Nowhere to Hide Page 7

  She blinked as if she’d gone into a momentary trance. "The police took Gail’s address book, but, yes, I have Doug’s address. His phone number, too, if you want it. Surely you don’t think—"

  "I don’t think anything at this point," Ellen said. "I’d just like to talk to him, that’s all."

  When Sandi was gone, Ellen walked down the hall and knocked on Mrs. Bloom’s door. It opened almost at once as if the landlady had been waiting for her. Though Ellen had never met Mrs. Bloom, she seemed to know who Ellen was.

  "Come in, dear. I’ve made a nice pot of tea. This must be so terrible for you. Do the police know anything yet? Have they found the man who did it?"

  They talked over tea. Mrs. Bloom’s apartment was cluttered with knickknacks, dusty potted plants. Yellowing lace doilies lay limply over the arms and backs of stuffed, sagging chairs. A grandfather clock stood in the corner by the window facing the street, ticking loudly, pendulum swinging. Except for the small television set at the opposite corner of the room, Ellen got the impression that the place had been decorated in the forties, and remained frozen in time. The air in the room smelled faintly of mold and cat pee, evidenced by the yellow tabby eyeing Ellen warily from one of the chairs, and another, this one smaller and black, curled up asleep on the window-sill.

  "You can see I’m a cat person," Mrs. Bloom said, smiling, bending with some difficulty to pick up the orange striped cat that had padded into the room just then, and which Ellen knew had belonged to Gail. "They’re such wonderful company," the landlady said fondly. "They ask nothing of you but a little love and a bit of food."

  Ellen reached out her own hand and stroked the sleek head, gazed into the green, knowing eyes. Pain pierced her heart. What did you see, Tiger? What could you tell me if only you could speak?

  Though Mrs. Bloom talked freely, she was unable to tell Ellen anything useful—only what she’d already told police. No one had seen anything. No one heard anything. Mrs. Bloom had been visiting an upstairs neighbor when it happened.

  Before leaving, Ellen gave her a month’s rent, and, ignoring the face filled with curiosity and not a little astonishment—never mind that she’d accepted the money quite readily, and with just the tiniest gleam in her eye—went back to her apartment.

  She supposed she wasn’t being entirely fair to Mrs. Bloom. You could hardly fault her for wanting to rent an apartment that might otherwise remain vacant for months. People got edgy about living in a place where a brutal murder had occurred. And this building, after all, was Mrs. Bloom’s livelihood.

  The landlady had been adamant about keeping Tiger. "He was over here as often as he was home, anyway," she’d told Ellen. "The girls were away a lot. Tiger knows he’s loved here, don’t you, Tiger?"

  She’d also, at Ellen’s request, packed all of Gail’s clothes into boxes with a promise to give them to the Salvation Army. She was really a good soul. Ellen didn’t think she could have borne having to look at them.

  Other than Gail’s Christmas gifts to her, and the few photographs police had not confiscated from the wall, Ellen took nothing.

  She already had her scrapbook. And her memories.

  Far more than enough to fuel the fire of vengeance that raged within her.

  Twelve

  The police had removed the tape from the door only two days ago, Mrs. Bloom had told her. She hadn’t had a chance to clean up the place yet, and offered to do it while Ellen stayed for a second cup of tea. Ellen said no, just leave it.

  Now, standing in the middle of the room, she could feel the violence of that night all around her. Sighing, she sat down on Gail’s bed. Noticing something pea-green peeking from beneath the pillow, she withdrew it and held it up. A tee shirt. She smiled with memory. Gail was always one to sleep in big, sloppy tee shirts, even when she was a kid. Pressing the soft fabric to her face, she breathed in the light, spicy fragrance of L’air du Temps, Gail’s favorite perfume, mingled with her own natural essence.

  Smells that would soon fade, she thought, like the chalk outline on the carpet. Even as Gail herself would soon fade in the minds of most of those who had attended her funeral. With the scent of the tee shirt flooding her senses, the casing around her heart finally cracked and peeled away, and the dam of pent-up tears burst forth. She sobbed into the tee shirt for a long time. When all her tears were spent, and her eyes felt as if they’d been rubbed with sandpaper, Ellen whispered, "Help me, Gail. Help me find whoever did this to you."

  Only the silence answered.

  ~ * ~

  That night she slept in Gail’s bed, clad in the tee shirt with SAVE OUR PLANET on the front, which was only slightly damp in spots from her tears. Before coming to bed, she’d stood before the full-length mirror in the bathroom, smiling, seeing the way the tee shirt just barely covered her bottom, knowing it would have reached nearly to Gail’s knees.

  Her reflection blurred as the tears came again.

  Now, lying beneath the covers, Ellen could see in the lamplight the boarded-up window and the green blind that, when she’d tried to tug it down further, resisted her efforts. Someone peering in through the unshaded strip of window could easily have made out the telephone number on the phone, which sat only a few feet away on the nightstand.

  Her gaze left the window. It settled on the closet door, and fixed there. She pictured Gail coming into the room, taking off her shoes, undressing, opening the closet door and hanging up her dress, maybe humming to herself, happy in the knowledge of her hard-earned success, looking forward, as Ellen had been, to their spending Christmas together.

  Phoning Ellen.

  She replayed their conversation in her mind. He’d been listening, too. Waiting. And then he’d inadvertently made some sort of noise, something that had alerted her. Perhaps he wanted to hear better. Or maybe he was just getting impatient.

  Gail’d thought it was Tiger.

  When did you know you were not alone, Gail?

  Narrowing her eyes, Ellen imagined the closet door slowly opening. She concentrated hard, imagining it so vividly, she started when she thought she saw the door actually move outward a fraction, and felt something of the horror that must have struck Gail’s heart.

  She would have fought. Gail was a fighter. But she was a small girl, and in the end was helpless to save herself.

  What did he look like? Was he someone you knew? Someone whose face you recognized?

  Above her head, a television suddenly blared to life. Strangely, Ellen found the sound comforting. She turned on her side and closed her eyes. Her questions stilled for a time, and she soon slept, but it was an uneasy sleep.

  And she dreamed.

  It was a warm, breezy June day and she and Gail were walking home from school, Gail’s small, moist hand locked in hers. They were crossing over Smith’s Bridge, gazing up at the seagulls soaring above them, at times peering over the railing at those perched on the white-washed rocks below, filling the briny air with their squawking cries.

  They walked past Melick’s Barber Shop with the candy-striped pole out front, and Gail called, "Hey, kitty, kitty," to the Siamese cat curled up asleep in the dingy plate-glass window. Then on they went past Hasson’s corner grocery, with its Coca-Cola sign creaking in the wind behind them.

  As they turned onto Burr Street, their street, the houses quickly grew more dilapidated. They passed sad, dark houses with some of the windows broken, replaced by rattling cardboard, doorsteps sunken into the broken pavement.

  A gust of warm, smelly wind chased dirt and gum wrappers up the street toward them. An empty wine bottle rolled and clunked against the telephone pole.

  As they neared their own house, a brown, three-story wooden frame, their footsteps slowed. Loud, ugly voices reached them from behind the window of the bottom flat—voices that shouted and cursed and threatened. You never knew what awaited you on the other side of the door. This was a place where you never took your friends, a place where shame and fear and craziness lived.

  Standing
outside the door, Gail’s hand in hers, Ellen felt the familiar sinking in her stomach. The angry voices made her angry too, and miserable and she wished she could just take Gail and run away. Maybe she just would! Then they’d be sorry.

  Suddenly Gail was crying and trying to pull her hand from Ellen’s. "You said you wouldn’t ever leave me, Ellie." Her cries grew louder, hysterical. "You promised, Ellie. You promised."

  When Ellen turned to comfort her, to calm her fears and tell her everything was going to be all right, just the way she always did, it was Myra’s face she saw, Myra’s mouth that was open in screams, her eyes wide with terror.

  Ellen shot bolt upright in the bed, the screams echoing in her mind, the tee shirt clinging wetly to her.

  The first thing that met her eyes was the chalk-outline of Gail’s body on the floor. She could feel her sister’s presence in the room.

  Thirteen

  "That’s the building where that singer was murdered, isn’t it?" the cab driver said without turning around. He spoke with a heavy New York accent and looked a little like an aging Al Pacino. Ellen supposed he was curious about their destination.

  "Yes, yes, it is," she said, as the cab driver slammed on the brakes and gave the finger to a scurrying pedestrian. Traffic crawled. Horns bleated. Ellen sat back against the leather seat, her dreams returning to her. Usually she didn’t remember her dreams, but this one clung to her—so vivid, so damned real. The sights, the smells, the sounds, all exactly as she remembered from her childhood. Except for one thing. But for the voices of her parents, the street had been deserted. Like a ghost street in an old western, with little eddies of dirt and paper being blown about like bits of tumbleweed.

  "Someone you knew."

  "My sister."

  "Jesus."

  There were always people on Burr Street, sitting on doorsteps, hanging out of windows, cigarettes dangling from slack mouths. Women with their hair in pink curlers screaming at their kids down in the street, shouting to one another, sometimes friendly shouts, sometimes not, wearing dresses held together by safety pins.

  She closed her eyes and saw again the top of Gail’s blond head, her child’s face in profile, felt again that warm little hand in hers, so very trusting. It was Gail’s cries, her accusations that had left Ellen so shaken. And then the way her face, when Ellen had turned to her, had become Myra’s face. What did it mean? Did Gail somehow blame her?

  And why was it Myra’s face she saw?

  Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just a dream.

  But she knew better. How would she attempt to analyze such a dream if one of her clients had described it to her?

  The cab screeched to a stop. "Here we are, ma’am," the cab driver said, getting out and holding the door open for her. "I’m real sorry about your sister. That’s a real bummer. The crazies are taken’ over the freaking world."

  Ellen agreed silently, thanked him and gave him what she hoped was a proper tip. When he tipped his cap and flashed her a bit of gold tooth, she guessed she must have got it right.

  She always felt out of her element in New York, overwhelmed by the noise, the pace, the fact that she couldn’t walk down the street without people brushing her on either side, hemming her in. Whoever had coined the term "asphalt jungle" had been right on the mark. Yet, despite that, she could easily see why this place held such a fascination for Gail, and girls like her. A city teeming with dreams as tall as the skyscrapers that blocked the sun, had its own heartbeat, unlike that of any other city in the world.

  Gail had been a New Yorker in her soul long before she ever got here, drawn to the bright lights like the proverbial moth to the flame. When Ellen tried to warn her about the dangers of the big city, she would laugh and say, "You know, Ellen, you can get mugged in your own home town, too. Don’t think I haven’t met my share of weirdos in good old Evansdale."

  Ellen climbed the wide stone steps of the New York Police Department, her shadow-self gliding up the stairs ahead of her.

  ~ * ~

  Detective Steve Shannon came out from behind his massive, cluttered desk and took her hand. "Mrs. Harris. Let me offer you my condolences on the loss of your sister." He closed his door on the din outside. "Would you like coffee?"

  "Yes, please."

  The coffee maker was in the corner. He filled two Styrofoam cups. "Cream? Sugar?"

  "Black, please."

  He set the cups on the desk, Ellen’s in front of her. She was still standing, unbuttoning her coat.

  "I suppose you’ve come to collect her things from the apartment." He could see the family resemblance, especially the eyes. But where the victim had been petite, Ellen Harris was tall. She moves like a dancer, he thought. Her hair was that color they used to call "strawberry blond" in his day.

  "No, Sergeant Shannon," she said, draping her coat over the back of the chair and sitting down. "That’s not why I’m here."

  He took in the simply styled navy dress she wore, the strand of pearls. Belying an air of soft womanhood, Shannon sensed a fierceness about her.

  Taking his cue, he went back behind his desk. He picked up his pen and began making little tapping noises on the blotter. She was obviously planning on staying awhile. Well, maybe she could shed a little light on this case. Somehow, he didn’t think so. Oh, Christ, he thought miserably. I don’t need this.

  The strain of her sister’s murder showed on her face. Her pupils were unnaturally large. Shannon had seen his share of shock victims in his time, and clearly, Ellen Harris was still in shock.

  He waited.

  She glanced briefly at the wanted poster on the wall behind him, then at him. Her blue gaze was penetrating, damn near unnerving. "I want to know everything that you know about the circumstances surrounding my sister’s murder," she said, her voice strong and unwavering. "And I want to know exactly what your department is doing to find her killer."

  It was an hour later when Ellen left the police station. The wind had picked up, accompanied by a light, freezing drizzle. Drawing up the hood of her blue London Fog, she stepped onto the sidewalk. Glancing in both directions, she intuitively turned left, becoming part of the stream of pedestrian traffic.

  She’d walked two blocks before she finally spotted a small diner with the sign, "D.J.’s" over the door. It was crowded inside, but she managed to find an empty booth at the back. The décor was cream and blue—soothing colors.

  They weren’t working on her.

  She ordered the soup of the day from the peppy, pony-tailed waitress. While she waited, she thought over all the detective had related to her, which really hadn’t amounted to a whole lot. Gail had put up a hell of a fight, he said, which came as no surprise to Ellen. "She had no chance," the detective said. "Only a strategically placed piece of hot lead would have stopped him."

  Gail didn’t believe in guns. Neither did Ellen, though she had one. She’d almost forgotten. Ed had bought one for her when they were first married and he had to be out of town a lot. In the construction business, you went where the work was. Would she remember how to use it?

  "Forensics found fragments of skin and blood under her fingernails," the detective told her. "Wouldn’t be at all surprised if he’s walking around with some pretty nasty scratches on him right now."

  The soup came and Ellen found she wasn’t hungry, after all. Sliding the bowl away from her, she unwrapped the cellophane from the pack of cigarettes she’d bought from the machine at the airport. She lit her first cigarette in more than two years.

  Though the first puff made her feel light-headed, she smoked it down to the filter. Lit another one.

  Conversation droned around her, dishes and flatware clattered. In a little while the smell of frying grease began to make her feel nauseated.

  She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray, paid her check and left the diner, not noticing the man in dark glasses who’d been sitting at the counter watching her.

  He followed her outside.

  When she arrive
d back at the apartment, the phone was ringing. To her surprise, it was Paul. At first, she felt pleasure hearing his voice, until she heard the agitation in it.

  "I’ve been beside myself with worry. I drove over to your place last night. When I got back home, I kept dialing your number until well past midnight. I thought you might have done something crazy... hurt yourself. I was on the verge of calling the police."

  "Oh. Well, I’m sorry, Paul—"

  "And this morning I called Myra and she guessed you might have flown down to New York. A shot in the dark."

  "Well, you hit your target," she said coolly, unbuttoning her coat with one hand, tossing it on the sofa. It slid off onto the floor. She switched the receiver to her other ear, annoyed that he had tracked her down, had taken it upon himself to bother Myra. She was of age, for God’s sake. She was under no obligation to report her comings and goings to Paul or anyone else.

  Relenting a little, Ellen asked herself if maybe she was being unfair. He was worried about her. She supposed she should be grateful he cared that much. But it was hard to concern herself with Paul’s feelings right now, hard to think of anyone right now but Gail being dead, and him out there somewhere, stalking other women.

  "I’m sorry if I worried you, Paul," she said. "And you’re right, I should have left a note or something. How was the convention?"

  "It would have been a lot more fun if you’d been there with me. I miss you, darling. You need to come back to work. I’m sure it would be the best thing for you."

  "I’m not going anywhere," she said flatly. "Not until her killer is found. I told you that."

  "Ellen you have to move ahead. You—"

  "Please, Paul, don’t tell me what I have to do. I know you mean well, but please..."

  He was silent.

  A need to share with him what she’d learned came over her. She didn’t want to shut him out, dammit. She wanted his support. "Paul, they found a half-smoked Pall Mall cigarette on the kitchen floor. They can tell a lot from that. They can do a saliva test."