“Stabbed? Yeah, right. Imagine what happens when he stubs his toe.”
“Bet he really screams bloody murder.”
Bloody murder.
Across the street, a grimy-looking man exits Margaret’s building. Platinum hair cut in a gravity-defying shag, he looks like Billy Idol, in black leather, chains, and eye makeup.
Red steps out of the shadows and crosses the street.
The man has paused to light a cigarette. He looks up warily from the lighter.
“Do you live there?” Red asks.
“Why?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
Silent, the guy blows a smokescreen between them.
“Margaret Costello. Do you know her?”
“No.”
“How about Peggy?” That’s the name Margaret uses sometimes.
“How come?”
“Is she here?”
“You a cop? Because—”
“I’m not a cop.” Red pulls out folded bills. “I owe her some money.”
“She’s not here. I’ll give it to her.”
“I don’t think so. Know where I can find her?”
“Not anytime soon.”
“How do you know that?”
The guy hesitates and looks at the cash. “Fifty bucks, and I’ll tell you.”
Red shrugs, peels off a bill, and hands it over.
Another pause. The money came so easily he clearly wishes he’d asked for more.
“Come on, I don’t have all day.” Red thrusts another of Wayland’s fifties into the guy’s hand to speed things along. “Where’s Peggy?”
The extra cash does the trick. “There was a Tompkins Square sweep overnight. They grabbed her with a bunch of other people. She’s in jail.”
As far as Barnes can tell, nearly all the tip line callers are either nutjobs or people who, upon further questioning, have zero helpful information about Perry Wayland. Some are well-meaning; most, money-hungry.
Predictably, no one reported seeing Wayland jump from the bridge, but a number of witnesses said they’d passed the Mercedes pulled off in the right-hand lane on the bridge before roadside assistance arrived on the scene. Most said it was empty, though a few thought they’d seen a driver silhouetted behind the wheel and assumed he was waiting for a tow truck.
A truck driver, however, claimed to have seen Wayland get out of the car and climb onto the northern walkway now open to cyclists. He said he’d broadcast it on his CB radio—a heads-up to truckers behind him. A broken-down car on a bridge means delays.
“I just can’t believe someone with a fear of heights would walk along that open span a couple hundred feet above the water,” Barnes tells Stef. “I think someone followed him across and he got into her car. If we find her, I bet we find Wayland.”
“Miss White, right? Only no one saw a second car pull up.”
“True. But someone at the plaza in Fort Lee would probably have noticed a guy coming off the bridge, and no one saw that, either. He didn’t evaporate.”
“Wayland seem like a Jersey guy to you, though? What if he walked back to Manhattan? And when he climbed down that stairway, he ran into our friend Popper, who tried to mug him, and . . .” Stef points an imaginary gun and makes a shooting sound.
“Wayland seem like a badass vigilante to you?”
“No,” Stef admits.
“He had an accomplice. That make sense. Look at this picture. See the way he’s staring at her?”
“Who wouldn’t be? She looks like a brunette Brigitte Bardot. That doesn’t mean she’s Miss White.”
“See, here’s the thing about that. We know Wayland and Miss White go way back. Far enough to have seen Deep Throat together, anyway. That movie came out in 1972. Which is when this photo was taken. So the timing is right, and—”
“That doesn’t mean this random girl in the background is Miss White, kid. Just because he’s looking at her—”
“No, let me finish. It’s the way he’s looking at her. And the way she knows it. She seems . . . I don’t know . . . smug. Like she’s the one in control. Like she knows she has him whipped.”
“If anyone has him whipped, it’s his wife.”
Barnes shakes his head. “Not like this. Look at his body language. He’s stiff, turned away from Kirstie. Turned toward the fine woman in the purple coat. See?”
Stef looks it over. “I do. Maybe you’re right.”
“My gut says I am. I just faxed the photo over to someone who might be able to ID her.”
“Who’s that?”
“Friend of Marsha’s who works at Sloan Kettering. She went to Brown around the same time as the Waylands. How about you?”
“Me? I didn’t go to Brown. I’m a Harvard man.”
“Hardy-har-har-Harvard.” He points at the manila envelope in Stef’s hand. “I meant, what’d you find out about the girls?”
“I got addresses and phone numbers for Christina Myers and Bernadette DiMeo. They’re both local. Still looking for Margaret Costello.”
“What about their kids?”
“DiMeo never had one. Lost it before it was born. Christina Myers gave up hers for adoption. Margaret Costello was photographed leaving the hospital with a newborn in ’69, but who knows what happened to her?”
“Margaret, or the baby?”
“Both. There’s not a whole lot of—” He breaks off as the phone rings on Barnes’s desk. “Get that, kid. I’ll go back to digging around at Records.”
He walks off to track down more information about the Butcher’s victims and their offspring as Barnes answers the phone. It’s Marsha’s friend Andrea.
“Oh, hey, thanks for calling. I faxed over that photo a few minutes ag—”
“I know, I got it.”
Ah, modern technology. “That was fast. Did you recognize—”
“I’m working, so I can’t really talk right now. I just wanted to let you know that I definitely recognize the girl in the purple coat. I’m off in an hour if you want to meet so that I can tell you what I know.”
“Yeah, I can come right up to the hospital.” Barnes grabs a pad and pen. “You’re at York and what?”
“Sixty-Seventh Street. I’ll meet you outside by the main entrance. For now, let me give you her name so that you can start looking into it.”
“I’d appreciate that. What is it?”
In the background, someone is talking to Andrea. “I know, I am,” she tells whoever it is, and then, “Gypsy Colt.”
Barnes taps the pen anxiously, waiting for her to finish the other conversation.
“Hello?” she says.
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Okay, I have to go, so—”
“Wait, you said you’d give me the name?”
“I just did. Gypsy Colt.”
“Oh! I thought you were talking to . . . Never mind. So, the name is Gypsy . . .” He writes it down. “Did you say Colt?”
“Yes, it’s—” Again, the background voice. “I know! I’m coming right now! Stockton, I really do have to run. I’ll see you in an hour.”
With a click, she’s gone.
Barnes reexamines the photograph of the woman in the purple coat. He’s not surprised she’d have a crazy hippie name.
Gypsy Colt.
She might look like a gypsy, with her exotic beauty and colorful clothing, but if Colt is after the weapon, it doesn’t fit the era’s peace and love vibe.
“Who was that, kid?”
He looks up to see Stef standing over him. “Marsha’s girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend? So Marsha really is one of those, uh . . .”
Barnes remains silent.
“Never mind,” Stef mutters. “What’d she tell you?”
“I got a name for her.” He points to the girl in the picture. “But it can’t be her real one. It’s Gypsy Colt.”
“Like the movie?”
“Movie?”
“Yeah, called Gypsy Colt. Judy dragged me to it
when we were dating. I told you she was a nut over Westerns.”
“So this was when, back in the fifties?”
“Fifty-four. We met at a New Year’s Eve party. Judy was pregnant with Frankie Junior by the Fourth of July, we got married two months later. Want to know what I did on my wedding night?”
“I’m sure I can guess.”
“I’m sure you can’t. We listened to the last episode of the Lone Ranger.”
“You mean watched?”
“No, the radio series. We couldn’t afford a TV till the sixties. So there we were, parked outside a motel in Niagara Falls with the radio on, and my bride was more interested in riding a fake horse than—”
“Horse!”
“Silver.” Stef nods. “‘Hi-yo, Silver, away’—that’s what the Lone Ranger used to—”
“No, I know, I mean . . . you’re saying Gypsy Colt—the movie—it’s a Western? So there’s a horse in it?”
“What, are you kidding me? In the movie, Gypsy Colt is a horse. That’s its name. What—oh.” His eyes widen. He, too, remembers the slight anomaly Barnes filed away as a potential clue.
“Exactly, Stef. Perry Wayland has a horse tattoo.”
Nothing Amelia has ever experienced can compare to this glorious afternoon. For the rest of her life, she will remember riding along in a fast car with a girl her own age at the wheel, wind blowing their hair through the open windows, music blasting, singing about how they still haven’t found what they’re looking for.
Except maybe Amelia has. Part of it, anyway.
Jessie has driven her around town and well beyond, along the inclined shore of the boat-dotted lake. They cruised past a couple of stately looking fraternity houses in Cayuga Heights, where Jessie claims to have “partied,” and back down through Collegetown, a neighborhood filled with bars and restaurants.
Now they’re on Cornell’s stately campus. Jessie parks by a large brick building called Stocking Hall and takes her inside to the Dairy Bar, run by the Agriculture School and Food Sciences Department.
Treating Amelia to surprisingly affordable—and generously portioned—ice cream, she promises that it’s going to be the best she’s ever tasted. “There’s nothing better in the world. You’ll see.”
“Isn’t chocolate ice cream, chocolate ice cream?”
“Not here.”
No, not here. Never has Amelia tasted such rich, creamy decadence.
“Wow, you were right. Why is it so good?”
Jessie smiles. “I’m always right. Everything is fresh. They have their own cows, and the students come up with the flavors. They’re always changing.”
Licking their cones, they stroll along walkways and broad greens. Jessie points out the stone building on the Arts Quadrangle where both her parents have offices and the brick one that’s home to Silas Moss and the lab. Amelia doesn’t want to think about why she’s here, or what lies ahead, or behind her. She doesn’t want to wonder whether Marceline LeBlanc—or maybe her ghost?—might be lurking nearby. The scenarios strike her as equally preposterous, leaving only the unsettling possibility that even though she made up for some lost sleep on that long bus ride, she’s seeing things, imagining things.
“Hey, Jessie . . . is Ithaca College around here?”
“Of course! It’s Ithaca, isn’t it? You want to see it?”
She hesitates. “Yes.”
They’re off again, driving back through town, past the Commons, a blocks-long brick-paved pedestrian mall along State Street, and south along Route 96 to another campus. This one is more compact but equally scenic, tucked on South Hill overlooking the town and the lake beyond. There’s no need to talk in the car with the music blasting at top volume, but when they reach campus, Amelia reaches out to turn it down.
“Hey! This is our song!”
“Sorry, I know, I just wanted to tell you something. I wanted to study music and theater here, and they admitted me, but . . . my mother said no.”
Jessie’s response is a predictable, “That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
“But it’s not too late. Transfer here next semester. It’s not like she can stop you anymore.”
“My father can.”
“You’re eighteen, right?”
“Nineteen. I think. For all I know, I’m twenty.”
“Then you can do whatever you want.”
“Legally, maybe, but I’m so broke I can barely afford a bus ticket home.”
“So you’ll get loans, scholarships, a job . . . that’s what people do.”
It’s what Amelia has done.
She doesn’t argue when Jessie suggests they check out the Admissions Open House that’s going on today. They find a parking spot up by the football stadium and fall into step behind a student-led campus tour. Noticing them, the handsome young guide introduces himself as Brody.
“I’m Jessie, and this is Mimi.”
“Are you guys prospective students?”
“Mimi is.”
“That’s great. What are you planning to study?”
“Um . . . well . . . musical theater, maybe, but . . .”
“That’s great. The performing arts building is our next stop.”
It’s impressive. Amelia can almost see herself on that stage, or singing scales in one of the practice rooms. Not that it’s going to happen. But it’s fun to imagine.
From there, they move on to see the landmark fountains, the new campus center that opened just two weeks ago, and the apartment-style residence hall now under construction.
Amelia thinks of her chaotic daily commute from Harlem to Hunter. What would it be like to meander instead from a brick dormitory across the tree-lined green to class in one of these modern academic buildings?
The tour winds back toward the admissions building, and Brody says they’ll all go inside for hot cider and more information.
“Time to go,” Amelia whispers to Jessie.
“No way! You can find out about transferring in January.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to do that,” she hisses.
“Yes, you did.”
“No, you said that I could, and I was just agreeing with you. It doesn’t mean—”
“It can’t hurt to just see what your options are.”
Amelia wants to tell her that in this life, everything can hurt. That she has no options. That she has to go back home, back to her sad, unsatisfying life.
I still . . . haven’t found . . . what I’m looking for.
The song echoes in her head, and rich, sweet ice cream lingers on her tongue. Maybe Jessie is right about this, too.
Waiting outside Memorial Sloan Kettering hospital, Barnes watches a man help a feeble woman from a wheelchair into a cab at the curb. He’s wearing a tan Burberry trench coat that whips in the chilly breeze; she’s bundled in a coat and blanket and wearing a head scarf. At a glance Barnes mistook them for mother and son, but he now sees that they’re a couple, probably in their thirties. Her withered frame is ravaged by disease, sunken face devoid of brows and lashes and emotion.
“I’m not young,” Wash had said. “There are plenty of tragedies in this world” . . .
They’re playing out here at York Avenue and Sixty-Seventh Street—people fighting for their lives, or worse, for their children’s. How do they bear it?
“Detective Barnes?”
He looks up to see a slender, attractive woman pushing through the glass doors. Her shoulder-length blond hair is permed, with a puff of bangs teased high above a pretty face. She’s wearing a jean jacket over scrubs and white Nikes—regular ones, not hundred-dollar Air Max.
“Sorry I’m late. I can never get out of here on time. And sorry I’m eating in front of you,” she adds, taking a bite of an apple, “but this is breakfast and lunch, and I’m starved. Do you mind walking and talking? I have to get home to the dog or—”
“He’ll eat a shoe? Poop on the bed?”
“I see you’ve met Krypto.”
“Not in
person, but Marsha talks about him all the time. You, too. You, more,” he adds, as they head toward the uptown corner.
“I never know what she tells anyone at work. We try to be discreet about our personal lives, because people can be . . . intolerant.”
“It’s nobody’s business who anyone goes home to.”
What if someone—say, his daughter, and her mother—were to move in with Barnes? Not as a family, of course, because a family consists of a married man and woman and their children. A family isn’t, say, two women and an enormous dog, or a man and a woman he once slept with and her—their—baby. But what if he lets Delia stay with him, instead of with her friend? Just while they figure out how to go forward as . . . some kind of cozy, untraditional, non-family?
No. No way. It’s a bad idea. Head back in the game, Barnes.
He hands Andrea the original photo. She stops walking to examine it.
“Wow. There’s a blast from the past. I haven’t seen her since I graduated in ’72.”
“Kind of unusual that in a school that size, a senior would remember a freshman.”
“She seemed older. Older than me. Older than everyone.” She hands back the photo, and they resume their uptown stride. “Trust me, she was pretty unforgettable.”
“Because she was so beautiful?”
“A lot of people are beautiful in one way or another, right? I mean, beauty is subjective. But Gypsy had a worldly way about her. This larger-than-life magnetism that made her . . .”
“Popular.”
She shakes her head. “Memorable. Like I said. I mean, cheerleaders are popular, the girls who are class officers and in all the clubs. She wasn’t any of those things. Not like them. Not wholesome, or cliquish . . . she’d wander, always on the fringes.”
“Wander. Like a gypsy.”
“Exactly.”
“So it’s a nickname? Not her real name?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where was she from?”
“Somewhere down this way, I think—New York, New Jersey, maybe. I didn’t know her very well. We hung out one night. It was . . .”
“Memorable?”
“Very.” She smiles and takes a bite of her apple.
“When you say she wasn’t wholesome, do you mean she got into trouble?”
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