If I Should Die Before I Die (31 page)

“What're you talking about?”

“Dead to rights,” I repeated. Then, turning to Derr: “Tell him, Bobby.”

“It's the garage attendant, Booger,” Bobby said. “He puts you there the night Suzi was murdered.”

He didn't tell him how much the garage attendant had cost us. At $100, he thought he might have seen Powell that night. At $200 he was sure of it. Going in and coming out.

“So what? My mother lives in the same building.”

“We know that, Booger,” I said, taking it back from Bobby. “A very convenient coincidence. How else could a killer get in and out of the building without anybody paying attention? But let me ask you something, Booger. What do you think your mother has to say about whether you were there or not that night?”

I stared at him, not blinking, not budging.

“Go ahead, feller,” I said. “Take a guess.”

He stared back at me. I'd taken a shot in the dark, all right, but Powell and his buddies didn't exactly strike me as the type who went home for Friday night dinner.

“You bastard,” he said in that chirping voice. “You talked to my mother?”

I didn't answer. I just looked at him.

“You dirty bastard,” he said.

I let it lay there like that for a moment, then said:

“How else do you think we found you way out here in the boonies?”

No answer. He looked away from me, looked up, down, aside. I'd like to say some of the color drained from his ruddy complexion. Maybe it did at that.

“I think I better talk to a lawyer,” he said finally.

“A lawyer?” I said. “What do you need a lawyer for? We're not cops. We're just here making ourselves at home, like you said.”

He looked at his beer can, started to take a slug, then put it down. He stood up and, joining his hands, cracked his knuckles. Then sat down again.

“Maybe I'll take you up on the beer at that,” I said, standing. “You want one, Bobby?”

“Why not?” Bobby said.

I went to the refrigerator. The bottom shelves were solid Bud.

“How about you, Booger?”

“No thanks,” he answered from the window.

“Come on,” I said, bringing him one anyway. I popped mine, and Bobby his, but Powell just let his sit, the condensation dripping slowly down the sides.

“You know, Booger,” I said, sitting down again, “I hate to say it, but I think you're being a real jerk. Do you know what we really think, Bobby and me? We were talking about it on the way out here. We don't think you actually killed anybody, at least not Suzi Lee. We don't think you're the type. But we know you were there, and we can prove it. So what's the big deal? You helped somebody, that's all.”

For a second I thought I'd gone a little too far. He seemed to pull himself inside, and his blue eyes went small, ugly.

“Who wrote it on her mirror, Booger? ‘In Memoriam.' In memory of who, Booger? Carter McCloy?”

He shook his head, not so much denying anything but like he was trying to clear the cobwebs.

“You bastard,” he said. “Hal said you'd do exactly what you're doing.”

“What's that, Booger?”

“He said you'd try to split us up, pit one against the other. That's exactly what you're doing.”

“Not really,” I said, shaking my head. “If you ask me, that's Hal trying to save his neck. Maybe it's time you started doing that too.”

I took a sip from the can. It tasted dry and empty, flat in spite of the bubbles. Budweiser standard.

“If you ask me, Booger,” I went on, “you're being pigheaded. Do you realize the difference between murdering somebody and just being there? It's life and death, literally. You may think you're covering for Halloran, but you're the one who's got the problem.”

“You can't prove anything,” he answered.

“
We
don't have to prove anything,” I said. “It proves itself.
You
were the one who was in the building.”

“Hal wasn't with me,” he said doggedly.

I gave Budweiser a second chance. Better, but not much.

“That's funny,” I said, putting the can down again. “I'd've sworn I heard somewhere that you two were together that night, you and Hal. Didn't you hear that, Bobby?”

“Seems to me I did,” Bobby said, starting to grin.

Powell got it then: the alibi game. To his credit, he didn't break. He just grunted.

“The statement, you mean?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “The statement. The one Halloran took to the police.”

“Doesn't mean anything,” he said. “So I made a mistake.”

“Why'd you make a mistake?”

“Well, maybe Hal asked me to. He wanted people off his back, you included.”

“But the police have it now.”

“Big deal,” he said. “So I made a mistake.”

“You don't seem to get the point, Boog ole buddy,” I said. “If you weren't with Halloran, you were still in the building. Either you were there alone or with somebody else. And if you were there alone, that makes you a suspect in a murder.”

“You bastard,” Powell said for the umpteenth time.

“I've been called worse,” I answered. “And if you think I'm bad, I'm a pussycat compared to the cops when they'll think they've got the Suzi Lee killer in their hands. You tell him about it, Bobby. And tell him about plea bargains while you're at it. I've got to take a leak. Where's the john, Booger?”

He pointed up above. I went up the little staircase to the loft. I did in fact need the bathroom, but I also wanted to see what else was up there. And to give Powell time to think about what I'd said before I hit him with the rest of it.

Something wasn't right, though. Maybe Powell had been too easy. Obviously we were getting to him, and I thought there was a better-than-even chance we'd crack him right there and then. But where was Halloran? He was too smart to have left Powell alone with us unless he'd wanted to. Was this another Halloran joke, that we'd break Booger and still not be able to prove anything?

Party time.

Unlike the downstairs, the loft had been broken up into smaller rooms, some of which were separated by partitions which slid back and forth along floor and ceiling tracks. Curious, I pushed a couple open. Empty.

And then a third. Almost empty.

A girl was lying on a floor mattress, not Lucinda but of about the same size and age. Her back to me. Light brown hair. For clothes, a tie-dyed T-shirt. Bare ass. A portable radio was playing softly, something classical.

At first I thought she was asleep. Probably she was just a little stoned.

She rolled over in my direction, giggling a little. Pretty, except for the dark red contusion which ran off one cheekbone into the temple. A slurring voice.

“Hi,” she said. “I bet you're the one from the Census Bureau.”

“That's me,” I said. “Were you the one I talked to?”

“I thought that was pretty neat, that trick you pulled.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Who told you it was a trick?”

“Hal did.”

“Speaking of which, where is Hal?”

“Who cares?” she said, making a face.

“Did he do that to you?” I pointed at the bruise mark on her cheek.

“Who cares?” she repeated. “You're cuter than Hal. Why don't you come play with me?”

“Not now,” I said. “It's not party time yet. Where's the john?”

By way of answer, she flung an arm in the direction behind me, then rolled back over away from me.

“Where's Hal?” I repeated, but she seemed to have gone back beyond hearing.

I found the bathroom and relieved myself. No, it wasn't right. Halloran had gone off, leaving us a couple of underage bimbos to play with and Powell to work over. Up to you, take your choice. As if he didn't care.

I remember glancing at my watch. It was a little after five. Already dark out. I had to call the Counselor before six, but to judge from the traffic we'd run into earlier, they wouldn't be at their house in the Hamptons till even later.

I went back downstairs. By then, Powell was working on the beer I'd brought him, and Bobby Derr looked glad to see me.

“You know,” Powell said to me, “this is all so much baloney. So I was in the building that night? Big deal. My mother lives in the building.”

I shrugged.

“It's all the same to me, Booger. The police have already interviewed everybody who lives in the building. Your mother didn't mention anything about seeing you that night.”

“So what?”

“So, for one thing, what were you doing there?”

“That's my business.”

“Yours and Halloran's, you mean.”

“Hal wasn't there.”

“So you say now. But that's not what you attested to.”

“Like I say, maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I saw him later.”

“You didn't see him later,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I was there,” I said. “I know what time he got to Margie Magister's.”

He stared at me, his lower lip curling out over his upper, like he didn't know whether to believe me or not. Then he shook his beer can and, finding it empty, crushed it in his ham fist. A show of macho, I thought, for his own benefit.

It was his turn to get the beers. He did. Then I said:

“Okay, Booger, have it your own way. But let's talk about something else. Let's talk about Cloy.”

“What about Cloy?”

“Well, I've got an interesting theory about him. Actually more than a theory. I don't think he killed all those women.”

Surprise, surprise, Booger Powell didn't say anything. He just continued to stare at me rigidly, like if he turned his head, he might be giving something away.

“I'll take it a step further, Booger: I don't think he killed
any
of them. Except for Linda Vigliotti, but he blew it. That was no surprise either, was it? That he blew it? Carter McCloy may have been a lot of other things, but he wasn't too accomplished at murder. Or even willing, was he? He kept putting it off and putting it off until the rest of you pushed him into it, and then he blew it. Linda Vigliotti was supposed to be his turn up at bat. Only he missed his turn the first time around, and Hal let him because he was Hal's old friend, and it blew your minds.”

I paused to give him room to react. He didn't at first. He simply held my stare, or tried to. His version, I guess, of
mano a mano
.

“You're full of it,” he said finally.

“Am I, Booger?” I went on. “Ask Bobby. Remember I was there the night Cloy was supposed to put the pillow to Linda. At Rosebud's, remember? In the john? When McCloy got so drunk he threw up? I was the one you knocked on his ass, remember? What you don't know is that I followed you out of Rosebud's that night. I know what happened and what didn't happen. Who do you think it was who put McCloy to bed that night, when he was too blind drunk to stand up and the rest of you, Bobby included, were off balling the Staten Island girls?”

I was so convincing at it, I even had myself convinced, but I couldn't quite break him. So I took him through the alibi game. For each of the Pillow Killer murders except the last ones, McCloy, when the Task Force interrogated him, had come up with multiple alibis. But never the identical cast of characters. I knew Powell was off McCloy's list on two of the crimes: the Park Slope one and the Riverside Drive one. Damned if you do, I said to myself, damned if you don't, and I went for broke.

“I don't know, Booger,” I said, “but I've got you down for the Park Slope murder. What was her name again? That was yours, Booger. What do you say?”

“I'd say you're out of your mind,” he answered.

“Am I? What do you think, Bobby?”

“I don't think you're out of your mind at all,” Bobby Derr said.

“I've got people who'll testify I was nowhere near …” Powell tried to say, but I cut him off.

“Sure you do, Booger. It's all part of the alibi game. Funny thing, though: for a crime that took place over six months ago—and nobody's ever charged you with anything—you're still ready with your alibis. But what're you going to do about the evidence?”

“What evidence?”

“The police came up with something in Park Slope, Booger. Physical evidence. Seems like you were a little sloppy. Of course they couldn't match it up to McCloy because McCloy wasn't there, was he? But what'll happen when they try to match it to you?”

He thought about it. He looked at Bobby Derr—no help there—then back to me.

“You're lying,” he said. “There was no evidence.”

“I'm a lousy liar, Booger,” I answered. “I'll let Bobby tell you what a lousy liar I am. Meanwhile, is there a phone I can use?”

It was 5:45. I went down to the other end of the ground floor and tried the Counselor's Hamptons number. No answer. I tried again at six, again at six fifteen, same result.

Like I'd figured, they'd gotten stuck in traffic.

There was one other interruption. At some point, Lucinda and the girl with the bruised cheek hung their heads over the balustrade above us and asked when the party was going to start.

Powell told them to get lost. They'd be called down when anybody wanted them. When they started to complain, he told them to beat it. He said he'd pound them if they didn't get out of sight.

Nice.

The girls, though, took him at his word and disappeared. By this time Powell was on his fifth or sixth beer. Halloran still hadn't showed, but I figured we had the old Booger about ready for the count. His face was red, and he wiped at sweat with his forearm even though the room was on the cool side.

“You know, Booger, I think you're right at that,” I said, sitting down backwards on a chair, my arms propped over the top brace. “You ought to get a lawyer. You shouldn't take our word for anything. But the way I look at it is this: All you guys have got your asses covered six ways to Sunday … except you. You're in the building the night of the Suzi Lee murder—alone, you now say—and when the police find that out, they're going to sweat you real hard. Then, when we tell them to look at Park Slope in the Pillow Killer murders, you're going to be stuck. You and you alone. They'll throw away the key. The way it stands right now, I think I could get you a deal if you'll come clean. I even know where to go. His name is Andy Intaglio, he's in the Manhattan District Attorney's office, and he was on the Pillow Killer Task Force. You can take your time deciding if you want to, but my guess is that the longer you wait, the less likely anybody'll want to give you anything, much less immunity, and good ole Hal will be doing an ‘In Memoriam' for you.”