A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  He had a plan: if all went well, he and Lilah would be able to quickly eliminate Lance Worthington as nothing more than a typical Broadway fringe sleaze. Then they could forget about murder for a few minutes and find a small and charming bistro that served drinks.

  He hummed as he dressed. He was starting to like retirement; it afforded the luxury of ignoring business as usual. He had risen that morning without even so much as a glance at the newspaper, and now here he was plunging into a world of dim lights, quick looks and shared smiles. A world that would last for as long as he cared it to. There would be no rising early for him tomorrow, no damnable office to sap his energy. He was free. He could be whoever he wanted to be. The emergence of T.S. Hubbert, new man in town, continued on its uncertain course.

  He helped it along a bit by selecting a slim, purple tie that shimmered in the right light. Then he turned up the volume on his stereo and blasted show tunes at a volume that astounded his nearest neighbors and sent the cats galloping into the bathroom closet for quiet.

  The music was so loud, in fact, that he failed to hear the phone ring. Nor did he notice the message light blinking before he hurried downstairs to meet Lilah. She was waiting in the back seat of the limousine. His highly impressed doorman, Mahmoud, dashed out to open the door for him, bestowing silent and respectful homage on T.S. as a tribute to his excellent taste in women.

  If Grady stepped on it, T.S. decided, they would have just enough time for a quiet dinner together before Lance Worthington and his party beckoned. There was a small Indian restaurant on the Lower East Side that he thought Lilah would love. It was appropriately exotic and a bit off the beaten path. A good choice, considering the unusual romantic journey (for him, anyway) that he had embarked upon.

  T.S. had not talked to Auntie Lil even once that day. Had she known why, it was doubtful that Auntie Lil would have minded a bit. But she didn't know why and, consequently, she was steaming.

  She slammed the phone back in its cradle with childish temper, thinking of how much she loathed answering machines.

  Evening had arrived. Auntie Lil sat in the darkness of the Homefront office and glared out onto the crowded street. How dare all those people rush past without a glance, while she was stuck in here? Where was Annie and who the hell had the keys? She ought to just walk out and damn the consequences of an unlocked front door. There was nothing for her here. She was wasting her time.

  It occurred to her that Bob Fleming might keep an extra set of keys in his desk. She opened the top drawer and searched through it hopefully, encountering coffee shop packets of sugar, ketchup, jelly and salt; a supply of tattered paper napkins; three cough drops; some loose straws; and an upturned plastic box of paper clips. No keys.

  Then it hit her. Good God. She was getting old. Why was she sitting here pouting? She was being handed a golden opportunity to rummage through all of Homefront's files. It was nirvana to someone as exquisitely nosy as she: one large desk, two large file cabinets, all kinds of dark corners and countless messy piles of documents. All for the taking. She glanced once more at the front doorway and briskly set to work.

  "I thought you'd enjoy a change of pace," T.S. told Lilah.

  "It's wonderful here." She patted his hand fondly and he beamed back as if she had just said something enormously clever.

  They were sitting in a tiny alcove of a small Indian restaurant, finishing their coconut soup. They were protected from the view of other diners by strategically placed pots of miniature palms and a large and colorful tank of exotic tropical fish. It was a little like being lost on a deserted isle together. Except, of course, for the overly obsequious waiter. Sensing a potentially huge tip from a besotted couple, he hovered about with servile determination. This devotion amused Lilah; the small smile that played about her lips charmed T.S. to distraction.

  "Next he'll be offering to eat my soup for me," she decided.

  T.S. beamed at her in reply and admired the graceful way she sipped at the remainder of her first course. Early training in a finishing school had left its mark.

  "More poori bread, sir?" the Indian waiter inquired, popping out from behind a palm with the sudden efficiency of a Bengal warrior who had spotted a tiger.

  "Heavens, no," T.S. replied. The table was littered with plates of untouched poori that swelled like small parachutes among the silver.

  A few minutes later, a warm breeze of curry mixed with cumin and other fragrant spices announced the return of their attentive waiter. He burst through the palms bearing an enormous tray loaded with plates of steaming food and colorful rice.

  "Good heavens." Lilah stared at the feast. "Do we have time to eat all this?" she asked faintly.

  T.S. glanced at his watch, annoyed at being reminded of their impending task. He sighed. "We'll just have to be fashionably late," he said firmly. "Lance Worthington will just have to wait."

  Anyone else would have found it an eerie task to search through the darkened interior of Homefront while unsuspecting passers-by flowed past without a glance. But not Auntie Lil. Her curiosity had consumed her and she was determined to make up for lost time. Blinded by Annie O'Day's charm and Bob Fleming's surface dedication, she had let her heart overrule her head. But now the old Auntie Lil was back in action—and she suspected everyone. She would rummage, uncover, examine and analyze all data. Her mission: to pick apart the life of Bob Fleming and scrutinize the operations of Homefront.

  It was slow going because she had to be careful to return everything to its proper place. She would have preferred to flag interesting items, pile them on Bob Fleming's desk and go through them at her leisure. Instead, she examined each item at once and returned it to its proper file, drawer or pile, then carefully jotted down its description and potential importance in her ever-present notebook.

  After almost two hours, she had uncovered a number of items that might be of interest, either in investigating Emily's murder or in helping to determine Bob Fleming's character. She carefully listed each item, followed it by a description, and made a note of the questions it triggered, then underlined key points and added her final observations. When finished, Auntie Lil sat down at a desk and reviewed what she had noted:

  “One photo of Bob Fleming: Standing with group of men, all clad in military uniforms. Jungle backdrop. War photo. Vietnam? Puts age at 40 to 45. Could work in his favor at trial. Or harm him?

  Second photo of Bob Fleming: Has arm around Annie O'Day on a Hudson River pier? Night time. Amusement park and Ferris wheel seen in the background. They are kissing against a backdrop of colorful lights. Is this how a man who likes little boys acts? Could be—ask Annie questions to probe if feeling is genuine.

  Flyers of missing children: Nearly one hundred Xerox bulletins about missing children, with photos and descriptions. From all over U.S.A. Handwritten notes on a few, hard to make out. Looks like dates or NYC] locations, followed by question marks. No one resembling Timmy or Little Pete.

  Separate files on specific children: Maybe 25 in all. Small brown folder assigned to each. Most have only first names listed. Some have photos obviously taken without their knowledge. Attached sheets of paper provide various bits of incomplete information. Notes in different handwriting provide medical diagnosis, i.e. "HIV-neg. Syph. O-N." Why is he building a profile on each of these children? Med notes from Annie? Info for city program? Police? To discover identity? To contact parents? Other reason?

  File on Timmy: No last name listed. Nicknames: Lightning, Little Big Man, and Zebra. Reference to changing hair color? Other info provided: "Possibly from Texas. Accent. Runs with Little Pete. Age approx 15. Protected. Men only. 8th Ave. between 43rd and 47th." Photo provided: Timmy crossing street with older man, face unseen. Background shows doorway. Old woman inside watching? Emily? Face out of focus. Group of black and white prostitutes nearby watching Timmy and man. One may be resident of Emily s building. Cheaply dressed. Did Bob tell me everything he knew about Timmy?

  Grant and donation information: Ho
mefront modestly funded, but commitments in place through next year. Money pressure at a minimum. No expansion plans found.

  City forms: along with more forms. Plus private program forms. Too many forms in this world.

  Booklets: Misc. on various city and private drug programs, alternative schools, residential options, shelters. Proof Homefront is legitimate? Or only a cover?

  Bible: St. James version. Small. Cover ripped. Inside worn. No passages underlined. In his favor? Is it his? For children?

  Other publications: Misc. Heavy on fishing magazines, camping and other outdoor topics. New Yorker magazines that actually look read!(?) No pornographic material.”

  That was all. The sole sum of incriminating or illuminating evidence didn't add up to much in the final analysis.

  The phone rang as Auntie Lil was reviewing her list for a second time to make sure that no implications had been missed. "Homefront," she answered automatically, her mind preoccupied with the list.

  The frightened voice on the other end brought her immediately back to attention. "Miss Hubbert?" Annie O'Day's tearful voice broke. "Is that you?"

  "Yes, it's me. Of course, it's me. I'm the only one you left behind without keys."

  "Thank God." The sniffles stopped and Annie gave a frightened laugh. "I must be going crazy," she said weakly.

  "I'll say. You left me here without any keys to lock up."

  "I'm sorry," Annie explained. "I spent hours looking for Timmy and then met Bob at the station. I got him a lawyer. They're releasing Bob in a few more minutes."

  "They're letting him go?" Auntie Lil asked, surprised.

  "Just for now. Believe me, they're not dropping anything."

  "Why were you crying?" Auntie Lil asked sharply. "You're a big girl. You knew they had charged him. He needs you to be strong."

  "I wasn't crying about Bob. I was crying about you."

  "Me?" Auntie Lil demanded incredulously. "Why on earth would you cry about me?"

  "I was sitting in a chair by the front precinct door," she explained. "This man at a desk across the partition started calling around to other police stations. He kept saying the same thing over and over. They had found a body floating in the Hudson. It was an old lady, did they have any missing person reports that fit? She had not been dead for very many hours. Then he'd describe her. Stoutly built. Broad face. Wearing very young clothes for her age. She didn't have any identification." Annie gulped and continued. "My imagination got carried away. I was afraid it was you. And that it was my fault for leaving you there alone."

  "Me? No, it certainly was not me. Stout, indeed. Quite old? Besides, I do not wear clothes that are too young for my age. I simply have a highly developed sense of joie de vivre." Auntie Lil stared out the street window. The Hudson River had not claimed her that day, but it had certainly claimed someone who looked a lot like her.

  12

  Lance Worthington's building was one of those colored-glass and blasted-sand towers that spread like a plague throughout New York City in the 1980s. The newness had worn off quickly and small patches of concrete peeked through the cheap patina of surface beige. Already, the building sagged, as if collapsing from the weight of too high rents and too many tenants struggling to maintain a lifestyle they could no longer afford. It seemed the perfect home for a borderline Broadway producer.

  Grady dropped them off in front of the drooping entrance awning with a promise to return every thirty minutes to see if they were ready to escape. Lilah looked around apprehensively. Though on the East Side, the building was located on a somewhat dubious side street that featured frequent and ominous stretches of shadow.

  "I'm already depressed," T.S. decided. "How about you?"

  "I am now," Lilah replied, staring at the figure of the slumbering doorman. He was a portly soul packed into a too snug uniform with a yellowish stain above the shirt pocket. He was snoring away behind a waist-high counter, with his feet propped up on the top of it and his chair tipped against the wall. This precarious position caused his head to dangle backwards at a preposterous angle, providing guests with an excellent view of his sinus cavities.

  "We'll only be a minute," T.S. told the unconscious sentinel.

  "We're just going to burgle a few apartments and be right out." He glowed warmly at Lilah's appreciative giggle and guided her gallantly into the elevator. He had perfected the art of steering her by the arm, a gesture he felt was nearly as intimate as holding hands yet far less juvenile.

  "It was a wonderful dinner," she thanked him again on their way upstairs. "I haven't eaten so much food in forty years. The most exotic Robert ever got was French."

  T.S. was so pleased at how well their dinner had gone that he had no trouble with being reminded of Lilah's deceased husband. He could afford to be magnanimous. After all, it was not as if he were competing with a legend. Good heavens, Robert Cheswick had been a superior horse's ass and, as it turned out, a rather big liar as well.

  They reached the appropriate floor and it was immediately apparent where the party was being held. All thoughts of a small tasteful gathering vanished with the first blast of raucous music and the distant roar of drunken shrieks. The apartment door at the end of the hall seemed to nearly pulsate in its effort to contain the bacchanal inside.

  "Perhaps we waited a bit too long," T.S. said, slowing down to consider the situation.

  "Come on," Lilah urged him, pulling him forward. "We've come this far, we might as well see it through."

  T.S. straightened his tie and steeled himself for the coming chaos. After several fruitless moments of pounding on the door, he finally pushed it open and, quite literally, faced the music. He and Lilah stood in the doorway staring at a sunken living room that teemed with an astonishing assortment of human beings in various stages of inebriation. Lance Worthington was nowhere to be seen, but numerous blondes in skintight dresses seemed to be acting as official hostesses or, at least, were being rather athletically friendly to a number of the male guests. There was hardly a man in sight without a blonde draped over his shoulder or sitting upon his knee. A pair descended upon them at once and pulled them into the fray, shrieking welcomes, snatching their coats and guiding them toward a long bar that dominated the one wall with a picture window. Outside, the lights of New York City glowed serenely and T.S. wanted very much to escape back into the night.

  Behind the bar stood a dignified, elderly black man dressed in a tuxedo. He looked as if he would rather be enslaved in some pre-Civil War enclave than forced to perform for a party of such obnoxious white heathens. His cool eyes swept over T.S. and Lilah, and his shoulders relaxed. Perhaps here were people who actually had manners, his hopeful expression implied.

  "Something from the bar, sir?" the bartender inquired evenly. T.S. had to lean over an ice bucket to catch even a hint of the words. My God, whoever was in charge of the music must be stone deaf. It drowned out even the bartender's deep voice.

  T.S. ordered a Dewars and soda for himself while Lilah opted for a white wine spritzer. They clutched their drinks and searched around for a quiet haven. A small alcove that led into the kitchen seemed their best bet. They sought refuge beside a large potted palm (that T.S. suspected was artificial) and surveyed the raucous party.

  The sunken living room area was lined on three sides with long black leather couches. A mirrored coffee table dominated the center of the common space and was littered with spilt drinks, metallic pocketbooks and the rather large head of a man who had passed out while sitting on the carpet nearby. The couches were occupied by a half dozen plump middle-aged males, who looked like a contingent of modern gingerbread men so alike were they in well-tanned coloring, thinning hair and softened body shape. Most of them held a drink in one hand and a giggly blonde in the other.

  "I must be seeing double," Lilah murmured.

  "I'm seeing quadruple," T.S. decided. "What does he do? Make the girls dye their hair before they get an invitation?"

  "Wait. I see a redhead over there." Lil
ah nodded discreetly toward a short hallway. Sure enough, an extremely tall redhead slouched into view, tugging at her waist in an effort to keep her pantyhose from riding down her long legs. Her face was elongated and drooped with stupor or boredom. She started to the right, stopped abruptly to get her bearings, then lurched to the left and perched on the edge of one of the leather couches where she proceeded to absently ruffle the thinning hair of a tubby businessman. His existing blonde companion looked up indignantly, ready to squawk, but kept silent when she spotted the redhead.

  T.S. stared more closely at the balding businessman. His face—red and perspiring from too much drink and too many female hormones hovering nearby—looked oddly familiar. But T.S. could not pinpoint why. Surely they had met previously. Perhaps before T.S. had retired? Or had it been more recently? It was maddening not to be able to recall.

  "No one looks very happy at this party," Lilah said suddenly. "Am I right or am I insane?"

  "No, you're definitely right," T.S. agreed. "Everyone seems a little bit too desperate for another drink. Even those men on the couch, clutching those women, don't seem particularly thrilled to be here. And the women are clearly bored. They're patting those men on the heads like they're puppies." He searched the interior of the apartment carefully. "I wonder where Lance Worthington is?"

  "Lilah Cheswick! What on earth are you doing here?" It was the first cultured voice of the evening and it belonged to an extremely distinguished-looking man who had apparently been hiding out in the kitchen behind them.

  "Albert!" Lilah was two parts shocked at seeing someone she recognized and one part embarrassed at being caught at such a freewheeling party. "I'm here with my friend, Theodore. He's looking into backing one of Mr. Worthington's plays. Something about Davy Crockett. What on earth are you doing here?"