A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER ELEVEN



Auntie Lil had stayed away from the soup kitchen for two whole days, but the strain of controlling her curiosity was starting to get to her. Convinced that they were missing clues that might lead them to Emily's killer, Auntie Lil rose early the next morning and took up a new post near St. Barnabas Church. Mindful of Lieutenant Abromowitz's orders to stay away, she stationed herself in the shadows of the deep doorway of a welfare hotel located across the street. She would just watch for a while, she told herself, and see who came in or out. Then maybe, if the coast was clear and that insufferable Fran nowhere to be seen, she'd risk setting foot on the premises. She wanted to talk to Father Stebbins and see what he knew about Emily. Perhaps she had been one of his parishioners. After all, what was the worst that could happen? An order from Lieutenant Abromowitz to stay away from the church wasn't exactly the law. Was it?

She had gotten there early and the street still belonged to trickles of commuters that flowed quickly past, heading east and west for their office buildings. They clutched their briefcases tightly in both hands, men and women alike, as they marched determinedly toward more familiar turf. St. Barnabas was on a transient street that belonged to the homeless and hopeless. People came and went, but very few cared to stop. The church itself looked desolate and abandoned in the early morning light. For the first time that year, there was a chill in the air. Auntie Lil wrapped her sweater coat more tightly about her, shivering slightly. At least she was not suffering alone, she told herself. Herbert or Franklin would be just a few blocks away watching Emily's building.

But Herbert was much closer than that. Even as she wondered what progress the watchers might be making, she spotted Herbert near Ninth Avenue, heading east. His path would take him directly in front of her hiding place. As he got nearer, she saw that his face was troubled. Clearly he was preoccupied, yet he did not even blink when she grabbed his elbow and pulled him into the doorway with her.

"Lillian," he said with a polite bow. "It is with much pleasure that I see you so early in the morning. I was just on my way to breakfast. Will you join me?"

"No." She cut right to the point. "You look worried. Why?"

Herbert shook his head. "I've just been by to talk to Franklin. No Eagle yet. It just doesn't make sense. He's been in that building for over two days now. A man cannot simply disappear."

Auntie Lil thought of the back fire escapes and wondered. But why would The Eagle bother to sneak out the back when their surveillance of the building was a secret?

"The police were there yesterday afternoon," Herbert added. Auntie Lil smiled grimly. At least Detective Santos considered her suggestions more seriously than that awful Lieutenant Abromowitz.

"What happened?"

The retired messenger shrugged unhappily. "Two uniformed men entered and stayed several hours. They left alone. It is very puzzling. I stayed quite late last night, watching the building carefully. No sign of The Eagle at all. Franklin is over there now. And who knows how many of those crazy ladies are wandering about beseeching strangers and wearing disguises? Now they've all taken to dressing like bag ladies and popping up just when you least expect them the most. It is like being trapped in an opera out of control."

Auntie Lil had been keeping an eye on the street and spotted the stout figure the instant it emerged into sight, headed for St. Barnabas.

"Get back," she hissed at Herbert, dragging him further into the shadows of the doorway. They peeked across the street together and watched as Fran, her face hidden, pulled a key from her pocketbook and quickly entered through the basement door.

"Don't you think it's a bit early for volunteering?" she asked ominously. "I never arrived until noon." Herbert checked his watch in reply. It was just before ten o'clock in the morning.

"Why do you think she is here so early?" he wondered aloud.

"Now look what's happening," Auntie Lil whispered in excitement.

The main entrance to St. Barnabas opened slowly, the large wooden doors swinging out with medieval ponderousness. Father Stebbins stepped into a small pool of sunshine that spotlighted the top step. He blinked in the daylight and looked behind him. A small figure stepped into view and stood beside the priest, its nearly white hair gleaming in the autumn sunlight. Together, they searched the sidewalks in both directions, then the priest nodded slowly and unlocked the folding metal gate that blocked the steps from the street. The small figure squeezed through the small opening and took off running lightly, his sneaker-clad feet skimming over the sidewalk with ease.

"That's Timmy!" Auntie Lil hissed. "What's he doing with Father Stebbins?"

Herbert Wong was silent. He was a Buddhist and lacked Auntie Lil's ingrained reverence for Catholic priests. He had plenty of ideas that would account for Timmy's presence. Including none that he cared to share with Auntie Lil.

"I must be going," he told her as they watched Father Stebbins relock the gate. Both noticed that the priest seemed troubled. His face sagged and he was shaking his head sadly as he disappeared back inside the church.

"He did not see Miss Fran," Herbert observed. "I wonder what she is doing down there in the basement all alone?"

"She may not be in the basement," Auntie Lil explained. "There's a door in the basement that opens into the church from the inside. For all we know, they're playing tag up and down the steps right now."

"Not tag," Herbert said solemnly.

"Quite right. The game is much more serious than that."

"I must obtain Franklin's Egg McMuffin and return to my post across from Miss Emily's building," the retired messenger announced. "Franklin is due at the Salvation Army at half past. They have some large clothes in and he would like a new outfit."

"He is a huge man," Auntie Lil admitted. "I dare say his size may come in handy someday."

"Let us hope not," Herbert observed. He left, whistling, and headed down the street towards Times Square. A crisp morning and sudden sunshine often had that effect on Herbert—it warmed his soul and made him happy, regardless of the sad task that occupied him at the moment. Herbert was a philosopher and a man at peace with himself. He did not find happiness and sorrow incompatible at all.

Auntie Lil stayed put. She was stubborn and wildly curious. Not even the thought of black coffee distracted her from her scrutiny. This dedication was rewarded barely a half hour later, when the gate to the basement pushed open and Fran rushed into view. Her face was twisted and small tracks of silver glittered in the emerging sunlight: tears. Fran had been crying. To see such a stout and determinedly capable woman in tears was a shock, even to Auntie Lil.

Father Stebbins followed quickly and stood silently on the sidewalk, watching Fran rush down the street. The distraught woman reached Eighth Avenue and turned quickly north, not seeming to care that she rammed into a late commuter and sent him careening off a parked car. His briefcase bounced off the bumper.

Auntie Lil could be discreet and let the drama play out. Or she could be herself and dive in, head first. It wasn't much of a contest.

"Father Stebbins! Father Stebbins!" she called out loudly, scurrying across the street with unseemly haste in an effort to beat out a large bread truck that seemed intent on reaching the next corner in three seconds, even at the price of her life.

The priest looked up, startled. "Lillian! What brings you back here? You must be a sign. In the darkness, yea, I will send thee a sign."

"A sign?" she demanded. "A sign of what?"

"Of divine intervention," he said unhappily, turning away.

The intervention part was certainly right, but not even Auntie Lil considered her role "divine." She fell into step beside Father Stebbins. Together, they descended the steps toward the basement. His worried look had deepened.

"Who was that young boy I saw you with this morning? A new volunteer?" She tried to keep her voice light, but failed. The question sounded like an accusation.

"Young boy?" He stopped and stared at her blankly. "What young boy?"

"On the steps of the church just a little while ago." She should not have asked. A little more finesse was called for. Now she would warn him away.

The priest turned away and unlocked the door. "I'm afraid you're mistaken," he said evenly. "Your eyes must be playing tricks on you. I have been seeing a few special members of my flock who are unable to attend regular confession. That is all. What were you doing? Hiding in the shadows like the enemies of the Church in ancient times?"

She wisely decided to drop the subject. "I came to ask you a few questions," she said instead.

He sighed as eloquently as any martyr the Church had ever immortalized. "What kind of questions? I cannot always supply the answers, you know. A man of the cloth may be as confused as anyone. It seems I lack many answers these days. I have not been of much help to my flock, as it were. Like all others, I am but a man with feet of clay."

"Was Emily one of your parishioners? Did she come attend services here?"

"Mass," he corrected her primly. "No. Although she was a Catholic, I cannot ever recall seeing her at mass at St. Barnabas. She was a private woman and preferred to attend St. Peter's, where none of her friends belonged." He sighed again, distracted, his mind on other topics.

"You seem preoccupied," Auntie Lil said softly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

His face cleared. "You can cook the meal today," he said hopefully. "I'm afraid Fran has just quit. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Quit?" Auntie Lil stared at him. "Whatever for?"

Father Stebbins shrugged unhappily. "Sometimes I think that this is a very wicked world indeed." He ignored her question and held the door open as Auntie Lil hurried inside. The basement was dark and smelled faintly of pine.

"The lieutenant ordered me to stay away," she reminded him.

"I'm ordering you to stay and help." The priest wandered back into the kitchen area and opened the pantry door with a heavy sigh. "This world is not fit for the truly good, my dear Lillian," he said. "Too often, what is good only masks evil. And what is evil too often masks still more evil. Nothing is what it seems."


Auntie Lil threw together a hasty stew of odds and ends, but no one complained. There was an uneasy air about the soup kitchen that day, brought on by the chill in the weather. Undeniably, winter was coming and, with it, freezing temperatures and the danger of snow. Soon, the streets would not be an option for many of the homeless in line. They were worried. Where would they go? Few wanted to return to the city shelters. One visit had been more than enough for most of those waiting to eat. The shelters were dirty and dangerous and discouraging. At least on the street, they could cling to some measure of privacy, thanks to the anonymity the hurrying crowds bestowed on them.

Adelle arrived with her entourage for their meal a few minutes later than was usual. Though they made excellent bag ladies, their pride would not let them appear at the soup kitchen in full regalia. At St. Barnabas, they had a more important role to play. There, they were the sheltered elite, the crème de la crème of the hungry. Consequently, they were as well groomed and regal as ever by the time they showed for lunch.

"Lillian!" Adelle stared in surprise. "You're back. And just what have you done with Fran? Father Stebbins looks positively naked without his amanuensis."

"She's quit!" Auntie Lil whispered across the serving line, where she had been reduced to dishing out stew due to the lack of able bodies. Fran was not the only volunteer missing. The murder had scared several part-timers away and the kitchen was severely understaffed. "See if you can find out why she quit," she ordered Adelle.

"Certainly. A mere child's play of deduction." Adelle accepted her plate with queenly bearing and led her followers down the line. They had arrived in a single group, making it easy for Auntie Lil to check off each face mechanically. She wondered who was helping Herbert out with his surveillance since they nearly all seemed to be at the kitchen. But wait, one face was missing—and it was a hard face not to miss. Emily's old rival, Eva, was not among the crowd of aged actresses.

No one working at the kitchen had mentioned Fran's disappearance yet, although Auntie Lil caught the other volunteers exchanging silent looks a few times. Father Stebbins remained preoccupied, his mind on more important matters. Once he even disappeared upstairs without warning and did not return for nearly half an hour. This uncharacteristic move—combined with the general air of worry circulating through the crowd—fueled a tense atmosphere at the St. Barnabas soup kitchen that day.

Auntie Lil escaped from behind the pot of stew and headed for Adelle's table. "Where's Eva?" Auntie Lil asked the assembled actresses. They shook their heads collectively.

"Who knows?" Adelle murmured. "She's quite the headstrong lady these days. Has her own theories. Who are we to interfere?"

"She's probably angry at me," a usually quiet old actress admitted. "Now that Emily is dead, I expect I'm on the list as her next great enemy. Eva must always have someone to hate. It's how she gets her energy."

"Why would she hate you, my dear?" Auntie Lil asked quickly when she noticed a subtle but growing movement of glances intended to silence the woman.

"I saw her stop at Emily's table the day she died," the woman explained. "I didn't say anything at first. But after a while, Eva made me positively furious with all of the accusations she was hurling at poor Fran. Fran works very hard here and I think it's ugly of us all to keep guessing at her private life. Much less blame the murder on her."

"Eva stopped at Emily's table right before she died?" Auntie Lil asked.

This time the woman did not answer. Someone's warning kick had gotten to her. Her eyes slid over and met Adelle's, then she looked down and kept silent.

"Eva always stopped to say something to Emily," Adelle explained. "Just to prove that she didn't feel in the least snubbed by Emily's refusal to sit at our table. Though, of course, I believe her feelings were terribly wounded."

"Quite a childish fight they were having," Auntie Lil observed.

Adelle opened her mouth as if to say more, then shut it abruptly without explanation. Her eyes surveyed every woman around the table. No one said a word. They had long ago perfected the art of nonverbal communication—and Auntie Lil was not privy to their code. In fact, she would not even waste time trying. She'd just take another tack.

"Have any of you seen a young boy around here?" she asked hopefully. "About this tall. Very blond hair. The one in the dime store photographs I showed you?"

They shook their heads solemnly and Auntie Lil sighed. "I'm getting nowhere, it seems," she complained.

"That's all right," Adelle reassured her. "Neither are we."

"How can The Eagle still be inside that building?" Auntie Lil looked around the table. "I'm not criticizing, but are you sure you've been watching carefully?"

"Quite sure," Adelle insisted, her voice rising in incipient indignation. "At least two people at all times. If he had left, we would have seen him."

"Well, I mustn't sit here sulking," Auntie Lil decided. She'd slip away and phone Detective Santos. Perhaps he had found out where The Eagle had gone. Besides, soon it would be time to do the dishes and she had to draw the line somewhere.

The old women watched her go with impassive eyes. They did not speak until she was well out the door.


Auntie Lil had lied. She waited in the doorway opposite to see where the old actresses went. You could never be sure, she reasoned to herself. Better to suspect than to be sorry. It was not difficult for Auntie Lil to follow Adelle's crowd; they were too intent on assuming their disguises to pay her much attention. She trailed along behind them, shamelessly eavesdropping. It appeared that Adelle had a tiny apartment on Fiftieth Street and that the women were headed there to resume their bag lady roles. They chatted like a crowd of showgirls on the way to a performance. It disturbed Auntie Lil that Eva was not among them. She did not trust these streets.

The group headed north up Eighth Avenue and Auntie Lil turned west, satisfied they were doing as they'd promised. She wanted time to think about what she had seen that morning at St. Barnabas. She walked toward the Hudson River, where the huge cruise liners stood berthed at massive docks just a few blocks south from the pier where she had taken Theodore. Not many cargo ships pulled in these days; newer ports on Staten Island and Brooklyn made the trip to midtown Manhattan unnecessary. But the big passenger lines still liked the cachet of boarding their guests in sight of the Manhattan skyline. As Auntie Lil drew nearer, she heard a deep, mournful bellow. One of the passenger ships was pulling free from the dock and sounding its horn in celebration. She was just in time to watch it back slowly into the center of the river and head ponderously down the Hudson toward the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, where it would continue out to sea. The bulk of the boat was incredible. Even the water seemed to strain under its weight.

A cruise leaving in midweek would have few passengers and, indeed, the dock was cleared of any goodbye visitors within minutes. They walked quickly to their cars, anxious to leave the desolate riverfront and get on with their lives. Soon, Auntie Lil was left alone on a small concrete sidewalk that ran between the docks. She stared down at the murky greenish black waters of the Hudson, her mind still on St. Barnabas.

Why would Fran have quit? And did it have anything to do with Timmy's visit to Father Stebbins? Why would the old priest bother to lie about that visit? What could he be hiding? Surely it was no crime to help a young runaway in need of guidance. And the young boy might have nothing to do with Emily's death; their friendship could be a sad coincidence. Just another blow to Timmy's self-esteem.

Her mind wandered to the old actresses. It was a good thing she was allowed back at St. Barnabas, where she could keep a closer eye on the group. Could they know more than they were saying? She would not put it past Adelle to try to solve the murder on her own. Although gracious and charming, the woman clearly hated to share the spotlight with anyone. And wasn't it curious that Eva was missing? Maybe the others had teased her too much at last, or blamed her for Emily's death. Or, conversely, maybe she was just too busy redeeming herself by tailing residents of Emily's building to even stop to eat.

And what about that building? How could any trace of Emily disappear so quickly? Who was living in her apartment now, and why? Was it The Eagle? Did the killer have the audacity to move into his victim's very home? Yet Detective Santos had said that a young blonde woman lived in the apartment. And surely the police would have done a thorough job once they took the trouble to show up. She remembered she had not yet found out the results of the detective's latest search for The Eagle, and made a mental note to call Santos.

Was it possible that the entire building was participating in some sort of conspiracy? Surely not. What kind of trouble could an old woman like Emily possibly get into that would drive anyone, much less an entire building, to murder her?

The riverfront was exposed to the wind and, though the day had turned warmer, the breeze and too many unanswered questions conspired to chill her resolve. Auntie Lil shivered and stared down into the nearly black waves. How horrible the gently lapping waters of the Hudson seemed, what terrible secrets they concealed. To drown in the Hudson would be a particularly gruesome fate. One would disappear under that slick surface—mouth choked with unspeakable debris—condemned to death in the unseen depths. Who knew what unknown horrors lived beneath that murky facade?

That did it. She was getting far too morbid. No more visits to the morgue for her. She shook her shoulders briskly and straightened up. It was all very well to stop and reflect, but brooding would not solve Emily's death and feeling sorry for herself would get her nowhere. What she needed was a good strong cup of tea to bring her back. Forget cappuccino, she decided, they always drank strong tea in those old English mysteries and wasn't she practically in the middle of one right now? Billy at the Delicious Deli would be able to help; he kept an excellent supply of teas on hand.


Billy was taking advantage of the lull between lunch and the light dinner crowd. He was leaning over the counter, anxiously scanning an open newspaper. Auntie Lil watched him through the windows of the deli for a moment. Surely, that wide open face was an honest one. She wished she knew for sure.

The bell tinkled and Billy's face fell when he saw that the new visitor was Auntie Lil. "I can't believe it," he said. "I was just thinking of you. It looks like I was right."

"What do you mean?" She followed his stare and glanced at the newspaper. "What are you right about?"

"Bob Fleming," Billy said, somewhat smugly. "Take a look at this." He spun the newspaper around and pushed it across the counter. Without her glasses, Auntie Lil had to lean perilously close. She blinked. The huge headline made it all quite clear: YOUTH runaway shelter director charged with sex abuse.

"What?" Her voice failed her and she studied the article more closely. It was a column by that female reporter T.S. enjoyed so much. The one with the teasing grin and the sarcastic writing style. Oh, yes—there was her name: Margo McGregor.

"What does it say?" Auntie Lil asked faintly. Damn her vanity. She wanted her glasses bad.

"Some kid turned him in. Said he'd been hitting on him at night, taking him home. You know. Stuff like that." Bill's voice trailed off in embarrassment and he released his anger in an effort to regain control. "I told you there was something funny about him. If it was up to me I'd pound him right into the pavement and let those kids take turns walking over his corpse."

"Good heavens." Auntie Lil looked up sharply. "What ever happened to a man being innocent until proven guilty?"

"Charges have been filed against him," Billy said simply. "They expect more kids to step forward as they feel safe."

Kids? They were runaways, miniature savages. God knows what they might say if they thought they could get some attention. She wanted to tell him this, but the words failed her. Such an attitude was not only unfair, but disloyal to Bob Fleming. After all, he had been the one to point out that they were still children; she could not now change her mind and see them as conniving adults. But she could be puzzled and skeptical of the charges. And find out more about them.

"What child made the allegations?" she demanded.

Billy looked at her strangely. "I don't know. They're not going to release the name. He's underage. That's the whole point."

"He?" Auntie Lil stared at Billy intently. "What makes you think it's a 'he'?"

"The article says so." Billy pointed to the paper and shrugged. "Listen, I'm sorry if it upsets you, but I told you that street talk was usually right. He's as bad as the men he claims to save those kids from."

"Mind if I borrow this?" Auntie Lil asked rhetorically, since the newspaper was folded and tucked into her enormous handbag before she had finished the request.

"Be my guest," Billy said philosophically. "I don't need a paper to tell me I was right."

He was being a little too smug for her taste. She'd just go find her tea somewhere else. The doorbell tinkled angrily behind her.

But the tea was instantly forgotten when a new thought hit her. Suppose it had been Timmy or Little Pete who had accused him? Suppose it was all tied together?

She changed directions and marched resolutely toward Fleming's Homefront office. If anyone was in, she'd try to find out more.

The door was locked and the lights out in the front office. But Auntie Lil could see a figure in the back, head down on a desk. She knocked and when she got no response, she proceeded to try and bang the door down with her pocketbook. After several seconds of ear-deafening assault, the figure rose and drifted her way.

It was Annie O'Day and she had been crying. A lot. The stained cheeks and puffy eyes seemed horribly out of place on her previously cheery and healthy countenance. "You've heard?" she asked glumly as Auntie Lil barged inside.

"I did and I'm having trouble believing it." Auntie Lil looked around to make sure that they were alone. "Lock the doors."

"I just did," Annie mumbled in reply as she led her inside. "Let's sit in back. I'm beginning to like the darkness."

"Is this true?" Auntie Lil demanded, producing the newspaper.

"No, it's not true. But it doesn't matter. Bob is being questioned by the police right now. They wouldn't let me stay with him. It's been at least five hours." The huge Irish woman reached for a tissue and blew her nose with a mighty honk, then tossed the Kleenex into a wastebasket across the narrow space. It banked perfectly and slid inside. "He's ruined whether the allegations turn out to be true or not, I expect. He'll be poison by the time they get through with him. It'll be the end of any grants or donations for Homefront."

"Who says he did this?" Auntie Lil asked, glaring at the newspaper as if it were the columnist's fault that Bob Fleming's character and life had been destroyed.

"Don't you know?" She looked up at Auntie Lil in surprise. "It's Timmy. Bob told me when he called from the stationhouse. It's the little boy you were looking for. Bob hardly knows him. And then he does this. Why? What did Bob ever do to him?"

Auntie Lil was silent. It had occurred to her at once that Bob Fleming's main contact with Timmy had been on her behalf. What questions had the Homefront director asked on the streets, trying to help her? Was this why he was being attacked?

"Why are you so quiet?" Annie demanded.

"I was wondering if Bob had had any contact with Timmy since I last spoke to him," Auntie Lil said carefully.

Annie shook her head vigorously. "He'd been asking around about Timmy," she explained. "Trying to find out who that guy that keeps him is. Trying to see if Timmy had a last name, or how he was involved with that old lady that was killed. Little Pete wouldn't tell him much, so he had to go to other people on the street. But you know what he was asking about better than I do. He was doing it for you." If it occurred to Annie that Auntie Lil was somehow at fault for what had happened, she did not show it.

"Timmy." Auntie Lil repeated the young boy's name softly and stared thoughtfully at the newspaper. "I want to talk to him."

"You and me and half the police force," Annie replied miserably. "I've been looking for him all day. He's nowhere to be found. And Little Pete has disappeared with him."

"Someone talked to him," Auntie Lil pointed out. She had to bring the newspaper practically to the tip of her nose to be able to read it, but it was a humiliation she was too angry to pay any heed to.

"What do you mean?" Annie stared at the newspaper.

"This woman talked to him." Auntie Lil set the paper back on the desk and placed a strong finger over Margo McGregor's face. "She doesn't use his name, but it sounds like she talked to him for quite a long time. In fact, it sounds like she was the one to break the whole story."

"Let me see that." Annie O'Day slid the paper closer and peered at it. "I get the other paper. It was just a small article crammed in at the last minute. I didn't even see this one. God, it takes up half a page. What does it say?" Her voice trailed off and anger settled over her innocent features, lending them a hardened, unpleasant look. She looked up at Auntie Lil. The rage reflected in her ice blue eyes was frightening. "This woman printed very single lie that kid said. That's not fair. That's like trying Bob in the press."

"Perhaps we should have a word with Miss McGregor. I could give her a call," Auntie Lil suggested calmly, hoping to erase the terrible anger that had imbued Annie's face with a suddenly ominous and threatening strength.

"You call her," Annie replied defiantly. She threw the newspaper on the floor. "If Margo McGregor can find Timmy, I can find Timmy. And I'm going to, if it's the last thing I do." The article had filled her with fresh resolve and she was up and out the door before Auntie Lil could stop her.

Auntie Lil stood in the back office, wondering what to do next. It was not in her nature to sit and do nothing, but how was she supposed to lock the door behind her if she left? Annie had marched out with the keys. There was nothing she could do but wait until Bob Fleming or Annie returned. She might as well make the best of it. Auntie Lil bolted the door from the inside and crept back into the darker interior. She was not in the mood to deal with any runaways at the moment. There was work to be done.

She gathered the newspaper pages from the floor and put them back together. She did not want to believe Margo McGregor either, but it sounded as if the columnist had done her homework.

Damn. She should have remembered at once. Margo McGregor had cropped up before... in Emily's pocketbook, her photo on each of the clippings carefully saved on a variety of subjects. Even worse: Theodore had thought them important. And she had not. She just hated it when she was wrong.

Could Emily have contacted the columnist about Timmy? Was that how the story got started? But there had been no evidence of correspondence with anyone in Emily's apartment, and especially not with Margo McGregor.

There was nothing left to do but go right to the source. She chose a telephone from the many lined up on the wall and began. Pretending to be Margo McGregor's mother, she greased her way through three levels of screening and right to the columnist's desk. Unfortunately, she was not there. A harried and disinterested-sounding colleague took a message and said he'd leave it on her desk. She thought about what to say and decided on: "Have vital information on Emily Toujours' death." That should bring a rapid response. She left the number printed on the phone, hung up and waited confidently.

A half-hour later, it had not brought any sort of response. And she was steamed. She didn't appreciate being trapped in Homefront until Annie O'Day returned while the entire world ignored her phone messages. A whole afternoon of doing nothing would kill her. She'd just have to pester Detective Santos while she waited.

He was in, since there was still another hour before the official cocktail hour began.

"Did you find The Eagle?" she asked anxiously, forgetting to introduce herself.

An introduction was not necessary. "No, we did not find The Eagle," the detective replied crisply. "We thoroughly searched that building, Miss Hubbert, and there is no tall black man living there with an eagle tattoo on his arm. In fact, there is not a single black man living in the entire building at all. Which is unusual in itself but not, so far as we can tell, necessarily illegal."

"But we saw him go in and he never came out."

"Even if that was true—and I have my doubts about it, to be honest with you—there are plenty of ways he could have gone out undetected," Santos explained. "Down the back fire escape, or up to the roof and over onto another building's roof. See what I mean?"

She was silent. He had a point.

"Listen, Miss Hubbert, I know you're trying to help. And I think that I've been a pretty good sport about it. But that was the last time I'll be able to humor you. Two officers spent an entire afternoon checking apartments and questioning people again. With zippo results. I simply can't afford the manpower to go off on any more goose chases. I've got another death on my hands this afternoon, this time a floater with no identification. And there will probably be another murder by morning." He sighed. "Go home and take up knitting or something. Go home and leave us all alone."

The detective hung up gently and Auntie Lil stared out the picture windows of the darkened storefront. A floater. The waters of the Hudson had claimed another victim. She shivered. The secrets of Hell's Kitchen seemed darker than ever.


It had been an excellent day for T.S. Such a good day, in fact, that he was halfheartedly considering retiring the tan slacks and black sweater he'd worn to mark his triumph. Why, the sweater still smelled faintly of Lilah's gardenia perfume. And surely there were a few of her silver hairs nestled among its nap. After all, they'd sat side by side for hours in the Performing Arts Library, poring over old Playbills in search of Emily Toujours in cast listings or a glimpse of her face in any photos. Their lack of success at this task had not dimmed the triumphs of the day.

At first, he had felt a bit guilty about St. Barnabas and was unsure if his help had been expected there or not. But he had managed to rationalize that worry away quite nicely by remembering that they had tossed his dear old aunt out on her ear, and that Father Stebbins had failed to even recognize him the day before. So surely his obligations to the soup kitchen could take a back seat to the investigation.

And why should he begrudge himself a cozy lunch with Lilah at a small French bistro off Sixty-Second Street? What better way to cap off a morning of careful scrutiny than with exquisite dishes, an excellent dry white, a beautiful woman and a maître d' with enough sense to provide a candlelit atmosphere in the middle of the day. Thus fortified, they had returned to the library and spent a number of happy hours paging through still more Playbills while reminiscing about the many Broadway shows they had seen with other people… and the many more they hoped to see together.

Eight hours passed by as quickly as eight minutes, made that much more delicious by the thought that there was still an evening together to come. Who cared if they had to spend that evening in the supercilious company of a cheesy would-be Broadway producer? In fact, who cared that not a trace of Emily Toujours had been found, not even as an extra or in a backstage capacity? He had spotted several of the other old actresses, he thought, in their earlier incarnations, though he could not be positive. The young and painted faces that stared out at him in faded photographs held little relation to the heavily wrinkled versions they now wore.

Except for Adelle. It was true, he discovered, that she did look quite a lot like she had when she was younger. Her broad face and regal neck weathered well. And he found more traces of her career than anyone else's. She appeared to have worked her way up to featured roles by the late forties and early fifties, before disappearing into obscurity again. It was interesting and rather sad from a sociological standpoint, but shed no light on Emily's murder so far as T.S. could determine.

Fortunately, lack of progress made in finding any trace of Emily Toujours was balanced out by progress that had been made in other, quite important areas. Tonight more would be made, T.S. was sure. He searched his closet for evening attire appropriate for a wealthy investor, and settled on his very best suit, custom-made in Hong Kong according to Auntie Lil's strict specifications.

He had a plan: if all went well, he and Lilah would be able to quickly eliminate Lance Worthington as nothing more than a typical Broadway fringe sleaze. Then they could forget about murder for a few minutes and find a small and charming bistro that served drinks.

He hummed as he dressed. He was starting to like retirement; it afforded the luxury of ignoring business as usual. He had risen that morning without even so much as a glance at the newspaper, and now here he was plunging into a world of dim lights, quick looks and shared smiles. A world that would last for as long as he cared it to. There would be no rising early for him tomorrow, no damnable office to sap his energy. He was free. He could be whoever he wanted to be. The emergence of T.S. Hubbert, new man in town, continued on its uncertain course.

He helped it along a bit by selecting a slim, purple tie that shimmered in the right light. Then he turned up the volume on his stereo and blasted show tunes at a volume that astounded his nearest neighbors and sent the cats galloping into the bathroom closet for quiet.

The music was so loud, in fact, that he failed to hear the phone ring. Nor did he notice the message light blinking before he hurried downstairs to meet Lilah. She was waiting in the back seat of the limousine. His highly impressed doorman, Mahmoud, dashed out to open the door for him, bestowing silent and respectful homage on T.S. as a tribute to his excellent taste in women.

If Grady stepped on it, T.S. decided, they would have just enough time for a quiet dinner together before Lance Worthington and his party beckoned. There was a small Indian restaurant on the Lower East Side that he thought Lilah would love. It was appropriately exotic and a bit off the beaten path. A good choice, considering the unusual romantic journey (for him, anyway) that he had embarked upon.


T.S. had not talked to Auntie Lil even once that day. Had she known why, it was doubtful that Auntie Lil would have minded a bit. But she didn't know why and, consequently, she was steaming.

She slammed the phone back in its cradle with childish temper, thinking of how much she loathed answering machines.

Evening had arrived. Auntie Lil sat in the darkness of the Homefront office and glared out onto the crowded street. How dare all those people rush past without a glance, while she was stuck in here? Where was Annie and who the hell had the keys? She ought to just walk out and damn the consequences of an unlocked front door. There was nothing for her here. She was wasting her time.

It occurred to her that Bob Fleming might keep an extra set of keys in his desk. She opened the top drawer and searched through it hopefully, encountering coffee shop packets of sugar, ketchup, jelly and salt; a supply of tattered paper napkins; three cough drops; some loose straws; and an upturned plastic box of paper clips. No keys.

Then it hit her. Good God. She was getting old. Why was she sitting here pouting? She was being handed a golden opportunity to rummage through all of Homefront's files. It was nirvana to someone as exquisitely nosy as she: one large desk, two large file cabinets, all kinds of dark corners and countless messy piles of documents. All for the taking. She glanced once more at the front doorway and briskly set to work.


"I thought you'd enjoy a change of pace," T.S. told Lilah.

"It's wonderful here." She patted his hand fondly and he beamed back as if she had just said something enormously clever.

They were sitting in a tiny alcove of a small Indian restaurant, finishing their coconut soup. They were protected from the view of other diners by strategically placed pots of miniature palms and a large and colorful tank of exotic tropical fish. It was a little like being lost on a deserted isle together. Except, of course, for the overly obsequious waiter. Sensing a potentially huge tip from a besotted couple, he hovered about with servile determination. This devotion amused Lilah; the small smile that played about her lips charmed T.S. to distraction.

"Next he'll be offering to eat my soup for me," she decided.

T.S. beamed at her in reply and admired the graceful way she sipped at the remainder of her first course. Early training in a finishing school had left its mark.

"More poori bread, sir?" the Indian waiter inquired, popping out from behind a palm with the sudden efficiency of a Bengal warrior who had spotted a tiger.

"Heavens, no," T.S. replied. The table was littered with plates of untouched poori that swelled like small parachutes among the silver.

A few minutes later, a warm breeze of curry mixed with cumin and other fragrant spices announced the return of their attentive waiter. He burst through the palms bearing an enormous tray loaded with plates of steaming food and colorful rice.

"Good heavens." Lilah stared at the feast. "Do we have time to eat all this?" she asked faintly.

T.S. glanced at his watch, annoyed at being reminded of their impending task. He sighed. "We'll just have to be fashionably late," he said firmly. "Lance Worthington will just have to wait."


Anyone else would have found it an eerie task to search through the darkened interior of Homefront while unsuspecting passers-by flowed past without a glance. But not Auntie Lil. Her curiosity had consumed her and she was determined to make up for lost time. Blinded by Annie O'Day's charm and Bob Fleming's surface dedication, she had let her heart overrule her head. But now the old Auntie Lil was back in action—and she suspected everyone. She would rummage, uncover, examine and analyze all data. Her mission: to pick apart the life of Bob Fleming and scrutinize the operations of Homefront.

It was slow going because she had to be careful to return everything to its proper place. She would have preferred to flag interesting items, pile them on Bob Fleming's desk and go through them at her leisure. Instead, she examined each item at once and returned it to its proper file, drawer or pile, then carefully jotted down its description and potential importance in her ever-present notebook.

After almost two hours, she had uncovered a number of items that might be of interest, either in investigating Emily's murder or in helping to determine Bob Fleming's character. She carefully listed each item, followed it by a description, and made a note of the questions it triggered, then underlined key points and added her final observations. When finished, Auntie Lil sat down at a desk and reviewed what she had noted:

“One photo of Bob Fleming: Standing with group of men, all clad in military uniforms. Jungle backdrop. War photo. Vietnam? Puts age at 40 to 45. Could work in his favor at trial. Or harm him?

Second photo of Bob Fleming: Has arm around Annie O'Day on a Hudson River pier? Night time. Amusement park and Ferris wheel seen in the background. They are kissing against a backdrop of colorful lights. Is this how a man who likes little boys acts? Could be—ask Annie questions to probe if feeling is genuine.

Flyers of missing children: Nearly one hundred Xerox bulletins about missing children, with photos and descriptions. From all over U.S.A. Handwritten notes on a few, hard to make out. Looks like dates or NYC] locations, followed by question marks. No one resembling Timmy or Little Pete.

Separate files on specific children: Maybe 25 in all. Small brown folder assigned to each. Most have only first names listed. Some have photos obviously taken without their knowledge. Attached sheets of paper provide various bits of incomplete information. Notes in different handwriting provide medical diagnosis, i.e. "HIV-neg. Syph. O-N." Why is he building a profile on each of these children? Med notes from Annie? Info for city program? Police? To discover identity? To contact parents? Other reason?

File on Timmy: No last name listed. Nicknames: Lightning, Little Big Man, and Zebra. Reference to changing hair color? Other info provided: "Possibly from Texas. Accent. Runs with Little Pete. Age approx 15. Protected. Men only. 8th Ave. between 43rd and 47th." Photo provided: Timmy crossing street with older man, face unseen. Background shows doorway. Old woman inside watching? Emily? Face out of focus. Group of black and white prostitutes nearby watching Timmy and man. One may be resident of Emily s building. Cheaply dressed. Did Bob tell me everything he knew about Timmy?

Grant and donation information: Homefront modestly funded, but commitments in place through next year. Money pressure at a minimum. No expansion plans found.

City forms: along with more forms. Plus private program forms. Too many forms in this world.

Booklets: Misc. on various city and private drug programs, alternative schools, residential options, shelters. Proof Homefront is legitimate? Or only a cover?

Bible: St. James version. Small. Cover ripped. Inside worn. No passages underlined. In his favor? Is it his? For children?

Other publications: Misc. Heavy on fishing magazines, camping and other outdoor topics. New Yorker magazines that actually look read!(?) No pornographic material.”

That was all. The sole sum of incriminating or illuminating evidence didn't add up to much in the final analysis.

The phone rang as Auntie Lil was reviewing her list for a second time to make sure that no implications had been missed. "Homefront," she answered automatically, her mind preoccupied with the list.

The frightened voice on the other end brought her immediately back to attention. "Miss Hubbert?" Annie O'Day's tearful voice broke. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Of course, it's me. I'm the only one you left behind without keys."

"Thank God." The sniffles stopped and Annie gave a frightened laugh. "I must be going crazy," she said weakly.

"I'll say. You left me here without any keys to lock up."

"I'm sorry," Annie explained. "I spent hours looking for Timmy and then met Bob at the station. I got him a lawyer. They're releasing Bob in a few more minutes."

"They're letting him go?" Auntie Lil asked, surprised.

"Just for now. Believe me, they're not dropping anything."

"Why were you crying?" Auntie Lil asked sharply. "You're a big girl. You knew they had charged him. He needs you to be strong."

"I wasn't crying about Bob. I was crying about you."

"Me?" Auntie Lil demanded incredulously. "Why on earth would you cry about me?"

"I was sitting in a chair by the front precinct door," she explained. "This man at a desk across the partition started calling around to other police stations. He kept saying the same thing over and over. They had found a body floating in the Hudson. It was an old lady, did they have any missing person reports that fit? She had not been dead for very many hours. Then he'd describe her. Stoutly built. Broad face. Wearing very young clothes for her age. She didn't have any identification." Annie gulped and continued. "My imagination got carried away. I was afraid it was you. And that it was my fault for leaving you there alone."

"Me? No, it certainly was not me. Stout, indeed. Quite old? Besides, I do not wear clothes that are too young for my age. I simply have a highly developed sense of joie de vivre." Auntie Lil stared out the street window. The Hudson River had not claimed her that day, but it had certainly claimed someone who looked a lot like her.