Fade Away
Page 75
Myron didn’t answer. “How long was he inside?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Who came by next?”
“Greg Downing. I remember he had a satchel. I figured it had the money in it. He was in and out fast—couldn’t have been more than a minute. And he still had the satchel on him when he came out. That’s when I started to worry.”
“Greg could have killed her,” Myron said. “It doesn’t take long to hit someone with a baseball bat.”
“But he wasn’t carrying a bat,” Cole said. “The satchel wasn’t big enough for one. And Liz had a bat in her apartment. She hated guns, so she kept it for protection.”
Myron knew that no bat had been found at Gorman’s apartment. That meant the killer must have used Liz’s. Could Greg have gone upstairs, entered her apartment, found the bat, killed her with it, ran out—all in such a short time?
It seemed doubtful.
“What about Emily?” Myron asked.
“She came in last,” Cole said.
“How long was she there?”
“Five minutes. Something like that.”
Time enough to gather the evidence to plant. “Did you see anybody else go in and out of the building?”
“Sure,” Cole said. “Lot of students live there.”
“But we can assume that Liz was already dead by the time Greg Downing arrived, right?”
“Right.”
“So the question is, who do you remember going in between the time she got back from the Swiss Chalet and the time Greg arrived? Besides Clip Arnstein.”
Cole thought about it and shrugged. “Mostly students, I guess. There was a real tall guy—”
“How tall?”
“I don’t know. Very.”
“I’m six-four. Taller than me?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Was he black?”
“I don’t know. I was across the street and the light wasn’t too good. I wasn’t watching that closely. He might have been black. But I don’t think he’s our man.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I watched the building until the next morning. He never came back out. He must have lived there or at least stayed with someone overnight. I doubt the killer would’ve hung around like that.”
Tough to argue, Myron thought. He tried to process what he was hearing in a cold, computerlike way, but the circuits were starting to overload. “Who else did you remember seeing? Anybody stand out?”
Cole thought again, his eyes wandering aimlessly. “There was one woman who went in not long before Greg got there. Now that I think of it, she left before he got there too.”
“What did she look like?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Blond, brunette?”
Cole shook his head. “I only remember her because she wore a long coat. The students all wear windbreakers or sweatshirts or something like that. I remember thinking she looked like an adult.”
“Was she carrying anything? Did she—”
“Look, Myron, I’m sorry. I gotta get moving.” He stood and looked down at Myron with a hollow, lost expression. “Good luck finding the son of a bitch,” he said. “Liz was a good person. She never hurt anyone. None of us did.”
Before he could turn away, Myron asked, “Why did you call me last night? What were you going to sell me?”
Cole smiled sadly and began to walk away. He stopped before he reached the door and turned back around. “I’m alone now,” he said. “Gloria Katz was shot in the initial attack. She died three months later. Susan Milano died in a car crash in 1982. Liz and I kept their deaths a secret. We wanted the feds searching for four of us, not two. We thought it would help us stay hidden. So you see, there is only one of us left now.”
He had the bone-weary look of a survivor who wasn’t so sure the dead weren’t the lucky ones. He rambled back over toward Myron and unlocked the handcuffs. “Go,” he said.
Myron rose, rubbing his wrists. “Thank you,” he said.
Cole merely nodded.
“I won’t tell anyone where you are.”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “I know.”
Chapter 35
Myron sprinted to his car and dialed Clip’s number. Clip’s secretary answered and told him that Mr. Arnstein was not in at the moment. He asked her to transfer the call to Calvin Johnson. She put him on hold. Ten seconds later, the call was put through.
“Hey, Myron,” Calvin said, “what’s up?”
“Where’s Clip?”
“He should be here in a couple of hours. By game time anyway.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find him,” Myron said. “When you do, call me back.”
“What’s going on?” Calvin asked.
“Just find him.”
Myron disconnected the call. He opened the car window and took deep breaths. It was a few minutes after six. Most of the guys would already be at the arena warming up. He headed up Riverside Drive and crossed the George Washington Bridge. He dialed Leon White’s number. A woman answered.
“Hello?”
Myron disguised his voice. “Is this Mrs. Fiona White?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Would you like to subscribe to Popular Mechanics? We have a special going on for a limited time.”
“No, thank you.” She hung up.
Conclusion: Fiona White, the Sepbabe and promisor of night ecstasy, was home. Time to pay her a little visit.
He took Route 4 and got off at Kindermack Road. Five minutes later, he was there. The house was a semi-nouveau ranch with orange-tinged brick and diamond-shaped windows. This particular architectural look was all the rage for maybe a two-month span in 1977, and it had aged about as well as the leisure suit. Myron parked in the driveway. On either side of the cement walkway were low-rise iron fences with plastic ivy snaked through them. Classy.
He rang the bell. Fiona White opened the door. Her green, flower-print blouse hung open over a white leotard. Her bleached-blonde hair was tied in a bun that was falling apart, spare strands dangling down over her eyes and ears. She looked at Myron and frowned. “Yes?”
“Hi, Fiona. I’m Myron Bolitar. We met the other night at TC’s house.”
The frown was still there. “Leon isn’t here.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Fiona sighed and crossed her arms under the ample bosom. “What about?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Who came by next?”
“Greg Downing. I remember he had a satchel. I figured it had the money in it. He was in and out fast—couldn’t have been more than a minute. And he still had the satchel on him when he came out. That’s when I started to worry.”
“Greg could have killed her,” Myron said. “It doesn’t take long to hit someone with a baseball bat.”
“But he wasn’t carrying a bat,” Cole said. “The satchel wasn’t big enough for one. And Liz had a bat in her apartment. She hated guns, so she kept it for protection.”
Myron knew that no bat had been found at Gorman’s apartment. That meant the killer must have used Liz’s. Could Greg have gone upstairs, entered her apartment, found the bat, killed her with it, ran out—all in such a short time?
It seemed doubtful.
“What about Emily?” Myron asked.
“She came in last,” Cole said.
“How long was she there?”
“Five minutes. Something like that.”
Time enough to gather the evidence to plant. “Did you see anybody else go in and out of the building?”
“Sure,” Cole said. “Lot of students live there.”
“But we can assume that Liz was already dead by the time Greg Downing arrived, right?”
“Right.”
“So the question is, who do you remember going in between the time she got back from the Swiss Chalet and the time Greg arrived? Besides Clip Arnstein.”
Cole thought about it and shrugged. “Mostly students, I guess. There was a real tall guy—”
“How tall?”
“I don’t know. Very.”
“I’m six-four. Taller than me?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Was he black?”
“I don’t know. I was across the street and the light wasn’t too good. I wasn’t watching that closely. He might have been black. But I don’t think he’s our man.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I watched the building until the next morning. He never came back out. He must have lived there or at least stayed with someone overnight. I doubt the killer would’ve hung around like that.”
Tough to argue, Myron thought. He tried to process what he was hearing in a cold, computerlike way, but the circuits were starting to overload. “Who else did you remember seeing? Anybody stand out?”
Cole thought again, his eyes wandering aimlessly. “There was one woman who went in not long before Greg got there. Now that I think of it, she left before he got there too.”
“What did she look like?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Blond, brunette?”
Cole shook his head. “I only remember her because she wore a long coat. The students all wear windbreakers or sweatshirts or something like that. I remember thinking she looked like an adult.”
“Was she carrying anything? Did she—”
“Look, Myron, I’m sorry. I gotta get moving.” He stood and looked down at Myron with a hollow, lost expression. “Good luck finding the son of a bitch,” he said. “Liz was a good person. She never hurt anyone. None of us did.”
Before he could turn away, Myron asked, “Why did you call me last night? What were you going to sell me?”
Cole smiled sadly and began to walk away. He stopped before he reached the door and turned back around. “I’m alone now,” he said. “Gloria Katz was shot in the initial attack. She died three months later. Susan Milano died in a car crash in 1982. Liz and I kept their deaths a secret. We wanted the feds searching for four of us, not two. We thought it would help us stay hidden. So you see, there is only one of us left now.”
He had the bone-weary look of a survivor who wasn’t so sure the dead weren’t the lucky ones. He rambled back over toward Myron and unlocked the handcuffs. “Go,” he said.
Myron rose, rubbing his wrists. “Thank you,” he said.
Cole merely nodded.
“I won’t tell anyone where you are.”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “I know.”
Chapter 35
Myron sprinted to his car and dialed Clip’s number. Clip’s secretary answered and told him that Mr. Arnstein was not in at the moment. He asked her to transfer the call to Calvin Johnson. She put him on hold. Ten seconds later, the call was put through.
“Hey, Myron,” Calvin said, “what’s up?”
“Where’s Clip?”
“He should be here in a couple of hours. By game time anyway.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find him,” Myron said. “When you do, call me back.”
“What’s going on?” Calvin asked.
“Just find him.”
Myron disconnected the call. He opened the car window and took deep breaths. It was a few minutes after six. Most of the guys would already be at the arena warming up. He headed up Riverside Drive and crossed the George Washington Bridge. He dialed Leon White’s number. A woman answered.
“Hello?”
Myron disguised his voice. “Is this Mrs. Fiona White?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Would you like to subscribe to Popular Mechanics? We have a special going on for a limited time.”
“No, thank you.” She hung up.
Conclusion: Fiona White, the Sepbabe and promisor of night ecstasy, was home. Time to pay her a little visit.
He took Route 4 and got off at Kindermack Road. Five minutes later, he was there. The house was a semi-nouveau ranch with orange-tinged brick and diamond-shaped windows. This particular architectural look was all the rage for maybe a two-month span in 1977, and it had aged about as well as the leisure suit. Myron parked in the driveway. On either side of the cement walkway were low-rise iron fences with plastic ivy snaked through them. Classy.
He rang the bell. Fiona White opened the door. Her green, flower-print blouse hung open over a white leotard. Her bleached-blonde hair was tied in a bun that was falling apart, spare strands dangling down over her eyes and ears. She looked at Myron and frowned. “Yes?”
“Hi, Fiona. I’m Myron Bolitar. We met the other night at TC’s house.”
The frown was still there. “Leon isn’t here.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Fiona sighed and crossed her arms under the ample bosom. “What about?”
