Victims (15 page)

“Oh, Christ.”

“I haven’t told anyone about that. Not anyone, not even...Not anyone. God, it is terrible. What I’ve let them do to my own child. It was my fault, wasn’t it, this sad little boy with the old face and the terrible seriousness of his life and...

Finally she cried, and finally it was time for him to go to her, put his arms around her, assure her that she was human, it was all right to let go.

At one point, she pulled back and looked at him. “I’m not sure why, Mr. Stein, but I feel somehow that it
is
all right. With you, I mean. I do not usually, you see. But tonight, first at that apartment with those people...I’m not usually like this. I am usually strong, and I don’t like this...this kind of thing.”

“Miranda, let’s have a drink. What would you like?”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I have nothing here. I just don’t particularly like alcohol, and since I am alone now it was used up and I didn’t replace it.”

He shook his head. “Okay. Want to turn on? No. You don’t do that. Coffee? You drink tea. Miranda, what the hell do you do when you need to relax a little?”

“I relax. I do a form of meditation. Very deep.”

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “Do that later. Don’t you disappear on me, lady. Okay, now tell me: how did a Bronx-Fort Lauderdale girl end up here, in Astoria, Queens?”

“Another long story. About a Long Island commuting husband who found it convenient to stop off en route from his job in Manhattan to his family home on the Island. It was
convenient
for him. And I liked it here. So, later, I stayed.” She smiled at him. “You’d make a good cop. You know exactly when to ask for certain information. I want to show you something.”

She reached behind her for a silver-framed photograph, which she handed to him.

Mike studied the photograph. It was of a tall thin young man, elegant, sensuous, mysterious, with something dangerous and glamorous in his stance. There was something known and yet intriguing, familiar and yet disturbing, about him.

“You have a twin brother, Miranda? He is so like you. And yet...”

“No. No twin brother. No brother. Do you like the picture? Do you not recognize the beautiful young man? Is he not interesting? Do you find yourself, maybe, attracted to him in some way?” She moved closer to him and laughed. It was an entirely different sound from earlier: this was a deep throaty sound of pleasure, teasing, mocking. “Do you never play games, Mr. Stein?”

He leaned back and smiled. He ran his long fingers through his thick white hair, his eyes sparked ice blue, he licked his lips quickly in anticipation. In enjoyment of Miranda.

“Oh. Sometimes. Tell me this game—of the beautiful young man.”

“Ah. Once, one weekend, about a year ago, a friend—”

“Not the Long Island commuter?”

Miranda shook her head. “No. Just a friend. He had an idea. For reasons I won’t go into, I’ll just tell you the game. I dressed as you see me in the picture. With just a touch of careful makeup, just for definition, to make me into the beautiful young man you see. He was quite beautiful, too, my friend, in a very masculine way. He took me to a place where young men meet other young men. And we played the game. It was a contest between us, to see who would be the more popular. Who would attract more potential lovers.”

“And who won?”

“Oh, I did. You see, he was absolutely straight. As straight as anyone ever is. He did not know exactly
how
to attract other men to him. I do. I did. Of course, they never knew I was a woman. Otherwise, he would have won. It was just a game. Harmless. Interesting.”

“Did you play other games with your friend?”

“This is the only one I care to tell you about. For now. Don’t you think I was a pretty boy?”

“Sitting here, in this room with you, I don’t see you as androgynous. Not at all. I guess the real test would be if you were able to attract women as well.”

Miranda shrugged and smiled and said softly, “Ah, Mr. Stein. Only one secret at a time, yes?”

She offered her hands and he stood up, aware of the fragrance and aura of the young woman, aware of her slender body beneath the overlarge, expensive man’s shirt.

Miranda led him into her bedroom. She took his hands away as he started to unbutton her shirt.

“Miranda, let me do that.”

She shook her head. “No. That would make me feel like a child, to have you undress me now. As though you were still offering me comfort. This—this is a thing apart, separate and for itself, this, between you and me.
This time,
I will undress myself first, and then I will undress you. There is no child in this room.”

“Miranda, there is nothing, at all, in the world, childish about you,” he said, his voice deep with admiration and a certain unexpected sense of awe.

M
IRANDA WAS AT HER
desk for no more than fifteen minutes before a woman who refused to identify herself telephoned to tell her that Maria Vidales, “the Spanish girl,” had returned to her apartment at 10-43 Barclay Street.

The girl was reluctant to open the door.

“No, no,” she said, eying Miranda through the peephole. “Whatever it is, I don’t want it. Please. Go away.”

Miranda leaned on the doorbell. It was a loud, startling sound. Finally the girl opened the door the few inches the chain lock allowed.

“You do not want to talk to me through the door, Ms. Vidales,” Miranda told her. “This is a matter for you and not for your neighbors.”

The girl studied the gold shield for a moment, closed the door, slid the chain free and allowed Miranda to come into her small apartment. The tiny living room was filled with overlarge pieces of upholstered furniture, littered with magazines, newspapers, a collection of records, tapes, clothing, shoes, boxes filled with makeup. The walls were adorned with posters advertising rock concerts and rock stars.

Maria swept an armful of magazines onto the floor to make room for Miranda. She didn’t apologize or try to explain the clutter. It was a fact of her life.

“So, all right, you are a police detective. What do you want to talk to me about?”

Her resemblance to the murdered Anna Grace was stunning: same size and build; a bit younger, a bit heavier, but the same long dark hair, swept back from her face and hanging straight and loose down her back. The girl was tense under Miranda’s scrutiny.

“I am sorry to stare, it’s just that... Were you away, Ms. Vidales? I’ve been trying to reach you since Wednesday night. When the young woman, Anna Grace, was murdered right downstairs, practically in front of this building.”

Miranda stood up and went to the window. “I think you’d be able to see at least part of what happened from here. Yes. One could see the lamppost where the girl slumped down. Where she sat and bled to death. Yes. You could see that clearly from here.”

“I wasn’t home,” the girl said. “I was with a friend. At the beach. This week is my vacation.”

She worked at a local burger franchise for the summer, until classes started again at St. John’s.

“But you heard about the murder?”

“I saw it on the TV. And in the newspapers. It was a bad thing. But so many things happen every day, no?”

“And you know nothing about it?”

Maria Vidales could not meet her eyes. She grew nervous and agitated at Miranda’s direct confrontation. Her face was drawn and stiff, as though she’d been very ill.

“Maria, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Trouble? No. I’m not in trouble. Please. I don’t know anything about what happened. I wasn’t here. So there it is.”

“Have you spoken to any of your neighbors about the murder of this young woman?”

“No. No, I don’t talk to my neighbors. I work or I go to school. I don’t see them.”

Slowly, carefully, softly, Miranda said, “Ah. Then no one has told you yet. I see.”

The girl froze. The cigarette remained unlit in her mouth, the match unstruck in her hand.

“Told me? Told me what?”

There was something here that was not right. Miranda decided to let Maria come to her.

“Nothing. Nothing, I’m sorry. Never mind.”

“No. Wait. Why did you want to see me? I wasn’t home. You say you came here and I wasn’t home. So why bother me now? Listen.
Told me what?”

Miranda Torres had learned a long time ago that the best way to say something terrible, unbearable, was in a quiet, soft, matter-of-fact way.

“That when your neighbors came to the street, when they were asked to look at the murdered girl, when they were asked if anyone knew her, some of them said, yes, they thought they knew this girl.”

“Yes? Yes, and so...”

“They said, She looks like the Spanish girl. The girl who lives on the top floor, at 10-43. They didn’t know your name. But they meant you. They thought the girl who was murdered was you. She looked very much like you. They were right. I can see that now.”

Maria Vidales tried to light the cigarette, but her hand shook so badly that she gave it up.

“Are you in some kind of trouble, Maria? Is there someone, somewhere, who would want to hurt you?”

“Oh. No. No, nothing like that. No one wants to hurt me. You mean—to kill me? You mean does someone want to
kill
me? That is a terrible thing to ask me. It is not my fault that some girl who looks like me got killed. What does that have to do with me? Many people look like me. I can’t help that. Please...I...feel sick.”

She rushed from the room, and while she was in the bathroom being sick, running water, trying to pull herself together, Miranda stared after her. What had she walked into?

“Well, do you feel better now? You look very pale. Would you like anything?”

“Thank you. Thank you, no. Listen, I’ve got a virus, is all. My friend, he has been sick all week, so maybe...” The girl stopped speaking, put her hand over her mouth.

Miranda shrugged. “That’s a shame. It couldn’t have been much fun, to be at the beach and to be sick. What is your friend’s name? Where does he live?”

Maria shook her head. “I do not have to tell you. Not anything.”

“Are you here on a student visa, Maria? From Colombia?”

“Yes. It is all in order.”

“Good. Then there’s nothing for you to worry about, is there? Is that what’s been worrying you?”

“No. I just...”

“Maria, where is Arabella? When was the last time you saw her?”

The girl went dead white. “Ara? What do you have to do with my sister? I don’t understand. Please.”

“You are worried about her, yes?”

“No, no. She’s working. She’s a stewardess and...”

“No. She’s not at work. She was supposed to report for an assignment at nine
A.M.
Saturday morning. She didn’t show up. Neither did her friend, Christine Valapo. And now it’s Monday. And her boss has not heard from her or from her partner. Maria, don’t turn away. Look up at me. Please.”

Miranda sat down next to the girl, ignored the magazines that fell to the floor, the clothing wadded beneath her.

“Maria, you need to talk to someone. Maybe I can help. Is Ara in some kind of trouble? Tell me.”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t know. She’ll be all right.”

“When was the last time you spoke to her? Maria. Talk to me. Look at me. It’s safe, I promise you.”

The girl was so frightened; so vulnerable. Miranda spoke easily, softly, familiarly: good friend, trust me, trust me.

“I think that she was...here...Wednesday night. Yes. She comes sometimes when I’m not here. Sometimes, you know, she brings a boyfriend, you know.”

“Of course. So she had a boyfriend here Wednesday night? That’s no big deal. And you spoke to her then, Wednesday night?”

“No. No. No.” Maria gasped a huge amount of air, then began to choke.

“What did she say, Maria, when you spoke to her Wednesday night? Did she tell you about what happened? About the girl who was murdered?”

“She just said—a bad thing happened, some girl got hurt and she was afraid for me, that I might come home alone and maybe get hurt, you know? We thought it was a safe neighborhood, and this happened, so she said I should stay with my friend for a few days, let things settle and then come home and...”

“And where did she go?”

“I don’t know. To work. She’s working now, flying back to Bogotá. That’s where she is.”

“No. She isn’t Maria.
Arabella is missing.
No one knows where she is: not her friends at Parker Towers, not her supervisor, and now not her younger sister. Is that what has you so worried: you don’t know where Arabella is?”

“Yes,” Maria said, speaking too quickly. “Yes. I worry about her because I don’t know this boyfriend and maybe he took her somewhere and she didn’t want to go there, or something like that.”

Miranda stood up, walked to the window and looked down again at the lamppost where Anna Grace had died.

Her voice went hard and clear as she turned to face the girl. “No. That’s not why you’re worried. Why did your sister tell you not to come back to the apartment for a few days? There was no danger here anymore. The police were here, the murderer was gone. It was as safe as it could ever be. She told you something else. She said to stay away for another reason.”

Maria Vidales shook her head and remained silent, but her eyes could not maintain contact with Miranda.

“What else is it, Maria? Why are you so worried? Are you worried about Arabella, or are you worried about yourself?”

“No. Nothing. I just am sick, is all, I told you that. Please, I need to go to bed and—”

“Maria, let us agree on something, you and I. It is the only way I can help you. Tell me the
truth
or say nothing, yes? Do not lie to me. It gets in the way of trust. Something bad has happened to you—or to your sister. Or you are afraid of something bad. Does it have anything to do with what happened down there, to that girl, out on the street? The girl who looked so much like you?”

Maria shook her head and spoke firmly. “No. No, it is just something with this boyfriend she was with and...”

Miranda cut her off abruptly. “I asked you not to lie. It is worthless. It makes no sense. You are very troubled about something and it is not your sister’s boyfriend.”