"It happened on my shift," he lamented. "Stuff like that always happenin' on my shift. You know, I once had a guy die of a brain aneurysm just as I came on."
"Tough."
"Not that it was his fault, but...well, take this lady. Just stupid. Comes down here, looking fine, flashing presidents. You'd think she had something on the ball, you know? But she goes and puts her bag down by her chair, right near the fence. Asking for trouble, you know? And I told her so, but she just shrugs, like, 'Big deal.'"
"See it happen?"
"I saw. Just didn't believe it right away the way she just sat there watching this kid take off. Where I grew up, if somebody stole from you, you let the whole world know."
"Was this the girl?"
I showed him the Polaroid snapshot. He took his time.
"Yeah, that's her. Same clothes and everything. You a cop?"
I shook my head, thanked him, and left somewhat distracted by an idea that was taking shape in my mind. I was trying to smooth its edges when I glanced to my left and saw Melissa Strich on the opposite corner of Avenue A.
I don't think I could have recognized her from either of the photos in my pocket if she hadn't still been wearing the leather jacket decorated with burning green skulls. Her dreadlocks had been chopped off and the remaining bristly hair dyed India ink black.
She stepped off the curb and cut across to my side of the street, but walking away from me. I followed.
Passing a fruitstand outside a Korean deli, she casually grabbed two oranges and kept walking at an even stride. I didn't bat an eye until the owner came running out after her, then suddenly all three of us were running up the avenue. The deli owner gave up at the first corner, but Missy didn't slow her pace, and neither did I. She hopped the short gate closing off the path into Tompkins Square Park and fled into darkness.
I went in after her.
The tar path snaked smoothly past trees and junglegyms and dry fountains reeking of urine. Irregular shadows cast from the arching branches whipped around my head. I couldn't see her anywhere at first, but a soft breeze blew up, carrying the sweet fragrance of orange. I stood sniffing the air like a golden retriever. As my eyes adjusted, I made her out, slumped on a park bench a few yards ahead. I crept toward her as she chewed.
Softly, I said, "Missy?"
She sprang up and spat out orange, barking a swear, but standing her ground.
"Don't come near me."
"It's okay," I said. "I'm a friend. I was hired by your parents."
She laughed.
"Yeah, my parents would have to hire friends."
"They hired me to find you."
"My parents? You're nuts."
"They're here. They want to take you home."
"Yeah, right."
"It's true," I said. "But first, we have a few things to sort out. Tell me about the purse, what did you do with the keys?"
She stiffened, tensed for either fight or flight.
She said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Look, I don't care about the purse. I just need to know who you gave the keys to."
She started to say something, then checked herself. In the dark I couldn't tell what was passing over her face.
"Wise up," I said, "if I found you, the cops will too. Maybe I can help."
She swore. "You're not 5-0, so what's it to you if I lifted that bitch's purse?"
"The keys, Missy?"
"What keys? There weren't any. Not even a wallet, just a wad of bills, no change, not even a stick of gum. No friggin' keys, mister!"
I was starting to get a bad feeling about things. A little too late as it turned out.
"Never mind," I said. "Come on."
She stiffened. "Come on where?"
"You've got to talk to the police."
"Like hell I do!"
She started to run, but I was close enough to grab one wrist. A feral noise in her throat, she clawed at my face with her free hand, her blunt, broken fingernails scented of orange. I knocked her arm away.
I'd just succeed in getting both her narrow wrists into one hand when a number 6 train hit me low from behind. I didn't remember falling, just my cheek skidding across the tar, sparking my attention. I was eye level with the earth, listening to Melissa's running feet receding.
I sat up, tried to stand, but my legs wobbled under me like collapsible poker chairs.
A voice behind me warned, "Don't get up."
"Don't worry," I said, but tried again anyway.
"I'm telling you, don't get up."
I turned. A sweat-soaked man in jogging shorts was standing over me, fists clenched, chest pumping. He started yelling for the cops. He had a powerful voice, but suddenly it was like a whisper, blotted out by another of much greater urgency.
The girl's scream ripped across the evening sounds of the city, paralyzing time. I thought it would never end. But when it finally did the void it left was a hundred times worse.
By the time we found her, she was already dead, lying near the handball courts in a gathering moat of her own blood. So much of it. A neck wound. The short-bladed knife still inserted in her throat, her chin propped up by its blunt handle.
I couldn't bear the sight of her eyes.
Stepping closer I saw a piece of paper in her hand. An age-yellowed sheet inscribed with a cramped, ornate writing, one word foremost on the page: "Cupid."
My torn pants and scraped face didn't discourage the responding officers from jumping to the wrong conclusion. They handcuffed me and left me in the backseat of their cruiser while they went off to direct the arrival of the EMS van and the crowd forming around the park's northeast entrance.
More police, uniformed and plainclothes, converged on the scene. Through the side window of the cruiser I watched two sour-faced detectives question the jogger who'd attacked me. It obviously helped my situation that he'd been standing over me at the moment the girl was killed, because when the detectives came over to talk, they removed my handcuffs.
Before I answered any questions, I asked them to call Billie Mallow at the 9th (the precinct was just a few blocks away). Not only would she be a good character reference, but I knew she'd get a kick out of seeing me raked over the coals.
Then I told them what I knew, what I thought I knew, and one way I hoped I could prove it. During my third telling, Billie arrived. They asked if she knew "this yo-yo."
Reluctantly, she admitted it. Gritting her teeth, she vouched for me.
She looked sensational. She'd cut her long red-brown hair to neck length, the silky tresses forming around her cheeks. I wanted to say something, but there was no time—if what I believed was true, proving it meant acting fast.
Nobody liked my idea, except for its expediency. The police wanted to send one of their own men, but I convinced them I had a better chance of getting in. If I saw anything incriminating, something that might be destroyed before they could get a warrant, I could admit them to the Gramercy townhouse.
I climbed the marble steps for a second time that evening and pushed the intercom buzzer several times to the tune of "Fur Elise."
A scratchy voice came back, "Who is it?"
"Payton Sherwood. More questions."
"Go away."
I didn't know if she was listening, but I said, "You never lost your keys."
Silence. A curtain moved behind a narrow stained-glass window of the upper floor. I saw a distorted view of her face behind one ruby panel. Seeing if I was alone.
The door lock buzzed and I went inside.
The hallway's coziness had diminished, the warm glow now a murkiness casting the corners of the stairwell into shadow.
A door creaked open on the upper landing and from the wedge of light, Celia Janssen stepped out wearing a white terrycloth robe. Her hair was wet, but not as if she'd been in the shower, more like she'd been sweating.
She walked to the head of the stairs and stared down at me.
"What do you want?"
"Your key to Gramercy Park."
"What?"
"Your keys were stolen two days ago, but you still have your key to the park." I advanced a step up the stairs. "That bothered me. I guess it's hard to part with privilege."
"You're not making sense."
"It doesn't mean anything, of course," I said. "But it got me thinking. Then there was the way you acted at the restaurant, as if you wanted someone to steal your purse. Maybe you did. Part of your plan."
"Are you insane?"
"Have your purse stolen and claim your keys and wallet were inside. Make it look like someone used them to get in here and kill your uncle." I gripped the banister as I moved up, my dry palm squeaking on its smooth surface. "Too bad you didn't snag some homeless guy or junkie, you might've pulled it off. But you had to settle for a runaway girl."
"You're trying to protect her. Is that why you're making all this up?"
"No one can protect her anymore. You killed her tonight."
Celia tried to look surprised, but all I saw was her fear. I took two steps at a time.
"You got scared when I asked to see you about your purse. You thought I was a threat, maybe a blackmailer. Is that why you brought me to the park, kept us in the shadows? Did you have your knife with you then?"
She didn't seem to hear or sense me in any way, distracted as if she were busy dividing multiple fractions in her head.
I shouted, "I was a threat. I knew who the girl was. What if I found her? What would she tell me? Would I believe her? You couldn't take that chance, so when I left, you followed. And I led you to her. I helped you kill her."
"Get out of here! Or I'll—"
I didn't remember getting to the top of the stairs but suddenly I was on the landing, my hands reaching out for her.
She backed away from me, collided with the wall, and knocked one of the hanging photos to the floor, the glass shattering.
She tried to get by me but I grabbed her arms and twisted them. I wanted to hurt her. I could feel the slender bones in my grip. And something else, a dampness under my left hand, seeping through my fingers.
I held up her arm and examined where I'd grabbed her. The sleeve was wet with blood. She must've walked home from the park and hadn't had time to change. Beneath the robe, her blouse was still soaked with the dead girl's blood.
She tried to shake me loose, but I held on and dragged her with me into the next room until I found the intercom and buzzed in the police. Then I went and washed my hands.
I only got to see Billie for a moment outside the townhouse before they escorted me to a car and downtown for more questioning. Her smile and quick wink were the only good things about the new day.
It was dawn before they finally cut me loose. The sky was the color of faded blue denim. Outside I saw people jogging, walking their dogs, slurping coffee in one hand and skimming headlines in the other. I hadn't slept in thirty-three hours, but didn't feel the fatigue. Didn't feel anything. Missy Strich was dead and in some way I'd help make her that way. And now I had to face her parents and tell them.
I smoked a cigarette, then flagged down a cab and told the driver to take me to the Lincoln Towers Hotel.
Before I could ask the desk clerk to ring the Strichs' room, someone shouted my name across the climate-controlled marble lobby. In the Rose Lounge, Walter and Louise Strich waved table napkins at me from where they sat eating a continental breakfast.
Mrs. Strich's eyes were fretful with concern over my bruises and torn pantleg.
"Oh dear, you look awful, Mr. Sherwood. What's happened to you?"
"Rough night."
Mr. Strich was forking fried egg into his mouth and smiling.
"Not working for us, I hope," he said between chews.
"I'm afraid I was...I'm sorry." I breathed deeply. "I have some news—"
"—Nooo," Mrs. Strich cooed, "we're the ones who are sorry. We should've called you last night."
"It's bad news, Mrs. Strich."
"Don't be silly. We have wonderful news. Missy called."
"What?" I said. "Called you? When did you talk to her?"
"A little after ten."
Ten o'clock, I thought. Two hours before—
"You'll never guess where she is," Mr. Strich said.
On a cold steel table, her flesh gray under lights without warmth.
"She's home! In New Hampshire." He raised his coffee cup in a toast.
I couldn't quite process it, wasn't sure I'd heard right.
"That's right," Mrs. Strich said. "We must've literally passed each other on the highway. She got a ride from a Vermont family coming back from dropping their son off at NYU. She didn't need the money after all. Can you believe we made such a big deal of that?"
"I don't understand."
"She got a ride home with a friend's parents. A new boyfriend, I think. The Lord was looking after her," Mrs. Strich said, tears welling up in her eyes. "I'm just sorry we put you to so much trouble."
"No trouble," I said. "It's fine."
I stood up. I wanted to get out of there. I took Melissa Strich's photo from my pocket and handed it to her father.
"I won't be needing this then."
As it left my hand, I saw it was the wrong photo, the Polaroid of the girl with the green dreadlocks and pierced lower lip. Mr. Strich stared at it, looking lost.
"What is this?"
"It's...someone else's daughter."
THE END.
LOSERS LIVE LONGER (Hard Case Crime Book 59) Page 23
