Night Secrets (19 page)

She turned to him. “No one,” she said hotly. “No one. Is that enough?”

“Not quite,” Frank said. “I'd like to know why you did it.”

She did not answer.

Frank kept his pen pressed onto the open notebook. “I need a motive.”

The Puri Dai did not speak.

“Was it some kind of argument?” Frank asked.

Silence.

“If it was an argument, what was it over?”

She did not answer.

“Money?”

She glared at him resentfully, but still remained silent.

“Where were you when you killed her?” Frank went on insistently.

She stood up. “I must go.”

“Were you in front of her?” Frank demanded. “Did you stab her?”

The Puri Dai's face grew rigid.

“What did you use to do it with?”

“A razor,” she shot back angrily. “A razor.”

“Where'd it come from?”

“I must go.”

“Three women lived in that place,” Frank said. “What were they doing with a straight razor?” His eyes bore into hers. “Who else was living with you?”

She seemed suddenly frightened, stricken. “No one.”

“Then what was the razor for?”

She did not answer.

“There was hair on it,” Frank said, playing his trump card. “From a man's beard.”

Her eyes ignited. “There was nothing on the razor,” she said with absolute certainty. “Nothing. Nothing.”

Frank sat back slightly. “Because you washed it,” he said confidently. “You took it into that little bathroom, and you very carefully washed it.”

She shook her head. “I washed nothing,” she snapped.

“You washed everything,” Frank told her determinedly. “You even washed that little bathroom. But not well enough.” He stood up. “Look, I'll show you.”

The Puri Dai did not move.

Frank walked to the small bathroom in his office, switched on the light and looked back at her. “Come here, I'll show you.”

She remained rigidly in place, but Frank could tell that she was watching him intently.

Frank took out his pocket knife, slid the blade under the crevice between the faucet and the basin and brought it over to her. “See those little hairs,” he said as he pressed the small blade toward her. “We found the same kind in that sink on Tenth Avenue.” He took his handkerchief and slowly wiped the blade clean. Then he leaned toward her, his face very close to hers. “Who is he?”

She did not answer.

“Who is he?” Frank repeated insistently.

She drew back from him. “I do not want you,” she said icily. “I have come to tell you that.”

Frank's eyes bore into her. “I can't close this case yet,” he said emphatically.

Her eyes took on a strangely pleading softness. “You must,” she said.

“Why?”

She did not answer.

“Who are you protecting?” Frank asked.

The softness disappeared instantly, and she turned and started toward the door.

Frank wheeled around to block her. “What is all of this about?”

She pressed toward him, and he stepped back slightly, then back again and again, until they were near the door. When she moved to open it, he took her hand.

“Whatever it is you want,” he said, “I'll help you get it.”

For a moment, the anger dissolved from her eyes. It was replaced by something that looked like pity.

She drew her hand from his. “You are like the rest,” she said. “Even when you give, you take.”

Frank stared at her longingly. “Take what?”

She shook her head silently, resignedly, as if the truths she knew were impossible to teach.

Frank touched her arm gently. “Take what?”

“I must go.”

“Where?”

She didn't answer.

“The Women's Center?” Frank asked.

She raised her hand and placed it softly against his face. “You must close the case.”

“I can't.”

A single finger traced the outline of his jaw. “I will give you what you want,” she said.

Frank took her hand and drew it away from him. He had never wanted anything more, or been less able to accept the way that it was offered. “Whatever this man is,” he said, “he's not worth that.”

Her face hardened suddenly, and she leaned forward and kissed him roughly, contemptuously, so that her lips seemed to leave on his the taste of dirty money.

He stepped back from her and wiped it from them with his sleeve.

Her eyes were very cold when he glanced toward them again.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

Her smile was like an iron bar stretched across her face. She let it hold there for a moment, then turned and walked away.

T
wo hours later, Frank walked directly into Deegan's office, swiftly and unannounced. “I want to see the confession,” he said sharply.

Deegan's head jerked up from the stack of papers he'd been poring over. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“The confession,” Frank said edgily, his voice almost quaking, “was it detailed?”

“I'm not sure it had to be,” Deegan said. “They've got a lot on her. The night cashier at that little bodega across the street saw her go into the storefront just a few minutes before the murder. A delivery boy spotted her standing over the body with the weapon in her hand.” He shrugged. “Shall I go on?”

Frank didn't answer.

Deegan sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “You know, according to Miss Cortez …”

“Who?”

“Cortez,” Deegan said, “that's the woman's last name.”

“When did she tell you that?”

“She told me everything, Mr. Clemons,” Deegan said proudly. “But it looks to me as though she hasn't exactly taken you into her confidence.”

Frank whipped out his notebook. He could feel the cells in his body firing like millions of tiny pistons. “What was the full name?” he demanded.

Deegan eyed him suspiciously. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Frank replied coldly.

“You strung out on something?”

“The name,” Frank said hotly. “Just give me the name.”

Deegan shook his head. “She doesn't want you on the case anymore,” he said. “That's why she dropped by.”

“She told me.”

“Well, then you also know that I don't have to give you a fucking thing.”

Frank kept his pencil poised on the page. “Do you believe that confession?”

“I have no reason not to.”

“It's a lie. All of it.”

“How do you know?”

“She said she was in front of the old woman when she killed her,” Frank said. “That couldn't be true.”

“Why not?”

Frank stared at him, astonished. “Haven't you read the medical report?”

Deegan looked embarrassed. “I haven't had time,” he said defensively. He nodded toward an enormous stack of folders that rested in front of him. “I'm not just working one case, you know.”

Frank didn't feel like arguing the point. “Well, the woman was killed with a razor.”

“Christ, I know that.”

“And the way it was drawn across her throat,” Frank added, “it had to have been done by someone who was standing behind her.”

Deegan seemed to consider it.

“And there was a man living in that little storefront where the woman was killed,” Frank said. “And he hasn't surfaced yet.”

“How do you know there was a man living there?”

“We found hairs from his beard.”

“We?”

“I have an associate.”

“And where'd you find these hairs?”

“In the bathroom on Tenth Avenue.”

“When did you go there?”

“Last night.”

“With Tannenbaum?”

Frank shook his head.

“Who went with you?”

“Just my associate.”

Deegan's eyes widened in horror. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he yelped. “You just broke into the private apartment?” He laughed. “And you're questioning my professional competence? They'd pull your license in a second if they knew about that break-in.”

Frank stepped toward him. “I want to see her confession,” he said.

Deegan stared at him arrogantly. “And what makes you think I have to give it to you?”

Frank glared at him. “Look, the fact that you didn't even bother to read the goddamn medical report in a murder case before you let your client plead guilty, that fact can be just between us, or it can …”

Deegan stood his ground. “And that little break-in on Tenth Avenue can just be between us too, pal.”

Frank started to fire another salvo.

Deegan lifted his hand to silence him. “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Let's just calm down for a minute, okay?”

Frank nodded.

“Now,” Deegan said after a moment, “you're basically saying that Miss Cortez is pleading guilty to a murder she didn't commit. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think she's doing that?”

“I don't know.”

“In my experience, there are usually three reasons for such a thing,” Deegan went on. “Number one, the guy wants publicity. Number two, the guy's crazy. Number three, to protect the real killer.” Deegan smiled. “Are you with me so far?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what do you think the situation is with Miss Cortez?”

“The last one,” Frank said. “Protection.”

“For the guy with the beard, right?”

“That's my guess.”

Deegan sat back and thought about it. “So who is he, her husband?”

“Maybe.”

“Could be a friend, a relative. Or maybe something a little more interesting—a lover.”

Frank felt stricken by his answer. “Probably,” he said.

“You mink you can find this person?”

“I can try.”

Deegan nodded. “Can I count on you to pass all the information you find about this case to me?”

“Yes.”

Deegan smiled. “You see, Frank, we can behave like gentlemen with one another.”

Frank said nothing.

Deegan took a deep breath. “Okay, then on the basis of what you've told me and our other agreement, I consider it my professional duty to give you a copy of Miss Cortez's confession, along with any other information which I deem relevant.”

Frank pressed his pencil toward the open notebook. “Let's start with her name,” Deegan said. He pulled her confession from a stack of other documents. “Her whole name,” he said, as he handed it to Frank.

It was Magdalena Immaculata Cortez, and Frank pronounced it very clearly, trying to keep the long, lazy southern vowels out of his voice as he said it to the man who ran the bodega down the block from the storefront on Tenth Avenue.

The man behind the counter blinked rapidly. “Holy shit, that's a mouthful, huh?”

Frank nodded.

“You a cop?” the man behind the counter asked. He was short, and very thin, with black curly hair. His fingers were long, and he drummed them continually along the edge of the counter to some beat that was only in his head.

Frank took out his identification.

“Oh,” the man said. “Private dick. Ain't that what they call you guys?”

“Sometimes,” Frank said. “My name's Clemons.”

“Frankie Betonni.”

Frank smiled crisply. “About the woman,” he said.

“Woman, yeah,” Betonni said. He swayed his hips slightly to the inaudible beat. “Magda … whatever. Which one was she?”

“Tall, dark,” Frank said. “She sometimes wore …”

“Oh yeah,” Betonni said excitedly. “The really hot one.”

“Hot?”

“A sizzler, you know what I mean? A good-looking piece of pie, man. Very sharp, great-looking ass.” He moaned lustily, and Frank felt like slapping his face, but managed to control himself.

“I understand you saw her the night of the murder,” he said.