“What about a job?” said Link.
Spinrad blew air out of his mouth. “Nothing. Ran down her Social Security number. Last employment was well over a year ago. Worked in the back office of a brokerage. No trouble, good worker. Said she was tired, wanted to devote her time to art.”
“Fine,” said Warren. “What did she live on?”
“Savings, maybe. Beats me.”
“You don’t survive for a year in this town on nothing,” observed Link. “Sources of income?”
“We checked with the city and state agencies. No record of unemployment insurance collected, no applications for welfare, food stamps.”
“And no Gloria,” said Yvonne. She downed the last of her sandwich. “Which means we have two missing persons pertinent to this investigation. Either one might provide vital information. Priority one is to find them as fast as we can.”
“Aren’t you forgetting about Jaime DeVicente?” asked Warren. “You so confident his hands are clean?”
“I’m not confident his hands are clean at all. That’s why I requested for our FBI liaison to have him tracked down as well. His case was easier.” She referred to a new folder. “Jaime — Jamie to his friends — boarded a plane from Mexico City to New York on the first of October. Good timing. And maybe a little convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“Where is he now?” Warren wanted to know.
“No one has a clue. Stayed one night at the St. Regis hotel — we have verification on that — then, puff. Up in smoke. Checked with Albany on that one, too. His father had a nice little chat yesterday with an FBI man. Strictly off the record. Confided that his son refuses to come home. Never phones, never writes. Hasn’t been in touch for months. Knows nothing about his son.”
“DiVicente’s a politician,” said Spinrad with disdain. “He won’t leave himself open for trouble.”
“And naturally he’s going to put as much distance between himself and any investigation as possible. Won’t get himself tarnished.” Yvonne held elected public officials and their staffs in about the same regard as Spinrad. “Not to mention that if any dirt rubbed off close to his boss, the governor, he’d be out of one hell of an influential job.
“You think he’d lie to the FBI?” said Link. “Feed them false information?”
“No. But we can’t be sure he hasn’t purposely omitted or overlooked a few facts. In any case, HQ won’t sanction anyone hounding the governor’s staff without hard evidence. Too sensitive. We have to walk on eggshells. For the time being, we have to accept what he said at face value. Take it from there.”
Warren held up three fingers. “So we have three missing links.”
Yvonne drank soda from a paper cup. “With Halloween closing fast.” There were five days to go.
XIII
“Mrs. Santiago?”
The white-haired woman stared suspiciously from behind the slightly opened door. “Yes?”
Yvonne held out her badge. She was standing in the dimly lighted hallway of the walk-up, Link quietly in her shadow. Nadia Santiago seemed afraid of her visitors. “What do you want?” Her accent was thick. Her Ys sounded like Js. Vs like Bs. “Is it about my son?” You could hear the baby crying in the next apartment.
“It isn’t Julio we came to see. It’s you.”
“Me?” Concern showed in her face. “Is my son in trouble? Has he been hurt?”
“No, none of those things. We just want to talk for a few minutes, if you’ll permit us.”
She became more confident, assured now her son wasn’t in danger or harm.
“If you are looking for Julio, he is not here. Does not live here since a long time.”
“We just want a few words with you, Mrs. Santiago.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“We know that. May we come in, please?”
She was hesitant, then opened the door wide.
The apartment was tidy; neatly trimmed yellow curtains clung from small windows. The furnishings were old, but polished and clean. Several paintings hung on the white walls, one of them a portrait of the Madonna holding a baby Jesus. A color television sat on a stand in one corner, opposite a heavy, worn couch. Nadia Santiago indicated for her guests to sit on it. “Please,” she said.
Yvonne thanked her, glanced to the window of the fourth floor walk-up before she sat. The street was busy with people, many elderly, who were taking advantage of the first warm, sunny day in a week. A number of children were playing, laughing and darting between the parked cars. A large dog, leash tied to a fire hydrant, was barking.
Link sat beside Yvonne. He crossed his legs and folded his arms. His presence was obviously more worrisome to the woman than Yvonne’s, and he wanted to keep a low profile. Not make her feel threatened in any way. Nadia Santiago politely offered them something to drink; when it was equally politely declined, she rested in the oversized easy chair across from the couch. A small coffee table separated them.
“Why do you want to talk to me?” she said. “Julio swore to me he don’t get in no trouble. I know him better than anyone, yes? He tries not to hurt me. But he is not a bad man. Not a criminal like the others. He is in pain. Sick.” Her tired face was etched with emotion.
Yvonne felt instant sorrow for this lonely woman. Her life had been shattered. Daughter dead, son a pitiful junkie. Living alone with little more than memories. Nadia Santiago maintained her dignity, though, her pride and her faith. Yvonne knew how much courage that must take.
“We hope to help your son, senora,” said Link comfortingly. “We promise we don’t mean him any harm.”
Yvonne opened her pocketbook. She took out a handful of color photographs. “Forgive us, Mrs. Santiago, but we have to do this. We have to ask you some questions about your daughter, Vanessa.”
At the mention of the name, tears came to the old woman’s eyes. “I have no more daughter,” she said.
“I know Vanessa died. I’m sorry. It was very tragic. She was a very pretty girl.” As she spoke she noticed a framed photo of Vanessa Santiago perched atop a shelf. The girl was younger, high school age. Slim, nicely proportioned, with long, flowing curly hair. She was wearing shorts in the photo. Laughing with a friend.
“Could you look at these, please,” said Yvonne, handing the snapshots. “These were taken up in Albany, a couple of years ago. Do you know any of the others?”
Nadia Santiago went through them one by one. She lingered on the face of her daughter.
“Do you know any of her friends in the photos?”
“My daughter had many friends. She was a popular girl.”
“Can you name any of the ones she’s with?”
Nadia concentrated. “This one, si. This one I know. Gloria. They were very close in the college. My daughter went to college. Studied very hard.” She was proud of it.
“Have you even seen this Gloria?”
“Oh, yes. Many times. Vanessa was very good friends. Close like sisters.” Her brow furrowed, and she looked at Yvonne. “Gloria, she is in some trouble?”
“No, not at all,” said Yvonne quickly. She didn’t want to give time for Nadia to become defensive or suspicious. “It’s a matter of a missing car we’re trying to track down. Someone may have stolen it.”
“ … Excuse me, but I do not understand … ”
Yvonne smiled warmly. “Don’t be concerned. It’s just routine. We would like to contact Gloria if we can, get some information. Seems she’s moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Mrs. Santiago relaxed. “I am not sure I can help you.”
“When was the last time you saw Gloria?”
“A very long time ago. Since before my daughter’s accident.”
According to the records, the death was a definite suicide. Sometimes, though, a loved one refused to face that fact. It was more comforting to think of a death as accidental. “It was a very sad thing,” said Yvonne. “To die so young.”
Nadia reached for a tissue. “God must have h
ad his reasons. To take her away like that. To make her car crash … ” She started to cry softly. “I will never understand.”
The coroner’s report in Albany had been quite definitive. The driver had swerved off the road in broad daylight and headed straight over a cliff. Even allowing for a malfunction of brakes, there was no way the vehicle could have made it from the road to the edge of the cliff without the driver’s wanting to. Pushing on the accelerator. It was an incline almost all the way. The inquest had been brief but thorough. The auto fell a hundred feet into a ravine, where it burst into flames. The autopsy of the charred corpse had been perfunctory: There’d been little left to examine. Dental records proved the victim to be Vanessa Santiago.
“Then Gloria never kept in touch at all?”
Nadia dried her dark eyes. “A sweet girl. She wrote me letters once in a while. From Albany, also after she came to New York. Two times she put money in the envelopes, saying it was money she owed my daughter. Not very much. A very sweet girl. I pray for her.”
Yvonne and Link had the same thought while Mrs. Santiago spoke. Why would Gloria Popolos write letters after she came back to the city? Why not visit — or make a phone call?
“Do you recognize any of the others in the photographs?”
Here Nadia frowned. “Just this one.” She indicated Ruben Pulido. “May he be punished for the trouble he has caused,” she said bitterly. “I pray he stays in the prison until he dies. He hurt my Vanessa. Made trouble for others, also. He is clever, that one. How you say it? Cunning. Like an animal.”
“He’s where he belongs, I promise you.”
The visit didn’t last much longer. After giving a few thank-yous, Yvonne and Link abruptly left. The slowly walked toward Link’s car. Yvonne seemed disturbed.
“Link, have you ever heard of dental records being forged?”
“Don’t start getting spooky on me, DiPalma. No. What’s in your head?”
She waited with hands on her hips while Link unlocked the passenger side of the car. “All sorts of notions are rumbling through my head,” she said. “I may really be losing my mind, but the deeper we go into this, the more frightened I’m getting. There’s going to be another blast, Link. Soon, and more deadly. I sense it. I feel it.”
He looked at her askance. “We expect it, don’t we? You’re getting at something, Yvonne. Open up.”
“I need a court order — fast. I want the body of Vanessa Santiago exhumed. It may sound crazy but I have to do this. A full genetic analysis. Residual blood samples, fluid. Another set of dental records taken, and compared. Records of any form of surgery ever performed … ”
“Yvonne — ”
“Don’t ask for explanations. Let’s get downtown, Link. Now.”
XIV
The streets were wet. Two Emergency Medical Service ambulances were pulled up one behind the other in the narrow street, lights flashing. A patrol car blocked the far corner, while a half dozen uniformed police kept the milling, curious crowd at a distance. Onlookers watched in speculation as a paramedic came out of the tenement and spoke with several of the plainclothesmen standing along the steps of the stoop.
Another car squeezed down the narrow street and parked. This one unmarked. Warren flashed his badge at the questioning patrolmen.
“Up there, third floor,” one of them said, pointing. Warren left the keys in the ignition. Yvonne slammed her door. They hurried past the line of patrolmen and into the building. “Homicide snobs,” one of the cops remarked.
A bare bulb lighted up the stairwell. The building had been under renovation, and shards of plaster and wood were randomly strewn. Some of the tenants stayed behind their tightly locked doors, not wanting anything to do with the trouble. Others wandered into the halls, staring. Uniformed police politely requested that they remain inside.
There was a detective blocking the way into the apartment. Yvonne showed her badge. “DiPalma, TTF,” she said.
“Resnick. Homicide.”
“It’s a mess in there,” the detective warned as he beckoned them to enter.
He’d told the truth. Furniture had been knocked over, books pulled off shelves and scattered, plates and glasses smashed, shards splattered all over the kitchen and living room. Blood smears everywhere, especially on the faded walls. Streaks of a bloodied hand scraping at plaster vividly attested to what had happened. Outside the bathroom door was the body of a young woman. Paramedics had covered her with a sheet. They were putting away their equipment silently, oblivious to the new arrivals.
“Time you got here,” muttered Spinrad.
“Bad traffic,” said Warren. “What do you have?”
He scowled. “She died hard. Really violent struggle. She’d been beaten first, then stabbed. Fought off the attacker as best she could. Killer came at her with a kitchen knife. Sliced her up like meat. It didn’t last long.” Spinrad briefly lifted the sheet off the corpse.
Yvonne and Warren glared at the grisly scene. “Anybody know anything? Call nine-one-one?”
“Someone did, yeah. Wouldn’t identify themselves, though. It was long over by the time the first squad car arrived.”
“What about the neighbors? Anybody see anything?”
“They’re being questioned now. No one’s admitted a thing so far. Seen nothing, heard nothing, done nothing.” He spoke with open disgust. “Even the landlord, who lives on the premises. Doesn’t want to get involved. His only concern seems to be the bad publicity.”
“Who is she?” said Warren, looking down at the mutilated body.
“That’s the kicker,” said Spinrad. “The superintendent says our victim isn’t even the tenant. Apparently this was just a friend. Visiting, he says. Living here, I figure.”
“Where’s her boyfriend?”
“No boyfriend. There are two different sets of clothes in the closets. All women’s apparel. Different sizes for dresses, skirts, shoes. Nothing for a man.”
“Two women?” asked Yvonne.
“Yeah. Two dykes.” He referred to his notebook. Another detective from the local precinct stood behind him. “Tenant’s name is Ellen Booker. Waitress. She works in a Turkish restaurant on the upper West Side. Divan, it’s called. Posh. Real good tips.”
“I know the place,” said Yvonne.
“A squad car is on the way bringing her now. She’s being taken directly to Central at our request. She broke down when she was informed about this. Became hysterical. A doctor’s attending her now. He’ll give her something before we question her.”
Yvonne cast her eyes downward in pity. Beneath her feet a thin line of blood traced the spaces along the parqueted floors to where she was standing. The victim had fought so hard to save her life. In vain.
“This Ellen, did she give any information at all?”
“Only one thing — but enough for me to drag the two of you here. Her roommate’s name.” He pointed to the body. “Scratch one of our suspects. The victim is our missing Sally Cooperman.”
Ellen Booker washed her face, looked in the mirror. Her features were drawn and haggard, eyes bloodshot. A uniformed policewoman stood quietly at the door of the ladies room. “Are you sure you’re ready, honey? Take your time. They’ll wait.”
Ellen nodded. “I’m ready.” She was a shortish, amber-haired woman. Mid-thirties, slightly above her proper weight. She had nice legs and a round, plush bust. Attractive to men, but shunned them all. “I want to talk to somebody,” she said.
The policewoman held the door open for her. “Sure, honey. Just try and stay calm, okay. If you feel sick again, let me know. It’s all right. Sure there isn’t someone you want me to call for you? Mother? Dad?”
“No. Thank you.”
Ellen followed her down the hall, turning into the small office on the right. Inside waiting was Yvonne, Warren, plus a police stenographer who sat mutely in a corner. Yvonne stood as she entered; introduced herself and her partner. Ellen Booker showed no emotion. She said hello and sat down in a chair. Y
vonne placed a glass of water on the table for her.
“I’m going to turn on a tape recorder, all right Ellen?” she said.
“Sure. I don’t mind.” She was in shock still, Yvonne realized. The realization of what was going on hadn’t yet quite sunk in. The tranquilizers the police physician gave either hadn’t taken effect yet, or were too mild.
“I know how hard this must be for you,” Yvonne soothingly said. “And I know you’ve already talked with another detective from the Homicide division. We also need to ask some questions. Be patient with us, if you can.”
Ellen nodded. “Got a smoke?” she asked. “I’ve been trying to quit … ” She forced a tiny pathetic smile. Her hands were trembling.
Warren lighted a cigarette and gave it to her. Ellen placed her arms down at the sides of the chair. Blue smoke wafted toward the ceiling.
“How long had you been living with Sally Cooperman?”
She shrugged. “Maybe about nine months. Sally didn’t have a place of her own. It was more than she could afford. She’d quit her job. She was a very fine artist, you know, and I encouraged her all I could. Selling your paintings is a hard way to make a living. People treat you like a beggar. I asked her to move in with me. She was pleased. We got along.”
“How long have you known her?”
“A year. A little more. I first met her in Washington Square Park sometime late last summer. She was exhibiting some of her paintings at the outdoor art show. I bought one right away. Really nice canvas. She was quite talented. We started to talk for a while, then went for coffee. We hit it off right away. Found that we, er, shared a lot in common.” She was inferring their lesbianism. “You know how it is.”
“I understand,” said Yvonne. “Is there anyone you can think of who might have had a reason to do something like this?”
“Kill? Murder her?” She seemed incredulous.
“Someone who could have been angry at her? It happens during a rage sometimes. It doesn’t begin as a murder. Just an argument. Could there have been a jealous friend, or another lover who felt jilted?”
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