Transgressions Volume 2

by Ed McBain

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So in exchange for the favor I’d cover Frank’s security job for him sometime. Echo?”

  “Guess I’d better be getting on up, see how mom is. Might be a long night; you know, I read to her when she can’t—”

  “So what do I tell Frank?”

  Echo hesitated after she opened the door.

  “This weekend sounds okay,” she said. “Does his uncle have a boat?”

  Three A.M. and John Leland Ransome, the painter, was up and prowling barefoot around his apartment at the Hotel Pierre on Fifth Avenue. The doors to his terrace were open; the sounds of the city’s streets had dwindled to the occasional swish of cabs or a bus seven stories below. There was lightning in the west, a plume of yellow-tinged dark clouds over New Jersey or the Hudson. Some rain moving into Manhattan, stirring the air ahead of it. A light wind that felt good on his face.

  Ransome had a woman on his mind. Not unusual; his life and career were dedicated to capturing the essence of a very few uniquely stunning creatures. But this was someone he’d never seen or heard of until approximately eight o’lock the night before. And the few photos he’d seen, taken with a phone cam, hadn’t revealed nearly enough of Echo Halloran to register her so strongly on his imagination.

  Anyway, it was too soon, he told himself. Better just to forget this one, the potential he’d glimpsed. His new show, the first in four years, was being mounted at his gallery. Five paintings only, his usual output after as much as eighteen painful months of work. He wouldn’t be ready to pick up a brush for at least that length of time. If ever again.

  And half the world’s population was women. More or less. A small but dependable percentage of them physically ravishing.

  But this one was a painter herself, which intrigued him more than the one good shot of her he’d seen, taken on the train, Echo sitting back in her seat with her eyes closed, unaware that she was being photographed.

  Ransome wondered if she had promise as a painter. But he could easily find out.

  He lingered on the terrace until the first big drops of rain fell. He went inside, closing the doors, walked down a marble hall to the room in which Taja, wearing black silk lounging pajamas, was watching Singin’in the Rain on DVD. Another insomniac. She saw his reflection on the plasma screen and looked around. There was a hint of a contrite wince in his smile.

  “I’ll want more photos,” he said. “Complete background check, of course. And order a car for tomorrow. I’d like to observe her myself.”

  Taja nodded, drew on a cigarette and returned her attention to the movie. Donald O’Connor falling over a sofa. She didn’t smile. Taja never smiled at anything.

  THREE

  It rained all day Thursday; by six-thirty the clouds over Manhattan were parting for last glimpses of washed-out blue; canyon walls of geometric glass gave back the brassy sunset. Echo was able to walk the four blocks from her Life Studies class to the 14th Street subway without an umbrella. She was carrying her portfolio in addition to a shoulder tote and computer, having gone directly from her office at Gilbard’s to class.

  The uptown express platform was jammed, the atmosphere underground thick and fetid. Obviously there hadn’t been a train for a while. There were unintelligible explanations or announcements on the P.A. Someone played a violin with heroic zeal. Echo edged her way up the platform to find breathing room where the first car would stop when the train got there.

  Half a dozen Hispanic boys were scuffling, cutting up; a couple of the older ones gave her the eye. One of them, whom she took in at a glance, looked like trouble. Tats and piercings. Full of himself.

  A child of the urban jungle, Echo was skilled at minding her own business, building walls around herself when she was forced to linger in potentially bad company.

  She pinned her bulky portfolio between her knees while she retrieved a half-full bottle of water from her tote. She was jostled from behind by a fat woman laden with shopping bags and almost lost her balance. The zipper on her portfolio had been broken for a while. A few drawings spilled out. Echo grimaced, nodded at the woman’s brusque apology and tried to gather up her life studies before someone else stepped on them.

  One of the younger Hispanic kids, wearing a do-rag and a Knicks jersey, came over to give her a hand. He picked up a charcoal sketch half-soaked in a puddle of water. Echo’s problem had attracted the attention of all the boys.

  The one she’d had misgivings about snatched the drawing from the hand of the Knicks fan and looked it over. A male nude. He showed it around, grinning. Then backed off when Echo held out a hand, silently asking for the return of her drawing. She heard the uptown express coming.

  The boy looked at her. He wore his cholo shirt unbuttoned to his navel.

  “Who’s this guy? Your boyfriend?”

  “Give me a break, will you? I’ve had a long day, I’m tired, and I don’t want to miss my train.”

  The boy pointed to the drawing and said, “Man, I seen a bigger tool on a gerbil.”

  They all laughed as they gathered around, reinforcing him.

  “No,” Echo said. “My boyfriend is on the cops, and I can arrange for you to meet him.”

  That provoked whistles, snorts, and jeers. Echo looked around at the slowing express train, and back at the boy who was hanging onto her drawing. Pretending to be an art critic.

  “Hey, you’re good, you know that?”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You want to do me, I can arrange the time.” He grinned around at his buddies, one of whom said, “Draw you.”

  “Yeah, man. That’s what I said.” He feigned confusion. “That ain’t what I said?” He looked at Echo and shrugged magnanimously. “So first you draw me, then you can do me.”

  Echo said, “Listen, you fucking little idiot, I want my drawing now, or you’ll be in shit up to your bull ring.”

  The express screeched to a stop behind her. A local was also approaching on the inside track. The boy made a show of being astonished by her threat. As if he were trembling in fright, his hands jerked and the drawing tore nearly in half.

  “Oh, sorry, man. Now I guess you need to get yourself another naked guy.” He finished ripping her drawing.

  Echo, losing it, dropped her computer case and hooked a left at his jaw. She was quick on her feet; it just missed. The cholo danced away with the halves of the drawing in each hand, and bumped into a woman walking the yellow platform line of the local track as if she were a ballet dancer. The headlight of the train behind her winked on the slim blade of a knife in her right hand.

  With her left hand she took hold of the boy by his bunchy testicles and lifted him up on his toes until they were at eye level.

  The Woman in Black stared at him, and the point of the knife was between two of his exposed ribs. Echo’s throat dried up. She had no doubt the woman would cut him if he didn’t behave. The boy’s mouth was open, but he could have screamed without being heard as the train thundered by a couple of feet away from them.

  The woman cast a long look at Echo, then nodded curtly toward the express.

  The kid in the Knicks jersey picked up Echo’s computer and shoved it at her as if he suspected that she too might have a blade. The doors of the local opened and there was a surge of humanity across the platform to the parked express. Echo let herself be carried along with it, looking back once as she boarded. Another glimpse of the Woman in Black, still holding the cholo helpless, getting a few looks but no interference. Echo’s pulses throbbed. The woman was like a walking superstition, with a temperament as dark and lurking as paranoia.

  Who was she? And why, Echo wondered as the doors closed, does she keep showing up in my life?

  She rode standing up to 86th in the jam of commuters, her face expressionless, presenting a calm front but inside just a blur, like a traumatized bird trying to escape through a sealed window.

  Echo didn’t say anything to Peter about the Woman in Black until Friday evening, when they were slog
ging along in oppressive traffic on the 495 eastbound, on their way to Mattituck and the cozy weekend they’d planned at the summer house of Frank Ringer’s uncle.

  “No idea who she is?” Peter said. “You’re sure you don’t know her from somewhere?”

  “Listen, she’s the kind, see her once, you never forget her. I’m talking spooky.”

  “She pulled a knife in the subway? Switchblade?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know much about knives. It was the look in her eyes, man. That cholo must’ve went in his pants.” Echo smiled slightly, then her expression turned glum. “So, the first couple times, okay. Coincidence. A third time in the same week, uh-uh, I don’t buy it. She must’ve been following me around.” Echo shrugged again, and her shoulders stayed tight. “I didn’t sleep so good last night, Pete.”

  “You ever see her again, make it your business to call me right away.”

  “I wonder if maybe I should—”

  “No. Stay away from her. Don’t try to talk to her.”

  “You’re thinking she could be some sort of psycho?”

  “That’s New York. Ten people go by in the street, one or two out of the ten, something’s gonna be seriously wrong with them mentally.”

  “Great. Now I’m scared.”

  Pete put an arm around her.

  “You just let me handle this. Whatever it is.”

  “Engine’s overheating.” Echo observed.

  “Yeah. Fucking traffic. Weekend, it’ll be like this until ten o’lock. Might as well get off, get something to eat.”

  The cottage that had been lent to them for the weekend wasn’t impressive in the headlights of Peter’s car; it looked as if Frank Ringer’s uncle had built it on weekends using materials taken from various construction or demolition sites. Mismatched windows, missing clapboards, a stone chimney on one side that obviously was out of plumb; the place had all the eye appeal of a bad scab.

  “Probably charming inside,” Echo said, determined to be upbeat about a slow start to their intimate weekend.

  Inside the small rooms smelled of mildew from a leaky roof. There were curbsides in Manhattan that were better furnished on trash pickup days.

  “Guess it’s kind of like men only out here,” Pete said, not concealing his disbelief. “I’ll open a couple of windows.”

  “Do you think we could clean it up some?” Echo said.

  Peter took another look around.

  “More like burn it down and start over.”

  “It’s such a beautiful little cove.”

  There was so much dismay in her face it started him laughing. He put an arm around her, guided her outside, and locked the door behind them.

  “Live and learn,” he said.

  “Your house or mine?” Echo said.

  “Bayside’s closest.”

  The O’Neill house in Bayside didn’t work out, either; overrun with relatives. At a few minutes past ten Echo unlocked the door of the Yorktown apartment where she lived with her mother and Aunt Julia, from her late father’s side of the family. She looked at Peter, sighed, kissed him.

  Rosemay and Julia were playing Scrabble at the dining room table when Echo walked in with Peter. She had left her weekend luggage in the hall by her bedroom door.

  “This is a grand surprise,” Rosemay said. “Echo, I thought you were stayin’ over in Queens.”

  Echo cleared her throat and shrugged, letting Peter handle this one.

  Pete said, “My uncle Dennis, from Philly? Blew into town with his six kids. Our house looks like a day camp. They been redoin’ the walls with grape jelly.” He bent over Rosemay, putting his arms around her. “How’re you, Rosemay?”

  Rosemay was wearing lounging pajamas and a green eyeshade. There were three support pillows in the chair she occupied, and one under her slippered feet.

  “A little fatigued, I must say.”

  Julia was a roly-poly woman who wore thick eyeglasses. “Spent most of the day writing,” she said of Rosemay. “Talk to your ma about eating, Echo.”

  “Eat, mom. You promised.”

  “I had my soft-boiled egg with some tea. It was, oh, about five o’lock, wasn’t it, Julia?”

  “Soft-boiled eggs. Wants nought but her bit of egg.”

  “They go down easy,” Rosemay said, massaging her throat. Words didn’t come easily, at least at this hour of the night. But for Rosemay sleep was elusive as well.

  “All that cholesterol,” Peter chided.

  Rosemay smiled. “Nothing to worry about. I already have one fatal disease.”

  “None of that,” Peter said sternly.

  “Go on, Petey. You say what is. At least my mind will be the last of me to go. Pull up some chairs, we’ll all play.”

  The doorbell rang. Echo went to answer it.

  Peter was arranging chairs around the table when he heard Echo unlock the door, then cry out.

  “Peter!”

  “Who is it, Echo?” Rosemay called, as Peter backtracked through the front room to the foyer. The door to the hall stood half open. Echo had backed away from the door and from the Woman in Black who was standing outside.

  Peter took Echo by an elbow and flattened her against the wall behind the door, saying to the Woman in Black, “Excuse me, can I talk to you? I’m the police.”

  The Woman in Black looked at him for a couple of seconds, then reached into her purse as Peter filled the doorspace.

  “Don’t do that!”

  The woman shook her head. She pulled something from her purse but Peter had a grip on her gloved wrist before her hand fully cleared. She raised her eyes to him but didn’t resist. There was a white business card between her thumb and forefinger.

  Still holding onto her wrist, Peter took the card from her with his left hand. Glanced at it. He felt Echo at his back, looking at the woman over his shoulder. The woman looked at Echo, looked back at Peter.

  “What’s going on?” Echo said, as Rosemay called again.

  Peter let go of the Woman in Black, turned and handed Echo the card.

  “Echo! Peter!”

  “Everything’s fine, mom,” Echo said, studying the writing on the card in the dim foyer light.

  Peter said to the Woman in Black, “Sorry I got a little rough. I heard about that knife you carry, is all.”

  This time it was Echo who moved Peter aside, opening the door wider.

  “Peter, she can’t—”

  “Talk. I know.” He didn’t take his eyes off the woman in black. “You’ve got another card, tells me who you are?”

  She nodded, glanced at her purse. Peter said, “Yeah, okay.” This time the woman produced her calling card, which Echo took from her.

  “Your name’s Taja? Am I saying that right?”

  The woman nodded formally.

  “Taja what?”

  She shrugged slightly, impatiently; as if it didn’t matter.

  “So I guess you know who I am. What did you want to see me about? Would you like to come in?”

  “Echo—” Peter objected.

  But the woman shook her head and indicated her purse again. She made an open-palm gesture, hand extended to Echo, slow enough so Peter wouldn’t interpret it as hostile.

  “You have something for me?” Echo said, baffled.

  Another nod from Taja. She looked appraisingly at Peter, then returned to her purse and withdrew a cream-colored envelope the size of a wedding announcement.

  Peter said, “Echo tells me you’ve been following her places. What’s that about?”

  Taja looked at the envelope in her hand as if it would answer all of their questions. Peter continued to size the woman up. She used cosmetics in almost theatrical quantities; that overload plus Botox, maybe, was enough to obscure any hint of age. She wore a flat-crowned hat and a long skirt with large fabric-covered buttons down one side. A scarlet puff of neckerchief was Taja’s only concession to color. That, and the rose flush of her cheeks. Her eyes were almond-shaped, creaturely bold, intelligent. One thi
ng about her, she didn’t blink very often, which enhanced a certain robotic effect.

  Echo took the envelope. Her name, handwritten, was on it. She smiled uncertainly at Taja, who simply looked away—something dismissive in her lack of expression, Peter thought.

  “Just a minute. I’d like to ask you—”

  The Woman in Black paused on her way to the stairs.

  Echo said, “Pete? It’s okay. Taja?”

  Taja turned.

  “I wanted to say—thank you. You know, for the subway, the other day?”

  Taja, after a few moments, did something surprisingly out of character, considering her previous demeanor, the rigid formality. She responded to Echo with an emphatic thumbs-up before soundlessly disappearing down the stairs. Peter had the impression she’d enjoyed intimidating the cholo kid. Might have enjoyed herself even more if she’d used the knife on him.

  Echo had a hand on his arm, sensing his desire to follow the Woman in Black.

  “Let’s see what this is,” she said, of the envelope in her other hand.

  “She looks Latin to me, what d’you think?” Peter said to Echo as they returned to the front room. Rosemay and Julia began talking at the same time, wanting to know who was at the door. “Messenger,” Peter said to them, and looked out the windows facing the street.

  Echo, preoccupied, said, “You’re the detective.” She looked for a letter opener on Rosemay’s writing table.

  “Jesus above,” Julia said. “Sounded like a ruckus. I was reachin’ for me heart pills.”

  Peter saw the Woman in Black get into a waiting limousine.

  “Travels first class, whoever she is.” He caught the license plate number as the limo pulled away, jotted it down on the inside of his left wrist with a ballpoint pen.

  Rosemay and Julia were watching Echo as she slit the envelope open.

  “What is it, dear, an invitation?”

  “Looks like one.”

  “Now, who’s getting married this time?” Julia said. “Seems like you’ve been to half a dozen weddings already this year.”

  “No, it’s—” Echo’s throat seemed to close up on her. She sat down slowly on one of a pair of matched love seats.