Murder on a Hot Tin Roof

Chapter 22

HAVE YOU EVER COME AWAKE WITH A start in the middle of the night, so addled and confused you don’t know who, what, or where you are? Well, that’s how I felt that night when my lost consciousness began swooping back into my skull. At first I thought I was a crocodile, lying long and flat against the riverbank, but on my back instead of my belly. Then I thought I was a wounded soldier, bleeding to death in a trench in North Korea, while an unknown enemy warrior was raising his sword to strike again. For a few crazy seconds, I actually believed I was an old, gray-haired woman named Aunt Doobie lying on a slab at the city morgue.

“Wake up, Mrs. Turner,” a male voice shouted in my ear. “Can you hear me?”

Turner? Turner who?

“Paige Turner!” the voice shouted again. “Are you conscious? Open your eyes!”

Paige Turner? Who’s that? What a ridiculous name!

I tried to sit up, but couldn’t make it all the way. My aching head was so dizzy I felt nauseous; I couldn’t see anything but stars. Quickly lowering myself back to a prone position, I lay still for a couple of seconds, blindly attempting to make sense of my physical situation, trying to imagine where I was. I was lying on something hard, I knew, and from the rough, gritty feel under my fingers, I was pretty sure it was cement. Horns were honking overhead. I could hear loud booms and blasts in the near distance, and the steamy air smelled like gunsmoke.

Oh, goody. I’m not in the hospital…

“Hey, move back, boys! Give her some air. She’s starting to come around.” The same man was talking, but he obviously wasn’t alone. “Mrs. Turner!” he shouted again. “Open your damn eyes!”

They popped open on command. And my sight was now fully restored. But what I saw made me want to black out again. There, looming right above me-lowering his boyish face toward mine and baring his teeth like a vampire preparing to enjoy a midnight snack-was the last man in the world I wanted to see: Detective Sergeant Nick Flannagan.

Egads! I screamed the word out loud in my head but somehow managed to keep it off my tongue. (Yes, my self-control actually does work sometimes. Not often, but every once in a while.)

Flannagan must have seen the shock and horror on my face, though, because he quickly pulled away and reared back to a squatting position. “How’s tricks, Mrs. Turner?” he asked, smirking, gazing down at me like a gargoyle. “How do you feel? Do you know what day it is?”

“I feel like ca-ca,” I said. “And as for the day, I’m assuming it’s still Monday, the fourth of July. But that depends on what time it is. Is it past midnight yet? How long was I out?”

“Just a few minutes we think.” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten forty-five now. What time did you come down here?”

“Down where?” I wasn’t being coy. I still wasn’t sure where I was.

“Down to the river,” he grunted. “West Street and Barrow. Sit up. It’ll clear your head. Need a hand?”

“No, I can make it,” I said, pushing myself up to my elbows, then all the way to a sitting position. The effort made me dizzy again, but just for a second. And when my head stopped spinning, it actually

was a lot clearer. Gently touching the painful but thankfully not bloody bump on the back of my noggin, I straightened up and surveyed my surroundings.

Two cop cars were parked close by on West Street. One had a cop in it (I’m guessing he was monitoring the radio calls); the other was empty. Two uniformed police were standing to my left and Flannagan was squatting on my right, just a couple of feet away from the steel highway support beam I’d been hiding behind when I was hit. From where I was sitting, I could see the red-lettered HOTEL sign suspended from the corner of the Keller building.

“You look lousy,” Flannagan said. “I’m going to call for an ambulance.”

“No!” I screeched. “Please don’t! I’m fine. Really I am!” I was lying, of course. My head felt like somebody had hammered a nail into it. But if Flannagan sent for an ambulance, I knew darn well what would happen. They’d take me straight to St. Vincent’s hospital-and then, even if nothing was wrong, they’d keep me there overnight for observation. Maybe all day tomorrow, too.

And I really couldn’t handle that. I had to go to work in the morning! I had places to go and people to see! (Binky was supposed to take me to the Actors Studio, in case you’ve forgotten… Okay, so we hadn’t made a definite date for that excursion yet, but I was supposed to call him at noon, and we would be going there tomorrow. I was certain of it.)

“You gotta be checked out by a doctor,” Flannagan said. “You could have a concussion. Or a hematoma.”

Hema-what? “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I don’t have a concussion or a hemathingy. I just had a little too much to drink earlier and I guess I passed out. Must’ve bumped my head when I fell. But I’m just fine now. There’s nothing wrong with me that a few hours of sleep can’t fix.” I actually wanted to tell Flannagan the truth at that point-try to convince him to launch a citywide search for Aunt Doobie-but I was too wary to open that box. Who knew what else would come flying out?

Flannagan rose to full height and glared down at me suspiciously. Very suspiciously. Did he know more about my, er, situation than I thought he did? “Okay, then, get up,” he growled, stepping back and crossing his arms over his narrow chest. I’ve got a few questions to ask you. We’ll go sit in the car.”

I did

not want to go sit in the car with him. And I certainly didn’t want to answer any of his questions. But I didn’t want to stay plopped on the pavement either. So, taking the only path that seemed open to me (besides the hospital, I mean), I reached my hands up to Flannagan, asked for his assistance, and allowed him to pull me to my feet. Then I sucked in a chestful of air, squared my shoulders, surrendered my elbows to the two uniformed officers, and let them guide me-as they would a handcuffed criminal-to the flashing patrol car.

FORTY FIVE MINUTES LATER, I WAS STILL sitting in the back of that car. And Flannagan was still sitting next to me, asking one question after another, grilling me like a hamburger, giving me an even bigger headache than I’d had before. I had told him as much of the truth as I could without getting myself, or Willy, into too much trouble, and now we were going over everything again, for the third or fourth time, and I was on the verge of losing consciousness again.

As headaches and hamburgers go, I felt both raw and overcooked.

But at least the fireworks had stopped. The waterfront was dark and silent now. The ominous presence of the two police cars had put a damper on the frenzied fun, causing the fire-bugs to pack up all their bombs and rockets and move upriver. The area around the Keller Hotel was dead as a doornail, too. Having been alerted that the cops were in the vicinity, the partygoers had-very slowly and systematically-exited the bar in small groups and slunk away in the opposite direction, back toward the heart of the Village. (I know this for a fact because I sat there in the car and watched them go. Willy and Farley left together, by the way, looking quite animated and gay. And by that I mean

happy.)

“Getting tired yet, Mrs. Turner?” Flannagan prodded. “Had enough?” He was taking pleasure in interrogating me. You could tell by the way his thin lips kept curling up in the corners.

“I’ve had more than enough,” I said, “but apparently

you haven’t. How long do you plan to keep me here?”

“As long as it takes for you to tell me the truth.”

“And what makes you think I’m not?”

He let out a nasty chuckle. “And what makes you think I’m a stupid fool?” He loosened his tie (finally) and glared at me across the back seat. “Look, I know your game, Mrs. Turner. I know you’re a nosy reporter for

Daring Detective magazine, not just a secretary as you told me at our first meeting. Did you think I never learned how to read? I’ve seen your name in the papers on several occasions-in connection with one murder case or another-and it’s a damn easy name to remember.”

Aaaargh!

“But that doesn’t mean I was lying to you,” I insisted. “Ask my boss Brandon Pomeroy if you don’t believe me. He’ll tell you I’m a secretary, and nothing

but a secretary.”

“Then he’d be lying, too.”

Score one for the perceptive detective.

“Okay, okay! So I’m a nosy crime writer. I didn’t reveal myself before because I was afraid you might tell my boyfriend, Dan Street, about my connection to this case. I’m sure you know him. He’s in homicide in the Midtown South precinct, and he’s forbidden me to inquire into any more unsolved murder cases-ever! If he thought I was working on a story about the Gray Gordon murder, he’d kill me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Flannagan jeered. “At the rate you’re going, somebody else is gonna beat him to it.”

He had a point. I wouldn’t have believed it yesterday-even the Baldy and Blackie incidents hadn’t convinced me that I was in serious danger-but the Aunt Doobie incident tonight had made a deep and painful impression. Now I

knew I was at risk.

“If you know what’s good for you,” Flannagan went on, “you’ll tell me the truth-and I mean the

whole truth-about what’s been going on. You’ll tell me everything you’ve learned about the case so far, and you’ll stop meddling in the investigation right now. And here’s another tip: You’d better quit dressing like a dyke and hanging out with homosexuals. Willard Sinclair, in particular. He might do to you what he did to Gray Gordon.”

“Oh, come off it, Detective Flannagan!” I sputtered. “You don’t

really believe Willy killed Gray! You can’t! Willy is a kind, gentle, and very squeamish man. He’s as dainty and fastidious as your grandmother. He couldn’t bring himself to carve up a turkey, much less a human being!”

“Leave my grandmother out of this.” Flannagan fired up a Camel and blew the smoke in my direction. “You could be wrong about your homo pal, Mrs. Turner. Ever think of that?

Sinclair is our number one suspect. He’s the same blood type as the killer.”

“Yes, he told me that, but-”

“But what? The proven facts don’t mean anything to you? You’ve decided the fat little faggot is innocent, and that’s the end of it? I thought you were smarter than that, Mrs. Turner. You’re just begging for trouble. For all you know, Willard Sinclair was the one who knocked your block off tonight.”

By this point I wanted to knock off his. “Don’t be ridiculous! Willy didn’t even know when I left the bar. I shot out of there in a flash because…”

Take it easy, Paige. Slow down. Be cool. I fully intended to tell Flannagan about Aunt Doobie, but I wanted to choose my words carefully, make sure I didn’t reveal more than was good for me. Or Willy.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Flannagan scoffed. “I’ve heard it all before. You left the bar because you had too much to drink and you needed to get some air. But you might as well ditch that pack of lies right now. We know what really happened. We’ve known it all along.” The gloating smile on his face was so annoying I wanted to wipe it off with my fist. (When you think you

look manly, you kind of feel manly, too.)

Luckily for both of us, I took the passive (i.e., feminine) route instead. “I’m sorry, Detective Flannagan,” I cajoled. “I haven’t been totally honest with you. I’m so scared and confused I don’t know what I’m saying. But look, I have an idea. Why don’t you tell me what

you know, and then I’ll tell you what I know. That way, we can compare notes and work out the truth together.” I smiled sweetly at him and fluttered my lashes, hoping I could get him to go first.

To my great astonishment, he did. (Sometimes you really

can catch more flies with honey.)

“We learned by telephone at approximately ten thirty-five tonight,” he began, speaking in a lofty, official tone, “that a woman had been attacked at the corner of West and Barrow. The caller reported seeing a dark-haired man in dark clothing hit the victim on the back of the head-with a brick, or a rock, or a hunk of cement-and then run away on West toward Christopher. About halfway up the block, the assailant jumped into the back seat of a black Lincoln limousine, and the car took off for parts unknown.”

Black limousine? Baldy. Dark hair and dark clothing? Aunt Doobie. Or maybe Blackie. Cripes! It could have been anybody! Does Baldy have a wig?

“We arrived on the scene within minutes,” Flannagan went on, “and found you lying on the ground in the dark, unconscious and unprotected. There were no onlookers or eyewitnesses-even the man who called us was gone. You regained consciousness almost immediately, though, claiming to feel fine and showing no signs of serious injury. There was a big rock lying nearby which may or may not have been the assault weapon. We’re taking it into the lab for testing.”

Flannagan wiped his sweaty face with his handkerchief and opened the top button ot his shirt. “That’s my story,” he said. “Now you tell me yours.”

I knew it was time to come clean. So I did (well, clean

er, anyway). I admitted that I was working on the Gray Gordon story, and that I was trying to find the killer (for a variety of reasons, truth and justice being among them), and that I had withheld that information from the police in order to save myself-and Willy-from further scrutiny and admonishment.

“But now I realize that was the wrong thing to do,” I said, in total honesty, “and I’m ready to tell you everything I know.”

With just a couple of itty bitty details left out. I took an L &M out of the pack in my breast pocket, lit it with a match (Flannagan never extended his lighter), and started puffing and talking.

Confessing that Abby and I had begun looking for clues to the killer’s identity the same day we discovered the body, I gave Flannagan a full account of our expedition to Stewart’s Cafeteria, my brief talk with Blondie and Blackie, our infiltration of the Morosco Theatre, and our chance meeting with Rhonda Blake. Then I told him about the list of phone messages Rhonda had written down for Gray.

I didn’t tell him that I had stolen the message pad, of course (if he charged me with evidence tampering, I’d be in trouble too sticky to sidestep), but I did tell him almost everything I could remember about the list, including Aunt Doobie’s room number at the Mayflower Hotel, and the four messages from Randy. The only call I didn’t mention was the one from Binky. I was afraid if I gave Flannagan Binky’s name and number, he (Flannagan) would screw up my possible meeting with him (Binky) tomorrow, and then the names of Gray’s friends-or, most importantly, his enemies-at the Actors Studio would be lost to me forever.

When he had finished taking notes about Gray’s telephone messages, I told Flannagan about my trip to the Mayflower to see Aunt Doobie, giving him a full description of the man who was registered in room 96 as John Smith. Then, continuing to relate the events in the order in which they occurred, I told him about seeing Rhonda Blake and Baldy at the Vanguard, reporting that Baldy had asked the bartender a bunch of questions about me, then departed with Rhonda in a black limousine.

I didn’t describe my crazy, terrified flight home from the Vanguard that night (it was too embarrassing for words), but I did divulge the shock and alarm I’d felt when I saw Blackie lurking in the doorway of the laundromat across the street. And then, after that, I gave Flannagan a full account of my excursion with Willy to the Keller Hotel, where I had spotted Aunt Doobie-or John Smith, or whoever-and chased him out to the street.

“But by the time I got outside,” I recounted, “the man had disappeared. I ran over to the waterfront to look for him, but so many screaming people were dashing around and so many fireworks were exploding, I couldn’t continue the search. I retreated to a secluded spot under the highway and hid behind a support beam, hoping he would reappear. That’s when I got hit.”

“And you never saw who did it?” Flannagan probed.

“Nope, but I’d bet my last banana it was Aunt Doobie. He has dark hair and he was wearing dark clothing, just like your caller said. And he was definitely in the vicnity.” I flicked my burnt-out cigarette stub through the open car window. “But it could have been Blackie, too, I guess. He wears black and has dark hair, and he may have been following me. Or maybe it was Baldy. He has no hair at all, but he has a black limousine. And he could have a wig… Oh, god! I don’t know who the hell it was! I only know who it wasn’t. And you can take my word on this, Detective Flannagan, it

wasn’t Willy!”

Flannagan chuckled. “I know that,” he said. “I made that accusation just to get your reaction. Mr. Sinclair is a raving queer, and it’s likely he murdered Gray Gordon, but he didn’t attack you. He doesn’t come anywhere close to fitting the caller’s description. He probably doesn’t even know the whole thing happened.”

Now it was my turn to get suspicious. Why was Flannagan so darn sure on this particular point? Why had he adopted, without question, an unverified account given to him by an anonymous caller? Smelled kind of fishy to me.

“You can’t be certain of that,” I declared, sneering and smirking, giving him what I hoped was a taste of his own cocky medicine. “How do you know Willy didn’t knock me out and then call the station himself and give you a phony description of a phony attacker?” I crossed my arms over my chest, leaned against the car door, and shot him a look that said,

harrumph!

Flannagan wasn’t chuckling anymore.

Now he was laughing out loud.

“If you really think Mr. Sinclair would do something like that, Mrs. Turner,” he said between guffaws, “and if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll gladly reconsider my position. As far as I’m concerned, that creepy little queer is capable of anything.”

X@#%*!!

Do I have to tell you how utterly imbecilic I felt at that moment? Not only had I planted a warped idea in Flannagan’s already warped mind, but I had, in the process, cast aspersions on the very person I was trying to protect! I was the world’s worst detective. I was a worthless piece of ca-ca. I was a danger to myself and everyone around me. I should be writing about makeup, macaroni, and mops-not murder.

Still, something was really bothering me about the anonymous caller-or, rather, Flannagan’s swift acceptance of his supposedly eyewitness tale. Shouldn’t the details have been examined more closely? Shouldn’t the informant’s story have been verified by at least one other witness before becoming a matter of police record?

My head was hurting more than ever.

“Do you think I could go home now, Detective Flannagan?” I asked. “I’ve told you everything I know, and I’m really beat. No pun intended.”

“Of course, Mrs. Turner,” he said, with a mocking smile. (At least he had stopped laughing.) “We’re finished here. One of my officers will drive you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But before I go can I ask you one big favor?”

“What’s that?”

“If you happen to see or talk to Detective Dan Street, would you please not say anything about what happened here tonight, or tell him about my previous participation in this case? That’s all over now, and I really don’t want him to worry about me.” (Translation: stop loving me.)

“Ha!” Flannagan snorted. “For a nosy know-it-all, you sure don’t know your boyfriend very well. Street’s the smartest, most determined dick in the whole damn department. Nobody can keep a secret from him-least of all you.”