The Lonely Lady (48 page)

A few minutes later he was seated in front of Superintendent Poole’s desk in a small office on the ninth floor. To get there he had to pass through the steel-barred gate that separated the women’s psychiatric detention center from the rest of the floor.

Mrs. Poole was a good-looking middle-aged black woman, with a warm smile and sympathetic expressive eyes. She looked down at the copy of Jane’s commitment report that he had been given by Dr. Sloan. “Jane Randolph?” she said in a puzzled voice. “We have so many girls in here, Officer.”

He nodded.

She picked up the telephone. A moment later a young uniformed policewoman brought in a file. “I think this is what you may be looking for,” Mrs. Poole said.

The name was typed on the corner of the file. Jane Randolph. It was followed by a number and a date. The date was five months old.

“May I make some notes, Mrs. Poole?”

“Of course. If you don’t understand some of the abbreviations I’ll be glad to explain them.”

He spread the file on the desk and took out his small notebook. Most of it was simple enough. Arrest record, charge, arresting officer, disposition. He copied the important data. It wasn’t until he reached the final page that the hieroglyphics baffled him. “Mrs. Poole?” he asked, handing her the page.

“This is our report on her condition and treatment here. Briefly it says that she was admitted in a highly agitated and violent state apparently caused by drug abuse which had induced hallucinations. A bad trip, in plain language. She was kept under chemical and physical restraints for the two days she was here because of the recurrence of the hallucinations and the damage she might do herself and others. At the end of the second day, we were notified that the criminal charges against her had been dropped, and since we no longer had jurisdiction over her our doctors applied to the court for a commitment order. The following morning she was transferred to Creedmore for further treatment.”

“I see. Is there anything further you can tell me about her?”

“I’m sorry, Officer. Unfortunately she is only one of many that pass through here and she wasn’t with us long enough for us to make any kind of appraisal.”

“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Poole.”

She held out her hand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more information, Detective.”

He studied his notes in the taxi on the way back to the city. Maybe he would come up with something more at Midtown Precinct North. The police there should at least remember her. Every one of her arrests had been made in that precinct.

“You come back at eleven tonight and see Sergeant Riordan who’s head of our pussy posse,” the desk sergeant told him. “He’ll fill you in on her. He knows every cunt in the Broadway area.”

When he returned a little after eleven that night he found Sergeant Riordan, a tall man in his late thirties, sitting in the corridor in front of the women’s holding cells morosely nursing a cardboard container of coffee.

“What brings you here?” he asked after Millstein had told him he was looking for information on Jane Randolph. “She kill somebody out there?”

“What makes you say that? Do you remember her?”

“Fuckin’ right I remember her. Every time she came in here she practically started a riot. She was always on something. Spaced out of her mind. It got so I told my boys that if they came across her to look the other way. We got enough troubles in here without cuckoos like that around.”

“Did she ever talk about herself or her family?”

“Who could talk to her? I told you she was nuts. Nothing she said made sense. There was always somebody after her. Somebody who wanted to kill her. The last time we had her in here she had beat up on some poor tourist and wrecked his camera. She was yelling that he was a gun from Los Angeles out to knock her off. The poor bastard was from Peoria and was scared out of his fuckin’ mind. I think he grabbed the next bus home. He never showed up to file charges.”

“What about the other times? Did she say anything then?”

“The first time we picked her up she was brought in by one of my boys dressed like a tourist. She saw him on East Fifty-fourth between Madison and Fifth. She asked him if he’d like a massage up in his hotel room for twenty bucks. He kept on walkin’. There’s no law against getting a massage. She followed him. This time she said that for an extra tenner she’d blow his ears off. She told him she really didn’t give great massages but she was the best cocksucker in the world. He thought that was funny and wasn’t even going to pick her up because she didn’t look like no pro to him. Just a kid down on her luck. He kidded her. How about skipping the massage and just going for the blow job for ten bucks, he said and began to walk away. She came after him. Cheap motherfucker, she says, and belts him in the chops. So there’s nothing else he can do but bring her in.

“We fill out her sheet and take her over to the tank where we keep all the whores until we can ship them downtown. She takes one look and goes berserk. You ain’t going to put me in there like a monkey in a cage, she yells as we shove her through the door. A minute later the whole tank is in an uproar. We finally manage to get her out from underneath a pile of six of the toughest mothers you ever saw, then we get her into restraint and throw her into solitary. We were glad when we could send her downtown in the midnight van.”

“What happened to her that time?”

“I don’t know. I heard she got bailed out but I don’t known. Once they get downtown we lose track of them.”

“By downtown, you mean night court?”

“Yes.”

“What about the next time you had her in?”

“That was a funny one. We picked her up in a massage parlor called The Way Out with three other girls and seven guys.”

“I thought you didn’t bust massage parlors.”

“We don’t, but this was different. They was making a porno movie and it got hot in there from the lights so they left the windows open and one of the neighbors called it in.”

“How was she then?”

“On a speed trip. Made no sense at all. Just kept yelling at all the cops to come and fuck her while she kept playing with herself with a big vibrator.”

“What happened to her that time?”

“Some smart shyster got them all off on a technicality about an improper search warrant.” Riordan shook his head. “I been on this job six years now and it ain’t worth a shit. You get no appreciation and the only thing everybody wants to know is how much ass am I getting.”

“I was wondering about that. How much are you getting?”

Riordan laughed suddenly. “You small-town cops are all alike. I get enough to keep the skin back. And even with that it’s still a lousy job.”

“Better than pounding a beat,” Millstein said, holding out his hand. “Thanks, Sergeant.”

“Anytime. Where you going next? Night court?”

Millstein nodded.

Riordan wrote a name on a piece of paper. “My brother-in-law is the court clerk down there. Jimmy Loughran. Tell him you spoke to me. He’ll give you anything you want.”

Chapter 23

“To your right. Apartment seventeen-B,” the elevator operator said.

He walked to the end of the green-carpeted hallway and pressed the buzzer. From inside he heard the soft sound of muted chimes.

The door was opened by a slim blond girl.

“Mrs. Lafayette, please. I’m Mr. Millstein.”

“She’s expecting you. Come in.”

He followed the girl into the elegant all-white apartment.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Lafayette that you’re here.” He had seen apartments like this only in movies. The wide terrace outside the windows, spotted with plants and dwarf trees, was like a miniature garden in the sky. There were two photographs in silver frames on the white baby grand. One was a headshot of a good-looking young black man his lips parted in a warm smile. There was something familiar about him and although the detective couldn’t place him he knew that he had seen the man before. The other photograph was of a boy, about ten years old, standing with a gray-haired woman in front of a small white wooden house.

He didn’t hear the footsteps in the soft white rug. “Mr. Millstein.”

He kept the surprise from his face when, turning around, he saw that she was black. She was tall and he immediately sensed the strength in her. Suddenly the name rang a bell. He knew now who the young man in the photograph was.

“Mrs. Lafayette.” He gestured to the photograph. “Your husband?”

“Yes. That’s my son and my mother in the other photo.”

“My daughter has some of your husband’s albums. Even I like the way he sings. He doesn’t drive me up the wall the way some of them do.”

“Fred sings pretty but that isn’t why you wanted to see me, is it? You said you had some news about Jane Randolph for me.”

This was a woman who came right to the point. “You’re a friend of Jane’s?” she asked.

He nodded, then seeing the expression on her face, he said, “You doubt it?”

“It’s hard for me to believe that a policeman would be her friend. Especially one who comes all the way from California trying to get a line on her.”

He took her letter from his pocket and gave it to her without speaking.

She read it quickly, then looked up. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Briefly he told her what he knew, including how he had gotten her name from the clerk at night court as the person who put up bail the first time she had been arrested.

There was a strange softness in the black woman’s eyes. “What happens to her now?”

“I don’t know. The doctor told me that she comes up for re-evaluation in two weeks. They are considering letting her out but he’s concerned about how she will handle herself after she gets out.”

“Shit, poor JeriLee.”

“JeriLee?”

“That’s her real name. Didn’t you know that?”

“The only JeriLee she mentioned she said was her sister.”

“She never had a sister. Her name is JeriLee Randall. I was the one who gave her the name Jane Randolph when she began dancing. She didn’t want people in the business to know what she was doing. She was afraid if the word got out that she was dancing topless they’d never take her seriously as a writer or an actress after that.”

“Was she any good?”

“I’m no judge,” she said. “But I know she once won a Tony as an actress on Broadway and another time she had a play produced, although it never got to Broadway. So she had to have something. She was always writing. That’s why she worked as a dancer. It gave her the days to write.”

“Did she ever talk about a family?”

“She has a mother. But they’re on the outs. Her mother never believed in the same things she did.”

“Do you have her mother’s address?”

“Some small town on the Island. My husband knows it. I can get it from him.”

“That would help.”

“I’ll have it for you tonight then. My husband’s on his way to Miami for an engagement.”

“Did you ever see Jane after that time you put up bail for her?”

“I took her to lunch the same day. I offered to help her but she turned me down. She said when she had the money she would repay the bail I had laid out. I told her I thought she was being a fool doing what she was and that I would give her the money to let her write and there wouldn’t be any strings attached. But she turned me down flat out.”

“Why do you think she did that?”

“Because we were lovers once. And maybe she didn’t believe me when I said ‘No strings.’”

“Was she a lesbian?”

“No. I am. She’s not. It would have been easier for all of us if she had been. She’s bi. It took me a long time to understand that her reaction to our sex was purely physical. It never was like that for me at all. I really loved her.”

“Would you still be willing to help her if she wanted it?”

“Yes, but she won’t take it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I know her. She has this crazy idea about freedom and independence. She won’t take from anyone—man or woman. She left a rich husband for the same reason. She wants to do it all herself, and to be recognized for it.”

He was silent.

“Listen, she knew where I was, a phone call would have brought me anytime, but look at the trip she took rather than pick up that phone.”

“She called you once before. Maybe she will again.”

“Twice before,” she said, a distant look in her large dark eyes. “There won’t be a third time.”

***

For the first time since coming East he felt better. Maybe it was being on the road in a rented car. The Long Island Expressway might have been a freeway in California except for the white fields of snow stretching out on either side. He turned off at the Port Clare exit sign.

It was comfortable-looking and the neighborhood was a good one—well-established middle class. The one thing that distinguished the Randall house from others around it was that the shades were drawn and the driveway and front walk were covered with snow. It looked empty.

He got out of the car and made his way through the snow to the front door. He pressed the bell and heard the echoing sound in the house but there was no answer. He turned around at the sound of a car in the street behind him.

A police car had pulled up behind his. A young patrolman stuck his head out the car window. “What are you doing up there, mister?”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Randall.”

“She’s not home.”

Millstein began to pick his way through the snow back to the sidewalk. “I can see that. Do you have any idea of where I could reach her?”

“Nope.”

“You were here within two minutes of the time I was. You must have a pretty good system out here.”

“This is a small town. One of the neighbors reported you the minute you stopped your car.”

“Maybe you can help me.” Millstein took his wallet out of his pocket and showed the patrolman his badge.

“Yes, sir,” the policeman said respectfully.

“It’s very important that I locate Mrs. Randall.”

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, sir. She got married again about two months ago and she and her new husband went off on one of them long world cruises. They won’t be back until the summer.”