A Cast of Killers (37 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I must be seeing double," Lilah
murmured.

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