“No. But she may have information about the case.”
“What makes you to think we had her?”
“She wrote a letter to her high school guidance counselor saying she hoped to be accepted here.”
“You have a photo?”
“I was hoping you’d have one.”
“We don’t keep individual photos. But let me check our files. Spell her last name.”
I did and Darragh twirled his computer monitor toward him and started working his keyboard.
“We only put our files on computer last year,” he said. “Or I should say, Irma did. She’s a whiz. OK. Here we go. No, no Laura Lee Litton either applied or attended Gotham. Got an address? I can cross check.”
“Only the one in Statesboro.” I gave it to him. “But I doubt she used it. She moved up here.”
He checked anyway.
“Nope. Strike two.”
“I can give you a description.”
Darragh laughed.
“Let me guess. Five-foot-nine, maybe ten. Legs to die for. Blonde and beautiful.”
“Red-head, actually. More auburn.”
“Well, my friend, that narrows it down to a few hundred dancers, out of a few thousand. For God’s sake, they’re all beautiful. I’m afraid you’ve struck out. Wait, there’s one other thing.” He picked up his phone. “Irma, I need you for a second.”
Irma the Whiz came in and gave me a look somewhere near absolute zero.
“Do you recall a girl named Laura Lee Litton, from Georgia. Red head. Few years back.”
I didn’t expect Irma to help me even if she was Laura Lee’s landlady. But she surprised me.
“Yes. She was with us one year. Nice girl. Always polite.” When she said “polite” Irma stared at me. I wanted to ask her if her last name was Bunt, but I had lost the high ground with her so I kept my mouth shut. I probably should do that more often.
“Why can’t I find her in the computer?”
“She changed her name after a few months and asked me to put her new one in the file. Look under Sharon Starr, with two r’s.”
“Sharon Starr. That’s rich. Don’t know why we need computers when we have Irma, right Rhode?”
“She’s a whiz, all right,” I said and smiled pleasantly at Irma, who still looked like she wanted to disembowel me.
“Yup. Here she is. Sharon Starr, 221 West 81st Street, Apartment 4E. Don’t know if she’s still there, of course.”
I looked at Irma.
“Would you happen to know if any of your current students knew her? Maybe still do?”
“No.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
Irma looked like she swallowed an armadillo.
“No.” She looked at Darragh. “Is that all?”
“Just a second,” I said. “Isn’t there some sort of database for talent?”
“There are several,” Darragh said. “Actors Equity, the union, has the most extensive. And we subscribe to several that keep track of dancers.”
“Would Sharon Starr be in one of them?”
“Perhaps, if she got a card, or landed a couple of dance gigs and was working professionally.”
I knew there was a chance Laura Lee was a professional, but not the kind Darragh was talking about. Cormac had already checked the records for that kind of working girl.
“Tell you what,” Darragh continued, “Irma can check for you easy enough. Right, Irma?”
Irma looked like she would rather have a colonoscopy performed by Stevie Wonder. But she went to her computer. Darragh and I were discussing the shortcomings of the Knicks front office when she returned 10 minutes later.
“There is no Sharon Starr, either in Actors Equity or any of the major databases,” she said. “If she’s working as an actor or dancer, she probably changed her name again.”
“Too bad there’s not a waitress union,” Darragh said.
“And there is no Sharon Starr currently living in New York City,” Irma continued in a monotone. “There is one in Altamont, up near Albany, and three in Texas. According to the search engine, the youngest of those is 52.”
“See, I told you Irma was a whiz.”
“I just want him to leave,” Irma said.
She turned on her heels and walked out.
“Irma can be high-strung,” Darragh said, “but I’d be lost without her. After a while she grows on you.”
A few other things that grew on people came to mind, but I kept my trap shut. Darragh printed out the file for Sharon Starr, which contained little more than her address, phone number and record of classes she attended. There was a line for “Instructor” and the initials T.D.
“It seems she had the same instructor for every class,” I said. “Is he, or she, still around? They may have kept in touch.”
Darragh shook his head.
“That was Tommy Dunne. He handled a lot of the group classes, which are more economical for someone just starting out. But he’s dead. A.I.D.S.”
“I thought they had that under control with maintenance drugs.”
“Mostly, they do. But Tommy was almost 60. He fought it a long time and had some other problems. We kept him on when nobody else would have him. The group sessions were easy on him. Great guy. Fine dancer.”
And that was that. I thanked Darragh. As I walked passed Irma’s desk, she said, “Mr. Rhode?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you a fucking fool?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t want to call the phone number Darragh gave me in case “Sharon Starr” was still there. No use in spooking her, if she had any reason to be spooked. I took a cab to the address on 81st Street. The name above the buzzer for 4E in the doorway was “Kahananoku,” which barely fit on the slip and sounded Hawaiian. That wasn’t promising. But maybe it was a roommate who danced the hula. In any event, no one answered. I buzzed the super. He came to the door and we stood outside on the stoop. He was a short, tough-looking Puerto Rican guy. I hoped he spoke English. My Spanish is worse than my W.C. Fields.
“Three guys live in 4E now,” he said in perfect English. “They work at the museum.” I knew he was talking about the nearby Museum of Natural History. He sounded like a Princeton don. I was getting a lot of lessons in not judging a book by its cover. “Nice guys. Straight, too. Give me a little girl trouble now and then, but I was young once so I can deal with it. I remember Sharon. Real sweetheart. Lived with a couple of other girls. All quiet kids and all very pretty, but she was a real knockout. She OK?”
“As far as I know.” It was sort of true. “I’m hoping she knows something that can help a client of mine in a domestic dispute.”
The outer door to the building opened and we stepped aside as a young man wearing a black speedo and a neon tank top clopped by us in high heels. He and the super exchanged greetings. When the inner door closed, the super said, “He’s not straight.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“How did you trace Sharon here?”
“Her dance school.”
“Oh yeah, the Gotham. She was real proud of that. So you know all about her dancing.”
“Yeah. She leave a forwarding address or anything?”
“No. She left before the other girls did. Her name wasn’t even on the mailbox. I don’t think she ever got any mail. She just chipped in for the rent. I didn’t ask any questions. Neither did the landlord. When you get good tenants and they put someone on a pullout couch, who cares?” He smiled, man-to-man. “Especially if they’re beautiful.”
“Was Sharon close to any of her neighbors in the building?”
He considered that.
“The girls were all friendly and popular, but I don’t recall Sharon being especially close to anyone. ‘Hello, how are you doing,’ that kind of thing. Helped old ladies with their packages. She was good that way. Only a few of the residents from her time are still living here anymore. We have a big turnover, students, actors and such.”
&
nbsp; “How many apartments are occupied here now?”
He laughed.
“All of them. This is New York. But if you want to know how many doors you have to knock on, the total is 24, or 23, since I live here and you already asked me. Hardly anyone is home right now, so you’d have better luck at night.”
“You don’t have a problem with me doing all that?”
“Hey, it’s your job right? Just check in with me if you come back. OK?”
I weighed the possibilities of actually finding someone who remembered Sharon Starr, let alone kept in touch, against the thought of going to lunch to think about it. Lunch, as usual, won out. I gave the super my card and told him to call if he thought of anything else in the meantime.
I was standing at the curb trying unsuccessfully to spot a cab when I got a call on my cell phone. It was Mimi Faulkner.
“I went through the yearbooks that might have contained some photos of Laura Lee,” she said. “But there weren’t any. She just wasn’t a joiner. I’m sorry. Are you having any luck?”
“Not much. I found out she changed her name to Sharon Starr, with two r’s. But there is no one by that name listed in the theatrical databases. I’ll widen my search but she may have changed her name again.”
I thanked Mimi for all her efforts.
“It was my pleasure, Alton. My reputation is in tatters and I love it. If you ever get down this way, I hope you will let me know.”
I had resumed my cab quest when the super from Laura Lee’s old apartment opened the door.
“Hey, Mr. Rhode. I’m glad you’re still here. Do me a favor. If you find Sharon, tell her I said hello, will you?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You’ll never get a cab there. Go up to Columbus.”
I waved and took his advice. I’d only gone a few feet when he yelled after me.
“And tell Sharon my kids really enjoyed the Christmas show.”
I stopped and walked back to him.
“What Christmas show?”
“Radio City Music Hall. We go every year. Sharon was one of the Rockettes. Said it was her dream come true. The girls had a little party to celebrate. Even invited me. We were all so happy for her. I tried to see her after the performance but it was a madhouse and my little one was acting up. But Sharon was really good. Boy, can those Rockettes kick!”
“Sharon Starr is a Rockette?”
“Not anymore. We go every year and that was the only time I’ve seen her.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before?”
“I don’t know. I guess I assumed you knew, since you knew about her dancing. Is it important?”
A half-formed but sinister thought was playing ping pong in my brain.
“God, I hope not.”
CHAPTER 25 – LOVE AND MARRIAGE
A cab wouldn’t cut it. I needed to think and walking was better for that. Sitting in a bar would be even better. I needed all the thinking I could get. Solution: I would walk to a bar near Radio City Music Hall at Rockefeller Center.
It simply wasn’t possible. Laura Lee Litton’s fingerprints were all over John Denton’s favorite “sex chair.” Laura Lee changed her name to Sharon Starr, who was, or had been, a Rockette. She was a redhead. She was in her early 30’s.
The Staten Island District Attorney’s wife was named Sharon. She was in her early 30’s. She had red hair. And she had been a Rockette. The only thing she didn’t have was a Southern accent but I’d wager a million Confederate bonds that Laura Lee would have ditched her accent or any ties to her cornpone background. The handwriting on her note to Mimi Faulkner hinted at some sort of post-Statesboro, post-hooker training, which probably included elocution lessons.
Still, it had to be a huge coincidence. There was more than one redheaded Rockette in the world. Maybe “my” Sharon even knew the “other” Sharon and could help me out. Detectives and cops are always saying that they don’t like coincidences. Hell, the world is full of coincidences. History is replete with scientists, some on different continents, simultaneously coming up with the exact same theories. Alexander Graham Bell is credited with inventing the telephone, but Antonio Meucci came up with the idea at about the same time. I knew that because Meucci tested his device on Staten Island of all places. Yeah, it had to be a coincidence.
I don’t like coincidences.
OK. So what if Sharon Sullivan turns out to be Laura Lee Litton? Big deal. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out that the Sullivans had been guests in Denton’s house. The dead banker had been a political animal and a power broker. Even though he was a prosecutor, Mike Sullivan kowtowed to people like Denton to get elected. That was it. At worst, Sharon Sullivan was just a reformed hooker and a dutiful wife who sponsored children’s charities. It didn’t mean she was bonking Denton’s brains out. She just had probably helped move some furniture around in Denton’s den, including the Eames recliner and ottoman, for a fundraiser. Really kind of admirable when you thought about it. The super said she helped old ladies with the groceries. Abused kid, whore, Rockette, wife, pillar of the community. A wonderful tale of redemption.
Deep in thought, I was crossing a street against the light at 59th Street and narrowly missed being creamed by a Lincoln Town Car, whose blaring horn shocked me out of my reverie and brought me back to earth. I waved an apology and continued walking down Columbus.
Moving fucking furniture?
***
The most wonderful tavern in the world used to be at 49th Street and the Avenue of the Americas, which is really Sixth Avenue because it is between Fifth and Seventh Avenues. But that’s something probably not worth worrying about. The tavern was Hurley’s and stood on that corner of Rockefeller Center from 1870 until 1999 as a monument to fighting City Hall, or in its case, the Rockefellers, same thing. When the richest family in America wanted to build Rockefeller Center, and bought up all the other businesses on the property, the owners of the three-story building that housed the bar were the sole holdouts. Rock Center was constructed around the old building and Hurley’s became a much-beloved institution and a hangout for NBC stars and other celebrities. But in keeping with its “up yours” history, the tavern, which had a terrific restaurant upstairs, wasn’t pretentious. I had been taken there as a kid and years later the bartenders and maitre d’ all remembered me, as they did everyone. I always had rhubarb pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert. Alas, the lease finally lapsed and the location now houses a gourmet food store.
I needed a stiff bourbon more than foie gras but that could wait. I went over to the Radio City Music Hall box office and asked a clerk to direct me to the Rockette offices.
“There are no shows until next month,” she said.
“I just want to speak to someone in administration.”
“They are very busy. They’re having their summer tryouts.”
Remembering my morning skirmish with Irma the Whiz, I restrained myself from making a wiseass remark. I merely flipped out my identification and closed it quickly.
“It’s police business.”
Almost true, and if Sharon Sullivan was Laura Lee Litton, probably more than that. The flip ploy doesn’t always work, but this time it did. Five minutes later I was talking to Lisa Ostermann, the no-nonsense director of the Rockettes.
“I understand you want to know about one of my girls,” she said, handing me back the identification she’d asked to see. “Is there a problem?”
We were standing in front of the massive Radio City Music Hall stage, where perhaps 60 girls and women, in small groups, were going through various dances and routines. All were lithe and attractive and I would have been less distracted interviewing someone while being water boarded. It helped that Ostermann stood facing the stage. With my back to all the feminine pulchritude I was able to soldier on.
“She’s probably not a Rockette, now. Her name is, or was, Sharon Starr. I’m just trying to locate her.”
The tapping and shuffling behind me was continuous, punctua
ted by shouted commands from instructors. There was no music. Lisa Ostermann looked at me coldly
“They told me that you claimed to be a police officer. But you are really a private investigator. You misrepresented yourself. Isn’t that illegal?”
“I never said I was a cop. The young lady must have misunderstood.”
I was treading on thin ice. This was a tough, savvy woman responsible for choosing who among thousands of talented and driven hopefuls each year would join one of the most professional and famous dance troupes in the world. Judging character was probably as important as judging beauty and form. It was obvious she found my verbal tap dance somewhat lacking.
“Frank, switch the first two lines,” she said in a loud voice over my shoulder. “And pick up the tempo. This is an audition, not Dancing With the Stars.” Her gaze shifted back to me. “Is Sharon in some kind of trouble?”
So, she did know her.
“I hope not.” Which was the truth. “She may have important information in a case I’m working on.”
“How did you find out she was a Rockette?”
I told her, leaving out everything before my visit to the Gotham Theatre of Dance.
“Luckily, her old super remembered. There was no Sharon Starr listed anywhere. Isn’t that unusual for a Rockette?”
“Sharon changed her name. We all thought it was too, what’s the word, contrived. Rockettes are supposed to be regular girls, you know. Even though we know they are very special. Her stage name here was Sharon Lee.”
I tried to recall Sharon Sullivan’s “maiden” name, but couldn’t. I was still rooting for a coincidence.
“Sharon was a good dancer. Not great, mind you. But one of the hardest workers I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen them all. Driven. Which was why I was surprised she left us to get married.”
“Why? That must happen a lot. After all, your dancers are all beautiful women.”
“Oh, you’ve noticed. You really are a detective. Listen, to become a Rockette you have to have at least five years’ experience as a dancer and be proficient in tap, jazz and ballet. Our dancers often stay with us 10, 20 years. But Sharon met this man and fell in love. I tried to talk her into staying. Not that I’m against love and marriage. Far from it. Many of our girls raise families and remain Rockettes. But she was adamant. I think the only thing she wanted more than dancing was a stable relationship and she put her husband’s career ahead of her own. She never really talked much about her life, but I can tell when one of my girls has had an unhappy childhood. I think she needed a father figure.”
LAURA LEE (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 2) Page 14