A Cast of Killers

CHAPTER SIXTEEN





Detective Santos kept his word. Auntie Lil and T.S. were quickly ushered in past the hospital waiting room crowd. No questions asked and no questions answered. Within half an hour, the hospital was behind them and an unmarked car was waiting at the curb. Auntie Lil climbed in front with the driver without a word, leaving the back seat to Santos and T.S. The men exchanged glances and both understood that she was still shaken up by her ordeal. Santos had spent much of the time in the hospital questioning them about their actions in the previous days. Reviewing the events had made it all too clear to Auntie Lil that she had no one but herself to blame for her near-miss with death.

"Billy tried to warn me," she said suddenly as they pulled away from the hospital and headed for the precinct. "Every time I went into his deli, he tried to warn me."

"Billy's a good guy," Santos agreed. "I told him to keep an eye out for you two. He called me twice tonight to say you were still snooping around. Unfortunately, I've just picked up the evening shift and was out on my dinner break."

It was Auntie Lil's turn to be tactfully silent. Anyone who would take their dinner break at the Westsider was not exactly nutritionally minded.

The driver gunned the motor and they were thrown back in their seats as he maneuvered skillfully past a line of taxis jockeying for lane supremacy. It shook Auntie Lil out of her momentary reverie. She shivered slightly and turned to Santos and T.S. "Leteisha must have been following me the whole time," she told the two men. "I had dinner with Little Pete right in the middle of that picture window. It was stupid of me. Very stupid." Auntie Lil's sigh lingered in the quiet of the car and Detective Santos changed the subject to one nearer his own heart.

"So you think the big man is this Worthington guy?" he asked T.S. for what must have been the third or fourth time. “And he’s a low rent Broadway producer?”

"Has to be him. It's either Worthington or someone he knows. He's the one who sent me to that apartment." T.S. shook his head, still unsure. He had already explained his attendance at Worthington's party and his subsequent memory loss to Santos at the hospital while Auntie Lil was being bandaged. Neither spoke of the event in her presence. No sense giving Auntie Lil ammunition with which to shoot down T.S.'s new sense of equality.

"Think the kid will confirm who the big man is?" Santos asked hopefully.

"I doubt it." T.S. shook his head. "Little Pete won't stand up and say so, at least not in court. He's mad enough at Rodney to turn on him, but he's still too afraid of the man."

"That's okay. We probably won't need him anyway," Santos decided. "I've got enough to bluff it out. Rodney will roll over before the night is up. All it's going to take is Worthington's name and a reference to two counts of murder one. His lawyer will tell him to make a deal. He'll turn in the big man, whoever he is, before the sun is up. They always do. That's what those guys never figure out. They act so surprised when their people turn on them. But when you lie down with dogs, forget about the fleas. It's getting bit you ought to worry about."

As T.S. was untangling the detective's metaphor, they reached the precinct. The driver pulled up directly in front of the main door, leaving the car to block the entire sidewalk. It was one of the few perks that cops in NYC enjoyed. A small crowd stopped to see who was being brought in. The onlookers seemed disappointed that neither Auntie Lil nor T.S. was handcuffed and they walked away, grumbling. New Yorkers were hard to keep entertained.


Auntie Lil and T.S. were allowed to wait in a small room off the main floor. While additional detectives could question the other pier witnesses, Santos wanted to take their official statements personally. They had agreed to wait until after Leteisha/Rodney was questioned, though they'd been warned that it would be a long time.

The other witnesses were waiting a few blocks away at the Delicious Deli until they were notified that their turn to make a statement had arrived. Given the busy precinct, it was a good solution. It was far more pleasant to sit in the deli sipping coffee than to sit around the precinct watching drunks and wide-eyed crackheads being dragged in by angry and overworked officers.

Unless, of course, you were Auntie Lil.

Even in her subdued state, she enjoyed the excellent view their small waiting room afforded. It was a good spot. They could see the front reception area, but were sheltered from the periodic chaos that inevitably afflicted Midtown North on a Friday night.

A few minutes later, a commotion in the reception area inspired Auntie Lil to limp to the door for a better look. A booming voice cut through the babble of apologetic police voices and roared, "Why didn't anyone call me in earlier?"

T.S. checked his watch. Detective Santos had managed a whole twenty minutes alone with Leteisha/Rodney before Lieutenant Abromowitz arrived. He hoped it had been enough time. A flash of movement at the door caught his eye. "What in the world are you doing?" T.S. stared at Auntie Lil incredulously. She had slipped behind the old-fashioned door and was cowering quietly behind the slab of massive oak.

"There is a time for discretion in everyone's life," she whispered.

Abromowitz's heavy footsteps approached the doorway and thundered past just as T.S. turned his back to examine an intriguing stain on the tabletop. Perhaps Auntie Lil was right. Having taken on a killer and a four-minute mile already that night, T.S. was in no mood to tangle with an angry lieutenant. He waited until the heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs and faded away in the distance. "You can come out now," he assured Auntie Lil, patting her chair with a smug smile. "The danger has passed."

She glared at him and sat down with aplomb. "I didn't see you rushing out to shake his hand."

"No," T.S. admitted. "But I am going to give Lilah and Herbert a call."

"Herbert." Auntie Lil gave a faint sniff and it was clear that she was miffed at Herbert for being absent during their adventure. "He's probably still out whooping it up with that Adelle woman, who's no doubt into playing her party girl role tonight."

"Aunt Lil, Herbert can't always be there to untangle your messes. My God, the man is only human and you'd detest being followed around twenty-four hours a day. Which is what it would take to keep you out of trouble."

Herbert Wong was home and so distraught at hearing that he had not been there to rescue Auntie Lil that it took a good three minutes for T.S. to convince him that she was safe and did not hold a grudge. Herbert was relieved to know that she was safe, but unfooled about the grudge part.

"I should not have gone to have that cocktail with Miss Adelle and her friends. Lillian will be angry at me," Herbert predicted. "Her fear and pain will make her angrier."

"I can't contradict you there," T.S. admitted. "But I'm sure that she'll get over it."

"You are there all night?" Herbert asked. "At the police station?"

"At least for the next three or four hours," T.S. predicted. "They're taking everyone's story and you know Auntie Lil—she won't leave until the end."

"But of course. There are still many pieces missing from the puzzle," Herbert said. "And you know that Lillian's curiosity is a powerful force."

T.S. had to agree. It was a nice way of saying she was perpetually consumed with nosiness. "We'll call you tomorrow with details."

"Oh, no. I am coming down. Otherwise, it will be a year before Lillian forgives me for abandoning her. Besides, sleep will not come. This was to be my shift for watching Miss Emily's building."

There was no changing his mind, especially when T.S. couldn't put his heart into it. Herbert was right. Auntie Lil probably would hold it against him for a year. Or at least torture him with it for a good eleven months.

He checked the time again as he dialed Lilah's number. It was only half-past eleven and yet it felt like at least four o'clock in the morning. In fact, it seemed as if an entire year had passed since the day that Emily died.

Despite the late hour, Lilah was not home. With her servant, Deirdre, away for the week, only the answering machine was available to pick up. T.S. listened to the mechanical invitation to leave his name and number with a sinking feeling of acute disappointment. There was so much he wanted to say but so little that he could actually articulate, at least to a machine. He simply told her where he was and promised to explain in the morning.

T.S. was so absorbed in his misery that he nearly ran down a petite woman blocking his path back into their room. "Sorry," he mumbled, slipping past her. Auntie Lil still sat at the table, staring into her coffee. Until the caffeine kicked in, she'd have little energy for anything else. T.S. rejoined her without a word, consumed by frustration and despair over Lilah. He felt himself being watched and, after a moment, looked up to find the small woman still there. She was eyeing them curiously.

If she could forego manners so blatantly, so could he. T.S. stared back. She looked relatively normal but, for all he knew, she'd been brought to the precinct for pushing people in front of subway cars. She was about forty or forty-five years old, and just slightly overweight with a broad, round face and bright dark eyes anchored in a fine sea of laugh lines. Her medium-length black hair was touched with gray in spots and cut shoulder length. It flipped up in a smooth wave at her shoulders.

She looked familiar but he couldn't quite place her. "Do I know you?" he asked loudly.

The woman stepped into the room and sat down. "I'm Margo McGregor," she told him in a confident voice. "I'm a columnist for Newsday. I got a tip that someone was murdering old ladies around here. Is she involved?"

Of course. When she nodded toward Auntie Lil, T.S. recognized the slight smile from her newspaper photo. But other than the grin, it was obvious that the photograph was at least ten years out of date. That depressed T.S. even more. He'd had a crush on an illusion, a silly old man's crush.

"If I was involved, I wouldn't tell you," Auntie Lil said calmly. "You have no manners. I've called you at least a dozen times in the past two days with vital information and not once have you tried to call me back."

The columnist looked to T.S. for help, but he was too exhausted to come up with more than a halfhearted, "Now, Aunt Lil."

"Don't you Aunt Lil me," she said adamantly. "This young lady allowed herself to be used. She published inaccurate information about a fine man. And she didn't have the manners to call me back. She'll just have to dig out her own juicy details."

"I don't publish inaccurate information," Margo McGregor contested hotly. "I check out all my sources."

"You were duped," Auntie Lil told her slowly, relishing each word.

By this time, Margo McGregor was wild to find out which column Auntie Lil felt was inaccurate. She beseeched an implacable Auntie Lil for details and was rebuffed again and again. But T.S. knew quite well that Auntie Lil would eventually give in. She just wanted to be begged for a while to assuage her pride. He settled back and listened as the two women debated. Sure enough, a few minutes later, his judgment was confirmed when Auntie Lil's inherent taste for publicity overcame her stubbornness and she began to reveal selected details of what they had discovered. Once Margo McGregor realized that the recent deaths of two old ladies might somehow be related to her story on Bob Fleming and Homefront, she eagerly took notes and began to ask nearly as many questions as Detective Santos had on the ride to the hospital and back.

In fact, once she got the picture sketched out as they knew it, Margo McGregor had plenty of theories of her own. These she shared eagerly with Auntie Lil, who was highly impressed. Here was a woman capable of leaps of imagination, seasoned with suspicion and cunning unmatched by anyone but Auntie Lil herself. Soon, a bargain was struck: in exchange for an article on Emily's lack of identity. Auntie Lil would give the columnist exclusive rights to all the background information they had gathered and fill her in on what the police determined that night.

Not wasting any time, Auntie Lil launched into a highly fictionalized account of her adventures. Just as she was detailing some of the more heroic details of her mighty struggle against knife-wielding captors, a loud and exaggerated cough interrupted them. Detective Santos stood in the doorway. His gaze was a steady and unfriendly beacon directed at Margo McGregor. "You are?" he asked abruptly.

She introduced herself. He was not impressed. "Don't mind if I get to be the one to interview my own witnesses first, do you?" he demanded bluntly.

Margo McGregor was not a fool. She shut her notebook abruptly and rose. "Not at all. You must be Detective Santos."

The detective was unmoved. "Miss McGregor." He pointed toward the reception area and she took the hint. Mumbling something about interviewing some of the officers who'd been on the pier, she quickly left the room.

"It would be nice, Miss Hubbert, if you talked to the police before the press," Santos told her in a voice that hovered between sarcasm and graciousness. "Now, can I trust you to sit here and use a little discretion? I just came down to check on you. I'm not through with this Rodney guy and it's going to be a while now that the Lieutenant is involved. Are you sure you wouldn't rather I call you in the morning?"

"We're not leaving until we find out who's behind this," Auntie Lil declared.

"Suit yourself. But, please…" His voice dipped and he stared steadily at her.

"All right," she agreed readily, afraid they'd end up on the sidewalk if she didn't.

Less than half an hour later Herbert Wong appeared, bearing a bouquet of flowers along with several cups of cappuccino and profuse apologies.

"Forgive me, Lillian," he begged with a humble bow. "It is inexcusable. I was to have protected you."

T.S. thought Herbert was laying it on a little thick, but Auntie Lil lapped it up like a thirsty dog. So fervent was Herbert's regret, that she had no choice but to be gracious.

"Nonsense, Herbert, how could you have known my life would be placed in such dire jeopardy?" She sniffed at the flowers and brightened at the smell of cappuccino.

Herbert Wong was one smart man, T.S. thought with admiration. Within minutes, he had Auntie Lil relaxed in her seat and the flowers in an empty jar filled with water. He was soon gently patting her hand and asking for details in a quiet and earnest voice. His presence alone served to calm her and T.S. was grateful for his help.

He was also, he admitted reluctantly, jealous. How wonderful to have someone like that who was so unafraid to show their affection for you. For the first time in his life, T.S. wondered what Auntie Lil was like when she was alone with her admirers like Herbert. Surely, she was not brash and demanding. Perhaps, all of her exuberant energy became focused solely on her companion. If so, it would be quite an experience and would easily explain the utter devotion of her many friends.


Shortly after Herbert's arrival, an erratic parade of witnesses began to pass by the small doorway on their way to give their statements to waiting detectives. The first to be called was Little Pete, who was marched past firmly and held in tow by a determined-looking Nellie. A uniformed patrolman brought up the rear, but his presence was entirely superfluous.

"And to think Little Pete feared the police," T.S. remarked.

"Indeed," Herbert agreed. "It seems that Miss Nellie is the force to be feared."

"I wonder how much she knows about this whole thing?" Auntie Lil wondered out loud.

"I say nothing," T.S. said. "She just comes from another culture. Minding her own business is practically a religion. She just didn't want to get involved."

Auntie Lil remained unconvinced. Her attention, however, was diverted by the arrival of Billy and Annie O'Day, accompanied by a pair of plainclothesmen.

"I didn't trust him," Auntie Lil admitted, nodding toward Billy. "And, come to think of it, I still don't know that I do."

"He's friends with Santos," T.S. complained.

"What better cover?" Herbert pointed out.

Half an hour later, Bob Fleming walked by. He looked exhausted, confused and just a little bit hopeful. It was his second trip to the precinct that night, but this one promised to clear him.

"He's clean," Auntie Lil declared firmly. "He's not the big man."

"Maybe." T.S. conceded, glad to return her favor. "Then again, maybe not. He could easily be in cahoots with Worthington. I'd like to hear what Timmy has to say."

"It may be days before the boy can speak." Herbert scrutinized the Homefront director. "It is my hope that he is innocent. But you know what I really wonder?"

They both stared at him, waiting.

"We keep seeing people come into the precinct. Pray tell, where are they exiting?"

They contemplated this minor mystery in silence until, a few minutes later, they saw a determined-looking Fran and a tired Father Stebbins trudge past.

Auntie Lil rose from her chair when she saw the priest, but T.S. pulled her firmly back into place. "Forget it. We'll find out in a little while. We've interfered enough. Let's let Santos gather the rest of it together."

"No policeman is accompanying them," Herbert observed. "I think that, perhaps, Father Stebbins is here at the behest of Miss Fran."

"How could they have found out what happened to me?" Auntie Lil asked.

"Hard as it may seem, their presence here may have nothing to do with you," T.S. pointed out. "Perhaps they are here on their own."

But half an hour later, it became apparent that he could be wrong. A commotion at the front desk alerted the trio that Adelle and her followers had heard what had happened to Auntie Lil and were at the precinct, seeking information. Like Billy said—street talk was fast and it was often very accurate.

"We demand to know what's going on," Adelle was insisting in a rich stage voice. "I have heard rumors of an attack on one of us. We may all be in danger here. Have they apprehended the culprit or do you intend to allow us to continue to be stalked like so many defenseless deer?"

A deer was not the animal analogy T.S. would have chosen for Adelle. "I'll handle this," he assured Auntie Lil. He walked to the door and shut it firmly, pulling the bolt lock shut before returning to his chair.

"Thank God," Auntie Lil said, putting her head on the desk.

"I do not think that they could see us," Herbert assured her, massaging the back of her neck gently.

An indignant cacophony of sound from the other side of the door signaled the eventual ejection of the actresses from the station house. Judging from the noise, a number of culprits waiting to be booked had decided to take sides and were heard encouraging the women to stand up for their rights. Unfortunately, enthusiastic support from the criminal underclass did nothing for their credibility and soon a relative silence descended on the precinct.

"They're gone," Herbert remarked. They all nodded and fell wearily silent again. The only sounds in the room were occasional gulps as they refueled their caffeine intake, and soft murmurings as Herbert reassured Auntie Lil.

T.S. felt miserably alone.


When the knock on the door came, T.S. expected either Santos or a minion calling for their presence in an interviewing room. He was unprepared to find Lilah waiting on the other side. His feelings zoomed from despair to elation in a single second. It was a wonder his heart survived the jolt.

"Lilah!" All other words left him in a stab of pure, unexpected pleasure.

"Theodore." She rushed toward him and he was enveloped in a cloud of faint gardenia perfume. "Your hand!" She touched the huge bandage gingerly and stared into his face. "What have they done to you, Theodore? You're not hiding in here, are you? Are you under arrest?"

"Good heavens, no." He quickly filled her in on the events of the evening.

"Oh, no," she said when he was done. She rushed over to Auntie Lil and fluttered over her until it became immediately plain that such treatment only annoyed the patient.

"I'm perfectly all right," Auntie Lil declared. "Go fuss over Theodore. He likes it."

"Since you're both okay, can they came in?" Lilah darted out the door without waiting for a further invitation. When she returned it was quite a procession that made its way into the room. A tall, coffee-colored man dressed in a neat sweater-and-slacks combination followed behind Lilah. The next member of her entourage was an enormously fat man in a brown-and-green plaid jacket and matching greasy brown pants. The rear was brought up by an immaculately groomed older man of miniature stature, whose regal bearing conveyed the illusion of far greater height. He walked extremely erectly, and his snow white hair was clipped in a neat but unpretentious style. He wore an expensive suit and silk necktie, despite the late hour, and a white handkerchief peeked from one pocket. The ostrich skin briefcase he gripped in his hands was worth more than T.S.'s entire outfit.

"I got your phone call," Lilah told T.S., sitting down next to Auntie Lil. "I came as soon as I could. I had no idea you'd been through such an ordeal."

The walking Whitman's Sampler of human beings behind her filed obediently to spots against the far wall and waited for Lilah to make the introductions. Even Herbert couldn't help but stare at the unusual trio.

"Let me introduce you," Lilah said sweetly and T.S. began to suspect that she was not above a little showboating herself. "This is George Scarborough," she explained, gesturing toward the tall black man. He bowed slightly. "You may not remember him, Theodore. He was your bartender last night."

T.S. colored slightly.

"Dewars and soda," George Scarborough announced solemnly. His deep, golden voice struck a buried chord in T.S.'s memory.

"You helped me to the car?" T.S. remembered and the bartender nodded.

"I'm afraid I'm just not very good at detecting," Lilah explained. "I figured that Worthington was too cheesy to be very original, so I spent the day calling every catering service in the latest issue of New York Magazine until I found the place that had supplied George for last night's party. They wouldn't tell me who he was, though. That's where Mr. Hermann comes in."

The fat man in the plaid jacket stepped forward, a hearty smile creasing his pudgy face. He produced a fistful of business cards as smoothly as a magician produces a bouquet of flowers from his fingertips. He pressed one apiece on T.S., Herbert and Auntie Lil. They examined their cards dutifully. It appeared that Mr. Hermann was a private investigator, or a "Marital Specialist" to be exact. One who promised "Discretion at Discount Prices."

"Yellow pages," Lilah whispered in T.S.'s ear. He nodded. "It would have taken me weeks to track down George," Lilah added graciously in a louder, more grateful tone of voice. "But Mr. Hermann was so ingenious. He found out his name within the hour."

The well-dressed third man coughed discreetly.

"And you are, sir?" Herbert inquired, catching his hint.

"Hamilton Prescott, Sr.," the gentleman intoned in a polished Boston accent. He, too, produced a small cache of business cards and bestowed them all around.

"Hamilton has been the family lawyer for ages," Lilah explained. "When you said you were at the police station, I didn't want to take any chances."

T.S. and Auntie Lil simultaneously thought of Lieutenant Abromowitz and nodded. It would be a good idea to have someone present when they gave their statements. They smiled gratefully at Lilah.

"Of course," T.S. said, gripping Hamilton Prescott's well-manicured hand. "We should have seen to such things ourselves." He was rewarded with an unmistakably firm handshake. Hamilton Prescott oozed confidence. Best of all, he did not look in the least inclined to yawn—which put him well ahead of the others in the room.

Auntie Lil was scrutinizing the new arrivals carefully. Finally, she turned back to Lilah. "It was lovely of you all to stop by," Auntie Lil began. "But why in the world is this man and this man here?" She pointed to the bartender and private investigator in turn. Both men shifted uneasily under her stare and Mr. Hermann managed to look downright guilty.

"Oh, dear. Of course. I told you I wasn't very good at this." Lilah hid her smile with her gloved hand. "George is here to make a statement."

"Statement?" T.S. stared at the bartender. "What on earth for?"

"They tried to poison you last night," Lilah declared. "That awful Worthington and his girlfriend tried to poison you."

"Knock you out, not poison you," George clarified in his deep voice. "I believe, sir, that they tried to slip you a mickey. That was why I interceded as I did. I did not quite understand what I had seen until you went down, sir."

'Went down?" Auntie Lil demanded, looking to T.S. for details.

T.S. was just as eager for details. Not, however, in front of a roomful of people. "Are you sure?" he asked the bartender.

George nodded. "I apologize for not realizing what was happening sooner. I should have known when I saw what kind of party it was. I was surprised to have the host request another Dewars and soda for you so soon after your first one." He cleared his throat in apology. "I knew it was for you, because you were the only one drinking Dewars. Yet you did not seem to be the type to guzzle his booze, as we bartenders say. If you'll pardon me for speaking so bluntly."

"Not at all." T.S. waved for him to continue. "What did he put in my drink?"

"I don't know for sure. He took your drink and turned his back to the bar and handed it to the woman with him. She, in turn, put the drink on a small shelf and took something from her pocketbook."

"And you stood by and did nothing?" Auntie Lil demanded.

George nodded. "I apologize. At the time, I thought it was a packet of sugar substitute. She had another glass with her and I convinced myself that she had gotten iced tea from the kitchen because she was tired of drinking. Wishful thinking on my part, of course. The woman in question did not tire of drinking all night. But it was not until later—when you could hardly walk and I could not figure out why—that I realized she may have poured something out of the packet into your drink."

"What was in the packet?" T.S. wondered.

"A mickey," Lilah pointed out triumphantly, relishing the slang. "Don't you see? George here says he isn't all that surprised. I suspect he has his finger on the pulse of rather seedy New York nightlife, don't you?"

"Unavoidable at times," George conceded.

"A mickey?" Auntie Lil demanded. "Why on earth would someone bother to dope poor Theodore? Surely, Worthington did not know that we suspected him of having anything to do with Emily's death?"

T.S. shook his head. "I'm sure he didn't know. I don't know why he would bother." The bartender's unusual voice had triggered buried memories. Disturbing shapes were taking form in his mind… there was a hallway, shadows slipping past, a blur of distorted faces and voices. Oh, dear. He stared balefully at Lilah.

Lilah beamed at him and said loudly enough for the entire room to hear, "You were very sweet, Theodore. A perfect gentleman. We can discuss this later if you like."

"Let's do." T.S. loosened his collar and became conscious that the fat private investigator was beaming at him. He looked up and fairly snarled in return.

"Perhaps we should give these people their privacy," Lilah's lawyer smoothly intervened. "Gentlemen?" He graciously included Mr. Hermann in that group. "I suggest we speak to the desk sergeant about arranging for Mr. Scarborough to make an official statement. And, Mr. Hermann, you've been of great help but I'm sure we can release you for a well-earned rest. Grady will be glad to take you home. He'll be back just in time to accommodate Mr. Scarborough with the same." He hustled the two men smoothly out the door with a shower of murmured thanks. T.S. relaxed a bit. They were in good hands, indeed. Mr. Hamilton Prescott was a pro.

"Miss Hubbert?" Santos' voice filled the room with unexpected authority. Though tired, the detective looked well pleased with himself. T.S. suspected at once that Leteisha/Rodney was indeed talking. "I'm ready to take your statement now."

"You look optimistic," Auntie Lil said eagerly as she hurried to the door. "What did you find out? Tell me everything."

"Now, now, Miss Hubbert, it's your turn to do the talking, remember?" He smiled thinly. "And I'll have the whole truth this time, if you don't mind."

"Of course she doesn't mind," a commanding voice interrupted. Mr. Prescott was back and firmly in place at Auntie Lil's side. He had the unerring instincts of a highly successful counselor. "She'll answer anything I decide is appropriate with the utmost candor, won't you, Miss Hubbert?" His eyes held a warning that not even Auntie Lil would dare to ignore.

Detective Santos stared down at the lawyer. "You are?" he asked evenly.

"Her lawyer." His confident voice implied years of successful experience thrusting and parrying the finer points of law. His manner reeked of decades of research and millions of pages of knowledge at his fingertips. He saved his effort for when it counted, his demeanor made plain, and he knew clients' rights as surely as he knew his own name.

Santos knew he knew, too. He sighed and gestured for them both to follow. T.S. stood in the doorway and watched as they disappeared upstairs.

"I certainly didn't mean to interfere," Lilah told him. "But it's always wise to have representation on hand."

"Interfere?" T.S. pulled a chair close to her and took her hands in his. The bandage on his injured hand made him feel like he was wearing a baseball glove. "You are never an interference, Lilah. Never, ever think that you interfere in my—"

"Ahem." Herbert bowed politely and backed to the door. "I feel the need for a bit of fresh air. Please excuse me." He was gone in a flash.

"Terminally discreet," Lilah observed. She gave a merry, tinkling laugh. "Now do you want to know what you said to me last night?"

It was a dare he was not yet ready to confront. "No, no. That's quite all right. Though if it was good, I'm sure I meant it." He colored slightly. "But why does the name 'Albert' keep popping up in my head?"

Lilah shook her head and smiled. "Albert is an old friend of my husband's, Theodore. They went to Yale together, were both in banking and led pretty much parallel lives until Robert managed to get himself stabbed to death. You met Albert last night. He helped you to the car. But don't worry. He's just a friend."

"What was he doing at Worthington's party?" T.S. asked. "It seems a cut below him, if you know what I mean."

"I can't figure it out," Lilah admitted. "He spent our entire time together warning me not to invest."

"Warning you not to invest?"

"Yes. That was why he wanted to speak to me alone," Lilah explained.

T.S. had a sudden flash of memory and saw Lilah standing by a large potted palm, while a tuxedoed man hovered around her. "He was practically nibbling on your ear," T.S. pointed out with a lack of gentlemanly spirit. He couldn't help it. The memory had flooded back with sudden clarity and it hurt.

"No, Theodore." She kissed him lightly on one cheek. "Albert does not interest me in the least. He was bending my ear, not nibbling it. It was a very curious thing. Here he was investing tens of thousands of dollars in Worthington's play and all he could tell me was that it stank and not to put any money in and not to make the same mistake he was making."

"Let me get this straight," T.S. said. "Albert has invested tons of moolah in the play but seems desperate for you not to do the same?"

"Yes, I'd say that. Desperate."

"So why is he investing?" T.S. asked.

Lilah shrugged. "I honestly can't say. He never let me ask any questions. I was confused even more because I know he was just as conservative an investor as my late husband was. Probably more so. Robert used to joke about it."

Something didn't fit. That much was clear. T.S. sipped at a cold cup of cappuccino, hoping the caffeine might clear his thoughts.

"I'll tell Santos about it and see what he thinks. Worthington is guilty of more than we think," he decided. Lilah nodded and patted his knee. "Why would he slip me a mickey? If he had tried to knock Auntie Lil out, it would have made sense. She is, after all, the nosiest human being this side of Jimmy Durante."

"Except Worthington doesn't even know that Auntie Lil exists," Lilah pointed out. She shivered delicately. "There's something about him, Theodore. I just don't like that man. He kept saying 'Live and let live' as if it meant something profound. What did it mean? What does he have to do with Emily?"

"And what possible profit could he get out of drugging me?" T.S. added. "I know that we're missing something." He stared at her for a moment. "What do you know about mickies anyway?" he teased. "You sounded like an expert a minute ago."

"You can knock someone out by putting plain old eye drops in their drink," she said confidently. "Or any manner of drugs. Mr. Hermann told me." She continued to rub his hands with her thumbs.

If he had his way, they would sit like this forever, linked by Lilah's steady touch. He wanted to study her, quietly, without interruption. How had she known what he was thinking about Albert? He would never understand women, not ever. Especially since he had learned about them from Auntie Lil, who was not your usual female at all. She lacked the subtlety and the capacity for delightfully erratic behavior that he found so charming in Lilah. "What are you doing to my hand?" T.S. asked, stalling for time.

"I think it's shiatsu or kung fu or acupuncture or something Japanese. My daughter taught it to me. It's good for headaches. Which I'm sure you have now or will have before morning." She smiled at him.

Headache? He felt wonderful.

But their time together was interrupted by the sounds of deep sobbing. T.S. looked up and the pathetic sight framed in the doorway brought unexpected tears to his eyes. A thin man with a curtain of scraggly blond hair on each side of his face was being led past in handcuffs by two officers. He held a cheap, long blonde wig in his tethered hands and the strapless gown he wore was ripped up one side so that his pale white flesh peeked through. He lurched forward, sobbing, wedged between the two patrolmen.

"Oh, God. I know him," Theodore said sadly. "That must be the other prostitute. The one who wouldn't hurt Auntie Lil and got away. I've met him before."

"You know him?" Lilah's eyes followed his and took in the pitiful sight. The man had stopped, slumped against a grimy wall. A long scratch marred his bony shoulders and his black hose were ripped from the thigh to the toes. Sobbing louder, he proclaimed that he would never hurt anyone.

T.S. knew, from Auntie Lil's description, that he was telling the truth. He hoped Auntie Lil would tell Santos the same.

"You know him?" Lilah asked again.

"Yes. I have his card at home."

"What's his name?" Lilah was appalled but intrigued at this rare glimpse into a world usually kept so carefully hidden from her.

"I forget his real name. But I call him Peter Pan. Poor guy. He just wanted to be a star."


By the time Santos returned with Auntie Lil, Lilah had fallen asleep with her head slumped on T.S.'s shoulder. He could have slept himself, but it would have been a waste of the wonderful feeling that flooded his heart.

Auntie Lil slipped quietly back into place and gave T.S. a quick glance. "'Thank God for that lawyer," was all she would say.

"Next," Santos announced, crooking a finger and beckoning T.S. to follow. "Don't worry. Your lawyer is waiting for you upstairs."

Even as T.S. followed Santos out the door, Herbert materialized and slipped back in his place at Auntie Lil's side.

An hour later, T.S. thanked Mr. Prescott and sent the lawyer on his way. He returned to the room to find all three of his companions fast asleep. Herbert was breathing quietly, sitting completely upright. But he was, without a doubt, deep in dreamland. Auntie Lil lay practically sprawled across his chest, her own lusty breathing just this side of an unladylike snore. Lilah had her head on the table and the silver glint of her hair against the dull brown of the cheap Formica shone as finely as precious metal amidst mud.

'"Thanks," Santos told T.S. quietly, patting his shoulder. "Why don't you folks call it a night? I'll tell you everything you want to know in the morning."

T.S. shook his head firmly. "We want to see it through to the end."

Santos nodded like he understood. "You won't have to wait much longer. Abromowitz made a phone call. Eight down and two more to go."

Twenty minutes later—with T.S. still the only occupant of the room left awake—he was rewarded for his vigilance with the satisfaction of seeing Lance Worthington brought into the precinct by four plainclothesmen. The producer wore his tan cashmere coat thrown over a pair of matching purple velour sweats and his hands were tightly linked by the metal bands of a pair of sturdy handcuffs.

"Try pulling on your stupid little ears now," T.S. thought with grim satisfaction. "Dope me, indeed."

Sally St. Claire trudged in behind Worthington, flanked by a pair of grim policewomen. Clearly, she, like Worthington, had been awakened from a sound sleep. Her hair was tangled and unkempt. Her pale face, devoid of makeup, gleamed with a plastic harshness beneath the precinct lights. Her inner hardness was emerging, T.S. thought to himself. One day, her facelift would give way and she'd crack, lines blossoming across her face until, within minutes, she'd shriveled up into an old hag.

He thought, unexpectedly, of Emily's tiny body, laid out on the autopsy table.

Discretion, he realized, was not always the better part of valor.

Having decided, T.S. walked firmly to the door and stuck his head out. His eyes met Worthington's and locked. He stared at the producer with contempt.

"You?" Worthington said incredulously, perplexed and dazed at his misfortune.

"Whatever happened to 'live and let live'?" T.S. asked him, turning away.