Seventy-six

TEN minutes later, Tucker and I had finished a brisk walk from the Village Blend to the six-story redbrick apartment building Carol Lynn Kendall called home.

I intended to walk up to the front entrance and ring the building superintendent—until I spotted an all-too-familiar wine-colored SUV. The vehicle was parked in front of the canopied entrance to Carol Lynn’s building. The driver’s side door was open, the interior lights on.

“Back! Quick!” I hissed, dragging Tuck until we were around the corner again.

“Clare? What’s going on?”

“That’s the SUV that tried to run me down. Do me a favor. Peek around the corner and tell me if you see a man with a curly red beard.”

Crouching low, Tuck peeked. “Oh, God, he’s there. And a big, strapping lumberjack he is, too. Hey, wait a minute, I’ve seen that guy before. He’s—uh-oh. He’s with someone you know.”

“Sydney?”

Tuck shook his head. “You better look yourself . . .”

I moved forward and peered around the corner. Red Beard was on the sidewalk, having an animated discussion with a woman out of my line of vision.

“Give me back my key,” the man said gruffly. “You don’t need it anymore, right?”

The woman stepped out from behind the SUV—and the shock of recognition made my knees weak.

Millennial Marilyn Monroe, my ex-husband’s new love toy (and boss), twisted a key ring in her manicured fingers, then handed a single key to Red Beard. He turned it in his hand and pocketed it in his work shirt.

Marilyn Hahn ran a hand through her sleek platinum curls. “Do you have something for me now?” she asked coyly.

“Oh, suddenly you’re interested in the perks of my new career?”

She put her hands on her hips. “You always were a jerk, Doug, even in high school.”

“Maybe I’m a jerk, but I never ever abused you. Treated you like trash the morning after—and then forced myself on you like that total piece of—”

“Stop it, Doug.” Marilyn shifted uncomfortably. “Come on. Do you have it or not?”

“I got it, I got it,” Red Beard replied. “And it’s the best. If you want some, get in the SUV.”

He stepped aside and she climbed in. He followed her into the vehicle and shut the door. The windows were tinted, so when the interior lights went dim, I couldn’t see what was happening inside.

“What do you think they’re doing?” Tuck asked.

After four minutes—I timed them—the doors opened and Marilyn climbed out.

“Sure I can’t give you a lift?” he asked.

“My car’s coming now,” she replied.

As Tuck and I watched, Marilyn climbed into an Uber car. Then Red Beard started his SUV. He was about to drive off when an elderly woman came out of the building and waved. He gave her a nod and drove away—at a reasonable speed, this time.

“Wait here, Tuck,” I said as I half walked, half ran until I caught up with the older woman.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Who was that man who just drove away?”

She smiled. “That’s Douglas. He’s the janitor of my building. He’s a wonderful handyman, too. He fixed my refrigerator, and it’s not even covered by the maintenance fee.”

“Good for Doug,” I said before bidding her a good night.

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the word janitor bouncing around my head like an Equator gym volleyball.

Why is the word janitor vexing me?

The answer came from the past. Greenwich Village’s past to be exact, circa 1967.

On the night I found Haley’s body floating in the Hudson, Mike had told me how the police had solved the Groovy Murders, a brutal double homicide that had ended the Summer of Love movement.

The key to cracking the case had been the janitor of the building where those murders had taken place. As it turned out, the man had far more knowledge of the crime than he originally told the police.

Red Beard is a janitor, too, and Marilyn handed him a key. But a key to what?

Impatient, Tuck left his hiding place and caught up with me. “Shall we ring the building super now?”

“We just missed him.”

He blinked. “You mean that lumberjack is the super?” Tucker shook his head. “Small world.”

“What do you mean?”

“I remember him from one of those viral videos taken at our coffeehouse the night Carol Lynn went off the deep end. After I heard what happened, I watched all eight of them.”

“Eight? I thought there were only five.”

“After it hit the news, more people uploaded them. Anyway, one of those videos showed this red-bearded guy actually urging Carol Lynn to ‘go ahead’ and ‘finish’ Crenshaw. Red Beard looked really bitter when he said it, too.”

I blinked, remembering that night. I’d heard that comment behind me but never saw the person who’d made it. “Tuck, I think this building’s janitor could be involved in Crenshaw’s murder, right up to his furry neck.”

“Really? You think he—”

“Helped frame Carol Lynn.”

“But how exactly? And why? You saw the DOT video of Crenshaw’s murder. There is no way on earth this big, bearded guy could have disguised himself well enough to look like my slender, pretty friend.”

“No. But I know who might have . . .”

I told Tucker how I watched Marilyn Hahn’s face darken when she told me how she, too, had experienced a horrible hookup with Richard Crest aka Robert Crenshaw. And I whispered what I’d just overheard between Doug and Marilyn. Putting two and two together . . .

“I think what Crenshaw did to Marilyn might have been awful enough for her to plan his demise. And if she did murder Crenshaw, she clearly had help, judging from her cozy relationship with this building’s janitor. Just like the famous Groovy Murders, he knows more than he’s telling the police.”

“So you think Marilyn dressed up as Carol Lynn and shot Robert Crenshaw?”

“We need proof, of course. But I think we may have just witnessed Marilyn returning the key to Carol Lynn’s apartment. The super would have it, of course; he has access to all the units. And they had a prior relationship. Marilyn made a remark about knowing him since high school. It’s possible Marilyn went to Red Beard and asked for access to Carol Lynn’s apartment—”

“Yes, I follow!” Tuck said. “Marilyn took Carol Lynn’s clothes, maybe days ago, and wore them, and a wig, to commit the murder.”

“And after the shooting, Marilyn would have walked back to Carol Lynn’s building in full view of New York’s traffic cameras. Only once she entered the building, she would have gone to the super’s apartment, where she could change out of the stolen clothes, toss them into the Dumpster with the murder weapon, and exit through the alley—unseen because the security camera in the back is conveniently broken. It’s the perfect crime!”

Tucker nodded in wholehearted agreement. Then he stopped nodding. “But if you solved it, how do you prove it? Soles and Bass are a pretty tough audience.”

“I think even the Fish Squad would be impressed with a taped confession.”

With that, I speed dialed our Brooklyn warehouse.

“Hello, Matt? I really need your help this time . . .”