“You mean outside of his sister,” I correct.
Maggie gives me a puzzled look. “What sister?”
“John’s younger sister, Carol. She was here yesterday. A bit weird if you ask me.”
Maggie puts up a hand. “John was an only child, Hank. He didn’t have a sister.”
I stare heavily past her, my mind racing.
“Don’t you think I would have known if John had any siblings?” she says pointedly.
I blink hard. “But—”
“Hank, someone’s been playing games with you. This woman who claimed to be John’s sister, you said she went by the name of Carol?”
“Right.” I describe her.
Maggie bites her lower lip. “Hank, that sounds like—”
The piercing sound of Hunter’s phone interrupts us. We exchange looks, then I race to retrieve it, but not before the answering machine kicks in, with Hunter’s baritone voice coming alive, back from the dead. I press the stop button and pick up the phone.
“That’s eerie,” my secretary says.
“How come you called on this line?” I ask, confused.
“Hello to you, too, Hank.”
“Sorry, Kate. I just wasn’t expecting you. Or anybody for that matter. Is everything okay?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell phone. Don’t you pick up for me anymore?” she asks, laughing lightly.
I remove my phone from its case, shake my head, then turn it back on.
“You turned if off again, didn’t you?”
“I must be losing it.”
“Anyway, you told me you were going to Hunter’s place.”
“Oh, right.”
“Norman called and apologized for not getting back sooner, but he was in Riverhead and just picked up his messages. He said he remembered having one rider fitting Carol Hunter’s description, only he didn’t pick her up at Hunter’s house. She wanted him to pick her up on the corner of Sound and Tulip and then drop her off at the Saint James railroad station.”
I scratch my neck. “Strange place to be picked up. And dropped off. Did she say why?”
“Only that she was meeting a friend at the train station.”
“You’d think her friend would have picked her up in Eastpoint. It’s closer.” I stop. “Of course, she probably wanted to stay as far away from Eastpoint as possible,” I correct myself. “Did she tell Norman where she was heading after that?”
“No, and he was glad to get rid of her. He said she kept babbling to herself.”
“Sounds like Charlie’s experience with her.” I glance over at Maggie, who appears to be engaged in Hunter’s book collection. I whisper into the phone, “Did he mention anything about her carrying something with her?”
Kate snorts. “You mean like a painting?”
“Maybe.”
“Can you just imagine?”
“In her mental state, nothing would surprise me.”
“Testy, aren’t we, boss? Must be that love tap she gave you. Anyway, I asked Norman the same question. He said she wasn’t carrying anything other than a handbag.”
“What time did he pick her up?”
“Around one.”
I nod into the phone. “That sounds about right. Give Mick Reynolds from the hundred and ninth precinct in Queens a call and ask him to check out a Carol Warner in his database. All boroughs and the surrounding areas. Tell him I owe him one.”
“Gotcha. You coming back soon?”
“In a while, why?”
“Peter Hopkins has been looking for you.”
“Peter? Did he say what he wanted?”
“No, but he’s very upset.”
I sigh. “Okay, I’ll be back in the hour.”
I hang up and am about to remove the tape from the machine, but instead, I rewind it and press the play button, then wait for the one and only message to end.
Maggie and I exchange looks. “Who was that?” she asks.
I shrug. “Not sure. I’ll take it back to the station and see if anyone recognizes the voice.”
“She sounded desperate,” Maggie says. “Scary desperate.”
I nod, but let it go.
Hunter’s living room suddenly becomes uncomfortably quiet. “I better get back to the office,” I tell Maggie.
She nods and starts for the door. I follow Maggie outside, my lungs filling up with fresh Long Island air.
Somehow, with all of my problems, Eastpoint’s brisk autumn weather never felt so good.
Nine
Inside the stationhouse, I find Kate alone, sitting at her desk painting her fingernails. She glances up, fans a hand at me, and says, “You like?”
I steady her hand to get a better look. I’m in a better place now that my recent discovery at Hunter’s house might bring me closer to his killer. Or maybe my good mood is from being around Maggie. I pay Kate a rare compliment, tell her she looks great in any color. Then I quickly add, “Why the new shade?”
“I got tired of pink,” she says, pulling her hand back. “You know me, always trying something new. It’s called fire-engine red.”
“Let me guess. You have a date with one of our volunteer firemen.”
“Actually, I might have had a date if he hadn’t died,” she says, working on another nail. She glances up and gives me a wily look. “Or should I say, been murdered.”
I frown. “I think you’ve been sniffing too much of that polish.”
While Kate is finishing her pinky, she points out that her torso is missing from Hunter’s collection.
I grab her wrist lightly. “Wayne was supposed to lock them up in my closet.”
She motions to my office. “They’re in there, all right. You don’t think the Gestapo would give me a peek, do you?”
“Then?” I ask, taking the bait. “How did you find out?”
Kate’s wolfish grin is followed by an admission. “Wayne likes the way I make coffee. He said I was spared.” She then turns serious. “It doesn’t look good, does it? I mean, this town wasn’t meant to have another scandal.”
The biggest scandal to hit Eastpoint before Hunter was when Kate’s ex ran off with a young woman from a nearby town.
“We’ll get through it,” I say encouragingly. But Kate is right. If I don’t find Hunter’s killer, and soon, a number of husbands are going to be lining up to piss on his grave.
She nods, but her expression belies my confidence. “You think the paintings are connected to the murder, don’t you?”
I shrug. “I’d rather not speculate.”
“That means yes. How many women are we talking about?”
I hold up six fingers.
“That’s half the town,” she says, trying to make light of the situation.
“Of course, I’m hoping Hunter’s killer was an outsider.”
Kate motions to my head. “You mean like Hunter’s sister?”
“Yeah, only Hunter didn’t have a sister.”
Kate leans back in her black swivel task chair. “You want to help me here, boss.”
I give Kate a stern look. “Okay, but don’t spread this around. The woman we met at Hunter’s house was an impostor. Her real name is Carol Warner. And according to Hunter’s ex, he was an only child.”
Kate raises a brow.
I leave my secretary pondering that revelation. At least that will take her mind off her new fire-engine-red nail polish.
A large envelope from the medical examiner’s office is waiting for me on top of my desk. I pick it up, hold it in my hands as though weighing it. I’m about to tear open one end and read the revised autopsy report when a faint knock on my door causes me to stop.
“It’s open,” I call out.
Peter Hopkins opens the door, peers at me with anxious eyes. He doesn’t bother to enter.
Peter, one of Eastpoint’s elder statesmen and a good family friend, is wearing a haggard expression. I suspect the reason for his visit has to do with one of Hunter’s paintings. I feel his pain, but play innocent
and beckon him in. “Peter, what brings you out of the store at this hour?”
He struggles toward me without answering.
Peter Hopkins is not only a good friend; he is also Eastpoint’s druggist, who has kept Susan’s antidepressant medication a secret, so I owe him. Only I was hoping my friendly druggist wasn’t looking for payback today.
Peter’s breathing is labored. “Hank,” he says in a tone more formal than usual. He stops at my desk, his hands leaning on it for support. His sullen expression begs to be relieved of his burden.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, as though Peter is about to ask me to fix a parking ticket.
He clears his throat. “There’s talk.”
“What kind of talk?” I ask, throwing the burden back on him.
He clears his throat again, swallows hard. “Come on, Hank, don’t make this any harder on me. It’s all over town.”
I sigh. “If you’re referring to the evidence we found at Hunter’s place,” I say, my head tilting toward my closet. “I locked them up.”
He points a gnarled finger at me. “Is that what you call that crap, Hank? Evidence?”
This is not going to be a friendly visit.
Peter slips his arthritic hand in his pocket. “How much?”
I watch him pull out a wad of bills. “Come on, Peter, let’s not go there.”
He gazes at the bribe money, then shoves it back in his pocket. He averts his eyes. “For chrissake, Hank, my marriage is already destroyed.” He stops, faces me tentatively. “Please don’t humiliate me.”
I drop the report on my desk, walk around it, and place a friendly arm on his shoulder. “Peter, I understand your concern. I’ll try—”
“You don’t know what’s it’s like,” he snaps, shaking my arm off with effort. “She’s a slut!”
I wince, cross the room, and shut the door. “Don’t you think I want those paintings destroyed?” I say, returning to him. “I can’t do that right now.”
Hopkins glares. “You owe me, Hank.”
I lower my eyes a moment. “I know, Peter, and I appreciate your friendship.”
“The town is not happy about this,” he threatens.
I throw my hands up. “Jesus, Peter, we just found them.”
He snorts. “Don’t be so foolish, Hank. You know we’re all connected. Nothing gets past us.” He pauses. “Except deep secrets between friends.”
I squeeze my eyelids. Personal fear overrides everything. And this town has been insulated from fear; it is foreign to us. I explain my position to Peter, reminding him that he and the others townspeople elected me to uphold the law.
“We’re all victims, goddammit! That bastard was an auslander.”
“I realize that, Peter, but the law requires an investigation. The killer could be one of us.”
He waves a hand. “Who cares? He’s dead. Let it be suicide.”
“We’re not dead, Peter,” I say, attempting to tap into his moral compass.
He shakes his head in disgust. “What do those fucking paintings have to do with anything?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But I have to follow through on all the participants.” I pause. “Look, Peter, I don’t like this any more than you do. Those women are friends of mine, too.”
Peter finally broaches the real reason for his visit. “So you think Jackie might have killed him?”
I’ve been waiting for the question, and I admit that every woman Hunter painted is a suspect at this point until I get alibis.
“You’re crazy, Hank. You know that? We’ll be laughed out of this town.” He points a finger at my chest. “You wouldn’t be doing this if Susan’s tits were gonna be displayed in public.”
I attempt to assuage Peter, tell him that when I find Hunter’s killer, those paintings will be history.
He shakes his head. “Why don’t I believe you, Hank?”
I’m getting nowhere with Peter, and so I change the subject, become more the interrogator. “Did Hunter come to you for Halcion?”
Peter evidently doesn’t care for my line of questioning and gazes out the window without saying a word.
I ask again. “Did Hunter ever ask you to fill a prescription for sedatives?”
His gaze returns indoors, searches the floor. “I don’t remember, why?”
Peter might be old and frail, but he still possesses a great mind. He’s evading my question, testing me, and with good reason.
I press. “Come on, Peter, Hunter got sleeping pills from somewhere. And you own the only pharmacy in town.”
Peter has had time to mull over my question. He must know I’m only speculating. He finally says, “He could have gotten the prescription anywhere. Did you check the store label?”
He knows I must have looked, and therefore knows I wouldn’t be asking him if there was a label on the vial. I take another, more sensitive approach. “What about Jackie? Maybe she—”
“Sleeping pills didn’t kill the bastard!” he roars, his tired, aging jaw jutting aggressively.
Christ, the autopsy report must have been published in Newsday. I backpedal slightly, not wanting to admit that Hunter most likely died from poisoned bourbon. Instead, I tell him that the sleeping pills might have been tainted.
Peter shrugs. “What can I say, Hank? I can’t help you.”
I try another angle. “What about you, Peter? Do you have an alibi?”
He sneers. “Jackie and I were together all night. Ask her.”
“I will.”
Peter looks as though he’s about to have a coronary. “Whatever makes you happy, Hank. If you’re not going to arrest me, I’m leaving.”
I don’t need to give him permission, so Peter turns, trudges toward the door. When his hand reaches for the doorknob, he stops. “I thought we were friends,” he says with resignation, not looking back, and then disappears.
I grab the phone and dial Jackie, hoping she’s sober.
“Hello?” Her voice is faint, but at least she’s home.
“Jackie,” I say casually. “It’s Hank.”
“Oh, hi. Looking for Peter?” she slurs.
I turn toward the window. “No. I need to ask you a few questions.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“Where did Hunter get Halcion?”
More silence.
“Jackie?”
“What’s that, Hank?”
I watch Peter walking back to his store. “Sleeping pills. Did you provide him with any?”
Silence.
“Jackie?”
“Gee, Hank, Peter’s not here.”
“I’m asking you, goddammit! Did you supply Hunter with pills?”
I imagine Jackie staring at a wall or the tube, but she’s not with me. “I don’t understand why you’re asking me that, Hank.”
“We found the paintings, Jackie.”
She manages to say, “Do I need a lawyer, Hank?”
“You need to tell me what happened. Look, I know you and Hunter were lovers.”
She whispers something unintelligible into the phone.
“Six months ago?” I say, grasping her meaning. “Where were you the night he was killed?”
“Hank, I don’t feel so good. I gotta go.”
“Stay with me, Jackie…”
The phone goes dead.
Ten
There is a refreshing charm in the air as Maggie and I drive through the heart of Long Island City, its streets lined with cobblestones. We pass a row of prewar buildings, fire escapes attached to the front, and mom-and-pop stores, which seem to thrive despite the Walmarts of this world. Long Island City is an urban community where kids can still play stickball in the street.
Long Island City also has the advantage of sitting across from Manhattan, divided from it only by the East River. The million-dollar view is relatively cheap and the rewards plentiful. Though there are a number of factories and smokestacks scattered unevenly about, the City’s beauty lies within. Long I
sland City became the first town in Queens leading out of Manhattan, a place where early-twentieth-century immigrants lived and worked and where their children and grandchildren still reside.
Maggie has been sharing history with me, and I’m captivated by her presence, though I am completely out of my element. I haven’t been this close to the Big Apple since Susan and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. Great weekend; too many people.
But here I am, feeling comfortable and away from my troubles, if only for a few hours. The air is crisp. Manhattan’s skyline glistens and is within reach. Sitting next to a beautiful woman doesn’t hurt either.
We arrive at the City Storage Company warehouse, its perimeter wrapped in barbed wire, and are met by a guard at the front gate, who studies my shield and asks a few questions. I hand him the legal documents he requests, which he compares to some computer-generated printout. Satisfied, he directs me to the main building.
Inside the drab, quiet facility, a red arrow sitting on top of a pole directs us to a hallway, which Maggie and I follow until we reach a guy sitting back in a chair, his face stuffed inside the Post. “Prompt,” he says, not bothering to look up.
Maggie and I exchange glances.
He lifts his eyes over the paper, studies me, then Maggie, staying a little longer on Maggie.
“Evening,” I wave.
When the guy drops the paper, I notice he’s wearing a nametag on a dark green plaid shirt that reads, “Hi, I’m George Garis.”
He catches me studying his tag and motions us to follow him.
“Friendly guy,” I whisper to Maggie.
She giggles.
Garis, who is walking with a slight limp, stops in front of a door on the far side of the warehouse. He shoves a hand in his pocket and removes a key. “That’s it.” He motions with his nose and drops the key in my hand. “I’ll take it on the way out.”
“Hey,” I call as he leaves. “Don’t you wanna see some ID?”
He waves me off without turning. “The guard already told me you were coming.” Then he disappears.
“Must be the evening shift.”
Maggie giggles again, but this time I sense a slight apprehension in her voice.
Hunter’s storage area is no bigger than a large walk-in closet. I locate the light switch and flip it on, look around. Except for a small metal chair squeezed between two metal cabinets, the room is bare. Then again, it wasn’t meant to be lived in.
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 7