“I apologize,” the Reverend offered. “I assumed you had been born into wealth.”
Hamilton Prescott—who had been born into wealth and wondered why these two felt it necessary to apologize about it—wiggled uneasily. But he was also transfixed by the colorful character before him and the tabloid nature of Hampton’s personality. Just the same, he wanted them to hurry up and get to the point so he could go home and scan the local television stations to see if he had made it onto the early-evening news.
“And then your followers dispersed quickly?” Auntie Lil reminded Hampton.
“Yes.” He nodded his massive head. “In the confusion of the crowd, I was separated from my usual companions and body–guards. I have four of them because of death threats. All part of the price I pay.”
It wasn’t anyone’s fault but the Reverend’s that his mug was plastered on half the newspapers in the Tri-state area every week. But Auntie Lil kept this opinion to herself.
“My people are very honest. When the police came to them afterward, asking about my whereabouts, they admitted that I had not been with them between nine and nine-thirty. I would not expect them to tell anything but the truth.”
“Where were you?” Auntie Lil demanded.
The Reverend hesitated, opened his mouth, shut it, stopped dangling his leg, and adjusted both pants cuffs.
“Come on,” Auntie Lil said. “Let’s have it.”
“I met a young lady,” the Reverend explained with as much dignity as he could muster. “We took a stroll there in the park at the rear of the Lincoln Center complex.”
Auntie Lil had not been a New Yorker for eighty-four years with her eyes closed. She immediately pegged this feeble excuse for what it was: a cover story to account for the fact that the Reverend Ben Hampton had nipped over to Tenth Avenue and engaged a young lady of the evening for some recreation.
“You told the police that?” she asked.
“Of course not. It would only be misconstrued.”
You bet your white clerical collar it would be misconstrued, she thought to herself. The media would love it.
“Thus they find it hard to believe that I would simply be enjoying a stroll through the complex for the half hour in which this man was killed.”
“There’s more,” Hamilton Prescott interrupted. “Go ahead and tell her. She’s been accused of worse. She’ll understand.”
Reverend Hampton looked impressed. This little old lady accused of murder? Perhaps she did know how it felt. “They discovered my fingerprints on the back fire-exit doors,” he explained. “They took that as a sign that I had entered and exited through those doors in order to kill Bobby Morgan.”
“Why were your fingerprints on the doors?” Auntie Lil demanded. She asked obvious questions without apology.
“I admit that I did enter and exit through those doors,” the Reverend explained. “But that was earlier. Around seven o’clock. Some parents of the children were leaving backstage and I caught hold of each open door and just peeked inside, getting the lay of the land.”
“In other words, you were considering storming the stage with your troupe of protesters and wanted to know how easy the access would be?” Auntie Lil guessed.
“Precisely. But I grasped at once that such a scheme presented too many problems.”
“You’d be caught long before you got to the stage?” Auntie Lil said.
The Reverend nodded. “Or not be noticed at all. The back–stage area was filled with people. Instead, I went with the traditional march in front of the entrance doors.”
“Lucky for me,” Auntie Lil said dryly. “I might not have ended up on the front page of two tabloids otherwise, my mouth hanging open as if I were a murderer caught red-handed at the scene.”
The Reverend was nonplussed. “An unfortunate pose, I do admit. But the press is just doing its job.”
Auntie Lil exchanged a skeptical glance with her lawyer and took another healthy gulp of Bloody Mary.
“So they have a time frame, and your fingerprints on an entrance and exit route,” Auntie Lil said. “What about means and a motive?”
“The motive is obviously my anger at seeing Fatima Jones bounced from her leading role. Since Morgan was ultimately responsible.”
“How did you know about that, by the way?” Auntie Lil asked.
The Reverend shook his head slowly, a grin breaking out. “Now, Miss Hubbert, you know I can’t reveal my sources.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “This is not Watergate.”
“Miss Hubbert, I have a network of injustice fighters all over this city. They can be found in every agency, all levels of government, and most of the important organizations. Their access to information depends on their anonymity. I can’t com–promise that freedom.”
“So the motive was revenge,” Auntie Lil said. “What about the means? How are you linked to the rope?”
“I’m strong enough to have done it,” he explained. “And I know a lot about ropes.”
“Know a lot about ropes?” she asked. “What in heaven’s name does that mean?”
“I supervise several Boy Scout troops up in Harlem and often teach the knot-tying classes myself.”
“Surely you jest,” she said. “What kind of skill is that to teach a young urban man these days? In preparation for what? Shimmying down roofs and breaking into high-rises?”
“Miss Hubbert,” he informed her with dignity. “What else are we going to do with these boys? We can’t take many nature hikes in the heart of Manhattan. Campfires are a bad idea when you’re surrounded by tenements. We teach them traditional crafts to distract them from the temptations of the street. They enjoy it. We let the boys dream.”
“Hmmph,” she said, unconvinced that teaching young men how to make slipknots was the best use of their talent. “Still seems like a mighty thin thread to hang an accusation on, if you will excuse the pun.”
“You must understand that I am a man of some notoriety,” Hampton said. He patted his chest modestly. “The police have been searching for a way to discredit me for decades. This is the perfect opportunity. Even if they can’t make the charges stick, the accusations alone will hurt my credibility. I was about to announce my candidacy for City Council. This will hurt me in some people’s eyes. I am looking to expand my constituency beyond the traditional confines of my people.”
“Well, in that case I should think that you would get a more traditional haircut and start dressing like a senator and stop backing people on causes that don’t matter and concentrate on ones that do.” Auntie Lil knocked back the rest of her Bloody Mary and plunked the glass down on the coffee table, as always blissfully unaware that not everyone appreciated her blunt approach to giving advice.
The Reverend looked startled.
“And another thing,” Auntie Lil said, with no intention of stopping. “You need to agitate a little more selectively. Didn’t you ever hear the story about the boy who cried wolf? And try some issues that involve more than minorities, perhaps ones that affect all poor people. God knows New York City has plenty of poor people.”
Hamilton Prescott turned to the fire to hide his smile.
“Is that all?” the Reverend asked with pulpitlike patience.
“No,” Auntie Lil said. “You need to shout less now that people know who you are. People expect it from you. They don’t even hear what you are saying anymore. Try being reasonable, a little more low-key. You’ll be that much more interesting, seem as if you have matured. And appeal to a lot more people. People want to believe in someone,” Auntie Lil explained. “You must give them a reason to believe, not frighten them into believing.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the Reverend promised with a smile.
“Good,” Auntie Lil said. “Now that I’m done lecturing you, what more can you tell me?”
“I think I saw the killer,” the Reverend admitted.
Auntie Lil leaned forward.
“I was returning from my stroll with
the, uh, young lady,” the Reverend explained. “She had taken leave of my company for a prior engagement and I was alone. I was walking along the sidewalk that borders the circular bandstand area at the rear of Lincoln Center.”
“I know the spot,” Auntie Lil said. It was heavily manicured with bushes and trees in order to soundproof the bandstand area from the many theaters in the complex.
“I had just concealed myself in the bushes,” Hampton explained. “Nature called, you see, and the public facilities were not convenient. As I turned my back to the walk, I heard footsteps behind me. Someone was running down the alleyway in a hurry. The footsteps sounded like a machine gun almost, just tap, tap, tap, tap down that brick path right by where I was standing. I couldn’t turn around until I finished my business, but I was curious. I popped my head out and I could see a man at the far end of the alleyway where it reaches the main sidewalk. He took a left there and headed toward Broadway.”
“What did he look like?” Auntie Lil asked eagerly.
“I couldn’t see clearly,” the Reverend admitted. “There’s a string of bright streetlights in the alley on account of it being a prime mugging spot. The glare was in my eyes and the man was in the shadows when he reached the end.”
“Was he tall? Was he short?” Auntie Lil asked. “How was he dressed?”
“He was tall and wearing dark clothes,” the Reverend offered hopefully. “Couldn’t get more specific than that.”
“Was he black or white?” Auntie Lil demanded.
Ben Hampton looked offended. “He was most definitely white. That much I can tell you.”
Auntie Lil was silent. It could have been the killer. It could have been a man fleeing a mugger. But still... it was a start. And the man had dashed past right after Morgan’s death so the timing was right.
“What did the police say to all this?” she asked.
The Reverend shrugged. “Didn’t believe me.”
Auntie Lil bristled. She considered every scrap of information valuable, regardless of the source. Preconceived notions were dangerous. His story was important—and should have been given the consideration it deserved.
“There’s more than one way to skin that cat,” she promised. “I have a friend. Margo McGregor. I am sure you know of her.”
The Reverend nodded. “She covers my activities often.”
“I can arrange for you to talk to her. She’d probably do a column on your side of the story. But you’d have to work it out with her about what you were doing in the park alone at night. It might be better to focus on an entirely different subject and not bring up the park at all. At any rate, I am sure Margo will work with you. Would that help?”
Ben Hampton looked at Auntie Lil in keen admiration. “I couldn’t have come up with a better solution myself.”
7
T.S. had one big concern about Auntie Lil’s visit with Reverend Hampton. “Do you believe him?” he asked. They were sitting in a coffee shop near Lincoln Center, discussing their next move. T.S. had been surprisingly calm about foundation money going to help Hampton. The truth was, he had never wanted the money in first place and so didn’t care where it went.
Auntie Lil nodded. “Why would Ben Hampton jeopardize his career by killing Morgan? Fatima Jones is just one cause in a long line of causes. Unless a better motive comes up, I don’t think he’s our man. I’d like to go over to the Metro this afternoon and question some other people. Feel up to the trip?”
T.S. calculated his schedule for the day. He was supposed to meet Herbert at four o’clock to learn the fox trot and after that both he and Auntie Lil were meeting with Gene Levitt, the producer who had lost millions when Mikey Morgan backed out of his movie contract. Auntie Lil had arranged the meeting with her usual tact: she had called up and demanded it. If T.S. could come up with a plausible cover story to get away for a few hours for the dance lesson with Herbert, he might be able to pull it off.
“Well, do you?” Auntie Lil demanded. “I can hear your wheels turning, Theodore.”
“I can do it,” T.S. said quickly. “But will anyone be there?”
Auntie Lil nodded. “They have classes and rehearsals all afternoon. We’ll be able to find someone.”
The first someone they found turned out to be Lisette Martinez, wife of the Metro’s artistic director and long its prima ballerina. She was a self-conscious exotic beauty as she sat in the sunshine on outside steps near a side door to the theater, smoking a forbidden cigarette. She was wearing rust-colored leotards and a black sweatshirt. Her legs were wound with strips of white cloth as if she were a Thoroughbred preparing for a race. Her hair whipped loosely in the wind. She was in her mid-thirties, but the physical toll of her profession had aged her beyond her years. Up close, her lack of body fat accentuated every wrinkle.
Auntie Lil perched on the steps below her and smiled. T.S. hovered behind his aunt. Lisette stared at the two of them without expression, her eyes flat and dark. She took a long drag of her cigarette and looked up at the sky.
“Should you be smoking?” Auntie Lil asked, trying to establish rapport.
“Who are you? My mother?” The ballerina blew a smoke ring that was instantly dispersed by the breeze.
“No. I’m a member of the Metro’s board, looking into the recent death of Bobby Morgan.”
The dancer’s eyes flickered. “Raoul told me about you. So did Lane Rogers. She doesn’t want me to talk to you. Which means that I will.” She stretched her legs in the sunlight and admired them, flexing them with feline grace. “Who’s he?” she asked, nodding at T.S. as she cataloged his charms.
“My nephew Theodore.”
The ballerina raised her eyebrows at T.S. in amusement, but he was too besotted to notice. She was a little haughty for his usual tastes, but Lisette Martinez had something all right. Fire seemed to flash from her eyes, her lips were incredibly expressive, and she had a way of holding her head and abandoning her hair to the wind that made T.S. think of silky strands spread across a bed pillow. She represented all things forbidden and exotic—and he was fascinated by her.
“We’re here to ask questions in an official capacity,” Auntie Lil explained.
“Raoul will be thrilled,” the ballerina said, her sarcasm elegant in its subtlety. “He’s rehearsing the brats inside. Parents keep pulling their kids from the show so he’s helping Pork Chop Puccinni train the new beasts.”
T.S. ignored the appropriate but nasty reference to the Metro’s ballet master. “The parents are afraid their children are in danger?” he asked.
Lisette smiled enigmatically. “They are in danger. I’ve thought of killing a few of them myself over this past week.”
“Did you know Bobby Morgan?” Auntie Lil asked, watching in disapproval as Lisette lit up a fresh cigarette.
“Sure, I knew the late great Bobby Morgan. He put the moves on me pretty hard when we met about six weeks ago.”
“Put the moves on you?” Auntie Lil asked.
“He’s the type,” Lisette explained. “I was the most famous woman in the room. He had a biological urge to impress me.”
“What form did his efforts take?” Auntie Lil asked.
“Ambushing me in the hall between classes. Asking me to lunch. As if I ever eat. Bringing me flowers. Cheap ones. Telling me how much money he made. The usual.”
“Wasn’t your husband offended?” T.S. asked.
“Raoul wouldn’t have noticed if we’d fallen on him from the rafters,” she said. “Which, come to think of it, Bobby almost did.” She took another deep drag of her cigarette. “Raoul is not exactly Old Faithful, if you know what I mean. He’s too busy to care what I do.”
“Yes, but...” Auntie Lil began. Her voice trailed off. She was routinely tactless, but not even she could decide how to charge in on what was a very delicate topic.
“My aunt is inquiring about all the press stories,” T.S. explained, correctly guessing Auntie Lil’s thoughts. “We often read that your husband has a jealous t
emperament.”
“That’s just show,” she explained. “Good publicity. Supports his reputation as a fiery artist. Raoul could care less who I see or what I do with them when I see them.” A strand of hair blew into her mouth and clung to one side of her generously made-up lips. T.S. watched in fascination as Lisette carefully picked the hairs free with a long fingernail.
Auntie Lil didn’t know who she wanted to slap more: Lisette or Raoul Martinez. In fact, she became so lost in a fantasy about the lecture she would give them both that T.S. had to take over the questioning.
“How did Morgan act when you rebuffed him?” he asked.
Lisette shrugged. “He didn’t care. By that time, there were a dozen younger dancers hanging on him. Gold chains and lots of money look good when you’re too young to know better.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to get back in.”
The door behind her opened abruptly and Raoul Martinez stuck his leonine head outside. The sunlight momentarily blinded him, but when his eyes focused on his wife—and the cigarette dangling from her fingertips—his face flushed in rage. “How many times must I tell you!” he roared. He burst through the door, snatched the butt from her hand, and ground it out beneath his foot. “You must conserve every ounce of your energy,” he thundered. “Why will you not listen to me? Do you want to continue to be a star or are you going to give it up for the sake of this poison?” Lisette sat calmly throughout the tirade, but both Auntie Lil and T.S. inched as far away from the bellowing artistic director as possible.
“Who are you?” Martinez demanded, staring at T.S.
“My nephew,” Auntie Lil said, wedging herself between the two men. “He is helping me with my inquiries.”
“And who are you?” Martinez demanded of Auntie Lil, his anger blinding him nearly as much as the bright sunlight.
“A board member,” she said indignantly. “Good heavens, I sit next to you every month.”
Martinez peered at Auntie Lil, his eyes blinking in the bright sunlight. “Oh, yes. So you are. But don’t bother my wife. She has work to do.”
A Motive for Murder Page 11
