In the police station, Harry sat at a young patrolman’s desk, the officer who had brought him in: moon-faced, blue eyes with odd black circles outlining his irises, and a rash on his left cheek.
Razor burn? Harry wondered.
The patrolman smelled of baby powder. His name was—Harry had discovered—Aeneas Touvalis.
Around them cops were bringing in and taking out suspects, a few in handcuffs. A female cop was squatting next to Harry, thumbing through a bottom file drawer. Harry could peer down her cleavage. Her breasts were the cream of old ivory. Freckled.
Harry crossed his legs.
“So,” Touvalis said, “you were checking up on someone you don’t know but think is missing, except the people she does know aren’t worried about her, and this missing woman comes home to find you’ve broken into her apartment. That about it, sport?”
Officer Ruth Wyler led an old woman into the precinct by the hand.
“Sergeant,” Wyler said to Edgar Vallet, “this is Connie Beverly.”
Harry glanced at the old woman, who was hunched over almost parallel to the ground with osteoporosis.
“Mrs. Beverly…,” Vallet said, casting a questioning look at Wyler.
To Touvalis, Wyler asked, “The coffee hot?”
“It was two hours ago,” Touvalis said.
“How do you take your coffee, Mrs. Beverly?” Wyler asked.
“It’s ever so kind of you, but I’m not sure I need a cup of coffee, Ms.—”
“Officer.”
“—Wyler.”
“You were shivering outside.”
“It’s a long walk from my apartment,” Beverly said. “Fourteen blocks.”
Harry said, “I’m happy to get you a cup of coffee, Mrs. Beverly.”
“Sit tight, sport,” Touvalis said to Harry.
“When I saw you outside the House, the precinct,” Wyler said to Mrs. Beverly, “I thought you got off the bus.”
“Oh, no,” Beverly said. “I never use the bus. Not since they raised the fare.”
Maxine Eyer, an undercover cop dressed like a stripper, spangled bodysuit, cut high on the thighs, under her tan belted trench coat, color-of-the-day silk scarf around her throat, was standing by the coffee machine with Jimmy Ozu, the patrol supervisor, who wore a MCKINLEY FOR PRESIDENT button.
To Ozu, Eyre said, “Wyler pulled in another of her strays.”
“Walking is so much more healthful,” Mrs. Beverley said to Wyler, “don’t you think?
“When you’re in the House,” Harry said, “the department supplies the coffee.”
Touvalis and Wyler glared at Harry, who stood up and crossed to Mrs. Beverly.
“Sit Mr. Sunshine down,” Vallet said to Touvalis.
“Why, thank you, then,” Beverly said to Harry. “Milk and sweetener, if you please.”
Touvalis stood, but Harry was already at the coffee machine, nodding affably at Wyler and Ozu, slipping in coins, pressing a button, and whacking the side of the machine when the cup didn’t immediately drop.
“Nice outfit,” Harry said to Eyer, who screwed up the right side of her mouth.
“I’m undercover at Lace,” Eyre said.
“You think Lace an easy place to strip?” a hooker called out from the holding cage, where she sat on a bench bolted into the wall. “Place is a pigsty. Filled with cops.”
Touvalis walked to Harry, who said, “Be right with you.”
Wyler told Vallet, “Mrs. Beverly wants to report a Peeping Tom.”
“Oh, more than one, Sergeant,” Mrs. Beverly said. To Harry, she said, “Many more than one. They all come. Up my fire escape. Every night. To watch me. The Peeping Toms. It’s almost like having an audience.”
Harry folded the paper cup of coffee into Mrs. Beverly’s bony hand. Kept his hand around hers for a moment longer than necessary.
Staring at Touvalis, Vallet pointed at Harry and pointed at the chair Harry had been sitting in.
“These Peeping Toms,” Harry asked Mrs. Beverly, “you say they come every night?”
“Oh, yes,” Beverly said.
Touvalis touched Harry’s elbow to lead him away, but Harry was concentrating on Mrs. Beverly.
“How long has this been going on?” Harry asked.
Touvalis shrugged at Vallet.
“Let me see,” Beverly said. “Benny—that was my husband, my … one, two—yes, fourth husband—”
“Fourth husband!” Eyer whispered to Ozu.
“Benny died last August,” Beverly said. “August third. Two-thirty-three in the morning. I remember, because we just got a digital clock. We’d always had a regular clock—a round clock with the hands, minute hand, second hand … and I was thinking you can only be precise—that precise—with a digital.”
“Which means,” Harry said, “you suddenly become aware of how fast the minutes are passing. Like life is a taxi, and the meter keeps ticking as your fare gets higher and higher until you know you can’t afford the ride anymore.”
“Your husband just died?” Vallet said, trying to take control of the situation back from Harry.
“Six months ago,” Beverly told him. “That’s right.”
“How long were you married?” Harry asked.
“To Benny?” Beverly turned back to Harry. “Fourteen years.”
“Fourteen years,” Vallet said, trying to edge between Harry and the woman.
“Isn’t that funny.” Mrs. Beverly turned her body to keep facing Harry. “Harry, Larry, Harry Two, and Benny—”
“I’m also a Harry,” Harry said, turning with Mrs. Beverly, unconsciously excluding Vallet.
“How nice,” Mrs. Beverly said.
“My name’s Vallet,” Vallet said. “Edgar Vallet.”
“I was married to each of them for fourteen years,” Mrs. Beverly told Harry. “I got married—the first time, I was very young.”
“What happened to the other three?” Harry asked.
“Died,” Beverly said. “All my husbands—all my marriages, we were very happy. Never considered divorce, oh, no. I’ve been lucky. All happy marriages.”
“All your husbands died?” Vallet asked.
“Heart attack. Heart attack. Cancer. Heart attack.”
“And the Peepers?” Harry asked.
“Six weeks after Benny died, they started showing up.”
“We’re going to look into those Peeping Toms, Mrs. Beverly,” Vallet said. “We’ll get some blue-and-whites to cruise the neighborhood. Some foot patrols. That should do it.”
Ignoring Vallet, Harry said, “I wouldn’t worry about the Peepers anymore.”
“That’s so good to know,” Beverly said. “And so kind of you.”
“That’s what they’re here for,” Harry said, gesturing at Vallet and the other cops, who stood around them in a ragged circle.
Harry took out one of his cards.
“You ever get concerned,” Harry said, “any time, day or night—you call me, you hear.”
He scribbled on the back of the card.
“This,” Harry said, “is my private number.”
“Don’t hesitate to call us,” Vallet said, also handing Mrs. Beverly a card. “Especially some night when you’re all alone.”
“Those nights can get long,” Harry said.
Mrs. Beverly nodded at Harry.
“You hear those noises on the fire escape,” Harry said, “you just call my friend Rossiter. He’s in this precinct.”
“Or me,” Vallet said. “Sergeant Edgar Vallet.”
“He’ll be right over,” Harry said about Rossiter.
“And if he’s not available,” Vallet said, “I’ll be right over.”
“Why don’t I escort you home, Mrs. Beverly,” Harry said.
“That would be lovely,” Mrs. Beverly said. She nodded to Vallet. “Thank you, dear.” To the room in general, as if taking a curtain call, she said, “Thank you all.”
“I’m afraid,” Vallet said, sounding almost like Harry, “Harry has some pressing business here. Allow me.”
Vallet took Mrs. Beverly’s arm. Together, they headed for the exit.
“She’s got her own reality,” Touvalis said.
“Ours is better?” Wyler asked.
As Vallet and Mrs. Beverly left, a mook, Johnny Carrot, handcuffed to a bench, said to no one in particular, “I break one store window. A shoe store. Then another—a stationery store. Then a Papaya King. I got to break three windows before anyone calls the cops. What they always say—never a cop around when you need one.”
“Let’s go, sport,” Touvalis said to Harry, leading him back to his desk, adding, an afterthought, “That was nice, what you did, with the old broad. This chair okay? You comfortable? This shouldn’t take long.”
Rossiter came into the room with some forms, which he tossed onto Touvalis’s desk.
“Okay,” Rossiter told Touvalis, “Miss Turner isn’t going to file a complaint.” To Harry, he said, “Let’s go.”
Rossiter and Harry walked down the hallway toward the exit.
“What the hell were you looking for?” Rossiter asked.
“Clues,” Harry said.
“To what?” Rossiter asked.
“Marian Turner’s murder,” Harry said.
“She’s pretty pissed off for a corpse,” Rossiter said.
“What if Turner found out Cotton was fiddling with her money?” Harry asked.
“Harry,” Rossiter said, “she doesn’t have enough to make it worthwhile. Not for a big shot like Cotton, who probably keeps money that would make you and me rich in his sock drawer.”
“Never steal from the big dogs,” Harry said. “They bite. Steal from the tykes. Chances are they won’t even bark.”
“A little kibble here?” Rossiter said. “A little kibble there?”
“It makes a meal,” Harry said. “And, if he’s stealing from her, she’s not the only one. But Turner barks. Threatens to blow the whistle. Which would ruin Cotton.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?” Rossiter said.
“He’s got to shut her up,” Harry said. “She’s new in town, no relatives, no friends.”
“Harry…”
“A perfect victim.”
“Harry…”
“Cotton kills her. With some help.”
“He bribes Pillette?” Rossiter asks.
“Or leans on him,” Harry said. “Maybe Pillette’s in hock to the bank. Who knows.”
“And Turner?”
“The woman claiming she’s Turner, you mean? Cotton’s girlfriend? Pillette’s? Okay, I start investigating.”
“Harry!”
“Cotton thinks fast. Turner was blond? His girlfriend’s blond. No one knows Turner well enough to make a good ID. Even her next door neighbor hardly ever saw her.”
“Harry!”
“We check Turner’s college yearbook,” Harry said. “Her picture’s got to be in that.”
Rossiter stopped and yelled, “Harry!” so loud two passing patrolmen glanced at him.
“You got to watch that blood pressure, Rossiter,” Harry said. “Your face is all red.”
“If you so much as make a phone call to her,” Rossiter said, “I’ll bust you myself.