An East Hampton Town patrol car pulled in next to Collins’ truck.
“What say, Earl?” asked Collins as Officer Finch emerged.
“Howdy, Tom, Dan,” he replied. “I’m lookin’ for the Fitzgeralds, and I found ’em.” He turned to Nita and Fitz. “Doc Cooper told me you’d probably be up here. I got some news about the accident.”
Fitz hoped he wasn’t going to spill the beans about Metzger, though maybe he didn’t know the details.
“What’s cookin’?”
“Doc found Pollock’s house key in his trouser pocket. I called Riverhead this morning, got a search warrant to enter the premises. I hope I can find some identification for the women. Thought it might be a good idea to take Detective Diaz along. Would that be okay, ma’am?”
“Nita, please,” she advised, though she was delighted that he had addressed her by her official title. Working out of her precinct in Spanish Harlem, she had decided to keep her maiden name so the neighborhood folks would know she was one of them and not some Irish interloper from downtown.
“I’ll be glad to go with you,” she told Finch. “Fitz can wait here for the boys.”
Collins settled in next to Fitz, eager to hear a firsthand account of last night’s tragedy.
“How fast yuh reckon he was goin’?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess at least fifty, maybe sixty. His lights came up on me pretty quick. I don’t mind telling you, I thought he was gonna hit us for sure, but he veered off into the woods just in time—for us, that is. Not for him, of course, or his passengers.”
Collins nodded. “I hear the doc’s slicin’ him up now. Bet he’ll find more alcohol’n blood in his veins.”
Fitz marveled at the speed of the Bonac telegraph system.
“’Course he had no business foolin’ round with that young gal,” Collins continued. “Drivin’ his wife crazy. What that poor woman put up with, even ’fore he started cheatin’. Mind you, she’s a tough one—don’t take t’her m’self—but I got sympathy. She’ll be back t’morrow, I’m told.”
Amazing, thought Fitz. There must be few secrets around here. I’d better be extra careful not to let anything slip.
A couple of lunch customers arrived, so Miller excused himself and stepped inside the store. Fitz said he was comfortable where he was, and turned to watch his wife and Finch depart in the patrol car.
When they pulled into the Pollock house driveway at 830 Fireplace Road, only a few hundred feet north of the General Store, there was already another car parked by the garage. Nita got out and headed to the front of the house, but Finch stopped her.
“This way,” he said, pointing to the back porch. “House has no front door. They closed it off when they put in the plumbing a few years ago. Dick Talmage told me that in addition to the full bath upstairs Lee wanted a toilet downstairs, and the only place they could fit it in was the front hall.”
Nita was surprised. “You mean the house had no bathroom when they moved in?”
“That’s right. Had to use a hand pump in the kitchen sink for water, and a backhouse for the call of nature. Coal stoves for heat, cookin’ too. That’s real country livin’.”
Nita was trying to imagine how she would manage with no running water, steam radiators, gas stove or flush toilet. Not well at all, she was certain. Especially after TJ came along. But apparently there were no children to complicate the Pollocks’ life, a blessing under the circumstances.
She and Finch walked to the rear of the building and mounted the small porch that led to the back door. No need for the key, since it was already open.
“Hello? Mrs. Pollock?” called Finch. He hadn’t expected to find anyone home, least of all the wife, who was supposed to be overseas, but maybe she’d smelled a rat and come back early.
Silently, he began to speculate. Maybe Ossorio was just covering for her. He could have tipped her off about the girlfriend. What if she’d shown up on Saturday night, caught her husband with the women, got into a fight, and did one of them in? An enraged wife would likely have enough strength to strangle someone she thought was her husband’s lover. She certainly had the motive.
The back door opened into the kitchen. Surprisingly, instead of the small rooms one would expect in an old farmhouse, the whole ground floor had been opened up to create a single space. The wall that had once separated the kitchen from the back parlor had been demolished, and the double doors to the front parlor were removed. They could see right through the house to a pair of French doors that led to the front porch. The shades were drawn to keep out curious eyes.
Moving into the back parlor, now a spacious living and dining area, they found the stark white walls covered with Pollock’s colorful abstract paintings. On the north wall behind the dining table, a huge canvas, nearly twelve feet wide, dominated the room. On the left side, a jumble of black lines reminded Nita of the print they had won in the raffle—suggestions of a figure, but scrambled and indistinct. On the right, a baleful face, blotched in blue and orange and fragmented like a patchwork quilt, stared out at them accusingly. How dare you invade my home, it seemed to say.
They heard footsteps on the stairs, and a tall woman in her late twenties, wearing a T-shirt, paint-flecked jeans, and a kerchief around her head, came down to meet them.
“Hello, there,” she said, apparently unconcerned to find a uniformed police officer and a strange woman in the house. She must have been expecting the law to turn up at some point, possibly with a relative of one of the girls in tow.
“Who are you?” asked Finch.
She introduced herself as Cile Downs, another of the many artists who had moved to the neighborhood at Jackson and Lee’s urging, bought up rundown farmhouses and converted the outbuildings into studios, turning Springs into Greenwich Village East. Some of the locals complained that they were displacing the old families, but others thought they fit right in with the community’s indigenous oddballs, of whom there were plenty.
“I live up the road,” she told Finch. “Charlotte called to tell me that Lee is expected back tomorrow.”
“How did you get in?” he wanted to know.
“I got the key from the next-door neighbors. Lee asked them to keep an eye on the place while she was away. Obviously she couldn’t trust Jackson on his own. Of course she had no idea he wasn’t actually living alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ruth moved in the day Lee moved out. That’s why I’m here, to get rid of the evidence.” She corrected herself hastily. “Oh, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Not that there was a crime or anything.”
Nita glanced at Finch, who nodded almost imperceptibly. So he did know that Edith had met with foul play.
“I meant I didn’t want Lee to see Ruth’s clothes hanging in her closet, Ruth’s makeup in her bathroom, and Edith’s things are here, too. How would that look? Lee has enough to face without that.” It was clear she was aware that two attractive young women were in residence, and was determined to do her best to lessen Lee’s inevitable humiliation.
Nita understood perfectly. She identified herself and explained their mission. “Of course, you’re right. But let us have a look around first, then you can tidy up. We won’t be long. We’re looking for Kligman’s and Metzger’s addresses.”
“There’s a handbag on the dining table,” said Cile, pointing to a purse lying next to a white scarf. Finch thanked her and began to search it, while the two women went upstairs.
Cile had a suitcase open on the guest room’s unmade bed and was filling it with women’s clothing.
“All these clothes are Ruth’s,” said Cile, indicating the heap of garments on the bed. “Lee wouldn’t be caught dead in this vulgar stuff. She has a real sense of style, used to model for a fashion illustrator when she was younger. Still has a great figure.”
“Did you find any purse or wallet?” Nita asked.
“I haven’t gone through the drawers yet, just the closet.” Cile pulled open the top drawer of the bureau.
“Holy cow,” she exclaimed, “here’s her diaphragm.” She extracted a black plastic box, circular in shape, like a compact but larger and thicker. She popped it open. It was empty.
Cile snickered. “She must be wearing it. What an optimist. Jackson was way too far gone to be any use in the sack.”
The women exchanged knowing looks, but Nita needed to move on. “Let’s see if there’s anything in there that’s actually useful.” She pushed aside some underwear, handkerchiefs, and a tube of spermicidal cream, and came up with a red leather wallet. Inside, behind a clear plastic window, was a return request card with Ruth’s name and address.
“Now that’s interesting,” Nita remarked, “she lives on West 13th Street, right in my husband’s jurisdiction. He’s a captain at the Sixth Precinct, just a few blocks south, on Charles Street. Where are Metzger’s things?”
“He put her in the master bedroom,” said Cile. “She was going to use one of the twin beds. Lee and Jackson slept in separate beds.” She imparted that information without further comment, but it was apparent that Jackson had chosen to share the guest room with Ruth because it had a double bed.
Cile led Nita into the sunny master bedroom on the right. The detective’s experienced eye scanned the room, looking for signs of a struggle. There were none. Edith’s overnight bag, still partly packed, lay on the bed nearest the door. The bathing suit that had never gotten wet was tossed on a chair, and a single sundress hung in the closet.
A makeup case sat next to the portable vanity on a shelf by the window. Cile was about to scoop it up when Nita stopped her. “Let me look around first, then you can clear up in here. It won’t take me long.” Compared to Ruth’s elaborate wardrobe, Edith had brought much less clothing and fewer accessories. Unfortunately neither the suitcase nor the bureau contained any identification.
She thanked Cile for her cooperation, took Ruth’s wallet and descended to the dining room, where Finch had finished with the handbag.
“Looks like this belongs to Metzger,” he told Nita, “or rather it did.” He had spread the contents out on the table. “There’s a coin purse with eighty-nine cents in change, a hankie, a comb, lipstick, a compact, and a wallet with thirty-six dollars in it—probably cashed her paycheck on Friday—a return Long Island Rail Road ticket to Penn Station, and an ID card. She lived at 249 West 13th Street.”
“That’s the same as Kligman’s address,” said Nita. “I bet they were roommates.”
“You’re probably right,” said Finch. “Kligman can confirm that when she comes to. If she comes to, that is.”