by Peg Cochran
Elizabeth pushed back her chair with relief. This was exactly what she needed—some action to take her mind off of her—nonexistent—love life.
She grabbed her coat and hat, slung her camera over her shoulder and followed Kaminsky to the elevator.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they descended to the lobby.
“Riverside Drive.”
Elizabeth began to limp as she followed Kaminsky down the sidewalk toward the subway, his long legs seeming to eat up the pavement with ease.
The subway was already sitting in the station, huffing and puffing like an animal ready to race off, as they pushed their way through the turnstile. They scurried toward it and managed to board just before the doors hissed closed behind them.
She noticed Kaminsky looking at her with an air of concern as the car barreled down the darkened tunnel toward the next station. So she tried to arrange her face into a neutral expression although she could feel tears pricking the backs of her eyelids.
When they arrived at the scene—a brick tenement with fire escapes zigzagging up the front—a crowd had already gathered on the opposite sidewalk, where police had herded them behind a hastily assembled barrier. Kaminsky flashed his press card at one of the officers who reluctantly allowed them to approach the building.
Two women were on the fire escape, one of them waving a gun menacingly at the other. They were a study in contrasts—the woman with the gun was heavily made up with brassy blond hair piled on top of her head. She was wearing a satin cocktail dress—low cut and tightly fitting. The other woman was quite plain in comparison—her face scrubbed bare, her dark hair in waves to her shoulders and her flowered housedress clean but worn-looking.
A weary policeman with sloping shoulders was standing beneath the fire escape with a bullhorn in his hand.
The blonde leaned over the rusted iron railing, the gun still trained on the other woman.
“She stole my husband!” she shouted to the crowd as if she was an actress and this was a play.
The other woman, whose face was a sickly white, shook her head in protest.
“I didn’t,” she sobbed. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“You hear what she said?” the officer shouted through the bullhorn. “She said she didn’t steal your husband.”
The blonde staggered away from the railing, and Elizabeth wondered if she had been drinking. The woman waved the gun frantically.
“Don’t believe her!” the blonde yelled. “She’s lying.” She looked toward the crowd as if for confirmation. “They thought they were fooling me, but I’m a lot smarter than they realized.” She lunged toward the other woman and pointed the gun at her head.
The other woman screamed and a murmur went through the crowd.
They were really enjoying this, Elizabeth thought—as if it was a show put on for their benefit.
How do you think people feel when they’re looking at your pictures? a small voice inside her head whispered.
“Did you get the shot?” Kaminsky said, coming up behind Elizabeth and pointing toward the fire escape.
“Not yet.” Elizabeth fumbled with her camera case.
“Are you okay, Biz?” Kaminsky’s brow was creased with concern.
“Sure. A little tired is all.”
Kaminsky didn’t look convinced, but he turned away, notebook in hand, and hustled after one of the police officers.
Elizabeth gave herself a mental shake. Kaminsky had put his trust in her—she couldn’t let him down.
She pulled out her camera and managed to get a shot of the blonde menacing the other woman with the gun.
Suddenly a shadowy figure appeared in the window behind the fire escape. Elizabeth could tell by the indrawn breath of the crowd that they’d noticed it, too. She trained her camera on the image. She wasn’t sure the photograph would come out, but she was certainly going to try.
There was a flurry of activity and a policeman appeared on the fire escape. After a short struggle, the blonde was subdued and then led through the window in handcuffs. Another man came through the open window onto the fire escape and put his arms around the other woman. She buried her face in his chest, and Elizabeth saw her shoulders heaving.
After a few minutes the crowd began to disperse, hastened along by a uniformed patrolman. Elizabeth returned her camera to its case and looked around for Kaminsky. He pushed his way through the crowd and came loping toward her.
“I could use a drink after that,” he said, pushing back his hat and scratching his forehead. He looked at Elizabeth. “How about it?”
“Why not?”
“There’s bound to be a bar around here somewhere.” He pointed toward a side street. “Let’s try down there.”
They found a place after walking three blocks. Kaminsky glanced at the tidy sign above the door.
“This looks decent enough. What do you say?”
“Sure.” Elizabeth followed him into the dim interior.
The pub was clean and didn’t smell overwhelmingly of beer and cigarette smoke like so many of them did.
It was still fairly early for the after-work crowd, although a few men were perched on the stools by the bar. They were older and Elizabeth supposed they must be retired and probably anxious to escape from their wives to enjoy some male companionship. They looked up when she passed but quickly turned their attention back to the drinks in front of them.
“How’s this?” Kaminsky pointed to a table in the rear. “I figured you’d be more comfortable back here.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth took a seat in the chair he’d pulled out for her.
“I’ll get our drinks. What’ll you have?” Kaminsky said.
What did one order in a place like this? Elizabeth wondered. “A Coca-Cola, please.”
Kaminsky frowned at her. “You look like you could use something a bit stronger, if you ask me.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Okay. How about a Manhattan then?”
Kaminsky was back moments later with a Manhattan in one hand and a foaming glass of beer in the other. He was followed closely by a bartender carrying a shot of whiskey.
Kaminsky downed the shot in one gulp and then took a long draft of beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he drank. Elizabeth merely touched her lips to her drink.
“Come on,” Kaminsky urged. “Drink up. It will do you good.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Elizabeth insisted.
“Frankly, kid, you don’t look all that great to me. I haven’t seen you smile since you got back from lunch and you were really off your game back there at the scene.”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, fighting back tears.
“Listen.” Kaminsky put a hand over Elizabeth’s. She felt the callouses on his fingers. “Something happened. I’m sure of it. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “There’s nothing you can do. Besides, I doubt you’d understand.”
“Try me.” Kaminsky sat back in his chair and folded his hands on the table.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “It’s Detective Marino.”
Kaminsky frowned. “You two have a set-to over something?”
Elizabeth ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “Not exactly.”
“So what then?”
“I think I offended him.”
Kaminsky looked incredulous. “You? Why you’ve got better manners than any dame I’ve ever known. I don’t believe it.”
“It wasn’t about saying ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ or ‘excuse me.’ It’s more complicated than that.” Elizabeth started shredding the paper coaster under her drink.
“So?” Kaminsky wiped some foam off his upper lip.
“He wants to meet my family. And he wants me to meet his.”
Kaminsky whistled.
“Sounds like things are getting serious.” He took another sip of his beer. “But what’s the problem then?”
Elizabeth stared helplessly at Kaminsky. “Don’t you see?”
“See what?”
Was Kaminsky being obtuse on purpose? Elizabeth wondered. Surely he realized that her relationship with Marino could go no further.
“Marino and I are from two different worlds. My family would never approve and his…well, his probably wouldn’t either.”
Kaminsky ran his hand through his bristly gray hair.
“It seems to me you’ve got to make up your own mind.”
“What do you mean?”
Kaminsky laid his hands down flat on the table. “Look at it this way, Biz. You’ve already stepped outside the bounds of a girl from your class and social set by taking this job. You’ve got to decide. Are you going the whole hog or are you going to sit on the fence? You can’t have it both ways.”
Elizabeth had never thought of it like that.
“Let me tell you a story. There was this young man, see? And he was in love with this girl. She came from a good Polish family and so did he. There was only one problem—he was Catholic and she was Jewish.” Kaminsky paused and took a sip of his beer. “They didn’t care—they were in love. But they were worried about what their families would think. So they broke it off and went their separate ways. Only the man never met another girl he cared for as much as he’d cared for her.”
“What about the girl?” Elizabeth said.
“He heard she’d eventually married, had a couple of kids and moved to Long Island.”
“Why do I get the impression that this story is autobiographical?”
Kaminsky shrugged. “The point is—don’t let someone else make your decisions for you. It’s your life. Live it your way.”
Chapter 20
The door to Estelle Draper’s office squeaked open and then slammed shut.
Elizabeth jumped. She’d been staring glumly at the wall thinking about what Kaminsky had said and how she should live her life her way. Did she dare? she wondered. She tried to picture life with Marino. What would it be like? Would she mind giving up all the luxuries she’d been accustomed to her whole life?
“Biz!” Kaminsky suddenly shouted.
Elizabeth looked up expectantly. Maybe there was a new story? She needed something to save her from her own thoughts, which were going around and around in circles and getting her nowhere. The look on Marino’s face, as he turned away after putting her in the taxi, continued to haunt her.
“Let’s go,” Kaminsky said, slamming his mug of cold coffee down on his desk. “The police have taken Killian Brown in for questioning. Becker caught the story while we were out.”
“Coming,” Elizabeth said. She grabbed her camera case, took her hat and coat from the hook on the wall and followed Kaminsky to the elevator.
* * *
—
“I want to follow up with a more in-depth piece on the boy himself,” Kaminsky said as he pushed the button for the elevator. “Especially about that lobotomy. Here’s our headline: ‘Operation Meant to Cure Boy Turns Him into Killer.’ ”
“Mrs. Brown’s son is certainly a bit…odd,” Elizabeth said as they walked toward the subway. “But what makes you think he’s a killer?”
“Just a gut feeling,” Kaminsky said. “Maybe that operation did something to him. Turned his mind even more. Who knows? Maybe the mother can shed some light on it.”
By now they’d reached the subway station. Elizabeth stood on the edge of the platform and craned her neck as she looked down the darkened tunnel.
Kaminsky grabbed her by the elbow. “Don’t stand so close to the edge. You’re scaring me.”
“Why, Mr. Kaminsky,” Elizabeth said in affected tones, “I do believe you care.”
Kaminsky scowled. “Who me? Nah. I don’t want to miss this story while we wait for the medics to come and scrape you off the tracks.”
Elizabeth hid a smile behind her hand. Kaminsky was very proud of his tough-guy image, but she suspected that underneath the gruff exterior was a huge soft spot.
The train, when it arrived, wasn’t crowded, but the heater was going full blast as if it was the middle of January and not October. Elizabeth unbuttoned her coat and fanned herself with her hand. Her mother would be appalled if she saw her—a lady simply did not fuss but rather endured discomfort and hardship with a smile plastered on her face, pretending for all the world that everything was fine.
“Here’s our stop,” Kaminsky said, jumping up as the train pulled into the Sixty-Eighth Street station.
“Mrs. Brown must be terribly upset,” Elizabeth said as they walked north along Lexington Avenue.
A darling hat in one of the shops caught her eye—a bowler in a luscious deep burgundy crowned with an ostrich feather—but although she slowed her pace, she knew better than to stop for a better look. Kaminsky was already five steps ahead of her. Elizabeth hastened to catch up.
“I’ll bet she is. She sure dotes on that boy. I guess it’s what the psychologists call the mothering instinct.”
They continued down the block in silence. The lowering sun slanted through the trees, sending dappled shadows onto the sidewalk. It was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic from the nearby avenues.
Elizabeth was nervous. How was Mrs. Brown reacting? Would she be crying hysterically and in terrible distress?
Kaminsky rang the bell of the Posts’ townhouse, doffed his hat and stepped back to wait. The door was answered almost immediately by the same young girl in the white apron and black dress as their previous visits.
“Yes?” she said.
Kaminsky twirled his hat between his hands. “We’d like to speak to Mrs. Brown, please.”
He began to pull out his press card, but the girl shook her head and opened the door wider.
They stepped inside and she showed them to the stairs leading to the basement kitchen.
Mrs. Brown was sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes and looking almost as if she hadn’t moved since the last time they saw her. But when she turned toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky, her face appeared ravaged, her eyes swollen with tears.
Mrs. Brown’s pain struck Elizabeth almost like a physical blow. Asking her questions and taking her picture under these circumstances felt indecent.
The room was dim, the bulb hanging over the scarred wooden table creating the only circle of light. The corners of the room were dark with shadows with a thin sliver of daylight coming through the grated window in the basement door.
Mrs. Brown didn’t invite them to sit so after a moment or two, Kaminsky pulled out a chair.
“Do you mind?” he said, gesturing toward it.
Mrs. Brown gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Kaminsky motioned for Elizabeth to take a seat and pulled out another chair for himself.
“Is it true that the police have taken your son in for questioning?” Kaminsky said, laying his cards on the table immediately.
Mrs. Brown didn’t say anything—merely looked at them and blinked like a mole suddenly exposed to the light.
“Do the police have any evidence against your son?”
Mrs. Brown shook her head vehemently.
“It’s because he’s different,” she said finally. “He’s a good boy.”
Kaminsky was silent, tapping his pencil against the table. Elizabeth knew it was a trick to get people to talk.
“It’s because of what that priest did,” Mrs. Brown blurted out.
“What was that?” Elizabeth said.
“An exorcism. He said it would drive the devil out of Killian. Father McGrath was a good priest, but I think he made a mistake and put the devil into Killian instead of taking the devil out.”
“But you d
on’t think Killian killed Noeleen Donovan?” Kaminsky said.
“I know he didn’t!” Mrs. Brown shouted so suddenly that Elizabeth jumped. “My Killian is a good Catholic boy.”
Mrs. Brown raised the paring knife she was holding over her head and stabbed it into the wooden table where it stuck, swaying back and forth like a metronome. Her eyes were hard and narrowed to slits as she looked from Kaminsky to Elizabeth and back again as if daring them to disagree with her.
“They need to give me my boy back,” she said finally in a flat, emotionless voice.
Mrs. Brown’s pain was palpable. Elizabeth felt tears pressing against her eyelids. Her emotions were already raw after her misunderstanding with Marino earlier. Before she could stop it, a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Kaminsky looked at her in concern.
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth said, pushing her chair back abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”
She’d noticed a small powder room off the foyer. Perhaps if she took refuge in there for a few moments, she would be able to regain control of herself.
The foyer was empty when Elizabeth reached the top of the stairs. She slipped into the powder room, closed the door, and leaned against it. The tears came uninhibited now. She didn’t know who she was crying for—herself or Mrs. Brown.
Finally she managed to get control of herself. She splashed some water on her face, powdered her nose and opened the door.
Charlotte Post was standing in the hall. She was wearing jodhpurs, a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and glossy, chestnut-colored leather boots. She smelled strongly of horseflesh, manure and fresh air.
She looked at Elizabeth and tilted her head.
“You’ve been crying.” It was a statement not a question. “Man trouble?” she said without waiting for Elizabeth to reply.
That was part of it, Elizabeth thought. She nodded yes.
“Men are beasts, aren’t they?” Charlotte said, sitting on the bench in the foyer and easing her left boot off. “Of course it was settled that I would eventually marry Billy Stuart even before I came out. But in the meantime…” She waggled her eyebrows at Elizabeth. “The key is to have fun but don’t get too attached. It’s not worth it.”
