"Lilah," he whispered. His eyes would not open, they were glued down. Still, he could see her sitting beside him. She was so lovely. So pure and graceful and honest and lovely. "Lilah…” His voice trailed off. He wanted to collect his thoughts, he felt it was very important that she know how he felt about her before it was too late. But there were so many things he wanted to say and he did not know where to begin. "You must think I'm awful," he whispered in agony. Now that his physical symptoms were abating some, his pride began to ache from the bruising it had suffered. He was disgraced.
"You're not awful," she whispered urgently into his ear. "You're a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man. Now, stop thinking and talking and just get better."
"You're home," she told him softly a few blocks later. She smoothed his forehead with a practiced hand.
His eyes still would not work properly, but he saw enough to be comforted. They had pulled up in front of his apartment building and there was that splendid fellow, his very own doorman, good old Mahmoud, hurrying to help him inside. The world still washed up and receded with alarming irregularity, but he could hear and feel small snatches of reality as strong arms grabbed him and he was hustled inside.
"I've never seen him like this," Mahmoud said with genuine concern. "What has happened to Mr. Hubbert?"
"Bad business of some sort," the driver, Grady, replied darkly. "Can you help me get him upstairs?"
T.S. saw Lilah in front of him, pressing an elevator button. How lovely. It was his elevator button and if he could only walk inside that little door, why he'd soon be looking at his walls. And there would be the deep and cool comfort of his bed. Sanctuary. Sanctuary was home.
It seemed like a dozen or more arms pulled and pushed him along. Hands fumbled in his pocket, male hands, and he struggled.
"Whoah! Steady as she goes," Grady boomed in his Irish brogue. T.S. fell still and his keys were extracted.
"Save me a trip downstairs," Mahmoud said with relief as he propped T.S. against the doorjamb.
"You'll definitely get a Christmas bonus for this," Lilah told him. They laughed and T.S., thinking they were laughing at him, began to struggle again. He pushed his door open and they tumbled inside.
"Easy! Easy!" Grady's strong arms closed around him and helped him to the couch. He sank back gratefully. "Mighty neat place," T.S. heard Grady say through the fog.
"I'll say," Mahmoud replied. "Mr. Hubbert here is a real stickler for order."
"I'll take it from here," Lilah interrupted the men firmly. "Grady, please come back for me in the morning. Nine o'clock will be fine."
The men retreated out the apartment door, both looking mildly scandalized. But T.S. and Lilah were too exhausted to notice. She loosened his shirt for him and he breathed in huge, even gulps of air. The room grew still around him. But just when he thought that he was safe at last, a tiny spark of burning sensation flamed into life at the pit of his stomach and spread rapidly through his abdomen.
"Oh, no." He struggled upright and stumbled to his feet. "I think I'm going to be sick again." He staggered down the hall, searching out his bathroom, his lovely, clean bathroom where he could be alone. Lilah gently guided him and watched anxiously as he lurched inside and dropped to his knees, hunched over the toilet bowl.
Gently, she closed the door and stood waiting across the narrow hallway where she could hear him if he cried out. He would be all right now, she thought vaguely, and he would certainly want to be alone.
Only T.S. wasn't alone. As he began to heave and an urgent need to void himself of poison overcame him, two tiny heads poked their way out of the small swinging door that was inset into the larger bathroom closet door. Brenda and Eddie watched cautiously as their master made strange retching sounds into the toilet bowl. They inched forward, tails switching cautiously, and sniffed delicately at his trouser legs. Unsure of their findings, they withdrew in silence to watch. Their creature was very sick indeed.
By the time Auntie Lil had been rescued from Homefront by a distracted Annie, it had been too late to track down Herbert for any fresh information. Not even she would tempt the dark city streets at two in the morning. She had, instead, returned home in a glum mood, troubled both by the thought that someone had died in the Hudson River that day and by the many unanswered phone calls she'd made to her nephew. There had to be something else she could do.
She went to bed in a bad mood and rose in a worse one. Half a pot of black coffee did little to improve Auntie Lil's outlook. She sat by the phone, increasingly frustrated, as she dialed without success. Herbert was not home yet—he was probably still overseeing surveillance at Emily's—and Theodore refused to answer his phone. She'd left dozens of unanswered messages and would be damned if she'd leave one more.
She took her anger out on the operator at New York Newsday, who kept insisting that Margo McGregor was not in. When Auntie Lil persisted, the canny woman recognized her voice from the day before and launched into an impromptu lecture on how low it was to pretend to be someone's mother.
"Miss McGregor's mother died last year, I'll have you know," the woman informed her importantly. "It was very awkward when I mentioned that you had called."
"I didn't say where I was calling from," Auntie Lil pointed out in desperation, but the operator had already cut the connection.
That did it. Another hour like this and the inactivity might actually drive her to start cleaning up the apartment. She dressed and made her way back to midtown, arriving near Times Square just after ten. If the police couldn't solve the mystery of Emily's building, she had decided, she'd just have to do it herself. After that, she'd return to the soup kitchen and snoop around some more.
If Herbert was on duty, he remained well hidden as she marched firmly up the front steps of Emily's building and peered boldly in the front door. She'd gotten in once before and she could do it again. Unfortunately, mid-morning was a bad time to be lurking around a building full of actors and night people. Everyone was probably still in bed and no one was likely to be coming or going. After five minutes of waiting—a near record for Auntie Lil—she took matters into her own hands. Rummaging through her enormous pocketbook, she found several credit cards jumbled among a tangle of handkerchiefs and loose jewelry at the bottom. She contemplated which one to use and decided to sacrifice her Macy's charge card to the cause.
She wasn't quite sure how to go about it. She checked the street for pedestrians and, other than a pair of figures far up the block, no one was about. She inserted the hard plastic into the doorjamb and began to jimmy it back and forth, hoping to spring the heavy lock. Unaware that such a tactic was useless against a deadbolt, Auntie Lil persisted for several minutes until her card cracked and her temper did the same. She kicked the door in frustration and contemplated her next round of action. She'd fall back on an old favorite. She'd lie.
She pressed four buzzers before she got an answer.
"Who is it?" a sleepy voice mumbled.
"Delivery," Auntie Lil announced in as young a voice as possible. "East Side Floral Arrangements. And hurry, this thing is huge."
She was buzzed in promptly but got no farther than the front hallway before she was spotted. The superintendent was backing out of her apartment with a large wheeled cart piled high with laundry. She maneuvered it toward the front doorway and saw Auntie Lil just as she tried to slip into the stairwell.
Her reaction was instant and curious. Her face drained white and she began babbling so quickly in Spanish that Auntie Lil could not catch a word. The woman made the sign of the cross repeatedly as she spoke, then she took a small crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck. Holding it out in front of her like a talisman, she advanced on Auntie Lil and made a shooing motion with her free hand.
"Out! Out!" she cried at Auntie Lil. "Get out! Get out of my house!"
Auntie Lil opened her mouth to argue but the superintendent was not in a mood to negotiate. Giving up on her crucifix, she dashed to the small hallway closet, grabbed a l
arge push broom and advanced on Auntie Lil with it held in front of her like a sword. "Get out, get out," she warned again. She jabbed at Auntie Lil and narrowly missed poking her in the stomach. That narrow miss was enough.
"I'll be back," Auntie Lil warned, slipping out the front door. "I'll be back."
As she hurried down the front steps, Auntie Lil saw the superintendent slumped against the hallway wall, praying and mumbling in Spanish. Good heavens. You'd think she'd seen a ghost.
Much to her embarrassment, Herbert was sitting with Franklin on the steps of the building across the street from Emily's. They were making little attempt to hide their presence and were sipping fresh cups of coffee while staring glumly at the front steps across from them.
"Not very discreet," Auntie Lil pointed out, sitting gingerly on the cold concrete step beside them. Winter was most definitely coming, that was certain. The stairs still held the cool night air.
"No one alive around here this time of day. Besides, I'm big enough to take care of anyone who gives us trouble," Franklin pointed out. He had received new clothes from the Salvation Army. The overalls had been replaced by deep green pants like those favored by municipal workers. He also wore a bright red sweater over a white shirt and was nothing if not conspicuous.
"And I have discovered that no man is more invisible than a man of the streets," Herbert replied calmly. "Disguises are superfluous. New Yorkers supply their own blinders. Besides, did I not just see you walk right down the front steps?"
"Did you see what else happened?" Auntie Lil asked lightly.
"No. Why? You discovered something significant?"
Auntie Lil shrugged. She saw no reason to alert Herbert to the fact that she'd just been chased from the building with a broom. "Any news on your end?"
Herbert shook his head. "Nothing unusual. No Eagle. The regular comings and goings."
"What about the ladies?" Auntie Lil inquired.
"They don't hang out here at night," Franklin pointed out. "We don't let them. Too dangerous, you know."
"Any sign of Eva?"
Herbert shook his head. "Not around here."
"Anywhere else?" She looked at Franklin.
He shrugged. "Haven't seen her for a couple of days," he realized with some surprise. "Come to think of it, she wasn't eating yesterday, now was she?" His brow furrowed as he worked on the puzzle. "She's usually on the block about five or six in the evening. Stays until ten or so. But I didn't see her last night. Did you?" He stared at Herbert, who shook his head apologetically.
"I hope she's not trying anything foolish," Auntie Lil said somewhat pompously for someone who had taken as many chances as she had.
"If anyone was going to try something foolish, that would be Miss Eva," Franklin pointed out. He rose and sighed deeply, then leisurely stretched out to his full height. He looked like a bear emerging from months of hibernation. "Time for bed," he told them good-naturedly. "There's a good doorway down on the highway. Nice view of the river. Gets a good breeze. Some rock and roll doo-wop club. Empty this time of day. Plus a nice warm grate from the laundry next door keeps me warm if I need it. If you'll excuse me," he nodded and ambled off down the block.
"I suppose I should offer him my couch," Auntie Lil said guiltily.
"He won't take it," Herbert told her. "I have tried. He is a man of great independence with a fondness for the river."
"A fondness for the river?" Auntie Lil shivered. "Not me. Did you know that a woman died there yesterday? An old woman. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought it was me from the description."
Herbert looked up slowly. His face grew very still and his eyelids came down ever so slowly until his eyes were nearly obscured. "Description?" he asked softly.
Auntie Lil shrugged. "An old woman. Stout. Wearing too young clothes. That was all I heard."
"Lillian." Herbert's tone was soft and very sad. "Do you not think it a coincidence that one of us is missing? One of us who is stout and old? And prone to wearing clothes that are too young?"
Their eyes met. "How could I have missed it?" she admitted softly.
Herbert's head bowed. "Let us pray that it is not her."
It was nearly noon by the time T.S. awoke. The sun streaming in his bedroom window only served to confuse him more. He looked down at himself slowly. He was wearing pajamas. But he could not remember donning them the night before. In fact, he could not remember very much at all of the night before. There had been that party at Lance Worthington's … and a man. A man named Albert who knew Lilah.
Lilah. He sat up straight and winced as a spear of pain pierced both temples. The last thing he remembered was watching Lilah huddled in a kitchen corner with that rich jerk, Albert. What in the world had happened after that and how in the hell had he gotten home and into his own bed?
He'd never had a blackout before and, yet, he didn't remember drinking all that much. But it hurt his brain to ponder the situation for long. What he needed right now was aspirin.
His body felt like it belonged to someone else. His stomach was tender and, indeed, felt deeply bruised, though no surface scars were evident. His legs were heavy and, when he finally maneuvered them out of the bed, refused to hold his weight at first. He stood, teetering gently, found his balance, then made his way down the hall. Brenda and Eddie emerged from the spare bedroom to watch his progress with reproachful attention and berated him with indignant caterwauling. He had missed their early feeding by hours and hours. Headache and mysteries of the night before momentarily forgotten, T.S. wearily found and opened a tin of chicken-and-cheese bits to still their incessant meowing. It was like having children. Loud and greedy children who could not be ignored.
The kitchen gleamed so brightly that it hurt his eyes. He searched through the cabinets and found the jar of aspirin. A few minutes later he had even managed to pry open the childproof cap. He gulped three of them down then wandered through the living room in his pajamas, sipping at a small glass of warm water. His stomach did not feel as if it would tolerate anything else. Something was not quite right about his apartment. He knew it well and the air held a vaguely foreign scent. Something had disturbed his beloved and rigid routine.
He spotted the coat and froze. A thin black silk evening coat was slung over the entrance chair. Lilah's. But if that was Lilah's coat, where was she? Feeling like one of the three bears, he carefully searched his apartment, discovering fresh evidence of an intrusion in the extra bedroom. The spare bed had been neatly made, but not with his customary precision hospital corners. It was clear that Lilah had slept there last night.
T.S. looked down suddenly at his pajamas… but surely not? He blushed deeply and was glad that he was alone. Especially when he discovered his best suit piled in a small heap in one corner of his own bedroom. That confirmed it. He would never, not under any circumstances, simply toss his attire in a pile. Someone else had undressed him last night. But he must have been unconscious, or, at the very least, deeply asleep, to have missed an event as spectacular as Lilah undressing him.
He discovered the note taped to the bathroom mirror. "Dear Theodore," it read. "I've had an idea. I'm going to check on it and will stop by later. Don't worry about the pajamas. It was imperative that you change clothes. I promise I looked the other way."
Had it been anyone other than Lilah, T.S. would have been positively scandalized. As it was, it left a warm glow in his stomach, which was a sensation vastly preferable to the one it replaced.
He reread the note. An idea? What idea would be so important that she'd rush out early and forget her evening coat? And why was it imperative that he change clothes?
That puzzle, too, made his brain ache to contemplate. T.S. decided that what he really needed was an ice pack, more aspirin and a few more hours of sleep. On his way to the kitchen he noticed the answering machine. Its light blinked furiously, demanding to be noticed. When he rewound his messages, he discovered six from Auntie Lil, each one more incoherent than the last. She wanted all d
etails, immediately, of the party and of his search at the Performing Arts Library the day before. But he simply did not have the energy to talk to anyone, much less his beloved but demanding aunt.
He erased the taped pleas, turned off the telephone, retrieved the largest cooking pot that he could find, and filled it with ice and water. He returned to the bedroom—followed by a satiated Brenda and Eddie—and drew the curtains tightly. The room grew dark and seemed instantly cooler. It was as peaceful as a church. He took a large towel and dipped it into the icy water, then draped it gratefully around his head.
He lay down stiffly in the center of his bed and arranged the pillow so that it hit just above his shoulders. His head lolled back gently, cradled in a cool balm. If he lay very, very still and pretended he was in the Bahamas, floating on a raft in a clear warm sea, the pounding in his temples actually faded to a dull throb.
With any luck, he'd survive whatever it was that he was going through. At least until Lilah returned to fill him in.
13
All it took was a single sentence to the desk sergeant at Midtown North—"The old woman found in the river had jet black hair"—and Detective Santos was out in a flash. He did not look happy. In fact, he did not even look well. His tie was loosely knotted over a crumpled shirt, his eyes were red and bleary and his thick hair stood up in small wispy spikes.
"Not here," he said firmly, leading Auntie Lil toward a small set of stairs nearly hidden against one far wall. They ascended and maneuvered a narrow second-floor hallway that was littered with metal desks stacked at one end. At the very end of the hall, they reached a tiny room containing one small table with a scuffed plastic surface and three beat-up metal chairs. Piles of cleaning supplies dominated an entire wall.
"Charming," Auntie Lil joked but the detective's expression did not change. He was staring at her intently and his mouth was set in a small, unpleasant line.
"It's obvious you know who yesterday's floater was," he said grimly.
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