Blood Innocents (10 page)

“When was the last time you saw them?” Reardon asked.

“Oh, I don't know,” Levinson said casually. “Several days ago, I guess.”

“Did you ever see them with anybody else?”

“No. No. I don't think so.”

Reardon stood up. “I guess that's it, then.”

Levinson jumped to his feet. “Just a second, Mr. Reardon,” he said, his eyes darting about the apartment. “How about a drink? I got some high-class stuff.”

“No, thanks.” Reardon said, starting toward the door.

Levinson grabbed Reardon's arm. “Uh, wait a minute. I, uh, I might have a proposition to make to you.”

Reardon stopped and Levinson released Reardon's arm. “Look,” he said nervously, “I'm a writer. You know? Free-lance. This sounds to me like it could be a real story. A big story. Maybe we could work together on it.”

“This is a murder investigation,” Reardon replied coolly.

“I know, I know, but these things make a good read. There's a big audience for this sort of thing.”

“I'm a homicide detective,” Reardon said. He could not think of any other reply.

“Yeah,” Levinson said enthusiastically, “that's great! You got all the dope! You got the inside track! You've seen the bodies, that sort of thing! You got access to pictures!”

Reardon could feel the heat rising in his face. “Go fuck yourself,” he said.

Levinson stepped back. “So who are you, Rockefeller?” he snapped.

Reardon opened the door of the apartment and stepped into the hall.

“You think that's the end of it, don't you?” Levinson shouted after him.

Reardon did not respond. He proceeded down the hallway toward the stairs.

“Well, it's not. It's not the end of it,” Levinson called. “I'll get it from somebody else. You think you're the only flatfoot in this fucking shit-hole town?”

Reardon did not turn around. He started up the stairs to the second floor.

On the second floor Reardon found one empty, unrented apartment and one witness.

The witness was a small-framed middle aged woman with thick tortoise-shell glasses. As she opened the door to let him enter, Reardon noticed that she wore a flimsy nightgown that was almost transparent.

The living room was painted bright red with yellow trim. B-movie posters were plastered to the walls in various places, and a picture of Florenz Ziegfeld was illuminated by a fluorescent bulb.

“My mother's,” the woman explained. “She always claimed to be his mistress.” She stared at the picture contemptuously. “She was full of crap. To the day she died, just full of crap.” She turned to Reardon and smiled. “Sit down,” she said. “Rest your feet.”

Reardon sat down. The woman slid into the chair opposite him with an exaggerated gesture of grace.

“I'm Mrs. Marjorie Malloy, but you can call me Meg.”

“How long have you lived in this apartment, Mrs. Malloy?” Reardon asked.

“Longer than it takes to spit, by God,” she replied with a grin. “Thirty-two years.”

“You know there was a double murder in this building last night?”

“I figured something like that. Place was blue as a strangled nun with all you cops this morning.”

Reardon shook his head to dissolve the repellent image. “The victims were the two women who live upstairs. Lee McDonald and Karen Ortovsky. Did you know them?”

“Just to say hi in the hall.”

“When did you see them last?”

“This morning, about three A.M. That was funny, too,” Mrs. Malloy added. “They usually kept regular hours.” She smiled. “They was lezzies, you know.”

“The two women?”

“Yep.” Mrs. Malloy looked at Reardon suggestively. “I'm a man's woman, myself.”

“Did you stay home the rest of the night?”

“Naw, I went right back out again. Like I said, I'm a man's woman. I met this guy in the bar, Donahue's down the street, and we got to talking and he invited me over to his house, you know? So I told him okay, but I needed to get some things from my place. So he wanted to come with me, but I says, ‘Hell, no,' I says, ‘I live in a high-class building, so I have to keep a low profile,' you know?”

Reardon nodded.

“These assholes in this building will complain about anything, so you have to watch yourself. I been a widow for longer than I can remember. No children. I can have my fun, but I keep it private.”

“When you saw them this morning, were they alone?”

“No, they had somebody with them.”

“Can you describe that person?”

“Kind of tall. About six feet, I guess. But if she was a he, then he was kind of average size, I guess.” She hesitated. “You see, they all had their backs to me. The other one was walking in between Karen and Lee, and they were all wearing jeans and shirts and that person had long black hair. So I couldn't tell if it was male or female.”

Reardon stared down at his pen as it scratched across his notebook.

“You've got a sensitive look,” Mrs. Malloy said.

Reardon did not look up.

“Sensitive eyes. Sensitive hands and face. What else is sensitive?”

Reardon looked up. He repeated his previous question. “Did you know either Miss McDonald or Miss Ortovsky very well?”

“Not very. They was lezzies, and I'm not. I stay the hell away from that sort.”

“How did you know that?” Reardon asked.

Mrs. Malloy laughed. “I could hear them going at each other at night. Moaning and groaning, you know. Sometimes I'd see them bring a man up to their rooms. But that didn't mean nothing. In just a little while I could hear them going at each other again.” She laughed. “Don't get me wrong. I don't give a damn. Kicks is kicks, but I get my kicks from a man.”

Reardon stood up. “I guess that's it for now.”

Mrs. Malloy walked him to the door and opened it. “Don't get me wrong,” she said softly, “I'm sorry about those girls.”

“I know,” Reardon replied.

“I hope I didn't embarrass you. I sometimes embarrass people.” She paused a moment, glanced down at her feet, then up to Reardon's face. “I sometimes embarrass myself,” she added wearily.

Reardon put out his hand and Mrs. Malloy took it in hers.

“Thank you for coming forward, Mrs. Malloy.”

She smiled faintly, sadly, “It's my duty, right?”

“Yeah, it is,” Reardon said.

Reardon spent the rest of the day in the Buildings Department. He hoped that Petrakis' former landlord might know where he had moved, but the apartment house from which he had been evicted was owned by the Upward Real Estate Company, which was, in turn, owned by the Amalgamated Owners Cooperative. Methodically Reardon pursued this corporation, only to discover that it was held by yet another: the East Coast Realty Investors Company. East Coast was a subsidiary of an even larger real estate corporation called the New York Investment Enterprise, Inc.

And for all intents and purposes, New York Investment was owned and controlled by a single individual: Wallace Van Allen.

9

FRIDAY

On Friday morning Reardon reported to Piccolini on the fallow deer and the murdered women. He began with the deer. “Bryant said —”

“Now that's the guy that works with Petrakis, right?” Piccolini interrupted.

“That's right. He said that he saw Petrakis about three A.M. in a coffee shop only a few blocks from the zoo. Petrakis told him that he was just about broke and that he had decided to come to work that night because he needed the money.”

“Okay,” Piccolini said.

“But Petrakis never reported coming to work that night to anybody in the Parks Department.”

Piccolini nodded.

Reardon continued. “Now Bryant said that Petrakis was in a rage at being thrown out of his old apartment on the East Side. He kept talking about how rotten his landlord was, how he hated him, all that.”

“So?”

“Well, his landlord was Wallace Van Allen,” Reardon said. “It's our first real angle. Our first connection. It may not be anything, not even worth a second thought, but it could be something. Petrakis could have killed the deer to get back at Van Allen.”

“For evicting him.”

“Right.”

“He knew that Van Allen gave the deer to the zoo?” Piccolini asked.

“All the people at the zoo knew that and Petrakis was working at the zoo when the donation was made. It's not likely that he wouldn't have been aware of it. You know all the publicity it got.”

“Yeah,” Piccolini agreed, “he would have to have known. Where is this Petrakis?”

“We haven't been able to locate him yet. After he was evicted nobody seems to know where he went.”

“Well, find him,” Piccolini said. “And do it fast. I would be the last person to blame it on the guy if there's no connection, but he could be our man.”

“And we've also got a cocaine bust not far from where the deer were killed at about the same time — I mean, a little after the time they were killed. We're trying to get to talk to the guy who got busted.”

“Trying to talk to him? What's the problem?”

“Well, there's a lot of lawyers between him and us.”

The idea of a lot of smart lawyers hanging around a potential witness seemed to cool Piccolini's determination. “Well, do your best,” he said quietly. Then he changed the subject. “What about the girls in the Village?”

“We have one witness.”

Piccolini's ears perked up like those of a hunting dog. “A witness?”

“Well, not to the murders themselves …” Reardon added quickly. “Not a witness to those. But a woman saw the women go up to the apartment with a third person.”

“Description?”

“No. They all had their backs turned the whole time. They were going up the stairs.”

Piccolini nodded. “Well, what about that number? Dos?”

“It's there. Probably written in Lee McDonald's blood.”

“How'd the bodies look?” Piccolini asked. Then he caught himself. “I don't mean exactly how. But I mean, was what Mathesson said right? Was one of them pretty well cut up and the other one not?”

“Yeah,” Reardon said. He did not want to go any further with it, any more than Piccolini wanted him to.

“Well, is that it, then?”

“For now it is,” Reardon said.

“Okay,” Piccolini said. “Stay busy.”

Reardon nodded and walked out of the office. Yeah, he thought, stay busy.

Late that afternoon Reardon met Melinda Van Allen in the Children's Zoo. He had remembered Steadman saying that she was a strange girl and that she spent a lot of time in the park. It was not altogether inconceivable, Reardon thought, that she could have killed the fallow deer. Cases had been broken on slimmer leads before. Consequently he had gone back to Van Allen's building and mentioned to Steadman that he wanted to question Melinda Van Allen. Steadman had told him she was not in the building, but that he could probably find her sitting in the Children's Zoo.

That was where he found her.

“Miss Van Allen?” he said as he approached.

She looked up from a book. “Yes?”

Reardon had expected her to be prettier than she was. He had never really discarded the notion that rich young women were always beautiful. But Melinda Van Allen was not. She was large-boned and slightly overweight. Her hair was coarse and unruly, and her face was plain except for a certain fragile softness about the eyes which Reardon — in his present state of mind — instantly took to be a sign of sadness.

“My name is John Reardon. I'm a detective with the New York City Police Department. I'm investigating the killing of the deer your father donated to the zoo.” He sat down on the bench beside her. “It's a pleasant day, isn't it?”

“Lovely,” Melinda said. “Would you like some grapes?” She held out a paper bag.

“No, thank you.”

“Now that the boycott is over, I can eat all I want,” she said.

Reardon nodded. During the strike in the California vineyards he had quietly boycotted grapes himself.

“I'm very sorry about the deer,” Melinda said.

“Do you come to the zoo often?”

“All the time. It's one of my favorite places. I wanted to be a veterinarian when I was a child.”

Reardon smiled. He shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets to protect them from the cold. He noticed that Melinda did not seem to be bothered much by the chill that surrounded them. But her coat was much heavier than his and, of course, she was younger.

“I wanted to be a kind of female Saint Francis,” Melinda explained.

“Is that what you're studying in school,” Reardon asked, “veterinary medicine?”

Melinda frowned. “Oh, no, that was just a childhood thing. No, I'm studying art now. I want to be a sculptress. There's no money in it of course.”

That struck Reardon as a curious remark from such a rich young woman, but he kept his opinion to himself.

“But I love it, you see,” she said energetically. “It's a passion with me.” She looked intently into Reardon's face. “I think it is important to be passionately committed to your work, don't you, Mr. Reardon?”

“I suppose,” Reardon said. “Of course, some jobs don't call for much passion.”

“But all jobs should,” Melinda said very seriously. “No one should do anything without having a total commitment to it. Total commitment is the key. Don't you think? Total commitment is the necessary element of total happiness. Without it, there is only frustration and bitterness.”

Reardon felt reasonably certain that Melinda had underlined and memorized that remark from something she had read. “Maybe so,” he said.

“Have you ever read Carlos Castaneda?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Carlos Castaneda. He's a sociologist.”