The very small woman fixed Val with an undecided look, like she was considering whether to withhold the most graphic parts of Val’s sorry Tarot reading. Val waited. “Petra Housman,” the woman decided finally, stepping up to Val as close as she could get and thrusting a hand at her as though she held a knife. Val gave the woman her name, swiftly checking out the block to see if she remembered anyone else passing by on the morning of Adrian’s murder.
“No luck?” blared Petra Housman. She had large pores on a little heart-shaped face. The teeth were surprisingly white. Pulling herself up on tiptoes, she pointed a finger at Val’s nose. “I live across the street from the Coleman-Witt. I was around that morning, I already told that detective. But I’d got back early from my sunrise yoga class at the Y, so I can’t help you with the times.”
Val felt deflated. “That’s okay, Petra. I’ll try again—”
“The one you want, see, is that little frum girl lives in the next block.” With that, she flung her head violently to the side, casting the rain off herself in a horizontal spray.
“Frum?”
“Observant. Ortho. Goes to a day school up near Columbia. She walks this block to get to the train.”
Petra Housman stood back an inch from Val and clasped her hands behind her back, like a captain on a quarterdeck. “Saw her out of the corner of my eye, as I headed back into my building.” She inhaled deeply. “Didn’t mention her to the detective.” She gave Val a sidelong look, sniffing. “Just a kid, you know?”
Val nodded. “What was she doing?”
Petra Housman grinned, then rubbed at her nose. “Hiding, looked like. She’ll tell you. Try again tomorrow. Name’s Tali. Good family. Tell her you know me.” The woman started to turn, then threw back at Val, “Although you won’t need any warm-up with that girl. Very forthcoming. She may not understand what she saw, but you can be sure she won’t hold anything back.” With that, Petra Housman brayed and hurried up the street, waving a hand overhead at Val. Then suddenly stopped and turned. “That boy she’s hiding from?”
Ah. So it was a boy. “Also frum?”
“Of course.” Both hands were flung skyward. “She keeps waiting for him to find her.”
14
The following morning was dry and breezy. Val figured she still had enough clean underwear for today and tomorrow, at which point she would have to break down and throw in a load of laundry, but for the second day of her West 73rd Street stakeout she was wearing what she considered her default outfit—the one she wore when nothing was clean, if she felt hung over, or if for any number of reasons putting together an outfit felt like a sad misuse of her time on Earth. Even though she was seeing Killian at nine thirty and Bale at six, it was one of those days that called for the default outfit: navy blue pencil skirt, white ruffled blouse, thin navy cardigan. She threw a strand of her best fake pearls into her Peruvian beaded bag, in case the CEO called a surprise meeting, and a funky necklace made of old colorful glass and metal typewriter keys, in case he didn’t.
She was lumbered by a folding tripod camp stool Ivy League Ivy had actually brought for Val from home when Val mentioned the stakeout plan. “In case you get tired.”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“My point.”
On some level, Val found she rather liked it that she still had moments of finding her assistant editor annoying. But on the second morning in the dry April breeze, Val had strolled by the Coleman-Witt Museum four times, lugging Ivy’s camp stool the girl swore by for the Afropunk Festival, wondering if she herself was beginning to draw some attention. She supposed even innocuous default outfits were no proof against criminal intent. The runner passed her with a wave, likewise the two men in identical spandex t-shirts with cockapoos. No sign of Petra Housman, who had probably long since gotten back from her sunrise yoga class. The hollow-cheeked dad pushing the twin stroller looked her over impassively, then shot her a rueful look like he vaguely remembered the days of trolling for dates. Val answered with a slow sip of her cappuccino.
And then she saw what could only be the girl Petra Housman had described.
She came striding along the north side of the street, her shoulder-length dark curls pushed back with a pink paisley headband that were all the rage in aerobics classes. Flouncing along in the breeze, the girl was wearing the plaid uniform skirt Petra had described, only out of range of her family she had rolled it up at the waist until it came to her knees. If that was a long-sleeved, high-necked white top, it had been slipped off and tied loosely around her neck. The frum girl was wearing a pretty, white shell cut in a line that showed off her shoulders, and she was carrying the kind of canvas sling bags that newsboys used to tote. To Val, the girl looked about thirteen. Without slowing, the girl suddenly whipped her head around to check out whether she was being followed. The cockapoos had to dodge her.
When she got close, Val stepped out in front of her and resisted the urge to open the camp stool to settle in for what she hoped was a good long gab. “Tali?” Val tipped her head in a way she hoped would set the girl at ease, what with being accosted by a stranger on the way to school.
No need. The girl stopped, took in Val’s default outfit with a quick scan, and smiled with no caution. “That’s me,” she said, then her blue eyes brightened. “Have you been waiting for me?”
No way around it. “Actually,” Val shrugged, “yes. Petra Housman said I might want to talk to you.”
“Ah, Petra,” said the girl approvingly. “She’s our accountant. She does good work.”
Val thought Petra might enjoy hearing the good reference from the frum young teenager. “I’m Val Cameron. You heard about what happened at the museum—” she pointed over Tali’s head, where the breeze was ruffling her curls like a flock getting ready to fly, “—three days ago?”
“The murder.” The girl named Tali nodded solemnly. “Yes, of course.” Then she thrust out a hand. “Avital Korngold,” she said with a tone as though she was announcing the winner of the Pulitzer Prize. “Pleasure.”
Val found herself wanting to go to lunch with this girl. “It was my best friend who was killed.”
The girl cried out, “Baruch dayan emet.” She squeezed Val’s arm. “I’m so sorry.” And she was.
“What did you just say?”
“Ah.” The girl stroked her chin lightly. “Blessed is the True Judge. We bless God upon hearing good and bad news alike.”
“Good news I can understand, but—”
“Good and bad,” Tali shrugged, “both take faith. God’s purpose isn’t always clear.” It was impossible for Val to feel there was any purpose in Adrian Bale’s death. “I really am sorry. How can I help?” She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of business cards held together with a rubber band. She tugged the top one free and handed it to Val, who had a ridiculous moment when she realized she herself didn’t carry her own business card. In fact, since her promotion all those months ago, she couldn’t even say for sure whether any new ones had been printed. The girl’s was plain white linen card stock with gold embossed lettering: Avital Korngold, centered, and just below, Situations, and below that what appeared to be her cell phone number. “You can call me Tali, okay?”
“Thank you,” said Val, slipping the classy card into the little zippered spot inside her beaded bag. “What are Situations?”
“Advice,” here the girl made a slow, rolling gesture with her left hand, “on things happening on the job, at school, in relationships.” She sniffed modestly. “I have a knack.”
“I might be able to use your help on relationships,” said Val half-seriously, then wondered why she thought of Bale. Then: “What are your fees?”
The girl raised both hands and averted her gaze. “Oh, no, no,” she said. “This is my own mitzvah project.”
Nodding, Val leaned against the wrought-iron railings at the building maybe seven doors down
from the Coleman-Witt Museum, where just at that moment Eva Toscano was being dropped off by a hired car, aiming for the side entrance like a direct mortar hit. “Tali,” began Val, as the girl shifted her weight, listening. “Petra Housman tells me you may have been on this block early on the morning of the murder.”
“Correct.” Then the girl waited. No agenda, no defense.
“Petra thought you might have been…”
“Hiding. Yes. Down those steps right over there.” She pointed to the dark, narrow steps leading to a basement apartment at the head of the block. A few doors away, and across the street, from the scene of the crime. “Whenever I think that idiot Sruly Levinson is following me, I duck down those steps. Then I wait for him to pass by. When he does, I dash up and follow him. You see, that puts him in a bad spot, because he cannot stop and wait for me. Entirely too much face would get lost.” A pause while a different truth occurred to her. “Not that the face of Sruly Levinson couldn’t stand some losing,” she said softly, then stood up squarely and looked at Val. “But that’s neither here nor there. You need to know what I saw on the morning of the murder.”
“I think it qualifies as a Situation, yes.”
“Agreed. And you have already questioned Petra and the scrawny runner lady and the cockapoo couple and—” She snapped her fingers. “Did you get the twins’ dad?”
Val thought about it. “No.”
“Then don’t. He didn’t come down this block that morning.”
At that, Avital Korngold, Master of Situations, put her mind to work on the problem, pacing back and forth in front of the wrought-iron railings, pressing her little stack of business cards against the posts, like a playing card smacking the spokes of a bicycle wheel. Then the girl strode up to the side entrance of the museum, cocked her head this way and that, causing her thicket of curls to flop. She wheeled, eyes narrowed, scanning the parked cars jammed bumper to bumper all the way down the south side of the block, across from the museum. Then she came back to Val, looking—if it was possible—both clear and inscrutable at the same time. “There was a truck,” she said with certainty.
The runner had been right after all. “The Con Ed truck?”
Tali smiled broadly. “It wasn’t a Con Ed truck, although I can see how you might make that mistake. The colors were exactly the same.”
Val’s breath caught. “Then what was it really, Tali?”
“A kosher bakery truck.” The girl did a little time-step.
Tali Korngold, Situations, Tap Dance.
The girl went on to describe a blue and white small truck, out of which a delivery man emerged with a cardboard box of bagels and rugelach. “I’m guessing on that,” she cut off Val, who was about to ask. “Maybe this big.” She motioned with her hands. A two-by-two white cardboard bakery box with a lid. “The kind they drop off for the men’s club Sunday mornings at our shul. No biggie.”
“What about the delivery guy?”
“He was nobody I noticed, just some guy dressed maybe in gray, gray shirt, gray pants.”
“And the truck? Did you catch the name of the bakery?”
“Oh,” she nodded vigorously, “it was from Etz Chayyim. Lower East Side.” Then she added brightly, “You could check.”
Val raised her eyebrows at Tali Korngold. “That I’ll do.”
Tali whipped out her phone and checked the time. “I’m going to be late, Val, so I’d better get going.”
“Do you need me to square it with your school?” Together they started to hurry toward Broadway. “Wait, wait.” Val lifted a hand. In the absence of a business card, she scribbled her name and cell number on the back of her Starbucks receipt. “Here, Tali. Call me anytime if you remember anything else.” Suddenly it struck Val she should have a conversation with that little stalker Sruly Levinson as well. Tali carefully tucked the receipt into her newsboy bag. “Tell me,” said Val, “did you manage to get behind Sruly that day?” It would be interesting to learn what the boy recalled of the bakery truck.
“Actually, no,” the girl said with some surprise. “He probably turned down 74th instead. And there I was—” she acted like he had let her down in an extravagant way, “lying in wait down those basement steps.” As she started to turn at the corner to head to the subway entrance, she froze. Her features all seemed to collect in the center of her face. “He may have bested me that day, now that I think about it.” Then she looked up at Val and smiled. “Oh, well. I’m only thirteen.” She shrugged. “I’m not an expert at every situation yet.” Then: “Bye, Val!” And then, “Maybe I’ll stop by your office sometime. Where is it?” She was halfway up the block, her rolled-up plaid uniform skirt and great floppy bag swaying as she ran.
“Schlesinger Publishing,” Val called after her. “Flatiron Building. Anytime.”
Tali Korngold stopped suddenly, causing a woman in a tan business suit to plow into her. “Val! Something else!” Val loped up to her. “You know,” she said, dropping her voice as her eyes darted around the pedestrians. “There was something about that bakery delivery guy that struck me, now that I think about it.”
“Go on.”
“While I was hiding and couldn’t figure out what was holding up that idiot Sruly, I’d been waiting for like fifteen minutes or something—” here she scrutinized Val for sympathy “—the bakery delivery guy came back out of the side entrance to the Coleman-Witt Museum.”
“You saw him come out?”
“Mind you, my mind was occupied with possible Sruly scenarios, right?”
“Of course.”
“Even so, I glanced briefly at the guy and it struck me as…odd.”
“What did, Tali?” Val touched the girl’s arm.
“Well, he went into the museum with your usual box of pastries and nosh, right? Then why did he come back out of the museum—maybe not even five minutes later—with the very same box? What kind of delivery do you call that?”
And with that, Tali Korngold turned on her heel and ran all the way to the subway entrance, her dark curls airborne like a flag behind her.
By the time she arrived at the Flatiron Building, Val was ready for her second cup of coffee. She’d have to settle for whatever flavored K-Cups Ivy had tumbled into the basket next to the Keurig coffeemaker in the break room. For the call she needed to make to the Homicide detective, Val wanted to mingle on the pedestrian mall outside the Flatiron with the early morning gathering of office workers putting off for five more minutes the final succumbing to another eight-hour stint in a cubicle on an upper floor somewhere. Some sat sprawled with Venti bold roasts, some sat tensely pulled in, single thumbing their phones in hopes of something either startlingly wonderful or mildly interesting suddenly appearing on the screen.
Val shook open Ivy’s tripod camp stool and slung it at a table where someone had left a half-eaten cheese Danish and a crumpled napkin. Pulling out her phone, Val looked quickly around. She never quite believed the pedestrian mall was really going to work. Any day now cabs and buses would suddenly agree that this long block set off for humans who wanted to hang out was a spectacularly dumb idea they were no longer willing to honor.
Shay Cleary picked up on the third ring. “This is Cleary.”
“Val Cameron, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah? I’m in the middle of something here.”
“I’m calling about the Bale murder.”
“I figured,” said Cleary, who suddenly sounded like she was angling closer to the moment of truth on the Bomb Squad. “What have you got?”
“A witness.”
“Which one?” She sounded offended, like there could be no witnesses not already known to her.
“Avital Korngold.” Situations.
“Okay,” said Cleary, humoring her, “who’s that?” Then she shouted to someone nearby. “Marcus—over there!” Back to Val. “Sorry. Go on, but make it fast. I don’t
have all—”
Val glanced at her watch. James Killian was coming in forty-five minutes, and she had to review her notes on Plumb Lines and figure out how she could handle whatever new idea he was hot to sell her. Eight forty-five a.m. and already she was tired. She took a deep breath and laid it all out for the homicide detective. “Korngold routinely walks past the Coleman-Witt on her way to the subway. On the morning of the murder she spotted a delivery guy going into the museum by the side entrance. Nondescript, but carrying a large covered box of what Korngold believed were pastries. She—”
“Pastries?” A beat. “What makes her think—” Then she let out a strangled cry. “See it! Marcus, over there. Behind the file cabinet.” Then with her mouth pressed against the phone, Cleary said in a low voice, “We have a mouse situation here.”
Tali Korngold could handle it. Part of her mitzvah project. Val soldiered on. “She saw the guy get out of a delivery truck from a kosher bakery called Etz Chayyim. She recognized the name. Lower East Side.”
“I’ll give them a call.” Cleary shouted, “Use the shoe box, the shoe box, Marcus. We want to take him alive.” Then back to Val. “Any chance this Etz Chayyim had a legitimate delivery there?”
Val played Tali’s trump card. “Not when the guy came out not even five minutes later, carrying the same box.”
“Ah,” breathed Cleary. “Good cover for the Glock.” Then she added, “The murder weapon. Ballistics report just came in. I’ll give them a call and see what—” As Cleary whooped in the background and the mouse got boxed, Val murmured a soft goodbye.
Good cover for the Glock.
Good cover, too, for getting away with what Adrian Bale had assured her best friend Val was the finest example of Euphorbia milii they would ever in this lifetime see. For Adrian, for smart, funny, beautiful Adrian, that had actually been true.
Val pushed herself off Ivy League Ivy’s camp stool. Folding it carefully, she walked slowly into the Flatiron Building for just another day at the job.
A Killer's Guide to Good Works Page 10