A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER TWELVE



Lance Worthington's building was one of those colored-glass and blasted-sand towers that spread like a plague throughout New York City in the 1980s. The newness had worn off quickly and small patches of concrete peeked through the cheap patina of surface beige. Already, the building sagged, as if collapsing from the weight of too high rents and too many tenants struggling to maintain a lifestyle they could no longer afford. It seemed the perfect home for a borderline Broadway producer.

Grady dropped them off in front of the drooping entrance awning with a promise to return every thirty minutes to see if they were ready to escape. Lilah looked around apprehensively. Though on the East Side, the building was located on a somewhat dubious side street that featured frequent and ominous stretches of shadow.

"I'm already depressed," T.S. decided. "How about you?"

"I am now," Lilah replied, staring at the figure of the slumbering doorman. He was a portly soul packed into a too snug uniform with a yellowish stain above the shirt pocket. He was snoring away behind a waist-high counter, with his feet propped up on the top of it and his chair tipped against the wall. This precarious position caused his head to dangle backwards at a preposterous angle, providing guests with an excellent view of his sinus cavities.

"We'll only be a minute," T.S. told the unconscious sentinel.

"We're just going to burgle a few apartments and be right out." He glowed warmly at Lilah's appreciative giggle and guided her gallantly into the elevator. He had perfected the art of steering her by the arm, a gesture he felt was nearly as intimate as holding hands yet far less juvenile.

"It was a wonderful dinner," she thanked him again on their way upstairs. "I haven't eaten so much food in forty years. The most exotic Robert ever got was French."

T.S. was so pleased at how well their dinner had gone that he had no trouble with being reminded of Lilah's deceased husband. He could afford to be magnanimous. After all, it was not as if he were competing with a legend. Good heavens, Robert Cheswick had been a superior horse's ass and, as it turned out, a rather big liar as well.

They reached the appropriate floor and it was immediately apparent where the party was being held. All thoughts of a small tasteful gathering vanished with the first blast of raucous music and the distant roar of drunken shrieks. The apartment door at the end of the hall seemed to nearly pulsate in its effort to contain the bacchanal inside.

"Perhaps we waited a bit too long," T.S. said, slowing down to consider the situation.

"Come on," Lilah urged him, pulling him forward. "We've come this far, we might as well see it through."

T.S. straightened his tie and steeled himself for the coming chaos. After several fruitless moments of pounding on the door, he finally pushed it open and, quite literally, faced the music. He and Lilah stood in the doorway staring at a sunken living room that teemed with an astonishing assortment of human beings in various stages of inebriation. Lance Worthington was nowhere to be seen, but numerous blondes in skintight dresses seemed to be acting as official hostesses or, at least, were being rather athletically friendly to a number of the male guests. There was hardly a man in sight without a blonde draped over his shoulder or sitting upon his knee. A pair descended upon them at once and pulled them into the fray, shrieking welcomes, snatching their coats and guiding them toward a long bar that dominated the one wall with a picture window. Outside, the lights of New York City glowed serenely and T.S. wanted very much to escape back into the night.

Behind the bar stood a dignified, elderly black man dressed in a tuxedo. He looked as if he would rather be enslaved in some pre-Civil War enclave than forced to perform for a party of such obnoxious white heathens. His cool eyes swept over T.S. and Lilah, and his shoulders relaxed. Perhaps here were people who actually had manners, his hopeful expression implied.

"Something from the bar, sir?" the bartender inquired evenly. T.S. had to lean over an ice bucket to catch even a hint of the words. My God, whoever was in charge of the music must be stone deaf. It drowned out even the bartender's deep voice.

T.S. ordered a Dewars and soda for himself while Lilah opted for a white wine spritzer. They clutched their drinks and searched around for a quiet haven. A small alcove that led into the kitchen seemed their best bet. They sought refuge beside a large potted palm (that T.S. suspected was artificial) and surveyed the raucous party.

The sunken living room area was lined on three sides with long black leather couches. A mirrored coffee table dominated the center of the common space and was littered with spilt drinks, metallic pocketbooks and the rather large head of a man who had passed out while sitting on the carpet nearby. The couches were occupied by a half dozen plump middle-aged males, who looked like a contingent of modern gingerbread men so alike were they in well-tanned coloring, thinning hair and softened body shape. Most of them held a drink in one hand and a giggly blonde in the other.

"I must be seeing double," Lilah murmured.

"I'm seeing quadruple," T.S. decided. "What does he do? Make the girls dye their hair before they get an invitation?"

"Wait. I see a redhead over there." Lilah nodded discreetly toward a short hallway. Sure enough, an extremely tall redhead slouched into view, tugging at her waist in an effort to keep her pantyhose from riding down her long legs. Her face was elongated and drooped with stupor or boredom. She started to the right, stopped abruptly to get her bearings, then lurched to the left and perched on the edge of one of the leather couches where she proceeded to absently ruffle the thinning hair of a tubby businessman. His existing blonde companion looked up indignantly, ready to squawk, but kept silent when she spotted the redhead.

T.S. stared more closely at the balding businessman. His face— red and perspiring from too much drink and too many female hormones hovering nearby—looked oddly familiar. But T.S. could not pinpoint why. Surely they had met previously. Perhaps before T.S. had retired? Or had it been more recently? It was maddening not to be able to recall.

"No one looks very happy at this party," Lilah said suddenly. "Am I right or am I insane?"

"No, you're definitely right," T.S. agreed. "Everyone seems a little bit too desperate for another drink. Even those men on the couch, clutching those women, don't seem particularly thrilled to be here. And the women are clearly bored. They're patting those men on the heads like they're puppies." He searched the interior of the apartment carefully. "I wonder where Lance Worthington is?"

"Lilah Cheswick! What on earth are you doing here?" It was the first cultured voice of the evening and it belonged to an extremely distinguished-looking man who had apparently been hiding out in the kitchen behind them.

"Albert!" Lilah was two parts shocked at seeing someone she recognized and one part embarrassed at being caught at such a freewheeling party. "I'm here with my friend, Theodore. He's looking into backing one of Mr. Worthington's plays. Something about Davy Crockett. What on earth are you doing here?"

Albert shrugged apologetically. "I got roped into backing it, too. I thought I'd better check out what sort of fellow he is. I'm not too impressed, I must say." He sipped at his drink and raised his eyebrows at Lilah in a manner that managed to be superior without being condescending.

T.S. hated the fellow on sight. He pegged him at once as a CEO or president of his own company, one who had started with inherited money but then made a huge success out of—probably doubling or quadrupling—the family fortune. Now he was in his early fifties, all tanned and exercised into good health, probably with one wife behind him and a newer model floating around somewhere. Plus a girlfriend, three secretaries and a legion of toadying employees. T.S. knew the type well. What was he doing at Lance Worthington's party? Surely he had better investments of both time and money to make. Especially if he moved in that world of old money that intimidated T.S. so much—the same world Lilah had grown up in.

It was the one thing, T.S. reflected sadly, that might conspire to keep them apart. All that money. Or a man like Albert. In a sudden flood of insecurity, he silently directed his hostility toward Albert.

If Lilah thought Albert's presence at the party was odd, she tactfully kept silent. But she could sense T.S.'s discomfort and looked so uneasy that T.S. relented. He decided that he would be gracious and attempt small talk after all. "Wonder where our host is?" he asked their new companion.

Albert shrugged, bored, and T.S. took it as a personal insult. "Probably in the back bedroom," Albert finally replied. "He seems to be spending a lot of time there."

As if on cue, Lance Worthington appeared in the back hallway, a familiar blonde on one arm. "There he is," T.S. nodded toward the darkened interior. "And he's got that woman with him. Red dress."

"Sally St. Claire," Lilah murmured. "Although I'm sure that's a nom deplume of sorts. It would be the perfect name for the madam of a bordello."

"You know Sally?" Albert inquired a little too casually and T.S. knew at once that he had a more than passing familiarity with Sally St. Claire's more intimate attributes. T.S. had interviewed people for a living for thirty plus years and picked up a few pointers on the inability of humans to keep silent when it would greatly behoove them to do so.

"We've been spotted," Lilah murmured sweetly. She turned away, but it was much too late. Lance Worthington made a beeline across the apartment, brushing rudely past other guests in his haste to reach what he thought was the wealthiest trio in the room.

"Mr. Hubbert. Ms. Cheswick... I'd given up hope!" The producer was maniacally animated, his eyes wide and his lips smacking nervously between sentences. He fidgeted beside them and tugged at his tiny chimpanzee ears. "Silly of me. I thought you'd backed out or something." Unwilling to let anyone answer, he continued with his rapid patter. "I see you've met Mr. Goodwin here. He's one of my most generous backers, aren't you Al? In for nearly twenty points. We're talking about a healthy six-figure investment, but don't worry." He patted Albert's hand and failed to notice the wincing reaction the gesture provoked. "You'll find it's a good bet, indeed."

The producer turned his attention to Lilah and T.S., darting glances between the two as if not sure which one had the most money and so deserved the most of his attention. "Don't be put off by the… uh, exuberance, shall we say, of the party," Worthington ordered with mock seriousness. "We all like to let our hair down now and then." He gave a laugh that sounded far more unpleasant than even he had intended, for he hurried on before anyone else could react. "It's all quite legitimate," he assured them, though no one had suggested otherwise. At least not out loud. "Just take a look at those men in the pit, as I call it. Some of the more respected names in city industry are here." He began to point out each man, citing his position and the amount he was investing in the play. T.S. was appalled at his vulgar breach of etiquette. He also wondered why these otherwise successful men, these "captains of industry" as Lance Worthington declared, would be sinking from $50,000 to $200,000 apiece in something as risky as a musical about Davy Crockett's life? It just didn't add up.

"Enough about that," the producer finally declared, winding up his four-minute speech on the lucrative nature of his show. Mercifully, little of it had been heard by either Lilah or T.S. At least the loud music was good for something. "Let me refresh your drinks," Worthington demanded suddenly. He grabbed the glasses out of their hands and hurried away before they could protest.

"Good grief." T.S. took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. "That man talks a mile a minute. Is he on some sort of medication?"

Albert stared at him strangely. "Medication?" he repeated, casting an amused glance at Lilah, who had the good grace to pretend not to notice.

It incensed T.S. nonetheless. He suddenly wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Lance Worthington was a sleazeball. These people were joy seekers. The women were tramps. And Albert was the worst of them all. He was a supercilious, conceited and pompous jerk. So what if he felt out of his element here? He should be proud he did not fit in. And Auntie Lil could just forget the murder investigation if it meant he had to hang out with this crowd. Lance Worthington was a nasty can of worms, but T.S. saw no connection to Emily's death here and he wasn't going to waste any more time than necessary subjecting himself to aural assault and being humiliated by some wealthy nitwit. As soon as he could swing it, they were leaving.

So indignant were his thoughts that he automatically grabbed the healthy drink offered by a returned Lance Worthington and gulped down a fourth of it.

"I'll leave you to enjoy yourselves," Worthington murmured. He backed away and headed for a plump mogul in a pin-striped suit who was having a little trouble maneuvering up from the deep leather couch. The fact that he was stone cold drunk did not add to his sprightliness.

"Could I speak to you alone?" Albert murmured to Lilah behind T.S.'s back.

T.S. took another gulp of Scotch and turned his head just in time to see Albert grip Lilah's elbow and nod toward the kitchen. T.S. simmered. Should he let this well-bred interloper steal Lilah from his grasp like that? Was he a man or a mouse or what? Would it be totally appalling to punch Albert in the nose? There was, after all, a first time for everything.

Inaction forced the issue. "Theodore," Lilah whispered into his ear. "I need to talk to Albert alone for a moment. Would you excuse me?" She squeezed his arm briefly but did not wait for a reply. Albert guided her smoothly toward the kitchen. T.S. watched as the pair withdrew into a corner by themselves and began to whisper.

Well, he wouldn't dignify such proceedings by standing there and spying. He moved away into the sunken living room and found a seat on the edge of one of the leather couches. A small blonde who was curled up on the floor next to the passed-out man eyed T.S. carefully, then slithered up closer. "Where's your date?" she asked in what she probably thought was a seductive manner but, instead, made T.S. feel as if a snake were crawling up one of his legs.

"If you're asking if I need a date, I can assure you the answer is no," T.S. answered firmly. She pouted and withdrew, glaring at him with wounded pride.

My, how time flies when you're having fun, he thought glumly. Already his drink was empty. The thought had scarcely formed in his mind when Lance Worthington popped into view. "New drink!" the producer called out gaily. "Allow me, please." T.S. could hardly protest. He didn't have the time. The glass was jerked from his hand and Worthington gone before he could blink. He waited for the return of his by now necessary anesthetic and surreptitiously stole a glance into the kitchen area. Lilah and Albert were still deep in conversation and whatever Albert was saying, T.S. didn't like it. The man's face had a deep scowl on it and he was gesturing with one hand. Who was he? How did Lilah know him? What was he doing here and who did he think he was to snatch Theodore Hubbert's date right out from under his nose?

Good breeding or not, T.S. had half a mind to go ahead and punch him in the nose after all. In fact, he was seriously contemplating such an action when Lance Worthington appeared with a new drink. "Bottoms up!" he said cheerfully, bestowing the fresh glass on T.S.

"Need company? We've plenty to choose from." He let his tiny hands flutter over the living room area. "Live and let live, I always say."

Live and let live unless your name is Albert and you're after Lilah, T.S. thought sourly as he gulped down his new drink. Lance Worthington left him to his misery. Halfway down to the bottom of the new tumbler, T.S. realized he had made a terrible mistake. First there had been wine at what was an enormous and highly spiced dinner, and now he'd topped it off with glasses of Scotch. His stomach lining began to tingle and went numb. While contemplating this, he grew dizzy and was almost certain that he was about to be sick. He was just wondering where the bathroom was when the tall redhead that he had noticed earlier suddenly reappeared. She perched on the edge of the couch near him and leaned forward suggestively, linking one arm through his and pulling him against the straining bodice of her skintight dress. He did not have the strength to protest.

"You look like someone I'd like to know better," she cooed in a throaty whisper. She wore so much perfume that T.S. was forced to hold his breath, an act that did not improve his dizziness.

"Don't be shy," the woman ordered breathlessly. Up close, T.S. noted with distaste, it was obvious that she wore what must have been a full inch of pancake makeup. Bad skin lurked beneath and her cheeks were scarlet slashes. Her mouth undulated in front of his eyes in evil, ruby-colored ribbons, like poisonous worms dancing closer and closer.

"I've been watching you," she whispered. Her voice deepened even more and her hot breath brushed against his ear as she insisted with husky conviction, "You've got the heebie-jeebies, haven't you, darling?"

"What?" T.S. asked in sudden alarm. But his tongue was not behaving, it lolled thickly in his mouth and the words came out in a jumble. What had this creature said? That he had the heebie-jeebies?

Something had gone wrong. His tongue would not move at all. The numb feeling in his stomach spread and he felt as if a beach ball were inside his gut, swelling slowly until it could explode.

"You need another drink, darling," the redhead suggested. Her red lips met and a large, hideous tongue flicked out from between them. She dabbed it delicately over her upper lip and T.S. watched in fascination as it moved in slow motion, dragging a small trail of red across the cosmetic landscape. And who had put on a new record?

This one was warped. The notes raced and slowed with distracted abandon, tunes tumbling and disappearing, fading in and out. Surely someone would notice it soon. What was worse, someone was spinning the room. What nonsense, he corrected himself. Rooms did not spin. Only, look at those walls. They were turning. Objects and people began to flow together, to blur as if in high speed. He was on a train that was rushing faster and faster and he was unable to tear his eyes from the small window opening in front of him.

"Put him in the back bedroom," T.S. heard a sly voice order. Hands groped under his armpits and he felt himself lifted. The redhead had hold of his body and was urging him forward. She was as strong as a man. T.S.'s near-dead weight did not faze her.

Without warning, Lance Worthington's face popped into view and began to fuzz and bounce in front of T.S.'s own. The producer was laughing and pounding him on his back. T.S. wanted to cough but his mouth would not move.

"I've got a special treat for you," an unctuous voice urged and T.S. realized that it belonged to Worthington. "Just leave it all up to me. Live and let live, I always say." Something had gone wrong with the producer's voice; it sped up to the chatter of a chipmunk then slowed suddenly like a record on the wrong speed.

It was all T.S. could do to open his eyes. When he did, there was the redhead inches away, staring back at him while her red-slashed cheeks danced in the field of his vision. Behind her, silver wallpaper pulsated to the beat of the pounding music. His stomach cramped and T.S. was sure he would vomit.

"Steady there, sir," a deep voice interrupted. "Where are you taking this gentleman? He looks like he needs to go home." Strong arms pulled him away from the talon-adorned hands of the redhead and, suddenly, breaking through the madness, the face of the elderly bartender swam into focus. Coal skin gleaming in silver light; small eyes piercing through his own; lips pressed together, worried and tight: the bartender's face stopped, fixated in perfect clarity before T.S. Behind him, the room spun in circles and the silver wallpaper sent starbursts tumbling across the hallway. How had he gotten so far? What was he doing in the hall?

"Sir? Sir? Shall I fetch the lady?" It was a golden voice, a trustworthy voice, far preferable to the rest. T.S. leaned, seeking the source of that comfort, and managed to drape both arms over the bartender's shoulders. There he clung, unwilling and unable to let go.

An argument ensued but the voices were too jumbled to decipher. It sounded instead as if small animals were quarreling at his feet. T.S. was vaguely aware that they were arguing about him, that the deep-voiced bartender wanted to take him away from the madness. T.S. clung harder, trying to tell the kind man that he was right, that he wanted more than anything to leave. Hands tugged at his jacket and he felt the sharp fingernails of the towering redhead scrape his back through the thin cotton shirt underneath. The bartender's weight shifted as he attempted to fend off the others. Without warning, T.S. lost the strength in his arms and began to slide to the floor.

Just as he was ready to fall asleep, new hands were there, helping him up. Two more pairs of hands: one strong, the other cool and fluttering.

"Theodore? Theodore? What's the matter, Theodore?" Lilah's voice cut through the crashing sounds exploding in his brain. Lilah was there. What was happening to him?

"He's taken sick," the kind voice said from a great, hollow distance. "I'll help you get him into a cab."

"No need," T.S. heard Lilah say. She, too, seemed far, far away. "I've got a car downstairs. Could you help me get him there?" Why did she sound so upset? Where was the problem? He should be helping her, T.S. thought vaguely, not slumped here like a dead man propped for one last good look against the wall.

He was aware that Albert was beside him as well, tugging him forward on one side while the bartender pulled him along on the other. It was hateful to be so helpless and in Albert's power, but there was nothing T.S. could do. His brain still functioned, albeit slowly, but his feet would not work, his arms were as limp as wet noodles and a small fire flared in his stomach. Somehow he was heading toward the door, though his legs dragged behind him like the support poles of a litter. His coat was thrown over his shoulders.

"Hurry! Hurry!" he heard Lilah say. He tried to walk faster and managed to move his legs. He pulled away from Albert before crashing into the door.

He did not remember the elevator ride downstairs, but surely he had taken one. Because the next thing he knew, he was leaning against the cushions in the backseat of Lilah's limo. Ah, safety. He was home free. And away from that whirling crowd, those darting red tongues and those hideous serpentine glances. And here was Lilah, dear, dear Lilah, whispering gently to him as she brushed the hair off of his brow.

"Shhhh," she was saying, still from a place far, far away. "Don't try to talk." A cool wetness covered his brow, it swept over his face like a balm. Ice. She was patting him with ice. What a wonderful thing a limousine was, he thought thickly. Full of ice and glasses and liquor and… liquor. Ugh. The very word sickened him. His back stiffened and his stomach began to spasm.

"Grady!" Lilah shouted in sudden alarm. "Pull over. I think you'd better pull over."

What was this? Who was bothering him now? Someone was trying to pull him from the safety of the limo. Strong arms grabbed at his shoulders and he was halfway outside. He fought, pushing away the arms, struggling to be free.

"Just do it," he heard Lilah's sharp voice command. "Throw up, Theodore. Forget that I'm here. Just throw up."

Throw up? How odd. He was dreaming again. Lilah, acting as a cheerleader for him to be sick? He did not have much time to think about the absurdity of it because the nausea finally hit, overwhelming him and stripping him of any strength he had left to resist. He gave up his struggle and stopped fighting the feeling. With a sense of relief, he felt his stomach lurch again and again, jumping beneath his shirt like some sort of small animal trapped inside. I'm sick, T.S. thought vaguely, I'm throwing up in the gutter. People walking by are watching, but what can I do? Another wave of nausea hit and he gave himself up to it.

When he was through, strong arms leaned him back into the car, against the firm leather cushions. The cool balm returned and he could feel the purr of the motor beneath him. With his stomach calm again, Lilah's murmur began to soothe his soul. "They did this to you," she was whispering angrily. "I just know it. Oh, Theodore. What an awful place. What an awful, awful party."

His lips moved. He wanted to speak. Thought formed without sound until finally a half squeak came out. "Albert?" he cried and was silent.

"Albert's not here," Lilah assured him. "Don't worry about Albert. Albert's just a friend. He helped you to the car."

"A friend," T.S. repeated, his head lolling back. The nausea was gone but now a terrible black cloud descended on his head. His temples were pounding and pulsating, and there were needles being jabbed into his eyes.

"My head," he groaned. Oh, my head."

He felt Lilah's hands on his body, patting him down. What was she doing? Had she turned into one of them?

"What?" he asked woodenly. "What are you doing?" His tongue hung to one side like a dead slab of meat. Would none of his body cooperate?

"Your handkerchief is bigger," she explained. "Here it is." She pulled it from his pocket and filled it with ice, fashioning a makeshift pack that she held up to his throbbing temples. He lay back, helpless and unable to respond. The coolness spread across his forehead, distracting him from the pain. He managed to raise an arm and grasped Lilah's hand.

"Lilah," he whispered. His eyes would not open, they were glued down. Still, he could see her sitting beside him. She was so lovely. So pure and graceful and honest and lovely. "Lilah…” His voice trailed off. He wanted to collect his thoughts, he felt it was very important that she know how he felt about her before it was too late. But there were so many things he wanted to say and he did not know where to begin. "You must think I'm awful," he whispered in agony. Now that his physical symptoms were abating some, his pride began to ache from the bruising it had suffered. He was disgraced.

"You're not awful," she whispered urgently into his ear. "You're a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man. Now, stop thinking and talking and just get better."

"You're home," she told him softly a few blocks later. She smoothed his forehead with a practiced hand.

His eyes still would not work properly, but he saw enough to be comforted. They had pulled up in front of his apartment building and there was that splendid fellow, his very own doorman, good old Mahmoud, hurrying to help him inside. The world still washed up and receded with alarming irregularity, but he could hear and feel small snatches of reality as strong arms grabbed him and he was hustled inside.

"I've never seen him like this," Mahmoud said with genuine concern. "What has happened to Mr. Hubbert?"

"Bad business of some sort," the driver, Grady, replied darkly. "Can you help me get him upstairs?"

T.S. saw Lilah in front of him, pressing an elevator button. How lovely. It was his elevator button and if he could only walk inside that little door, why he'd soon be looking at his walls. And there would be the deep and cool comfort of his bed. Sanctuary. Sanctuary was home.

It seemed like a dozen or more arms pulled and pushed him along. Hands fumbled in his pocket, male hands, and he struggled.

"Whoah! Steady as she goes," Grady boomed in his Irish brogue. T.S. fell still and his keys were extracted.

"Save me a trip downstairs," Mahmoud said with relief as he propped T.S. against the doorjamb.

"You'll definitely get a Christmas bonus for this," Lilah told him. They laughed and T.S., thinking they were laughing at him, began to struggle again. He pushed his door open and they tumbled inside.

"Easy! Easy!" Grady's strong arms closed around him and helped him to the couch. He sank back gratefully. "Mighty neat place," T.S. heard Grady say through the fog.

"I'll say," Mahmoud replied. "Mr. Hubbert here is a real stickler for order."

"I'll take it from here," Lilah interrupted the men firmly. "Grady, please come back for me in the morning. Nine o'clock will be fine."

The men retreated out the apartment door, both looking mildly scandalized. But T.S. and Lilah were too exhausted to notice. She loosened his shirt for him and he breathed in huge, even gulps of air. The room grew still around him. But just when he thought that he was safe at last, a tiny spark of burning sensation flamed into life at the pit of his stomach and spread rapidly through his abdomen.

"Oh, no." He struggled upright and stumbled to his feet. "I think I'm going to be sick again." He staggered down the hall, searching out his bathroom, his lovely, clean bathroom where he could be alone. Lilah gently guided him and watched anxiously as he lurched inside and dropped to his knees, hunched over the toilet bowl.

Gently, she closed the door and stood waiting across the narrow hallway where she could hear him if he cried out. He would be all right now, she thought vaguely, and he would certainly want to be alone.

Only T.S. wasn't alone. As he began to heave and an urgent need to void himself of poison overcame him, two tiny heads poked their way out of the small swinging door that was inset into the larger bathroom closet door. Brenda and Eddie watched cautiously as their master made strange retching sounds into the toilet bowl. They inched forward, tails switching cautiously, and sniffed delicately at his trouser legs. Unsure of their findings, they withdrew in silence to watch. Their creature was very sick indeed.


By the time Auntie Lil had been rescued from Homefront by a distracted Annie, it had been too late to track down Herbert for any fresh information. Not even she would tempt the dark city streets at two in the morning. She had, instead, returned home in a glum mood, troubled both by the thought that someone had died in the Hudson River that day and by the many unanswered phone calls she'd made to her nephew. There had to be something else she could do.

She went to bed in a bad mood and rose in a worse one. Half a pot of black coffee did little to improve Auntie Lil's outlook. She sat by the phone, increasingly frustrated, as she dialed without success. Herbert was not home yet—he was probably still overseeing surveillance at Emily's—and Theodore refused to answer his phone. She'd left dozens of unanswered messages and would be damned if she'd leave one more.

She took her anger out on the operator at New York Newsday, who kept insisting that Margo McGregor was not in. When Auntie Lil persisted, the canny woman recognized her voice from the day before and launched into an impromptu lecture on how low it was to pretend to be someone's mother.

"Miss McGregor's mother died last year, I'll have you know," the woman informed her importantly. "It was very awkward when I mentioned that you had called."

"I didn't say where I was calling from," Auntie Lil pointed out in desperation, but the operator had already cut the connection.

That did it. Another hour like this and the inactivity might actually drive her to start cleaning up the apartment. She dressed and made her way back to midtown, arriving near Times Square just after ten. If the police couldn't solve the mystery of Emily's building, she had decided, she'd just have to do it herself. After that, she'd return to the soup kitchen and snoop around some more.

If Herbert was on duty, he remained well hidden as she marched firmly up the front steps of Emily's building and peered boldly in the front door. She'd gotten in once before and she could do it again. Unfortunately, mid-morning was a bad time to be lurking around a building full of actors and night people. Everyone was probably still in bed and no one was likely to be coming or going. After five minutes of waiting—a near record for Auntie Lil—she took matters into her own hands. Rummaging through her enormous pocketbook, she found several credit cards jumbled among a tangle of handkerchiefs and loose jewelry at the bottom. She contemplated which one to use and decided to sacrifice her Macy's charge card to the cause.

She wasn't quite sure how to go about it. She checked the street for pedestrians and, other than a pair of figures far up the block, no one was about. She inserted the hard plastic into the doorjamb and began to jimmy it back and forth, hoping to spring the heavy lock. Unaware that such a tactic was useless against a deadbolt, Auntie Lil persisted for several minutes until her card cracked and her temper did the same. She kicked the door in frustration and contemplated her next round of action. She'd fall back on an old favorite. She'd lie.

She pressed four buzzers before she got an answer.

"Who is it?" a sleepy voice mumbled.

"Delivery," Auntie Lil announced in as young a voice as possible. "East Side Floral Arrangements. And hurry, this thing is huge."

She was buzzed in promptly but got no farther than the front hallway before she was spotted. The superintendent was backing out of her apartment with a large wheeled cart piled high with laundry. She maneuvered it toward the front doorway and saw Auntie Lil just as she tried to slip into the stairwell.

Her reaction was instant and curious. Her face drained white and she began babbling so quickly in Spanish that Auntie Lil could not catch a word. The woman made the sign of the cross repeatedly as she spoke, then she took a small crucifix hanging from a chain around her neck. Holding it out in front of her like a talisman, she advanced on Auntie Lil and made a shooing motion with her free hand.

"Out! Out!" she cried at Auntie Lil. "Get out! Get out of my house!"

Auntie Lil opened her mouth to argue but the superintendent was not in a mood to negotiate. Giving up on her crucifix, she dashed to the small hallway closet, grabbed a large push broom and advanced on Auntie Lil with it held in front of her like a sword. "Get out, get out," she warned again. She jabbed at Auntie Lil and narrowly missed poking her in the stomach. That narrow miss was enough.

"I'll be back," Auntie Lil warned, slipping out the front door. "I'll be back."

As she hurried down the front steps, Auntie Lil saw the superintendent slumped against the hallway wall, praying and mumbling in Spanish. Good heavens. You'd think she'd seen a ghost.

Much to her embarrassment, Herbert was sitting with Franklin on the steps of the building across the street from Emily's. They were making little attempt to hide their presence and were sipping fresh cups of coffee while staring glumly at the front steps across from them.

"Not very discreet," Auntie Lil pointed out, sitting gingerly on the cold concrete step beside them. Winter was most definitely coming, that was certain. The stairs still held the cool night air.

"No one alive around here this time of day. Besides, I'm big enough to take care of anyone who gives us trouble," Franklin pointed out. He had received new clothes from the Salvation Army. The overalls had been replaced by deep green pants like those favored by municipal workers. He also wore a bright red sweater over a white shirt and was nothing if not conspicuous.

"And I have discovered that no man is more invisible than a man of the streets," Herbert replied calmly. "Disguises are superfluous. New Yorkers supply their own blinders. Besides, did I not just see you walk right down the front steps?"

"Did you see what else happened?" Auntie Lil asked lightly.

"No. Why? You discovered something significant?"

Auntie Lil shrugged. She saw no reason to alert Herbert to the fact that she'd just been chased from the building with a broom. "Any news on your end?"

Herbert shook his head. "Nothing unusual. No Eagle. The regular comings and goings."

"What about the ladies?" Auntie Lil inquired.

"They don't hang out here at night," Franklin pointed out. "We don't let them. Too dangerous, you know."

"Any sign of Eva?"

Herbert shook his head. "Not around here."

"Anywhere else?" She looked at Franklin.

He shrugged. "Haven't seen her for a couple of days," he realized with some surprise. "Come to think of it, she wasn't eating yesterday, now was she?" His brow furrowed as he worked on the puzzle. "She's usually on the block about five or six in the evening. Stays until ten or so. But I didn't see her last night. Did you?" He stared at Herbert, who shook his head apologetically.

"I hope she's not trying anything foolish," Auntie Lil said somewhat pompously for someone who had taken as many chances as she had.

"If anyone was going to try something foolish, that would be Miss Eva," Franklin pointed out. He rose and sighed deeply, then leisurely stretched out to his full height. He looked like a bear emerging from months of hibernation. "Time for bed," he told them good-naturedly. "There's a good doorway down on the highway. Nice view of the river. Gets a good breeze. Some rock and roll doo-wop club. Empty this time of day. Plus a nice warm grate from the laundry next door keeps me warm if I need it. If you'll excuse me," he nodded and ambled off down the block.

"I suppose I should offer him my couch," Auntie Lil said guiltily.

"He won't take it," Herbert told her. "I have tried. He is a man of great independence with a fondness for the river."

"A fondness for the river?" Auntie Lil shivered. "Not me. Did you know that a woman died there yesterday? An old woman. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought it was me from the description."

Herbert looked up slowly. His face grew very still and his eyelids came down ever so slowly until his eyes were nearly obscured. "Description?" he asked softly.

Auntie Lil shrugged. "An old woman. Stout. Wearing too young clothes. That was all I heard."

"Lillian." Herbert's tone was soft and very sad. "Do you not think it a coincidence that one of us is missing? One of us who is stout and old? And prone to wearing clothes that are too young?"

Their eyes met. "How could I have missed it?" she admitted softly.

Herbert's head bowed. "Let us pray that it is not her."


It was nearly noon by the time T.S. awoke. The sun streaming in his bedroom window only served to confuse him more. He looked down at himself slowly. He was wearing pajamas. But he could not remember donning them the night before. In fact, he could not remember very much at all of the night before. There had been that party at Lance Worthington's … and a man. A man named Albert who knew Lilah.

Lilah. He sat up straight and winced as a spear of pain pierced both temples. The last thing he remembered was watching Lilah huddled in a kitchen corner with that rich jerk, Albert. What in the world had happened after that and how in the hell had he gotten home and into his own bed?

He'd never had a blackout before and, yet, he didn't remember drinking all that much. But it hurt his brain to ponder the situation for long. What he needed right now was aspirin.

His body felt like it belonged to someone else. His stomach was tender and, indeed, felt deeply bruised, though no surface scars were evident. His legs were heavy and, when he finally maneuvered them out of the bed, refused to hold his weight at first. He stood, teetering gently, found his balance, then made his way down the hall. Brenda and Eddie emerged from the spare bedroom to watch his progress with reproachful attention and berated him with indignant caterwauling. He had missed their early feeding by hours and hours. Headache and mysteries of the night before momentarily forgotten, T.S. wearily found and opened a tin of chicken-and-cheese bits to still their incessant meowing. It was like having children. Loud and greedy children who could not be ignored.

The kitchen gleamed so brightly that it hurt his eyes. He searched through the cabinets and found the jar of aspirin. A few minutes later he had even managed to pry open the childproof cap. He gulped three of them down then wandered through the living room in his pajamas, sipping at a small glass of warm water. His stomach did not feel as if it would tolerate anything else. Something was not quite right about his apartment. He knew it well and the air held a vaguely foreign scent. Something had disturbed his beloved and rigid routine.

He spotted the coat and froze. A thin black silk evening coat was slung over the entrance chair. Lilah's. But if that was Lilah's coat, where was she? Feeling like one of the three bears, he carefully searched his apartment, discovering fresh evidence of an intrusion in the extra bedroom. The spare bed had been neatly made, but not with his customary precision hospital corners. It was clear that Lilah had slept there last night.

T.S. looked down suddenly at his pajamas… but surely not? He blushed deeply and was glad that he was alone. Especially when he discovered his best suit piled in a small heap in one corner of his own bedroom. That confirmed it. He would never, not under any circumstances, simply toss his attire in a pile. Someone else had undressed him last night. But he must have been unconscious, or, at the very least, deeply asleep, to have missed an event as spectacular as Lilah undressing him.

He discovered the note taped to the bathroom mirror. "Dear Theodore," it read. "I've had an idea. I'm going to check on it and will stop by later. Don't worry about the pajamas. It was imperative that you change clothes. I promise I looked the other way."

Had it been anyone other than Lilah, T.S. would have been positively scandalized. As it was, it left a warm glow in his stomach, which was a sensation vastly preferable to the one it replaced.

He reread the note. An idea? What idea would be so important that she'd rush out early and forget her evening coat? And why was it imperative that he change clothes?

That puzzle, too, made his brain ache to contemplate. T.S. decided that what he really needed was an ice pack, more aspirin and a few more hours of sleep. On his way to the kitchen he noticed the answering machine. Its light blinked furiously, demanding to be noticed. When he rewound his messages, he discovered six from Auntie Lil, each one more incoherent than the last. She wanted all details, immediately, of the party and of his search at the Performing Arts Library the day before. But he simply did not have the energy to talk to anyone, much less his beloved but demanding aunt.

He erased the taped pleas, turned off the telephone, retrieved the largest cooking pot that he could find, and filled it with ice and water. He returned to the bedroom—followed by a satiated Brenda and Eddie—and drew the curtains tightly. The room grew dark and seemed instantly cooler. It was as peaceful as a church. He took a large towel and dipped it into the icy water, then draped it gratefully around his head.

He lay down stiffly in the center of his bed and arranged the pillow so that it hit just above his shoulders. His head lolled back gently, cradled in a cool balm. If he lay very, very still and pretended he was in the Bahamas, floating on a raft in a clear warm sea, the pounding in his temples actually faded to a dull throb.

With any luck, he'd survive whatever it was that he was going through. At least until Lilah returned to fill him in.