A Clean Kill

by Glass, Leslie

  April did not take a seat. She wandered over to the window and gazed out at pedestrians on Lexington Avenue being battered by the rain. Several

  long minutes passed before a prim young woman with a black headband and black-rimmed glasses came in. She was dressed in a navy skirt and white blouse, and wore no jewelry. April thought that with a radical makeover she could be pretty.

  "I've called Miss Anderson. She'll be here in about five minutes," she announced quickly, and turned to leave.

  "I'd like to have a word with you, please," April told her pleasantly.

  "Of course." With a wintry smile, the girl leaned forward in a half bow. "How can I help you?"

  "Let's go into your office where we can talk."

  "We're not authorized to take people into the office. I only have one chair there, and it's not private. I can offer you the parlor."

  "Is the office equipped with surveillance cam-' eras?" Woody said suddenly.

  She nodded. "How can you tell?"

  "In the parlor, too?" he asked.

  "Everywhere. We had an incident last year. The new owners put them in."

  "What kind of incident?" April jumped in.

  "I don't know. You'll have to ask Miss Anderson," she said apologetically.

  "I'd like to see the office, Miss . . . ?" April waited for a name.

  "I'm Josie. Can you wait until Miss Anderson gets here? I could lose my job if I let you in there," she said nervously.

  "No, I'm sorry. We don't have much time."

  "Oh, God." She exchanged worried looks with the woman at the desk, then opened a stout wooden door that led to an old-fashioned bull pen

  where five middle-aged women sat at desks with computers, talking on the phone. They all displayed surprise at seeing visitors.

  Josie pointed at the empty chair on the far end. "That one is mine."

  "Miss Anderson's office?"

  "In there." She pointed to a closed door opposite her desk.

  April nodded. They were going to have to talk to all the women. "Let's go to the parlor," she said.

  When they got there, Woody whistled at the antiques and decorations on the wall. Josie smiled at his reaction, and her face softened. "Josie, how long have you been here?" April asked.

  "A year."

  "Do you like your job?"

  She hesitated. "I need my job," she said softly, trailing her hand along the inlay on the desk.

  "We all need our jobs. Do you get along with Miss Anderson?"

  "She's been very nice to me," Josie said guardedly.

  "I guess you feel loyal to her then."

  "Of course." She glanced at the door longingly as if she wished she were back at her desk.

  "You know that two of your clients have been murdered?"

  She nodded solemnly and looked frightened.

  "Did you know them?"

  "Only from taking phone messages. I don't deal with the clients personally. Is it okay if I sit down? I feel a little sick."

  April waved her hand at the French chairs. "Of course."

  Josie sat in the closest one and hugged her chest. April took the chair near her. "Do you know Miss Anderson's schedule?" she asked.

  Josie shook her head. "She keeps that very confidential."

  "Do you know where she is at the moment?" April asked.

  "No." Josie chewed on the inside of her mouth.

  "Does she call you to let you know when she'll be here?" April asked with a raised eyebrow. "Uh-uh."

  "Does she come in every day?" April was pulling teeth.

  "Absolutely." Josie knew the answer to that one and nodded vigorously.

  "How about yesterday? What time did she come in?" She started doodling.

  "Mmmm. Maybe nine thirty, ten. I'm not sure," Josie said.

  "What about the day before?"

  She looked up at the ceiling, then at April's notebook. "I don't remember," she murmured apologetically.

  "That's okay," April assured her. "Tell me about your job. What do you do here?"

  "I get coffee. I run errands, take messages. I do background checks on new people," she said slowly.

  "Do you get Miss Anderson coffee when she comes in?"

  "Yes, and a muffin."

  "Do you have to go outside for that?" April kept on.

  "We have a coffee machine. I get the muffin on the way here. She's like the queen. She doesn't like to handle money," the girl said with a sudden sparkle.

  April smiled. She didn't like to handle money, either. "You don't note the time when she comes in?"

  "Well, if she's really late, 1 have to make another pot of coffee," Josie said slowly.

  "What about Monday? Was she late then?"

  "Honestly, 1 don't know."

  "You said you take messages. Was there a message from Mrs. Wilson on Monday?"

  "Not that 1 recall, but Miss Anderson can access the voice mail from outside. She sometimes does that early in the morning so she doesn't miss anything important."

  "Did you make a second pot of coffee on Monday?"

  "Probably," she admitted. "She's been coming in late recently."

  "Josie, did you do a background check on Remy Banks and Lynn Papel?" April asked.

  "That 1 do know. 1 don't work on the trouble girls."

  "What are the trouble girls?"

  "Oh, my God." She bit her lip. "I don't know why 1 said that. 1 really don't know what 1 meant. Everybody here is great. We don't have problem people. We don't take them on. That's a rule. Can 1 go now? I'm really sorry." She rose from the chair.

  April's cell phone rang. She picked it up and walked over to the window. "Woo Sanchez," she said.

  "You called last night. I'm calling you back. It's not good news about Alison Perkins."

  "Dr. Gloss, thank you for getting back to me," April said, then quickly, "What's the bad news?"

  "I can't give you a definite COD at this time."

  "What do you mean 'at this time'? Is that something that is likely to change?" April said softly.

  "Look, don't quote me, but there are no clear indicators like contusions on her neck, or a crushed hyoid, to point to strangling. The cause of death was, she stopped breathing. The exact reason an individual stops breathing is not always readily apparent. There can be contributing factors."

  "Like?"

  "She was impaired in some way, intoxicated or drugged."

  "Is that what happened here?"

  "Not exactly. My guess is that she was prevented from breathing. She might have been smothered, but sometimes you can't really tell what happened."

  April was speechless. "But it wasn't a natural death-"

  "No, not considering the position in which she was found, and the fact that she was washed with something like Mr. Clean. We're doing some tests to see what the cleanser was and if it was in the house. But you know in a court of law, you could have a defendant with a motive and even rubber gloves and disinfectant on his hands who you could prove was in the house at the time of death, and his lawyer could claim she was already dead when he cleaned her up. There's no law against washing a dead body."

  "That is bad news. What else did you find?" April stared out of the window.

  "Oh, some deterioration in the nasal passages.

  We don't have the toxicology reports back yet. Her liver was enlarged. She was heading for trouble on that score later on. The big surprise was she was pregnant. You'll want to check with her doctor on that. She may not have known it."

  Once again April was stunned. Alison was pregnant? She wasn't sure about the law in New York State about killing a fetus along with its mother, whether that would be ruled a double homicide. California had changed its statute on that after Laci Peterson's body was found. In any case, Alison's pregnancy raised the stakes for her killer. Three people were gone, not two.

  "That's sad," April said. "I'll bet she didn't know it. I think she was high the day before she died. Dr. Gloss, I'm wondering about something that you said. You're
guessing that she was smothered. What is your reason for supposing that?"

  "Feathers. There was one in her hair and another in her mouth. Check her pillows. And don't ask me about the prelim on either of them. I need a few more days."

  "Thanks, I appreciate the call," April told him.

  "Well, I always enjoy working with you. Let's have lunch someday."

  "As soon as I can keep it down," April murmured.

  "What, are you pregnant, too, kid?"

  "No way, just a touch of the flu," she said, as she watched a large woman in a plastic raincoat run across Lexington, dodging oncoming cars with a kind of bravado not even seasoned New Yorkers attempted very often.

  forty-eight

  At ten, Eloise called Barry Queue on his cellphone to find out what was holding him up with the search warrant.

  "I haven't gotten in yet. I'm waiting for a judge. I'll call you when I've got it," he promised.

  When he hadn't gotten back to her fifteen minutes later, she tried again. This time there was no answer on his phone. She figured he was in with the judge and couldn't pick up. After a debate with herself that lasted only a few seconds, she decided things were quiet enough for her to do a little investigating on her own and left her office to find Charlie. He wasn't at his computer, and she didn't want to wait for him. She rationalized that she shouldn't become too dependent on anyone so soon in a new job. She could take an hour to look around herself and prove she could fill the lieutenant's shoes. She told the secretary that she was going out and could be reached on her cell phone. "I'll be back in an hour," she promised.

  "Where are you going in case the boss asks?"

  "It was the rule to tell. Eloise was on her way out the door, hesitated, then continued as if she hadn't heard the question. It was a big mistake, one of many that she would make that day. When she got outside, the rain had stopped, and the traffic was still backed up. She couldn't tell whether the sky was clearing up or not and considered her options. If she took a car, she might get caught in midtown gridlock for an hour. She could walk a couple of miles across town or take the E train across to Fiftieth and Lex. Since she'd been told to stay put, it didn't seem like a good idea to leave a paper trail by signing a car out. Usually she would have a driver. No one went alone. She had a fleeting thought that she should return for Charlie, and let him sign out the car. But she didn't want to take the time.

  She started walking and forgot about the subway option. A few minutes later she was crossing Broadway and wondering what she thought she was doing. Most of the corners in the city dipped into little valleys that quickly flooded when it rained. Her boots were water-resistant, not waterproof, and she questioned her choice of transportation. But she couldn't let wet feet abort her mission to catch a killer and show everyone in her life who'd ever thought blondes were dumb. By ten thirty she was on Fiftieth Street and First Avenue within sight of the Perkins house. It was easy to pick out because it still had yellow police tapes around it. Exhilarated from the exercise of a power walk across a soggy city, she congratulated herself on making good time. Then she took a moment to let the architecture of the block speak to her.

  The Perkins house had a new facade that screamed modem and filthy rich. In stark contrast, the Anderson brownstone with its original steep stairs leading to a dark second-floor entrance, and spiderweb of cracked muddy-colored exterior, looked ripe for renovation. Eloise walked the block once and tried Barry's cell one more time. He still wasn't picking up. She left a message telling him where she was and to meet her there ASAP. Then she climbed the stairs and rang the bell. She felt woefully unprepared and was sorry about all the things she hadn't asked Jo Ellen Anderson the day before. It had been clear from the look of her, and her manner, that she wasn't married, but did she live alone? Did she have a housekeeper or companion? Eloise breathed a sigh of relief when a woman opened the door almost immediately: young—mid-twenties. Long red hair. She was a very pretty girl.

  "Hi,I'm Sergeant Gelo from the police. Is Miss Anderson at home?" she said.

  "No. She's at work." The girl had a sulky voice and sounded put out at the intrusion.

  "And you're?"

  "I'm Leah. I do the cleaning." Then the sullen look vanished when the girl smiled. "You don't look like a cop."

  Eloise relaxed a little with the familiar response. "What's a cop supposed to look like?"

  "Mean. Do you have a gun?"

  Usually Eloise didn't like it when someone asked about her gun. A cop couldn't be too careful about letting someone get close to his weapon. But it didn't alarm her now. She felt very much in control of the situation. "Leah, do you come here every day?" she asked.

  "No, I live here."

  "Great. I'd like to talk to you a little, and look around."

  Leah hung on to the door. "What are you looking for?" she asked.

  "There was a homicide here yesterday. Didn't you talk to the police about it?"

  "No."

  "You didn't?" Eloise was surprised.

  "No, Miss Anderson told me not to open the door to strangers."

  "You opened the door for me," she pointed out.

  Leah smiled. "Well, you're cute. What do you want to know? I'll talk to you."

  Eloise was used to flirtation. A lot of people were attracted to her—girls, guys, animals. It didn't mean Leah was a lesbian. Although the thought did cross her mind briefly, she wasn't alarmed by it. The girl looked like a lot of young people she knew—slightly disaffected, eccentrically dressed. She was using a man's tie for a belt on her jeans. On top was a man's vest from an old suit. The vest wasn't buttoned, and a watch chain held the two sides together. Under it, her bra showed. On her wrists a number of sparkly bracelets looked like diamonds. They caught Eloise's eye right away.

  "What do you want to know?"

  Eloise didn't answer. She looked into the front hall. It was narrow and dark. Stairs hugged the wall on the right. The only daylight filtered in from somewhere way in the back.

  "Is anyone one here with you?"

  "No," Leah said. "No one ever comes here. Jo Ellen doesn't like visitors."

  "Why not?"

  Leah shrugged. "She's old," she replied as if that was a reason.

  Eloise had a million questions for this girl whom all the other detectives seemed to have overlooked. Maybe she didn't know anything, but maybe she did. Eloise hesitated. She had no way of knowing if the girl was alone, or what she might find in the house. The best idea was to remove her and question her somewhere else. But she didn't have a car to put her in, didn't have backup. She hadn't expected anyone to be here and hadn't thought things through.

  "Come on in. I never get visitors," Leah said, suddenly welcoming. "It's so boring here, and I'm not supposed to leave."

  "Why not?" Right away Eloise was sucked in.

  "Jo Ellen's rules." Leah shrugged again. "We have some cool stuff in here. I bet you'd like to see it."

  Eloise sure would. She wondered where the bracelets came from and thought she could find out a whole lot of things. All her years of training prohibited this kind of solo act, but she wasn't thinking about that now. She checked her cell phone. There were no missed calls. No one was looking for her yet. She'd left a message for Barry to meet her here and figured he'd be there within the hour. What could happen before then?

  "Okay," she said, and entered the house with full confidence that she could handle anything.

  Forty-nine

  You got me out of the bath to come here. What is this about? I already talked to the police." Jo Ellen Anderson stood in the Anderson Agency parlor in wet rubber boots, looking indignantly from one detective to the other.

  April figured that she weighed 180, 190, maybe more. She was a large woman with the kind of straight back and ample figure that earlier generations used to admire. She carried her head way back like some older women did to keep their double chins up and others did out of pride. She was wearing a brown tweed suit and a tan fedora. The raincoat that had cov
ered her outside was gone now. Remembering what Chad had said about a piece of plastic caught in the mop in the Wilson garage, April was eager to take a look at it. The hair prickled on the back of her neck. She had the feeling she was in the presence of a killer.

  "I'm Lieutenant Sanchez," she said, keeping the name simple.

  "Oh, a lieutenant now. We're moving up the ranks," Jo Ellen remarked with a spark of humor. "What can I do for you?"

  "And this is Detective Baum."

  She didn't bother looking at Woody. "Don't tell me someone else is gone," she said as if she knew that wasn't the case.

  "It must be difficult for you to lose two clients in two days," April replied.

  "Of course it is." Jo Ellen flung her hands in the air impatiently. "Two lovely young women, and they were both my friends. It wasn't just business. I talked to them frequently, as I'm sure you know. Better be careful—people spy," she added, indicating with her index finger the small camera that Woody had detected earlier in one corner of the ceiling.

  "Who spies?" April asked.

  "The Hunter people, and I don't like it at all," she scolded as if they were listening at the moment. "They're probably behind all this. I wouldn't be surprised to learn they'd killed my clients just to get me out."

  Just a little paranoia, April thought. "Is Hunter the owner of the agency?"

  "Yes, and it was a hostile takeover, like the Nazis. My aunt was tricked out of it, and I don't care who knows it."

  "How did it happen?" April had learned a long time ago that people had to tell their stories their own way. Tangents were par for the course.

  "They wanted it. Anderson is a name that has ensured quality to four generations of New York's finest," Jo Ellen said.

  April couldn't help noting the irony. "New York's Finest" was the slogan of the NYPD.

  "It was a tragedy. And now this. This is the new corporate thing." She pointed at the camera again, then regally lowered herself onto the throne chair that showed her back to the camera, while she offered April the seat that faced it. April took out her notebook.

  "They can see what people are doing, and hear everything. They say it's for efficiency and training. But I'm wondering, is it legal?" She tilted her head to one side, waiting for an answer.