A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER THIRTEEN





All it took was a single sentence to the desk sergeant at Midtown North—"The old woman found in the river had jet black hair"—and Detective Santos was out in a flash. He did not look happy. In fact, he did not even look well. His tie was loosely knotted over a crumpled shirt, his eyes were red and bleary and his thick hair stood up in small wispy spikes.

"Not here," he said firmly, leading Auntie Lil toward a small set of stairs nearly hidden against one far wall. They ascended and maneuvered a narrow second-floor hallway that was littered with metal desks stacked at one end. At the very end of the hall, they reached a tiny room containing one small table with a scuffed plastic surface and three beat-up metal chairs. Piles of cleaning supplies dominated an entire wall.

"Charming," Auntie Lil joked but the detective's expression did not change. He was staring at her intently and his mouth was set in a small, unpleasant line.

"It's obvious you know who yesterday's floater was," he said grimly.

Inexplicably, Auntie Lil felt guilty and looked down at her shoes.

"I know who she is, too," the detective continued. "You see, we do some things right around here." He stared harder at Auntie Lil and she looked away. What was he leading up to, anyway?

"I called around the neighborhood shelters," he continued. "To see if anyone was missing. It was the same thing I did when your friend Emily was killed. Only this time I got lucky. I tracked her down to The Dwelling Place on Fortieth Street. The Franciscan sisters there were very worried. One of their residents had not returned the night before and the missing woman was usually very reliable."

"She lived in a shelter?"

"A shelter," he confirmed. "Not a bad one as shelters go, but a shelter just the same."

"Are you sure it was Eva La Louche?" Auntie Lil asked faintly. "I was under the impression the woman I'm seeking had her own apartment."

"It's the same woman," Detective Santos said angrily. "Jet black hair. Only her real name is Eva Stubbs. Which sounds a hell of a lot more believable than Eva La Louche." He would not stop staring at her, not even when he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and began to smoke in her face. His gaze was relentless.

"Why are you glaring at me?" she finally asked in a voice that sounded remarkably like a little girl's.

"Because Eva Stubbs died with a contusion the size of a softball on her head. And I want to know what she had to do with you. And how you knew it might be her." He ground out his cigarette on the table top, half finished, and promptly lit up a fresh one.

"She was attempting to help in the investigation of Emily's death," Auntie Lil admitted in a feeble voice.

"What? Speak up. You talk louder than an announcer at the ball park. I ought to know. You've been pestering me for a week. So don't pull that little old lady crap on me. Pull yourself together and tell me everything you know." In his anger, all traces of the usual bitter, disillusioned cop had disappeared. Santos was on his home turf and it had been violated and, by God, he was now taking charge.

He was right. She was behaving foolishly. She did have to pull herself together. There was no need for her to feel guilt over Eva's death… was there? After all, she had warned the women not to go off on their own. And Theodore had warned them against being on the streets too late at night. Eva had probably disregarded both of their cautions. It was not her fault the woman had died. She straightened her shoulders and began. "She was a friend of Emily's. They go back many years. As rivals, more than friends, I would say. I think she had been watching Emily's building and following various people."

"Following people?" The detective's cigarette dangled incredulously from one corner of his mouth, making him look like a Humphrey Bogart character from a forties movie.

"Well, you wouldn't pay any attention when I told you Emily lived in that building," she said defensively. "Someone had to look into the situation."

Santos opened his mouth, changed his mind and shut it abruptly, then stared out a tiny barred window and counted to twelve softly. Only his lips moved. No sound came out—which did nothing for Auntie Lil's nerves. "What else?" he finally asked calmly.

"I don't know anything else," she admitted. "Eva has been missing since yesterday morning, I think. She did not show up for lunch at St. Barnabas. Which was, I gather, unheard of for her."

Detective Santos sighed. "That puts the last time she was seen at about 11:00 a.m.," he thought out loud. "One of the other women at her shelter saw her heading uptown at about that time. Know anything else?"

When Auntie Lil shook her head, he leaned across the table toward her until they were nearly nose to nose. "I'm going to tell you something very important," he began in a deadly calm voice. "And I'm going to be a lot nicer about it than Lieutenant Abromowitz was. Who, by the way, I'm beginning to think may be right about you after all. Two women are now dead. And something tells me that the second one did not have to die. Something tells me that if you had not come on the scene and whipped Emily's friends into a frenzy of righteousness, that this old woman might have been around to enjoy a few more years of her meager but fairly comfortable life."

Now that made her mad. "No one forced Eva to do anything," Auntie Lil said defiantly. "And she would rather have died doing something important than to have wasted away bored to tears."

"How about you? How do you want to die?"

"Die?" she repeated faintly, her rebellion dissolving. "That wouldn't be a threat?"

"It's not a threat from me. Have you thought that maybe Eva wasn't the intended victim after all? That maybe it was you. There is a great resemblance between you and the latest corpse, wouldn't you say? With the exception of that pathetic dyed black hair, the two of you are remarkably alike in physical characteristics, aren't you?"

For once Auntie Lil was silent. It was an unpleasant but inescapable point.

They heard the sound of muttering and heavy footsteps nearing the room. The approaching male voice sounded artificially firm, infused with booming enthusiasm and phony competence. "We consider the case closed," he was repeating in an overly hearty baritone. "Thanks to our quick work, we feel confident that we've closed the book on yet another disgusting chapter of exploitation of the young." Each time he finished the statement, the unseen man began again, trying on new inflections and tuning up the words here and there.

Santos buried his head in his hands just as Lieutenant Abromowitz poked his head in the room, repeating, "… another disgusting case of—" He stopped abruptly when he spotted his detective. "Sorry, George, just getting ready for the press conference on that Fleming pervert. What the hell are you doing way back here?" He noticed Auntie Lil and his face flushed instantly and ominously red. "I've been looking for you," he warned her, stepping toward her and placing his hands on his hips like an angry father about to chew out his wild teenage daughter.

Detective Santos held up a hand. "Please, Lieutenant, I told you I'd take care of it. I've been talking to her. She understands the seriousness of it."

It took all of Auntie Lil's considerable will not to speak up.

"Did you tell her I'd arrest her if she continued to interfere?"

"I was just getting to that part," Santos assured him. "Let me handle it, okay?"

"Arrest me?" Auntie Lil demanded. "I'd like to see you try."

"So would I," Abromowitz agreed, leaning across the table on his knuckles. "Oh, boy, so would I."


She was a coward. There was nothing to do but admit it. It had been sweet of Detective Santos to defend her, but it had proved, as always, hopeless to try and change Abromowitz's mind. He was convinced that Auntie Lil was bad news, period. There was no way he would let her help. Following more dire warnings from him that she was to butt out immediately (and her false reassurances that she would) Auntie Lil had returned to St. Barnabas to see how she could help with that day's meal. Her desire was driven partly by a wish to atone for her mistakes and partly by her need to find out more about either Emily or Eva.

Yet, when she passed Adelle and her followers waiting patiently in line, she did not even murmur the faintest detail about poor Eva's fate.

She just couldn't do it. Not yet. Much of what the detectives said had stung its way into her heart. She needed time to think it through. And, besides, the actresses would find out about Eva soon enough and, once they did, would probably be filled with even more resolve to discover both murderers.

Except, of course, that one person was probably responsible for both deaths. Which didn't lessen the danger any. Oh, dear—it was getting rather unpleasant.

The St. Barnabas soup kitchen was equally unsettling. She arrived to find the kitchen at a standstill. Only two volunteers had shown up. Father Stebbins was nowhere to be seen, and long rows of raw chickens stretched out on the steel countertop looking cold and forlorn in the bare room.

"What is going on?" Auntie Lil asked in alarm. "We have to open the gate in less than three hours."

"Volunteers are dropping out like flies because the police keep calling them in for questioning," one of the two women still there reported. "Something else must have happened. And I don't know where Father Stebbins is. He rushed through here about fifteen minutes ago and didn't even say hello."

The trio stared at one another and, most typically, it was Auntie Lil who finally took charge. "You go and beg as much rice as you can from Mr. Chang on the corner," she told one of the volunteers. "If you need help carrying the containers, take Franklin with you. Do you know what he looks like? I think I saw him in line." The woman nodded and hurried off to do her bidding. Auntie Lil turned to the remaining woman. "Do we have any lemons?"

"There's a whole carton in the walk-in," the volunteer replied in a skeptical voice.

"Go get them and slice them. I'll find the tinfoil. We'll have lemon chicken over rice. That only takes an hour. We'll just have to bake portions in shifts. You help me cook. People will have to set their own tables today."

She could have run the U.S. Navy without a hitch.

The enormous task confronting them took all of their energy and, for the next hour, Auntie Lil had little time to contemplate Eva's death or Father Stebbins' inexcusable absence. She had just removed the first batch of chicken from the large ovens when Father Stebbins returned, face flushed and robes in disarray. He hurried down the back stairs from the interior of the church and rushed up to Auntie Lil without any warning, nearly causing her to drop a pan of sizzling food on his feet.

"Lillian," he told her urgently, grabbing her shoulders, "I have to apologize for what I said yesterday. I was wrong. There is wickedness but sometimes it comes in unexpected forms. A terrible injustice has been done and it's partly my fault. I must do what I can to amend the damage I've wrought. I've called Fran, but there's so much more to do."

Mouth hanging open, Auntie Lil stared in astonishment as he hurried away and disappeared through the front basement gate. Then she noticed the clock. They had less than two hours until the gates were scheduled to open and probably eighty more chickens waiting to be cooked. "I think it's only going to get worse," she predicted, returning to her task.

But, thankfully, this time she was wrong. Half an hour later, Fran appeared, calmly walking into the kitchen as if she had merely run out to the corner store for some forgotten spice instead of having been missing for days.

"Hello, Lillian," she told Auntie Lil politely, displaying more manners than she had exhibited in the past two months put together.

"How nice to see you," Auntie Lil stammered back. She wanted to add "Fran," but the name stuck in her throat. After all, she was still her nemesis. Wasn't she? Everything was being turned upside down.

"What do I need to do to help?" Fran asked pleasantly. Auntie Lil was too surprised to do anything but point toward the remaining chickens lined up in a row. Fran nodded and methodically began preparing them for roasting, without saying so much as one other word and without complaining a whit about the recipe chosen.

It was all too mystifying for Auntie Lil, or at least too mystifying to untangle while juggling a dozen other chores. But the riddle was only compounded further when Annie O'Day arrived at the soup kitchen half an hour before the scheduled mealtime.

"There's an enormous woman yelling for you outside the basement gate," one of the volunteers informed Auntie Lil in a calm voice. Nothing else was likely to happen that day to faze her any more than she already was. “She looks like she lifts weights and means it.”

"That's Annie O'Day." Auntie Lil hurried to let the nurse practitioner inside.

"Thank God you're here." Annie grabbed Auntie Lil's hands in her own and, in her urgent excitement, nearly crushed them between her strong fingers. "You've got to come to Homefront right away."

"Now?" Auntie Lil looked over her shoulder. "I can't. Those people outside are hungry."

"You have to. I'll stay here and help."

"Why?"

Annie pulled her into a corner of the dining area and lowered her voice. Fran stood behind a counter and watched them curiously.

"I found Timmy this morning," Annie explained in a rough whisper. "It took a lot of doing, but he admits that he's lying about Bob. But he won't tell me who put him up to it. He said he's afraid of the police but he'll sign a paper admitting that he was lying. He's sitting in Bob's office right now. But he won't talk to anyone but you."

"Me?" Auntie Lil asked in astonishment. "I've never met the young man in my life."

"But you know his friend, Little Pete, and both of the boys think that you are a close friend of Emily's or maybe even her sister."

"Emily? What does Emily have to do with Timmy's allegations?"

"I don't know yet. But I think there's a connection. He won't tell me anything except that he's afraid. He doesn't trust anyone. I think he knows who killed Emily, but he's not sure who else knows. And who may be involved. He knows you're not involved because of some things you said to Little Pete. That's why he wants to talk to you."

"He's at Homefront?" Auntie Lil repeated.

"Yes. And he's alone. We couldn't risk leaving Bob there with him, not after what he told the police and that reporter about Bob. So Bob's at some diner around the corner and Timmy's waiting at Homefront alone. That means he could change his mind at any minute and there's no one there to stop him. Please, you've got to help us."

Auntie Lil was confused, her brain whirling with possible theories, but it did not cause her to hesitate. She had been trying to talk to the young boy ever since Emily died. If he knew the killer, he could very well be in danger. She had to reach him before someone else did.

Grabbing her pocketbook, she rushed out the door at top speed, plowing into a returning Father Stebbins in her haste. His face was cleared of worry and he looked more at peace—at least until Auntie Lil crashed into him and sent him tripping over the trash cans in the foyer. The priest stared after her, shaking his head as he watched Auntie Lil scurry away down the sidewalk.

Adelle and her followers also stared after Auntie Lil's retreating figure and whispers passed among them. They looked to Adelle for guidance. Should they follow? She shook her head slightly and they fell back into the line to wait. One thing they all had plenty of was free time.


T.S. woke again just before three o'clock. The terrible pounding in his head had subsided to a faint buzz, but he still could not recall any details of the night before. The wet towel had soaked through his sheets, but he was too tired to care. His tongue felt like it had been coated with syrup and dipped in fuzz. What in the world had he gone through and where was Lilah? God, what if he had done something to offend her? He reassured himself that the note she'd left had been friendly.

He did not have long to worry. The buzzer rang just as he had managed to pull together a respectable outfit. He was missing his shoes and socks, but bare feet seemed superfluous in light of last night. He padded happily to the buzzer and pushed the okay button without bothering to speak to Mahmoud first. He was not in the mood for any of his doorman's sly comments. At least not until he knew what he was being kidded about. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time to put on a pot of coffee before Lilah found her way to his door.

A brisk, confident knock signaled her arrival. It was one of the things he liked about her. She was a no-nonsense woman. There would be no tentative tap-tapping for Lilah Cheswick.

T.S. flung open the door grandly and gave a courtly bow, a gesture that he immediately regretted. Blood rushed to his head and he grew dizzy. It was a chore to straighten up smoothly, but he did manage a small joke. "Enter my kingdom," he said grandly and beamed a bright smile on his visitor—a smile that froze into a grimace of paralyzed embarrassment.

Lance Worthington and Sally St. Claire stood before him, staring at his bare feet.

"Now this is what I call a real Eastside welcome," Worthington admitted, draping his cashmere coat over T.S.'s outstretched arm. "You must have really enjoyed yourself at the party." He walked to the center of the living room and immediately began to expertly calculate the worth of its furnishings.

"Sorry about your getting sick, sweetie," Sally told him, wiggling in after Worthington with the ease of one experienced at slipping past vigilant doormen. She was wearing a heavy fur wrap, which seemed a bit excessive for the middle of the day in late September in New York City.

"Sick?" T.S. inquired faintly. What had she said about him being sick? He had a vague suspicion that things were turning against him, that his optimistic hopes about the night before were about to evaporate. The trick would be to play it cool, to act as if he knew what he had done.

Sally giggled and covered her mouth with a hand that featured hot pink fingernails as deadly looking as switchblades. T.S. could not take his eyes off them. Surely they were fake. But if they were fake, why in the world would she choose to glue them to her fingers?

"Let's just say that you looked a little green to me when you left," she teased T.S., sitting primly on the edge of his sofa. She lit up a cigarette and coyly blew smoke at him. T.S.'s determined smile wavered as the smoke met his stomach, especially when he heard the distinct sounds of casual rummaging behind him.

"This real ivory?" Worthington asked. He was holding up the king from T.S.'s beloved hand-carved chess set and was scratching the bottom with the sharp corner of his heavy gold ring.

"Yes. Do you mind?" T.S. reclaimed his carving and set it gingerly back in place.

"Must be worth a fortune," the producer remarked in admiration. "Nice place you got here. Big for just one guy."

"We tried to call first," Sally St. Claire explained. "No one answered." She crossed a leg and expertly dangled a shoe from one toe as she puffed away on her ultra-long cigarette. The shoe had at least a four-inch heel that tapered down to a wicked point. Everywhere you looked, the woman ended in dangerous, jabbing spikes.

Their arrival would teach him to turn off the phone.

"How did you know where I lived?" T.S. asked suspiciously.

Worthington stared at him as if he were daft. "You're in the phone book," he explained.

T.S. tried to look casual. Damn. He should have paid that extra fourteen dollars a month for an unlisted number. He recovered his composure as much as he could under the circumstances. "To what do I owe this honor?" he inquired politely. He sat on the edge of a chair and tried hard to pretend that he was not barefoot or that he had any reason to regret his actions of the night before. If only he knew what he had done…

"Did you have a good time at my party last night?" Worthington asked suddenly. He had lightly seized one of his tiny, chimpanzeelike ears and was squeezing it methodically as he spoke. He stared at the top tier of T.S.'s curio shelf and a miniature sailor carved out of whalebone caught his attention. He reached for it and hefted it casually in his free hand, still squeezing his tiny ear. T.S. kept a careful eye on the carved treasure; it would fit neatly into the producer's coat pocket. Then he remembered: he'd just been asked a question. Damn those chimp ears. They were positively mesmerizing.

"Well, yes. Of course," T.S. stalled before shifting into full-blown fabrication. "I had a simply marvelous time at your party, in fact." He doubted this was strictly true, but given that his clothes were in a heap in one corner of his bedroom, it was probably a safe bet to assume that he had whooped it up in some manner or other.

"You left so suddenly," Worthington remarked. He was staring out at T.S. from under furry black eyebrows. His eyebrows, T.S. noticed, met in the middle of his forehead like a caterpillar whenever the producer concentrated heavily. "I thought perhaps we had offended you somehow," Worthington added carefully.

"Oh, no. Not at all." T.S. attempted a smile. "When you've got to go, you've got to go," he joked feebly. Where the hell was Lilah? She'd be able to tell him the truth.

The producer's brow smoothed and he relaxed. "Quite so. I always say 'live and let live' myself."

The phrase snagged at his memory with a curious foreboding, but T.S. could not remember where or when he had heard it recently.

"Given any thought to the show?" Worthington asked. "Remember, there are only a couple of investing spots left."

"Well, I haven't had much time to discuss it with Lilah. I mean, Mrs. Cheswick."

"Oh, yes. Ms. Cheswick. Or Lilah, as I believe she asked me to call her." Worthington wandered over to the large sliding glass doors that led to the balcony and stood staring intently out over York Avenue. The day had turned cloudy and distinctly gray. It made T.S. sad to think that he had slept the sun away. He was seized with a sudden longing to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over his head and wait for Lilah to arrive.

"She's a very wealthy woman, as I understand it," Worthington added casually. He seemed quite fascinated with the flow of traffic thirty stories below them.

"I'll say," Sally piped up. She stubbed out her cigarette viciously in T.S.'s immaculate teak ashtray and he suppressed a wince. It was not an ashtray intended for actual use. Those were kept locked away in a drawer lined with cedar chips. "Did you see that rock she had on her right hand?" she asked, impressed. "And I bet those earrings were real diamonds, too."

"Sally." Worthington said her name so gently that T.S. nearly missed it, but the effect was not lost on the girl. Her mouth tightened and her shoulders rose defiantly. She shot a quick glance at her boyfriend, then leaned back petulantly against the couch. As she was recrossing her legs and attempting to avoid impaling the footstool with a spike heel, a small furred paw whipped out from beneath the couch and snagged one of her metallic stockings. Her screech brought T.S. to his feet, but Worthington did not even flinch. "There's an animal under the couch!" she squeaked.

"Brenda! Eddie!" T.S. had no choice but to get down on his hands and knees and drag the offender out by the scruff. It was Brenda and she didn't look happy. Her yellow eyes were narrowed to tiny slits and her tail switched ominously back and forth as she regarded Sally St. Claire. "So sorry," T.S. apologized. "I'll just be a minute."

He marched his pet to the back bedroom. Eddie was fast asleep on the bed and T.S. plopped Brenda beside him. "Good work," he whispered to her as he searched beneath the bed for his bedroom slippers. He was stalling for time, hoping to fend off the faint pounding that had returned to his temples.

"Nice bedroom. Big." T.S. whirled around to find that Worthington had followed him down the hall.

"Please. Feel free to look around," T.S. told him sarcastically. But the note of indignation obviously went right by the producer, for he proceeded to do just that, picking up objects on T.S.'s dresser and idly examining the undersides to see who had made them.

"Live alone?" he inquired, his eyes sliding to the open closet door.

"Yes." T.S. sat on the edge of the bed and patted Brenda absently. At the moment, Brenda was his only ally and he'd take any friend he could get. Her tail still switched ominously and her eyes were narrowed. She did not like Worthington any more than his girlfriend.

"Ever married?" Worthington asked. He seemed bored.

"No. How about you?" It was a sore point with T.S.. He had never learned to tolerate the undertones that crept into people's voices when they inevitably asked the infernal question.

"Me? Once was enough. Got taken to the cleaners. I learned my lesson."

His lessons had done nothing for his taste in women, T.S. thought grimly. The producer was giving him the willies. He was too smooth, too calm, too bored. Like a rattlesnake pretending to be asleep. Get to the point, man, T.S. wanted to shout, so I can go back to bed. He wondered vaguely if this had been the plan, to separate him from Sally. Was she robbing his silverware drawer even as he sat there?

"About Lilah," Worthington began carefully, immediately grabbing T.S.'s attention. "She's a very nice woman. Cultured. Refined. But she seems to have a bit of a problem loosening up." He replaced a silver clothes brush on the dresser top and switched to fiddling with the blinds. "I see that a lot in older women. I like watching people. I'm a connoisseur, you might say, of human behavior." He turned suddenly and stared at T.S. "I saw that nothing caught your fancy at last night's party." He watched T.S. intently, searching for a reaction.

"Not my style," T.S. hedged, confident that whether he remembered the party or not, it was an entirely appropriate remark.

"That's what I thought. But I want you to be happy. I really do." Worthington's smile was reptilian: the lips slid back silently and T.S. half expected a small, forked tongue to dart out. "I like my investors to be happy," the producer added.

"If I invest," T.S. pointed out. It was clear that playing hard to get was the way to hook Lance Worthington.

"I feel confident that you'll come on board," the producer replied. "It's just too good an opportunity to pass up." T.S. shrugged and Worthington continued. "Tell you what, I've got a treat in mind for you. Something that I think you'll find very interesting. It was a bit hard to set up, but for you, I made the extra effort." He smiled again and handed T.S. a small envelope that was in his pocket. "Be at this address tonight at nine. If you've got other plans, cancel them. Because I think you'll be very, very pleasantly surprised. Then call me tomorrow morning and we'll talk."

T.S. took the envelope automatically and shook the outstretched hand offered to him by Worthington. He would play along for now, then call Auntie Lil and see what she thought he should do next. He was not in the mood to waste any more time with this sleazy pair. He had a feeling that if he didn't cut off contact with Lance Worthington soon, he'd end up on a suckers list for the rest of his life and spend his retirement years fending off endless schemers searching for a gullible investor.

"Don't worry about seeing us out," Worthington told him smoothly. "I've got another appointment and I'm a few minutes late."

But T.S. was not about to let them get out the door without a good look at what they held in their hands. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and followed Worthington back into the living room, retrieving his cashmere coat for him. The silence was a curious one, as if words were being understood without being said. Worthington was smiling as if he had discovered a great secret, and Sally was a little too casually examining the small run that Brenda had left in her stocking.

"Sorry about that," T.S. managed, his innate good manners taking over. But he'd be damned if he'd offer to replace the tawdry things. Sally shrugged her shoulders prettily, he was to pay the matter no mind. T.S. understood then that some sort of a signal had been given and received; Worthington had trained her well.

"Like I say, I'm a connoisseur of human behavior. 'Live and let live,' I always say," Worthington repeated as he hurried out the door.

What was that supposed to mean? T.S. stood in the doorway as the pair made their way to the elevator. What in the world were they up to and what did it have to do with him?

He had plenty of time to think it through before nine that night, but first things first. T.S. returned to the kitchen and checked his silverware; it was all there as far as he could tell. He took a quick inventory of his most precious possessions, not doubting for an instant that it was a normal reaction to having those two in one's home.

Nothing was missing, yet he had a curious sensation that something had been taken. They had seemed so satisfied.

He turned the phone back on and dialed Auntie Lil's number. No answer. She was probably out minding the business of New York's other seven million inhabitants. All at one time. There was nothing to do but wait until Lilah returned from her errand. She, at least, could fill him in on the details of last night.

Restless, he fetched more aspirin and a cup of coffee, then dragged a chair in front of the sliding glass doors where he did his best thinking. The rest of the world was so tiny from this vantage point, and it made him seem more powerful. He sipped at the scalding liquid, then—remembering what Worthington had slipped him in the bedroom—he carefully opened the envelope stored in his pocket.

It held two keys taped to a small piece of paper. Emily's address was neatly printed beneath them.


It was not until she was a block away from Homefront that a sudden thought struck Auntie Lil. It emerged with frightening clarity: she could be walking into a trap. What if this was what had happened to Eva?

Auntie Lil hesitated, unsure of who she could turn to for help. Certainly not Detective Santos. He had threatened her with everything short of the electric chair if she continued to interfere. Herbert was probably back on the street by now. She'd just have to try Theodore again. She fumbled for a quarter in the depths of her enormous pocketbook and dialed her nephew. The answering machine picked up again. Where was he and what in the world was he up to? Her message reflected her annoyance.

She couldn't afford to speculate. She'd miss meeting Timmy. She hung up and pressed on toward Homefront. A block away, she slowed and began checking the windows of the nearby diners and delis. When she caught sight of Bob Fleming sitting all alone in one of them, staring into his coffee cup, she relaxed. If he was in there, that meant he wasn't waiting behind a door to knock her over the head and toss her into the Hudson to follow poor Eva down the river.

Of course, Annie O'Day was nobody's weakling. And who was to say that she had stayed behind at St. Barnabas? She could just as easily be waiting behind a door at Homefront. As could anyone else who was in on the scheme. And suppose Bob was nothing more than a ruse to relax her and lure her into the trap?

Suppose, suppose and suppose. She was sick of supposing. Auntie Lil shook her head resolutely and headed toward Homefront. At some point you just had to stop supposing and get on with life.

Homefront was empty: there was no one waiting behind the unlocked front door to hit her over the head, or anywhere else for that matter. Auntie Lil even checked behind Bob Fleming's desk, but the frustrating truth was all too clear—Timmy had fled. For whatever reason, he had changed his mind about retracting and taken to the streets again, leaving the director of Homefront to grapple with the charges against him as before.

"He's gone, isn't he?" The deep voice startled her and she jumped, knocking the receiver of a telephone off the wall. Bob Fleming was too distraught to care. He just brushed past her and sat down at the desk, head in hands. "I knew he wouldn't stick around. He was too scared. I'm surprised he even came here in the first place." The big man sighed. "I'm not surprised Annie could talk him into telling the truth, but I'm even less surprised that they got to him again."

"They?" Auntie Lil stared at Fleming. His despair was genuine and so, she thought, was his innocence. "Who's 'they'?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. It could be anyone. I step on a lot of toes if I do my job right. When I take kids off the street, I'm taking money out of someone's pocket. It could be a lot of people. But if I knew..." His voice trailed off and he stared out the window at the empty sidewalk. "He won't be back."

His hand flashed down with one swift, sudden slap and a small container of paper clips shattered into plastic shards. Bob Fleming took no notice.

Auntie Lil did. Whether Bob Fleming was innocent or not, she became acutely aware that she was alone with him in a small room with an exit that was easily blocked and a storefront that was too far west to attract much traffic this time of day. She edged toward the door, clucking sympathetically. Two more steps and she was only an arm's length away from the opening.

"Where are you going?" Fleming asked her suddenly. She took another step toward the door and he watched her with an absent, perplexed scrutiny as he played with the paper clips scattered across his desk.

"I've got to get back to St. Barnabas," she said as calmly as she could, confused by the sudden fright washing over her. "They are terribly shorthanded and need help serving."

Bob Fleming stared out the window. "Annie's there."

"Yes, she is. But I'm sure she needs help." Auntie Lil backed up carefully, feeling the doorjamb behind her. One more step and she'd be home free.

"Perhaps I should go with you. I might as well help out." Bob Fleming stood abruptly but she was already out the door, pretending not to have heard. Without looking back, she waved a cheerful goodbye over one shoulder and walked rapidly east. His brooding preoccupation disturbed her. He looked as if, beneath the surface, emotions were simmering at dangerous levels; when he finally cracked the explosion would be considerable.

She headed toward Emily's street, thinking of her next step. She had told Bob Fleming the truth; her final destination was St. Barnabas. But first she needed to talk to Herbert Wong.

When Auntie Lil walked past the Jamaican restaurant, Nellie was back on her table perch, surveying the streets. Their eyes locked briefly but Nellie's face showed no signs of recognition. Perhaps she had truly forgotten who Auntie Lil was. Or perhaps she was just a very good actress.

Herbert was once again ensconced in the parking lot across from Emily's house. This time no attendant was in sight and his only companion was a large, mangy-looking dog that slept quietly at his feet.

Herbert rose and bowed respectfully. "The attendant and I agreed that so long as I was here, I might as well help him out. Therefore, he is in a bar nearby enjoying his newfound freedom and I, being a scrupulously honest man, collect the tolls for him. It gives my pose much legitimacy."

"I thought disguises were superfluous and New Yorkers supplied their own blinders," she pointed out somewhat archly.

"Forgive me." Herbert bowed again. "I was in a distraught state when you found me. Tired and depressed from a night of fruitless work. Besides, if I help out the parking lot attendant, he will tell me what goes on in Miss Emily's building when I am not here."

"Where's Franklin?"

"He is seeking the man who first spotted The Eagle. He was seen near Madison Square Garden early this afternoon, so Franklin is down there now."

"At last." Auntie Lil stared at the facade of Emily's apartment building. "Anything unusual happen today?"

"No. Except that The Eagle has still not yet left the building and that the police claim he is not inside, everything here appears to be normal."

Auntie Lil sighed and her face sagged. It was time to break the bad news to him.

"You have found out the whereabouts of Miss Eva," Herbert Wong said sadly as he searched her face. Herbert often communicated on a deeper, unsaid level.

"Yes. It was her."

Herbert's face fell in dignified sadness. "I do not believe that it could be thought of as your fault," he said quietly. "I hope you are not blaming yourself."

"Well, of course I am." Auntie Lil stared dejectedly at Emily's building. "If not for me, they wouldn't have been parading around the streets. In fact, it might be because of me specifically that she was killed."

"You must explain," he said gently, guiding her to his chair.

"The police, or at least Detective Santos, think it likely that the killer was after me. We are very alike in physical characteristics, except for our hair."

"Perhaps." Herbert allowed a tiny shrug, as if humoring the police. "However, perhaps not. She may have brought it upon herself through her own actions."

"Maybe." Auntie Lil felt silent.

"And you cannot bring yourself to inform the other ladies at St. Barnabas?"

"Correct. You may call me a coward, if you wish."

"You are a brave and honest woman, Lillian," he replied. "But this is not a task that you should handle. I shall tell the ladies the bad news myself. We are due to assemble in a few hours. Instead of the usual warning, I shall tell them of Eva's death." He paused briefly. "I will also tell them that they must not pretend anymore. That they must stay at home where it is safe and leave the rest of the investigation up to the police." He stared steadily at Auntie Lil and she did not respond. It was one of the few times he had ever tried to impose his will on her and she sensed that arguing with him would not be a wise course to choose. Besides, he was right.

It still hurt to admit it. "You're right," she finally said, rising with a sigh, telling him of the dire warnings she had received from Detective Santos and Lieutenant Abromowitz. "It is too dangerous. We must give up the game."

"Regrettably," Herbert added.

"And so it must be done." She managed a small wave and continued her trek to the church, passing a familiar old man in another lawn chair at the far end of the block. His nose was as bulbous as a cauliflower; his clothes were as drab and tan as the building behind him. He recognized Auntie Lil, but she was too preoccupied to notice that her progress up Eighth Avenue was being carefully observed.

It was back to the soup kitchen, she thought glumly, back to being nothing more than a bored old lady whose mind was sharper than her body and who harbored illusions that she could, with all her frailties, be the one capable of bringing justice to the mean streets of Hell's Kitchen.

Stop whining, she commanded herself suddenly. There was still an ace card she could play. She stopped at three pay phones until she found one that worked, then dialed Margo McGregor's number. The columnist still was not in and the busy reporter who answered took her latest message with bored efficiency.

Auntie Lil hung up glumly. She had to get through to Margo McGregor for help. Because her only hope now was publicity. Maybe then, public pressure would force Lieutenant Abromowitz to put more men on the job.