“Hey, how are you?” His voice was too loud.
“I’m fine. You?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“That’s good.”
“Good. We’re both fine.”
Stupid. Stupid. Why do I sound so stupid? At least Laura came down to see me. Now, how to make sure I don’t blow the whole thing?
“Were you able to get to Bellevue?”
“Yes. Quirk is pissed off at you.”
He chuckled. “Why?”
“He’s in a load of shit, of course. For not trying hard enough to ID the kid.”
“Just what that chucklehead deserves. I didn’t bring that down on him. His incompetence did.”
“Maybe, but I agreed with him. About you, that is. He was pleased to hear it. I think he believed helping me might somehow hurt your career.”
“What career?”
“I left that part out. He started in by telling me they never get female reporters in the morgue. Made that obvious by leering. I sat quite demurely, sounded appalled at all his horrifying coroner talk, and crossed and re-crossed my legs a few times.”
“I didn’t think women’s libbers went in for that approach.” He looked at her legs.
“Are you kidding?” She crossed them and smiled. “I want this story as much as you do. So, what do you do in a man’s world? Use a man’s weakness against him.”
“What would Katherine Graham say?”
“That she’s got boys out getting her stories for her. Now, do you want the headlines or not?”
“By all means.”
“Declan ingested barbiturates,” Laura said. “Maybe enough to kill him. Certainly more than you’d take for medicinal or recreational purposes. It put him out a good long time. For now, they’re sticking with exposure as cause of death.”
Taylor nodded at this news. “He was knocked out by an overdose. That means someone soaked him down and dumped him outside. He was unconscious in sub-zero weather. Someone was trying to hide the murder as an accidental death.”
“Possible.” Laura gave the either way signal with her hand. “The police are still calling it a suspicious death. They want to call it murder. They need to call it murder. They can’t yet. They don’t know Declan didn’t take the pills himself.”
“No way,” Taylor said. “He was killed. Really great reporting.”
Laura flipped further back into her notebook. “I didn’t do so well with the Eli kids. They’ve got a cop posted at the school’s front door now. I waited, saw Carolyn Bancroft leave and tried to get her to stop. She waved me off and jumped into a chauffeured Town Car. I couldn’t find Reginald Morton and got nowhere with Dickie Bennett. At least he didn’t run away from me.”
“Was he still wearing that camera?”
“Sure. He said he told you everything he knows and had nothing to add. ‘Not one word.’ ”
Taylor frowned at this. “He told me nothing.”
“It was odd. He looked uncomfortable.”
“I’m sure he wants to talk about something. Doesn’t know how to start.”
“Took my card at least.”
Taylor smiled. “The autopsy info alone is gold.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine—”
“No you won’t. Upstairs they’re talking about you like you’re already gone.” She nodded her head to the ceiling as if the newsroom were right on top of them. “Marmelli asked Worthless for a replacement.”
“That lazy bastard. Obits is hardly enough work for him. Look, Worth can chuck me out on my ass. He’s going to have to hire me back when we nail this story.”
He wanted her to have confidence. He wasn’t sure he did. The phone rang, and Mrs. Wiggins answered.
“Taylor, for you.”
“Worth’s tracked you down.” Laura stared at the phone like it might bite.
“He’s not that smart.” Taylor took the receiver. “Yes.”
“The man himself,” said Pickwick. “I see, working out of the newspaper’s morgue. How very poetical. Quite so.”
“How did you find me?”
“Please, I’m Pickwick. You did well with my tip. I don’t have a lot of time today. It’s a bit busy.”
“With what?”
“That would be telling. Why do you always ask the obvious? You should be asking the right questions. I must say I even surprised myself with this one. It’ll make you happy. Take down this address. Joanna Kazka, 67 Ontario Street in Albany.”
“Who’s that?”
“That’s the mother of Peter Pan’s little friend.”
“Tinker Bell?”
“Quite so.”
“How do I know—”
Dial tone. Goddammit.
Without explaining, Taylor sent Laura upstairs to the newsroom to get the Criss+Cross Directory for Albany. A reporter’s best friend, the directory was a reverse phone book that listed phone numbers by their street addresses. He dialed 67 Ontario and got the bartender at a place called Skipper’s Bar & Grill. Yes, a mother and daughter lived in an apartment above the bar. No, he didn’t know if they had a phone. No, he wouldn’t go upstairs and get the mother.
Chapter 15
Man-high snowdrifts slipped by on either side of the Taconic State Parkway. It was like driving into the white heart of a glacier. Laura slept next to Taylor in the front seat of her car. Actually, her father’s car. Actually, one of her father’s cars. By the time he’d made every fruitless call he could on the Albany address, the last train to Albany had left Grand Central. Laura readily offered the car. Taylor just as readily said yes to that and her company on the ride.
A DJ at WKIP in Poughkeepsie called the time at quarter to eleven, the temperature 13 degrees, and played “Lonely People” by America, No. 5 on the Billboard chart. Could be worse. Probably would get worse. The Top 40 station was the best he could tune in this far up the Hudson. The rest were overnight talk and easy listening. Next came ELO’s “Can’t Get It Out of My Head.” Taylor couldn’t get one image out of his head. Another empty apartment. This fool’s errand would end with Susan and Tinker Bell still missing and his career still wrecked by their story. He refused to let himself believe he was really close. That was the best way to avoid disappointment. Then why go up at all? He couldn’t help himself. He had to know. He had to follow every lead, even if it meant more pain.
Laura’s breathing was a soft whisper and her face stunning in repose. He reached his fingers to run them down her smooth white cheek but checked himself. He wanted to caress her but didn’t want to wake her from a comfortable snooze. He looked up, whispered “shit,” and braked the car firmly but without panicking. Two deer, black eyes, mouths blowing frozen mist, stared over the hood of the Buick Estate Wagon. They walked past the car slowly, as if put out by his appearance on their road. How did the animals get on the parkway despite the huge snow banks? How would they get off it? Some poor bastard was going to end up with venison in his grill.
The ride ended in front of Skipper’s Bar & Grill in a residential neighborhood. The place reminded Taylor of Ahab’s back in Queens, right down to the wooden ship’s wheel for a sign. He and Laura hustled out of the cold and sat down at the bar. The illuminated Heileman’s Old Style clock read eleven fifteen. Laura yawned and stretched. His head pounded from the anxious concentration of driving the parkway at close to seventy, scanning the flashing banks of snow and ice for more suicidal deer.
A bulky middle-aged man sat two stools down, a bottle of Genny Cream Ale and a plate full of chicken wings in front of him. He dipped one end of a wing in a dish of salad dressing and slurped the meat off in one go, throwing the whistle-clean bones in a red plastic bowl. Taylor hated leaving New York City. His knowledge was hard won. He liked the comfortable, smart-ass feeling of being an expert on almost anything in his city. There was no telling what he’d face here in the Yukon. All the new tribes and their strange customs. Like this chicken wing thing. He ordered a beer for himself and red w
ine for Laura.
When the drinks were delivered, Taylor handed the bartender two bucks. “I called earlier about the woman who lives upstairs.”
“Must’ve been Frankie. I came on at nine.”
“Do you know the woman?”
“She comes in occasionally.”
“Her name Kazka?”
“Maybe. I only know her as Joanna.”
“She has a daughter?”
“Yeah, cute kid. Seems sickly though. I see them coming and going. What’s this about? You two aren’t cops. Can tell that.”
“This a cop bar?”
“More like a drunk-and-disorderlies bar. We get a lot of visits.”
“We’re with the newspaper.”
“Really? Times-Union or Knick News?”
“Messenger-Telegram.”
“Is that right? A New York paper up here? What do you know? The door to the apartment is in the back of the building.”
The ease with which the bartender offered the info disappointed Taylor. He’d expected to make a greater effort to find someone hiding from him. Now he was convinced this was another setup. Had to go through the motions anyway. They finished their drinks and walked out into nearly horizontal snow. By the time they reached a green wooden door with cracked and peeling paint, they were shivering. Taylor banged. Nothing. He tried to imagine Joanna Kazka lolling up there in a heroin dream. The image wouldn’t come. What if he forgot her? Then she’d really disappear. He fought a rising panic and banged harder, hand open to make the most noise. Laura gave him a look of concern.
“What in hell is going on?” yelled someone in Skipper’s kitchen.
An exhaust fan next to the kitchen window blew out greasy smoke from cooking French fries and burgers.
“Hold on. I’m coming.” A clumping on the stairs and the door swung in. Taylor stared for a second at the woman whose name he knew as Susan Bell. He was more surprised than elated. He’d come to believe he’d wear the story about her daughter around his neck for the rest of his life.
“What do you want at this time of night?” The woman had added enough weight to look almost healthy and was better dressed than when he’d seen her last in a tenement apartment in Harlem.
“Are you kidding?” He stepped forward into the light. “I’m Taylor from the Messenger-Telegram. I interviewed you and your daughter. You disappeared.”
Now it was Joanna Kazka’s turn to be surprised. “You can’t be here.” She put her hand to her mouth with a little gasp. Her face went white. She pushed the door closed, but he slid his reporter’s notebook on top of the bolt and leaned his shoulder against the door.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Fuck, no!”
She ran up the stairs to the open door of the second floor apartment. Again, Taylor was just fast enough, stepping into the doorway before she could slam the door. She backed into the small living room, and her thin body started to shake. His own panic fell away, and his shoulders slumped in a sort of immediate relief. Now what? Her disappearance had wrecked his career. He hadn’t thought what to do when they met again.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” He held his hands out in front, realized he still held the notebook and stuffed it in his coat pocket. Laura came in the door behind him.
“I’m not worried ’bout you.” A gasped sob. “If they find you here, they’ll take my little girl. They’ll kill me. Said they would.”
“I can help you. Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Not saying a damn thing.” She continued to shake.
“Why did you leave New York?”
“Oh god, oh god.” She kept repeating it, rocking back and forth on her heels, eyes flooded and nose running. “This is never, never gonna end. Never, never.”
“Please stop crying. I really don’t care why you did it. Money, drugs. I don’t care. I need to find the people who set me up. Where’s your daughter? I want to see if she’s okay.”
“No!” Her eyes went large with fear. She put herself in front of the only other door in the room. “Please, let my girl sleep. This has been awful on her.”
“I’m sure it has, but it’s been hard on me too.” He stepped toward her, anger rising in spite of his effort to stay in control. “I wrote a front-page story and then you vanished. No one I work for believes you’re real. It destroyed my career.”
Laura’s hand squeezed his arm. “You’re scaring her. You don’t need to do this. I’m here. I’ve seen her. I can tell all of them at the MT. They’ll have to give you your job back.”
“Don’t you understand?” He shook his head like she didn’t. “That’s not enough. I need to know who did this to me. That’s the story I want. Or they’ll come after me again.”
Laura pulled slowly on his arm until he backed up one step, then two, and sat down on a battered couch, the corduroy cushions worn down to smoothness. Joanna Kazka perched on the steel folding chair that was the living room’s other piece of furniture, aside from a small RCA on a card table that also held two TV dinner trays. A pine scent filled the room, in stark contrast to the stench of decaying food and unwashed bodies that had assailed him when he visited her apartment in Harlem.
“Why are you so frightened?” Laura asked.
“They check in.”
“Who does?”
“This goon Jackie. Once a week at least. Different days. Different times. I never know when. I think he watches us too.”
“Is he from New York?”
“No, local. He’s always complaining we keep him from his Off Track Betting parlor.”
The bedroom door opened and the nine-year-old girl darted to her mother, stepping between her legs and pressing back. She too looked healthier than when Taylor had last seen her. She eyed him curiously. He moved off the couch, and as Joanna clutched at her daughter, he turned over the girl’s left arm. The skin appeared healed. He checked the other. Same thing. No fresh tracks.
“Let me see her legs?”
“No, please. She stopped.”
“Stopped?” he barked. The girl started crying. Taylor stepped back, appalled at what he’d done. How was he ever going to clear himself if he couldn’t keep it together here? Frightening a little girl wasn’t going to fix anything. He sat back and rubbed his face with his hands. He was behaving like a shit. What was the point if he had to scare this child? “I’m sorry for yelling. What’s her real name? Not Tinker Bell, I’m sure.”
The girl quieted. Her mother answered. “Clare. Tinker Bell was that Roger’s idea.”
“You mean McEaty? The guy who brought me to see you?”
“Yeah, him. I never heard his real last name.”
“Did you know he wasn’t a cop?”
“You kidding? Course he wasn’t a damn cop. I know the smell of pig. He was some wannabe. An actor like.”
“How’d you get involved with him?”
“Real cops brought him to me. A street narc named Forrester busts into the apartment one day with these two suits.”
“Suits?”
“Cops too, but not narcs. They threatened to put me in jail for a long time. Take Clare away. They said I’d never find her again. I was holding enough stuff so they could do that under the new drug law. All’s I had to do was talk to you. Tell you my story just like it was.” She shuddered. “Only give you the wrong names. I rehearsed with Roger. He treated the whole thing like it was some kind of performance. He even had a script. If you ask me, he mighta been a grifter.” She squeezed her daughter. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I couldn’t lose her.”
Taylor leaned back, tired and sad. Addicts were master manipulators. Joanna was no exception. She was throwing her pain at him, looking for some kind of forgiveness. She was also fighting to survive odds he’d never faced, not even with his job on the line.
“Did you hear any other names?”
“No.”
“Did they say why they were doing it?”
“They said it was some kinda practical joke.
”
“What did they look like?”
“The first, like every narc. Long hair, not long enough, shaggy mustache. I’d never seen him before. The suits were suits. Short hair, fat faces. One black haired, one blond. I think. I was high a lot. You met McEaty. That’s what I remember.”
“That’s not going to help much.”
“I was in bad shape. They grabbed me out of there when your story came out. I didn’t expect that. They brought me up to this frozen hole. Jackie comes by with twenty-five bucks when he visits. I’m not allowed to leave until he says. And he says he doesn’t know when he’ll say.”
“How did your daughter get off heroin?” Laura nodded at the little girl, who bit the knuckle of her thumb. She looked like an animal ready to bolt at the first hint of a threat.
“She had to do the withdrawal. I put her through it. This whole thing scared me to death. I couldn’t lose her. She hurt, but it was fast.”
“You?”
“I’m not as strong.” A rueful smile. “I’m on methadone. It’s better now. I’m sorry about what happened. Jackie showed me the articles when I got here. He said I’d made a lot of people really happy doing that to you.”
Taylor moved slowly across the room to the lone window. His arms and legs were heavy. He believed Joanna, and his problems weren’t anywhere near solved. In tracking her down, he hadn’t found out much about who set him up. Or why. He could wait here for the guy watching over her. That might take a week. Or more. And Taylor would tip his hand and bring violence on them in the bargain.
“I want you to stay here and keep quiet about this visit. I don’t know who’s behind what happened. You’re not safe until I do and can print every detail for half a million people to read.”
Laura joined him at the window. “What about the paper?”
“They’re going to have to take our word for it. That is, if I tell them anything.”
“You must tell Garfield and Worth.”
“I don’t know that I can trust them. If it gets out we know where they are, God knows what will happen.”
Honesty was the wrong policy. That was instantly clear. Joanna shrieked and stood up, backing away and pulling her daughter with her. “Oh goddamn you. You’re going to get us killed!” The shaking started again. “I knew I couldn’t trust you. I can’t trust anyone. Goddamn you.”
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