Suspects

by William Caunitz

  Her blue eyes blazed with anger, and she froze. “Does it look like you?”

  “Without the mustache, yes. But the composite by itself doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Do you think that they’re on to us?”

  “No. None of them are smart enough to put it all together.” He took out his pack of cigarettes, shook out a clipper, and lit it.

  She fought to keep an expression of annoyance off her face. His cheapness, with cigarettes and everything else, disgusted her. He was really another version of Gallagher; like any cop he took everything he could get for free, and his idea of a present was some lousy blender that he had pried out of some merchant or a bottle of perfume that some bookmaker had given him. She fleetingly thought of the single airline ticket hidden in her hat box. Concorde to London. That was the way she was going to live. “Did you get rid of the guns and the rest of the stuff?”

  “There hasn’t been enough time to do it right. But don’t worry. They’re in a safe place where nobody is going to find them.”

  “Safe place, bullshit, George! I told you to get rid of them a week ago.”

  “I love you, Mary Ann, and I don’t like it when you yell at me.”

  “You’ll like it less if Scanlon gets wise to us.”

  “That dumb guinea can only think in guinea. He’s no threat.”

  “Your dumb guinea didn’t strike me as being so dumb. What about those assignments you’ve been getting?”

  “Mary Ann, if they thought for one minute that I was responsible they’d be all over me, and I can assure you, they’d do a lot more than fly me on a few details.” He stretched out over the bed and rested his head on her lap. She began to rub his forehead.

  “You realize that you almost blew the whole thing by calling out ‘Hey you,’” he said.

  She bent down and kissed his nose. “I’m sorry, darling. I just couldn’t control myself. I wanted him to look into my eyes and see who was sending him to hell. That man kept me like a fucking slave for years. I hated him and I’m glad he’s dead, that miserable son of a bitch.”

  “You should have done what you came to do and left without saying a word, like we planned. It was supposed to look like an attempted robbery.”

  “I know,” she snapped. “Just don’t keep harping on it. I said I was sorry.”

  “But because of that one mistake Scanlon realized that it was a hit and not a robbery attempt. And it would only have been a matter of time until someone thought of the money you were entitled to as Joe’s widow. And that’s a powerful motive. So because of you I had to run out and do the Zimmermans to throw them off the track, keep them confused. I didn’t exactly enjoy doing that, Mary Ann.”

  “But you did it.”

  “Yes, I did it. I did it because I love you, because I want to have a wonderful life with you, free of any money troubles.”

  “I know you love me, George. And I love you too.” She stopped massaging his head. “I haven’t been laid in days.”

  “I’m really not in the mood anymore. Let me relax a little bit, first.”

  “I want it now, George,” she said, reaching under her dress and pulling off her underpants and stuffing them under the pillow. “Here, let me get you in the mood.” She reached down and, opening the top of his jeans, pushed his pants down, exposing him. She went down on him and ravenously sucked him hard. She flung herself across the bed, tossed up her dress, and gasped as he entered her body.

  When she had slaked her thirst for him, she rested her head on a pillow and said, “I haven’t been that horny in ages. I can relax now.”

  He lay next to her. “I love you very much, Mary Ann.”

  “And I love you, George.”

  “It’s funny how Gallagher threw us together.” Harris scowled. “It was a mutual hate society.”

  “If only they’d known what holy Joe was like at home.”

  “He used to love to put me down in front of the men. He’d countermand my orders just to make me look like a nincompoop.”

  “I know, darling, I know,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.” In a burst of gaiety, she said, “I got a check from the Lieutenants’ Benevolent Association for five thousand dollars.”

  “That’s only the beginning, my love.”

  “Tell me again how much.”

  “Close to a million dollars, practically tax-free.”

  “A million dollars? I can’t even begin to think in those sums.”

  “Well, you’d better get used to thinking in those sums, because we’re going to be rich.”

  She glanced at his contented face, a disingenuous smile pinching her mouth. “Yes, darling, we are going to be rich.” She sat up on the bed, and her fingers rubbed his forehead soothingly. “Do you think anyone suspects that we’re more than friends?”

  “Naw, no one thinks of us in those terms. You’re a God-fearing grieving Irish widow who thinks sex is unholy, and I’m your husband’s friend. Besides, I got a girlfriend. Luise Bardwell. It’s perfect.”

  “But you’re not seeing her anymore?”

  “Shit no. She served her purpose. The main thing was for Scanlon and the rest of those assholes not to connect us.”

  “Do you know when I first felt close to you?”

  “No. But I do remember that we used to talk for hours while Joe was out doing his thing.”

  “It was when you first confided to me that you had never … you know, gone down on a woman.”

  He reached up and brushed the back of his hand across her warm cheek. “I remember that night.”

  Her voice dropped. “Did you ever do that to Luise Bardwell?”

  “No, Mary Ann, I didn’t. You’re the only woman I’ve ever done that with.”

  “Do you enjoy doing that with me?”

  A throatiness came into his voice. “I love it.”

  “Would you like to do it to me now?” she cooed, bending and kissing his neck. “I have all your love inside me and I’m all warm and juicy.”

  He pressed her face to him. “Yes.”

  She pushed back from him, letting his head slide off her lap. She lifted up her dress and, inching forward, straddled his face.

  The prosthesis stood on the floor beside Sally De Nesto’s bed. He had been watching it for the better part of one hour, once again going over his past. If he had not lost his leg, would he still have developed erectile dysfunction somewhere down the line? Why was sex so damn complicated? It had more wrinkles than the Job.

  “Can’t you sleep?”

  He looked down at her curled-up form. “Just thinking.”

  “Would you like to make love?”

  “I’m really not in the mood.”

  She sat up, hoisting the sheet across her chest. “What’s the matter, Tony?”

  “I’m not my own man anymore. I’m dependent on that hunk of fiberglass for mobility and on you for sex.”

  “Am I so terrible?”

  “Terrible? You’re far from terrible. You’re a kind, considerate woman.”

  “But?”

  “I need more. I need someone to love, share my life with, grow old with.”

  She looked down at her knees, just shapes under a sheet. “We all want to be loved, Tony. But we have to settle for what we can get. Some people get their love from pets. I’ve found mine with handicapped people who need me.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “If I were you, I’d go after Jane Stomer. Pretend like you’ve just met her. Women like to be pursued. Take my word for it. Send her flowers. Every woman loves flowers.”

  “I had an erotic dream about Jane. It was so real that I can remember asking myself if I was dreaming or awake. And I can remember deciding that it was real, that it was actually happening. I soiled the sheets.”

  “Perhaps that’s a good sign. You might be getting a handle on your problem.”

  “Then why do I feel so lousy?”

  “You gotta feel lousy before you feel better. I don’t k
now why things are that way, but they are.”

  “I’ve also come to realize just how dependent I’ve become on you. It’s as though I need you to give me a fix that will restore my self-confidence as a man, and enable me to get through the day.”

  “Everyone needs a friend now and then.” She slid her hand across his chest, hugging him.

  “It’s time for me to start standing on my own two feet without any help. I have to try and get my act together. Can you understand that, Sally?”

  “Yes I can. And I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you if you need me.” She hugged him. “I want to make love to you, Tony.”

  “I’m really not in the mood.”

  She worked her hand down under the sheet. “Let me see what I can do about that.”

  21

  A warm, pleasant breeze laced with summer scents flowed through the open windows of the Nine-three Squad. The detectives went about their morning routines, checking their pigeon holes for department mail, notifications, subpoenas, love letters. Lew Brodie had called in from the field. He was on his way to plant on Linda Zimmerman’s aunt’s house on Sutton Place South.

  Higgins had swept out the squad room this Tuesday morning and was leaning on a broom handle, staring thoughtfully at the row of file cabinets. She leaned the broom against the side of a desk and moved up to the Vulva File. She took out a Twenty-eight and filled in the pedigree information at the top of the Request for Leave of Absence form, leaving the space for the date and time of absence blank. She signed the form and took out the Vulva File, a number two department ledger. She flipped it open and wrote Valerie Clarkson’s name, address, and telephone number on the next unused line. She placed the Twenty-eight between the pages along with the rest of the unused forms and closed the book.

  Turning away from the file, she saw Scanlon watching her. “There are eight million stories in the naked city, Lou.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Scanlon said, tossing his report into the basket for the department mail.

  Howard Christopher sat off in the corner watching “The Morning Show” on television, a mug of cinnamon tea resting on his knee. Scanlon noticed that Biafra Baby was among the missing. He asked Christopher if he had heard from him. “He’s on the way in, Lieutenant. He called a few minutes ago to say that he’d be late. He had to drive his daughter to her ballet lesson.”

  Scanlon received several telephone calls. The first was from Herman the German, who wanted to know if Scanlon wanted him to continue flying Harris. Scanlon told him that he did. The CofD wanted to know if there had been any new developments. Scanlon told him that there hadn’t been, and the CofD reminded him of the PC’s warning not to move on Harris or Mrs. Gallagher without some physical evidence to substantiate the allegations. MacAdoo McKenzie called next and wanted to know if anything new had been developed. The last call was from Jack Fable. When Scanlon told him that there was nothing new to report, Fable told him that his detectives had developed several leads on the necrophiliac who had been using the Nineteenth as his playpen.

  “An arrest is imminent,” Fable said mockingly.

  Scanlon hung up. He thought of Sally De Nesto’s advice to court Jane Stomer and send her flowers. He picked up the telephone and dialed Frank Randazzo, a florist at the north end of the precinct. He took care of the precinct’s floral needs. When Randazzo came onto the line, Scanlon said, “Ciao, Frank, sono Tony Scanlon del novantatreesimo squadrone; come stai? E la famiglia, tutti bene? Per favore, Frank, mada una dozzina di rose rosse alla Signorina Jane Stomer all’ufficio del Procuratore Generale a 100 Center Street al palazzo del Tribunale, firma il biglietto ‘Con Amore, Scanlon,’ e mandami il conto qua al mio ufficio. Grazie, Frank, a Ciao.”

  Scanlon hung up and saw Biafra Baby standing in the doorway watching him. The detective strutted up to the desk. “I think that I might have something.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “My wife is a big believer in all that family togetherness bullshit and likes to keep a running dialogue going around the dinner table. Last night as I was scooping up some mashed potatoes and telling them about how me and Christopher canvassed all them makeup stores with negative results, my wife stops cutting her lamb chop, looks me in the eye, and says as calm as shit, ‘Try Bob Brown on West Forty-ninth Street.’”

  “Who is Bob Brown?”

  “He runs a theatrical mail-order house that sells makeup and rents stage props to theaters and schools.”

  “Wasn’t he on the list of makeup stores that I gave you?”

  “Negative. Brown isn’t listed in the Yellow Pages under Theatrical Makeup. He’s listed under Cosmetics and Wigs.”

  Scanlon slapped the side of his head.

  Biafra Baby continued, “My wife is a schoolteacher. That’s how she knew about Brown. Her school gets their stage props from Brown.” He patted down his hair. “Then I remembered that you had told me that Gretta Polchinski had told you that Mrs. Gallagher had once been a teacher’s aide. So after I dropped my daughter off at her ballet lesson, I telephoned Brown.”

  “And?”

  “He be’s waiting for us.”

  Scanlon lurched out from behind his desk. The phone on his desk rang. He looked at it, hesitated, and snapped it up.

  “This is Thomas Tibbs, the man who saw the killer running from the candy store.”

  You’re also the married banker from Scarsdale who is making it with Sigrid Thorsen, Scanlon thought. “I know who you are, Mr. Tibbs.”

  “Lieutenant, do you remember when I told you that there was something strange about the way the killer ran to the van? And I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was.”

  “I remember.”

  “I now know what it was that bothered me. On last night’s eleven-o’clock news they had a clip on the cross-county marathon in Westchester County. It came to me as I watched the runners.”

  “What came to you, Mr. Tibbs?” Scanlon said, motioning to Biafra Baby to take the keys for the Squad’s car off the hook.

  “I realized that women run differently than men. They keep their arms tucked into their sides, and their torsos have a distinctive sway when they run. The person I saw running from that candy store might have looked like a man, but he ran like a woman.”

  Scanlon thanked the witness for taking the time to call. He pulled over the case folder, wrote the time and date on the inside flap, and added, “Thomas Tibbs called to state that perp who he observed running from scene ran with a female gait.” He slapped the folder closed and left the squad room with Biafra Baby.

  The glass sign on the door read: Bob Brown Wigs and Cosmetics.

  The detectives stepped into a long narrow corridor. The wall on their left was covered with autographed photos of show-business personalities wearing makeup. To their right was a counter that looked out into a work area where several women sat weaving wigs. In the rear of the work area were portable storage racks with rows of wigs set on head mannequins.

  Bob Brown was a gaunt man with a flat nose and a receding hairline. “You the police detective who called?” Brown said, coming up to the counter.

  Biafra Baby flashed his shield. “I called you. This is Lieutenant Scanlon.”

  Brown leaned out over the counter and pointed to a door about six feet away. “I’ll buzz you in.”

  The three men sat among the wigmakers. “What can I do for you?” Brown asked.

  Scanlon was fascinated by the dexterity of the wigmakers’ hands. “We’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your business.”

  “What sort of questions?” Brown asked, taking up a wig and pushing a long hooked needle through it.

  “How do you get your customers?” Scanlon inquired.

  “We’re well known in theatrical and educational circles. Most of our business is done by mail.”

  “Do you get many walk-ins?” Scanlon asked.

  “A few,” Brown said, pushing the needle through the skin. “But most of our customers ord
er from our catalog.”

  “Then you must maintain a file on your customers,” Scanlon said.

  “Of course,” Brown said. “That’s how we know who to send our catalog to.”

  “Could someone call you up and ask you to mail them makeup?” Scanlon asked.

  “Sure,” Brown answered, “but they’d have to know what they wanted, and they’d have to send payment before we’d send out the merchandise, unless they were a regular customer.”

  “Don’t you bill most of your customers?” Biafra Baby asked.

  “Only the schools, theaters, and individuals with whom we’ve dealt with before.” Brown stopped working and looked at the policemen. “Look, gentlemen, I’ve got a lot to do, so why not tell me what you want?”

  Scanlon said, “We’d like to take a look at your orders for the past few years.”

  “Why?” Brown asked, picking up the needle and threading it with hair.

  “It has to do with a case we’re working on,” Biafra Baby said.

  “I would not want my company to become mixed up in a civil suit because I gave information to the police.”

  “Mr. Brown,” Scanlon said, putting on his serious face, “we’re working on a case of child molestation where the perpetrator dons makeup to change his appearance and then forces children to commit unnatural acts. We’d really appreciate your help.”

  “How disgusting,” Brown said, putting down the wig and needle. “Of course I’ll help.”

  They followed Brown through a labyrinth of storage racks containing cartons of makeup. Scanlon noticed some of the labels: Crepe Wool. Rubber Mask Grease. Creme Highlight. Shadow Colors.

  Brown led the detectives across the concrete floor to his office, which consisted of two old desks fitted side by side into an alcove in the wall. He opened the bottom drawer of one of the desks and took out five bulging manila folders. He plopped them down. “Help yourself,” Brown said. “These are the individual orders for the past two years. If you don’t find what you want there, I’ll show you the institutional orders.” He left the detectives and returned to his wigmaking.

  The detectives set about separating the order forms in each folder into stacks. Slowly, meticulously, they went about scrutinizing each form. They had been at it for about thirty minutes when Biafra Baby snatched a form up from one of his stacks, studying it. “Lou, does 34-16 Astoria Boulevard sound familiar to you?”