AUGUST 1952
Faced with the possibility his Jane Doe could be a missing wife, a runaway girlfriend, or a working girl, Harry took the simplest possibility to start with. Prostitutes frequented bars, hotels, motels and, in the busy season with men coming and going from vacations in the mountains and Lake George, train and bus stations. In Harry’s experience, wherever they were, there was at least one barkeep, concierge, front-desk man, or security officer getting a kickback for steering clients her way and making sure she didn’t get tossed out. Photos in hand, he started making the rounds as soon as his shift was over at five.
Cossayuharie he skipped, despite the fact Jane Doe’s body had been found there. The only commercial establishments in the farm town were a couple feed and seed stores and a livestock auction barn. Glens Falls and its environs were also out—they had their own force. He didn’t mind treading on the state police’s toes, especially since they were putting in the minimum effort to find the dead girl’s identity, but he wasn’t about to cheese off his closest colleagues. He might call the Glens Falls chief tomorrow, though, and ask if the staties had passed any information on to him.
So, Millers Kill and Fort Henry. The girl had been young, fresh-faced even beneath the layer of makeup she had worn, so he started at the top: the Rensselaer Arms Hotel in Fort Henry. Close to the train station and the landing for the canal that joined the Kill with the Hudson, it had been the hotel for well-heeled businessmen since the 1860s. He had taken his mother to the Rensselaer’s impeccable dining room for her sixtieth birthday. He was almost as old now as she had been then. He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass doorway and straightened his tie.
Inside, he realized he wasn’t the only one who had gotten older. The rich Turkey carpet in the lobby was shiny with wear in places, and there was a crack in the plaster wall along the staircase sweeping to the second floor. The brass fittings around the registration desk gleamed, but part of the elaborate mahogany carving had broken away.
“Can I help you, Officer?” The man behind the desk might have been the same one there on Harry’s mother’s birthday. Hell, he might have been there on his grandmother’s birthday; the fellow looked older than God.
“Hi. Harry McNeil, Millers Kill Police.” Harry slid the photo across the mahogany surface. “I’m trying to discover the identity of this young woman. I don’t think she was a local. Might you have seen her?”
The receptionist lifted the eight-by-eleven with a liver-spotted hand. “Goodness. This appears to be a dead woman.”
His expression made Harry shift with embarrassment, as if he had committed a faux pas by not mentioning it first. “Yes, sir. We’re trying to find out who she is, and notify her kin.”
The elderly man tched. “I can’t say I recall her as a guest.”
“Um. She might not have been here as a guest. Exactly. Are you—is there another man on the night shift?”
“I am, as it were, my own night manager.” He slid the photo back toward Harry. “You get to be my age, it’s hard to sleep at night. Might as well take advantage of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She might have been a guest at our restaurant, of course. Please feel free to speak to our maître d’hôtel. He might recognize her. Pretty girl.”
“Yes, she was. Thank you, sir.” Harry crossed the lobby to where a narrow hallway led left to the dining room and right to the bar. He went right. The bar showed the same signs of long-postponed maintenance; unmatched chairs at the small tables, splits in the leather bumper edging the bar counter. Two standing fans tried to move the overwarm air around. A pair of men sat in the corner with drinks and documents in front of them. Two salesmen after a good day? There was more booze than paper—maybe a bad day.
The barkeep, who had been washing glasses, perked up as Harry entered. “Help you, Officer?”
The man was a good twenty years younger than Harry. He figured he could be less diplomatic than he had at the desk. He laid the photo on the bar and introduced himself. “We found her dead and we’re trying to ID her. She may have been a working girl. I’m wondering if she was ever in here?”
The barkeep held up his hands. “I don’t aid and abet illegal behavior.”
Harry sighed. “Look, I’m not setting up a sting. I’m not interested in whether girls are working here or not.” Honesty pricked him. “Well, so long as it’s not leading to fights.” He touched the edge of the photo. “Whoever she was, she had family, and they’ll never know what happened to her if we can’t figure out who she is. Can you help me?”
The barkeep glanced toward the hallway. “I really don’t have girls in here. Mr. Beekman”—he jerked a thumb toward the lobby—“would have a stroke. If any of our guests ask me, I send ’em to the Canalmen’s Rest. And I suggest if they come back here, they make sure the dame’s walking on the side away from Mr. Beekman.”
“Do you get many men looking for company?”
The barkeep waved a hand at the near-empty space. “This place is dying. People want slick-looking motels with air-conditioning and swimming pools. I’m here because Mr. Beekman pays me enough to make up for the tips, but when he goes toes-up…” He shrugged. “Probably be the wrecking ball for the old girl.”
The Canalmen’s Rest was a bust. It was lively, but the crowd was 90 percent men stopping by for a quick one on their way home. The other 10 percent were two middle-aged couples having predinner drinks. Neither bartender admitted to knowing any prostitutes, and Harry was obviously several hours too early to see if there were any likely women. The second-best hotel was a repeat of the Rensselaer Arms, except without the attention to keeping everything as clean and polished as possible. Maybe everyone really was staying at the new Howard Johnson’s out by the Northway, but Harry found it hard to imagine girls turning tricks under the orange roof.
The next bar he tried was too nice—it looked like a jet-set airport lounge and had an even mix of young men in narrow suits and young women in wide, flirty skirts. Prostitutes didn’t go to date bars—why compete against straight girls? He was looking for a place that attracted men, in groups or alone, but not someplace they took their wives and girlfriends. Which is when he thought of Sal’s.
Sal’s was on the road toward Minot, just outside the town lines of both Millers Kill and Fort Henry. It had a small menu of Italian food, a huge bar, and had long been the place to listen to fights or ball games while hoisting a beer. Sal’s son Steve had added a television when he took over from his old man. Harry was pretty sure the Perazones were running book on the side, but there wasn’t any mob involvement that made itself known, and no law enforcement agency had ever had to come out to settle trouble. Anyway, it wasn’t in his jurisdiction, which is why he had been there many times himself. He’d never noticed any girls working the bar, but then, he’d been well off-duty and focused on following whatever fight was on the radio.
“Chief McNeil!” Steve Perazone was manning the front himself. “Here for some dinner? My ma’s made ravioli tonight. Like little angel pillows. You’ll swear you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Thanks, Steve. Not tonight.”
The host spread his hands. “I’m afraid you missed the Dodgers game. They folded in the seventh. Philly took it ten to four.”
“Ouch.” He looked toward the bar. Maybe five or six people, mostly men. He pulled the photo out of its envelope. “We have a Jane Doe we’re trying to identify.” He passed the picture to Steve. “She may have been—”
“I’ve seen her.” Steve crossed himself. “Poor thing.”
The surge of Yes, yes! was like a burning shot of whiskey hitting his bloodstream. “What’s her name?”
The host handed the picture back. “I don’t know. I remember her because she’s Italian. Was Italian. Not many of us around here.”
“Italian like you? Or right off the boat?”
“I’d guess second generation, like me. She didn’t have an accent but…” He shrugged. “You can tell.”
“I think—we’re working off the possibility that she was a prostitute.” Harry took a breath. “I’m not trying to pry into how you run your place—”
“It’s okay.” Steve smiled. “Look, if girls come in here and meet a guy, it’s none of my concern what happens after they leave my place. I don’t take any money and I don’t make any introductions.” He paused. “I did ban a guy once, when a girl came in with a black eye he’d given her. A man who hits a woman, his business I don’t need.”
“Was my Jane Doe a regular?”
Steve laughed. “There are no regulars. You’ve been in here yourself. Most of the guys who come to Sal’s are a lot more interested in a fight or a game than they are in playing slap-and-tickle.” He sobered. “Your Tizia—your Jane Doe—was here maybe four or five times this summer. Maybe she was working. Maybe she was homesick for pasta con fagiole.”
“Did you ever see her leave with anyone?”
“Maybe?” The host shrugged. “But I couldn’t tell you who if he was standing here in front of me. I noticed her, like I said, because she was Italian. It didn’t occur to me she was a working girl until now.”
“She was discreet.”
“Or she was just here for the food. I hope we’re not speaking ill of the dead.” Steve touched his chest.
“You said this summer. Can you remember when you first might have seen her?”
“I’m not sure. After Memorial Day, though, and not before.”
“Okay. Thanks for your help.”
“Anytime, my friend.” Steve shook his hand. “Come back for the Lamott fight next Saturday. Ma’s making meatball bombers. You’ll think you’ve—”
“Died and gone to heaven?”
Steve cocked a finger, grinning. “You’ve got it.”
Harry sat for a long time in Sal’s parking lot. The new information made him less certain, not more so. Jane Doe—what had Steve called it? Tizia—could have been a prostitute, in the area for the summer season. If she was cautious and discreet, she might move around a lot, one night in Lake George, another in Glens Falls. Which would mean she had her own car, which would eventually turn up as abandoned. He sighed. Unless she was renting, and the landlord seized and sold it.
On the other hand, she might be a seasonal worker, cleaning rooms at one of a hundred hotels or resorts between Lake George and Saratoga. Maybe she did show up at Sal’s because she missed the taste of home. Maybe she had the bad luck to meet a man who seemed nice. Harry ground his head against the steering wheel before straightening and starting the car. Still a lot more hours in the evening. Still a lot more bars and hotels to check out. He shifted into gear and headed off into the sunset.