It Had to Be You

by Delynn Royer

  She waited for what felt like an interminable period of time, regretting her decision to call him one minute and telling herself she was doing the right thing the next. She tapped her foot impatiently to the music.

  “Nuts, nuts, nuts...had to be you...it had to be yoooooo...doo-dee-doo-doooo-doo-dee-doo-doooo...had to be—”

  “Should I come back later?” Costigan’s voice in her ear sounded subtly amused and intimately close.

  Trixie almost dropped the receiver. “Jeepers, how long have you been there?”

  “Since the last refrain. Is this you, Miss Frank?”

  Their connection was clear enough for her to hear not only the radio in the lobby of the Alhambra Hotel on Manhattan Island but also the raw weariness behind his words. She felt bad for calling him. No doubt he’d been catching some well-deserved rest. Then an image of him in bed came to mind. Did he wear pajamas or...?

  “Um, I—I didn’t know who else to call.” She was surprised at the direction of her own thoughts. Good grief, she worked with men every day. What was it about Costigan?

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Wrong? Oh, yeah, there’s plenty wrong.” She tried her best to sound composed and rational as she described what she’d found in her apartment.

  At first, Costigan said nothing, and Trixie wondered if he believed her. Then he asked, “Are you sure?”

  So much for composed. “Of course I’m sure! What could someone want in my apartment? Nothing’s missing. It’s like someone was looking for something.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something to do with this case.”

  “You want me to come over and take a look around?”

  Trixie wanted to say no, but a wave of relief washed through her at the suggestion. “I—well, if you think—I mean, I know you’re off duty, and it’s not like anything’s—”

  “What’s your address?”

  She gave him the number of her apartment house on Madison. “Do you know it?”

  “I’ll find it. Give me thirty minutes.” There was a click and Trixie hung up the phone.

  She sagged back against the wall for a moment to gather herself. She couldn’t deny that she felt safer just knowing he was on the way, but it irked her just the same. What kind of crime reporter would she make if she panicked at the first suspected burglary that came along?

  Thirty minutes. Trixie debated on whether she wanted to wait upstairs and decided against it. She would wait outside.

  * * *

  Sean had worked several months out of a precinct in downtown Brooklyn and so he had no trouble finding Trixie Frank’s address. When he stepped out from his Ford sedan, he eyed the plain graystone front of the three-story apartment house in this working-class neighborhood. Why would the daughter of a multi-millionaire choose to live here?

  It didn’t add up.

  What did add up was that he found the pretty girl reporter sitting in the dark—coatless and shivering and waiting for him on the stoop. Whether this was a real break-in or imagined, she was spooked.

  She stood when he approached. “Listen, I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought—”

  “You’re cold. Let’s get inside.”

  It had been a damnably long day, and he was beat. It seemed natural to reach around her waist to usher her toward the door. Still, he shouldn’t have. She felt soft, vulnerable and female—like not part of the job—and he was experienced enough to know that he needed to back off. He dropped his hand away and opened the door instead.

  A hailstorm of barking erupted from a first-floor apartment. The apartment door cracked open and an elderly woman with a tousled mop of gray hair peered out. Fierce puny dog growls rose from behind her. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Mrs. L,” Trixie said. “This is Detective Costigan. We’re working on a story. May he visit for a few minutes?”

  Mrs. L looked Sean over skeptically. “Aren’t you a tall drink of water.” Sean produced his shield and she examined it. “So what’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? What could be wrong?” Trixie shot Sean a look that told him to keep mum.

  “Hmmmm, go ahead, dear, but make it fast. Rules are rules.” She gave Sean an arch look. “No funny business.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  The door closed and Trixie motioned for Sean to follow her. “I’m sorry, but she’d have the whole place in a panic if I told her I’ve been burglarized.”

  “Sure.”

  Trixie climbed the stairs ahead of him. “At least...I’m pretty sure I’ve been burglarized. I know I should have called our precinct, but I thought that if this has anything to do with the Murphy case, maybe you’d want to take a look around first.”

  Sean was still operating on a total of about two hours sleep. He couldn’t help but admire the view from behind. “I can appreciate that, Miss Frank.”

  When they reached the second floor, Trixie led him down a narrow hallway to an apartment marked 2A. “This is it.”

  Sean bent to examine the lock. A common pin tumbler. Easily picked. Trixie bent with him. “What are you looking for? Fingerprints?”

  Fingerprints?

  Her face was inches from his, her generous pink lips kissable, her lovely blue eyes wide. How could she be so beautiful and so smart and yet so jingle-brained at the same time?

  “No,” he said, bemused. “But if I was, I guess what I’d find would be yours.”

  They stared at each other for too long before his meaning sank in. Her cheeks flushed. “Oh.”

  They both straightened up at once.

  “Get a deadbolt,” he said.

  Trixie opened the door. When they stepped inside, Sean took in her modest accommodations. It was messier than he’d expected for a rich girl but generally undisturbed.

  “You probably think I’m imagining all this,” she said, throwing her purse onto the sofa.

  He said nothing as he moved through her cluttered living room. In fact, he didn’t think she was imagining things. He was the one who’d found Nell’s apartment door unlocked at two in the morning. “I need to see your bedroom.”

  She pointed. “In there.”

  He went ahead of her, noting the window shade was pulled. The only light came from a reading lamp by her bed. “You say the window was locked and the shade was pulled when you got here?”

  “Yes, but I know I left the shade up.”

  He opened the window. Across the way, on the other side of a back fence, was another apartment building. He eyed the fire escape on this building. It wasn’t extended to the ground. “Are many people here during the day?”

  “No, the tenants work. There’s only Mrs. Liebowitz, but she runs errands most days, and Friday is her Mahjong day. Oh, and there’s Twinkles.”

  “Twinkles?”

  “The dog. Nobody gets past Twinkles, but Mrs. L walks him twice a day. Once in the morning and again before dark.”

  Sean closed the window and locked it. If someone had been watching the building, there was ample time for a break-in. It only would have taken one man, perhaps posing as a delivery boy or a city inspector, to get by the landlady. Trixie’s apartment number appeared on her mailbox in the foyer.

  The room was untidy, shoes on the floor, clothing strewn across the bed. Of particular interest were silky feminine undergarments. He picked up a white chemise. Soft silk slipped between his fingertips and he caught the faint scent of rose petals. A breezy feminine scent he was already beginning to associate with her.

  “Honestly, is that necessary?”

  He looked up to see Trixie frowning, hands on hips. Amused, he raised an eyebrow. “Nice BVDs.”

  She rounded the bed and snatched her chemise. “Stop that. Someone was here and it’s giving me the willies.�
�

  “Sorry,” he said, though he felt little remorse. Aside from the glimpse that he and about fifty other guys had gotten of her knees this afternoon, the thought of Miss Frank in her underwear was likely to be the high point of his week.

  “So, do you believe me?” she asked and his amusement slowly faded. He dealt with this crap every day, she didn’t.

  “Yeah, I believe you.”

  They were standing too close and Sean saw two new spots of color bloom on her cheeks. Truth be told, he was feeling a little warm himself. Time to get out of the bedroom. He stepped around her to get to the door.

  She followed him. “So what’s going on? Do you think it has something to do with the Murphy case?”

  “I don’t know. Have you had any other break-ins?”

  “No.”

  “Then it probably has something to do with the Murphy case.”

  * * *

  Trixie had to fight an urge to protest as Sean proceeded to prowl through her kitchen. What had she gotten herself into? He touched the top of her table and drummed his fingers along the edge of her sink before peering inside her nearly bare cupboard.

  Cops should be more like doctors. Old.

  And bald.

  Definitely bald.

  Perhaps if Costigan were more the comforting fatherly type rather than the virile, see-through-a-girl’s-skin-to-her-quivering-soul type, she wouldn’t feel so exposed as he delved into every detail of her personal life.

  When he opened her icebox, she could keep quiet no longer. “Excuse me, but what do you expect to find in there?”

  “Not this.”

  His tone was oddly flat. She crossed to his side to see what he stared at inside the upper compartment. A quart of milk, a stick of butter, a sliced tomato, a half-eaten chicken sandwich.

  And her brassiere.

  Trixie’s mouth fell open.

  “Your visitor has a bad sense of humor.” Costigan’s voice sounded suddenly, absurdly, far away.

  “I left that on my bed this morning.”

  She didn’t move and so Sean moved for her, reaching inside to take the garment. She felt ill when he lifted it and it fell apart. It had been cut into two pieces.

  “Breathe,” he said, just as it occurred to her that it might be a good thing that she hadn’t eaten that take-out Chinese after all. “Someone wants to rattle you.”

  “Someone is doing a good job.”

  He took her firmly by the shoulders. “Look at me.”

  She felt numb inside, but she obeyed. She was acutely aware of the reassuring strength in his hands when she looked up into his eyes. Steady, deep blue, dependable. Safe.

  “If he wanted to hurt you, he wouldn’t have left the door unlocked. He wanted you to know that he was here.”

  “Okay.”

  “And he wouldn’t have left the apartment. He would have waited for you.”

  “Riiight.” This sounded logical, but she wasn’t sure she believed it.

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, as if to assure himself she wouldn’t slide to the floor, then he let her go. The connection was broken.

  He tossed the ruined garment on the table then closed the icebox door. “Breathe.”

  “I am.” And she was. At least, she was starting to. He was right. He was, darn it, and as of today, she was a full-fledged crime reporter. She needed to pull herself together.

  “Now, think again,” he said patiently. “Are you absolutely sure nothing’s missing?”

  “I checked my jewelry box and the money I keep in a drawer. All there.”

  “I’m not talking about valuables.” Sean motioned to a roll top desk. “What’s in there?”

  “Just papers and some story ideas I’m working on.”

  “Check it.”

  Trixie crossed to the desk and pushed the roll top up. She was still shaky, but at least now able to focus. A box of stationery, some pens, a few magazines and old mail littered the surface. She opened drawers. Envelopes, more stationery, notepads, receipts, her checks and savings passbook, letters and photographs.

  She went through each drawer again. “My address book is missing.”

  He didn’t respond and she looked up to see that he’d taken a seat on her sofa. His head was bent, his elbows rested on his knees, and she was reminded with a twinge of guilt that he had to be short on sleep.

  She cleared her throat. “Um, I said my address book is missing.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t stir.

  Okay? It wasn’t so okay with her. “What’s that mean?”

  “Now we know what else they wanted.”

  “My address book? Who would want that?”

  “Someone who wants the dope on you.” His tone was calm but his words chilled her.

  “Who would want the dope on me?”

  He finally lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “Are you going to report this?”

  He looked at her calmly. “Do you want me to report it?”

  She was surprised by his question, then curious. Costigan didn’t betray his thoughts easily but she detected something, some glimmer of knowledge or suspicion in his eyes. “Well,” she asked back, “shouldn’t we?”

  He stood. “If you want, I can call your precinct, ask them to send a flat foot around tomorrow to talk to your neighbors, find out if anyone saw anything.”

  Trixie frowned. “Yeah, but if this has something to do with the Murphy case, there’s not much they can do about it.”

  “True.”

  “Hey, wait a minute. Who else knows besides you and Detective Carter that my card was found at the murder scene? My name isn’t out on the wires. It’s not in the papers.”

  “It’s in the police report.”

  Trixie didn’t like the sound of that. “Cops? You’re saying that only cops know my name?”

  “Yeah, cops, but information gets leaked all the time.” He paused before continuing pointedly. “I guess you newshounds know something about that.”

  Trixie ignored the gibe. “Oh, that’s just swell.”

  He looked as if he might say something flippant, but then he checked himself. His tone softened. “Do you want me to stay?”

  His question made Trixie think he saw something she didn’t want him to see, that maybe she wasn’t such a tough girl reporter after all. “No, you’ve done enough. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’re right, they won’t be back tonight. They got what they wanted. Still, you might feel better if you sleep somewhere else for a while. You got family you can call?”

  Instantly, Trixie went from feeling unsure and vulnerable to feeling annoyed and scrappy. Daddy, he meant. Why not run home to Daddy? “Sure I’ve got family, but that won’t be necessary, Detective. I’m friends with the girl across the hall. I can stay with her.”

  “Did I strike a nerve?” His gaze was too perceptive.

  Trixie opened her mouth to retort, then shut it again. He wasn’t the only one tired from a too-long day. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. If you’re good, then I’ll scram.”

  “I’m good.” She forced a smile to convince him. “You go on. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He started for the door, then paused. “Speaking of which, did you get that sketch of the kid?”

  Trixie’s smile warmed at the thought of their case. “But of course.”

  He nodded. “Good work. Where is it?”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Not until I see the whites of your eyes tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp at the Examiner.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “To show up tomorrow with no incentive? Nope.”

  He smirked and opened the d
oor.

  Trixie followed him out and stood in the hall, watching as he took the stairs. “Bright and early, Detective. I’ll see you then.”

  He raised a weary hand. It was the only sign that he’d heard her. Trixie waited until she heard him leave by the front door, then went back into her apartment.

  Tomorrow would be an interesting day.

  Chapter Six

  It was early the following morning when Sean pushed through the revolving door five stories below the grand copper dome at 240 Centre Street.

  It had been over a year since he’d reported to work at police headquarters—four transfers ago—but it felt like yesterday as he passed the information booth in the lower hall and took the stairs.

  By order of Chief Keegan, attendance at a daily briefing was mandatory for all officers assigned to the Murphy case. When Sean entered the briefing room, only two other detectives from the Homicide Squad were already present—Grottano and Carter.

  Dressed smartly, Owen Carter stood at the head of the room, his back to rows of chairs as he made notes on a blackboard. Also present was a medical examiner, an ADA and a stenographer. It wasn’t long before several other detectives arrived and, finally, Chief Keegan, who took a discreet seat in the back, a subtle but clear indication that this was Carter’s show. He was present only to observe.

  Carter first introduced a prohibition agent named Stuckey. Agent Stuckey filled them in on a federal liquor syndicate investigation that had been close to fruition just prior to the murder.

  According to the feds, John Murphy wasn’t just a key member of the syndicate, he was the organizer and the only one who knew every other member’s identity. Because of his penchant for keeping detailed records, Murphy was also the member most sought after for prosecution.

  It was Stuckey’s belief that Murphy’s fellow syndicate members had a compelling motive to silence Murphy before he could be recruited to inform on them. Considering the timing of the murder, Stuckey suspected that details of his investigation had leaked.

  While Stuckey spoke, Sean drew arrows and boxes in his notepad, but he didn’t miss a word. He could hazard a few guesses about who Johnny had been in business with lately.