Victims (17 page)

He stroked the child’s head, and then her brother’s. His expression was tender and loving, and they responded politely. They were accustomed to being well treated, well loved, well behaved. There was a quiet authority present in the room.

“Now.” He turned to Miranda. Generously, he offered her a chair. “Coffee? Would you care for something, perhaps an apéritif?”

“Thank you, señor, no. I regret that I seem to have interrupted your dinner.”

It was of no importance; it was all right. A beautiful tall, thin, elegantly groomed woman hesitated, did not enter the room until he nodded permission.

“This is of no consequence,” he told the woman softly. “Join the little ones. They are preparing the music. I will be with them shortly.”

She glided away with a slight nod, leaving behind an exotic fragrance, subtle, barely discernible, definitely expensive.

A small dark woman, dressed in a silver-gray maid’s uniform, quickly and efficiently, without raising her face or her eyes, slid lightweight doors across the archway that separated the small living room from the even smaller dining room.

None of these people, not this expensively dressed man or the woman or the children or the maid belonged in this setting. It seemed as though they had all been placed here in error.

“So, you are asking about my cousin, Arabella Vidales. And why is that?”

“A routine part of my investigation, sir. A young woman was killed on Barclay Street last Wednesday night. Your cousin’s apartment faces the street. She was on a layover from her job. I am assigned to question everyone—every person—whose apartment faces that street.”

“And you have not questioned my cousin? You have not been able to reach her? So, you try again. Isn’t that the way it is done?”

“Yes. Exactly. But you see, Arabella Vidales seems to be—unavailable.”

“Explain that.” His tone was commanding; a man accustomed to making demands. The dark liquid eyes never left her face, did not miss the slightest movement of her mouth, the slightest flicker of her lashes. Miranda felt as though
he
were
her
interrogator.

She explained, briefly, about checking with the other stewardesses in the Parker Towers building. She told him she had spoken with Maria Vidales.

“And why would that be of interest to you, Detective Torres? That Maria is concerned about her sister. What does that have to do with your investigation?”

He emphasized the last two words: gave them a special meaning which she could not immediately identify. All that Miranda knew was that she was immensely uncomfortable, and that her host was aware of this. And seemed to expect it.

Miranda shrugged. She slowed herself down. She turned the pages of her notebook. She used the moment to steady herself. She could not let him know how intimidated she felt.

But of course he knew exactly how intimidated she felt.

“Arabella Vidales was supposed to report for a flight Saturday morning at nine
A.M.
She didn’t show up or call. Neither did her partner. This is really none of my concern, but because her younger sister expressed a certain anxiety, and since I am assigned to speak with her anyway, I told the younger girl that I would continue my effort to locate Arabella. If you know nothing of her whereabouts, then I apologize for taking up your time.” As she stood, Miranda felt a sudden wave of dizziness, lightheadedness: a sense of fear.

Carlos Galvez stood up quickly, the gentleman not remaining seated while a woman stood. He seemed to close in on her, his physical presence seemed to encompass her. Miranda felt his closeness although he had not moved an inch toward her. There was a definite aura emanating from this man, part sexuality and part something else which she could not immediately identify. It was beyond menace.

Power.
That was the element that dominated the room. Carlos Galvez could not be contained in this small room filled with rare and genuine treasures. He was here temporarily, carefully smoothing the lapels of his six-hundred-dollar suit, secure in the knowledge that his wife and children were under his roof and domain.

The initial feeling of something terribly wrong was compounded by the expression on Galvez’ face. His mouth smiled, but those large unblinking, knowing eyes never smiled. Miranda felt as though he were physically holding her with his large strong hands, preventing her from moving. Of course he never touched her. He controlled her with his eyes and voice.

“It is kind of you to worry about the well-being of my cousin, Arabella. I am sure she is all right and will turn up for another assignment. It was thoughtless of her to cause her younger sister concern.”

His words were innocent. Nothing threatening or suggestive of even annoyance or anger. The real meaning was conveyed by tone and inflection, by emphasis and timing. There was a controlled fury enveloping Miranda.

As he spoke, he moved toward the door, leading Miranda out of his home, skillfully, politely.

“Yes. Thank you so much for your courtesy. Again, I regret disturbing you at your dinner table.”

Her manner, her words, her voice, betrayed deference. He seemed not only to demand it, but to expect it. It came automatically, thoughtlessly, from Miranda.

She knew he watched her walk across the tiny patio, down the narrow cement walk to the sidewalk. Without realizing she was doing it, Miranda took note of the black Mercedes parked directly in front of the house, and the black Lincoln Continental behind that, and the black Cadillac behind that. She knew that they belonged to Galvez and not to his neighbors, even though she had no idea how she knew this.

She knew he had stopped watching her as she got behind the wheel of her small blue Honda. He was no longer interested in her. She no longer mattered in his life.

Miranda held her hands up briefly, fingers extended. She was not surprised at the trembling. She took a few deep breaths and brought herself under control. Her mouth was dry and she still felt slightly dizzy. She had no idea what she had walked into, what was contained within the small, innocuous façade of the attached house on Inverness Street.

She jotted down the license numbers of the three cars in front of the house.

She hoped Carlos Galvez had not seen her do it.

M
IRANDA HAD A COPY
of her interview with Maria Vidales neatly typed and stapled for Mike Stein. He handed her a transcript of his interview with John Rolofsky, a recent emigré from the Soviet Union, now a resident of Barclay Street.

“In my whole life,” Mike said, “I never saw a skinnier man. You could cut yourself on his bones. Guy is over six feet tall and he weighs in at one-twenty.”

Miranda nodded as she skimmed the report. “It seems that he was a very frightened man, from what he had to say.”

“Get to the closing line,” Mike said. “Poor bastard. Now,
him
I feel sorry for.”

He leaned over Miranda and read the statement: “So I did what the Americans did. I sat and watched. And did nothing.”

He had heard the screams and shouts on the street below his apartment. He tried to reach his cousin, who had labored through the State Department for nearly four years to get him to America, but was unable to find him. Finally he had gone down to the street, stood in the shadows, watching and waiting for someone to come and help the girl. No one did. So he went back upstairs to his apartment.

“This guy is scared to death to talk to anyone. Apparently, he was interviewed by a uniform, and his cousin—Rolofsky is a mechanic and he works at a service station owned by his cousin on Metropolitan Avenue—his cousin says the guy almost passed out. A uniform means something pretty damn scary to a guy like this.”

“‘So I did what the Americans did. I sat and watched. And did nothing,’” Miranda read over the words slowly and softly, then looked up at Mike and shrugged. “Yes. This is sad. This man would have helped, I think, but for his past experience.”

“Yeah, but there is one thing. He did know about 911. He told me he knew, but that he was afraid to call.”

Miranda studied him for a moment. “Can you understand that reluctance, on his part?”

Mike nodded. “Understand it, yeah, maybe. Accept it as valid when a girl was sitting there, bleeding to death? No way. Okay, lady, we ready to hit on this guy Harry Lamont?”

Miranda left out of her report her impressions, which were not proper police information: that Maria Vidales was very worried about not being able to locate her sister, Arabella, who, along with her stewardess partner, Christine Valapo, seemed to have disappeared. She did not describe the trembling fingers, the paling face, the doubling-over cramps, the traces of terror. None of that was pertinent.

Miranda did not write up an official report about her visit with Carlos Galvez. This had no bearing on the case at all. She did jot down a few notes which she kept for herself.

For a moment, a fleeting moment, she had thought to talk to Mike, to tell him about her visit to Carlos. To tell him how frightened Maria was, how she called after Miranda, “Forget what I said about my cousin Carlos. Please.” Intuition, either rightly or wrongly, persuaded her to keep this information to herself. Vaguely, she wished her partner were around. There was no one else she would discuss this matter with, but Dunphy was off somewhere with Homicide, checking down stories of a few more nutty confessors. Miranda would hold up any of her impressions at this time. They were extraneous to the case. A family matter. Probably.

Harry Lamont’s shop was wedged into a narrow space on Austin Street between a furniture store with a wide, flashy window and a travel agency with large brightly colored posters. The narrow entrance was deceptive. Inside, the store seemed to open up. The space had been wisely used: there were double revolving racks of blouses, skirts, slacks and jackets on one side of the shop under a printed sign:
FOR YOU GALS!
—illustrated by a curvy line drawing of a female figure. On the other side were similar display racks:
FOR YOU GUYS!
—with a distorted, muscular male torso. In the center of the store were racks of unisex clothes. The sign over these items announced:
MIX IT UP, GUYS ’N GALS!

He was a man with flash in his early forties. When he ran a hand through his thick, black, styled hair, a diamond pinky ring glinted, then disappeared, momentarily lost in the healthy clean mop. His face was deeply tanned in what Mike Stein thought of as a year-round Miami. He had a gambler’s eyes, quick and suspicious, narrowed and sharp.

“Like I told you on the phone, Mr. Stein, I’ll give ya fifteen minutes, then I close up. What a day. I’ll tell ya, my merchandise walks. Runs. Ya know, I oughtta take the gal and the guy signs and chuck them. It’s all unisex now. Even underwear. Not that I carry underwear but I read the ads. It’s all crazy, isn’t it?” He looked Miranda over swiftly, head to toe. “For you, I got a real class outfit. Green has gotta be your color. I know, I know, you’re not here to buy. But another time, you come back, I got something just for you. I’ll make you a deal, you’ll be a walking advertisement for my place. So. Okay. What do you want to know?”

Miranda dug out a file folder from her large shoulder bag, then handed him a typed copy of his statement.

“You didn’t have time the other day in the office to read this and sign it. Would you do that now, please?”

He put his hand out impatiently. “Gimme a pen, I’ll sign. That’s it? That’s why I close a half hour early?”

“Mr. Lamont, I think you should read it over before you sign this. It
is
your statement.”

“Look,” he told Miranda, “I got no reason to think the cop I talked to put my statement in his own words. So, okay, I don’t want to make you nervous. I’m a speed reader. Watch this.”

He went through the two single-spaced pages of typing. He looked up quickly and raised his heavy brows, and smiled knowingly.

“Here’s a mistake. Just a little mistake, a typo, I guess. That where you want me to make my initials? That’s to prove I read this, right? Okay. There. Now I’ll sign it and that’s that, right?”

He looked at Mike Stein’s tape recorder. “You can put that on the counter if you want. I got nothing to hide. Anything I say is on the record, for you, for the cops, for anyone.”

“That’s just a safeguard for myself, Mr. Lamont. After a while, words seem to get shuffled. This way, I keep one person’s statement clear from another person’s.”

Harry Lamont lived at 10-12 Barclay Street; the far end of the block; front living-room windows; third floor.

“So what I saw is included in my statement. I heard the girl yell, scream, I heard a man’s voice yelling, like an argument. Then I heard a terrible scream, like a dog got hurt, ya know?”

“According to your statement,” Miranda said, “you saw the man, the assailant, run up Barclay Street, toward the tennis courts, then you saw a large white car, possibly a Cadillac, come from around the corner, slow down alongside of where Ms. Grace was sitting against the lamppost. Do you make a connection between the assailant and the car?”

“I made a connection based on common sense. The guy ran, a few seconds later this car comes along. After he looks, the guy starts burning rubber. He nearly ran into the bus.”

That was not in his statement.

“What direction was the bus going?”

The bus was on its run toward Metropolitan Avenue. No, the driver didn’t stop; except at the corner stop sign, then he made his turn and was gone. Which information placed the bus driver at the scene of the crime; had him leaving the screaming victim and pursuing his route, on schedule.

Mike Stein said, “Tell me something, Mr. Lamont...”

Harry Lamont leaned back against a shelf of colorful tee shirts and cotton sweaters. His pink shirt and pale-yellow pants looked cool and pleasant. He looked like a cup of rainbow ices.

“No, no, Mr. Stein, I’ll tell you nothing. Nothing more than what I’ve said. Now, here, and in my statement yesterday morning. I have nothing else to say. That’s it, complete. You’re holding it in your hand.”

“There is one question I’d like you to answer. Out of curiosity.”