I returned the sheet to the file and thought about its implications. As far as I was concerned Boyle didn’t have much of a reason to ride me. All he had was a witness who claimed to have seen me hanging around Helen’s building. I was the right height. I owned a trench coat; what man didn’t.
That evening I’d ended up taking a cab directly from the newspaper to Sammy’s Bowery Follies where I met up with Ed a little after seven. Although my memories of the night were vague, I was still pretty sure I hadn’t been anywhere near my sister’s apartment. I made a note to pay a visit to Mrs. Quinn. I needed to find out what time she thought she saw me.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said.
The hatcheck girl came in carrying a tray with a cup, a coffeepot, and a bowl of sugar cubes on it.
“Joe asked me to bring this in to you.”
She set the tray on the desk.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Mister Granger introduced us the other night,” she said.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
She blushed. “Alice.”
“Thanks, Alice, I’ll remember it this time.” I tipped her a quarter and waited until she scooted out the door before filling my cup. I added two cubes of sugar to the coffee, took a sip and added a third cube before shifting my attention back to the report.
Boyle and Belcher had interviewed most of the residents of the building along with several people Helen knew from work. It was Belcher who put together the timeline of Helen’s final day on earth.
She ate breakfast at Kindle’s Grill, a small restaurant two blocks from where she was starring in a play called The Girls of Broadway. After the matinee she ate dinner with several of her cast mates. None of the cast could remember seeing anyone suspicious hanging around the theater. Nobody saw her talking to anyone.
After the last show she shared a cab with two other actresses. Because she lived closest to the theater, she was the first one dropped off. It was around midnight. Nobody saw her after that.
I picked up the Medical Examiner’s report next. There were ligature marks on Helen’s throat and she had been stabbed over fifty times. Because of the amount of blood loss the M.E. determined that the stab wounds killed her. When the police arrived they discovered her naked body lying on her bed. The M.E. figured she was killed in the living room, and then the killer carried her body into the bedroom. Although he couldn’t swear to it because of her wounds, the M.E. didn’t think Helen had been sexually molested. Most of the stab wounds were directed toward her breasts and the vaginal area.
I looked up at the door and wished Boyle would walk in right then. I wanted to throttle him for even thinking I was capable of doing this to my sister. There was nothing in the report connecting me with Helen’s murder. The fact that Ila Quinn thought she saw me on the street that evening wasn’t enough. I suspected Boyle was being lazy. He seemed like the kind of guy who wouldn’t look elsewhere as long as he thought he had a glimmer of a shot at pinning the murder on me.
The only thing left for me to look at was the pictures. I stared at the envelope and wished it would get up and walk away. My mouth was so dry I couldn’t swallow. My stomach churned. I jumped up and headed for the door. I needed a drink like I’d never needed one before.
I took two steps away from the desk, then a third. The envelope’s grip on me was far greater than my desire for whiskey. Like a mythical siren, it worked its seductive magic on me, luring me back to the desk. I picked up the envelope and tapped it several times against the knuckles of my left hand before dropping back down into the chair. I could think of a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t look. I questioned my sanity. Asked myself if I really wanted the last vision of Helen that I held in my memory to be that of her brutal death. I tried to slip the envelope back into the file. I couldn’t quite do it.
What if there was something, some clue that might help me find her killer? It was a long shot. The police would have gone over everything. Still, I knew her better than anyone else, at least I used to. As if they had a mind of their own my fingers pushed open the flap of the envelope and I poured the pile of photographs onto the desk.
They fell out upside down and once again I almost called it quits. It would be so easy to slip them back into the envelope. Instead, I took a deep breath and flipped them over.
The first picture was taken from the doorway. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dark spot in the center of the living room carpet. I remembered that the medical examiner believed the body had been moved into the bedroom. The blood had pooled itself into the shape of a butterfly, or maybe it was a wasp. I thought there was something evil about the way it reflected the camera’s flash. I tried not to think about Helen—to remain aloof. I failed miserably.
I don’t know what I expected to find. The photographer had taken pictures from several different angles. I concentrated on the surroundings. I’d spent more than one night sleeping off a drunk on the horsehair sofa in the corner. I was surprised it was still there. Helen had been threatening to get rid of it for years.
I thumbed through the next four or five photos. There was one of the antique secretary Helen inherited from our mother. The writing table was folded up and the glass doors were closed. Knowing Helen’s penchant for orderliness, it was exactly what I would have expected. The next photo showed the fireplace. There was one of the dining room table and chairs. Who said a picture doesn’t lie? If I ignored the butterfly stain in the middle of the carpet, I could almost believe Helen was in the kitchen, or perhaps in the bedroom waiting to step through the door and surprise me.
With a sigh I picked up the next picture. The photographer had shifted his attention to the bedroom. The first photo was of Helen’s body taken from the doorway. She was laid out on the bed with her hands folded across her stomach. Because it was a full room view I couldn’t really see the blood or the slash marks. She looked at peace with herself, almost as if she was sleeping. It struck me that whoever killed her wanted it to look that way. Could he have regretted what he had done?
Each successive picture I picked up became more graphic, more horrific. There was a close-up of Helen’s face; eyes open, lips twisted in pain. A shiver ran through me when I thought about others looking at these pictures. I kept trying to imagine she was a stranger instead of my sister.
When I came to the full body shot of all her wounds I swallowed and fought to control the burning sensation in the back of my throat. It was too much. I scooped up the pictures and rammed them back into the envelope. My mind was on fire. I wanted to wrap my fingers around the neck of the son-of-a-bitch who dared to do this to Helen, or maybe take a bullwhip to the man.
The worst thing was; I hadn’t learned a damn thing. I’d seen Helen as no man was meant to see his sister. Those pictures would be etched in my mind forever. A perpetual nightmare I would carry with me until the day I died. Just as Pandora had been unable to resist opening her box, I’d been unable to turn away from the envelope. Now I was going to suffer for my prying.
Belcher was waiting for me outside of the office. Avoiding his eyes, I handed him the file and headed for the bar. Ed said something as I passed his table—gibberish. I walked by.
“I’ll take that drink now,” I told Joe as I slid onto a stool. He set a glass in front of me, took down the Johnny Walker, and poured me a shot. When he started to pull away, I snatched the bottle from his hand. “Leave it,” I said.
CHAPTER FOUR
My head felt as if I’d spent several hours banging it against a concrete wall. My mouth was dry, my stomach was turned inside out, and sunlight from a window off to my left made me squint. Burning tobacco mixed with the faint sweet smell of cheap perfume permeated the room. I didn’t have a clue where I was. It had been awhile since I’d woken up in a strange bed staring at a woman whose name I couldn’t put to a blurry face.
“What time is it?” The words were mine, but the raw husky voice could have belonged to a stranger. “Do you
know where I left my eyeglasses?”
“Table to your right,” she said. “It’s almost ten.”
I reached out and fumbled around for the glasses. Slipping them on, I sat up in bed. I glanced around the room as I pulled the sheets up around my chest. It was a little larger than my own apartment; one of the rooms above the Coaster Club Ed rented out to a few select prostitutes.
Except for the undershorts I was wearing, my clothes were folded and piled on a high back chair next to the door. A Zenith radio sat on one corner of a small scarred bureau with a mirror. Behind an open jewelry box I spotted a bottle of Canadian Club whisky and an empty glass. God that bottle looked good.
With my eyeglasses on I recognized the hatcheck girl, who was curled up, leaning against a pillow on a worn sofa under the window. The sofa would have been blood red at one time. The sun and the years had faded it to more of a rust color.
She held an ashtray in her left hand and a cigarette in her right. As she butted out her cigarette her name popped into my head.
“Alice,” I said.
She met my gaze without flinching. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
Ignoring the comment I glanced toward the bureau. “Any chance of getting a drink?”
Setting the ashtray on the floor, she stood and stretched. She was petite, with large lustrous eyes and a nose that was almost too dainty for her face. As she strolled over to the bureau I could see her watching me in the mirror. Neither of us spoke while she filled the glass halfway with whiskey and carried it over to the bed.
My hands shook when I took the drink from her. There was a lipstick stain on the rim of the glass. I didn’t complain, just turned the glass around and downed the contents.
The whiskey burned all the way down. It quelled the rebellion in my stomach and did wonders for my nerves. The shaking in my hands eased to a tremble. I handed her the empty glass. As much as I craved it, I didn’t ask for another. Mary was expecting me to meet her in two hours and I didn’t want to show up drunk. There were too many instances in the past where my drinking had interfered with our relationship. She’d never forgive me if I was fried when I met up with her.
My last clear memories of the previous night were of handing Helen’s file over to Belcher and telling Joe to leave the bottle. I glanced back at the girl and wondered what the hell I’d gotten myself into.
“How’d I get here?”
Alice blushed. It made her look all of sixteen. “Mr. Granger’s letting me use the room until I find a place to stay.” Alice carried my glass back to the table, poured two fingers from the bottle, and downed it. “You were in no shape to go home. It was Mr. Granger’s idea for me to look after you. I couldn’t very well tell him no, could I?”
“Could I have my clothes?”
Alice picked them up and set them on the edge of the bed.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Mr. Granger undressed you and sent your clothes to the laundry down the street. Nothing happened between us. I slept on the sofa.”
“It’s not the first time he’s made sure I didn’t end up sleeping on some street corner.” I dragged the clothes closer. “You an actress or a singer?”
“A singer,” she said. “How did you know?”
“Ed’s got a soft spot for small town girls searching for fame in the big city.”
“I’m not sleeping with Mr. Granger.”
“I believe you.”
I was the only person who knew Ed was in love with a Negro girl who sang at the Cotton Club. She had big brown eyes, dusky skin, and a voice that shook the building when she belted out a song. It was taboo love and they both knew it couldn’t go anywhere.
I took my shirt from the pile. Letting the sheet slip down, I leaned forward to pull it on. While I dressed Alice followed my every movement with her eyes. She was a damn good-looking girl. I couldn’t help but wonder how she’d react if I shook the sheet off. I suspected her innocent act would evaporate with the slightest bit of encouragement on my part. If not for my luncheon date with Mary, I might have given in to the temptation. As it was, if I didn’t get my ass in gear, I was going to be late.
“This would be a hell of a lot easier if you left the room for a few minutes,” I said.
My words broke whatever spell she was under. She blushed again, her eyes grew wide, and she squeaked out a “Sorry,” before sprinting for the door.
*****
The Claremont Inn was located behind Grant’s Tomb on Riverside Drive and 124th Street. I arrived ten minutes late. The cab ride cost me sixty cents, leaving me four dollars to treat Mary to lunch. Good thing tomorrow’s Friday, I thought when the doorman opened the cab’s door. Thank God for payday.
The Claremont mansion was built in 1806 by Michael Hogan, a distant relative of my mother’s. Its main claim to fame was that for two years after 1815 it served as home to Joseph Bonaparte, brother of Napoleon, and one time king of Spain. My family’s fortunes had taken a long slide downward since those days.
Sometime around the Civil War the Claremont became a roadhouse, and the city acquired it when Riverside Park was erected in 1873. I’d visited the Claremont several times in the past year, dancing on the open-air terrazzo terrace overlooking the river.
When I entered the building I gave my name to the maître d' who directed me to the roof garden where I found Mary lounging in a deck chair. She wore a maize colored corduroy skirt with a matching striped blouse and was by far the best-looking woman in the restaurant.
A brown leather purse, a gold cigarette case, and a glass ashtray sat on the table in front of her. When she saw me walking toward her she set down her martini and made a show of looking at her watch. “I thought I was being stood up,” she said. “Again.”
“We’re talking what, fifteen years ago?” I pulled a chair up close to her, sat down, and ordered a beer when the waiter hustled over. When he left to get my drink, I placed a hand on top of hers. “What if I apologize for being late? Then and now. Could we start over?”
She slipped her hand out from beneath mine. “Maybe.” She picked up her drink, took a slow deliberate sip, and changed the subject. “I love the view from up here.”
I looked out across the garden toward the river. The sun sparkled on the ebony water like diamonds resting on a field of coal, and the breeze carried the scent of saltwater, flowers, and fresh clipped grass. From my seat I watched half-a-dozen small sailboats tacking back and forth across the river. A cargo ship glided along, smoke billowing from its stack.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of the waiter hurrying in our direction with my beer. “Do you want to go inside to eat?” I asked.
“Can we get a sandwich out here? It’s such a pleasant day. I have to go back to a stuffy office when we’re done here.”
I ordered another martini for Mary and a sandwich for each of us.
“How long you been living in New York?” I asked.
“Five years.”
“Helen never mentioned it.”
She looked down at the table. “I asked her not to.”
Her words were like a sharp kick to the gut.
“I’m not complaining,” I said. “But if you’ve been avoiding me all these years why are we now having lunch together?”
Mary flipped open her cigarette case and slid one out. She pushed the case toward me. “Help yourself.”
I thanked her and pulled my lighter from my pocket. We lit up and she leaned back into her chair.
“The Jim Locke I used to know wouldn’t ask that question. He’d just assume I was overcome by his charms.”
“That Jim ceased to exist a long time ago.”
She smiled. “I wonder. Are you telling me women don’t still chase you?”
I considered Alice’s apparent attraction to me. “Not so I’ve noticed,” I lied. “So tell me, now that we’ve established you didn’t ask me here so we could take up where we left off all those years ago, why are we here?”
I looked h
er up and down and locked eyes with her. “Or maybe you were overcome by my charms after all.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I’m engaged.”
“You don’t wear an engagement ring.”
“It’s a second marriage for both of us.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “So why am I here?”
Before she could answer our waiter returned with our ham sandwiches. I ordered another beer and pointed at Mary’s empty glass.
She shook her head. “I have to go back to work. Let’s eat, then I’ll explain.”
Mary stubbed out her cigarette and began picking at half of her sandwich as if she’d lost her appetite. Patience has never been one of my strong points. However, as tempted as I was to grill her I’d learned a long time ago that when Mary made up her mind to something she could be obstinate. It was possible she’d changed over the years—I doubted it. I stubbed out my own butt and grabbed my sandwich.
While we ate, we talked about Helen. I hadn’t known Helen was starring in an off-Broadway play when she was killed. Didn’t know she wanted to get into the movies, or that she was considering a move to California. I wished I could go back and erase the article that drove us apart. Of course I couldn’t.
After finishing my sandwich I helped myself to another of Mary’s cigarettes and waited until she pushed her plate aside. “You ready to tell me why we’re here?”
“To discuss Helen’s will.” The shock must have registered in my eyes because she added, “You look surprised.”
“I don’t know what there is to talk about.”
Now it was Mary’s turn to look surprised. “You do realize you’re Helen’s only living relative?”
The Storm Killer Page 3
