Mister X (13 page)

New York, the present

“I suppose you’re mad at me,” Chrissie said, standing before Quinn’s desk.

Her attitude seemed that of a teenage girl caught breaking curfew, rather than that of an avenging huntress talking to hired help.

They were in the office alone. Quinn had looked up, surprised, when she’d entered. She was slightly bedraggled from the heat, and at first he hadn’t recognized her. Her sleeveless white blouse clung to her narrow upper body, and a strand of her dishwater-blond hair dangled over one eye. She was wearing jeans that looked genuinely well worn, and brown leather sandals that looked brand new.

In the vacuum of his surprise, she managed a half smile and said, “I could never do that.”

He didn’t know what she’d meant at first, and then realized she was referring to what he’d been doing at his desk—trying to balance a checkbook. “Seems I never could, either.”

She went from smiling to looking guilty. “I know you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

“You have blue eyes now,” Quinn said. “And short blond hair.”

“Before, I was wearing brown contact lenses and a brown wig. There was a certain facial resemblance to begin with, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” Quinn said.

He sat calmly, trying to figure out her game. He couldn’t.

“Usually it’s the other way around,” he said. “The client is
too
available and badgers the detective agency for reports on any kind of progress.”

She nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other, like a tennis player anticipating a serve. Seeking a point of balance.

“I’m sorry for making myself scarce,” she said. “Really.”

“Maybe you had a good reason for disappearing.”

“I’m not sure it was good enough. I knew after a while that you’d probably looked up photos of all the Carver victims and figured out that I’d sort of misled you into thinking Tiffany and I are—were—identical twins. What scared me was that it might not have occurred to you that we were fraternal twins. That you might simply think I was an imposter. That I’d lied to you.”

“That’s what you did,” Quinn said. “You lied.”

“More like misled you.” She gnawed on her lower lip for a moment with her overbite.
“Misled?”
She tried the word again.

“We won’t quibble over it,” Quinn said.

“But then I ran. I’m not very brave lately.”

“But you came back.”

“When I saw in the news that the Carver had killed that woman down in Chelsea, Maureen Sanders, and then attacked that other woman, I couldn’t stay away. I had to find out what you’d learned.”

“It’s pretty much all in the news.”

She stared at him. “You’re playing it closed-mouthed. Now you don’t trust me.” Her contriteness had disappeared to be replaced by anger.

He had to grin. “Should I trust you?”

“Maybe not. But I
am
your client. Don’t you have some kind of legal obligation to tell me everything you know?”

“Legal and ethical. Unless there are special circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“The client disappearing.”

She tucked her fingertips into her jeans pockets and looked glum as well as bedraggled. The blond hairdo he couldn’t get used to looked damp and stuck to her head.

“You know the police are actively involved now,” he said.

“Yeah. I didn’t want that to happen. They’ll screw things up, don’t you think?”

“Possibly they will.” He toyed with the ballpoint pen he’d been holding during his assault on the checkbook and bank statement. “But we didn’t have a choice. When Maureen Sanders was killed and sliced up using the Carver’s M.O., the police naturally made the connection and reopened the investigation. And that includes all the Carver murders, including your sister’s.”

“They couldn’t catch the Carver the first time around, so I don’t have much hope they’ll do any better this time. They should have stayed out of it.”

“Politics are involved,” Quinn said. “As well as that pesky thing called the law.”

“Well, I don’t see much point to it. Maybe you can explain to me all that’s happened, tell me what my money’s bought.”

Quinn studied her, not wanting to be taken in again. Her sudden mood changes and apparent ignorance of the law didn’t fool him. He knew she wasn’t nearly as naïve as she appeared.

He put down the pen and pointed to the nearest desk chair, Pearl’s. “Roll that chair over here and sit down.”

She did, and he brought her up to date on the investigation.

“So who’s this mystery woman who’s been shadowing the investigation?” Chrissie asked, when he was finished. “Any ideas?”

Quinn had deliberately mentioned Pearl’s shadow woman. “One theory is that she’s you.”

Chrissie seemed surprised, but she might be good at that. She appeared to think about what he’d said, absently rubbing her chin. It might have been a feigned gesture, but he’d seen her do it before, unconsciously. Quinn noticed that she wore no rings on either hand—no jewelry at all, at least that he could see.

“Well, I can understand why you might have thought it was me,” she said, “since you couldn’t get in touch with me for a while. But I can tell you honestly it wasn’t me.”

“It also occurred to us that something bad might have happened to you and you couldn’t contact us.”

Now she seemed embarrassed, and not a little bit pleased. “I hadn’t thought of that, truly. It didn’t occur to me that my disappearance might alarm you. But I am touched by your concern.”

She wasn’t being sarcastic. She’d meant it, he was sure.

Don’t be sure. Don’t take for granted that anything this woman says is true.

“So where were you?” Quinn asked.

“Oh, nowhere or not doing anything that has anything to do with any of this,” Chrissie said.

While Quinn was mentally diagramming her sentence, Chrissie stood up from Pearl’s chair and tapped the side of the small brown leather purse she was carrying.

“I’ve got my cell phone turned on again,” she said. “You have my number.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m looking for a new place now. I’ll let you know.” She exhaled loudly and smiled. “I’m glad we’re on the same page again. Do you need any more money?”

He shook his head no. “We’re fine for now.” He tapped a knuckle on the checkbook and statement spread out before him on the desk. “I think we are, anyway.”

She took a step closer to the desk. “I do want, more than anything, for my sister’s killer to be brought to hard justice.”

“We all do.”

She nodded, shifted her weight awkwardly, and made for the door.

“By the way,” Quinn said, “you needn’t have worried. We had it figured that you were a fraternal twin.”

“I should have known,” she said. “You do have a reputation.”

“Pearl suggested it.”

“
Cherchez la femme.”

She was smiling as she went out.

A woman who lived in the building where Mary Bakehouse had been attacked contacted the police. She claimed to have remembered something that might be important. Her name was Ida Frost. Mishkin had interviewed her before and was skeptical.

Still, any lead might be worth following.

Vitali knocked on the apartment door. Mishkin moved closer so if she was looking through the peephole Ida Frost might recognize him.

She opened the door almost immediately. She was a small, stooped woman close to eighty, with gnarled teeth that didn’t spoil a bright smile. As she peered up at Vitali and Mishkin, her eyes were bright and alert.

She stood back so they could enter. It was warm in the apartment but not uncomfortable.

“I made brownies,” she said.

She left them abruptly and scurried toward what they assumed was the kitchen.

Vitali and Mishkin exchanged glances.

Then Ida Frost was back, using two hot pads to hold a large rectangular pan of brownies generously dusted with powdered sugar. They smelled delicious.

“Hot from the oven,” she said. “My mother’s recipe and her mother’s before her.” She offered the pan.

“Can’t say no to all that history,” Mishkin said. He delicately lifted one of the end brownies.

Vitali, thinking that for all they knew the brownies could be poisoned, smiled and shook his head no. Ida Frost moved in on him with the brownies. He raised a hand, still smiling. The edge of the hot pan was almost touching his tie. She was smiling up at him insistently, still advancing. If he didn’t back up he’d have a brownie pan scar on his stomach.

“These are great, Sal,” Mishkin said. There were brownie crumbs and powdered sugar in his bushy mustache, on his tie. “You oughta try one.”

Vitali gave in and helped himself to a brownie. Ida Frost withdrew from his personal space.

“You said on the phone that you recalled something,” Mishkin said, and took another bite of brownie.

“Did I? Oh, yes.” Ida Frost looked at Vitali and at the half a brownie in his hand. “Do they meet with your approval, Detective?”

Vitali growled around a mouthful of brownie that they did.

“What was it you recalled?” Mishkin asked.

Ida Frost appeared puzzled.

“You called the precinct house and asked for Detective Mishkin,” Vitali reminded her. “You left a message saying you remembered something about the Mary Bakehouse case and were calling as we’d requested.”

“I liked Mary,” Ida Frost said. “I wish she hadn’t moved away.”

“Probably it’s better for her that she went somewhere else,” Vitali said.

Ida Frost seemed to consider that; then she smiled. “Yes, she’s probably safer if she moved out of the city. People in these big apartment buildings don’t seem to know each other, don’t have the time. Everyone’s always rushing around wrapped up in their own thoughts, busy, busy. I’m afraid we lead very insulated and uncaring lives.”

“We should all take better care of each other,” Mishkin said.

“Yes. We all share the guilt, in a way.”

“We all agree that’s true,” Vitali said dismissively, trying to keep the Frost woman and Mishkin on point and hurry things along. What was it with Harold sometimes? “About your phone call, ma’am…”

Ida Frost’s smile widened. “Am I a suspect?”

“Gosh, no!” Mishkin said, helping himself to another brownie.

She saw that Vitali had finished his brownie and advanced on him again with the pan. Though she had a slight limp, she was fast off the mark. “Do take another, Detective. They’re sinfully delicious.”

“They should be against the law,” Mishkin said, and he and Ida Frost laughed.

Vitali took another brownie in self-defense. Or so he told himself, the brownies being hell on his diet. “You did call the precinct house,” he reminded Ida Frost. “What was it you remembered, ma’am?”

“A hat. I understand the thug who attacked Mary wore a hat.” She paused for what might have been dramatic effect.

“A hat,” Mishkin said.

“I saw a man with a hat that very evening, standing outside and looking suspicious. I passed him when I went out for my daily walk.”

“What time was that, ma’am?”

“Why, I couldn’t say.”

“Was it still light outside?”

“Outside, yes.”

“What did he look like?” Mishkin asked.

“He was…just a man in a hat. A cap, rather. A baseball cap.”

Mishkin glanced over at Vitali and almost imperceptibly shrugged. He couldn’t recall if he’d mentioned to Ida Frost that the attacker had worn a baseball cap. “Do you remember the color, ma’am?”

“Blue, or perhaps gray. Or both. Now that I think of it, It was a Brooklyn Dodgers cap, I’m sure,” Ida Frost said. “I spend enough time in Ebbets Field, I should be able to recognize a Dodgers cap.”

“The Los Angeles Dodgers, you mean, ma’am?” Vitali asked. There was powdered sugar on his brown suit coat. “The Dodgers haven’t been in Brooklyn for a long time.”

“I attended the games often with my father when I was a young girl.”

“We all miss the Dodgers,” Mishkin said.

“The man in the cap. He might have been Pee Wee Reese.”

Mishkin grinned broadly. “Say, you’re a real Dodgers fan.”

“I’ve always been partial to Pee Wee. Would you like a glass of milk with those brownies? I have nice cold milk for all my visitors.”

Vitali and Mishkin regarded each other. Vitali had powdered sugar on his suit and the back of his right hand. Mishkin had more of the white dusting on his mustache and tie. Probably some on his white shirt that wasn’t visible unless you looked closely. Some of the powdered sugar on Mishkin had drifted down and was on his right shoe.

“Milk would be great!” Mishkin said, and Vitali seconded him.

Ida Frost set the pan of brownies on a magazine on the coffee table and hurried off again to the kitchen. The two detectives shook their heads silently. They were going to get nothing of value from this witness other than brownies. Ida Frost was one of the older, lonely women who inhabited many of Manhattan’s small, rent-controlled apartments. What she wanted was company, somebody to appreciate her brownies. She had found two such people. Alleviating her loneliness might have been the sole purpose of her phone call.

Mishkin helped himself to another brownie while Vitali stood brushing at the powdered sugar on his suit coat with the backs of his knuckles, making more of a mess.

“Pee Wee,” Ida Frost said to them, when she came back from the kitchen with two tall glasses of milk on a tray, “would never have harmed Mary Bakehouse.”

Not Pee Wee, they agreed.

After leaving Ida Frost’s apartment, Vitali and Mishkin slapped at their clothes to rid them of powdered sugar, trailing a white haze as they strode toward the elevator.

They both saw her at the same time, a woman standing watching them from beyond the elevator, near the end of the hall. She was wearing a dark raincoat and a dark hat with the wide brim bent low so her face was in shadow.

As if she’d just noticed them, she turned and walked quickly away, rounding the corner at the end of the hall and passing out of sight.

“I’ll go after her,” Vitali said. “You take the elevator and beat her to the lobby, Harold. We’ll have her between us, and we can flush her out.”

Off he went.

The elevator was already at lobby level and took its time rising to where Mishkin waited.

When it arrived at his floor he quickly stepped in and punched the lobby button, then the button that closed the elevator door.

The elevator stopped at the floor below, and a woman with two identical corgis on red leather leashes got in. One of the corgis began licking Mishkin’s right shoe.

Another floor down, an elderly but alert-looking woman with an aluminum cane boarded the elevator. She and the woman with the Corgis ignored each other. No one paid the slightest attention to Mishkin except for the corgi licking his shoe.

When they reached lobby level, Mishkin, out of habit and because they crowded past him, let the women and the two dogs exit the elevator ahead of him. He stepped out just in time to see the door to the stairwell burst open and a panting and heaving Vitali come skidding out.

Both men looked at the street door shutting slowly on its pneumatic closer as the women and dogs disappeared into the night.

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Sal,” Mishkin said, “but I think our shadow woman beat you down the stairs and got out of the building.”

“How did you get your shoe wet, Harold?”

“Huh? Oh. Dog.”

“She’s probably gone, Harold, but maybe she didn’t leave at all. Let’s get some uniforms down here to check the building.”

Two hours later, all the occupants and apartments were accounted for. The shadow woman had escaped again.

“I don’t understand it, Harold,” Vitali said, as everyone was leaving the building. “I was really flying down those stairs.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Mishkin said. “She had a good head start.”

They pushed through the pneumatic door out into the night.

Three radio cars were still parked at the curb. Two uniformed cops were lounging against one of the cars, and three more cops were standing around nearby on the sidewalk, chatting.

Ida Frost emerged from the building, wielding her pan of brownies.