“Hola, Nita, how are you enjoying the beach?”
Inspector Morales was pleased to hear her voice. He missed her, not only because she was a popular member of his team, but also because he could have used her on duty. Domestic disputes in stifling apartments and the occasional gang rumble kept Spanish Harlem’s Twenty-third Precinct busy during the hot summer, when school was out and idle youngsters found plenty of ways to get into trouble.
“It’s boring, Hector,” she replied. “Waves roll in, waves roll out, and then they roll in and out again. All day, all night—talk about monotonous.”
Morales laughed. “I guess you’ll be glad to get back to your exciting life in the city, where every day is a new adventure.”
“Actually,” she said, “we’re having an adventure right here in East Hampton. There’s been a homicide, and Fitz and I are helping the local cops with the investigation.”
“Madre de dios, girl, don’t you two ever take a vacation?”
“Maybe next summer. But seriously, Hector, I wonder if you can do us a real favor.” She explained the situation, her story interrupted a couple of times by the operator asking her to deposit more money.
“Hang on a minute, I have the phone book right here,” he told her as she slipped another dime into the slot. “Here it is, Beautique Salon, 142 West 57th Street, an easy subway ride downtown. I can be there in half an hour. Give me a number where I can call you later.”
“Better call the town police station, ask for Chief Harry Steele. He’s in charge of the case.” She gave him the number. “Can you believe it? East Hampton Town doesn’t have a single detective on the force. I guess they rely on the county cops if there’s a case that needs investigating, but I gather this is the first unexplained death they’ve had in years.”
“Kinda refreshing, ain’t it?” observed Morales. “Hope it doesn’t make you think about moving to the country.”
“What would I do with myself? Like I said, no detectives out here. I’d have to open a restaurante and try to sell the locals on Cuban food.” That prompted a chuckle at the other end of the line.
The operator asked for another dime, so Nita thanked Morales, wished him good hunting, and rang off.
When she got back to the cottage, Steele had left for the station, and Fitz and TJ had changed out of their bathing suits.
“I think we’ve done everything we can for now. Harry will work on getting the lab report, and Hector will question this Nick character. I told him to look for scratch marks. So what do you say we take the afternoon off? Hector was teasing me about working on vacation, and of course he’s right. We’re supposed to be off duty.”
“Listen here, Detective Diaz,” scolded her husband, “you’re always the one who gets to solve interesting crimes, while I’m stuck behind a desk half the time and spend the other half breaking up bar fights and booking drug dealers. You wouldn’t begrudge me a little detecting experience, would you?”
“Me too!” added TJ, and Nita shook her head in sympathy.
“All right, Junior G-Man, and you, too, Dick Tracy, we’ll all detect together. Harry says we make a great team and you know, I think he’s right.” She gave them both a hug.
“But right now we can take a break while we wait for more evidence. Sometimes a detective’s most important asset is patience. Remember Ted said TJ should come back to The Creeks so he can taste the bread he helped make? I wonder if the coast is clear over there now. Let’s find out.”
Her suggestion was received with enthusiasm, and they headed to the inn to use the phone.
Emerging from the BMT station at 57th Street and Seventh Avenue, Hector Morales had only a half-block walk to reach the Beautique Salon. Before entering, he checked the interior through the window and saw that it was quiet. Not much business early on a Thursday afternoon—one woman having her hair permed by the single beautician on duty, and another in curlers under the dryer. A bored receptionist was reading Photoplay.
The sight of a large unfamiliar man in front of her desk got her attention. “Hiya, mister. Lookin’ for somebody?” She was sure he wasn’t there for a haircut or a manicure.
“Yes, miss, I’d like to see the manager, if he’s available.” Even kept discreetly low, his rich baritone voice resonated with authority. She figured him for a salesman.
“Name, please,” she said as she lifted the intercom speaker. He told her, without mentioning that he was a police inspector, and he heard a received buzz in a room at the back of the salon.
“There’s a man out here to see ya, Mr. Petrillo,” she said, and Morales heard him reply, “What does he want?” She looked up and raised her eyebrows.
“It’s about Miss Metzger,” he told her.
“Oh, gee, it’s terrible what happened,” said the receptionist. “Poor Edie. A car crash, of all things. Her what only rode the subway.” She relayed the information to her boss, who said to send the man in.
“The door at the rear, Mr. Morales. Says ‘office’ right on it.” He thanked her and walked to the back.
Petrillo, eh? he thought as he approached the door. Italian, Catholic, therefore no divorce. Metzger was holding out false hope.
He knocked and was told to come in. The room was small and cluttered, made even more cramped by a large couch, which Morales assumed had been the scene of numerous Petrillo-Metzger assignations.
The manager, a man of medium height in his midthirties, his black hair lightly salted with gray at the temples, stood up from his desk chair and offered Morales his hand. His grip was firm but not aggressive. Plenty of power there if he chose to use it, mused the inspector. He directed Morales to a chair opposite the desk. From that position he could see the back of a framed photograph, presumably of Mrs. Petrillo, maybe with a child or two. He could imagine Petrillo slipping it into a drawer before inviting Metzger into the office.
Petrillo offered him a cigarette, which he declined, then took one for himself. He had removed his jacket and tie and had his sleeves rolled up, so it was easy for Morales to see that there were no wounds on his face, neck, or forearms.
“Are you here about the insurance?” he asked. “I told Miss Metzger’s mother I thought it would cover the funeral. I hope I was right about that.”
“No, sir, I’m afraid it’s nothing to do with insurance.” He took out his shield, displayed it, and identified himself.
Petrillo froze. He stared at the shield, then at Morales. He stubbed out the cigarette.
“What do you want?” His tone was guarded.
Not wanting to jump to conclusions, Morales could tell that Petrillo was worried. Could be only that he doesn’t want his wife to find out about the affair, or could be he has something more to hide. He considered how to phrase his questions so as to get the most information while revealing the least.
“As you know,” he said, “Edith was killed in East Hampton. The local police have asked me to follow up on a few points that need clarifying.”
“Such as?”
“Did you know where she was going for the weekend?”
“Yeah. She told me she and her roommate were going to visit the roommate’s boyfriend in the country. Out on the Island, East Hampton, she said.”
“Do you know the roommate?”
“Ruth? Sure. She comes in here to get her hair done. That’s how she and Edie—Miss Metzger, I mean—how they met.”
“We can call her Edith, or Edie if you prefer. When I asked if you knew where she was going, I meant specifically.”
“You mean the address? No, but she did say it’s in a little backwater outside of town, as if East Hampton itself isn’t a backwater. I’ve been there a couple of times, driving through on the way to go fishing in Montauk. Wide spot in the highway, that’s all it is.”
Petrillo had relaxed a bit. So he has a car, thought Morales. He had noticed the salon’s hours posted on the entrance door, informing patrons that the shop closed at six p.m. on Saturdays. If Petrillo’s car was handy—and there was plenty of on-street parking at the weekends—he could have locked up, hopped in the car, scooted over the Queensboro Bridge at 59th Street, and been in East Hampton by nine o’clock. He’d have to have known where to find Edith, even if he says he didn’t.
Morales kept his tone mild and even, very matter-of-fact.
“Did she say how long she’d be gone?”
“She said she was planning to come back Sunday night, but if she decided to stay another day she’d call and let me know. We’re closed on Mondays, so she couldn’t have stayed over if she’d wanted to.” He blinked hard and ran his hand over his face. “Oh, man. I’m sorry. It was just such a shock. Edie was a real sweet kid.”
“I understand, Mr. Petrillo. I don’t mean to distress you, but as I said, there are some loose ends we need to tie up.”
“Yes, of course, whatever I can do. But I don’t get what you’re driving at.”
“Did you take the weekend off, too?”
“Not likely. Especially since Edie was off. Even in the summer, Saturday is our busiest day, and I can’t afford to turn away business. If we have a lot of walk-ins I have to take over the reception desk so the girl can tend to customers.”
“So you were here all day last Saturday?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? What is this?”
“What time did you leave?”
Now Petrillo was getting anxious. “I locked up a little after six, like usual. So what?”
“Did you drive to work on Saturday?”
“I never drive to work. I live in Astoria, so I take the Number 8 right to the corner here. But what’s that got to do with Edie?”
Could be he’s genuinely confused by these questions, said Morales to himself, or he’s hiding something. Okay, no scratch marks, but they haven’t yet determined whose skin was under Metzger’s nails. Could be she scratched herself in the struggle. So for now Petrillo is definitely a suspect.
Morales decided to level with him.
“I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Petrillo. Edith Metzger was not killed in the automobile accident. She was already dead when the car crashed. We know you were having an affair with her. Do you see why I need to find out where you were when she died?”
Petrillo stared at him in horror.
“Holy shit!” He repeated himself, softer this time. “Holy shit.”