A Cast of Killers (30 page)

Timmy. The boy in Emily's photos and, most
definitely, the boy he'd seen in the apartment next to hers, two
days ago with a middle-aged man. Seeing him in person confirmed it
and he realized that he should have made the connection before. And
he was probably the kid that Herbert had spotted leaving the
building the night before.

So Timmy knew Lance Worthington. But what did
that mean? And Lance Worthington knew, but did not necessarily
like, Leteisha Swann. And none of them looked much like Mother
Teresa from T.S.'s vantage point.

He hurried down the block toward his
rendezvous with Auntie Lil. As he passed by a large potted fir tree
in front of a Brazilian restaurant, he could have sworn he heard
his name called out. It was as faint as the wind and just as
fleeting.

He stopped abruptly. "What?" he said. A woman
passing by glanced at him, stepped up her speed, stared back at him
again and accelerated some more.

"What?" T.S. said again.

"Give my regards to Lillian," a muffled voice
replied. "The Eagle has not yet flown the coop."

"For God's sake, Herbert." T.S. straightened
the hem of his sweater and moved resolutely forward. "Now you're
just showing off."

Auntie Lil had not waited for him to begin
lunch. The last slurp of Bloody Mary had suddenly convinced her
that she needed food— and fast. By the time T.S. arrived, she was
halfway through a pork chop practically the size of a manhole. A
small pile of bones on her plate signified the recent demise of
another, equally enormous chop.

"I'll have what she just vacuumed up," he
told the waiter automatically.

"Wise choice," Auntie Lil affirmed, her mouth
full of food. "What did you find out?"

He told her the particulars about Lance
Worthington and his actions earlier that day, then outlined his
plan to find out more about the producer. Her eyes twinkled. Either
she approved or she'd had a whopping big drink before he got there.
Speaking of which—he ordered himself a Dewars and soda.

"You just want an excuse to see Lilah," she
said once she'd swallowed her last chunk of meat. "But I approve
heartily. You can get right beside him and see if it's all smoke or
a little bit of fire, too. What would he be doing with a street
kid?"

"He could be one of Timmy's customers. Or, he
could just be there in the building collecting the rent."

They stared at one another, neither of them
believing the last theory. "How do we explain the blonde on his arm
if Worthington is one of Timmy's customers?" Auntie Lil asked.
There went the first theory, too.

"I have even more interesting news," T.S.
told her, abandoning their dilemma and savoring the chance to
surprise her for a change.

"What?" she demanded. "You're holding back on
me."

He told her about Fran not speaking to Father
Stebbins. Her reaction was swift and surprised.

"What could have happened to cause such a
thing?" she wondered out loud.

"I don't know." His drink arrived and he
refreshed himself, realizing that his encounter with Adelle still
rankled. He told Auntie Lil about it. "She was very proud of her
disguise, but I was upset."

Auntie Lil reached over and patted his hand.
"I know. They live very close to that life and it's frightening to
see them go over to the other side. Yet, you have to admire their
verve at taking it on, if only as a temporary disguise."

"She said she could fool anyone," T.S.
repeated. "And I bet she could."

Auntie Lil was quiet, considering his words.
T.S. caught on and fell silent as well.

"She could fool anyone," Auntie Lil admitted.
"Perhaps we would do well to remember that."

"Did you get Santos?" he asked. The thought
of one little old lady murdering another was depressing, but did
nothing to squelch his appetite. His plate arrived and he dived
right in. He was hungry. Watching Auntie Lil eat often had that
effect.

"He's going to send some men to canvass the
apartment building again. This time they'll check every apartment,
not just the one we think is Emily's. If The Eagle's there, they'll
find him. But I heard something else that's intriguing."

"What?" he asked, hurrying through his pork
chops before Auntie Lil decided she was hungry again.

"Bob Fleming of Homefront has obtained
information that a sinister, wealthy man in a black limousine was
riding around the neighborhood three nights ago, flashing
photographs of Emily dead. Where did he get those photos? What is
he doing with them? The young black boy in Emily's photos, Little
Pete, saw the man. He was frightened and ran away."

T.S. stared at her, mouth open and pork chops
forgotten.

"For heaven's sake, Theodore. Close your
mouth when you chew."

"Auntie Lil," T.S. said, horrified. "He's
talking about me." Unwillingly, a flush crept up his neck and
across his face. "When I stopped to get the photos developed, I had
to do it at Times Square. It was the only place open. A young black
kid was in the crowd. He saw me and ran away."

Auntie Lil stared at him. "You might have
told me this earlier. Didn't you recognize the child when you saw
the photos in Emily's apartment?"

"No, I did not. Remember, I did say I thought
I had seen him before."

He cut into his pork chop with defensive
energy. "Besides, the kid I saw on the street looked a hell of a
lot older and wiser than the kid in the photograph."

"It's the same one. I hope to meet and talk
with him today."

"Well, then, you'd better keep an eye out,"
T.S. warned. "So far as I'm concerned neither of these kids is much
of a kid. Either one of them, or both of them, might have set Emily
up. So watch your step."

It was the most depressing theory yet.

It felt strange to be back in his apartment
in the middle of the afternoon. The television stood, dark and
cold, in one corner of his living room—now nothing more than a
reminder of his past boredom. He passed by it without so much as a
glance. It was the telephone he was after. Maybe it was just an
excuse to get to see her—and maybe it was a wild goose chase—but if
it was a choice between spending time with Lilah and being ordered
around by Auntie Lil, he had no trouble reaching a decision.

He reached Lilah on his first attempt and she
quickly agreed to clear her schedule and be a part of his plans to
learn more about Lance Worthington.

"You are much more than a prop," he assured
her formally. "I don't want you to think I'm just using you and
your money. Your presence will be essential to my morale."

She laughed merrily,
although he had not intended to be funny. He was vaguely
embarrassed, but relief took its place when she promised,
"I
'll be there if you
need me."

The next phone call would be harder as it
required a host of lies and, despite his Peter Pan performance
earlier, T.S. was basically scrupulously honest and thus not a good
liar at all.

He located the number easily enough, took a
deep breath, told himself he was as good a fabricator as Auntie Lil
any day, and dialed.

The breathy redhead answered on the first
ring. She had been expecting a call from one of her many admirers.
"Broadway Backers," she cooed. "Home of tomorrow's hits. How may I
help you?"

"Lance Worthington," T.S. demanded in a deep
executive voice. "And hurry. I'm returning his call and I've got
another appointment on tap."

"Certainly, sir," she replied promptly. "Whom
may I tell him is calling?"

T.S. winced at her affectation. Correct
grammar did not excuse an improper voice. But even worse, whom the
hell could she say was calling? He had failed to prepare a cover in
advance. So much for being as good a liar as Auntie Lil. He patted
his sweater nervously… well, what did it matter? No one knew him
from Adam and, unlike Auntie Lil, he did not relish skulking around
in disguises and playing those types of games. He would give his
real name. Besides, he had to use Lilah's real name.

"This is Mr. T.S. Hubbert," he told the
receptionist. "Private investor."

"Private investigator?" she asked in sudden
alarm.

"In-vest-or." he repeated imperiously. "And
I'm a very busy man."

"Right away, sir," she promised but followed
it up by putting him on hold. Less than twenty seconds later,
however, a male voice came on the line.

"Lance Worthington here." The producer's tone
managed to be unctuous, impatient and suspicious all at the same
time.

"T.S. Hubbert," T.S. barked. "I heard you
were looking for investors."

Lance Worthington's voice smoothed into a
mellow purr. He sounded as if someone had poured a quart of honey
down his throat. "We only have a very few spots left," he said.
"The new show's getting excellent word-of-mouth. If you want in,
the minimum may be a bit steep."

"I can handle it," T.S. assured him. "The
main thing is, I want in."

"How did you hear about our new venture?"
Worthington asked and T.S. could detect a small note of suspicion
creeping back in. Perhaps he was making it too easy.

"My girlfriend told me about it. Lilah
Cheswick. Know her? Wealthy widow? Well-built dame. Used to be
married to Wall Street's Robert Cheswick." Well-built dame? T.S.
almost choked on the words. But it was essential to establish
man-to-man contact, and he had a rather heavy-handed idea of what
this man-to-man business meant.

As expected, Worthington knew the name
Cheswick immediately. Anyone who'd spent time digging around for
money couldn't help but know the name. And it did the trick. All
suspicion disappeared, to be replaced by ingratiating greed. "Is
she interested in investing as well?" Worthington asked. "Like I
say, we have a few spots left."

"We'll both have to reserve final judgment
until we hear more about the show," T.S. told him. No sense in
being too easy to hook. The man's true character would be better
revealed if he saw him in full action.

"Let me meet the two of you tonight," the
producer suggested. "I don't want to rush you, but we really do
need to wrap up the financing and get on with the creative. Timing
is everything, you know."

Yeah, T.S. knew that quite well. And timing
was particularly important when you thought you had a couple of
rich suckers on the line and wanted to reel them in quickly so they
could sign on the dotted line.

"I don't know about tonight," T.S. said
reluctantly. "I had a business dinner..."

"I hate to pressure you," Worthington said
smoothly. "But I'm out the rest of the week and I have a couple of
other potential investors to talk to who are all very anxious to
get a piece of this pie." He let his voice trail off in a small
sigh of warning: you're about to lose a big share of profits, it
implied.

"Oh, all right." T.S. pretended to suddenly
make up his mind. "I'll have my secretary rearrange things. You
can't let a good thing go without giving it a chance. Am I
right?"

"You're absolutely right. And I'll even make
up the lost dinner to you. I'll take you and… uh, Ms. Cheswick to
dinner while we talk."

Lance Worthington was a particularly greedy
man and so, in a flash of perverse justice, particularly easy to
gull. Whether or not this got T.S. anywhere was another story. But
at least he and Lilah would get a fancy dinner out of their
charade.

But even that was not to be. Lance
Worthington was not just greedy, he was cheap. He suggested dinner
at Sam's, a neighborhood theater bar. It was to give them a flavor
of the theatrical life, he said, though T.S. knew the attraction
was more likely Sam's low prices. Nonetheless, he agreed to meet
the producer there at eight o'clock. The time was perfect,
Worthington insisted in an insider voice, explaining that "the
annoying pre-theater tourist crowd will have left."

Too bad, T.S. thought to himself. If they
decided to stick around, they'd be in for quite a show.

Auntie Lil was perched on a small plastic
chair in the outer room of Homefront. She was waiting for Little
Pete to show. Bob Fleming sat at his battered desk in the rear,
arguing with someone over the phone about receiving a larger share
of a city grant. Just as his shouting rose to an angry roar, the
front door of the runaway shelter opened and an Irish amazon
stepped through.

She was a large woman whose height approached
six feet and whose weight looked composed entirely of muscle. She
wore a pair of tight black leggings, a gray sweatshirt that hung to
mid-thigh, thick white socks and sturdy athletic shoes. The
no-nonsense outfit only highlighted the woman's incredible physical
strength even more. Her leg and thigh muscles were taut and highly
developed; her forearms were muscular and firm. But she was not
bulky at all. She was sleek and streamlined, moving with the grace
of a stalking panther. Her face was broad and burnished by the sun,
glowing with a tan the color of honey. Her round cheeks were
flushed red in almost comical good health. When she noticed Auntie
Lil, the woman's immediate smile was startling— the wide mouth
pulled back to reveal large, very white teeth. Above the smile, her
eyes glittered with an icy blue that seemed to bore right through
Auntie Lil. She stood in the doorway, looking around while she
bounced on her insteps and ran impatient fingers through a wavy
crop of short brown hair.

Bob Fleming's reaction was enthusiastic. He
slammed the phone down the instant he saw her and his scowl was
transformed into an unexpected and unabashed grin. He met the
enormous woman at the front counter and gave her a quick hug.

"Meet Annie O'Day," he said to Auntie Lil.
"Angel of the streets."