Serial

54

New York, the present

Whoever answered the phone at Sweep ’Em Up told Quinn that Jock Sanderson was at an uptown YMCA with the rest of a cleanup crew, making fresh again an auditorium where an author had spoken last night about his book on how television pundits were poisoning American society.

“I think I read that one,” Quinn said, and told the woman on the phone that if Sanderson happened to call, it would be best if she didn’t mention her and Quinn’s conversation.

“He’ll be too busy with his mop and push broom to call,” the woman said. “Anyway, once the daytime cleanup crews are out on the job, nobody calls here except maybe people like you.”

“Did Sanderson work last night?”

“No. It was his night off. That’s why he’s on this daytime job. It’s cheaper for our clients if we clean during the day, and venues like the YMCA don’t hold events so often that they’re in a big rush to clean up afterward.”

“How long’s it usually take to clean up after something like an author lecture at a YMCA?”

“You mean what time will Sanderson get off work?”

“You’re ahead of me,” Quinn said.

“They didn’t start all that early, so it’ll probably be pushing five o’clock. You want to talk to him, you might be able to catch him when he’s on his lunch break around noon. It’d be better for him if the boss and the rest of the crew didn’t know the police were visiting him.”

Quinn told her that was a good idea, but the moment he hung up he left to drive to the YMCA where Sanderson was working today. He wasn’t in the mood to give a damn what Sanderson’s boss or his fellow employees thought about the law questioning him.

The YMCA was a modern gray and glass cube on a block of old buildings being renovated. Quinn was directed by an Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alike in a too-tight shirt to the auditorium.

After walking down a hall with glass windows looking in on a swimming pool, an indoor track, and a room full of people working out on exercise equipment, he pulled open a wooden door with a pneumatic closer and stepped into a small lobby. He used an identical door to enter the auditorium.

It was dim and, even without people in the seats, it didn’t seem all that large. It smelled musty, in the way of empty auditoriums. Quinn estimated it would accommodate about five hundred people. He wondered what kind of turnout the author of the TV pundit book had spoken to last night. He guessed it would depend on whether the speech was free.

A man and woman in gray work coveralls were moving things from the small stage to an area behind some curtains. Two others, both men, were using long-handled push brooms to sweep the gray painted concrete floor between the rows of seats. One of the broom pushers fit Sanderson’s description. Quinn walked to the end of the row he was sweeping and waited until Sanderson looked up and noticed him. He held up his ID and motioned for Sanderson to come to him.

As if grateful for the break, Sanderson propped his broom between two seat backs. He sidled toward Quinn in a way that suggested the seats were occupied and he was worried about stepping on toes. Quinn saw why. The seats hadn’t been raised yet on that end of the row to allow room for sweeping beneath them.

Sanderson stopped and stood in front of the end seat, looking expectantly at Quinn. Up close, Sanderson looked shorter than he did at a distance, but he was solidly built-well set up, as old cops used to say. Quinn was disappointed to see that there were no scratches on his face. Weaver had clawed the man who attacked her, and had done so hard enough to come away with his flesh beneath her fingernails.

Quinn identified himself.

“I already talked to another cop-officer,” he said. “Pearl somebody or other.”

“That’s all right,” Quinn said, as if Sanderson had been seeking reassurance. “I’m here about something else. A woman was badly beaten last night, not far from where you live.” He watched Sanderson’s reaction. He’d know the beating took place a long walk or subway ride away from his apartment.

Sanderson maintained his poker face and shrugged. “Well, it ain’t the safest neighborhood. I’m thinking about moving.”

Quinn stared at him. “Let’s talk about this out in the lobby.”

“Sure. But remember I’m working. We’ve gotta finish this up in another few hours.”

“This won’t take long.”

“That’s what they tell you when they hang you.”

Quinn guessed that was a joke and managed a smile. He remembered a woman who’d hanged herself in her bedroom years ago and hadn’t done a good job. It had taken her long, agonizing hours to die in a noose that was too loose, at the end of a rope that was too short. He thought that people who killed themselves had a responsibility to give it some thought first. They owed it to whoever was going to find the body.

The lobby was angular and carpeted in red. Though there was enough glass to qualify it as a greenhouse, the brightness was intensified by overhead track lighting. There was a low black sofa along one wall, but neither man moved to sit down. Quinn got what he wanted, a close look at Sanderson’s face in good light. There was no sign of scratches or gouges, or of makeup covering any. This wasn’t the man Weaver had clawed.

But that didn’t mean he hadn’t had something to do with the assault.

“We gotta have time to get those restrooms cleaned,” Sanderson said, pointing to a door with the international symbol of a woman in a skirt standing squarely as if she were in a snit.

“You’ll have it,” Quinn said. “Where were you between seven and ten last night?”

Sanderson rubbed his chin, making a show of trying to remember. “I don’t know if I could tell you exactly, but around seven-thirty or so I went out for a walk. I was gone quite a while.”

“What’s a while?”

“I dunno. Maybe two, three hours.”

“You’re quite a walker.”

“Yeah. It helps to get rid of stress.”

“What’s stressing you?”

“Same things stressing lots of people. Getting by, getting around, stretching a buck, holding on to a job because it’s not easy to get another one if you’ve spent time behind the walls.”

“Woman trouble?”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t mention woman trouble.”

“Right now, I ain’t got any. Not that I didn’t have lots of it once. But you know all about that.”

“Not all, maybe.”

Sanderson shrugged one shoulder beneath his gray uniform. “Well. ..”

“Anybody see you during this walk?”

“Sure. Hundreds, I suppose. You know New York. But I doubt if any of them would remember me.” Sanderson smiled. “I mean, I don’t remember any of them, do I?”

“Did you go in someplace and get a cup of coffee? Maybe stop to buy a newspaper or magazine?”

Sanderson took a long time to answer, putting on another show of searching his memory. “No, I didn’t stop or do anything that anyone might remember.”

“These walks you take, do you have any sort of destination when you set out?”

“Never. That’s part of why they relieve stress.”

“Do you ever pick somebody at random and follow them? Just for something to do?”

Sanderson appeared shocked by the conversational swerve. “Follow somebody? No, that’s nutty.”

Quinn smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He held out his hand for Sanderson to shake. “You can get back to work. Thanks for your time.”

“Sure.” Sanderson shook the proffered hand.

But Quinn didn’t let go. He tightened his grip slowly and powerfully. Not as tight as he might. Just letting Sanderson know he could easily crush all his fingers. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with a woman getting beaten up last night, would you?”

Sanderson was too proud to show any sign that his hand hurt. He’d learned in prison not to reveal vulnerability. “It wasn’t that cop, Pearl, that got worked over, was it?”

“Why would you think so?”

“I don’t think so. I’m asking ’cause I don’t know. I kind of liked Pearl, is all. She was nice. I wouldn’t wanna think somebody beat the shit out of her.” He took a deep breath and let it out, but still didn’t change expression. “Say, you wouldn’t mind letting go of my hand, would you?”

Quinn acted surprised that he was still clasping Sanderson’s hand. “Oh, sorry.” He turned the hand loose.

Sanderson grinned. “I need that hand for work.”

“And, since you don’t have any woman trouble right now, not just for that.” Quinn winked and turned to leave.

“Thinking about Pearl,” Sanderson said.

Quinn felt a stab of anger and turned back around.

“You never answered me whether it was Pearl that got beat up last night,” Sanderson said.

“Somebody else,” Quinn said.

“Good. If something happened to Pearl, I’d wanna know myself who had a hand in it.”

Quinn stared at Sanderson, wondering if the little bastard was quicker off the mark than he seemed.

“I better get back to sweeping up,” Sanderson said.

Quinn nodded. “That’d be your best bet.”

As he left the YMCA, Quinn had a better understanding of why Weaver thought Sanderson might be worth watching.

However, Weaver was probably wrong. There was no doubt about Sanderson’s alibi for the night of Judith Blaney’s murder. And for that matter, no doubt that he wasn’t the man who assaulted Weaver. Sanderson was just another smalltime ex-con with a devious streak and a healthy skepticism, probably a fraction as smart as he saw himself.

Weaver had been right in her suspicions but wrong in her conclusion.

Exactly what Quinn had spent much of his life trying to avoid.

Still, Quinn had respect for intuitive reasoning, and Weaver had demonstrated that quality in other investigations.

It might be a good idea to put a tail on Sanderson for a while.

To make sure.