Creepers (7 page)

"I guess that's why I went back down." She'd been asked and had answered that question a hundred times. That was the reason, unless...

"Mrs. Hill?" Corelli asked, sensing she might be remembering something.

"I had this feeling . . . No, it's insane." She shook her head.

Corelli leaned forward. Not only was Louise Hill beautiful, she was sensitive, too, a cut above the usual witness to a crime; that could be useful. "Mrs. Hill, think. What kind of feeling did you have?"

"That Lisa was still down in the subway, that she was close, but I just couldn't see her."

Bingo! But now was not the time to tip his hand. Corelli remained straight-faced. "You said the platform was empty, that you looked and she wasn't on the tracks."

"No, she wasn't. Still . . ." The memory filled her mind, and the terror suddenly began again. Louise clenched her hands and tried to forget, but Corelli pushed on mercilessly.

"Are you sure the downtown platform was empty?"

"Of course I'm sure. What do you take me for? A moron?" Her voice was suddenly sharp and defensive. She was beginning to lose control.

"Mrs. Hill, it's been my experience that people tend to see more than they remember at first. Sometimes, after the initial shock lessens, their memory improves." Corelli felt bad about forcing the issue, but he had to. Unlike the NYPD, he had a good idea that whatever had happened to Penny Comstock and all the others had also happened to Lisa Hill. And he was determined to find out exactly what that was. "Please, try to remember any other details," he coaxed.

"There was no one else on the platform," she repeated through clenched teeth. "I looked first onto the platform, then into the stairwell, then onto the tracks, and finally down the tunnel. . . ." She paused, stared at Corelli, then turned away and shook her head.

"What was that? Why did you shake your head?" He fought to keep the excitement from his voice. "You remembered something, didn't you?"

"I just remembered...No, it's nothing."

"Let me be the judge of that." He stood up and went to the window to let her collect her thoughts without being under his scrutiny. "You looked down the tunnel and...?"

"I thought I saw the flicker of something in the dark, something gray, fluttery . . . like newspapers that had been caught in a breeze. You know, blowing along the tunnel wall about this high." When Corelli turned around she had raised her hand about four feet from the floor.

"Newspapers? Are you sure?" In the darkness of the tunnel, someone running low to the ground could be mistaken for almost anything--particularly by a witness in Louise Hill's state of mind.

Louise dropped her hands into her lap. Her shoulders sagged and she sighed again, wearily, hopelessly. "Sergeant Corelli, I'm not sure of my own name anymore. My daughter's gone. I haven't slept in twenty-four hours and I'm terribly afraid . . . and lonely. I'm sorry if I can't answer your questions the way you'd like."

Their eyes met for a moment; then Corelli looked away. He wanted to--had to--maintain the optimum of professionalism for his own sake. But Louise Hill was getting to him. Goddammit, he wanted to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. It wasn't only her beauty that got him. It was her unashamed vulnerability. Jesus! Here he was in the home of a woman who was going through living hell, and he was getting turned on.

But Louise Hill saw none of this as she rose from the couch. "I'm going to make a cup of coffee for myself. May I get you one, Sergeant?"

"That's 'Detective,' Mrs. Hill," he replied softly. "And the answer is yes."

Five minutes later the sound of shattering glass and a cry from the direction of the kitchen had Corelli running, his right hand automatically poised to reach for his gun. He didn't know what to expect, but as he reached the kitchen door he was aware that his heart was pounding in his chest and that his mouth had gone dry.

Louise stood silently in the center of the large kitchen. Her head was bowed and her arms dangled lifelessly in front of her. At her feet were a tray and the shattered remains of a coffeepot, mugs, and a plate of homemade cookies. She looked up uncomprehendingly at Corelli as her eyes filled with tears. "Looks like I can't do anything right anymore," she managed to say before a wave of tears washed the words away.

Corelli took a step toward her, feeling like a damned fool. Since yesterday, Louise Hill had obviously been under a great strain, and his incessant questioning had pushed her over the emotional edge. If it hadn't been for her revelation about the "something gray" in the tunnel, Frank would have felt worse than he did about upsetting her. As it was, he felt like shit. But Louise's answers might have just given him the start needed to link Dolchik's file with this disappearance . . . and then link them all to the same somebody--or somebodies--who preyed on people in the subway.

"Hey, are you going to be okay?" he asked cautiously.

"I'm sorry," she apologized while frantically trying to erase the stream of tears. "I don't know what's happening tome."

"It's called delayed reaction. There's nothing to worry about." Corelli intended to take her by the hand and lead her back into the living room. Instead, he put his arms around her and pressed her head to his shoulder. Louise tensed momentarily, and when the awkwardness of the moment passed, she relaxed.

"How about giving me a second chance with that coffee?" she finally asked as she extricated herself from his arms.

"Leave that to me. You go sit down." Louise began to protest. "And I won't take no for an answer."

She smiled, pushed aside an errant lock of hair, then left without further protest.

"So, if the NYPD is handling the case, why are you here, Frank?" Louise asked twenty minutes later. Corelli made good coffee, and it revived her almost as much as his earlier kindness had.

"Let's just say I'm moonlighting. The boys in blue know this town from the surface; I know it from the underground."

"Some job." She abruptly changed the subject. "Do you believe that whoever took Lisa is still down there?"

Corelli shrugged in answer, but the question unsettled him. He was beginning to get a feeling about this whole mess--a feeling that told him he wasn't just dealing with some creep who snatched kids off platforms and dragged them into tunnels.

"Frank, be honest with me. You owe me that much. They took my baby," she said sorrowfully, "and I cried in front of you. I don't cry in front of every man I meet--cop or no cop."

"I really don't have any theories about what actually happened. It has occurred to me that someone who knew the subway system inside-out might have taken Lisa into the tunnel. The logical thing is to think she was taken upstairs; I'm not so sure."

"Oh, God," Louise gasped. "My poor baby."

"There are two sets of tracks on that particular line--local and express. A knowledgeable man could jump from one set of tracks to the other to avoid oncoming trains; there are also other alternatives. Anyway, once down the line at another station where no one was looking for him, he might easily come up on the platform, then leave." And as Corelli said it, he knew it was bullshit. Alive or dead, Lisa Hill was still in the subway.

"What are the chances that that happened, Frank?"

"I wish I could tell you, but I can't." Jesus, life was so unfair. Why the hell did he have to meet Louise Hill now? Why not later, when this was done with. Or better still, months before, when they could have started a relationship like two ordinary human beings.

He looked at his watch: he was already an hour late for work. "I've got to go."

Louise saw him to the door, where they hovered a moment or two longer than necessary. "I wish this hadn't happened, Frank. Not just for Lisa's sake, but for mine. People shouldn't have to meet like this," she admitted softly, echoing Corelli's thoughts.

"You and me both," he agreed. "But it's happened, and I'm going to do my damnedest to work it out. If I need any more help..."

"Call me," she said without hesitation. "And thanks for being so nice earlier."

Corelli left with a smile on his face, but back on the street he forced himself to forget Louise Hill and to concentrate on the figure she'd seen in the subway. That was no pile of newspapers blowing along the tracks. It was someone walking, creeping along to avoid detection. He was sure of it. Now all he had to do was prove it.

"He said gray, man. Like a bag of rags dumped near the track. That's all I can remember." Miguel Esperanza was no longer intimidated by Willie Hoyte's gruff interrogation. It was just getting plain boring. Miguel had better things to do than to sit in Willie's kitchen and drink Cokes while Willie played Perry Mason. Shit, it was one thing to be invited into the home of the Dogs of Hell's leader; it was another to be second-degreed. Especially when he had a hot date waiting across town for him at that very moment.

"What you mean, he said he saw a bag of rags?"

Miguel sighed dramatically. "I already tole you, Willie. Ted said he saw somethin' moving along the wall in the tunnel. I tole him it was jes' some workman or somethin', but he didn't believe me. He said no workman dressed like that and walked like he was hiding or somethin'."

For a moment Willie caught sight of his father's smiling face, and his determination to get to the bottom of Slade's disappearance was renewed. This was the second day no one had heard from that white sonofabitch, and Willie was going to have answers about what had happened to his second-in-command or else he was going to kick ass.

"I looked out where Slade was peering," Miguel continued, "but, shit, I didn't see nothin' at all. Maybe Slade was smoking reefer."

"Tell him that to his face, Miggie," Willie replied angrily. Right about now Miguel would do anything--even lie--to get off the hook. "Why didn't you stay with him on the platform at Ninety-sixth Street?" Miguel turned away in answer and Willie decided to pursue the question. "You chickenshit or something?"

"I was going to Marylu's house, that's why," Miguel admitted, feeling the blood rise to his face. "Don't a man get no privacy 'round here?" Miguel loved the way his girlfriend ran her fingers over his chest, all the time cooing about the hardness of his muscles. It was a real turn-on!

"You don't get shit if you don't be square with me." There was really nothing more to say, but Willie's frustration drove him on. He'd never admit he really cared about Slade--he'd cared about his father once, and look where that got him--but he did care, and Slade's vanishing into thin air scared him, made him feel his own vulnerability.

Miguel pushed away from the kitchen table. "I've had it up to my teeth with you damn fool questions, Willie." He squared his shoulders and put on his Dogs of Hell jacket. "How many times we got to go over this before you believe me that I don't know squat about Ted Slade?"

"I believe you, Miggie," Willie admitted quietly. "It jes' don't figure, that's all."

"Well, it don't figure to me, neither, but that don't mean shit where Slade's concerned." Miguel scratched his head and shrugged. "Maybe you should tell your buddy Detective Corelli 'bout Slade's vanishin' act."

Willie didn't rise to the bait. He knew his men were suspicious of his special relationship with the cop, but that was none of their damn business. Besides, he was personally going to investigate this occurrence himself. Something weird was happening down in the subway. Slade's disappearance proved it. So did Corelli's asking Dogs of Hell to keep a lookout for strange things--people walking into the subway and never walking out.

"Let's go." Willie beckoned Miguel to the front door.

"I'm seein' Marylu in half an hour," Miggie whined.

Willie rolled his eyes. "You got a date at three o'clock in the afternoon? Man, don't you ever get enough?" Miguel blushed, and Willie pushed him out the door. "If you want to keep your lady smilin', you'd best call her from a phone booth and tell her you're gonna be late."

"Say what?" Miguel said, wishing he'd never heard of Willie Hoyte or of his goddamned Dogs of Hell.

"You're gonna be a little late, my man, 'cause you and me are goin' out to find Ted Slade. Now, come on." And with that he pushed past Miguel and jumped down the stairs two at a time.

The Seventh Avenue IRT subway had four clusters of exits onto Broadway at the Ninety-sixth Street stop: one on either side of the street at Ninety-sixth Street itself, and two between Ninety-third and Ninety-fourth streets. The station was a heavily traveled thoroughfare for uptown and downtown local and express traffic, and during the morning and afternoon rush hours, its platforms were crowded with riders. Even at off-peak hours, Ninety-sixth Street was busy.

Willie was counting on that fact as he and Miguel paid their fares at the Ninety-third Street token booth, pushed through the crowds and down the stairs to the platform. An express train was just pulling out of the station to their right, and in the distance, the lights of a local broke the darkness at the far end of the platform as it approached. He and Miguel lingered near the staircase while scanning the platform for TA cops. As usual, there wasn't a uniform in sight.

The local pulled into the station, discharged a few stray passengers, picked up many more, then commenced its run south. Willie waited until the last car vanished into the darkness, then darted around the staircase along the narrow catwalk that ran alongside the tunnel. Miguel stood a polite distance behind him, his mouth open with amazement. There was no way he was going in there; no way.