Hanging Time

by Glass, Leslie

  A king-size four-poster against one wall was made up with a rich red brocade bedspread and topped with dozens of tapestry pillows, tassled and velvet-trimmed. The head- and baseboards were ornately carved, gilded wood.

  There were only two other pieces of furniture in the room. A dressing table with a mirror attached, completely inlaid with ebony and mother-of-pearl, and a chair in the corner with faded and threadbare upholstery the same color as the jewelry box in the refrigerator.

  Speechless, the four detectives studied the room. Then they moved to the bathroom, which had a Jacuzzi bathtub and black walls. In the closet they found only men’s clothes, and several shoe racks filled with cowboy boots of different colored leather—ostrich, alligator, snakeskin.

  Up on the third floor they found a stark white room which held an old-fashioned cot and a painted chest of drawers. There were some rumpled sheets, an old quilt and one pillow on the bed, bars on the windows. The floor was bare except for a bowl of water with a dead cockroach floating in it, and a small white bathroom rug that was badly stained with a lot of little yellow circles of what April guessed was puppy urine.

  “What’s that?”

  Braun pointed to some soiled laundry in the corner. Roberts leaned over and picked it up. His forehead furrowed with alarm as he displayed the straitjacket, the straps showing quite a bit of wear.

  April glanced at Mike. What did this picture tell?

  Braun shook his head as if one ear were filled with water.

  “Looks like he kept her up here in more ways than one.”

  April took out her notebook and made a quick note. She wondered how Jason Frank was doing with the suspect.

  55

  After they saw the restraint on the third floor, Braun called in one of his detectives from the street to help search the house. A few minutes later he found April in the other bedroom on the third floor. She was leaning over a table, studying Camille’s hairbrush and the tangle of long reddish-gold hair in its bristles. Arrayed around her were a number of rolling racks hung with women’s clothes. All kind of clothes. Up there, there seemed to be a warehouse of blouses and dresses and jackets and skirts the way the downstairs was a warehouse of furniture. Some items still had price tags on them. It looked like Camille did a lot of shopping.

  Braun gestured at April. “Go check out the basement. See what you can come up with.”

  Basement! Immediately her heart began to pound. Why the basement, when there was a treasure trove right here? She struggled to swallow the protest that jumped onto her tongue. What was wrong with this guy? Didn’t he know she was the first one in on this case and knew what she was looking for?

  “You got a problem?” Braun said nastily.

  She turned away for a second, lowering her eyes so the hot rage didn’t spill out there either. She didn’t have a problem. She didn’t love dark places like basements, but cops weren’t supposed to admit to little weaknesses like terror, repulsion, nausea, or rage at incompetent supervisors.

  “No, sir, no problem.”

  She had wanted to see if the missing items from Mrs. Manganaro’s store inventory were in this room. And he was a jerk.

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m gone.” She headed for the door, leaving the gold mine of information in all those clothes. Braun didn’t know about the missing white blouse from The Last Mango. Elsbeth Manganaro had just told her. Braun would pass it by if it was there. She’d have to come back and look for it later.

  Downstairs, she turned the thumb latch on the basement door and stood outside it, cursing herself in Chinese for being afraid of opening a door and entering a cave that might have ghosts in it. Only people like Skinny Dragon Mother, born in China, believed in ghosts. American-born Asians like herself knew better. Ghosts didn’t cross the oceans. They stayed on the other side. She switched on the light.

  After she had the light on and the door at the top of the stairs open, it wasn’t so bad going down there. She could tell there wasn’t anything either alive or dead in the basement. It felt damp and cold, and the smell of ammonia made her eyes tear, but it wasn’t frightening. It felt the way she had described Camille to Jason—weird and upsetting, off-kilter in every way, but not frightening. Creepy.

  April had a powerful sense of Camille’s presence in there. Wherever Camille spent time with her dog, there was the smell of urine. Either the dog was not trained to go outside, or Camille neglected to take it out as often as it needed to go.

  She tried to visualize the dog and Camille in this place. What did they do in there? The room was nearly empty. There were three smallish cardboard boxes half filled with junk that April recognized as chandelier parts, ceiling caps, chains of various thicknesses and lengths, pieces of crystal with wires through them, brass arms. April spent several fruitless minutes raking through them.

  An oil-burning furnace and a rusting water heater sat off to one side. There was no furniture. No tables or chairs. As in the front entry, the ceiling light was just a weak bulb, this one set in among the maze of exposed plumbing pipes. An odd-looking bundle sat in the corner behind the furnace. April had to circle the furnace to see it. Immediately she knew this was Camille’s corner. There was a piece of fraying blue carpet under the bundle. April shivered when she saw the way the carpet was positioned. From here Camille would be partially hidden behind the furnace, but able to see the barred window above. April had no idea why she could see Camille sitting there.

  April studied the bundle. It was tied up by the arms of a shirt like a hobo’s sack in an old movie. She didn’t want to touch it. She had a feeling that everything about this place told a story just as the crime scenes in the two boutiques where the girls had died told a story. As she contemplated the bundle, she worried about what the team was doing upstairs. What if they needed another kind of expert? What if Braun was moving things around and missing their significance? She tried to put the politics of the case out of her mind, to let the little pieces of information patter down on her like rain, while she kept her own counsel and her own focus.

  She’d never seen a restraint like the straitjacket on the third floor in somebody’s home; she didn’t have a good feeling about the bundle in the basement.

  She heard the sound of voices overhead. They must be going through the kitchen. Reluctantly, she reached down to pick up the bundle. As she touched the fabric, she had the kind of bad feeling that conjured up her discovery of Lily.

  It seemed like a hundred years ago that April found the sleeping bag in a Chinatown backyard that held the body of the missing child called Lily. Dozens of people on the case and April had to be the one to spot the bag. The moment she unzipped it, she recognized the white and purple sneakers ten-year-old Lily had been wearing when she disappeared. She was still wearing them when April found her.

  It was the shoes this time, too. April had a description of Maggie’s favorite shoes from Olga Yerger, the salesgirl turned hooker. Olga said the shoes were brown suede flats with fake alligator insets across the top and fat gold chains over the inset. Copies of Gucci, Olga added. She thought they came from a shoe store called Maraolo, and was positive Maggie wore them nearly every day because they were comfortable and went with everything she had.

  The shoes had been pressed together inside the sack and fell out first when April opened the bag. They were size five and a half. In the toe of one shoe was the dark blue eye shadow. In the toe of the other was the plum lipstick. April’s heart beat double-time. She shook her head, perplexed.

  The voices above were loud and angry now. April retied the bundle the way it had been and headed for the stairs. It sounded as if the two factions of the department had gotten into a serious dispute over something. What a mess.

  Halfway up the stairs she began to make out the words and realized it was not Sanchez fighting with Braun or Roberts.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing in here?” The outrage in the newcomer’s voice had reached the cracking po
int. The guy was furious, almost crazed. He was in the hall, must have just come in. “You can’t just break into someone’s house like this!”

  “Sir, if you’ll just calm down, we’ll work this out.” It was Lieutenant Braun. He was not speaking in a calming tone, and did not get the hoped-for results.

  “Are you crazy? I’m not calming down. You broke into my house. You asshole. I’m going to have your head on a platter.”

  “No one broke into your house. Are you the owner, sir?”

  “The fuck you didn’t!”

  “Are you the owner, sir?”

  “Yes, I am the owner.”

  “Is this yours, sir?”

  “What the—?”

  “I’d advise you to calm down.”

  “And I’d advise you to get the fuck out of here.”

  April couldn’t see what was going on. At the top of the stairs, before she came into view, she put the bundle down. Then she pushed open the basement door.

  56

  Jason pulled over a chair and sat down next to Camille. The dog struggled to get away from her. Before Camille realized what he was up to, Jason reached over and took the puppy onto his lap. She stiffened, but didn’t object.

  “Hi there, fella.” Jason scratched the dog’s ears. Puppy climbed up and licked his face. Out of the corner of his eye Jason watched Camille. She had been rendered immobile by this new threat.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring. It was red and had a small knife-and-scissor set attached. He held out the keys to the dog and shook them like a rattle, ignoring the patient. The puppy hesitated for a second, its small body and front feet pulled back into a crouch. Suddenly it pounced on the key ring like a mountain lion. Funny dog. Jason laughed.

  “Do you mind if he plays with this?” He finally acknowledged Camille.

  “It’s okay.” Camille didn’t look as if it was okay at all. Behind the curtain of hair, she looked rigid with disapproval.

  “This is a pretty friendly puppy. What’s its name?”

  “Puppy.”

  “Hunh?” Interesting choice of names.

  “I had a dog a long time ago,” Jason murmured. “I had forgotten how much I miss her. What’s Puppy’s sex?”

  “She’s a girl.”

  Jason put the key ring on the table close to Camille. Puppy jumped at it. Jason watched Camille. She had no reaction to the knife, clearly wanted her baby back.

  “Well, maybe I’ll put my keys away. It looks like she wants to come back to you again.”

  Camille took the dog from Jason, then relaxed. “She’s a good dog.”

  “Yes, she is. Where did you get her?”

  Camille hugged her baby, regarded her fondly. “We got her from a breeder,” she said in a baby voice.

  “So you knew you wanted a poodle?” Jason crossed his legs the other way. This was going to take a while.

  “Oh, absolutely.” Camille kissed the dog again and again. Puppy licked her face.

  “All I know about poodles is they’re very smart; they’re high-strung; and they don’t cause allergies.”

  Camille laughed and freed her hands so that she could clap them. “Right on all counts. My sister had allergies when she was a child. I have them now. We figured a poodle was especially safe. So we both got one.”

  Jason leaned over. “You mean you have a poodle and your sister has a poodle?” This was news to him.

  Camille laughed again. “Yes, it’s the same dog, except my sister’s dog lives with her and my dog lives with me. They’re carbon copies, just like us.”

  “I see,” Jason said gently. He certainly didn’t see the sisters as carbon copies, and Milicia had never mentioned having a dog. “What made you get them?”

  “Oh, I was lonely,” Camille said vaguely. And Milicia thought being nice could get her back. It didn’t work. Camille shivered and pulled a strand of hair over her face.

  “Was it your sister’s idea to get the dogs?”

  “No, no,” Camille said fiercely. “I wanted it first. She had to come with me to get it for me.”

  Jason nodded. He could see that Camille didn’t have the presence to buy a dog. “Did you both plan to get one?”

  “No.” Fierce again. “I wanted the dog. Bouck didn’t want a dog. He wouldn’t get it for me. We had a big fight. My sister hates Bouck, so she got me the dog.” She paused. “She said she’d take it if Bouck wouldn’t keep it. Then I could visit it at her house.”

  Jason nodded again. “So you went to the breeder,” he prompted.

  Camille made her shrill, high-pitched sound that tried to be a laugh. “Yes, and my sister changed her mind. She had to have the same dog. Same color, same sex. Everything.”

  “So she has a dog?” Jason asked again, just to be sure she meant Milicia had a dog.

  “Oh, yes. Same dog.”

  Interesting. Now he knew something about Milicia he hadn’t known before. He had another piece of the sisters’ puzzle.

  “Dogs make great companions. Have you always had one?”

  Camille responded to this by covering her whole face with her thick mane of tangled hair. She didn’t answer.

  He tried a different tack. “What about Bouck? I guess he didn’t mind about Puppy after all.”

  Behind her hair, Camille giggled. “Not after the break-in.”

  What break-in? Jason made a mental note to come back to the break-in. “How does Puppy feel about being here?”

  “She’s okay as long as I’m here.”

  “Oh, that’s good, because if she has to stay around here too long, she may get bored.” He paused, waiting for Camille to relax again. “How do you feel about being here?”

  Camille started swaying from side to side, so the curtain of hair in front of her face swung back and forth. “It’s a horrible place. I hate it. I want to go home.”

  “I can understand that. How do you feel about talking to me? Would you rather the officer stays, or waits outside?”

  Abruptly Camille pushed her hair back and sat up, looking around as if she were upset about forgetting the officer in the corner.

  “She can leave.”

  Jason nodded at Goldie. “It’s okay if you wait outside.”

  The officer hesitated, then got up and left.

  Jason processed Camille’s response. He saw it as a healthy thing that she trusted him with her dog, then felt there was enough of a relationship between them to allow the guard to leave.

  “What happened?” he asked as soon as the door closed. “How do you come to be here at the police station tonight?”

  Camille shook her head. She didn’t want to tell him. “They do that to people sometimes. Tonight it was my turn.”

  “Did something happen to make it your turn?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about what you’ve been doing the last few days.”

  “What about them?”

  “Oh, like how you spent your time the last few days before you came here to the police station. What’s your routine? What are your days like?”

  Camille thought for a long time. Then she said: “I’m decorating the house. That takes a lot of time.”

  “Is that the house where you live?”

  “Yes.” Camille looked down at Puppy. Puppy was lying limp in her lap. Camille stroked her.

  “Who lives there with you?” he asked.

  “Puppy.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Bouck does.”

  “Tell me about Bouck.”

  Camille shook her head. “He told me not to.”

  “Bouck told you not to talk about him?”

  She was silent.

  “Is Bouck the reason you’re at the police station tonight?”

  “No, Bouck hates the police. He says the police don’t protect anybody. We have to protect ourselves.”

  “Does Bouck protect you?”

  “Oh, yes. We have locks on all the doors and Bouck won’t let
me go out unless I’m feeling just right. And he tells me how I have to be careful on the street.”

  “The city’s a pretty dangerous place,” Jason agreed. “Have you ever been attacked or followed?”

  Camille looked at him shrewdly. “No,” she said flatly. “Have you?”

  He made a tiny noncommittal motion with his head and went on. “Do you ever feel people on the street are dangerous?”

  Again the shrewd look. “Anybody can be a mugger.” Camille played with her hair. “You never know.”

  True enough. The woman wasn’t stupid.

  “What about salespeople in the grocery store or restaurants? Do you ever think they mean you ill, like they’re out to get you?”

  Camille laughed. “That’s crazy. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  She seemed lucid, didn’t appear to be delusional. He went on without answering. “Sometimes people can hear voices when no one else is around.”

  “That’s crazy, too.”

  Jason smiled. She was shrewd, didn’t want to appear crazy. “Tell me about the last few days,” he repeated. His stomach growled. Very discreetly he glanced at his watch. Ten hours had passed since he’d had something to eat. He remembered that April had promised him food. He wondered if she was out getting it for him.

  57

  The door from the kitchen to the hall was open. April saw a big man crowd Lieutenant Braun, trying to push him out. The man’s cheeks were red and blotchy, his eyes wide with shock and fury. He was thick around the middle and had the threatening gestures and loud, hectoring voice of a bully.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, looking like someone who would have no trouble punching a cop.

  “Lieutenant Braun, Homicide, NYPD.” Braun held out his badge.