Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (36 page)

tom of a drawer.)

216

Selma
Eichler

‘‘Not a sound,’’ I was told as the killer pressed one of the buzzers.

A man’s hoarse voice came over the intercom. ‘‘Who is it?’’

Another buzzer was pressed. This time, someone

buzzed back.

Reaching in front of me, my captor opened the door to the once-grand lobby and shoved me inside. ‘‘Walk,’’ was the softly spoken command. Now the fingers of one hand tightly gripped my arm, while the other hand pressed the gun—carefully concealed in the folds of my coat—firmly into my side.

I was steered around a corner. Down the hall, a middleaged couple was just getting off the elevator. ‘‘Careful—and smile,’’ the killer warned, jiggling the weapon for emphasis. The couple was almost parallel with us now, smiling per

functorily at me and my deadly companion. A jab of the gun was a reminder that I was expected to return the smile. Putting all the fear in my heart into that one forced ex

pression, I willed those two people to look at me—
really
look at me. But in a moment they had passed, and I heard the front door close firmly after them.

‘‘Keep going,’’ I was ordered. Now we were alone in the long, dimly lit hall, the only other signs of life a muted chorus of TVs and stereos emanating from behind the cold

gray doors that lined the corridor on either side. We came to the elevators, and I thought briefly that the killer—under the impression Bromley might be home—

could be planning for the two of us to pay her a surprise visit. But, jerking the gun up and down again, the murderer nudged me forward.

I realized then that we were heading for the stairs. And I knew that once we reached the seclusion of the stairwell, I wouldn’t have a worry in the world. Not in
this
world, anyway.

Suddenly, without even knowing I was going to do it, I stopped short. Picking up my foot, I brought the thin spiked heel—fortified by the not inconsiderable poundage behind it—crashing down on my captor’s instep. The killer jumped back in pain, and I broke free, reversing direction and run

ning toward the front door.

‘‘Help!’’ I screeched in a voice that might have been heard on the moon.

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Not one gray door opened—a sad testimony to the qual

ity of big-city life in the nineties.

It’s amazing how much ground even the most out-of

condition body can cover when fueled by terror. But the murderer had something to fear now, too—along with a body in much better shape than my own.

And then, when there was no more than a foot or so between us, I got my inspiration.

‘‘Fire!’’ I screamed.

Immediately, a door flew open. And another. With the third, a large, heavyset man in an undershirt rushed out of his apartment, crashing into the two of us and knocking the gun to the floor.

There is something to be said for having a low center of gravity. I instantly regained my balance, and as my assailant bent down to retrieve the weapon, I aimed my foot at the obvious target. The well-placed kick sent the killer sprawling.

It was pandemonium by then, with more and more ten

ants pouring into the hall by the second. The killer was frantically scrambling for the gun now, amid cries of

‘‘What’s going on?’’ and ‘‘Is there a fire or isn’t there?’’

and ‘‘Is this some kind of a joke?’’

Surrounded by people and with the weapon completely obscured from sight, there was really no alternative. Springing to his feet and shoving everyone aside in a decidedly ungentlemanly, un-British manner, Eric Foster raced from the building.

Chapter 36

I was
that
close
to fainting, but I couldn’t spare the time. Quickly reaching into my handbag, I got out a handkerchief and, in the same motion, went down on all fours to take up the search Foster had been forced to abort.

I spotted the gun almost at once, but a high-heeled red slipper, a pair of running shoes, and the most beautiful black calf pumps (no doubt Italian) stood between the weapon and me. I rapped a few ankles with my knuckles, and, to the accompaniment of some indignant yelps, the obstacles were removed. Scooping up the gun in my hand

kerchief, I placed it carefully in my bag.

Now I could spare the time. So, heroine that I am, I promptly passed out cold.

Sputtering, I opened my eyes to a very earnest face just inches from my own. A man in his late twenties—thirty, at most—was kneeling beside me, waving a cotton pad doused

with something pungent under my nostrils. He wore a bright-colored plaid scarf around his neck, and there was a stethoscope over the scarf. His face had the pinched look people get when they’ve just been out in the cold for a long time.

‘‘How do you feel?’’ he asked anxiously.

‘‘Okay,’’ I coughed, pushing his hand with that lethal cotton pad away from my nose and struggling to sit up. He helped me into a seated position, while I tugged at my skirt, which had crawled up to somewhere in the vicinity of my most private parts. Embarrassed, I looked around. Only a few stragglers were left in the hall now, and they were gathered just a couple of feet away from me, staring curi

ously and speaking in hushed tones.

‘‘Go back to your apartments, everybody, please,’’ the

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young man entreated. ‘‘There’s no fire, and the lady’s all right.’’

As soon as the small assemblage had dispersed, he said,

‘‘My neighbor told me he thought you were mugged.’’

‘‘Not mugged, exactly. I’m a private investigator, and I ran into a suspect here who pulled a gun on me. And then, once it was all over,’’ I admitted sheepishly, ‘‘I guess I fainted.’’

‘‘I understand someone yelled ‘fire’ right before I came in. You?’’

‘‘Me.’’

‘‘Good thinking,’’ he remarked admiringly. And a mo

ment later: ‘‘I wonder if anyone bothered to call the police.’’

‘‘I’ll take care of it.’’ I was struggling to hoist myself up, but my caregiver cautioned me.

‘‘Sit there for a minute until I get back; I just want to drop this off in my apartment.’’ With that, he picked up the medical bag alongside me and shoved the stethoscope inside it. Then he retrieved the down jacket he’d evidently placed under my head and went loping down the hall. He returned before I could even think about ignoring his

decree. ‘‘Does anything hurt?’’ he asked.

‘‘Uh-uh.’’

‘‘Okay, then, easy now.’’ Placing a firm hand under my elbow and an arm around my waist, he assisted me in—

shakily—reaching my full five-foot-two-inch stature. ‘‘Would you like to come in and lie down for a while?’’ He was addressing me from an altitude of well over six feet, and it made me dizzy just looking up at him. ‘‘I’m a doctor,’’ he added hastily.

I smiled to myself. I was tempted to say
So
that’s
why
you
walk
around
with
a
stethoscope
dangling
from
your
neck,
but I censored the smart-ass remark. ‘‘Thanks, but I really
do
feel better now,’’ I assured him. ‘‘Although I’d appreciate it if I could use your phone to report this.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ He practically bent himself in half to steady me as we walked down the hall to his apartment. And I was grateful. The truth was, I was still a little light-headed. Plus the side of my head was kind of sore (although I suppose it would have been a lot sorer if I hadn’t passed out when it was only about nine inches off the floor). As soon as we were in his apartment, the doctor steered

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Selma
Eichler

me over to a chair and brought me a portable phone. Then

he retreated to the kitchen.

I dialed the precinct, but Fielding wasn’t on duty, so I tried him at home. ‘‘Is Tim there, Jo Ann?’’ I asked when his wife answered. ‘‘It’s Desiree Shapiro, and I’m sorry to have to bother him now, but it’s urgent.’’

‘‘What’s urgent?’’ Tim asked genially less than a minute later. He always assumes I’m exaggerating.

I began filling him in on what had transpired that eve

ning, skipping the details so I could get to the crucial point as quickly as possible: ‘‘. . . and when everyone rushed into the hall, Foster bolted. I knew you’d want to have him picked up right away.’’ Only then did I pause for breath.

‘‘Hold it a minute. Are
you
okay?’’ But once he was convinced I’d live, Fielding sounded very much as if he wanted to kill me. ‘‘Do you really think that limey hump’s hanging around the city waiting for the police to come call

ing on him? Not on your life! Not after you went hotfooting it down there and got him to attack you in front of a build

ing full of witnesses.’’

(I like
that;
I
got
him to attack me.) ‘‘Look, I—’’

‘‘Why’d you have to go running over there, anyway?

Even if Bromley
had
come back a day earlier, what was so urgent you couldn’t have held out until tomorrow?’’

‘‘It’s just that I—’’

‘‘You can bet the son of a bitch is on his way to God knows where right this minute, thanks to you!’’

‘‘But he turned in his passport,’’ I protested, finally man

aging to break in.

‘‘You ever heard of California? Or
New
Jersey
?’’

With those words, our conversation was abruptly

concluded.

A moment later, the doctor returned to the living room.

‘‘I just put up a pot of coffee. How about it?’’ he offered. Which is when—now that I was feeling a little more like myself again—I took note for the first time of how pleasantlooking he was.

‘‘Thanks, but I really have to be getting home. You’ve been very nice.’’
Very,
very
nice. I sneaked a glance at that crucial finger on his left hand. No ring! ‘‘I wouldn’t object to a glass of water, though,’’ I told him.

I insisted on accompanying him to the kitchen, which was

absolutely spotless. Either the doctor here was a real Mr.

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Clean or nobody ever cooked in this place. And he didn’t look like an obsessive to me. Then, when he opened the refrigerator for the ice water, I took a quick peek inside. A carton of milk, a couple of cans of Coke, a six-pack of beer, a plate of fruit, and, next to it, something that was probably a wedge of cheese. And that was about all. Not a single container of yogurt or cottage cheese. There was no cohabitating in
this
refrigerator, I decided happily. What I had standing in front of me at that very moment was one of the rarest creatures not yet in captivity: a young, single male who was considerate, attractive, and a doctor, to boot!

My sister-in-law, Margot, was going to bless me for this—

maybe even if he didn’t turn out to be Jewish.

A few minutes later, the doctor and I were standing out

side the building. He’d offered to see me home, and when I convinced him it wasn’t necessary, he insisted on putting me in a taxi. I extended my hand. ‘‘I want to thank you for everything, Dr. . . . ?’’

‘‘Lynton, Mike Lynton,’’ he said, taking the hand. ‘‘I’m sorry; I should have introduced myself before. But you were out cold when we first met,’’ he reminded me with a grin. ‘‘And then I seem to have forgotten about it.’’

‘‘Is that L-i-n-t-o-n?’’

‘‘L-
y
-n-t-o-n,’’ he corrected.

‘‘Are you in the phone book?’’

He misunderstood the reason for the question. ‘‘Yes, but

I’m not in private practice yet; I have another year of residency.’’

‘‘That’s okay; I already have a pretty good doctor.’’

Just then, a taxi came barreling around the corner, screeching to a stop in front of us.

Mike Lynton helped me inside. As the cab shot away from the curb, I realized I’d forgotten the same thing he had. I stuck my head out of the open window and yelled,

‘‘Mine’s Desiree Shapiro!’’

Chapter 37

The aftershock occurred when I was sitting in that taxi. All of a sudden, I began to tremble. And by the time I got out of the cab, I was shaking so hard my legs almost gave out before I reached the elevator.

That night, I went to bed without even taking off my makeup, which is something I never—
ever
—do, no matter how tired I am. (What’s more, I didn’t even give a thought to how the stuff was clogging my pores.) I was so exhausted that I expected to fall right to sleep, but I lay there for hours, too keyed up to close my eyes. When I finally did drop off, sometime in the not-so-early morning, I had this awful nightmare. . . .