The Shadow of Your Smile

39

Barry Tucker left his partner, Dennis Flynn, in Renée Carter’s apartment to wait for a police technician to padlock the door. “That lady sure was careless with her jewelry,” Flynn observed. “There’s a lot of stuff that looks valuable scattered around in that tray on her dresser, and more in boxes in her closet.”

“You keep looking for anything that indicates next of kin,” Tucker told him. “And make a list of all the people you find in her daily appointment book. Then start with the men and check their addresses in the Manhattan phone book. See if one of them lives around here. I’m heading for that bar where Carter was supposed to meet the guy who may be the baby’s father.”

As he spoke he took a picture of Renée from its frame. “With any luck we may solve this one pretty fast.”

“You always hope that,” Flynn observed dryly.

“Dennis, this one has a kid involved, who’s going to end up in a foster home if we can’t find a relative willing to take her,” Barry Tucker reminded him.

“After what we heard from the babysitter, my guess is that the kid will be better off in a foster home than she was with the mother,” Flynn said quietly.

That remark stayed in Barry Tucker’s mind as he drove across town to the restaurant near Gracie Mansion where Renée Carter had been dropped off to meet the mystery man. He tried to imagine either one of his children alone in a hospital, with no relative or close friend to care for them. Not in a million years, he thought. If anything happened to Trish and me, both grandmothers, to say nothing of all three of Trish’s sisters, would be fighting for custody of the kids.

The restaurant turned out to be an English-style pub. The bar was directly inside the entrance, and Barry could see that the dining room beyond it held no more than a dozen tables. A neighborhood kind of place, he thought. I bet they get a lot of repeat customers. Let’s hope Carter was one of them. From what he could see, all the tables seemed to be taken, and most of the stools at the bar were occupied.

He walked to the end of the bar, waited until the bartender came to take his order, then slid his gold badge and a picture of Renée across the counter.

“Do you recognize this lady?” he asked.

The bartender’s eyes widened. “Yes, sure I do. That’s Renée Carter.”

“When was the last time she was here?”

“Night before last, Tuesday, around ten thirty, give or take ten minutes.”

“Was she alone?”

“She came in alone, but some guy was waiting for her. He pulled out a stool for her to sit here at the bar, but she said they should get a table.”

“What was her attitude toward the man she met?”

“Snippy.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No. I don’t think he’s ever been here before.”

“What did he look like?”

“Late forties, early fifties. Dark hair. Really good-looking guy, and his clothes didn’t come off a pipe rack, I can tell you that.”

“What was his attitude toward Renée Carter?”

“Not happy. I could tell he was nervous. He polished off two scotches before she even got here.”

“So then they went to a table?”

“Yeah. Most of the tables were empty by then. We close the kitchen at ten. While they were still standing at the bar, he ordered two scotches and said something to her like, ‘I assume you still have a taste for single malt?’ ”

“What did she say?”

“She said something like, ‘I can’t afford single malt scotch anymore, but it’s clear you can.’ I mean, it sounded stupid coming from someone who was all dolled up like Renée Carter was.”

“All right. So they went to the table. How long did they stay there?”

“Not long enough to finish their drinks. I mean, I kept my eye on them, because by then it was slow and I had nothing better to do. I saw him hand her the big shopping bag he’d been carrying-you know, one of those gift bags. She grabbed it from him, got up so fast she almost knocked over the chair, and hightailed it out of here with an expression on her face that would have stopped an eight-day clock. He threw fifty bucks on the table and rushed out behind her.”

“Would you recognize that man if you saw him again?”

“Oh, sure. I never forget a face. Detective, did something happen to Renée?”

“Yes. She was the victim of a homicide after she left this restaurant. She never got home that night.”

The bartender’s face blanched. “Oh, God, that’s a shame. Did she get mugged?”

“We don’t know. How often did Renée Carter come here?”

“Maybe once or twice a month. Mainly for a nightcap, and she was never alone. Always with a guy.”

“Do you know the names of any of the men she was with?”

“Sure, some of them anyhow. I’ll make a list.”

The bartender reached for a pad and picked up a pen. “Let’s see,” he murmured to himself. “There’s Les…” Aware that other people at the bar were looking at him, he clamped his lips firmly shut, then straightened up and hurried down the length of the bar to where a man was sitting alone sipping a beer.

Sensing the bartender might have remembered something about Renée Carter, Barry Tucker followed him down past the row of barstools. He got there in time to hear him say, “Rudy, you were here Tuesday night and you noticed Renée Carter leaving in a hurry. I just remembered, you said something about being surprised that the guy with her had the price of a drink. Do you know his name?”

Rudy, a florid-cheeked man, began to laugh. “Sure I do. Peter Gannon. He’s the guy they call ‘the loser-producer.’ You must have read about him. He’s laid more eggs on Broadway than Perdue has chickens.”