A Cast of Killers (43 page)

It held two keys taped to a small piece of
paper. Emily's address was neatly printed beneath them.

It was not until she was a block away from
Homefront that a sudden thought struck Auntie Lil. It emerged with
frightening clarity: she could be walking into a trap. What if this
was what had happened to Eva?

Auntie Lil hesitated, unsure of who she could
turn to for help. Certainly not Detective Santos. He had threatened
her with everything short of the electric chair if she continued to
interfere. Herbert was probably back on the street by now. She'd
just have to try Theodore again. She fumbled for a quarter in the
depths of her enormous pocketbook and dialed her nephew. The
answering machine picked up again. Where was he and what in the
world was he up to? Her message reflected her annoyance.

She couldn't afford to speculate. She'd miss
meeting Timmy. She hung up and pressed on toward Homefront. A block
away, she slowed and began checking the windows of the nearby
diners and delis. When she caught sight of Bob Fleming sitting all
alone in one of them, staring into his coffee cup, she relaxed. If
he was in there, that meant he wasn't waiting behind a door to
knock her over the head and toss her into the Hudson to follow poor
Eva down the river.

Of course, Annie O'Day was nobody's weakling.
And who was to say that she had stayed behind at St. Barnabas? She
could just as easily be waiting behind a door at Homefront. As
could anyone else who was in on the scheme. And suppose Bob was
nothing more than a ruse to relax her and lure her into the
trap?

Suppose, suppose and suppose. She was sick of
supposing. Auntie Lil shook her head resolutely and headed toward
Homefront. At some point you just had to stop supposing and get on
with life.

Homefront was empty: there was no one waiting
behind the unlocked front door to hit her over the head, or
anywhere else for that matter. Auntie Lil even checked behind Bob
Fleming's desk, but the frustrating truth was all too clear—Timmy
had fled. For whatever reason, he had changed his mind about
retracting and taken to the streets again, leaving the director of
Homefront to grapple with the charges against him as before.

"He's gone, isn't he?" The deep voice
startled her and she jumped, knocking the receiver of a telephone
off the wall. Bob Fleming was too distraught to care. He just
brushed past her and sat down at the desk, head in hands. "I knew
he wouldn't stick around. He was too scared. I'm surprised he even
came here in the first place." The big man sighed. "I'm not
surprised Annie could talk him into telling the truth, but I'm even
less surprised that they got to him again."

"They?" Auntie Lil stared at Fleming. His
despair was genuine and so, she thought, was his innocence. "Who's
'they'?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. It could be
anyone. I step on a lot of toes if I do my job right. When I take
kids off the street, I'm taking money out of someone's pocket. It
could be a lot of people. But if I knew..." His voice trailed off
and he stared out the window at the empty sidewalk. "He won't be
back."

His hand flashed down with one swift, sudden
slap and a small container of paper clips shattered into plastic
shards. Bob Fleming took no notice.

Auntie Lil did. Whether Bob Fleming was
innocent or not, she became acutely aware that she was alone with
him in a small room with an exit that was easily blocked and a
storefront that was too far west to attract much traffic this time
of day. She edged toward the door, clucking sympathetically. Two
more steps and she was only an arm's length away from the
opening.

"Where are you going?" Fleming asked her
suddenly. She took another step toward the door and he watched her
with an absent, perplexed scrutiny as he played with the paper
clips scattered across his desk.

"I've got to get back to St. Barnabas," she
said as calmly as she could, confused by the sudden fright washing
over her. "They are terribly shorthanded and need help
serving."

Bob Fleming stared out the window. "Annie's
there."

"Yes, she is. But I'm sure she needs help."
Auntie Lil backed up carefully, feeling the doorjamb behind her.
One more step and she'd be home free.

"Perhaps I should go with you. I might as
well help out." Bob Fleming stood abruptly but she was already out
the door, pretending not to have heard. Without looking back, she
waved a cheerful goodbye over one shoulder and walked rapidly east.
His brooding preoccupation disturbed her. He looked as if, beneath
the surface, emotions were simmering at dangerous levels; when he
finally cracked the explosion would be considerable.

She headed toward Emily's street, thinking of
her next step. She had told Bob Fleming the truth; her final
destination was St. Barnabas. But first she needed to talk to
Herbert Wong.

When Auntie Lil walked past the Jamaican
restaurant, Nellie was back on her table perch, surveying the
streets. Their eyes locked briefly but Nellie's face showed no
signs of recognition. Perhaps she had truly forgotten who Auntie
Lil was. Or perhaps she was just a very good actress.

Herbert was once again ensconced in the
parking lot across from Emily's house. This time no attendant was
in sight and his only companion was a large, mangy-looking dog that
slept quietly at his feet.

Herbert rose and bowed respectfully. "The
attendant and I agreed that so long as I was here, I might as well
help him out. Therefore, he is in a bar nearby enjoying his
newfound freedom and I, being a scrupulously honest man, collect
the tolls for him. It gives my pose much legitimacy."

"I thought disguises were superfluous and New
Yorkers supplied their own blinders," she pointed out somewhat
archly.

"Forgive me." Herbert bowed again. "I was in
a distraught state when you found me. Tired and depressed from a
night of fruitless work. Besides, if I help out the parking lot
attendant, he will tell me what goes on in Miss Emily's building
when I am not here."

"Where's Franklin?"

"He is seeking the man who first spotted The
Eagle. He was seen near Madison Square Garden early this afternoon,
so Franklin is down there now."

"At last." Auntie Lil stared at the facade of
Emily's apartment building. "Anything unusual happen today?"

"No. Except that The Eagle has still not yet
left the building and that the police claim he is not inside,
everything here appears to be normal."

Auntie Lil sighed and her face sagged. It was
time to break the bad news to him.

"You have found out the whereabouts of Miss
Eva," Herbert Wong said sadly as he searched her face. Herbert
often communicated on a deeper, unsaid level.

"Yes. It was her."

Herbert's face fell in dignified sadness. "I
do not believe that it could be thought of as your fault," he said
quietly. "I hope you are not blaming yourself."

"Well, of course I am." Auntie Lil stared
dejectedly at Emily's building. "If not for me, they wouldn't have
been parading around the streets. In fact, it might be because of
me specifically that she was killed."

"You must explain," he said gently, guiding
her to his chair.

"The police, or at least Detective Santos,
think it likely that the killer was after me. We are very alike in
physical characteristics, except for our hair."

"Perhaps." Herbert allowed a tiny shrug, as
if humoring the police. "However, perhaps not. She may have brought
it upon herself through her own actions."

"Maybe." Auntie Lil felt silent.

"And you cannot bring yourself to inform the
other ladies at St. Barnabas?"

"Correct. You may call me a coward, if you
wish."

"You are a brave and honest woman, Lillian,"
he replied. "But this is not a task that you should handle. I shall
tell the ladies the bad news myself. We are due to assemble in a
few hours. Instead of the usual warning, I shall tell them of Eva's
death." He paused briefly. "I will also tell them that they must
not pretend anymore. That they must stay at home where it is safe
and leave the rest of the investigation up to the police." He
stared steadily at Auntie Lil and she did not respond. It was one
of the few times he had ever tried to impose his will on her and
she sensed that arguing with him would not be a wise course to
choose. Besides, he was right.

It still hurt to admit it. "You're right,"
she finally said, rising with a sigh, telling him of the dire
warnings she had received from Detective Santos and Lieutenant
Abromowitz. "It is too dangerous. We must give up the game."

"Regrettably," Herbert added.

"And so it must be done." She managed a small
wave and continued her trek to the church, passing a familiar old
man in another lawn chair at the far end of the block. His nose was
as bulbous as a cauliflower; his clothes were as drab and tan as
the building behind him. He recognized Auntie Lil, but she was too
preoccupied to notice that her progress up Eighth Avenue was being
carefully observed.

It was back to the soup kitchen, she thought
glumly, back to being nothing more than a bored old lady whose mind
was sharper than her body and who harbored illusions that she
could, with all her frailties, be the one capable of bringing
justice to the mean streets of Hell's Kitchen.

Stop whining, she commanded herself suddenly.
There was still an ace card she could play. She stopped at three
pay phones until she found one that worked, then dialed Margo
McGregor's number. The columnist still was not in and the busy
reporter who answered took her latest message with bored
efficiency.

Auntie Lil hung up glumly. She had to get
through to Margo McGregor for help. Because her only hope now was
publicity. Maybe then, public pressure would force Lieutenant
Abromowitz to put more men on the job.

As soon as she saw the long line still
snaking down the sidewalk toward St. Barnabas, she realized that
they were in deep trouble and hurried inside. Nearly everyone
should have been fed by now.

To her surprise, Bob Fleming had kept his
word. Despite his own miseries, he was there behind the counter
handing plates of hot food across to hungry patrons. Father
Stebbins was back at work beside him, looking uncharacteristically
subdued. Annie O'Day was sweating over one of the big industrial
stoves in back, while the remaining volunteers fought valiantly to
maintain order.

She saw at once where the confusion began.
Auntie Lil appointed herself guardian of the silverware and
napkins, then began to hand out trays. The logjam in the line
cleared quickly and the flow of hungry people picked up their
pace.

Thank God Adelle and her followers had
already been through the line. Auntie Lil did not think that she
could look them in the eye knowing that Eva was dead and that they
were all about to be pulled off their unofficial positions on the
case. Herbert was right. This was a job for him. He handled the
dirty work so well.

Auntie Lil took advantage of a lull in the
crowd to speak to Bob Fleming. She felt guilty for having been
afraid of him at Homefront. "I must salute you," she began. "Being
able to put your own troub—" She stopped. Bob Fleming had turned
pale and was not listening. He was staring at the door behind
her.

She whirled around. Little Pete was heading
straight for them and his face was streaked with tears. Gone was
the tough little man of the streets. He was a terrified child
crying for help. At first she could not understand his words, he
was emitting such an hysterical mixture of cries and bellowings.
Bob Fleming was better at the translation.

"What?" He jumped over the counter and pushed
a hungry customer aside. "What did you say?" he demanded of the
terrified boy. Father Stebbins hurried around the counter and
joined the tableau.

"He's dead," Little Pete shouted, tears
streaking down his face. "I think he's dead. The man said to go get
Timmy at Homefront and bring him to this old building but when we
got there, Rodney started beating up on him. You should have heard
the sound. I had to run away. He was too big." The boy held his
hands over his ears and shut his eyes to erase the memory. "I
didn't know where else to go. You wasn't at Homefront so I thought
of here."

"Where is Timmy now?" Fleming shouted,
pulling on Little Pete's arms. He screamed over his shoulder for
Annie O'Day. Auntie Lil knelt down and drew the sobbing boy close.
She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered around them, and
that Adelle and her followers hovered on the outer perimeter
watching and exchanging horrified glances.

"Where is he now?" Bob Fleming insisted
again, before he was pushed aside by an efficient Annie O'Day.

"Pete, Pete, Pete," she repeated over and
over until the boy calmed down. "Maybe Timmy isn't dead. Maybe he's
just hurt. I want you to bring me to him. Okay? I'll come with you
now and you show me where he is. Where the man left him. I'm a
nurse. Maybe I can help Timmy." She spoke slowly and calmly until
the small boy stopped trembling. The rest of the room waited
quietly. She knew what she was doing.

"He's in that old piano warehouse along
Eleventh Avenue," Little Pete sobbed in a tiny voice. He gulped.
"There's a way to sneak in the back."

"He's talking about the building at Eleventh
and Forty-Sixth," Annie told Bob Fleming sharply. "Call an
ambulance and have them meet me there." She turned back to Little
Pete and her voice softened to that of a mother crooning a child to
sleep. "Can you take me there?" she asked gently. "I'll bring my
bag and we'll see what we can do."

Pete nodded and waited while Annie grabbed
her bag from a shelf in the kitchen, then took her outstretched
hand. They walked calmly out of the basement and the crowd parted
before them without comment. Even the most deranged of the
kitchen's customers sensed that something terrible had just
happened and that, whatever it was, it was bad enough without their
help.