A Novel Way to Die (15 page)

“Hi, Ms. Martelli,” came Robert’s voice from behind them. “What’s up?”

Using the back of his hand to swipe the last of the crumbs from his mouth, he leaned
over her shoulder to see the photo Jake held. “Hey, that’s Tera. What are you doing
with a picture of her?”

“You know her?” Jake demanded.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen her around with some of the other girls. I think she’s in
college.”

“Tera is Mrs. Aguilar’s daughter,” Darla explained with a gesture at Hilda. “She’s
gone missing, and Jake is trying to find her.”

“Oh, yeah? I saw her the other night.” He turned and started toward the best-seller
display, only to stop in his tracks as he was pelted by a chorus of questions.

“Where did you see her?”

“You’re sure it was her? What night, Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Was she all right?”

This last came from Hilda, who hurried over and reached for Robert’s arm. The teen
swiftly stepped back, holding up both hands in surrender.

“Whoa. Can you, you know, ask me one thing at time?”

“Robert, this is very important,” Jake told him, turning the photo so he could see
it again. “You’re very certain it was this girl you saw, and not some other blonde?”

“Yeah. She’s not into the goth scene, so we’re not, like, friends or anything, but
I’ve talked to her before. She was standing right under a streetlight when I walked
past her.”

Jake tucked the photo under her arm and pulled out a notebook and pen from her coat
pocket. “All right, we’ll assume it was Tera. Which night did you see her?”

The teen squinted in concentration as he counted back on his fingers. “Definitely
Wednesday night.”

“Good. Now, what time?”

“I don’t know. Early. Maybe midnight?” Which time Darla personally wouldn’t have classified
as early, but then she wasn’t eighteen anymore, either.

Jake nodded as she made another note. “Where exactly—I mean, besides under a streetlight—was
she when you saw her?”

“She was a couple of streets away from here, near the house where that Curt guy bit
it.”

“She was near Barry’s brownstone?” Darla exclaimed. Then, ignoring Jake’s okay-you-can-shut-up-now
look, she demanded, “What were you doing there at midnight?’

“I don’t know, stuff,” was Robert’s evasive reply, his expression taking on the same
defiant look that Hilda had worn earlier. “It’s a free country.”

“It doesn’t matter what Robert was doing there,” Jake broke in. “What’s important
is what he knows about Tera. C’mon, kid,” she urged as he remained silent. “The girl
could be in real trouble, and you’re the only one so far who knows anything about
where she was around the time that Curt, er, bit it. Was she with anyone?”

Robert shook his head.

“And what was she doing, besides standing there? Looking behind her, carrying anything?”

“She was, like, talking on her phone,” he replied in an incredulous tone as if to
imply,
What else would she be doing?

Jake nodded again. “Could you tell if she was angry with the person on the other end?
How did she seem?”

“I don’t know . . . regular, I guess. I didn’t stand around listening. That’s, like,
rude.” Another customer walked in just then, and the youth seemed to breathe a sigh
of relief. “Sorry, gotta go help the lady,” he declared and rushed over to the silver-haired
retiree in question.

Darla glanced Jake’s way. “I can go wait on the customer. Do you want me to drag him
back over for more questions?”

“I’ve got what I need for now,” Jake said and shut her notebook. “If nothing else,
we’ve established that Tera was in the neighborhood the night of Curt’s murder. Which
doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” she swiftly reassured Hilda, who had given an
audible gasp at that last. “Let’s go downstairs so I can scan this photo and get some
more info. Darla, I’ll be back later with those fliers.”

The pair walked to the door, Jake leading the way like the heavy metal version of
an avenging angel. Hilda’s posture was equally determined, if significantly less intimidating.
Darla allowed herself a small smile. Even though she knew that Reese was a good cop,
if it came down to betting who would locate Tera first, Darla put her money on Jake.

The question was, would finding the girl also mean that they’d found Curt’s killer . . .
or was the true murderer still out there somewhere?

Darla pondered this while she made her way upstairs and pulled her turkey Reuben from
the refrigerator. She’d carried with her the list she’d started before a disheveled
Hilda had come rushing into the store. Between bites, she studied the page again,
trying to find another clue in the column of names that she’d written. By the time
she’d finished the sandwich, she’d conceded defeat.

“I might as well try a Magic 8 Ball,” Darla decided, crumpling her sandwich wrapper
and tossing it in the trash.

She nearly threw her list after it but then changed her mind. She’d have James puzzle
over the matter later in the afternoon. He’d enjoy the challenge and might well spot
something that she had missed. For now, however, she wanted to have a word with Robert
regarding his nighttime activities.

Darla made her way down the stairs again, dreading the conversation she was about
to have but knowing that the subject would keep gnawing at her if she didn’t. Robert
lived in the general vicinity, so it wouldn’t be unheard of for him to be wandering
the neighborhood, even after midnight. But given that he had a job to go to in the
morning, the fact that he wasn’t home asleep by then raised an unsettling question
in her mind: what was Robert doing during his early morning rambles?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said aloud. She already knew he was into the goth scene,
which almost by definition required that he engage in dark-of-night activities. And
people his age generally treated the wee hours like any other time of day.

But she also recalled the rumor Barry had mentioned that the scrap thieves might be
tied to one of the local Russian gangs. Curt had said the last time she’d seen him
that the police suspected it was teens doing the deed, particularly since they’d found
candy wrappers at some of the scenes. She’d seen for herself that Robert treated candy
as one of the primary food groups. He also had bragged about doing construction work
for his friend Alex Putin. Could Robert somehow be involved in the recent spate of
metal thefts?

And then a far worse possibility flashed through Darla’s mind, the thought so disturbing
that she halted at the bottom step and abruptly sat down on the stairs lest her legs
give out from under her. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold back the barrage of questions
that abruptly pelted her like an unexpected Texas hailstorm.

What if
Robert
was the scrap thief who stole the copper tubing from Barry’s brownstone? And who’d
then returned to plunder a second time, only to be confronted by a crowbar-wielding
Curt? What if Robert had fought back against the older man and won that struggle?

What if it was Robert—not Tera—who had killed Curt Benedetto?

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.”