The fat man in the plaid jacket stepped forward, a hearty smile creasing his pudgy face. He produced a fistful of business cards as smoothly as a magician produces a bouquet of flowers from his fingertips. He pressed one apiece on T.S., Herbert and Auntie Lil. They examined their cards dutifully. It appeared that Mr. Hermann was a private investigator, or a "Marital Specialist" to be exact. One who promised "Discretion at Discount Prices."
"Yellow pages," Lilah whispered in T.S.'s ear. He nodded. "It would have taken me weeks to track down George," Lilah added graciously in a louder, more grateful tone of voice. "But Mr. Hermann was so ingenious. He found out his name within the hour."
The well-dressed third man coughed discreetly.
"And you are, sir?" Herbert inquired, catching his hint.
"Hamilton Prescott, Sr.," the gentleman intoned in a polished Boston accent. He, too, produced a small cache of business cards and bestowed them all around.
"Hamilton has been the family lawyer for ages," Lilah explained. "When you said you were at the police station, I didn't want to take any chances."
T.S. and Auntie Lil simultaneously thought of Lieutenant Abromowitz and nodded. It would be a good idea to have someone present when they gave their statements. They smiled gratefully at Lilah.
"Of course," T.S. said, gripping Hamilton Prescott's well-manicured hand. "We should have seen to such things ourselves." He was rewarded with an unmistakably firm handshake. Hamilton Prescott oozed confidence. Best of all, he did not look in the least inclined to yawn—which put him well ahead of the others in the room.
Auntie Lil was scrutinizing the new arrivals carefully. Finally, she turned back to Lilah. "It was lovely of you all to stop by," Auntie Lil began. "But why in the world is this man and this man here?" She pointed to the bartender and private investigator in turn. Both men shifted uneasily under her stare and Mr. Hermann managed to look downright guilty.
"Oh, dear. Of course. I told you I wasn't very good at this." Lilah hid her smile with her gloved hand. "George is here to make a statement."
"Statement?" T.S. stared at the bartender. "What on earth for?"
"They tried to poison you last night," Lilah declared. "That awful Worthington and his girlfriend tried to poison you."
"Knock you out, not poison you," George clarified in his deep voice. "I believe, sir, that they tried to slip you a mickey. That was why I interceded as I did. I did not quite understand what I had seen until you went down, sir."
'Went down?" Auntie Lil demanded, looking to T.S. for details.
T.S. was just as eager for details. Not, however, in front of a roomful of people. "Are you sure?" he asked the bartender.
George nodded. "I apologize for not realizing what was happening sooner. I should have known when I saw what kind of party it was. I was surprised to have the host request another Dewars and soda for you so soon after your first one." He cleared his throat in apology. "I knew it was for you, because you were the only one drinking Dewars. Yet you did not seem to be the type to guzzle his booze, as we bartenders say. If you'll pardon me for speaking so bluntly."
"Not at all." T.S. waved for him to continue. "What did he put in my drink?"
"I don't know for sure. He took your drink and turned his back to the bar and handed it to the woman with him. She, in turn, put the drink on a small shelf and took something from her pocketbook."
"And you stood by and did nothing?" Auntie Lil demanded.
George nodded. "I apologize. At the time, I thought it was a packet of sugar substitute. She had another glass with her and I convinced myself that she had gotten iced tea from the kitchen because she was tired of drinking. Wishful thinking on my part, of course. The woman in question did not tire of drinking all night. But it was not until later—when you could hardly walk and I could not figure out why—that I realized she may have poured something out of the packet into your drink."
"What was in the packet?" T.S. wondered.
"A mickey," Lilah pointed out triumphantly, relishing the slang. "Don't you see? George here says he isn't all that surprised. I suspect he has his finger on the pulse of rather seedy New York nightlife, don't you?"
"Unavoidable at times," George conceded.
"A mickey?" Auntie Lil demanded. "Why on earth would someone bother to dope poor Theodore? Surely, Worthington did not know that we suspected him of having anything to do with Emily's death?"
T.S. shook his head. "I'm sure he didn't know. I don't know why he would bother." The bartender's unusual voice had triggered buried memories. Disturbing shapes were taking form in his mind… there was a hallway, shadows slipping past, a blur of distorted faces and voices. Oh, dear. He stared balefully at Lilah.
Lilah beamed at him and said loudly enough for the entire room to hear, "You were very sweet, Theodore. A perfect gentleman. We can discuss this later if you like."
"Let's do." T.S. loosened his collar and became conscious that the fat private investigator was beaming at him. He looked up and fairly snarled in return.
"Perhaps we should give these people their privacy," Lilah's lawyer smoothly intervened. "Gentlemen?" He graciously included Mr. Hermann in that group. "I suggest we speak to the desk sergeant about arranging for Mr. Scarborough to make an official statement. And, Mr. Hermann, you've been of great help but I'm sure we can release you for a well-earned rest. Grady will be glad to take you home. He'll be back just in time to accommodate Mr. Scarborough with the same." He hustled the two men smoothly out the door with a shower of murmured thanks. T.S. relaxed a bit. They were in good hands, indeed. Mr. Hamilton Prescott was a pro.
"Miss Hubbert?" Santos' voice filled the room with unexpected authority. Though tired, the detective looked well pleased with himself. T.S. suspected at once that Leteisha/Rodney was indeed talking. "I'm ready to take your statement now."
"You look optimistic," Auntie Lil said eagerly as she hurried to the door. "What did you find out? Tell me everything."
"Now, now, Miss Hubbert, it's your turn to do the talking, remember?" He smiled thinly. "And I'll have the whole truth this time, if you don't mind."
"Of course she doesn't mind," a commanding voice interrupted. Mr. Prescott was back and firmly in place at Auntie Lil's side. He had the unerring instincts of a highly successful counselor. "She'll answer anything I decide is appropriate with the utmost candor, won't you, Miss Hubbert?" His eyes held a warning that not even Auntie Lil would dare to ignore.
Detective Santos stared down at the lawyer. "You are?" he asked evenly.
"Her lawyer." His confident voice implied years of successful experience thrusting and parrying the finer points of law. His manner reeked of decades of research and millions of pages of knowledge at his fingertips. He saved his effort for when it counted, his demeanor made plain, and he knew clients' rights as surely as he knew his own name.
Santos knew he knew, too. He sighed and gestured for them both to follow. T.S. stood in the doorway and watched as they disappeared upstairs.
"I certainly didn't mean to interfere," Lilah told him. "But it's always wise to have representation on hand."
"Interfere?" T.S. pulled a chair close to her and took her hands in his. The bandage on his injured hand made him feel like he was wearing a baseball glove. "You are never an interference, Lilah. Never, ever think that you interfere in my—"
"Ahem." Herbert bowed politely and backed to the door. "I feel the need for a bit of fresh air. Please excuse me." He was gone in a flash.
"Terminally discreet," Lilah observed. She gave a merry, tinkling laugh. "Now do you want to know what you said to me last night?"
It was a dare he was not yet ready to confront. "No, no. That's quite all right. Though if it was good, I'm sure I meant it." He colored slightly. "But why does the name 'Albert' keep popping up in my head?"
Lilah shook her head and smiled. "Albert is an old friend of my husband's, Theodore. They went to Yale together, were both in banking and led pretty much parallel lives until Robert managed
to get himself stabbed to death. You met Albert last night. He helped you to the car. But don't worry. He's just a friend."
"What was he doing at Worthington's party?" T.S. asked. "It seems a cut below him, if you know what I mean."
"I can't figure it out," Lilah admitted. "He spent our entire time together warning me not to invest."
"Warning you not to invest?"
"Yes. That was why he wanted to speak to me alone," Lilah explained.
T.S. had a sudden flash of memory and saw Lilah standing by a large potted palm, while a tuxedoed man hovered around her. "He was practically nibbling on your ear," T.S. pointed out with a lack of gentlemanly spirit. He couldn't help it. The memory had flooded back with sudden clarity and it hurt.
"No, Theodore." She kissed him lightly on one cheek. "Albert does not interest me in the least. He was bending my ear, not nibbling it. It was a very curious thing. Here he was investing tens of thousands of dollars in Worthington's play and all he could tell me was that it stank and not to put any money in and not to make the same mistake he was making."
"Let me get this straight," T.S. said. "Albert has invested tons of moolah in the play but seems desperate for you not to do the same?"
"Yes, I'd say that. Desperate."
"So why is he investing?" T.S. asked.
Lilah shrugged. "I honestly can't say. He never let me ask any questions. I was confused even more because I know he was just as conservative an investor as my late husband was. Probably more so. Robert used to joke about it."
Something didn't fit. That much was clear. T.S. sipped at a cold cup of cappuccino, hoping the caffeine might clear his thoughts.
"I'll tell Santos about it and see what he thinks. Worthington is guilty of more than we think," he decided. Lilah nodded and patted his knee. "Why would he slip me a mickey? If he had tried to knock Auntie Lil out, it would have made sense. She is, after all, the nosiest human being this side of Jimmy Durante."
"Except Worthington doesn't even know that Auntie Lil exists," Lilah pointed out. She shivered delicately. "There's something about him, Theodore. I just don't like that man. He kept saying 'Live and let live' as if it meant something profound. What did it mean? What does he have to do with Emily?"
"And what possible profit could he get out of drugging me?" T.S. added. "I know that we're missing something." He stared at her for a moment. "What do you know about mickies anyway?" he teased. "You sounded like an expert a minute ago."
"You can knock someone out by putting plain old eye drops in their drink," she said confidently. "Or any manner of drugs. Mr. Hermann told me." She continued to rub his hands with her thumbs.
If he had his way, they would sit like this forever, linked by Lilah's steady touch. He wanted to study her, quietly, without interruption. How had she known what he was thinking about Albert? He would never understand women, not ever. Especially since he had learned about them from Auntie Lil, who was not your usual female at all. She lacked the subtlety and the capacity for delightfully erratic behavior that he found so charming in Lilah. "What are you doing to my hand?" T.S. asked, stalling for time.
"I think it's shiatsu or kung fu or acupuncture or something Japanese. My daughter taught it to me. It's good for headaches. Which I'm sure you have now or will have before morning." She smiled at him.
Headache? He felt wonderful.
But their time together was interrupted by the sounds of deep sobbing. T.S. looked up and the pathetic sight framed in the doorway brought unexpected tears to his eyes. A thin man with a curtain of scraggly blond hair on each side of his face was being led past in handcuffs by two officers. He held a cheap, long blonde wig in his tethered hands and the strapless gown he wore was ripped up one side so that his pale white flesh peeked through. He lurched forward, sobbing, wedged between the two patrolmen.
"Oh, God. I know him," Theodore said sadly. "That must be the other prostitute. The one who wouldn't hurt Auntie Lil and got away. I've met him before."
"You know him?" Lilah's eyes followed his and took in the pitiful sight. The man had stopped, slumped against a grimy wall. A long scratch marred his bony shoulders and his black hose were ripped from the thigh to the toes. Sobbing louder, he proclaimed that he would never hurt anyone.
T.S. knew, from Auntie Lil's description, that he was telling the truth. He hoped Auntie Lil would tell Santos the same.
"You know him?" Lilah asked again.
"Yes. I have his card at home."
"What's his name?" Lilah was appalled but intrigued at this rare glimpse into a world usually kept so carefully hidden from her.
"I forget his real name. But I call him Peter Pan. Poor guy. He just wanted to be a star."
By the time Santos returned with Auntie Lil, Lilah had fallen asleep with her head slumped on T.S.'s shoulder. He could have slept himself, but it would have been a waste of the wonderful feeling that flooded his heart.
Auntie Lil slipped quietly back into place and gave T.S. a quick glance. "'Thank God for that lawyer," was all she would say.
"Next," Santos announced, crooking a finger and beckoning T.S. to follow. "Don't worry. Your lawyer is waiting for you upstairs."
Even as T.S. followed Santos out the door, Herbert materialized and slipped back in his place at Auntie Lil's side.
An hour later, T.S. thanked Mr. Prescott and sent the lawyer on his way. He returned to the room to find all three of his companions fast asleep. Herbert was breathing quietly, sitting completely upright. But he was, without a doubt, deep in dreamland. Auntie Lil lay practically sprawled across his chest, her own lusty breathing just this side of an unladylike snore. Lilah had her head on the table and the silver glint of her hair against the dull brown of the cheap Formica shone as finely as precious metal amidst mud.
'"Thanks," Santos told T.S. quietly, patting his shoulder. "Why don't you folks call it a night? I'll tell you everything you want to know in the morning."
T.S. shook his head firmly. "We want to see it through to the end."
Santos nodded like he understood. "You won't have to wait much longer. Abromowitz made a phone call. Eight down and two more to go."
Twenty minutes later—with T.S. still the only occupant of the room left awake—he was rewarded for his vigilance with the satisfaction of seeing Lance Worthington brought into the precinct by four plainclothesmen. The producer wore his tan cashmere coat thrown over a pair of matching purple velour sweats and his hands were tightly linked by the metal bands of a pair of sturdy handcuffs.
"Try pulling on your stupid little ears now," T.S. thought with grim satisfaction. "Dope me, indeed."
Sally St. Claire trudged in behind Worthington, flanked by a pair of grim policewomen. Clearly, she, like Worthington, had been awakened from a sound sleep. Her hair was tangled and unkempt. Her pale face, devoid of makeup, gleamed with a plastic harshness beneath the precinct lights. Her inner hardness was emerging, T.S. thought to himself. One day, her facelift would give way and she'd crack, lines blossoming across her face until, within minutes, she'd shriveled up into an old hag.
He thought, unexpectedly, of Emily's tiny body, laid out on the autopsy table.
Discretion, he realized, was not always the better part of valor.
Having decided, T.S. walked firmly to the door and stuck his head out. His eyes met Worthington's and locked. He stared at the producer with contempt.
"You?" Worthington said incredulously, perplexed and dazed at his misfortune.
"Whatever happened to 'live and let live'?" T.S. asked him, turning away.
17
It was light outside by the time Santos reappeared. Even T.S. had been asleep for several hours. They raised their groggy heads in response to his disgustingly cheerful greeting and tried without success to conceal yawns. Auntie Lil's curls were flattened on one side of her head but sprang out in clumps of wild disarray on the other side, making her look a bit deranged. Rather than alert her to this fact, T.S. surreptitiously ran his fingers through his ow
n hair, forcing his thick locks back into place. Herbert and Lilah looked remarkably intact, though sleepy.
The first thing they all noticed was that Detective Santos held a thick sheath of notes in one hand. The second thing—at the moment, more important—was that Billy was right behind him bearing a box full of goodies from the Delicious Deli. He smiled and laid out fresh coffee, cappuccino and pastries on the table. Without a word, he nodded good morning and left to return to his work.
"Born and bred in Hell's Kitchen," Santos reminded them proudly. "People like him are the neighborhood, understand? Not these jerks." He threw his papers on the table and took his time selecting a large pineapple pastry. Then he pried the top off a cup of steaming black coffee and sighed. "We don't know everything," he admitted. "But we know most of it. If I tell you, do you promise to go home and leave me alone?"
Auntie Lil ignored the question. "What don't you know?" she asked instead.
"We still don't know Emily's real name," the detective admitted sadly. "But I think we have enough to go on now. Trust us. It's just a matter of time."
Still no name for Emily? Auntie Lil was disappointed and her face showed it.
"Maybe the column will help," T.S. consoled her.
"Column?" Santos stared pointedly at Auntie Lil.
"Well, tell us what you do know," she demanded, ignoring his question and flapping a hand at him impatiently.
Santos took his time chewing his pastry and surveyed her carefully. "You mean you want to know the whole story?" he asked idly, teasing her. At last, he held the upper hand. And he was going to make her pay.
Auntie Lil glared and Detective Santos pushed a cup of cappuccino across the table to her with a laugh. "Sit back and relax, Miss Hubbert," he told her. "This may take a while." Shuffling his notes, he cleared his throat with exaggerated care and began:
"For starters, 'The Eagle,' as you call him, is singing like a canary. But Lance Worthington is not. We can't even get Emily's real name out of him. If he knows it. However, like I say, that's just a matter of time. And we have been able to fill in some details, thanks to his girlfriend, Sally St. Claire. Who, surprisingly enough, really is named Sally St. Claire and appears to be a not very bright girl from Des Moines who came to the Big Apple and went bad. I would not want her for my girlfriend. Loyalty is not her strongest suit. Neither are hearts.
A Cast of Killers Page 38