A Cast of Killers (51 page)

"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.