A Novel Way to Die

THIRTEEN





HOW LONG SHE HAD BEEN SITTING ON THE STAIRWAY contemplating the possibility of Robert as a cold-blooded killer, Darla wasn’t certain. It was only when a member of the store’s Friday Afternoon Book Club greeted her with a puzzled, “How have you been, Darla?” and squeezed past her on his way up the steps that she roused herself and headed to the register.

A few of the other club members had trickled into the store as well and were browsing the new releases. While the group had a formal membership of almost thirty—mostly students, retirees, and stay-at-home moms—a core group of about a dozen regulars met every two weeks upstairs in the shop’s lounge area. Darla always enjoyed their company and appreciated the recurring business, but today it was the distraction that their arrival offered that earned her gratitude. The conversation level in the store grew louder and more animated as they debated which, if any, of these newcomers might make for good future book club reading.

It took another twenty minutes and a few impulse book purchases before the club members all settled upstairs. Darla had little chance to say anything to Robert as he helped bag the purchases she rang up, and by the time the readers’ good-natured arguing had begun drifting down to them, she’d made up her mind to say nothing—at least, not directly to the youth. But as soon as Robert left for the day, she would call Jake for her advice and see if the ex-cop thought that Darla’s concerns warranted a call to Reese.

An hour and a half later, the book club meeting upstairs was beginning to wind down. Business had been a bit slow if steady, with one customer seeming to walk in just as another left. James had already arrived for his afternoon shift. After a quick greeting for Darla, he began conversing with Robert regarding the latest shipment of graphic novels from the day before, inventory for which they had a small but devoted customer base. As for Hamlet, he had long since decided that book club day was not his favorite store event and so had spent the past couple of hours safely ensconced atop the history shelf in the back room.

Hamlet rejoined her at the register as Robert stepped up and reached under the counter for his backpack. The sleeping bag was still cinched to it, but now Darla saw more nefarious uses for that piece of camping gear than an aid to making out in the park, as in, something that could be stuffed full of pilfered scrap metal.

“I guess it’s time for me to take off,” Robert told her, his closed expression reminding her of his attitude the day he’d come in for his initial interview.

Darla did her best to hide her feelings of dismay as she surveyed him. In his short tenure at Pettistone’s, the youth had proved a valuable if at times idiosyncratic employee. For now, she simply said, “See you tomorrow. And if you think of anything else that might help Jake or Detective Reese locate Tera Aguilar, you can call me.”

He mumbled something that might have been an agreement. Then, with a gentle paw bump for Hamlet and a “See you later” that could have been for either of them, he shouldered his backpack and made his way out.

The book club meeting officially broke up a few minutes later, and James mingled with the departing members. Despite his professed disdain for most modern literature, the ex-professor kept current on both fiction and nonfiction trends. Thus, his opinion was often solicited by the club members, most particularly by the women, several of whom had not-so-secret crushes on the man. Darla was at the register scanning receipts and had just saved off the final tally when the book club’s president made her way to the counter.

Martha Washington (No relation to the late president’s wife, the woman had smilingly assured her on their first meeting) was a slender, mixed-race woman in her late thirties. She wore her multihued hair in waist-length dreads that Darla always found herself envying, and spoke with a clipped English accent that sounded right out of a public television special.

Her pronunciation was no Madonna-type affectation, however, but legitimately earned. Darla knew from their discussions that although Martha’s career Army father had been born and bred in Georgia, he’d married an Englishwoman while stationed overseas. But Martha was definitely accent bilingual. Darla had heard the woman go Deep South in zero to sixty when the topic of conversation warranted it.

“Good afternoon, Darla,” she now said, sticking to her precise BBC tones. “Thank you as always for hosting our little group.”

“It’s my pleasure. Did everyone behave this time?”

Martha grinned at Darla’s oblique reference to Mark Poole. One of the group’s more vocal members, he’d grown irate with his fellow readers at the last meeting when his interpretation of certain literary symbolism was argued. Finally, knowing he wasn’t going to win the point, the man had stomped off before the meeting was over, vowing never to return. It was not the first time Darla had seen a book club member do the real-life version of what online forums referred to as “flouncing.” And as typically followed such histrionics, he’d returned for this week’s meeting, book under his arm, pretending nothing had ever happened.

“Mark sat quietly and contributed only positive things,” Martha assured her. “In fact, before we began, he even offered an apology for his previous behavior.”

“Wonderful. So, can I do anything else for you?

“Actually, I found this on the floor back in the reference section and wasn’t sure where to restock it for you,” she said and held out a magazine-sized graphic novel.

Darla took the softcover book and laid it on the counter. “We just got in a shipment of these yesterday, so this one must have gone astray. Thanks for finding it before it got walked all over.”

“Not at all,” Martha replied with a smile as she pulled on a long wool coat in the same shades of black and tan and blond as her hair. “Very well, then. See you week after next. We’ve agreed to skip the planned book and instead discuss that title in the front window.”

Darla glanced at the window display. Sure enough, the stack on the red side had dwindled significantly since lunch. With luck, the book club would then choose the blue title as a counterpoint for the meeting after that one. Clutching a tote bag filled with paperbacks, Martha waved good-bye to James and headed for the door.

“Ah, that is the last of them,” the store manager declared as bells jingled behind the woman, leaving the store customer free for the moment. “Now that we have Robert, I may need to rearrange my schedule again so that I am off on those afternoons when they meet.”

She’d heard that last complaint before and knew that, despite his protestations, he actually enjoyed being in the book club spotlight. But she was more concerned with other issues just now to call him on it.

“Assuming we will still have Robert by then,” Darla answered instead.

The comment drew a swift frown from James. “What do you mean? The young man appears to be working out quite nicely despite his, shall we say, quirks.”

“I thought so, too, but I fear we might be looking at something worse than a few quirks.”

She told him about Hilda’s frantic visit earlier that afternoon. She also explained how they’d learned almost by accident that Robert had apparently been in the neighborhood the night of the murder to conveniently witness Tera in the area. Then, feeling somewhat foolish, she showed him the book that had mysteriously fallen to the floor when only she and Hamlet had been in the store.

“The Man in the Iron Mask,” he said in approval. “One of my childhood favorites. Although I did take issue with Dumas modeling his story on Voltaire’s theory that the masked prisoner was actually a blood relative to Louis XIV. I have always leaned toward the Duke of Monmouth as the actual historical figure involved. But what does this have to do with Mr. Benedetto’s unfortunate demise?”

While James listened in what could only be interpreted as dumbfounded silence, Darla explained about the bloody paw prints she’d noticed in the basement near Curt’s body, and then told him about the swabbing that Jake had done of Hamlet’s paws. And she sheepishly explained her theory about Hamlet’s book-snagging clues. By the time she had finished, however, James was giving a thoughtful nod.

“I will concede the possibility that Hamlet might well have been the feline that passed through that basement. His propensity for wandering outside this building has been documented. But where I do not follow is how you have determined the killer’s identity, when the police apparently are still in the dark on that matter.”

Darla flipped open the novel she held and pointed to the summary that she had read that morning. “I thought at first it must be Tera who did it, because I found out from Hilda that Tera’s full name is Maria Teresa, just like Louis XIV’s wife. But then it seemed too much of a coincidence that Robert, of all people, would be outside Barry and Curt’s brownstone the night Curt was killed and just happen to pass by when Tera was standing there.”

James gave the page she had indicated a considering look and then shook his head.

“While French literature admittedly is not my specialty, I am fairly confident that the name ‘Robert’ is not mentioned in this particular novel—nor is ‘dude’ or ‘hoss,’ for that matter—which would seem to negate your theory that Hamlet is communicating anything of significance.”

But even as Darla conceded that point to herself, he added, “Besides, what motivation would our young employee have for so heinous a crime?”

“He said when I hired him that he does part-time construction work for a guy named Alex Putin, who is apparently some sort of local Russian godfather,” she explained. “And Barry said he’d heard that the scrap thieves were somehow connected to the Russian gangs around here. I’m worried that maybe Robert got himself involved in stealing metal for this Putin guy and that Curt caught him that night in the brownstone and came out on the losing end of things.”

“An interesting theory. Tell me, what does Detective Reese think about all this?”

“I haven’t seen him since last night. I thought I’d ask Jake her opinion before I talked to him.”

“Ask my opinion about what?”

While Darla and James had been debating the evidence, Jake had apparently walked in, the chimes unheard by either of them. She was still dressed in her butt-kicking outfit, though now the mirrored glasses were pushed back to the top of her head, and she was carrying a sheaf of papers.

Not waiting for a reply to her question, she plopped the stack on the counter near the register. “Here are the fliers I told you I was making. I’ve already handed them out around the neighborhood. Do me a favor and hand them out to your customers, too.”

“Certainly,” James assured her.

“Of course,” Darla echoed, picking one up for a look.

The legend in large black letters across the top said Missing. Below was the picture of Tera that Hilda had brought with her, along with a description: Female, 21 years old, dark blond hair, brown eyes, 5' 3", 105 pounds. It also noted that she’d last been seen in the vicinity of Cheshire Lane—the street where Barry’s brownstone was located—and on the prior Wednesday’s date. Jake’s contact information followed.

“Or call Detective Reese of the NYPD,” Darla read aloud as she reached the bottom of the poster, noting that both Reese’s phone number and his precinct also were prominently listed. “Uh-oh. I’m not sure Hilda is going to like that.”

“Kid, I’m doing what’s best for Tera,” Jake replied, looking equal parts weary and determined. “I’m worried about her. I don’t care that her mother has an issue with the cops. What’s important is getting her home ASAP.”

Darla nodded her agreement. “Do I need to call him to come get one of these fliers, since Hilda wouldn’t give him a photo?”

“Not necessary. I emailed Reese the picture as soon as Hilda left. Now, what’s this opinion thing you and James were discussing?”

“We’re discussing the possible suspects in Curt’s killing. Hamlet’s doing his book-snagging routine again, but it’s not quite adding up.”

“You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” Jake replied with a frown. To James, she added, “Help me out here, would you? It’s all well and good playing armchair detective, but explain to your boss that there’s a difference between the murder mysteries she sells and the real thing.”

“Believe me, I know the difference,” Darla shot back before James could take sides. “Or did you forget that Barry and I were the ones who found Curt?” She shuddered. “I even dreamed about dead bodies last night.”

“I didn’t forget, kid. And you handled yourself really well. But leave the investigating to Reese, would you? I get as much of a kick out of Hamlet’s antics as anyone else, but murder is serious stuff. If you do accidentally stumble across Curt’s killer before Reese does . . . well, remember, there’s no rule that says a murderer can only kill once. Next thing you know, Hamlet might be dancing around in your blood.”

“Ladies,” James interjected in a conciliatory tone, “let us not lose sight of the goal here. We want to find Ms. Aguilar swiftly, and we want to bring Mr. Benedetto’s killer to justice. What harm can there be in approaching both problems from multiple angles and see where they intersect?”

“Fine time to play peacemaker, James,” was Jake’s wry retort. Then she sighed and said to Darla, “You win. Go on, let’s hear Hamlet’s list of suspects.”

“It’s still a work in progress,” Darla loftily informed her as she reached for her page. She gave Jake a two-sentence recap of Dumas’s tale—a skill she’d developed during her tenure working at the store—and then began reading her the short list.

“I figure we can leave off the musketeer names,” she conceded once she ran through those names, “but then we had Maria Theresa, as in Louis XIV’s wife. It’s a little too coincidental that Tera’s full name is—”

“Maria Teresa,” Jake finished for her.

“Then there’s the author’s first name, Alexandre Dumas, which is sort of like Alex Putin.”

“The Alex Putin? As in, the czar-father of the local construction business?” Jake considered this a moment and then shrugged. “His hands are clean, meaning no arrest record around here, but the rumors fly. The thing is, a run-of-the-mill bashing on the head is a bit understated for those guys, if you know what I mean. They tend to go for something more spectacular, lots of blood spatter, to send a message. But might as well leave him on the list. Who else you got?”

“Robert.”

“Robert? You mean, ex-goth-kid-who-works-here-now Robert? You really think he has something to do with this?”

Darla took a deep breath and reluctantly nodded.

“It’s possible. I can’t picture him deliberately hurting anyone,” she said, recalling the story of how he’d defended the girl at the porn shop, “but he is the only person so far who saw Tera after she left her mother’s house on Wednesday night. And then he was evasive about what he was doing there that late.”

“Well, he does live in the vicinity, doesn’t he?” was Jake’s reasonable reply. “And you know kids that age. They can stay out all night and still make it to work or school the next day. Loitering doesn’t equal murder, so I’d say that’s a bit of a stretch, too.”

“Sure. But how many kids his age are also best buddies with Alex Putin?”

Jake gave her a sharp look. “You’re saying that Robert is friends with that guy? Tell me more.”

“Well, maybe not best buddies,” Darla conceded, “but Robert told me he did construction work for this Putin guy on the side. And when a girl was being hassled at his old job, he said he threatened the harasser with Putin’s name. But remember the copper pipe stolen from Barry and Curt? If Robert was doing the stealing for the Russian gang people, that could be a tie-in.”

“Interesting, but a lot of conjecture, and none of it necessarily incriminating. Still, I’ll mention it to Reese. But you’ve left a few people off your list. What about Hilda, or your boyfriend, Barry?”

“Barry is not my boyfriend,” Darla shot back, feeling herself blush yet again, “but how can you suspect him? Curt’s been his best friend for thirty years. Besides, I was with him when we found Curt. No one could pretend to be that upset.”

“Guess you’ve never been to the movies, kid,” Jake said with a grin. “They give out awards for that kind of thing.” The she sobered. “And I don’t want to think about Hilda being involved, either, but she was not a happy camper when she hired me to dig up dirt on the guy. You talk about Mama Grizzly with these overprotective mothers? Well, let’s just say she rates in the Mama T-Rex category. She told me she would do anything to protect Tera, and I damn well believe her.”

“So who do you think killed Mr. Benedetto?” James wanted to know.

Jake shrugged. “Not my concern. My job is to find Tera. But here’s the reality: half the time the killer is someone the victim knows, but the other half of the time he—or she—is some random person that your victim had the bad luck to run across. So take my advice and keep your eyes open, but leave the detecting to Reese.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Darla agreed, crumpling her list. “It just seems like nothing is happening very fast here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, kid.”

Jake dragged the sunglasses off her black curls and ran a weary hand through her hair before settling the mirrored shades back in place.

“Take it from an old dog who’s been there, Reese is busting his butt on this. It’s the whole tip of the iceberg versus what’s under the water . . . you, the public, don’t see a fraction of what’s going on behind the scenes. Remember, he’s the one who has access to all the forensic evidence. Who knows what they might have found in that brownstone to tie someone to the crime. And don’t forget there are two cell phones involved, Curt’s and Tera’s.”

“I understand about Curt’s phone,” Darla conceded with a frown. “Reese can download all his calls and phone numbers and look for a pattern or for some new suspects, right? But what good will Tera’s phone records do Reese if she’s not answering her cell or calling anyone?”

“Ah, yes, I believe it is called cell phone pinging,” James answered for Jake. To Darla, who stared at him in surprise, he added, “One can learn all sorts of interesting things watching cable television.”

The ex-cop, meanwhile, was nodding in approval.

“One of the little miracles of modern technology. As long as your cell phone is turned on, it sends signals to whatever cell tower is closest to you, twenty-four/seven, even when you’re not talking. If you know the location of the cell tower, you know where someone is, within a certain range. Person moves around, she can be tracked by which cell towers the signal is bouncing to. Of course, that’s only good for narrowing the location to a few blocks. But now that most phones come with GPS, the police can pinpoint their suspect to within a few feet.”

Which, on the one hand, was reassuring if you wanted a loved one found, but also a bit too Big Brother-ish for Darla’s comfort. Curious, she asked, “Can you do that, too, as a private investigator?”

Jake nodded. “That’s what I was working on this morning. I’ve got a buddy who handles this sort of thing for me, and I’m just waiting for a call back. Legally, I can’t do everything that Reese can—some of it takes a warrant—but I’ll only be a few steps behind him. With luck we’ll have Tera tracked down by the end of today.”

So saying, Jake straightened the stack of fliers she’d set down, and then picked up the novel that Martha Washington had brought to the counter earlier.

“Wow,” she commented. “Pretty gruesome stuff for kids they’re putting out these days. That’s awfully graphic artwork.”

“Guess that’s why they call it a graphic novel,” Darla explained with a reflexive smile. “They’re written for adults, not children, and they’re illustrated by some of the field’s top artists. Think of those old Classics Illustrated comic books from a few decades back, except really ramped up.”

“Yeah, well that blood-covered ape or whatever it is on the cover sure looks ramped up . . . and that half-naked gal, too.”

She turned the book so that Darla could see the cover. Darla bit back a gasp and all but snatched the novel from her friend’s hand.

“Look, James, it’s the graphic novel of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” she exclaimed. “Martha said she found this lying on the floor near the reference shelves. No way did it get there all by itself. Someone had to pull it off the shelf and move it.”

“Are you suggesting that Hamlet has given us another clue?”

“Why not?” Darla smoothed her crumpled list and grabbed her pen again. “There it is, plain as day on the cover”—she pointed—“the word ‘murder.’”

“Yes, but I am sure you will recall that the murders in question were not committed by a human. Do you wish to add an orangutan to Hamlet’s list of suspects?”

The store manager’s tone was politely inquiring, but Darla swore she heard suppressed amusement in his voice. But this latest clue had just bumped another name to the top of her list.

“I’ve already got an orangutan,” she replied with a triumphant nod. “Porn Shop Bill. Otherwise known as the Not-So-Great Ape to his employees. They call him that because of his long arms and orange hair. Pretty much an insult to all orangutans, if you ask me.”

Then another thought occurred to her, and she stared at the pair of them in consternation. “But that’s not all. I just remembered something that Robert said. Apparently, one of his coworkers claimed that Bill once attacked a guy with a hammer as repayment for an insult!”

“Better mention that to Reese, pronto, so he can—” Jake began, only to be cut short by the disco strains of the Bee Gee’s long-ago hit, “Stayin’ Alive,” blasting from her cell phone. “Speaking of Reese,” she said, and punched the “Talk” button. “Martelli here.”

Darla could hear the staccato rhythm of a voice speaking on the other end, though the sound was too faint for her to make out any words. Jake punctuated the one-sided conversation with a few “uh-huhs” before ending with a, “Meet you there in a minute.”

“Did Reese find something?” Darla demanded before the other woman had even pressed the “Off” key on her phone.

Jake tucked the cell back into her pocket. Though the ex-cop’s expression appeared deliberately neutral, Darla felt her stomach knot as she met Jake’s gaze. Finally, Jake nodded.

“You know what I told you about tracking down someone by using the cell tower pings and GPS? Pretty much works every time.”

“I presume that means the police have located Ms. Aguilar?” James asked, sounding almost as apprehensive as Darla abruptly felt.

When Jake replied, however, her answer wasn’t quite what Darla had expected to hear. “No Tera yet. But we’re getting close. Reese has tracked down her cell phone.”