deli owner, Auntie Lil pulled T.S. so close that he was practically in her lap, then whispered in his ear. "Be discreet. I'm not sure we can trust him entirely." She nodded toward Billy, who had returned to slicing slabs of roast beef at a rotary cutter located at the far end of the counter. The whirr would have made it impossible for him to eavesdrop.
"Then why are we here?" T.S. asked sensibly. "There are ten coffee shops to every block in this neighborhood.”
"Because he knows things," Auntie Lil whispered back. "I can tell. And I want to find out what they are."
T.S. resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Auntie Lil thrived on adding drama to any situation, even an already dramatic one.
"Listen to what Herbert's got," Auntie Lil told him, forgetting to whisper in her excitement.
Herbert carefully opened a leather-bound notebook. "This is the log," he explained solemnly. "Franklin is an excellent observer. He gave an impeccable report on last night's comings and goings. There is much activity there in the dead of the night. Adelle and her friends added more, but they tend to get caught up in speculative detail. I do not find it necessary to fantasize on the private lives of residents, but they seem to believe the information is important." Translation: he had left them arguing about whether one of the residents was actually an actress or a call girl. "Already, we have spotted several suspicious instances. I will give you the most important ones."
T.S. leaned forward, caught up in the excitement, and tried to see what Herbert had written in the notebook. Herbert picked it up and pressed it closer to his chest. "No sense peeking. I have a special shorthand. I will summarize for you."
"How do you know he's the same man?" T.S. asked.
"Descriptions of him match exactly," Herbert said, "once you separate the facts from the fictions perpetuated by the excitable actresses. He is not very tall, short black hair thinning in front, very small ears and he wears a very expensive tan cashmere coat. No hat. Plus, he is chauffeured around in a silver Cadillac, so that makes it easy, too."
"But it's who he was with that's suspicious," Auntie Lil butted in, pressing T.S.'s arm in her excitement. "Tell him."
"The first time, he entered with a cheap blonde—that is Miss Adelle's description—very much younger than himself. But when he leaves, he leaves with a young boy who matches the description of the white boy in the small photos found in Emily's apartment. Except that his hair is blond, not black."
"Remember, Bob Fleming told me that the boy had recently dyed his hair," Auntie Lil reminded them. "So, I'm almost sure it's Timmy."
"Shortly after that, a middle-aged man leaves the building in a very big hurry. He had entered it approximately an hour before, but we were not able to ascertain his exact destination there. It is still early when he leaves, so Adelle herself follows him. He stops at Show World—this is a pornographic palace located near the Port Authority—and does not leave there for thirty more minutes. At which point, Adelle loses him in the Port Authority." Herbert bobbed his head in apology. "We cannot all be as skilled as myself in surveillance."
"No, of course not," T.S. murmured. "Go on."
"The second time that the man in the cashmere coat drives up, he is with a tall black man. Very rough-looking."
"Tell him! Tell him!" Auntie Lil commanded, practically bouncing up and down in her seat.
Herbert looked skeptical. "Maybe this is true. Maybe it is not. Eva, she is one of Adelle's loudest followers—"
"I know who Eva is," T.S. interrupted. "The actress with the bad haircut who had been feuding with Emily."
"That is her," Herbert confirmed. "She says that she saw something funny on the man's arm."
"Which man's arm?" T.S. asked.
"The black man's arm. He was not wearing a coat, despite the slight chill. He was wearing only a short black T-shirt. And beneath one of the sleeves, Eva sees feet."
"Feet?" T.S. was mystified.
"A tattoo of feet," Herbert explained. "Not feet, but more like talons." He curled his hands into claws and illustrated for them. "The feet of an animal with talons, clutching sprigs of branches in them."
"The Eagle!" Auntie Lil explained. Don't you see? He has a huge tattoo of an eagle on his arm. That's why the old man at the soup kitchen kept talking about The Eagle. This is the man who poisoned Emily. Almost certainly."
T.S. was doubtful. For one thing, the information came from Eva. For another, they were guessing at the hidden meaning of words babbled by a probable lunatic. Finally, it had been the middle of the night.
"How could Eva possibly have spotted such a detail?" he demanded to know.
"That is the most clever thing," Herbert said in admiration. "She was right there by the stoop. Not three feet away. They passed right by her and up the stairs."
"That could be dangerous," T.S. said firmly. "I told you to warn them."
"No, not dangerous at all." Herbert broke out in a wide smile. "She was dressed most convincingly as a bag lady. I did not even recognize her myself. In fact"—he began to laugh, caught his breath and went on—"she is so convincing that the man in the cashmere coat gives her a dollar bill!"
"Okay, okay," T.S. conceded. "Eva makes a great bag lady and she sees the tail end of an eagle tattoo on this man's arm. What next?"
"The man never leaves the building," Herbert explains. "He is still in there."
"Which man?" T.S. asked again.
"The Eagle. The cashmere coat does leave, only this time he is not with a blonde and not with the tall black man. He is with a cheap prostitute. On this point, everyone agrees. She is tall and dresses not very nice."
"Let me fill in the rest," T.S. said. He put his hands against his head and shut his eyes as if he were struggling to foresee the future. "She was wearing a wig, hair piled high. Probably spike heels. She's black and wears mini-dresses that set off the color of her skin. The dresses don't cover very much. She favors torn stockings and long gloves. And she's definitely getting ready to go to work along Tenth Avenue."
"That's right!" Herbert confirmed with keen admiration. "Very good. You have met the lady before?"
"That is no lady. That is Miss Leteisha Swann."
Auntie Lil was staring at him strangely. "How do you know the name of that… woman of the night, Theodore?"
He held up a hand and winked. "I can do my own detecting, thank you. How I know is immaterial. That I do know is my little secret."
Auntie Lil looked two parts scandalized and one part annoyed. T.S. loved it.
Herbert coughed discreetly and murmured, "If I may continue… Mr. Cashmere Coat leaves with Miss Leteisha Swann in his silver car and all is relatively quiet." He paused to consult his notes. "People come and go, but we have ascertained that they live there. Four of the residents have roles in nearby Broadway shows. They arrived in stage makeup at appropriate times on foot. Tonight, we will follow them and confirm."
"More working actors than I thought," T.S. admitted. "When did Cashmere Coat return?"
"Not until three o'clock in the morning. By himself. He enters for a few minutes and when he comes out, he has something like a book in his hand. Franklin has taken over the surveillance and was across the street, so he could not see for sure. Then Franklin breaks the rules."
"Fortunately," Auntie Lil interrupted.
"Yes. Most fortuitous," Herbert agreed. "When Cashmere Coat does not get into the Cadillac and instead starts to walk towards Times Square on foot, Franklin follows him. He knows the man has been in and out all night and sees this as suspicious. The silver car trails the man by half a block and Franklin follows behind the car. Cashmere Coat is walking and looking around, obviously seeking out someone. He stops and has a few words with the cashier of a not-very-nice movie theater at the corner of Forty-Fifth Street and Eighth Avenue, then continues on foot. He looks in doorways and down side streets. Finally, he cuts across Shubert Alley and enters a building at 1515 Broadway. He is inside for twenty minutes and when he comes out, he does not have the book-like object with him. He gets in the silver car and it drives away. Franklin returns to his post."
"1515 Broadway?" T.S. said. "That's the same address as the man who owns the building. He has a company there called Broadway Backers."
"Good," Auntie Lil declared firmly. "The game is afoot. You go to 1515 Broadway and I will go find Detective Santos and tell him that The Eagle is in Emily's building."
T.S. looked at her skeptically. "Santos will not be in the mood to hear it."
Auntie Lil shrugged. "What else can we do? We can't let The Eagle get away."
"He won't believe you," T.S. insisted. "He had the apartment checked. Someone else is living there now."
"I'll beg," Auntie Lil conceded.
Herbert cleared his throat gently. "I hesitate to ask, but is it possible you may have made a mistake?"
Auntie Lil straightened her posture indignantly. "Certainly not."
"Just the same, it might be prudent to somehow verify that Emily did live in the building and that a fraud is now being perpetrated."
"How are we going to do that?" T.S. asked. "It was hard enough getting information the first time around. All we had to go on was this guy here, who called her The Pineapple Lady, for God's sake, and some man who liked weird-looking Jamaican stew who thought she lived in the building. It's a miracle we found her in the first place. It's n
ot exactly like people are stepping forward by the dozen to verify her residency."
Herbert's burnished face wrinkled in intense concentration. They waited silently and were rewarded when he finally looked up, eyes calm once again. "Then we will work with what we have," he announced.
"Such as?" T.S. wanted to know.
"She liked pineapple," Herbert said simply.
T.S. stared at him, mystified.
"When I resume my shift, I will ask the owner of the Korean fruit stand on the corner if he knows her," Herbert explained.
"He won't tell you a thing," T.S. warned. "I doubt he even speaks English."
"No need to." Herbert modestly brushed dust from his jacket shoulder. "I speak Korean. That is why he will tell me everything. Approach a man in his own language and you are displaying the ultimate respect. It is an irresistible request for help."
"You speak Korean?" T.S. asked, impressed. Herbert was always surprising him.
"Yes. I learned it during the Korean War. Leave it all to me."
"Everything all right here?" Billy interrupted. The deli owner had been standing behind them. All three of the assembled friends wondered for how long.
"We' re fine," T.S. assured him. "Just fine." The man moved back behind the counter and began slicing cuts of cheese. "We're meeting somewhere else later," T.S. decided. "I don't trust this guy. Herbert, you're checking with the fruit stand then you're back watching the building, right?"
"Correct. Everyone else will be eating at St. Barnabas for the next few hours, so I must take up the post myself."
"Okay. Auntie Lil—meet me at Mike's American Bar and Grill when you're done at the precinct. It's at Tenth and Forty-Fifth."
"Why not Robert's?" she asked. "You keep talking about it. I want to see it."
T.S. was not anxious to become reacquainted with the waiter there. "Let's go to Mike's where we're completely unknown."
They agreed and dispersed towards their tasks.
T.S. could not resist the opportunity to observe Herbert in action. He stood a discreet distance away from the fruit stand watching as Herbert approached a small man in a white apron. He was cutting chunks of fruit from a pile of slightly bruised cantaloupes and pineapples, and was assembling small fruit salads for sale at exorbitant prices to business people too busy to eat any other way but on the run.
A Cast of Killers Page 20
