Loves Music, Loves to Dance Page 19

  Was it just a dream that she went to that bar and he stood outside? She sat and had something. He didn’t know what it was. Wine? Club soda? What difference? He’d tried to decide whether or not to go in and join her.

  Then she’d come out. He’d been about to go up and talk to her when the station wagon pulled up.

  He couldn’t remember if he’d gotten a look at the driver. Sometimes he dreamed about a face.

  Erin got in.

  That was the night they say she disappeared.

  The thing was that Lenny wasn’t sure if he’d just dreamed that. And if he told that to the cops, would they try to say he was crazy and make him go back to the place where they locked him up?

  XVIII

  SATURDAY

  March 9

  At noon on Saturday, FBI agents Vince D’Ambrosio and Ernie Cizek sat in a dark-gray Chrysler across the street from the entrance to 101 Christopher Street.

  “There he goes,” Vince said. “All dressed up for his day off.”

  Gus Boxer was exiting from the building. He was wearing a red and black check lumber jacket over loose-fitting dark brown polyester pants, heavy laced boots, a black cap with a rim that half-covered his face.

  “You call that dressed up?” Ernie exclaimed. “In that getup I thought he was paying off a bet.”

  “You just never saw him in his underwear and suspenders. Let’s go.” Vince opened the driver’s door.

  * * *

  They had checked with the building managers. Boxer was off from noon every other Saturday till Monday morning. In his absence, a substitute super, José Rodriguez, handled complaints and did minor repairs.

  Rodriguez answered their ring. A sturdy man in his mid-thirties with a direct manner, Vince wondered why the management didn’t keep him full-time. He and Ernie showed their Bureau credentials. “We’re going from apartment to apartment questioning the tenants about Erin Kelley. A number of them were not in the last time we went through.”

  Vince did not add that today he was going to get very specific about what the tenants thought of Gus Boxer.

  On the fourth floor, he hit gold. An eighty-year-old woman answered the door, taking care not to remove the security chain. Vince showed his badge. Rodriguez explained, “It’s all right, Miss Durkin. They just want to ask a few questions. I’ll stay right here where you can see me.”

  “Can’t hear,” the old woman yelled.

  “I just want to . . .“

  Rodriguez touched D’Ambrosio’s arm. “She can hear better than you or me,” he whispered. “Come on, Miss Durkin, you liked Erin Kelley. Remember how she always asked you if you needed anything from the store and how she’d take you to church sometimes? You want the cops to get the guy who did that to her, don’t you?”

  The door opened the length of the chain. “Ask your questions.” Miss Durkin looked severely at Vince. “And don’t shout. It gives me a headache.”

  * * *

  For the next fifteen minutes, the two agents got an earful of what a native New York octogenarian thought of how the city was being run. “I’ve lived here all my life,” Miss Durkin informed them crisply, her wavy gray hair bobbing as she spoke. “We never used to lock our doors. Why would you? Who’d bother you? But now, all this crime and no one doing a thing about it. Disgusting. I tell you, they should ship all those drug dealers to the ends of the earth and let them sail off.”

  “I agree with you, Miss Durkin,” Vince said wearily. “Now about Erin Kelley.”

  The old woman’s face saddened. “A sweeter girl you’d never find. I’d like to get my hands on whoever did that to her. Now a few years ago, I happened to be sitting at the window looking at that apartment building across the street. A woman was murdered. They came around asking questions but May and I—she lives next door—decided to keep our mouths shut. We saw it. We know who did it. But that woman was no better than she ought to be, and there was good reason.”

  “You witnessed a murder and didn’t tell the police?” Ernie asked incredulously.

  She snapped her lips closed. “If I said that, I didn’t say it the way I meant. What I meant was, I have my suspicions and so does May. But that’s as far as it goes.”

  Suspicions! She saw that murder, Vince thought. He also knew that no one would ever get her or her friend May to testify. With an inward sigh, he said, “Miss Durkin, you sit by the window. I have a feeling you’re a good observer. Did you see Erin Kelley leave with anyone that evening?”

  “No. She left alone.”

  “Was she carrying anything?”

  “Only her shoulder bag.”

  “Was it large?”

  “Erin always carried a large shoulder bag. She often carried jewelry and didn’t want anything that could be yanked from her hand.”

  “Then it was generally known she carried jewelry?”

  “I guess so. Everyone knew she was a designer. From the street, you could see her sitting at her worktable.”

  “Did she date much?”

  “She dated. But I wouldn’t say much. Of course, she might have been meeting people outside. That’s the way young people do it now. In my day, a young man picked you up at your home or you didn’t set foot out the door. It was better then.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.” They were still standing in the hall. “Miss Durkin, I wonder if we might just step inside for a moment. I don’t want to be overheard.”

  “Your feet aren’t muddy, are they?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I’ll wait right here, Miss Durkin,” Rodriguez promised.

  The apartment had the same layout as the one where Erin Kelley had lived. It was meticulously neat. Overstuffed horsehair furniture protected with antimacassars, standing lamps with elaborate silk shades, polished end tables, framed family pictures of bewhiskered men and severe women. Vince was carried back to the memory of his grandmother’s parlor in Jackson Heights.

  They were not invited to sit down.

  “Miss Durkin, tell me, what do you think of Gus Boxer?”

  A ladylike snort. “That one! Believe me, this is one of the few apartments he doesn’t barge into looking for one of his famous water leaks. And this is the one that has it. I don’t like that man. I don’t know why the management keeps him on. Goes around in those disgusting clothes. Surly. The only thing I can figure is that they get him cheap. Just a week before she disappeared, I heard Erin Kelley tell him that if she found him in her apartment again, she’d call the police.”

  “Erin told him that?”

  “You bet she did. And she was right.”

  “Was Gus Boxer aware of the amount of jewelry Erin Kelley handled?”

  “Gus Boxer is aware of everything that goes on in this place.”

  “Miss Durkin, you’ve been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of to tell us?”

  She hesitated. “For a few weeks before Erin disappeared, from time to time a young fellow used to hang out across the street. Always when it was getting dark so you couldn’t see him clearly. Now I don’t know what he was up to. But that Tuesday night that Erin left here for the last time, I could make out that she was alone and carrying that big shoulder bag. My glasses had fogged up and I’m not sure if it was that same fellow across the street, but I think it was, and when Erin started walking down the block, he went in the same direction.”

  “You didn’t see him clearly that night, but you saw him other times. What did he look like, Miss Durkin?”

  “Beanpole. Collar up. Hands in his pockets, kind of hugging his arms against his body. Thin face. Dark, messy hair.”

  Len Parker, Vince thought. He glanced at Ernie, who obviously had the same idea.

  I’ve been looking forward to this.” Darcy leaned back in the passenger seat of the Mercedes and smiled at Michael. “It’s been quite a week.”

  “So I gathered,” he said dryly. “It was all I could do to catch you in at home or at your office.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.�
�

  “Don’t be sorry about anything. It’s a great day for a ride, isn’t it?”

  They were on Route 202 nearing Bridgewater. “I never knew very much about New Jersey,” Darcy commented.

  “Except comedians’ jokes. Everyone judges it by that turnpike strip with all the refineries. Believe it or not, it has a longer coastline than most other states on the eastern seaboard and has among the highest number of horses per capita in the nation.”

  “So there!” Darcy laughed.

  “So there. Who knows? With my missionary zeal, maybe I’ll make you a convert.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Hughes was bathed in smiles. “Oh, Miss Scott, I’ve been planning the nicest dinner since Doctor said you were coming.”

  “How nice of you.”

  “The guest room at the head of the stairs is all ready. You can just freshen up there after your ride.”

  “Great”

  If anything, the day was even more perfect than last Sunday. Cool. Sunny. A hint of spring in the air. Darcy managed to give herself completely to the enjoyment of the canter.

  When they stopped to let the horses rest, Michael said, “I don’t have to ask if you’re having a good time. It shows.”

  * * *

  The late afternoon turned sharply cooler. A fire had been laid in Michael’s study. The draft from the chimney was brisk, causing the flames to leap up.

  Michael poured wine for her, made an old-fashoned for himself, sat beside her on the comfortable leather couch, stretched his feet on the coffee table. His arm went around the back of the sofa. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve spent more time this week thinking about what you told me. It’s terrible that a chance remark can hurt a child so much. But Darcy, can you honestly say that sometimes you don’t look in the mirror and see the fairest of all?”

  “I certainly do not.” Darcy hesitated. “God forbid I should angle for a free consultation, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. No, never mind.”

  His hand ruffled her hair. “What? Shoot. Spit it out.”

  She looked directly at him, concentrating on the kindness in his eyes. “Michael, I get the feeling that you understand how devastating that remark was for me, but that you think I’ve been—how can I put this—subconsciously blaming my mother and father all these years.”

  Michael whistled. “Hey, you’d put me out of business. Most people take a year of therapy before they come to that kind of conclusion.”

  “You haven’t answered me.”

  He kissed her cheek. “And I don’t intend to. Come on, I think Mrs. Hughes has the fatted calf on the table.”

  * * *

  They got back to her apartment at ten o’clock. He parked the car and walked her to the door. “This time I don’t leave until I make sure you’re safely inside. I wish you’d let me drive you to Wellesley tomorrow. That’s a heck of a long round-trip for one day.”

  “I don’t mind it. And I have to make a stop on the way back.”

  “More garage sales?”

  She did not want to talk about the Nan Sheridan pictures. “Something like that. Another fishing expedition.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, tilted up her face, brought his lips down to hers. His kiss was warm but brief. “Darcy, call me when you get home tomorrow night. I just want to be sure you’re safe.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  She stood inside the door until the car disappeared down the block. Then, humming, she ran up the stairs.

  Hank coming in early Saturday evening. We have so little time together, Vince fretted as he opened the door to his apartment. When they were married, he and Alice had been living in Great Neck. There hadn’t been much point in his commuting after they split up, so when they sold the house he’d taken this apartment at Second Avenue and Nineteenth Street. The Gramercy Park area. Not Gramercy Park, of course. Not on his salary.

  But he liked his apartment. On the ninth floor, his windows offered a typical midtown view. To the right a peek of the Park with its elegant brownstones, straight down the murderous traffic on Second Avenue, across the street a blend of residential and office buildings with storefront restaurants, delis, Korean produce markets, a video store.

  He had two bedrooms, two baths, a fair-sized living room, a dinette, a minuscule kitchen. The second bedroom was for Hank, but he’d put bookshelves and a desk in it and it also served as a study.

  The living room and dinette were furnished in Alice-in-Mistakeville decor. The year before they broke up, she’d gone pastel modern in the living room. Pale peach and white sectional, pale peach carpet, peach and teal no-arms easy chair. Glass tables. Lamps that looked like bones in a desert. She’d wished that stuff on him, taking all the traditional furniture that he liked. One of these days, when he got around to it, Vince was going to get rid of everything and buy good old-fashioned, comfortable furniture. He was sick of feeling as though he’d stumbled into Barbie’s Dream House.

  Hank hadn’t arrived yet. Vince stripped, stood under a hot shower, pulled on underwear, a sweater, chinos, and loafers. He opened a beer, stretched out on the sectional, and reviewed the case.

  This was one baffling investigation. Look under any rock and you’ll find a new clue.

  Boxer. Erin had threatened to go to the police about him. Yesterday, Darcy Scott had called saying she thought she had a picture of Nan Sheridan at Belle Island with a maintenance man in the background who might have been Boxer. They’d picked up the picture and were checking it out.

  Miss Durkin had seen someone who sure as blazes sounded like that looney, Len Parker, hanging around Christopher Street, and she thought he had followed Erin Kelley the night she disappeared.

  There was a direct connection between that con man Jay Stratton and Nan Sheridan. A direct connection between Jay Stratton and Erin Kelley.

  Vince heard the turn of a key in the latch. Hank bounded in. “Hi Dad.” Dropped his overnight bag. Quick hug.

  Vince felt the tousled hair brush his cheek. He always had to check himself from showing the fierce love he felt for his son. The kid would be embarrassed. “Hi, pal. How’s it going?”

  “Great. I think. I aced the chemistry.”

  “You studied hard enough.”

  Hank took off his school jacket, flung it into space. “Boy, it’s great to have midterms over.” He took long steps into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Dad, it looks as though you could use Meals-on-Wheels.”

  “I know. It’s been quite a week.” Inspiration seized Vince. “I found a terrific new pasta restaurant the other night. It’s on West Fifty-eighth Street. We can take in a movie after.”

  “Great.” Hank stretched. “Oh boy, it’s good to be here. Mom and Blubber are sore at each other.”

  It’s none of my business, Vince thought, but couldn’t help himself. “Why?”

  “She wants a Rolex for her birthday. A sixteen, five Rolex.”

  “Sixteen thousand five hundred dollars? And I thought she was expensive when I was married to her.”

  Hank laughed. “I love Mom, but you know her. She thinks big. What’s going on with the serial murder case?”

  The phone rang. Vince frowned. Not again on Hank’s night, he thought, observing that Hank’s reaction was to look interested. “Maybe there’s been a break,” Hank said as Vince picked up the phone.

  It was Nona Roberts. “Vince, I hate to call you at home, but you did give your number. I was out on location all day and stopped by the office just now. There’s a message from Dr. Nash. His editor doesn’t want him talking about personal ads now when his own book is scheduled for fall publication. Have you any other ideas about a shrink who might be particularly tuned in to this subject?”

  “I deal with a few who are members of AAPL. That’s an organization of shrinks who are specialists in psychiatry and law. I’ll try and get one of them for you by Monday.”

  “Thanks a lot. Again, forgive me for bothering you. I’m off to Pasta
Lovers for another bowl of that spaghetti.”

  “If you get there first, ask for a table for three. Hank and I are just leaving.” Vince realized he sounded presumptuous. “Unless, of course, you’re with your own friends.” Or friend, he thought.

  “I’m by myself. That sounds great. See you there.” The phone clicked in his ear.

  Vince looked at Hank. “Is that okay with you, Chief?” he asked. “Or would you have preferred just the two of us?”

  Hank reached for the jacket that had landed on the armless easy chair. “Not at all. It’s my duty to check out your dates.”

  XIX

  SUNDAY

  March 10

  Darcy left for Massachusetts at seven o’clock Sunday morning. How many times had she and Erin driven up together to see Billy, she wondered as she steered the car onto the East River Drive. Sharing the driving, stopping midway for carry-out coffee at McDonald’s, always deciding they really ought to get around to buying a thermos like the one they had had in college.

  The last time they’d agreed on that, Erin had laughed. “Poor Billy will be dead and buried before we ever get that thermos.”

  Now it was Erin who was dead and buried.

  Darcy drove straight through and got to Wellesley at eleven-thirty. She stopped at St. Paul’s and rang the doorbell of the rectory. The monsignor who had celebrated Erin’s funeral mass was there. She had coffee with him. “I left word at the nursing home,” she told him, “but I wanted you to know as well. If Billy needs anything, if he starts sinking, or if he becomes conscious and aware, please send for me.”

  “He’s not going to become aware anymore,” the monsignor said quietly. “I think that’s a special mercy for him.”

  She attended the noon mass and thought of the eulogy less than two weeks ago. “Who can forget the sight of that little girl pushing her father’s wheelchair into this church?”

  She went to the cemetery. The ground had not yet settled over Erin’s grave. The dark brown soil was still uneven; a glaze of frost over it shimmered in the slanting rays of the weak March sun. Darcy knelt, removed her glove, and placed her hand on the grave. “Erin. Erin.”