Kiss Her Goodbye

Chapter 4

BACK IN THE LATE nineteen-thirties, this neighborhood had been fashionable enough to attract those who had survived the Depression in style. But that bunch moved outward and upward during the Second World War years, and new generations changed the face of it as the growing pains of the city wrenched neighborhoods apart and then rebuilt them all over.

For twenty years, it had been livable again, a strangely quiet area hoping it wouldn't be noticed. And Doolan had lived there through all the changes, fifty-two years' worth, the last ten as a widower.

I went up the sandstone steps and pushed the street door open. The vestibule was tiny, the four mailboxes on the left, old-fashioned ornamented brass rectangles with no jimmy marks scarring their surfaces. All had yellow lottery announcements in them.

I tried the inner door and that was open, too. When it snicked shut behind me, all the street sounds were magically gone and I could feel the loneliness of the place. No sounds at all drifted down the staircase that led to the upper apartments, no cooking smells, not even the feel of life that should be there.

But there were occupants in those flats, all right—the old and unseen, whose very quietness had an awareness to it.

And somehow they were watching me.

Damn, I felt like an idiot letting a thought like that put a tingle at the back of my neck. A couple of years ago, this would have been just another building on another street.

I walked down the corridor to Doolan's apartment door, read the police notice stapled to the panel, then hefted the padlock that held the door shut. Below it, pieces of wood had been ripped out by the force of the kick that smashed the door open.

I keyed the padlock, took it out of the hasp, and pushed the door. It swung open with a small squeak from a twisted hinge, and I stepped into Doolan's life and flipped the light switch on.

There was nothing spectacular about his quarters. I had been there often enough in the old days, and nothing seemed to have changed—the furnishings were nice quality and very functional, everything seeming to belong exactly where it was, as if a decorator had arranged it all and the resident hadn't changed things around to suit himself.

But that's the way Doolan had been, one of those neat freaks. He would have been teed off to see the way the cops had left it, print powder taking the shine off wood finishes, cigarette butts in a pair of Wedgewood ashtrays that were meant for eye appeal only, chairs out of line, cabinet drawers not completely shut.

Suicides don't require extensive shaking down of their premises, but Pat made sure every angle was being covered in this situation. I went through the living room, touching some of the things I remembered, then into the bedroom where Doolan had slept on the same side of the old-fashioned double for so long, one side lower than the other, the place where his wife once slept raised like a pedestal to her memory.

The bathroom was almost clinical, everything in its assigned place. Hell, it was the army again in these quarters, where even inanimate objects seemed to be well-disciplined.

His office/den was different, though. Many years ago it had been his late daughter's bedroom, now it was the place where he had really lived...

...and died.

His office-style swivel chair wasn't behind the desk, but next to the wall of shelves with his stereo system and its speakers, LPs, cassette tapes, books, magazines, trophies, framed photos, stacks of this and that. The neatness of the rest of the apartment was not reflected here. These shelves held escape and memories and music. He'd been listening to one of his beloved classics when he took the bullet in his heart.

On the floor, outlined in chalk, was the exact position of the chair when he was found, facing the door to the living room, the one flanked with framed photos of old wooden sailing ships and seaports in the distant past. On his left side, against the window, was the antique desk, a handmade oaken relic from the captain's cabin of some forgotten clipper ship.

Twice I walked around that comfortable room, mentally cataloging every item I saw, trying to put it into a perspective that would change a suicide to a kill, without success.

Then I stopped beside the desk, which reverted to Doolan's meticulous form—no unruly work in progress, just an orderly arrangement of pens, pencils, yellow pads, and so on. But a long time ago Doolan had shown me the hidden button that opened the side panel of that museum piece. I pushed it in, gave it a half turn.

Silently, the panel swung open and there, on mounts, were five of the six guns Doolan had so carefully preserved. They were cleaned, oiled, and I didn't have to check them to know they were fully loaded. To Doolan, a gun was only a gun when it was ready to be used and to hell with safety rules. A bag of silica gel lay at the bottom of the enclosure to absorb any moisture, a cleaning kit and a can of Outers 445 gun oil beside it.

A real heavy-duty arsenal, a pair of matched German P38s from World War II, a .357 Magnum, a .44 Colt revolver, and a standard Colt .45 automatic. The missing piece was in the property clerk's office downtown waiting to be claimed.

I took the .45 off the peg and held it in my hand. It felt good. A weapon just like it was sandwiched between piles of clothing in a drawer back at my hotel room. Then a tightness ran across my shoulders, and I put it back. I closed the panel to that secret place and felt my mouth go into a tight grin.

The police shakedown hadn't been that thorough after all.

Strange that Pat had missed that. But then again, there was no reason for him to know that it was there—I imagined precious few of us had been shown that hiding place.

I sat on the edge of the desk. Everything still fit in place—knowing the reality of the world of pain he faced in coming weeks, Doolan would have taken out his old .38 Special, sat there in the dark being saturated by the music he loved, savored the familiar feel of the gun in his hand, then when he was ready, simply shot himself.

I said a muffled "Damn!" and got off the desk like it was a hot burner on a stove. I snapped off the light and went back to the door in the living room.

Doolan had been a typical New Yorker and kept himself barricaded in at night behind four solid locks fastened to the fire-resistant steel shell that backed up the door. Had it been fully latched, no cop could have kicked it in. Only the old original Yale lock had been torn loose, the kind you could open with a credit card, but was okay to keep kids out.

For a while I just stared at the splintered wood around the tongue of the lock, realizing that Doolan didn't have any reason to button himself up completely that night. He had committed himself to a decisive move that didn't concern itself with visitors. That was undoubtedly the thinking that had satisfied Pat.

I stepped into the hall and hooked the padlock back in the hasp.

Everything still fit. Pat was right.

And I still said, Bullshit!

Doolan had been a man of habit. No matter what he had planned, he still would have buttoned up behind locked doors, just as he had done every other night in his life. Nothing cancels out a ritualized, internalized program like that.

At any other time, when he was opening the minimum security of the old Yale lock, he would have had weaponry at hand that he damn well knew how to use. He was well aware that the old lock wasn't able to cope with so modern a chunk of high technology as a piece of plastic.

Pat wanted me to be satisfied that Doolan had committed suicide. I was halfway there—I was convinced Doolan was dead.

But why?

The facts and his doomed situation seemed to say it all, sure. Then why the hell did something bug me the way it did?

Doolan had a motive for suicide, all right, an undeniably perfect motive to call it quits on his own terms in his own special way—papers in order, music playing softly, his own weapon in his hand, and then kiss this life goodbye.

And now I knew what was bugging me.

Memory is a funny thing. You can recall in detail some insignificant afternoon of your childhood, but it takes a while to remember what you had for lunch yesterday. You meet an old pal and regale him with a shared experience that has stuck with you a lifetime, only he's forgotten all about it, then he shares his most vivid memory of the two of you, which stirs nothing at all.

But sometimes something floats to the surface, jarred there—and my visit to Doolan's apartment had summoned a conversation he and I'd had not ten years before.

We were having dinner in the old Blue Ribbon Restaurant when he said, "There is no motive for suicide, Mike me boy. It's a damn coward's way out."

I had thrown him some bait. "Suppose you were trapped in a flaming car and had your gun with you."

"Well, then, I'd burn, kiddo."

"Why?"

"Life's one of those precious things you don't toss away under any conditions."

"You've put a few men down for the long count," I reminded him.

"Only to preserve my own precious life. If somebody ever tries to sell you the bill of goods that I've snuffed myself out? You go look a little harder, Mike. There is no justifiable motive for suicide."

Okay, pal, I told his memory. You made yourself clear. You're dead and you didn't do it, so who the hell did? And what was the motive?

Life takes years to live, but only a few minutes to say goodbye. A eulogy like the one I'd delivered last night doesn't take long to wrap up an entire lifetime, lay it out in a few well-chosen sentences, and send the memory of that intense, complicated structure called a man drifting off to nowhere.

Before long, Bill Doolan would be forgotten.

But not by everyone.

Not by the person who killed him.

And not by me.

The office that Doolan had shared with Peter Cummings looked like something out of A Tale of Two Cities. The corner building had opened in 1888, the year of the Great Blizzard, and had watched the city parade pass so long, it had itself become a monument of sorts, the kind two old men found comfortable toward the tail end of their lives.

Ten years younger than Doolan, Cummings had been on the force with Doolan, retired, and become a P.I., specializing in credit-investigations work. Doolan helped his friend out, working only when he'd wanted to, picking and choosing. Two great old guys who didn't know how to quit and, hell, they were still enjoying life, so why should they?

I knocked on the door, heard Cummings's gruff "It's open," and turned the knob.

"I'll be damned," he said. "Mike Hammer."

"Everybody's got to be somebody," I said.

His hair was all gray now, short and bristly. The years had left lines on his face and thinned out his once-powerful frame, but somehow you knew he was still a cop, years away from his era, who still carried a retirement shield in a worn leather case in his pocket. He was in a white shirt with no tie and the sleeves rolled, black slacks, and stocking feet. Argyles.

"I was wondering if you'd show up," he said. He was out from behind his desk, heading to a little fridge conveniently nearby. "Everybody else and his mother's been here. Come on in and sit down. Want a cold one?"

"Sure." I deposited myself in the old walnut client's chair and caught the cold can of Miller. "Like old times."

Back behind his desk, he held his can up. "Cheers."

"Cheers." I popped the top. "You weren't at the funeral."

"No. At my age you have to make a decision—how many funerals are you willing to go to, with friends dying left and right. I decided one more was plenty."

"Your own."

"That's right." He drank. "But don't think I don't feel it. Terrible about Doolan."

"I figure you know the details."

"Oh yeah. Pat laid everything out. He was real shook up over it."

"How're you taking it, Pete?"

"For real?"

"Yeah, for real."

Cummings leaned back, the swivel chair squeaking. "It isn't easy. We were friends for a long time." He took his glasses off, threw them on the desk, and massaged the bridge of his nose. "He wasn't my partner, but he did a lot of work out of here. So I saw him quite a bit. He was the last of the old bunch that I did see. With the others..." He shrugged. "...you say you'll keep in touch, but you don't. The past goes on a back burner and stays there."

I nodded.

"Now," he said, and sighed, "there's nobody left. Shit, who can blame Doolan for doing the Dutch act? Some days I feel like packing it in myself."

"You're working off a false premise."

"What?" His eyes caught mine and I saw both irritation and confusion there.

"Bill Doolan never killed himself."

Time was the heavy tick of the aged pendulum wall clock that seemed to be the only sound not just in the office, but in the world. It went on and on while Cummings slowly edged forward until his arms rested on his desk, his head tilted up to watch me carefully.

Softly, Cummings said, "Okay. How do you know this?"

"Doolan told me," I said. "A long time ago."

The clock kept ticking. It seemed louder now.

"You mind making that clear, Mike?"

I told him about the conversation in the Blue Ribbon.

Finally he nodded, his eyes narrowing. There was no discussion, no argument at all. "What are you going to do?"

"Sure as hell not let it sit the way it is. Somebody's going to get tumbled."

"The old Mike Hammer way?"

"I haven't come up with a new one."

"How can I help?"

"You can start by letting me go through Doolan's files."

He pointed across the room. "Feel free. Everything's over there in the two cabinets on the far end. Other three are mine. Of course, you know, the police have gone over the works. Pat Chambers is no slouch."

"They find anything?"

"Nothing they seemed to think was important. Maybe you can do better. You're no slouch either."

"Thanks a bunch."

Five old four-drawer wooden filing cabinets were pushed against the wall, looking like they came with the building. None of the drawers was locked and, from the way the folders were replaced, I knew everything had indeed been looked at by the police.

I could have told them what was in there—Doolan had always been a clipper. Whatever had looked interesting, he had cut out and saved: newspapers, magazines, anything at all. There was a file of news clippings on every intriguing murder case the past year and a half. Two folders had schematics of the latest alarm systems, including those used in Europe.

When I reached the third drawer, I found a particularly thick folder labeled PERSONALS and pulled it out. I had to crack a grin at that one—old Doolan still had his ego working for him. These were all news photos of him mixing with the public he had served so long. He had been a damn good after-dinner speaker, and there were shots of him in black tie speaking at banquets, a good dozen at political rallies, and just as many at police functions.

The old boy had gotten around more than I thought. Two shots were with presidents of the United States, and eight more were group shots where state senators were listening to whatever he was hanging on them.

What tickled me most was the envelope at the back of the folder filled with 8 x 10s of Doolan posing with dolls. Some of the shots went back twenty years and included movie stars like Marilyn Monroe and Rhonda Fleming up through Raquel Welch and Tuesday Weld; they were all classy ladies, really, even the two who ran elegant call-girl books. The backgrounds were restaurants, theaters, and clubs, the old ones I recognized, the new ones I didn't.

I waved a handful of the photos at Cummings. "What's with these, Pete?"

His grunt was meaningful. "I never asked for details. Doolan would show me new ones as he added them, grinning like a goofy kid. I was too envious to give him the satisfaction."

I chuckled. "Don't tell me the old guy still fooled around."

Once again I got that hard stare. "Mike," he told me, "you're not up in years yet, so you may think it's funny, but even guys our age can still get it up... and remember what to do with it."

"Sorry about that."

"Maybe it's not as often, but..."

"Sorry about that too."

"Don't be. Think of the money I save."

The last were three concert-type shots of a woman singing at a stand-up microphone. It partially obscured her face, but it was obvious she was a real beauty. Her platinum hair was straight and long, accentuating her rich brown complexion that went with features that seemed Hispanic and Asian at once. Certainly that red silk dress split up the side to her waist and exposing a long, lush leg had an oriental look, and helped make her look startlingly erotic.

"Who's this one?" I held the photos up.

"Her name's Chrome. Or anyway that's how he referred to her. A performer, pretty famous I guess. Some exotic looker, eh?"

"Not the girl next door," I admitted. "I'm beginning to think our old pal was a dirty old man."

Cummings let out a low laugh. "She was business, Mike. A friend of his in L.A., a reporter, wanted some shots for a show-business rag—this Chrome doll is apparently on the rise."

"So are most of the men in her audiences, I'd guess."

"Yeah, and the rest are gay."

"I didn't think Doolan dealt that much in photography."

"No more than any of us—in the P.I. game, you find your way around a camera. He didn't just work for me, you know. He did jobs for reporters, both local and guys like that one in L.A."

"A lot of that kind of thing?"

"If he was in the mood. If whatever it was appealed to him."

I nodded. "What's in the other cabinet?"

"Bills, mostly. Receipts, bank statements. He never threw anything like that away. Tell you, though, you'll waste your time going through them. He never looked at anything in there—he just put things there, every month, every year. You know, real pack-rat stuff. Funny, considering how anal retentive he was about keeping his apartment neat."

I pulled out the bottom drawer. This one was real interesting—one big folder on me went back ten years and wound up with glossy black-and-whites of me on the ground bleeding after that last shoot-out.

I still held the .45 and the lifeless feet of Sal Bonetti were in the background. My side started to throb again and I could feel the fire under my ribs. Something foul seemed to be caught in my throat.

Pete said, "You okay, Mike?"

I could feel his eyes on me. I stuffed the photos back, swallowed, and nodded.

"Maybe you could use another beer?"

I shook my head. "I'm all right. It just happens sometimes."

"What happens?"

"I start hurting in a couple of ways."

The folder had three other pictures in it, front and side views of Alberto Bonetti, in prison casual with his very own number under his name. There was an odd, implied pertinence about those pictures—the total lack of any other information suggested a special degree of importance.

Clashes between Bonetti and Doolan weren't frequent, and those were some years back. Both had come out of the same squalid Lower East Side neighborhood around the same time, hating each other like primeval enemies, one good, one bad.

How much did you hate Doolan, Alberto? Enough to have him killed? Enough to get me back here so you could watch my guts churn, knowing my great mentor was dead like your lousy kid?

Motive? Sure, Bonetti, you have one hell of a motive.

From across the room, Pete read my mind. "You speak to Pat about old Alberto?"

"No."

"Well, I can tell you that Pat already checked him out. Bonetti and four of his guys were at Gaspar Rozzi's wedding in the Bronx when Doolan died."

"That doesn't mean much, except maybe Alberto bothered to be seen by a shitload of people."

"Still, how the hell could he have managed it? There are contract killers who can pull off some pretty tricky kills, Mike—but could a stranger have got in Doolan's door and staged that suicide?"

This time I stared back at him. "Somebody did."

Cummings came around and knelt at his cooler again and brought out two more beers, tossed me one. "How can I help, Mike?"

I thumbed the can open. I was starting to feel tired again. I didn't remember feeling tired in the old days. "What was Doolan doing this past year, Pete? What was he involved in?"

"Kid, I wish I could tell you something fancy, but Doolan had turned social worker. You got to realize, his action days were long gone, just like me. Hell, working over the telephone was plenty, and when it came to a lot of legwork, forget it. No, his business, if you can call it that, was neighborhood work, a lot of lodge things ... like giving advice to kids and parents and even political types. He was good at that."

"No action at all?"

"Like what? Every Friday he went to the gun range, and fired off fifty rounds with the boys before lunch. But he's been doing that for years."

"What, a police range?"

"No. It's in Manhattan."

"A gun range in Manhattan?"

"You've heard of it, Mike—the Enfilade. All the society sports go there for a macho kick."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know the place. Pretty stiff fee to belong to that club."

"Hell, Doolan had an honorary life membership. Being a big ex-cop has its perks."

I'd check that out. "What about friends? Who was he still close to?"

"He went to too many funerals to have many left. Acquaintances he had plenty of. Everybody liked Doolan."

"Not everybody," I said.

We sipped our beers.

"Pete, you got any ideas? Any leads?"

"Mike, I ran outa ideas a long time ago. Ideas are for young guys like you. And leads are for real cops, not old broken-down P.I.s."

"I hope you're not referring to me."

"You? Hell, you're a youngster. No, look at me—I bought the suicide bit all the way. There wasn't one thing wrong with it, not how it went down. I could see myself taking the same route he did under those conditions, and the whole world would've believed it."

"Only it didn't happen that way," I said.

He put his glasses back on and peered at me over the rims. "I hope not. But the facts—"

"You're confusing facts with what we think we see." I stood up and put the empty can on his desk. "Okay if I use your phone, Pete?"

"Sure."

I called Pat and said I was ready to check the Mathes girl's place out. He said he'd meet me there in half an hour.

At the door, I said to Cummings, "Anything comes to mind, Pete, I'm over at the Commodore."

"Not at the old stand?"

"My office is closed for now. I'm just looking into a couple of things before I go back to Florida."

"Say, you still with that big, beautiful brunette? My God, she never changes. What a lovely woman. If you had any sense, Mike, you'd have married her ten years ago."

"I'm not with her, Pete. And if I had any sense, we wouldn't have just had this conversation."

His expression said he felt he'd stuck his foot in it, and I got out of there before he could recover.

I knew what Pat was up to. He was the guy who never left the neighborhood, taking the old returnee around the block to show him the changes since he left. It's hard to believe, but unless you've gone away and come back, nothing stands still. Buildings fall, blocks get chewed up, license plates change colors, and faces don't smile right anymore.

Ginnie Mathes had lived in a dilapidated brownstone four blocks from where she'd worked. The super had a basement apartment in the building next door and hadn't known his tenant was dead until Pat flashed his badge and told him so.

There was no hassle about getting in. The guy went ahead, opened the door in the first-floor rear, then left. Pat flipped on the light, we both stood there like dummies, then Pat took the kitchen and I checked out the bedroom.

Ginnie Mathes had nothing much to brag about except maybe cleanliness. Her chief possessions were the clothes in her closet and two drawers of a dresser; to this estate, you could add a little portable TV and a clock radio and not much else. Everything was neatly arranged, the few items of food in the refrigerator fresh, and no garbage in the trash container.

Pat said, "This place has been turned."

"What?"

"Look at the rug."

I hadn't noticed, but it was in a pretty awkward position. Under the sink, the cabinet doors were slightly ajar and he nudged them open with his toe. I saw what he meant. A real tidy girl wouldn't have left them that way.

I shrugged. "Guess I've been away too long, Pat."

"Look at the bathroom."

That one was easy. Somebody had lifted the seat, taken a piss, and didn't flush.

I knew Pat was waiting to see what I'd do next, so I went over and looked at the lock on the door. There were no scratches on the metal, no marks on the woodwork, so I closed the door and leaned against it.

"Okay, Pat—it's a cheap lock and easy pickings, but at the least it was a minor pro job. I don't think they expected to find anything, because she was dead before they got here."

"All right then, Mike—what did she have on her before they got here?"

"Thirty-five bucks and tips in cash."

"Somebody was after more than a waitress's weekly pay and tips."

I caught his eyes and got the point. "This wasn't random."

"I'll make a detective out of you yet," he told me.

"Something big enough to kill for?"

"Come on, Mike. In this town anything is big enough to kill for."

I nodded. If the mugging had been deliberate, and the killer hadn't gotten what he was after, he still had the girl's address in her purse and figured she wouldn't be I.D.'d until the following day. So he had time to go over her place....

But what was he looking for?

"So whoever shook this place down," I said, "had a whole night to do it in."

Pat was thinking. "We don't buy the possibility that the mugging and a break-in here are two separate events?"

"No way."

"Then there's still something that bothers me."

"Street muggers and B-and-E guys are two different animals."

"Right on," he said. "The only time a mugger breaks and enters is when he's smashing a window in an abandoned building to flop for the night."

I was nodding. "That girl got off a shift after the supper hour on a pay night. It was something she had been doing for a long time. If some creep spotted her routine, saw an easy mark, and followed her just for the cash she had on her, that would be one thing."

"Only she's mugged well away from where she lived and worked," Pat said. "What was she doing there, in that combat zone?"

"That's the question."

"Still could be two people," Pat said. "A mugger is hired to grab her bag, and somebody else is hired to toss her apartment."

"That's three people—including whoever hired both of them. Unless it's somebody who did this all himself."

"Or herself."

"You can kid yourself and say Doolan is a suicide, Pat, but this is a murder."

"Of course it's murder..."

"Not a mugging murder—a murder that needs solving. Are you going to help?"

He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm simply going to make sure you get your fill of this before the system gets it sorted out the old-fashioned way."

I gestured around the sad little apartment. "Really? Then how come the captain of Homicide is messing with a chintzy kill like this?"

"Humoring an old friend. Ready to go over and see Ginnie Mathes's mother?"

I felt my eyebrows go up. "You've been doing your homework, little boy."

"Plain old-fashioned cop stuff, friend. Lots of manpower and the right questions."

Six blocks away, we made a call on Mrs. Lily Mathes, whose dead husband had left her an entire four-story brownstone. Three floors were rentals, so you might think she was well-off; but rent control meant it took Social Security, too, for her to manage a modest living.

Mrs. Mathes was a plump sixty-something in a dark blue dress that may have been as close to black as she had handy. Her white hair was mixed with remnants of the blonde that, along with her attractive face, she'd passed along to her late daughter.

That face wore no makeup at the moment—perhaps it never did or maybe she just was saving herself the trouble of having it run and smear. Her eyes were red, but dry.

She seemed almost glad to see us—maybe it was a relief just to have someone to talk to.

There wasn't much she could add to the picture. Her daughter had been living alone for over two years. During that time, Ginnie had several jobs as a waitress, moving on only when a place closed. No, her daughter had never been in trouble. As far as the mother knew, Ginnie dated once in a while, but lately whenever she had time off, she spent it taking dancing lessons someplace across town.

Pat said, "Did she ever dance professionally?"

"Oh, no," the seated woman told us. "She was too shy for that."

Pat glanced at me, but didn't mention anything about the cabaret license on her daughter. Some things were better left unsaid.

While Pat was getting background, I made a casual circuit of the room. Like most women her age, Lily had her family photos on display. Her late husband was in several with her, a few were of mother, father, and daughter growing up, and one was six snapshots of teenaged Ginnie in a homemade montage—Ginnie and a stocky, blonde-headed guy in two, and with a skinny, shorter guy in the other four.

Lily Mathes smiled when she saw me looking at them. "Those were taken right after Ginnie got out of high school."

"Boyfriends?"

"Oh, you know how girls are."

"Ginnie still see either of these boys?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "That blonde one, he's married and lives in Jersey now. Joseph Fidello, the other one? He's been gone a long time. I think he became a seaman."

When I put the picture back, she said, "I'm afraid you gentlemen are wasting your time. Nobody... nobody who knew Ginnie ... would ever... ever want to ... to hurt her."

A tissue-filled hand covered her eyes and she let her head droop. She went on: "It was just this ... this terrible city ... these awful muggings ... they happen all the time. It's like ... like living in hell."

I wasn't the best guy to give her an argument.

Pat bent over and took her hand gently. "Just one more thing. Did your daughter always walk home?"

"Yes. On nice nights. If it rained, she took a cab."

"On a nice night—would she go walking farther afield? Or take a cab somewhere, maybe to go to a restaurant or club, or see a boyfriend, and then walk by herself...?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Where they found her, Ginnie wasn't anywhere near her apartment. She wasn't near to her work."

"Yes, we know...."

"She would never, never go down a street like where they found her. They tell me it was all torn up and not a safe place at all. I knew my daughter. She'd never go down such an unsafe street."

We didn't have to go any further. We said a gentle goodbye and left.

Once outside, Pat said, "So what do you make of it?"

"Three possibilities," I said with a shrug. "Ginnie was going to meet somebody, she was trying to elude somebody, or somebody was chasing her."

"All for thirty-five bucks and tips?"

"For something," I said.