A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  The other witnesses were waiting a few blocks away at the Delicious Deli until they were notified that their turn to make a statement had arrived. Given the busy precinct, it was a good solution. It was far more pleasant to sit in the deli sipping coffee than to sit around the precinct watching drunks and wide-eyed crackheads being dragged in by angry and overworked officers.

  Unless, of course, you were Auntie Lil.

  Even in her subdued state, she enjoyed the excellent view their small waiting room afforded. It was a good spot. They could see the front reception area, but were sheltered from the periodic chaos that inevitably afflicted Midtown North on a Friday night.

  A few minutes later, a commotion in the reception area inspired Auntie Lil to limp to the door for a better look. A booming voice cut through the babble of apologetic police voices and roared, "Why didn't anyone call me in earlier?"

  T.S. checked his watch. Detective Santos had managed a whole twenty minutes alone with Leteisha/Rodney before Lieutenant Abromowitz arrived. He hoped it had been enough time. A flash of movement at the door caught his eye. "What in the world are you doing?" T.S. stared at Auntie Lil incredulously. She had slipped behind the old-fashioned door and was cowering quietly behind the slab of massive oak.

  "There is a time for discretion in everyone's life," she whispered.

  Abromowitz's heavy footsteps approached the doorway and thundered past just as T.S. turned his back to examine an intriguing stain on the tabletop. Perhaps Auntie Lil was right. Having taken on a killer and a four-minute mile already that night, T.S. was in no mood to tangle with an angry lieutenant. He waited until the heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs and faded away in the distance. "You can come out now," he assured Auntie Lil, patting her chair with a smug smile. "The danger has passed."

  She glared at him and sat down with aplomb. "I didn't see you rushing out to shake his hand."

  "No," T.S. admitted. "But I am going to give Lilah and Herbert a call."

  "Herbert." Auntie Lil gave a faint sniff and it was clear that she was miffed at Herbert for being absent during their adventure. "He's probably still out whooping it up with that Adelle woman, who's no doubt into playing her party girl role tonight."

  "Aunt Lil, Herbert can't always be there to untangle your messes. My God, the man is only human and you'd detest being followed around twenty-four hours a day. Which is what it would take to keep you out of trouble."

  Herbert Wong was home and so distraught at hearing that he had not been there to rescue Auntie Lil that it took a good three minutes for T.S. to convince him that she was safe and did not hold a grudge. Herbert was relieved to know that she was safe, but was not fooled in the least about the grudge part.

  "I should not have gone to have that cocktail with Miss Adelle and her friends. Lillian will be angry at me," Herbert predicted. "Her fear and pain will make her angrier."

  "I can't contradict you there," T.S. admitted. "But I'm sure that she'll get over it."

  "You are there all night?" Herbert asked. "At the police station?"

  "At least for the next three or four hours," T.S. predicted. "They're taking everyone's story and you know Auntie Lil—she won't leave until the end."

  "But of course. There are still many pieces missing from the puzzle," Herbert said. "And you know that Lillian's curiosity is a powerful force."

  T.S. had to agree. It was a nice way of saying she was perpetually consumed with nosiness. "We'll call you tomorrow with details."

  "Oh, no. I am coming down. Otherwise, it will be a year before Lillian forgives me for abandoning her. Besides, sleep will not come. This was to be my shift for watching Miss Emily's building."

  There was no changing his mind, especially when T.S. couldn't put his heart into it. Herbert was right. Auntie Lil probably would hold it against him for a year. Or at least torture him with it for a good eleven months.

  He checked the time again as he dialed Lilah's number. It was only half-past eleven and yet it felt like at least four o'clock in the morning. In fact, it seemed as if an entire year had passed since the day that Emily died.

  Despite the late hour, Lilah was not home. With her servant, Deirdre, away for the week, only the answering machine was available to pick up. T.S. listened to the mechanical invitation to leave his name and number with a sinking feeling of acute disappointment. There was so much he wanted to say but so little that he could actually articulate, at least to a machine. He simply told her where he was and promised to explain in the morning.

  T.S. was so absorbed in his misery that he nearly ran down a petite woman blocking his path back into their room. "Sorry," he mumbled, slipping past her. Auntie Lil still sat at the table, staring into her coffee. Until the caffeine kicked in, she'd have little energy for anything else. T.S. rejoined her without a word, consumed by frustration and despair over Lilah. He felt himself being watched and, after a moment, looked up to find the small woman still there. She was eyeing them curiously.

  If she could forego manners so blatantly, so could he. T.S. stared back. She looked relatively normal but, for all he knew, she'd been brought to the precinct for pushing people in front of subway cars. She was about forty or forty-five years old, and just slightly overweight with a broad, round face and bright dark eyes anchored in a fine sea of laugh lines. Her medium-length black hair was touched with gray in spots and cut shoulder length. It flipped up in a smooth wave at her shoulders.

  She looked familiar but he couldn't quite place her. "Do I know you?" he asked loudly.

  The woman stepped into the room and sat down. "I'm Margo McGregor," she told him in a confident voice. "I'm a columnist for Newsday. I got a tip that someone was murdering old ladies around here. Is she involved?"

  Of course. When she nodded toward Auntie Lil, T.S. recognized the slight smile from her newspaper photo. But other than the grin, it was obvious that the photograph was at least ten years out of date. That depressed T.S. even more. He'd had a crush on an illusion, a silly old man's crush.

  "If I was involved, I wouldn't tell you," Auntie Lil said calmly. "You have no manners. I've called you at least a dozen times in the past two days with vital information and not once have you tried to call me back."

  The columnist looked to T.S. for help, but he was too exhausted to come up with more than a halfhearted, "Now, Aunt Lil."

  "Don't you Aunt Lil me," she said adamantly. "This young lady allowed herself to be used. She published inaccurate information about a fine man. And she didn't have the manners to call me back. She'll just have to dig out her own juicy details."

  "I don't publish inaccurate information," Margo McGregor contested hotly. "I check out all my sources."

  "You were duped," Auntie Lil told her slowly, relishing each word.

  By this time, Margo McGregor was wild to find out which column Auntie Lil felt was inaccurate. She beseeched an implacable Auntie Lil for details and was rebuffed again and again. But T.S. knew quite well that Auntie Lil would eventually give in. She just wanted to be begged for a while to assuage her pride. He settled back and listened as the two women debated. Sure enough, a few minutes later, his judgment was confirmed when Auntie Lil's inherent taste for publicity overcame her stubbornness and she began to reveal selected details of what they had discovered. Once Margo McGregor realized that the recent deaths of two old ladies might somehow be related to her story on Bob Fleming and Homefront, she eagerly took notes and began to ask nearly as many questions as Detective Santos had on the ride to the hospital and back.

  In fact, once she got the picture sketched out as they knew it, Margo McGregor had plenty of theories of her own. These she shared eagerly with Auntie Lil, who was highly impressed. Here was a woman capable of leaps of imagination, seasoned with suspicion and cunning unmatched by anyone but Auntie Lil herself. Soon, a bargain was struck: in exchange for an article on Emily's lack of identity. Auntie Lil would give the columnist exclusive rights to all the background information they had gathered and fill her in on wha
t the police determined that night.

  Not wasting any time, Auntie Lil launched into a highly fictionalized account of her adventures. Just as she was detailing some of the more heroic details of her mighty struggle against knife-wielding captors, a loud and exaggerated cough interrupted them. Detective Santos stood in the doorway. His gaze was a steady and unfriendly beacon directed at Margo McGregor. "You are?" he asked abruptly.

  She introduced herself. He was not impressed. "Don't mind if I get to be the one to interview my own witnesses first, do you?" he demanded bluntly.

  Margo McGregor was not a fool. She shut her notebook abruptly and rose. "Not at all. You must be Detective Santos."

  The detective was unmoved. "Miss McGregor." He pointed toward the reception area and she took the hint. Mumbling something about interviewing some of the officers who'd been on the pier, she quickly left the room.

  "It would be nice, Miss Hubbert, if you talked to the police before the press," Santos told her in a voice that hovered between sarcasm and graciousness. "Now, can I trust you to sit here and use a little discretion? I just came down to check on you. I'm not through with this Rodney guy and it's going to be a while now that the Lieutenant is involved. Are you sure you wouldn't rather I call you in the morning?"

  "We're not leaving until we find out who's behind this," Auntie Lil declared.

  "Suit yourself. But, please…" His voice dipped and he stared steadily at her.

  "All right," she agreed readily, afraid they'd end up on the sidewalk if she didn't.

  Less than half an hour later Herbert Wong appeared, bearing a bouquet of flowers along with several cups of cappuccino and profuse apologies.

  "Forgive me, Lillian," he begged with a humble bow. "It is inexcusable. I was to have protected you."

  T.S. thought Herbert was laying it on a little thick, but Auntie Lil lapped it up like a thirsty dog. So fervent was Herbert's regret, that she had no choice but to be gracious.

  "Nonsense, Herbert, how could you have known my life would be placed in such dire jeopardy?" She sniffed at the flowers and brightened at the smell of cappuccino.

  Herbert Wong was one smart man, T.S. thought with admiration. Within minutes, he had Auntie Lil relaxed in her seat and the flowers in an empty jar filled with water. He was soon gently patting her hand and asking for details in a quiet and earnest voice. His presence alone served to calm her and T.S. was grateful for his help.

  He was also, he admitted reluctantly, jealous. How wonderful to have someone like that who was so unafraid to show their affection for you. For the first time in his life, T.S. wondered what Auntie Lil was like when she was alone with her admirers like Herbert. Surely, she was not brash and demanding. Perhaps, all of her exuberant energy became focused solely on her companion. If so, it would be quite an experience and would easily explain the utter devotion of her many friends.

  Shortly after Herbert's arrival, an erratic parade of witnesses began to pass by the small doorway on their way to give their statements to waiting detectives. The first to be called was Little Pete, who was marched past firmly and held in tow by a determined-looking Nellie. A uniformed patrolman brought up the rear, but his presence was entirely superfluous.

  "And to think Little Pete feared the police," T.S. remarked.

  "Indeed," Herbert agreed. "It seems that Miss Nellie is the force to be feared."

  "I wonder how much she knows about this whole thing?" Auntie Lil wondered out loud.

  "I say nothing," T.S. said. "She just comes from another culture. Minding her own business is practically a religion. She just didn't want to get involved."

  Auntie Lil remained unconvinced. Her attention, however, was diverted by the arrival of Billy and Annie O'Day, accompanied by a pair of plainclothesmen.

  "I didn't trust him," Auntie Lil admitted, nodding toward Billy. "And, come to think of it, I still don't know that I do."

  "He's friends with Santos," T.S. complained.

  "What better cover?" Herbert pointed out.

  Half an hour later, Bob Fleming walked by. He looked exhausted, confused and just a little bit hopeful. It was his second trip to the precinct that night, but this one promised to clear him.

  "He's clean," Auntie Lil declared firmly. "He's not the big man."

  "Maybe." T.S. conceded, glad to return her favor. "Then again, maybe not. He could easily be in cahoots with Worthington. I'd like to hear what Timmy has to say."

  "It may be days before the boy can speak." Herbert scrutinized the Homefront director. "It is my hope that he is innocent. But you know what I really wonder?"

  They both stared at him, waiting.

  "We keep seeing people come into the precinct. Pray tell, where are they exiting?"

  They contemplated this minor mystery in silence until, a few minutes later, they saw a determined-looking Fran and a tired Father Stebbins trudge past.

  Auntie Lil rose from her chair when she saw the priest, but T.S. pulled her firmly back into place. "Forget it. We'll find out in a little while. We've interfered enough. Let's let Santos gather the rest of it together."

  "No policeman is accompanying them," Herbert observed. "I think that, perhaps, Father Stebbins is here at the behest of Miss Fran."

  "How could they have found out what happened to me?" Auntie Lil asked.

  "Hard as it may seem, their presence here may have nothing to do with you," T.S. pointed out. "Perhaps they are here on their own."

  But half an hour later, it became apparent that he could be wrong. A commotion at the front desk alerted the trio that Adelle and her followers had heard what had happened to Auntie Lil and were at the precinct, seeking information. Like Billy said—street talk was fast and it was often very accurate.

  "We demand to know what's going on," Adelle was insisting in a rich stage voice. "I have heard rumors of an attack on one of us. We may all be in danger here. Have they apprehended the culprit or do you intend to allow us to continue to be stalked like so many defenseless deer?"

  A deer was not the animal analogy T.S. would have chosen for Adelle. "I'll handle this," he assured Auntie Lil. He walked to the door and shut it firmly, pulling the bolt lock shut before returning to his chair.

  "Thank God," Auntie Lil said, putting her head on the desk.

  "I do not think that they could see us," Herbert assured her, massaging the back of her neck gently.

  An indignant cacophony of sound from the other side of the door signaled the eventual ejection of the actresses from the station house. Judging from the noise, a number of culprits waiting to be booked had decided to take sides and were heard encouraging the women to stand up for their rights. Unfortunately, enthusiastic support from the criminal underclass did nothing for their credibility and soon a relative silence descended on the precinct.

  "They're gone," Herbert remarked. They all nodded and fell wearily silent again. The only sounds in the room were occasional gulps as they refueled their caffeine intake, and soft murmurings as Herbert reassured Auntie Lil.

  T.S. felt miserably alone.

  When the knock on the door came, T.S. expected either Santos or a minion calling for their presence in an interviewing room. He was unprepared to find Lilah waiting on the other side. His feelings zoomed from despair to elation in a single second. It was a wonder his heart survived the jolt.

  "Lilah!" All other words left him in a stab of pure, unexpected pleasure.

  "Theodore." She rushed toward him and he was enveloped in a cloud of faint gardenia perfume. "Your hand!" She touched the huge bandage gingerly and stared into his face. "What have they done to you, Theodore? You're not hiding in here, are you? Are you under arrest?"

  "Good heavens, no." He quickly filled her in on the events of the evening.

  "Oh, no," she said when he was done. She rushed over to Auntie Lil and fluttered over her until it became immediately plain that such treatment only annoyed the patient.

  "I'm perfectly all right," Auntie Lil declared. "Go fuss over Theodore
. He likes it."

  "Since you're both okay, can they came in?" Lilah darted out the door without waiting for a further invitation. When she returned it was quite a procession that made its way into the room. A tall, coffee-colored man dressed in a neat sweater-and-slacks combination followed behind Lilah. The next member of her entourage was an enormously fat man in a brown-and-green plaid jacket and matching greasy brown pants. The rear was brought up by an immaculately groomed older man of miniature stature, whose regal bearing conveyed the illusion of far greater height. He walked extremely erectly, and his snow white hair was clipped in a neat but unpretentious style. He wore an expensive suit and silk necktie, despite the late hour, and a white handkerchief peeked from one pocket. The ostrich skin briefcase he gripped in his hands was worth more than T.S.'s entire outfit.

  "I got your phone call," Lilah told T.S., sitting down next to Auntie Lil. "I came as soon as I could. I had no idea you'd been through such an ordeal."

  The walking Whitman's Sampler of human beings behind her filed obediently to spots against the far wall and waited for Lilah to make the introductions. Even Herbert couldn't help but stare at the unusual trio.

  "Let me introduce you," Lilah said sweetly and T.S. began to suspect that she was not above a little showboating herself. "This is George Scarborough," she explained, gesturing toward the tall black man. He bowed slightly. "You may not remember him, Theodore. He was your bartender last night."

  T.S. colored slightly.

  "Dewars and soda," George Scarborough announced solemnly. His deep, golden voice struck a buried chord in T.S.'s memory.

  "You helped me to the car?" T.S. remembered and the bartender nodded.

  "I'm afraid I'm just not very good at detecting," Lilah explained. "I figured that Worthington was too cheesy to be very original, so I spent the day calling every catering service in the latest issue of New York Magazine until I found the place that had supplied George for last night's party. They wouldn't tell me who he was, though. That's where Mr. Hermann comes in."