Back in his office at the Twenty-third Precinct, Hector Morales put through a call to the East Hampton Town Police.
“I don’t think Nick Petrillo is your man, Harry,” he told Chief Steele after introducing himself. “It may have been humanly possible, but only if he had his car handy.” He outlined the scenario in which Petrillo drove to Springs in time to confront Metzger, fight with her, and strangle her before Pollock and Kligman found her in the yard at around ten p.m.
“He says he didn’t drive to work on Saturday, and the girls at the salon back him up. They say he was there all day, locked up just after six, they all left together, and he walked with one of them to the subway station at 57th and Seventh. She went to the downtown platform, and he went to the uptown platform headed to Queens. His train came in before hers, and she saw him get on.
“But suppose, instead of riding home to Astoria, he gets off at Queensboro Plaza, where he’s parked the car. From there it’s a straight run down Northern Boulevard and out to the Island. Three hours, easy.”
“But you don’t think that’s what happened.”
“No, I don’t. He said his wife had the car, took the kids to the beach that day. That’s easy enough to check. Besides, he shows no signs of having struggled with Metzger, no visible scratches or bruises. I wouldn’t rule him out entirely at this stage, but my instinct tells me you’re looking for someone else.”
“He could have rented a car,” suggested Steele.
“Yes, I thought of that, in which case there’ll be a record of it. I can have inquiries made if you like.”
“Let’s hold off on that for now. First I want to get the tissue analysis results, find out the blood type from the skin samples. I’m hoping to rule out Metzger herself, then decide where to go next. Pollock had an unusual blood type, so a match would make him a high probability. If that happens we need to question Kligman more intensively. And we need to draw blood from other suspects, including Petrillo, in case one of them turns out to be a match.”
“Call me when you want me to move on him,” said Morales. Steele thanked him for his cooperation and said he’d be in touch. He hung up, flipped the intercom switch, and buzzed Fred Tucker.
“Call Riverhead again. Find out what’s holding up that damned report. They said it’d be ready this afternoon, and it’s almost five now.”
Just then the phone on Fred’s desk rang. He excused himself and answered it, to find a technician from the Suffolk County Medical Laboratory on the line.
“I was about to call you,” he said. “Do you have the Metzger results? Great. Let me put you through to Chief Steele.” He returned to the intercom and told his boss to pick up.
“Chief Steele? This is Conroy, from the Suffolk Lab. I have the report you were asking for.”
“About time,” grumbled Steele. “Were you able to identify a blood type?”
“Yes. The tissue had enough blood in it to get a result. It’s A positive, quite common, second only to O positive. I’ll put the full report in the mail to you. I already gave a copy to Dr. Nugent.” Naturally the coroner’s office would be keeping tabs on the investigation.
Steele thanked the technician and hung up the phone. The test ruled out Pollock, with his rare Type A negative blood. He opened the file and checked the Metzger autopsy report. Like Kligman, she was Type O positive, so it wasn’t her own skin or Kligman’s under her nails. She had wounded her attacker, all right, badly enough to draw blood.
He was going to have to get samples from Nick Petrillo and Ted Dragon, and maybe Ossorio, too, while he was at it. Petrillo was the obvious candidate—maybe she scratched him on the shoulder or upper arm, where a long-sleeve shirt would cover it. Notwithstanding Dragon’s wounded forearm, he and Ossorio were less likely, so he was hoping to eliminate them. He buzzed Fred and asked him to get Dr. Abel on the phone.
“I can help you with Ossorio,” Abel told him. “He came to me a year or so ago complaining of fatigue, so I ran a blood test. Turns out he was slightly anemic. I prescribed an iron tonic and he improved. Hold the phone a minute while I check the file.”
It didn’t take Abel long to come back on the line. “He’s O positive, the most common type among Spanish and Chinese, and he’s part both.”
“How about Dragon?”
“He’s not a patient of mine. Maybe he goes to Dr. Cooper, or maybe he hasn’t had the need since he’s been living out here. Do you want me to test him?”
“First let me try Cooper. If he has nothing on file I’ll call you back.”
Dr. Cooper was with a patient, but his nurse said she’d check to see if Edward Dragon was on the roster. He was not. Apparently he hadn’t thought the scratches on his arm were serious enough to seek medical treatment. Even if he had, there would be no reason for a doctor to draw blood.
Steele called Abel back and asked him to meet him at The Creeks. Better do it now and get it over with.
When the chief arrived he found Fitz’s car parked in the driveway. The Pollock family—Stella, Sande, Arloie, and the kids—had left earlier that afternoon, so the Fitzgeralds had taken up Ted’s offer of a return visit.
The front door was wide open, as was the dining room door to the terrace, where the hosts and their guests were feasting on thick slices of Ted’s home-baked bread, liberally buttered and heaped with local beach plum jelly, washed down with iced tea.
What trusting fellows, thought Steele as he walked past valuable art and artifacts. Anyone could just drive up and help himself. Still, I suppose they can afford to part with a few of these knickknacks, and no one would want the ugly abstract paintings. Nothing but smears and blotches.
On the wall beside the dining room door, he was confronted by one of Ossorio’s recent creations, with several glass eyes and a deer’s jawbone embedded in its thickly impastoed surface. You couldn’t pay me to steal that, he said to himself as he eased warily past it and out onto the terrace.
“Hail to the chief!” cried Ted as Steele approached the party. “Pull up a chair, dig in, and give us a report. Any news that wasn’t in the paper?” He and Alfonso rose politely, and remained standing as Steele did. He also refused refreshments.
“I suppose Nita has told you that her colleague in the city is doing some legwork for us,” he began, and Nita nodded in agreement. “Well, he questioned Metzger’s boss, Nick, and the man is definitely a suspect.”
TJ was the first to react. “¡Ay, caramba! Really? Isn’t he the guy who gave her the necklace I found?”
“Yessir, that’s him. He has an alibi of sorts, but it doesn’t put him in the clear. Inspector Morales has some more checking to do. Meanwhile our Mr. Petrillo—that’s Nick’s last name—is number one on the list.”
Nita picked up on Steele’s implication: there was still an active list. She had been hoping Hector would nail it down, but evidently his investigation so far wasn’t conclusive. She wanted to hear the details, but not in front of Alfonso and Ted.
“Any other leads?” asked Ted, eager for more inside information.
This was just a bit awkward. Steele mumbled something vague about promising lab results. He was trying to figure out how to ask Ted for a blood sample without putting him on the defensive when Dr. Abel arrived with his medical bag in hand.
Well, thought Steele, I guess I’ll have to come clean. He told them that the blood type had been identified, and that anyone who had come in contact with Metzger would have to be tested.
Alfonso and Ted watched as Dr. Abel opened his bag, removed a small kit, and placed it on the table. They looked at each other, and at Steele.
Alfonso spoke. Gone was the conviviality of the social gathering, replaced by an air of offended dignity.
“I believe we both told Detective Diaz that we did not see Jackson, Ruth, or Edith Metzger on the evening of the accident,” he said in a frosty tone. “There would be no reason, no reason at all, for us to be tested.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Ossorio, I have only your word for that.”
The response from Alfonso was a withering glare. “I see,” he said. It was as if an iceberg had just beached on the shore of Georgica Pond and cast a frigid pall over the terrace.
Without another word, he sat down at the table and held out his left hand.
The doctor opened his kit and took out a small glass pipette, a sterile needle, and an alcohol swab. He wiped the tip of Alfonso’s middle finger, pricked it, and squeezed out a drop of blood, which he collected in the pipette. He sealed the sample in a test tube already labeled AO. He pressed the swab onto Alfonso’s fingertip and folded his hand into a fist. Of course this was redundant, since he already knew Alfonso’s blood type, but by sampling both men it would not look as if Ted were being singled out.
The Fitzgerald family made themselves as inconspicuous as possible.
Abel kept his eyes on his work, avoiding Alfonso’s glacial stare. When he stood up and stepped away from the table, Ted took his place and the procedure was repeated. His sample went into a test tube marked ED.
“I appreciate your cooperation, gentlemen,” said Steele, hoping to ease the tension. “This is purely routine, and no reflection on your veracity, you understand.”
“I understand perfectly, Chief Steele,” said Alfonso. “I think you and Dr. Abel have everything you need, so you may now leave our home.”
“I think it’s time for us to head out as well,” said Fitz after a cool breeze had blown Steele and Abel away. He was sure the mood would not be turning around just because they had left.
Ted tried to dissuade them. “Honestly, please don’t feel you need to hurry off. Alfonso has thin skin, as you see. The chief was only doing his job.”
“I’m so glad you understand,” said Nita, turning to Ossorio. “He has his hands full with this case, and very little experience with homicide investigations. He just wants to be certain he doesn’t neglect or overlook anything. Try to see it from his point of view. Jackson and the girls were headed here. He can’t just accept your assurance that they never arrived.”
She flashed her trademark smile, guaranteed to melt the hearts of the opposite sex, hoping it would work as effectively on a homosexual as it did on straight men. “Besides, in my professional opinion, ves culpable como el pecado. Guilty as sin.”
Alfonso thawed. “Nita, mi querida, God knows I am indeed a sinner. But I am not a killer. At least not yet. If Steele comes back, I just may strangle him.”
She slipped her arm through Alfonso’s as they walked to the door. “When this is all over, send a nice fat check to the police benevolent fund,” she whispered. “Then all your sins will be forgiven.”