A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER TEN





It felt strange to be back in his apartment in the middle of the afternoon. The television stood, dark and cold, in one corner of his living room—now nothing more than a reminder of his past boredom. He passed by it without so much as a glance. It was the telephone he was after. Maybe it was just an excuse to get to see her—and maybe it was a wild goose chase—but if it was a choice between spending time with Lilah and being ordered around by Auntie Lil, he had no trouble reaching a decision.

He reached Lilah on his first attempt and she quickly agreed to clear her schedule and be a part of his plans to learn more about Lance Worthington.

"You are much more than a prop," he assured her formally. "I don't want you to think I'm just using you and your money. Your presence will be essential to my morale."

She laughed merrily, although he had not intended to be funny. He was vaguely embarrassed, but relief took its place when she promised, "I'll be there if you need me."

The next phone call would be harder as it required a host of lies and, despite his Peter Pan performance earlier, T.S. was basically scrupulously honest and thus not a good liar at all.

He located the number easily enough, took a deep breath, told himself he was as good a fabricator as Auntie Lil any day, and dialed.

The breathy redhead answered on the first ring. She had been expecting a call from one of her many admirers. "Broadway Backers," she cooed. "Home of tomorrow's hits. How may I help you?"

"Lance Worthington," T.S. demanded in a deep executive voice. "And hurry. I'm returning his call and I've got another appointment on tap."

"Certainly, sir," she replied promptly. "Whom may I tell him is calling?"

T.S. winced at her affectation. Correct grammar did not excuse an improper voice. But even worse, whom the hell could she say was calling? He had failed to prepare a cover in advance. So much for being as good a liar as Auntie Lil. He patted his sweater nervously… well, what did it matter? No one knew him from Adam and, unlike Auntie Lil, he did not relish skulking around in disguises and playing those types of games. He would give his real name. Besides, he had to use Lilah's real name.

"This is Mr. T.S. Hubbert," he told the receptionist. "Private investor."

"Private investigator?" she asked in sudden alarm.

"In-vest-or." he repeated imperiously. "And I'm a very busy man."

"Right away, sir," she promised but followed it up by putting him on hold. Less than twenty seconds later, however, a male voice came on the line.

"Lance Worthington here." The producer's tone managed to be unctuous, impatient and suspicious all at the same time.

"T.S. Hubbert," T.S. barked. "I heard you were looking for investors."

Lance Worthington's voice smoothed into a mellow purr. He sounded as if someone had poured a quart of honey down his throat. "We only have a very few spots left," he said. "The new show's getting excellent word-of-mouth. If you want in, the minimum may be a bit steep."

"I can handle it," T.S. assured him. "The main thing is, I want in."

"How did you hear about our new venture?" Worthington asked and T.S. could detect a small note of suspicion creeping back in. Perhaps he was making it too easy.

"My girlfriend told me about it. Lilah Cheswick. Know her? Wealthy widow? Well-built dame. Used to be married to Wall Street's Robert Cheswick." Well-built dame? T.S. almost choked on the words. But it was essential to establish man-to-man contact, and he had a rather heavy-handed idea of what this man-to-man business meant.

As expected, Worthington knew the name Cheswick immediately. Anyone who'd spent time digging around for money couldn't help but know the name. And it did the trick. All suspicion disappeared, to be replaced by ingratiating greed. "Is she interested in investing as well?" Worthington asked. "Like I say, we have a few spots left."

"We'll both have to reserve final judgment until we hear more about the show," T.S. told him. No sense in being too easy to hook. The man's true character would be better revealed if he saw him in full action.

"Let me meet the two of you tonight," the producer suggested. "I don't want to rush you, but we really do need to wrap up the financing and get on with the creative. Timing is everything, you know."

Yeah, T.S. knew that quite well. And timing was particularly important when you thought you had a couple of rich suckers on the line and wanted to reel them in quickly so they could sign on the dotted line.

"I don't know about tonight," T.S. said reluctantly. "I had a business dinner..."

"I hate to pressure you," Worthington said smoothly. "But I'm out the rest of the week and I have a couple of other potential investors to talk to who are all very anxious to get a piece of this pie." He let his voice trail off in a small sigh of warning: you're about to lose a big share of profits, it implied.

"Oh, all right." T.S. pretended to suddenly make up his mind. "I'll have my secretary rearrange things. You can't let a good thing go without giving it a chance. Am I right?"

"You're absolutely right. And I'll even make up the lost dinner to you. I'll take you and… uh, Ms. Cheswick to dinner while we talk."

Lance Worthington was a particularly greedy man and so, in a flash of perverse justice, particularly easy to gull. Whether or not this got T.S. anywhere was another story. But at least he and Lilah would get a fancy dinner out of their charade.

But even that was not to be. Lance Worthington was not just greedy, he was cheap. He suggested dinner at Sam's, a neighborhood theater bar. It was to give them a flavor of the theatrical life, he said, though T.S. knew the attraction was more likely Sam's low prices. Nonetheless, he agreed to meet the producer there at eight o'clock. The time was perfect, Worthington insisted in an insider voice, explaining that "the annoying pre-theater tourist crowd will have left."

Too bad, T.S. thought to himself. If they decided to stick around, they'd be in for quite a show.


Auntie Lil was perched on a small plastic chair in the outer room of Homefront. She was waiting for Little Pete to show. Bob Fleming sat at his battered desk in the rear, arguing with someone over the phone about receiving a larger share of a city grant. Just as his shouting rose to an angry roar, the front door of the runaway shelter opened and an Irish amazon stepped through.

She was a large woman whose height approached six feet and whose weight looked composed entirely of muscle. She wore a pair of tight black leggings, a gray sweatshirt that hung to mid-thigh, thick white socks and sturdy athletic shoes. The no-nonsense outfit only highlighted the woman's incredible physical strength even more. Her leg and thigh muscles were taut and highly developed; her forearms were muscular and firm. But she was not bulky at all. She was sleek and streamlined, moving with the grace of a stalking panther. Her face was broad and burnished by the sun, glowing with a tan the color of honey. Her round cheeks were flushed red in almost comical good health. When she noticed Auntie Lil, the woman's immediate smile was startling— the wide mouth pulled back to reveal large, very white teeth. Above the smile, her eyes glittered with an icy blue that seemed to bore right through Auntie Lil. She stood in the doorway, looking around while she bounced on her insteps and ran impatient fingers through a wavy crop of short brown hair.

Bob Fleming's reaction was enthusiastic. He slammed the phone down the instant he saw her and his scowl was transformed into an unexpected and unabashed grin. He met the enormous woman at the front counter and gave her a quick hug.

"Meet Annie O'Day," he said to Auntie Lil. "Angel of the streets."

"Angel?" the woman repeated in an incredulous voice. She thumped Bob solidly on his biceps with a coiled fist and the burly man cringed in mock pain.

"I'm Lillian Hubbert," Auntie Lil replied, timidly offering a white-gloved hand and fervently hoping it would be returned with all ten fingers intact.

But her hand was not crushed at all. Instead, Annie O'Day tenderly held it between her own massive hands and gently squeezed. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hubbert," she said in a soft and calming voice. She continued to hold Auntie Lil's hand while she quietly looked her over, as if absorbing secret signals through the somewhat frail appendage. Auntie Lil changed her mind at once. This was no wrestling champion at all. This was a nurse, or maybe a doctor.

"Annie is a nurse practitioner," Bob Fleming explained. "She has a mobile medical van and drives around helping out homeless and street people in need of care."

"Oh, my," Auntie Lil replied. She did not know what else to say. A job like that had to be dangerous, tiring and frustrating. There would be an endless supply of ungrateful and uncooperative patients who were in real need of medical care but lacked the mental self-awareness to recognize their own ailments.

"Oh, my, is right," Annie O'Day agreed cheerfully. "That's why I have to look like this." She curled one arm up and one arm down in a mock body builder pose. "You can call me Mrs. T," she added.

Auntie Lil laughed, but her eyes were busy inspecting Bob Fleming's unconscious reaction to Annie. His attention was brightly focused on her and his mouth hovered in a perpetual smile. Yes, it was clear. Bob Fleming had at least one interest outside of runaways. Auntie Lil was glad to see that he had chosen his interest well.

"I must be going," she said tactfully. She was not one to stand in the way of love. Besides, she was wasting her time. "I don't think Little Pete is coming."

"Little Pete?" Annie looked at Bob. "Is she a relative?" she asked skeptically. Auntie Lil was definitely the wrong color.

"I'll explain later," Bob promised, showing Auntie Lil to the door. "What if Little Pete turns up later?" he asked in a voice much more helpful than it had ever been before. Annie O'Day certainly had a positive effect on him.

"I'll probably be at the Delicious Deli," Auntie Lil told him. The man's broad shoulders sagged. She had not meant to remind him of his own troubles. "I could use a coffee or two after my large lunch." The largest thing, of course, being the Bloody Mary.

"I'll send him there if he shows," Bob promised, waving a quick goodbye.

Auntie Lil did not mind being politely hustled out of Homefront. If Bob Fleming and Annie O'Day were as busy as their jobs implied, she did not begrudge them a few minutes alone together in the middle of a quiet afternoon.

She walked toward the Delicious Deli and slowed in front of the Jamaican restaurant. Nellie was inside serving steaming plates of chicken and gravy to a pair of customers. Auntie Lil peered in the spacious window, wondering if she should go inside. She was positive that Nellie knew more than she was saying. What had she seen staring out of her window to make her clam up so thoroughly? Why had she grown so frightened at the sight of Emily?

Nellie noticed her observer right away, and the look she returned was enough to convince Auntie Lil that, perhaps, her time would be better spent somewhere else. Nellie's eyes had narrowed to small, hard orbs, their former openness replaced by tight beams of suspicion.

Auntie Lil quickly hurried on and passed by Emily's building without incident, but had no doubt that Herbert was lurking somewhere nearby. The Delicious Deli was deserted except for Billy and his young daughter, Megan. The two of them were busy piping whipped cream on top of a large pan of rice pudding when Auntie Lil entered.

Billy looked up and his old smile returned. He nodded toward her table and lifted his eyebrows, signaling her to sit. He was well versed in the across-the-room sign language of New York delis.

"Be right there," he promised out loud. "Megan here is our resident whipped cream artist and I promised she could do the pudding today."

Auntie Lil saw that much of the whipped cream was going into the artist's mouth and onto the artist's Catholic school uniform, but uncharacteristically said nothing. She was too busy trying to decide how to approach Billy about the bad feelings he displayed toward Bob Fleming. But she need not have bothered. Billy brought it up himself as soon as he had shooed his daughter into the bathroom to wash the goo off her hands and change her clothes.

"What were you doing with that guy from Homefront" he asked Auntie Lil, setting a cup of cappuccino in front of her without being asked. "I've been hearing things about him. Things I don't like to hear."

She looked at him, mystified. "He runs a program for young runaways."

"Huh." Billy stared into her coffee, avoiding her face. "Word is he's just as bad as the men he's helping those runaways to escape."

That couldn't be true. She'd had a good feeling about Bob Fleming and she was usually so right about people. "Where did you hear that?" she asked sharply.

"It's going around the streets." Billy shrugged and wiped his hands on his apron, keeping an eye on the bathroom door. He did not want his young daughter overhearing.

"How reliable is street talk?" Auntie Lil asked.

"It's usually pretty good." He stared at her unhappily. "I hate guys like that," he added for good measure. "I think they should be publicly killed."

She shook her head no, unwilling to believe him.

"How's the investigation going?" Billy asked casually.

Auntie Lil looked up at him, surprised. Had she ever said she was investigating… perhaps she had.

"I know you're poking into that old lady's death," Billy pointed out. "There are no secrets in Hell's Kitchen. Street talk is pretty accurate, like I say."

Auntie Lil felt there were a good many secrets in Hell's Kitchen. Too many, in fact. And some of them were probably pretty essential to discovering the truth that she sought. She would use an old trick, one that was quite effective when she didn't feel like answering questions: she'd ask the questions instead.

"I know you don't like those young boys in your store," she told Billy. "But I'm trying to talk to one of them. If he shows up here to meet me, will you let him in?"

Billy stared at her again before finally answering, "If you're with him every second and keep him away from the potato-chip rack and the bottles of soda in back."

"That bad?" Auntie Lil asked.

"That bad," he confirmed, then added: "And keep him away from my daughter, too."


"Of course I'll join you," Lilah said with enthusiasm. "Who are you going to be? I do hope you gave that awful money-grubbing creature a false name. Otherwise, you'll have to put up with endless annoying phone calls. They're really such a nuisance, these investing types. Never leave you alone until they hear you've gone bankrupt, I suspect. You really have no idea."

He gulped in the silence that followed, then finally admitted in a strangled voice, "Actually, I gave him my real name… and your real name, too."

He expected her to shriek in dismay but she laughed instead. "You should be sneakier if you're going to go undercover," she pointed out. "You mean to tell me that after this is over, we're going to have to dodge this producer begging us for money?"

"But you do that already with dozens and dozens of people. I'm sure you've had more experience than me," he pointed out weakly.

"So I have. Well, I suppose the old Cheswick name is essential for hooking our fish," she admitted without a hint of rancor.

"I'm afraid it is," T.S. confessed. "And I hope you'll forgive me one day."

"Well," said Lilah, "that depends."

"Depends on what?"

"Depends on what one day brings."

T.S. was too tongue-tied to manage a reply. She rang off quickly, after promising to pick him up in the limo just before eight.

T.S. sat by the phone enjoying the wave of relief that washed through him. He had actually made a mistake and nothing horrible had happened to him. She had not slammed down the phone. The ceiling had not fallen. The sky had not parted nor had lightning split him in two. True, he had been mildly embarrassed. But that had gone away in an instant. Perhaps he was too hard on himself, he thought vaguely. Perhaps there was such a thing as being too correct. And though he hated to admit it, maybe Auntie Lil was right. He could afford to loosen up a little.


Billy Finnegan need not have worried about his daughter coming in contact with Little Pete. By the time Little Pete showed up at the Delicious Deli, Auntie Lil had run through two cups of coffee, another cappuccino and a large slice of cheesecake. And Megan had long since been collected by her mother, fed a large meal, scrubbed in a clean bathtub, and dressed in fresh pajamas.

The little boy who stood outside the windows of the deli, peering in through the oncoming twilight, would have found such caring treatment by a mother completely foreign.

He was small, even for his young age, and his skinny frame could not have been even five feet tall. His face was twisted in a hardened imitation of a cynical adult, but a small tremor of fear made his chin wobble a little as he stood beside the door, staring in at Auntie Lil. She knew that, despite his toughness, he was afraid to come inside and risk the rancor of the owner who had no doubt thrown him out many times before. She stared back at him, trying to decide what would be the best thing to do to win his trust. Wait until he gathered his courage and came inside? Or wave him in enthusiastically, as if he really were just a normal little boy coming to meet his grandmother.

But Little Pete was not a normal little boy. That much was clear even in shadow. He stood, pelvis thrust forward, hands curled in fists and arms bent slightly in a menacing pose that belied his familiarity with the streets.

Maybe Auntie Lil had been wrong when she told T.S. not to worry, that she had seen it all. Because she wasn't sure she had seen this exactly before—this defiant posturing and aggressive adult manner in such a small body. He did not seem to use his small size to his advantage at all. And he could have. It would have provoked pity even in the street. No, this child did not want pity in any form, that much was immediately apparent.

"Think he's coming in?" Billy asked idly. He was leaning against the counter picking his teeth and staring out into the twilight. The deli was quiet and would remain so for much of the night.

"I think he might be afraid of you," Auntie Lil told him, wondering if Little Pete had reasons of his own that she did not know about.

"I can take care of that," Billy decided. He tossed his toothpick into the trash can and flipped up part of the countertop, advancing on the door with a wide smile on his face.

Little Pete coiled, waiting for the verbal lashing that was sure to come. When, instead, Billy motioned him inside, the young boy refused to act surprised. Suspicion had long since replaced surprise in his repertoire of emotions. Instead, he strutted arrogantly past the deli owner as if he owned the place. But he watched Billy out of the corners of his eyes.

"Hello, young man," Auntie Lil called out cheerfully. "I'm the old lady Bob Fleming told you about. My goodness, I've been waiting for hours. I'm starving. Will you join me for dinner?"

Keeping one eye on Billy, Little Pete inched sideways toward Auntie Lil's table. Reluctantly giving up his scrutiny of Billy—who had resumed his stance behind the counter—Little Pete silently gripped the back of a wrought-iron chair at Auntie Lil's table while he looked her over closely.

"You buying me dinner? What for?" he asked in a high voice that tried hard to be gruff, but failed.

Heavens, she realized, his voice had not even changed yet. What kind of family would just let him wander away? And what kind of family was so horrible that the streets of New York seemed a preferable environment? But she could not afford to think about such things now. What she needed was information. And treating him like a child was not the way to go about it.

"I want to ask you some questions," she explained evenly. "That takes up your time. I thought dinner would be a fair payment." She pointed toward the chair he gripped and, slowly, Little Pete pulled it out and perched on the edge of the seat, still half-turned to the door as if he might bolt at any moment.

"Questions about who?" he asked sullenly. His pronunciation was extremely precise, especially for a child who lived on the streets. It told Auntie Lil that he had gone to school at one time, and probably studied hard. And that someone at home had once cared enough about him to provide a good example.

"A friend of yours. Her name was Emily." Auntie Lil answered. "She was an old lady who lived on Forty-Sixth Street. She died just a few days ago." Auntie Lil spoke gently but firmly, having decided that the prim schoolteacher mode might serve her best in this situation, so long as she made it clear that she was no sucker and that Little Pete was wasting his time if he thought he could con her.

"Don't know no old lady," he said sullenly. His eyes inched back toward the steam table of hot food at the far end of the deli counter. Billy stood near it, watching his two customers carefully.

"Don't know any old lady," she corrected the boy. "And I know that you do." She wagged a playful finger at him. "But why don't we eat first?"

If some sugar daddy was taking care of Little Pete on the streets, he wasn't doing a very good job of feeding him. The child ate two large double cheeseburgers, a mountain of french fries and even a bowl of overcooked green beans when Auntie Lil insisted. To her surprise, while Little Pete was obviously hungry, he did not gobble. In fact, he had nice table manners and kept his napkin nearby so he could frequently scrub his mouth. He even ordered milk, which amused Auntie Lil. That hard outer crust concealed a little gentleman inside.

By the time his plate was empty, some of the hard angles of Little Pete's face had smoothed and he no longer perched on the edge of his chair. He sat back in contentment and the slightly sleepy look that crossed his face made him seem, for just a moment, like the little boy that he was.

"Why you think I know this lady?" he asked Auntie Lil slowly. "I never seen you before. You her sister or something?"

"You've never seen me, but I've seen you," Auntie Lil lied, not answering his other question. Let him think she was Emily's sister. Perhaps he would talk more. "I saw you one night near the twenty-four-hour photo store," she lied. "You were running away. I know why you ran. It was the photos of Emily, wasn't it? The photos of her dead that upset you."

"She was nice lady," he protested. For the briefest of seconds, his lower lip trembled. "I ran because I had to find Timmy. I knew he'd want to know."

"Is Timmy your friend?' she asked gently. "Was Emily a friend of Timmy's, too?"

"Sure, Timmy's my friend. We're buddies." He stared at her defiantly, as if he expected her to challenge his contention that he had a friend. "And that lady was his grandma."

"His grandmother?" Auntie Lil repeated. "You mean, they were related?"

"Don't know about that." He stared down at his hands, saw they were fists, and self-consciously uncurled them. His fingers began to drum nervously on top of the small glass table. "But he called her grandma," he admitted. "And she was as good as a real one. She let us watch TV at her house when we could sneak away from… "He stopped, looked outside as if he were being watched, then continued. "Once she baked us a pineapple upside-down cake and let me and Timmy eat the whole thing."

"You've been in her apartment on Forty-Sixth Street? Next to the Jamaican restaurant?"

He nodded and told her more. "Once she brought Timmy to see a play. And she said she could help him, that he wouldn't have to do… some things anymore. That maybe she could get him a job somewhere. And then she promised to help me, too. She was going to give us tickets to Los Angeles, she said. We wanted to go where it was warm. She said it was a nice town."

"Los Angeles?" Auntie Lil asked. "Was that your idea or hers?"

"Hers. Timmy kept telling her he was scared because the winter was coming. He hated the cold weather. She said she'd send us to L.A."

"What happened to her?" Auntie Lil asked softly. "Do you know who killed her?"

His lower lip trembled and he shook his head furiously. "Don't know. First time I knew she was dead was when I saw those photos. We was supposed to see her the next day. It was my birthday and she had a present for me. Like she had one for Timmy on his birthday. But I never got the present." He stared into the tabletop. "She was nice to me. Said she could be my grandma, too. That it was okay to call her 'Grandma' like Timmy did. It was out on the streets that she'd been poisoned or something. But I don't know who'd do a thing like that."

"Did she ever tell you anything about herself?" Auntie Lil asked. "Where she was from? How she knew Timmy? Why she was being so nice?"

"Like what? Why you want to know?" He stared at Auntie Lil. The hard, suspicious expression flickered into view and disappeared. "She was nice to us 'cause she liked us."

"Don't you realize that she was murdered?" Auntie Lil asked gently. "Don't you want to find out who did it?"

The hard look came back for good. "I find out who, I'm gonna bust him," Little Pete said angrily. He jabbed with a fist for emphasis, imitating his television heroes and their cartoon courage.

"She never told you about herself?" Auntie Lil persisted. The little boy shook his head. "What about Timmy? Did he talk to her more? Can you get him to talk to me?"

Little Pete considered this. "I don't know. Timmy's scared. First I seen her dead in the photos. And then he seen an old lady coming out of her apartment and this man was with her, he thinks it was a cop. He ran away. Says he's real scared. And he's sad about Grandma dying. Real sad. He says something's going on and he don't understand it. But he won't even tell me what it is, so he ain't gonna talk to you none."

"Isn't going to talk to me at all," Auntie Lil corrected automatically, but her heart wasn't really in it. Little Pete tried on bad grammar like he tried on his street accent—sporadically and not very well. It was posturing and nothing more. Besides, her mind was on more important things. "What do you know about Timmy?" she asked. "Where is he from?"

Little Pete shrugged. He wasn't interested in people's pasts. He had run away to start a new life, not dwell on the old one. And so had his friend, Timmy. "I think he's from Texas," he finally offered. "That's all I know. Says his daddy was mean to him and his momma wouldn't stop it. Ran away. Came here. That's all I know."

"You can't tell me anything else about him?" Auntie Lil demanded.

"Well, he's kind of weird," Little Pete admitted. "Do I get dessert?" he added hopefully.

"Of course you do." She waved Billy over and soon Little Pete was digging into an enormous ice cream sundae, the treat bringing back the little boy in him. "What else do you know about Timmy?" Auntie Lil persisted.

Little Pete shrugged. "He's kind of spooky about religion and stuff like that. He likes to hang out near that church. But he never goes in, he says. Just kind of hangs around outside and looks in when they're praying."

"What church?" Auntie Lil demanded. "You mean the one on Forty-Eighth Street?"

The boy nodded, his mouth crammed with chocolate syrup and ice cream. "The big one," he muttered through his dessert.

"St. Barnabas? With the soup kitchen? Where Bob Fleming sometimes takes people to eat?"

Little Pete nodded again. "But not Timmy. He won't go inside. Like I say, he just watches through the door sometimes."

Now it was Auntie Lil's turn to drum the glass tabletop with her fingers. "Who would want to kill Emily?" she asked sharply.

Little Pete looked up in mid-bite, startled. "Don't know," he protested. "She was a nice lady. She was gonna give me a present."

Auntie Lil sighed and her mind wandered over what she had learned. Emily had cared about this young boy, Timmy, enough to let him call her "Grandma." And he had hung around St. Barnabas. But, according to Little Pete, never went in.

"How old are you?" she asked Little Pete.

"Now I'm twelve," he answered proudly.

"How old is Timmy?" she continued.

"Timmy's older. He turned fourteen last July. He was born on the fourth of July," he added helpfully.

Auntie Lil sighed. She would have to talk to Timmy herself. "Can you get him to talk to me?" she asked again, letting warmth creep into her voice for the very first time. In fact, she was trying her best to plead—which was distinctly against her nature.

Little Pete shrugged and shook his head. "I can try, but I don't think he'll do it." The boy shrugged again. "Says he's cursed."

"Cursed?"

Little Pete scooped up the rest of his sundae and carefully finished every drop. "Says everyone that tries to be good to him ends up dead." Little Pete looked her right in the eye. "I wouldn't want to help him if I was you."

"What about you?" Auntie Lil pointed out. "You're his friend and you're not dead."

"Me? I'm too little for no one to bother about. Besides, I'm too smart." The little boy finished licking his spoon and let it fall into the dish with a clatter. He winced and looked sideways at Billy, then slowly rose before freezing in indecision.

"It's okay. He knows I'm paying," Auntie Lil assured the boy. "You can go now if you want."

"Man don't like me," Little Pete confided.

"I guess not. You steal his things." Auntie Lil spoke calmly and without judgment. Little Pete shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot and ducked his head. Either he was ashamed or he was trying to say something that was difficult for him to say.

"About the dinner," he finally said in a voice so soft that, even leaning forward, Auntie Lil caught only part of it. "Thanks. But I got to go."

He dashed out the door, blending into the new evening's shadows and reappearing clearly in the illuminated harshness of the occasional streetlight that lit Eighth Avenue at night. Auntie Lil stood in the window, following his small figure through the clusters of theater patrons hurrying toward their shows. The boy walked quickly, head down, minding his own business—the very first rule of life on the street. Halfway down the block, something caught his attention. Perhaps he heard a shouted greeting, or a warning whistle. His head jerked up and he looked furtively around, then turned and raised an arm in greeting. Another small figure hurried across the avenue to Little Pete. They met beneath a streetlight and Auntie Lil saw the glow of a head of nearly white hair. Timmy. Had he been standing on the far corner, waiting for Little Pete? Waiting for a report back on her? The two boys gave each other a high-five hand slap, then turned down Forty-Sixth Street and quickly disappeared from view. Just as Auntie Lil was about to return to the table and settle the bill, she saw a by now familiar figure hurrying down the block, right behind the two boys. Or was it simply a coincidence that all were heading down Forty-Sixth Street? Whatever the reason, Leteisha Swann, woman of the night, disappeared into the very same darkness that had swallowed Timmy and Little Pete only a few seconds before.

"Find out anything?" Billy asked from behind. She jumped in alarm and he steadied her with a very strong arm. "Sorry. Didn't mean to spook you."

Flustered, she fussed over to her table and hauled her pocketbook onto a chair. "How much do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing at all." He began to clear the dishes from the table and ignored her protests. "Listen, lady, whatever it is you're really doing, you got that little monster to act like a human being. So maybe you're not all bad. Forget about the bill. I mean it."

"No, I insist." She held out some bills.

Billy pushed her hand away and sat down across from her. "What you owe me is to listen to what I have to say," he told her quietly.

She stiffened, but remained silent.

"Around here," he said softly, "people have two faces. The faces everyone in the neighborhood sees. Those are the happy, smiling 'I'm a great guy, let me buy you a drink' faces. And then you have the faces that tell the true story. The faces that come out the second a door is shut and it's okay to let down your guard."

"What do you mean?" Auntie Lil asked, suddenly frightened.

"What I mean is that I can tell you were feeling sorry for that kid. And I got to admit, he acted okay in here tonight. But I've seen him punch old ladies in the stomach for their pocketbooks. I've seen him wave over greasy old men with one hand and pick their pockets with the other. He's an animal and he'll turn on you like one. And he's like just about everyone else in this neighborhood. I know because I grew up here. And the name of the game is survival."

"Even for you?" she asked softly.

"Even for me. If someone or something ever threatened my family, for instance, this nice guy you see here would disappear. Like that." He snapped his fingers and Auntie Lil jumped at the sharp crack. When he saw she had not yet been cowed, he continued. "I'll tell you another story," he said. "Last week a couple of guys came in. They looked kind of familiar to me. We stared at each other for a few seconds—and then we all remembered. We'd gone to Sacred Heart together twenty, twenty-five years ago. Played stickball, ran in the streets when we were bored. Stood around looking at girls walking by. Tried to get beers out of old man Flanagan. Those guys had been my best friends in third and fourth grade. And I'd known them all through high school. And here they were, back bigger than life. Both of them decked out in gold chains and floor-length fur coats. Italian loafers. Hundred-dollar haircuts. Thousand-dollar suits. A tan BMW parked out front. And a wad of cash that would choke one of those horses over in Central Park."

"Mafia?" Auntie Lil asked.

"Doubt it. They're Irish boys. Mafia don't trust them." He leaned forward again. "The point is, after they'd been here about fifteen minutes, they ask me if I'm interested in something very, very special. I say, 'Sure. Why not?' One of the guys goes out to the car, brings back a box, says I'm not going to believe this. 'You'll really get off, Billy,' he tells me and pulls out a stack of magazines."

Billy stopped and his mouth turned down in pain and disgust. "I can't tell you what was in those magazines because it would make you sick. But it could have been my Megan on those pages. Or my son. And it damn sure was somebody's kid. And those guys, those smiling buddies who had been my best friends at one time, had grown up and grown fat and rich on that filth. Those magazines sold for twenty-five dollars apiece. When they saw I wasn't interested, they acted a little hurt that I didn't appreciate the favor, but hey, there were no hard feelings. The Fifty-Second Street gang faces came back in an instant. They were the boys again—joking with me, slapping my hands, everything was buddy this, buddy that. Like they'd pulled out Sports Illustrated instead. And you know what? I was buddy, buddy back to them."

He looked down at the table, as if ashamed of himself. He shook his head sadly. "Everyone is out for themselves, Miss Hubbert. So be careful. I'm just asking you to be very, very careful. I liked that old lady, Emily. She was a sweetheart. But she obviously put her nose where it didn't belong and now she's lying on a slab in the morgue." He looked up and stared at Auntie Lil.

He had succeeded in thoroughly frightening her, yet she could not quite understand why. She thanked him profusely, assured him she understood and, flustered, hurried out the door. She needed a friend just then and Herbert Wong was the closest one she could definitely trust. This time, he was easy to find along Forty-Sixth Street. He was now disguised as a parking attendant and sat on a folding chair in front of a lot that was located a few doors away on the opposite side of the street from Emily's. She mustn't risk blowing his cover.

"Has The Eagle flown the nest?" she asked instead, out of the side of her mouth as she walked briskly past.

"Not yet," came the brief reply.


T.S. was startled to see that Lance Worthington had also brought along company. And cheap company at that, not exactly the type of window dressing that T.S. would recommend if he were trying to impress wealthy folk. The producer was ensconced at a table, firmly wedged between a pair of blonde bookends. They perched on each side of him, both staring into their drinks and dragging on cigarettes. The women were thin to the point of emaciation, at least in T.S.'s opinion, and the lack of flesh gave their faces a hard, unpleasant look. The tallest blonde had hair that tumbled wildly down her back in a style far too young for her face and wore a red sequined dress that fit her like a sausage skin. The other blonde, whose hair was cropped short in Louise Brooks-style fashion, wore an equally tight green sheath that shimmered in the restaurant's discreet lighting. Both the red and the green dress were held up by thin straps that threatened to break at any moment.

If Worthington had been dressed in a Santa Claus suit, the scene would have looked a lot like the opening of a poorly plotted porno movie.

"That's him with the oversexed elves," T.S. murmured as he helped Lilah through the entrance.

"I seem to be a bit overdressed," Lilah worried as she and T.S. feigned confused looks and pretended not to know who Lance Worthington was. It was a good effort, but probably not necessary. There were only two other tables with patrons in the entire joint.

"Perhaps you should take off your dress along with your coat and act like you intended to wear your slip all along," T.S. suggested. He was rewarded with a stifled giggle. They stood beside the bar, giving Worthington time to spot them and evaluate his prey. Meanwhile, T.S. was quietly returning the scrutiny.

Up close, he decided, the producer was even more repellent than he had suspected. It wasn't so much the way he looked, it was more the way he moved. His tongue unconsciously licked at his thin lips in greedy, lizardlike darts. His eyes were narrow and glittered unnaturally as they automatically zeroed in on Lilah's large diamond ring, then shifted to her expensive coat and on to her heavy gold necklace. T.S. could practically hear the producer calculating Lilah's net worth. Finished with Lilah, Worthington moved on to evaluate T.S. and it was all he could do to ignore the blatant scrutiny. The whole time he thought he was being subtle, Worthington was tugging unconsciously on his tiny right ear, sometimes stroking it as if for good luck.

T.S. had no desire to get close to the man, but duty called. He might know something about Emily's death. Or why every trace of her had disappeared from one of his apartments. He led Lilah to the edge of the producer's table and the blondes looked up in bored obedience.

"Worthington?" T.S. asked. "I'm T.S. Hubbert. You know Lilah Cheswick, I believe?"

The producer's mouth cracked in a smile that oozed sincerity and he leapt to his feet in fevered gallantry. "I've never actually had the pleasure of meeting Miss Cheswick," he admitted smoothly. "I've heard so much about you, however. What a great pleasure."

He extended a hand to Lilah and she bravely took it, pasting on a smile that was as phony as it was fitting for the bored society matron she had decided to be for the night. It was the first inkling that Lilah was actually going to enjoy their charade and it inspired T.S. himself to new heights. He extended a hand to Worthington and was rewarded with an appropriately manly handshake.

"And who are these charming young ladies?" T.S. asked, injecting an appropriately lascivious tone into his voice. More of that man-to-man stuff.

"This is my good friend, Miss Sally St. Claire," Worthington said enthusiastically. "You may recognize her from the movies." The tall blonde with too much hair nodded primly, then noisily slurped from her drink. T.S. didn't recognize her, but then she did have her clothes on—and he suspected that her movies were hardly late show fare.

"This other beautiful young thing is her good friend, Molly." Molly nodded dully and glanced at the clock above the bar. Her eyes were slightly glazed and T.S. was not at all sure that Molly even knew where she was. Or, possibly, who she was.

"Sit down. Do please sit down. Where are my manners?" Worthington actually hurried around the table and escorted Lilah to a seat by his side, booting his "good friend" Sally over one chair. He must really be desperate for money, T.S. thought. Even for a toadying moneygrubber, his obsequiousness was excessive.

"Please excuse me," the blonde named Molly announced suddenly. She stood abruptly and walked toward the back, disappearing inside the ladies' room.

"I'll just be a teensy minute myself," Sally St. Claire added, snatching a small gold pocketbook from the tabletop before hurrying after her friend.

Worthington chuckled as if they had just told a particularly amusing joke. "Girls. What do they do in there? Always got to go in pairs. Makes you kind of wonder, huh?" The guffaw that followed was so incredibly crass and forced that both Lilah and T.S. were thrown for a loop. How were they supposed to behave? Should they laugh along or be above it all? Better get a grip on your character, T.S. told himself. Remember, you've got money. Lots and lots of it.

T.S. compromised and smiled politely. He would be slightly above it all. After all, he was rolling in the dough.

It was the right choice. Within seconds, Worthington was expertly pumping both of them—under the guise of friendly questions—for information on where they lived, how many houses they owned, had they ever been to a particular restaurant in the Hamptons and wasn't the Virginia squire country marvelous in the spring? Didn't they think that the best available property bargains today could be found in the Caribbean? None of his questions were innocuous. They were economic land mines carefully laid in an attempt to strip their net worth bare. T.S. quickly found himself in over his head. He detested name-dropping, whether it was a person or place being dropped, and could not follow the rapid-fire probing. Lilah was good, though, very good. All of the hours spent listening to her boring friends chat on endlessly now paid handsome dividends. By the time the girls returned from the bathroom, Lance Worthington was convinced that both Lilah and T.S. were eager to share their wealth.

What followed was dinner and a painfully detailed description of a musical based on Davy Crockett's life. And damned if Lilah didn't actually convey enthusiasm about such monstrosities as a chorus line of dancing Indians paying homage to the great white pioneer.

During the producer's tedious recounting of the plot, the blondes excused themselves frequently, shunned food of any kind, and spent most of their time in the ladies' room, only to return and sit together giggling inanely over whispered comments that T.S. could not hear. Once they erupted in loud laughter and Worthington leaned over to mutter sharply in Sally St. Claire's ear. She immediately straightened up and her mouth clamped down in a thin line. She shrugged a small apology toward Lilah and T.S., then cast a quick, darting glance at her girlfriend.

Fortunately, the dinner was not quite as bad as the show's concept and T.S. was able to find some solace in the sole almondine. He had just worked his way over to the turnip puree when, to his total astonishment, he felt a small foot begin to probe his own. It could not have been Lilah, she was seated across the table next to Worthington, so it had to be the blonde named Molly. It was all T.S. could do to keep from choking and sending flecks of turnip spraying across the tabletop. The small foot had on a remarkably sharp-toed shoe and the hard tip pressed gently on his instep then insinuated its way up his leg. Without even glancing at her, T.S. flushed a deep scarlet and removed his leg from her vicinity. This necessitated sitting practically sideways in his chair, but he had no other ideas on how to repel the attack.

Worthington turned his attention back to a chattering Lilah, who was glibly holding forth on how hard it was to find an investment that gave her a good return on her money these days and how she just hated having everything parked in municipal bonds. She was really pulling out the stops and the level of greed this inspired in Worthington was nearly palpable. T.S. forgot his embarrassment in his admiration for Lilah. By God, now that was a woman who had real nerve. She knew how to take on a challenge.

"I've got a great idea," Worthington announced at the next lull in conversation. "I'm having a little get-together tomorrow. For some of the backers and potential investors, the ones who have passed preliminary muster, of course." Good grief, the man had nerve. He actually wanted them to believe that he could afford to be picky about who invested in his show and who was left out in the cold.

"It's at my place," Worthington continued. "I've got a great view of the river. Cocktails, munchies, a little entertainment. What do you say? It's better than those boring charity dinners, I can tell you that." He raised his eyebrows flirtatiously at Lilah and she managed a genteel smile back. T.S. would have rushed to her rescue but the pedicured probe was back at work and he was once again busy defending his personal space at ankle level.

"We'd love to come," Lilah was saying. She smiled sweetly at T.S. but her eyes were full of questions. She was wondering why T.S. was giving her so little help.

"Yes, we'd love to," T.S. quickly agreed. He casually moved his chair a few inches to the left and it scraped across the floor with a piercing shriek. The small foot only inched its way a little closer.

Lilah suddenly looked at the clock, feigning surprise. She must have sensed that something was wrong. "Theodore, darling, shouldn't we be going? You have that appointment with the sultan of … " She let her voice trail off discreetly.

"Oh, yes. Of course. I had completely forgotten about the sultan." T.S. leapt to his feet and hurried to help Lilah from her chair, wondering if there even was such a thing as a sultan these days. Apparently, there were plenty of them since no one at the table thought it unusual that they should hurry away. There were no questions about coffee or dessert, and Worthington did not seem concerned. They had promised to attend his party the next night and he was content with what he had accomplished.

After a few halfhearted murmurings about who would pick up the check, Lilah and T.S. managed to escape out the door with all of their jewelry and valuables intact.

Lilah gulped at the fresh air. "My God. The way he was looking at my ring I felt compelled to check every three minutes to make sure I still had it on."

"That, that cheap…" T.S. struggled for words. "That awful creature next to me was harassing me under the table!" He spotted the limousine parked a few doors down and frantically waved for Grady to hurry. He wanted out of there and away from that anorexic ankle assaulter as soon as he could.

Lilah suppressed a smile. "Whatever do you mean, Theodore?"

"That woman was trying to play footsies with me. Right there. Under the table. With you right there!"

"Really, Theodore. Don't take it so hard. What do you think that man was doing to me? I could practically tell you his brand of footwear by now. Why do you think I got us out of there? We'll just have to pump him for information tomorrow. The man was halfway up my shins and I just couldn't take it anymore."

T.S. was incensed. "How utterly despicable. How completely crass. What do they do? Get together and agree on a game plan? Draw straws? Sharpen their toe points? Are they some sort of particularly active foot fetish group? Who did that other blonde get to play footsies with? Maybe the waiter. Did you happen to notice if he was standing next to her a lot?"

"Theodore, Theodore." She stopped his tirade with an upheld hand and ushered him into the limousine's back seat. "Do you think Worthington is harmless?" she asked.

"I think he's a snake," he answered promptly.

"Of course. But I meant, harmless in Emily's death."

"Probably. Why would he bother? But he's certainly up to no good somewhere. I wonder what Auntie Lil found out today."

"In that case," Lilah announced grandly, "let's give her a call." She winked at T.S. and pushed a button on the handrest. A small panel whirred back in the passenger seat door, revealing a compact cellular telephone.

"Good heavens," T.S. said, inexplicably annoyed. "It's a good thing they didn't have those contraptions when I was still working. I'd never have gotten any peace or quiet."

"Isn't it just too much?" Lilah agreed. "I've only used it once, to order some Chinese food from the curbside. And that was just for fun. Fun that cost me about three dollars."

T.S. took the phone and suspiciously punched in Auntie Lil's number. He hated machines he did not understand. It would probably cut them off in mid-sentence.

Surprisingly, the connection was quite clear. He could tell that she was tired.

"What's the matter?" he asked Auntie Lil, alarmed. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little discouraged," she admitted. "I didn't find out much today." She filled him in on the details of her meetings with Bob Fleming and Little Pete. But she did not tell him about Billy's advice as she knew this would trigger a fresh round of warnings from him. In return, T.S. told her about their dinner with Lance Worthington.

"He sounds like quite an oily operator," she decided.

"I'm beginning to be sorry I volunteered to find out more about him," T.S. admitted. "The thought of spending another evening with him is repugnant."

"But you also get to spend it with Lilah." Auntie Lil could always point out the good side of a situation. Particularly if it helped her get what she wanted.

"I'm just not convinced that this is getting us anywhere," T.S. said. "Seems to me you're having all the fun."

Auntie Lil sighed. "It is certainly not fun tramping around the streets all day. If you want to be more useful, why don't you go back to the library and check more Playbills. This time, see what you can pick up on any of those old actresses. I'm not sure I trust them. At least, I don't trust some of them."

T.S. agreed only after extracting a promise from Lilah that she would accompany him to Lincoln Center. "Okay," he told Auntie Lil cheerfully. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going back to St. Barnabas," she said and rang off.

"Do you get the feeling that we're doing all the grunt work?" T.S. asked Lilah. "While she gets to have all the fun?"

"Isn't that the point of this entire episode?" Lilah asked back. "To keep your Auntie Lil happy?" She patted his knee and T.S. was more than pleased to agree.