The Disappearance of Penny Page 16

  Damn, I realized that I had forgotten to ask Diver about Penny’s condition. Had she been beaten before being shot?

  Then again, Diver might not have been the one to ask, anyway. Jackson, of the Staten Island Homicide Squad was.

  I called his office, and he was in.

  “Yes, Mr. Po. What can I do for you?” he asked after we’d been connected.

  “Detective Jackson, has Diver, at Manhattan South, mentioned that I’ve been cooperating with him, and vice versa, in his investigation into the Mapes killing?”

  “He’s mentioned you, yes,” Jackson answered.

  “Then you might have no objection to giving me some information concerning Penny Hopkins’ death?”

  “Actually, Mr. Po, after your performance with Benjamin Hopkins, I can’t say I’m too impressed with you,” he informed me.

  “I can understand that,” I told him. “I was kind of surprised myself. I’m usually not given to that kind of a display, but I have to admit an intense dislike of the man. He had no love for his daughter at all — ”

  “I’ve made my own evaluation of him, Po. We both agree, he’s a prick. Okay, go ahead, what do you need?”

  “I want to know the condition of her body,” I told him.

  He hesitated and I heard the shuffling of papers.

  “I don’t see why not,” he conceded. “There was a certain degree of decomposition. It was pretty hot out in that meadow — ”

  “All I really need, Detective Jackson — ”

  “Since we’re cooperating, Mr. Po, I guess you might as well call me George.”

  “Okay, George. What I really need to know is, had she been beaten before she was killed?” Then I thought of something else. “Also, could the wound have been self-inflicted?”

  “Wait a second,” he told me, and I heard more shuffling as he scanned the autopsy report. “No, there’s no mention of either in the report. We thought of the suicide possibility, but it was no go.”

  “Has the cause of death definitely been called the gunshot wound?”

  “Yes, that’s definite. What’s this about a beating?”

  “Just a hunch I had. I found out that a man she knew likes to beat up his women. I thought perhaps, had she been beaten — ”

  “What’s this man’s name?”

  “It really doesn’t matter now, does it, George? She wasn’t beaten, so the hunch didn’t pay off. Thanks a lot, goodbye.”

  “Po, wait a sec — ” he began, but I hung up very quickly.

  I left my apartment before he could call me back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I was hungry, so I went to Debby’s for dinner.

  As I expected she asked me what happened to my head, showing genuine concern. I gave her the same story about having a fall and then asked, “Too late for dinner?”

  “Not for you,” she said, smiling. “Sit tight and I’ll get you something.”

  I watched her walk to the kitchen, clad in a one-piece, powder blue jump suit. She was the one person I’d met in the past few days — and her cousin, Rosellen — who had nothing to do with horses, or murder. She probably could have made me forget Brandy, Lisa and Penny if I let her.

  I should have asked her for a beer while I was waiting.

  “It’s heating up,” she said, coming out of the kitchen. “How about a beer while you wait?”

  “What are you, a mind reader?” I accepted the cold beer gratefully.

  She leaned her elbows on the bar and said, “I know a thirsty man when I see one.”

  I smiled and took a healthy swig from the beer.

  “And a troubled one, too,” she added. “How are you, Henry?”

  “Not too good, at this point, Deb. I’m working on something that’s not going very well, I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.”

  To her great credit, she didn’t ask questions.

  “Let me get your dinner.”

  It was a stew, which she told me she made herself because Rosellen had been unable to come to work that day. It was delicious.

  I used an entire loaf of Italian bread to clean the bowl when I was done, and was having my third beer when she asked, “How was it?”

  “It was fabulous. You’re an excellent cook, Debby, a great hostess and a very beautiful girl.”

  “Ooh, I could get used to talk like that,” she told me, but she looked troubled. “Is there anything I can do to help, Hank?”

  I shook my head slowly. “Thanks for asking, Debby, but I don’t think so. I think I’ll have another beer and go sit in a corner and think, if that’s all right with you.”

  She drew me another beer and said, “Go take the house corner.”

  I took the beer and thanked her.

  Now I had to try and make some sense out of what had been happening.

  What had started out as a simple missing persons’ case, which I didn’t really feel equipped to handle in the first place, had escalated into a double murder, which really put me in over my head.

  But were the two murders connected?

  The Mapes murder really wasn’t too hard to figure. His cryptic remark that night on the phone, that he was supposed to lose the Sunday Stakes race, indicated that he was killed because he wasn’t playing ball with a fixer.

  Was that fixer Willy Donero?

  Was he giving orders from where he was being held, as the state’s star witness in their investigation of thoroughbred racing?

  By importing out-of-town talent he’d made it impossible for the police to trace the two dead men back to him.

  Who did he have at the track relaying his orders?

  Gordie?

  Lassiter?

  Someone else?

  Penny’s case was harder to figure. The cops thought Melendez was ripe for it, but what about some others?

  Paul Lassiter?

  Lisa Lassiter?

  What about Mickey Richards, who obviously had strong feelings for the boss’ daughter?

  Yeah, and what about every other man who thought he was in love with her?

  And how about the people who disliked her?

  Like Brandy?

  Now there was a disturbing thought. I signaled Debby for my fifth — or was it my sixth — beer. She brought it and set it down quietly enough so as not to interrupt the flow of my deductive juices.

  Brandy a suspect?

  Nonsense.

  But from nonsense often comes sense.

  Does that make sense?

  Lassiter wasn’t the only person I had told about Aiello being in police custody, I suddenly realized with a start.

  Even before Lassiter, I had mentioned it to Brandy.

  But that was the Mapes case.

  Wasn’t I just thinking about the Penny Hopkins case?

  I was starting to get the two mixed up.

  Or were they really one?

  Brandy. Brandy knew that Diver had Aiello.

  Why would Brandy take steps to spring Aiello?

  Shit, I was drunk.

  I’d have to wait for Shukey to give me some kind of word on Lassiter before I even thought about confronting Brandy with any kind of accusation.

  Hell, all my careful mental exercises had succeeded in depressing me even more than I was before, when I walked in.

  Now, Po, let’s see you get up and walk out.

  I stood up, all right.

  Walking out was another matter entirely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I dreamed that a gorgeous blond angel abducted me and whisked me away to her heavenly abode.

  I woke up in Debby’s apartment over the bar, on her couch.

  When I tried to sit up somebody dropped a lead weight on the top of my head. Balancing it carefully, so it wouldn’t do too much damage, I padded barefoot — and bare-assed, for that matter — to the bathroom and, lead weight and all, got under a cold shower. The water rusted the metal weight until it crumbled and fell apart and was washed down the drain. Then and only then did I leave
the shower.

  Rosellen was leaning against the wall by the door of the bathroom, holding a large bath towel, looking me over from dripping head to soggy toes.

  “Sorry,” I told her, “I don’t really look my best.”

  She did, though. Her best feature, those big, clear, sparkling blue eyes were crinkled in amusement as she boldly inspected every inch of my nude bod.

  “You look fine to me, Henry,” she told me, “mighty fine.”

  Her boldness, and situation in general, had me drifting to half mast already, and if I didn’t get that towel something was going to happen between us.

  “Towel, please?”

  “Want me to dry your back,” she asked, “or any other part of your anatomy?” She was staring pointedly at one particular part.

  In the past few days I’d met more lovely women than I ever imagined I could, but so many of them were giving me fits that I really didn’t want to get involved with another at the moment.

  I think that’s why I was keeping Debby at a distance.

  I know that’s why I reached out and took the towel from Rosellen’s hand and wrapped it around my waist.

  “Oh,” she pouted, “what a shame.”

  “Breakfast ready?”

  “Demanding, aren’t you?” she asked. “Okay, get dressed and by the time you come down it will be ready, master.”

  She turned and sauntered out of the bathroom and down to the kitchen.

  I removed the towel from, my waist and dried myself off — carefully.

  I found my clothes on a chair in the living room and they had been washed and dried. I put them on and, except for needing a shave — and a new bandage on my head — I felt vaguely human.

  I checked my head in the mirror and it didn’t look too bad, not if I combed my hair forward. I found a comb, used it and replaced it exactly where I’d found it.

  I paid Debby the supreme compliment of not bothering to check my wallet, found the stairway leading downstairs and went to the kitchen.

  When I got there, and my nostrils were assailed by the odors of cooking, I almost ran back up the stairs. Bravely, I thought, I pushed on and was soon in complete control of my stomach.

  Rosellen smiled at me, as if we both shared a great secret, and greeted me with a hearty, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Everything come out all right?” she asked, smiling openly.

  “You know, if I was in better shape, you would have been in a lot of trouble.”

  “Promises, promises. All talk and no action, I know your type. Want to eat?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’m alive,” I told her. “I guess I tied on a pretty good one last night, huh? I don’t usually succumb like that to half a dozen beers.”

  “Half a dozen?” she asked. “According to Debby, she’s going to have to restock early this month, thanks to you,” she said laughing.

  I grinned sheepishly. “I guess I kind of lost count.”

  “Good morning, all. “Debby came into the kitchen with a tray of empty plates. “You look a lot better than you did last night.”

  “You should have seen what I saw a little while ago,” Rosellen told her, grinning at me again in that “we’ve got a secret” way.

  “I feel better,” I told Debby, ignoring Rosellen as best I could. “Thanks for the loan of your couch.”

  “Anytime,” she told me. “Breakfast?”

  Why did people keep mentioning that?

  “I think I’ll take a chance on coffee, but that’s as brave as I want to get this morning.”

  “You go outside,” Debby told me. “I’ll bring it out.”

  I went out and sat at a table, trying to remember everything that had gone through my head the night before, while I was drinking up Debby’s stock.

  After a while, I decided to stop pushing it. It would all come back soon enough, probably as soon as I stepped outside in the cool September breeze, laced liberally with good old New York grunge.

  I was so successful with the first cup of coffee that I decided to try a second, but that was still as brave as I got. After the second cup I decided it was time to get started, as it was already ten o’clock.

  “Debby, thanks for baby-sitting,” I said, carrying my cup to the bar.

  “You ever need a baby-sitter again, give me a call. I work cheap,” she told me.

  “That reminds me,” I said, taking out my wallet.

  “Henry — ” she started, but I interrupted.

  “Debby, you’re in business to make money,” I told her, taking out a twenty — leaving a very lonely five-dollar bill inside.

  I gave her the twenty and said thanks again.

  I tapped her nose with my finger, called out good-bye to Rosellen, and left.

  I had the feeling that this would be a regular hangout for me from now on.

  I wonder what those two would be like, I was thinking as I walked down the street, together …

  With an effort I got my mind back to business.

  I went back to my apartment to refill my wallet, then got my car from the garage. The walk from Debby’s did me a world of good. I felt so rejuvenated that I overtipped the guy who brought my car down.

  When I got behind the wheel and began driving crosstown, I wondered where the hell I was going. I had to give Shukey time to work on Lassiter, and I didn’t think I should get too near Hopkins again, not yet, anyway. As much as I would have liked to see Lisa again, I really had no more questions for her.

  I decided to check Melendez’s place much more thoroughly than I had last time. Then, I had only been interested in whether or not he was there.

  Louie Melendez lived in Chelsea, in a battered walk-up that needed fumigating and paint. Walking up to the fourth floor I passed three different puddles of fresh urine.

  Ambiance.

  I knocked on his door first, but when I didn’t get an answer I slipped the lock with a credit card and went in.

  It was a two-roomer with bare wooden floors, sparse furnishings, peeling wallpaper. There were some framed photographs hanging on the walls. I went over to check them out and sure enough, I found that they all contained Penny Hopkins, either alone or with a horse, or a group of jockeys. It was like a shrine in her honor.

  Melendez really had it bad for her.

  In the living room was an old, second-hand couch, and an overstuffed chair with some of the stuffing sticking out. No tables of any kind. The second room was the bedroom, with a four-poster bed — unmade — one wooden chair and a hot plate. Melendez had obviously rented the place furnished. The photos, the hot plate and the clothing in the dresser drawers were probably all he had contributed to the contents.

  When I opened the top drawer of the dresser I found some curious contradictions to his obvious — love, I guess you’d have to call it — for Penny Hopkins.

  First, black-and-white photos of nude men, most of them with erections, some shot from behind. Some of them were alone, some with other males as partners. I didn’t recognize any of the men, for which I was thankful.

  Next I found a couple of sex manuals, dealing with hetero, not homosexual relationships. I leafed through them and found some passages marked off, as if of special interest to him. He had marked off sections dealing with oral sex, anal sex, female erogenous zones, specifically the breasts and vaginal area.

  Melendez was very obviously a confused young man.

  I hadn’t much doubt now that he was a homosexual, but meeting Penny had obviously caused him to make attempts to learn something about sex between men and women. He had hopes of ending up in bed with pretty Penny, and he wanted to be able to know how to please her when they got there.

  I was standing there, black and whites in one hand, sex manuals in the other, when I heard a noise from the front room.

  The front door opened, then closed.

  Someone was in the apartment with me.

  I dropped the st
uff I was holding in my hands back into the drawer and closed it quietly. Being as silent as I possible could, I crossed the room and flattened myself against the wall, right beside the doorway.

  The floorboards in the living room creaked as whoever it was walked across the room toward the room I was in.

  Whoever he was, I hoped he wasn’t bigger than me.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I looked around for something to use as a weapon, but there was nothing within reach, so I just held my breath and waited.

  The guy came through the door and headed straight for the dresser. He was slim, very tall, about six-one, and his movements were effeminate. I cleared my throat and he turned like a scorched rabbit, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, top teeth working on his bottom lip.

  His eyes were brown, with long, curling lashes. His nose was slim, his mouth full-lipped, almost sensuous. I recognized him as one of the guys in the black and whites.

  He didn’t say a word, just ran for the door, trying to get away. I stepped in front of him and he pulled up short.

  “Take it easy,” I told him.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Just someone who wants to help Louie Melendez. Did he send you here?”

  He didn’t answer. He backed away from me until he bumped into the dresser, then stopped with a startled jump.

  “Look, pal, I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find out who killed Penny Hopkins, and I’ve been looking for Louie for days. He must have heard that I was looking for him. My name is Henry Po. Did he send you?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  “I want to help,” I told him. “Take whatever he sent you here to get, I won’t try to stop you. All I want you to do is bring Louis a message, okay?”

  Again he hesitated, his eyes flicking around the room, as if seeking a way out. Finally, his eyes settled on me and said, “O-Okay. Louis has mentioned you, Mr. Po, but he has been afraid to call you.” His accent was Spanish, each word pronounced very carefully, as if he were trying to suppress the accent. His voice had a rather high-pitched, nasal quality to it and grated on my nerves.