87P14-Lady, Lady, I Did It! Page 11

  “Suspicion of what?”

  “Suspicion of being a big shit—how’s that? Get rid of him, somebody.”

  The somebody who got rid of him was Di Maeo. He pulled him out of the chair, yanking on the handcuffs, and then shoved him through the slatted rail divider and took him downstairs to the detention cells.

  “You’d better ask the old lady about this, too,” O’Brien said to Carella. “Meyer gave it to me at the hospital.”

  “What is it?”

  O’Brien handed him the page torn from Meyer’s pad. It read:

  CLAIRE

  SATURDAY

  271 SOUTH 1ST STREET

  Carella read the note: “Where’d Meyer get this?” “Hanging on a bulletin board in the Glennon apartment.” “Okay, we’ll ask her about it. Anybody checking out this address?”

  “I’m going there myself right now,” O’Brien said.

  “Good. We’ll be with Mrs. Glennon. If you get anything, call us there.”

  “Right.”

  “Does Meyer know who wrote the note?”

  “He figures it was the young girl. Eileen Glennon.”

  “Why don’t we get her in here and ask her about it?”

  “Well, that’s another thing, Steve. Mrs. Glennon says she has a sister in Bethtown, woman named Iris Mulhare.”

  “What about her?”

  “She claims Eileen went there Saturday morning. She also told Meyer the girl had stayed with Mrs. Mulhare all the while the old lady was in the hospital.”

  “So?”

  “So when I got back to the office, I called Mrs. Mulhare. She said yes, the kid was with her. So I said let me talk to her. Well, she hemmed and hawed a little and then told me she was sorry, Eileen must’ve stepped out for a minute. So I asked her where Eileen had stepped out to. Mrs. Mulhare said she didn’t know. So I said was she sure Eileen was there at all. She said certainly she was sure. So I said then let me talk to her. And she said, I just told you, she stepped out for a minute. So I told her I thought I’d call the local precinct and send a patrolman over to help find Eileen, and then Mrs. Mulhare cracked, and all the dirt came out.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  “Eileen Glennon isn’t with her aunt. The Mulhare woman hasn’t seen her for maybe six months.”

  “Six months, huh?”

  “Right. Eileen isn’t there now, and she wasn’t there when her mother was in the hospital either. I asked Mrs. Mulhare why she’d lied to me, and she said her sister had called that morning— must’ve been right after Meyer left her—to say, in case anyone asked, Eileen was there in Bethtown.”

  “Now why would Mrs. Glennon want her to say that?”

  “I don’t know. But it sure looks as if Claire Townsend was mixed up with a real bunch of prize packages.”

  The prize package named Mrs. Glennon was out of bed when Carella and Willis arrived. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking a second cup of hot buttered milk, which she’d undoubtedly prepared herself. The neighborhood grapevine had already informed her of her son’s arrest, and she greeted the detectives with undisguised hostility. As if to make her anger more apparent, she slurped noisily at the milk as she answered their questions.

  “We want to know the names of your son’s friends, Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said.

  “I don’t know any of their names. Terry’s a good boy. You had no right to arrest him.”

  “We think he and his friends attacked a police officer,” Willis said.

  “I don’t care what you think. He’s a good boy.” She slurped at the milk.

  “Does your son belong to a street gang, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What are his friends’ names?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “They never come up here to the house, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “Never. I’m not going to turn over my parlor to a bunch of young—” She cut herself short.

  “A bunch of young what, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Young hoodlums, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “No. My son is a good boy.”

  “But he beat up a cop.”

  “He didn’t. You’re only guessing.”

  “Where’s your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “Do you think she beat up a cop, too?”

  “No, Mrs. Glennon, but we think she had an appointment to meet Claire Townsend on Saturday at this address.” Carella put the slip of paper on the kitchen table, alongside the cup of milk. Mrs. Glennon looked at it and said nothing.

  “Know anything about that address, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “No.”

  “Was she supposed to meet Claire Saturday?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “At my sister’s. In Bethtown.”

  “She’s not there, Mrs. Glennon.”

  “That’s where she is.”

  “No. We spoke to your sister. She’s not there, and she was never there.”

  “She’s there.”

  “No. Now where is she, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “If she’s not there, I don’t know where she is. She said she was going to see her aunt. She’s never lied to me, so I have no reason to believe—”

  “Mrs. Glennon, you know damn well she didn’t go to your sister’s. You called your sister this morning, right after Detective Meyer left here. You asked her to lie for you. Where’s your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “I don’t know. Leave me alone! I’ve got enough trouble! Do you think it’s easy? Do you think raising two kids without a man is easy? Do you think I like that crowd my son runs with? And now Eileen? Do you think I…? Leave me alone? I’m sick. I’m a sick woman.” Her voice trailed off. “Please. Leave me alone. Please.” She was talking in a whisper now. “I’m sick. Please. I just got out of the hospital. Please. Please leave me alone.”

  “What about Eileen, Mrs. Glennon?”

  “Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing,” she said, her eyes squeezed shut, wailing the words, her hands clenched in her lap.

  “Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said very softly, “we’d like to know where your daughter is.”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Glennon said. “I swear to God. I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t know where Eileen is.”

  Detective Bob O’Brien stood on the sidewalk and looked up at 271 South 1st Street.

  The building was a five-story brownstone, and a sign in the first-floor window advertised FURNISHED ROOMS FOR RENT BY DAY OR WEEK. O’Brien climbed the front steps and rang the superintendent’s bell. He waited for several moments, received no answer, and rang the bell again.

  “Hello?” a voice from somewhere inside called.

  “Hello!” O’Brien answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello!” He was beginning to feel like an echo when the front door opened. A thin old man wearing khaki trousers and an undershirt looked out at him. He had shaggy graying brows that partially covered his blue eyes and gave him a peering expression.

  “Hello,” he said. “You ring the bell?”

  “I did,” O’Brien answered. “I’m Detective O—”

  “Oh-oh,” the old man said.

  O’Brien smiled. “No trouble, sir,” he said. “I just wanted to ask a few questions. My name’s O’Brien, 87th Squad.”

  “How do you do? My name’s O’Loughlin, South First Street,” the old man said, and he chuckled.

  “Up the rebels!” O’Brien said.

  “Up the rebels!” O’Loughlin answered, and both men burst out laughing. “Come on in, lad. I was just about to have a nip to welcome the end of the day. You can join me.”

  “Well, we’re not allowed to drink on duty, Mr. O’Loughlin.”

  “Sure, and who’s going to tell anyone about it?” the old man said. “Come on in.”

  They walked through the vestibule and into O’Loughlin�
��s apartment at the end of the hall. They sat in a parlor hung with a colored-glass chandelier and velvet drapes. The furniture was old and deep and comfortable. O’Loughlin went to a cherrywood cabinet and took out an ornate bottle.

  “Irish whiskey,” he said.

  “What else?” O’Brien asked.

  The old man chuckled and poured two stiff hookers. He brought one to O’Brien where he sat on the sofa, and then he sat opposite him in a tall upholstered rocker.

  “Up the rebels,” he said softly.

  “Up the rebels,” O’Brien answered, and both men drank solemnly.

  “What was it you wanted to know, O’Brien?” the old man asked.

  “That’s got a little bit of a kick,” O’Brien said, staring at the whiskey glass, his eyes smarting.

  “Mild as your dear mother’s milk,” O’Loughlin said. “Drink up, lad.”

  O’Brien raised the glass cautiously to his lips. Gingerly he sipped at it. “Mr. O’Loughlin,” he said, “we’re trying to locate a girl named Eileen Glennon. We found an address—”

  “You came to the right place, lad,” O’Loughlin said.

  “You know her?”

  “Well, I don’t know her. That is to say, not personally. But she rented a room from me, that she did.”

  O’Brien sighed. “Good,” he said. “What room is that?”

  “Upstairs. Nicest room in the house. Looks out over the park. She said she wanted a nice room with sunshine. So I give her that one.”

  “Is she here now?”

  “No.” O’Loughlin shook his head.

  “Do you have any idea when she’ll be back?”

  “Well, she hasn’t been here yet.”

  “What do you mean? You said—”

  “I said she rented a room from me, is what I said. That was last week. Thursday, as I remember. But she said she’d be wanting the room for Saturday. Saturday came around, and she never showed up.”

  “Then she hasn’t been here since she rented the room?”

  “Nossir, I’m afraid she hasn’t. What is it? Is the poor girl in some trouble?”

  “No, not exactly. We just…” O’Brien sighed and sipped at the whiskey again. “Was she renting the room on a daily basis? Did she just want it for Saturday?”

  “Nossir. Wanted it for a full week. Paid me in advance. Cash.”

  “Didn’t you think it a little odd…I mean…well, do you usually rent rooms to such young girls?”

  O’Loughlin raised his shaggy brows and peered at O’Brien. “Well, she wasn’t all that young, you understand.”

  “Sixteen is pretty young, Mr. O’Loughlin.”

  “Sixteen?” O’Loughlin burst out laughing. “Oh, now, the young lady was handing somebody a little blarney, lad. She was twenty-five if she was a day.”

  O’Brien looked into his whiskey glass. Then he looked up at the old man.

  “How old, sir?”

  “Twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe even a little older. But not sixteen. Nossir, not by a long shot.”

  “Eileen Glennon? We’re talking about the same girl?”

  “Eileen Glennon, that’s her name. Came here on Thursday, gave me a week’s rent in advance, said she’d come by for the key Saturday. Eileen Glennon.”

  “Could you…could you tell me what she looked like, Mr. O’Loughlin?”

  “I sure can. She was a tall girl. Very big. Maybe five-seven, five-eight. I remember having to look up at her while I was talking. And she had pitch-black hair, and big brown eyes, and—”

  “Claire,” O’Brien said aloud.

  “Huh?”

  “Sir, did she mention anything about another girl?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did she say she was going to bring another girl here?”

  “Nope. Wouldn’t matter to me, anyway. You rent a room, the room’s yours.”

  “Did you tell this to her?”

  “Well, I made it plain to her, I guess. She said she wanted a quiet room with a lot of sunshine. The way I figured it, the sunshine was optional. But when somebody comes in here asking for a quiet room, I understand they don’t want to be disturbed, and I let her know she wouldn’t be disturbed. Not by me, anyway.” The old man paused. “I’m talking to you man to-man, O’Brien.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I don’t run a cat house here, but I don’t bother my people either. Privacy’s a tough thing to find in this city. The way I figure it, every man’s entitled to a door he can close against the world.”

  “And you got the feeling Eileen Glennon wanted that door to close?”

  “Yes, lad, that’s the feeling I got.”

  “But she didn’t mention anyone else?”

  “Who else would she mention?”

  “Did she sign for the room?”

  “Not one of my rules. She paid a week’s rent in advance, and I gave her a receipt. That’s all she needed. Harry O’Loughlin’s an honest man who keeps a bargain.”

  “But she never came back?”

  “No.”

  “Now think hard, Mr. O’Loughlin. On Saturday, the day Eileen Glennon was supposed to have taken the room, did…did anyone come here asking for her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Think, please. Did a sixteen-year-old girl come here asking for her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you see a sixteen-year-old girl hanging around outside?”

  “Nope.”

  “As if she were waiting for someone?”

  “Nope.”

  O’Brien sighed.

  “I don’t get it,” O’Loughlin said.

  “I think you rented the room to a woman named Claire Townsend,” O’Brien said. “I don’t know why she used Eileen Glennon’s name, but I suspect she was renting the room for the young girl. Why, I don’t know.”

  “Well, if she was renting it for someone else…Let me get this straight. The girl who rented the room was named Claire Townsend?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “And you say she used this Eileen Glennon’s name and was actually renting the room for her?”

  “I think so, yes. It looks that way.”

  “Then why didn’t Eileen Glennon come here Saturday? I mean, if the room was for her…”

  “I think she did come here, Mr. O’Loughlin. She came here and waited for Claire to pick up the key and let her in. But Claire never showed up.”

  “Why not? If she went to all the trouble of renting the room—”

  “Because Claire Townsend was killed Friday night.”

  “Oh.” O’Loughlin picked up his glass and drained it. He poured himself another shot, moved the bottle toward O’Brien’s glass, and said, “Some more?”

  O’Brien covered the glass with his palm. “No. No, thanks.”

  “Something I don’t understand,” O’Loughlin said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why’d Claire Townsend use the other girl’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was she trying to hide something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I mean, was she in trouble with the police?”

  “No.”

  “Was she doing something unlawful?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And where’d the other girl disappear to? If she rented the room for her…?”

  “I don’t know,” O’Brien said. He paused and looked at his empty glass. “Maybe you’d better give me another shot,” he said.

  The Majesta patrolman had come on duty at 4:45 P.M., and it was now close to 6:00. It was Indian summer, true, but timetables had no respect for unseasonal temperature and dusk came just as if it were truly autumn. He was walking through a small park, cutting diagonally across it over a path that was part of his beat, when he saw the spot of yellow off under the trees. He peered into the fast-falling darkness. The yellow seemed to be the sleeve and skirt of a topcoat, partially hidden by a large boulder and the trunk of a tree. The patrolman climbed t
he grassy knoll and walked a little closer. Sure enough, that’s what it was. A woman’s yellow topcoat.

  He walked around the boulder to pick it up.

  The coat was thrown carelessly on the ground behind the boulder. A girl was lying on her back not three feet from the coat, staring up at the darkening sky. The girl’s eyes and mouth were open. She was wearing a gray skirt, and the skirt was drenched with blood. Dried blood had stained her exposed thighs and her legs. She was no more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

  The patrolman, who had seen death before, knew he was looking at a corpse.

  He had no way of knowing the corpse was named Eileen Glennon.

  A corpse has no rights.

  If you are a corpse, they can take your picture from a hundred unflattering angles as you stare up unseeingly at the popping flash guns, your skirt pulled back to reveal the dried and caked blood on the inside of your thighs and legs, the last flies of summer swarming about your open mouth. They can press their thumbs into your eyes at last to close your lids, and they can pull your skirt down over your knees and mark the position of your body on the shelf of flat rock where you lay motionless behind the trees. They can roll you onto a stretcher and carry you down to the waiting ambulance, the stretcher bouncing as they move along; they are not concerned for your comfort—you are beyond feeling. They can put the stretcher down on the floor of the ambulance with a sudden jolt and then cover you with a sheet—your waist, your young breasts, your throat, your face. You have no rights.

  If you are a corpse, they can take off your clothing and put it into a plastic bag, and tag it, and send it to the police laboratory. They can place your cold and naked body on a stainlesssteel table and dissect you in search of a cause of death. You have no rights. You are a corpse, a stiff, a container of clues perhaps, but no longer a person; you have forfeited your rights—forfeited them to death.

  If you are a junkie, you have more rights than a corpse—but not many more.

  You can still walk and breathe and sleep and laugh and cry— which is something. These things are life—they are not things to be discounted—and you can still do these things. But if you are a junkie you are involved in your own brand of living death, and you are not very much better off than a bona fide corpse. Your death is continuous and persistent. It starts every morning when you wake up and take that first shot, and it continues throughout the day-long hustle for heroin, punctured by the other death-giving shots, or through the night and into another morning, over and over again, you’re a record player spinning the same tired mournful dirge, and the needle is stuck—in your arm. You know you’re dead, and everybody else knows it, too.