by Joy Fielding
“Why not?” Gail’s voice was terse, anxious.
“Too many differences,” Lieutenant Cole explained, enumerating the details of this latest murder. “Veronica MacInnes was a grown woman; she was shot, not strangled …”
“She was raped …”
“Men who rape children rarely rape women old enough to have them.”
“But it could be …”
“Gail,” Richard Cole said steadily, “it isn’t.”
Gail lowered the phone to her chest and looked toward her kitchen door. “What happens now?” she asked, suddenly bringing the phone back to her mouth.
There was a pause. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
‘“Do you know who killed this woman?”
“Not yet. We have—”
“I know, you have several leads.”
“Gail …”
“What happens to Cindy’s case now?”
“We’re still working on your daughter’s case.”
“Veronica MacInnes was the wife of a prominent man, a very rich man. Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t got all your men out searching for her killer?”
“That doesn’t mean we aren’t still searching for the man who murdered your daughter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
Gail was about to argue, thought better of it and said nothing. There was no point in further discussion. She understood the facts even if Lieutenant Cole was unable to admit them, and the sad fact was that her daughter was old news. The police would concentrate their attention on a case they still had a chance to solve. The hunt for Cindy’s killer would be abandoned. Whatever undercover men were still wandering the streets of New Jersey would undoubtedly be sent elsewhere, where their time could be spent more productively.
She was about to hang up the phone when Lieutenant Cole’s voice caught her off guard. “What did you say?” she asked quickly.
“I asked you where you’ve been the past month,” he repeated.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve called many times and you’re never home. I just wondered what you’ve been doing with yourself.”
Gail tried to clear her throat and wound up coughing into the receiver. “I’ve been in and out,” she finally sputtered nervously. “Nowhere in particular.”
“‘Feeling all right?”
“Fine,” Gail answered, anxious now to get off the phone.
As she replaced the receiver, she knew she had reached yet another plateau. It was time to press forward, to act on the next phase of her plan.
She had been watching a number of rooming houses for the past several weeks, making mental notes of the various inhabitants, keeping a careful check on who went in and out.
It was time now for her to move inside, to join them.
She had been delaying such an action, hoping the police would discover something.
They had, Gail laughed with bitter irony as she got behind the wheel of her car and pulled out of her driveway.
Another body.
Johnson Avenue was a narrow, uninteresting street that ran perpendicular to Broad Street. It was lined on either side by run-down brick houses, their wood trim in need of paint, their front steps cracked and uneven, covered with the leaves of autumn, which no one had bothered to rake up.
Gail chose this street over several of the others because it seemed the most nondescript. It wasn’t the best such street, nor was it the worst. She had followed several young men here, always trailing half a block behind, her face concealed inside the upturned collar of her fall coat.
Once she had caught a fleeting glimpse of herself in a store window as she turned the comer, collar up, head down, shoulders slumped, feet shuffling forward, and she had almost laughed out loud. After that she had toned down the stereotype somewhat, careful not to let herself drift into caricature, making herself as real and therefore as invisible as the others who wandered these streets. It wasn’t difficult. In many ways she felt she was truly one of them—alone, angry, desperate. There were days she felt more at home on these avenues than on the streets around Tarlton Drive. At least here she knew the dangers. Back in Livingston, in the comfortable upper-middle-class section called Cherry Hill where she lived, there weren’t supposed to be any dangers.
The killer was somewhere in these streets, she felt sure, in one of these old, worn-out houses, hiding himself from the world. But not from her. And not for much longer.
She chose No. 17 because it appealed to her in some strange way. Looking past its chipped paint and collapsing eaves trough, Gail could almost imagine what it had looked like a long time ago—straight, sturdy and even warm. She had watched at least one slender, fair-haired youth pass through its front door, and several others whose vital statistics could be stretched to accommodate the description of the man she was seeking. Hair could be dyed, after all. Beards and mustaches could be grown. Pounds could be added. Heads could be shaved.
The sign in the front window proclaimed a vacancy.
Rooms could be rented by the day, week or month. “I’d like a room,” Gail told the woman peeking out from behind the first door downstairs.
“For how long?” the woman asked, keeping a growling Doberman at bay with her slippered foot.
“I’m not sure,” Gail answered, thinking that she would probably move on to another house in a week’s time if she should find nothing here.
“Pay by the night then. Cash in advance,” the woman told her, and Gail saw a cigarette dangling from the woman’s fingers. “Get in there, Rebecca,” she snarled at the dog, who instantly backed off. Gail thought the name Rebecca an odd one for a Doberman.
“How much?” Gail asked, wondering if the woman had chosen the dog’s name for its irony. This was certainly no Sunnybrook Farm.
“Fifteen dollars a night,” the woman said.
“Fifteen dollars a night?” Gail repeated, searching through her coat pocket for fifteen dollars. “That’s a lot.”
“‘You might find cheaper down the road,” the woman told her, “but it won’t be as nice. Fifteen dollars a night. Take it or leave it. I haven’t got all day to waste talking. My soaps are on.”
Gail wondered what soaps the woman watched but didn’t ask. “That’s fine,” Gail said, handing the lady the fifteen dollars, which she promptly counted.
“I’ll get the keys,” the woman said.
As the landlady led her up the stairs, Gail noticed stains along the otherwise blank wall that appeared to be blood. “What are these stains?” she asked.
The woman’s eyes followed Gail’s fingers to the ugly faded maroon streaks. “I have no idea,” she said, as if she could barely be bothered answering the question.
“It looks like blood.”
The woman smiled for the first time since Gail had knocked at her door. “Yeah, it could very well be.”
Gail preferred not to think how blood might have gotten there, and gave her attention to the woman’s legs as she preceded Gail up the second full flight of stairs. The woman was more than just thin; she was anorexic, her thighs the size of wrists underneath her dirty slacks. Oddly enough, her hair was immaculately coiffed, cleaned and curled, and her nails were carefully and expertly manicured and polished a bright, vibrant red.
“Are all the rooms filled now?” Gail asked when they came to a stop outside a locked door, the landlady jiggling the key in the keyhole.
“Got one more,” the woman said, pushing the door open, and handing Gail the key. “There it is. Well?”
“Well?” Gail asked, not sure what the question meant.
“Are you going in or what?”
“I’m going in,” Gail told her. “It’s very nice.”
“You can get cheaper down the road,” the woman told her again, “but it wouldn’t be as nice. I try to keep the place as neat as I can. I only ask a few things from you—no loud noise after midnight, no smoking in bed, don’t want to burn the place do
wn, and no drugs or drinking in the halls. I don’t care what you do in the privacy of your room except that this ain’t no brothel. That’s the word, isn’t it? You know, whorehouse. You can have guys and all that. Just don’t make it too obvious.”
“There won’t be any guys.”
The woman regarded her strangely. “No? Well, that’s your business. I just don’t want any hassles from the police, you know what I mean.”
“Well, I don’t drink, and I don’t smoke, and I don’t take drugs,” Gail started, but the woman was already halfway down the first flight of steps. “Don’t you want to know my name?” Gail called after her.
“What for?” the woman asked without looking back. Gail noticed a trail of ashes along the floor from the woman’s cigarette. She stood for a few seconds in the empty hallway and then went inside her room.
The room was no better than she had expected. The walls were several shades of green or possibly yellow, and the floor was bare wood. At least it was clean, Gail thought with a sense of relief. There was only the most minimal furniture: a double bed in the middle of the room, covered with a cheap, blue-flowered bedspread; a multicolored overstuffed chair whose stuffing had long since vanished; a cheap lamp on a cheaper plastic table; a chest of drawers.
Gail sat down on the middle of the bed and felt with surprise that it was firm. Not that it mattered; she wouldn’t be sleeping on it. She felt a sudden stab of panic, the room closing in around her, and she hurried to the window behind the chair. It was a small window, covered with the flimsiest of blue curtains, and it looked onto a dreary back alley. Gail felt cut off, isolated from the street, from her routine. How could she hope to find anyone behind these unfriendly doors?
She felt queasy and almost fell against the small table trying to find the bathroom. She needed a toilet. Where was the bathroom?
“Where’s the bathroom?” she asked the landlady after she had gone downstairs again.
The landlady peered out from behind her door.
“Oh, didn’t I show you? It’s down at the end of your hall. There’s one on each floor.”
“You mean there isn’t one in the room?”
“Did you see one?”
“I just assumed …”
“You know how much it would cost me to put a toilet in every room? Are you kidding? And the up-keep? Having to worry about someone stuffing something they shouldn’t down the plumbing, which, by the way, you better not do. I don’t get a lot of women to my place, so I forget to mention that sometimes.”
“Who do you get here?” Gail asked.
“What kind of question is that?” The woman tightened her hold on her door, closing it further, so that Gail could see only a quarter of her face. “Are you a cop or something?”
“A cop!” Gail’s laugh was genuine. “No, I’m just … lonely,” she confided, surprised to hear the words come out of her mouth.
The woman behind the door relaxed her shoulders and pushed open the door with her foot. “You want a drink?” she asked.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” Gail told her before she realized how it would sound.
“Tea’s not exactly what I had in mind,” the woman said, “but I guess I have an old teapot around here someplace. Come on in.”
The room was approximately twice the size of Gail’s, with a small adjoining bedroom. Gail noted that it also sported its own galley kitchen and separate bathroom. The walls were the same yellow-green as the rest of the house, and the furniture strictly Salvation Army. The woman was searching through her cupboards for the teapot.
“‘There it is,” she said triumphantly. “I knew I had one somewhere. I think I remember how to boil water. Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
“I’m Gail,” Gail told her, deciding at the last minute not to lie.
“I’m Roseanne,” the woman replied, filling the pot with water from the sink and putting it on the stove. “Go on, sit down. Don’t be afraid of the dog. She won’t hurt you unless I tell her to. Rebecca, get down from the couch.”
The dog obeyed instantly, jumping down from its comfortable spot on the faded burgundy velvet sofa and settling on the floor in front of the television. Gail sat down uneasily, her eyes traveling between the small black and white television and the large black and brown dog.
“How did you decide on the name Rebecca?” Gail asked, forcing her lips into a smile in the dog’s direction.
“It was my mother-in-law’s name,” Roseanne told her, coming back into the room and gluing her eyes to the TV. “Rebecca here looks just like her. Gotta have a dog, you know, a woman alone. Especially around here. Men come, they think they can take advantage ’cause you’re a woman living alone. They think again when they see Rebecca.”
“You live alone?” Gail questioned, trying to determine the woman’s age.
“Have for sixteen years,” Roseanne said. “It’s better that way. Husband went out one night for a quart of milk …” She let the sentence linger while she listened for several seconds to what was happening on the television. The program broke for a commercial. “At least he brought back the milk before he split,” she finished, returning to the kitchen to take the teapot off the stove. “Now, let’s see if I have some tea bags.” Gail watched as she hunted through several drawers. “Thought so. They’re a little old. Tea doesn’t go stale, does it?”
“No,” Gail smiled.
“Haven’t had tea in so long,” the woman continued, dropping a tea bag into a mug and filling it with water. “Don’t have any milk or sugar, so you’ll have to drink it plain.”
“That’s fine. What about you?”
“I never eat between meals,” Roseanne said, holding out the mug for Gail to take. “Do you watch this one?” she asked, indicating the television. Gail shook her head. ‘“It’s my favorite. All sorts of things go on you wouldn’t believe. Adultery, murder, Russian spies. Everything, all in the same family! This here’s Lola. She’s the troublemaker. I like her the best, of course. Every time she comes along, you can expect trouble.”
Gail watched the beautiful woman with the long, dark hair wrap her arms around a handsome, middle-aged man wearing a doctor’s uniform and a worried expression.
“That’s Will Tyrell she’s got her arms around. He’s married to Anne Cotton, a lady doctor and a real goody-goody since they got married. She never used to be that way. Will’s her fourth husband in five years. She had a nervous breakdown and murdered the last one, and they gave her all these drugs and she became a drug addict and then she went through a bout of hysterical blindness before she met and married Will and got so boring. I have a feeling they’ll be bumping her off pretty soon.” Gail was about to laugh when she realized that Roseanne took her soaps very seriously. “But this Lola here, she’s a real character. Nobody knows where she came from and she keeps pretty much to herself. You never see where she lives or anything, but she’s always beautifully dressed, and she does things like wear full-length mink coats with nothing underneath, and she’s always after somebody’s husband. The last husband she stole, the poor girl committed suicide. I wonder if that’s how they’re planning to bump off poor Anne Cotton.”
“I tried to watch a few of these shows for a while … uh, ‘The Guiding Light,’ I think it was called, and ‘A Brighter Tomorrow.’”
“Oh, yeah, I used to watch that one. Is Erica still cheating on her husband, Richard?”
Gail had to think for a minute. “I think her husband’s name was Lance.”
“Lance?! She married Lance? That no-good crook?! Oh, now she’s in for it, throwing away a nice guy like Richard. I mean, playing around on him is one thing, but dumping him to marry Lance, well, she deserves whatever she gets.”
Gail looked restlessly around the room, feeling the walls beginning to close in on her as they had before. “I should be getting home,” she said before she realized what she was saying, and turned anxiously in Roseanne’s direction.
But Roseanne was lost in the problems of Wil
l Tyrell and Anne Cotton and Lola-whoever-she-was, and hadn’t heard Gail’s mistake. Gail wiped the sudden sweat off her upper lip. She’d have to be more careful. A silly slip of the tongue like that one could cost her all her careful planning. She stood up abruptly and the dog jumped to its feet, teeth bared, ready to leap at her throat.
“Down, Rebecca,” Roseanne warned softly, and the dog slowly lowered its narrow, body back to the floor.
“I’m feeling a little dizzy. I think I’ll go out for a walk,” Gail volunteered.
“Don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m not your mother.”
“Thanks for the tea.”
Roseanne waved acknowledgment without taking her eyes from the TV. Gail took a last look around the room before stepping out into the hallway and closing the door behind her. She looked at her watch. It was almost three o’clock and she had better be on her way.
She met with resistance at the front door, realized that someone was pushing in as she was pushing out, and backed away. The young man who stepped inside was barely out of his teens and wore his hair in an unfashionable crew cut. It was so short, it was hard to determine its color. He kept his eyes on his feet as he strode with seeming purpose past Gail and up the stairs. If he had seen her at all, he didn’t acknowledge it in any way. Gail listened to the sound of his boots as he took the first flight of stairs two at a time, and felt the weight of his footsteps as they passed over her head. She pulled the front door open and hurried into the outside air, colder and damper than earlier in the day. She looked back at the house. The boy lived in one of the front rooms, she had quickly determined from his footsteps. Gail glanced up toward the second floor.
He was staring down at her from the window, and as soon as he saw her look up in his direction, he disappeared behind the curtain. Gail stood for a moment on the front walk before deciding to return to her car. As she ambled down the sidewalk, she felt the boy’s eyes following her down the street.
SEVENTEEN
It was four days before she saw the young man again.
She had taken to leaving her door open when she was at the rooming house, so she could listen for noises from the other rooms and hear the front door open and close. Usually, the house was eerily quiet. Except for footsteps and doors banging, there were almost no sounds at all. Conversation was virtually nonexistent. Occasionally, there was a sudden burst of verbal abuse from the hallway, an angry torrent of words from the stairwell, but mostly, there was nothing. The sounds of silence, Gail hummed in her mind. In the four days she had been coming here, climbing the stairs to her room at approximately ten o’clock each morning and then alternating between the bed and the chair until it was time to go out for lunch, returning a half hour later to fill in the hours until three o’clock, she hadn’t uttered more than a few sentences to anyone.