The Scent of Murder (12 page)

I
spent the rest of the day and the next one getting the store back in shape. Then I went after Toon Town. But he'd disappeared. So had Amy. They weren't at the warehouse—in fact, no one was. Maybe Justin had carried Melanie and her friend off to Chicago after all. I visited the house I'd followed Toon Town to a couple of times. No one was there, either. I peeked in the mailbox. Except for a circular from Pizza Hut, it was empty.

I knocked on the neighbors' doors hoping to get a lead. All of them said the same thing: people came and went at a variety of hours. Some of them had blue hair, some had green, some looked normal. After awhile, they'd stopped paying attention. I called Toon Town's mother. She hadn't heard from him. I called the store where he worked on the off chance he'd dropped by. He hadn't. I called Amy's family. She hadn't touched base with any of them. It looked as if I'd hit a dead end. Then around six-thirty Manuel strolled in and put the ball back in play.

“I heard something you're gonna be interested in,” he told me.

I put my pen down. I'd been taking advantage of the dinner slump to decide which cat toys I wanted to order. “Yeah, what's that?”

“You know John John?”

“The kid that was busted for stealing three cars and shooting at cans with a Glock in Barry Park?”

“That's him. Well I met him downtown while I was waiting for the bus, and I did what you said.”

“You went to school?”

Manuel rolled his eyes. “Funny man. Really funny. No. I asked him about Amy.”

“He's seen her?” I could hear the excitement in my voice.

“She was dancing at a topless joint called Good Girls over on the Northside a couple of days ago.” Manuel tugged his pants up. “You're gonna give me some money for this, right?”

“Twenty bucks.”

He put on his poor-me face. “How about a little more?”

“I don't think so.”

“Come on Robin, I need it.”

I didn't ask what he needed the money for, because Manuel wouldn't tell me anyway. I sighed. “You can earn another ten if you bring out the dog food bags from the back.”

Manuel looked at the clock. “I would, but I got someone waiting outside for me. How about you front me the money and I work for you tomorrow.”

“Sorry.” I shook my head. I'd learned that arrangements like that didn't work out.

Manuel frowned and tugged his pants up. “Then at least give me five for the work I did helping you put the store back together.”

“All right.” It seemed only fair.

He grinned and slipped the twenty-five dollars I handed him into his pocket and headed for the door. I watched through the window as he jumped into a grey Plymouth Sundance that was parked across the street. The car roared away from the curb, and I went back to what I was doing, wishing I hadn't given Manuel the money. Whatever he and his friends were going to get up to probably wasn't going to be good.

I locked up at nine and dropped Zsa Zsa off at the house. Manuel hadn't come home yet, so I wrote him a note and took off for Good Girls. The wind smelled of snow. Driving through town, I thought about how much better I would like fall if it came before spring. Oh well. Maybe I should move down to Atlanta like everyone else and have done with it.

Once I reached North Salina, I turned down the radio, put a stick of gum in my mouth, and started looking for the bar. It wasn't hard to find. There were five topless places in a three block area, Good Girls being the fifth. Or the first, if you came at it from the opposite direction. It was certainly the smallest and seediest. It didn't advertise Monday Night Football on a giant TV screen and free late-night pizza, or bill itself as a gentleman's club, or brag about its VIP lounge, concert lighting, and onstage bachelor parties which earned Good Girls a certain amount of points, as far as I was concerned. At least it wasn't pretending to be something it wasn't.

I blew a bubble, popped it, and pulled over to the curb. When I'd lived in New York, I'd known a girl who'd danced in a place like this in Queens. She'd liked the money and the attention. Especially the money. “I make more in one night here, then I would in two weeks if I worked as a secretary,” she'd told me. Finally, when she'd saved enough to go to college, she quit. Of course tuition then had been a hell of a lot cheaper. We'd celebrated by burning her pasties and G-string.

Last I heard, she'd gotten an assistantship and was working on her Ph.D. in clinical psych. I was wondering what had happened to her, as I opened the door and went inside. Looking around, I decided there was something to be said for modernizing, after all. The place was small and cramped. The walls were the color of putty just before it needs to be replaced. The space smelled of old beer, unwashed bodies, and stale tobacco. There was a bar on one end and a strip on the other where the girls danced, though none of them were dancing now, even though the music was blaring.

It was definitely a low-rent operation, the kind of place where no one would look too closely at anyone's I.D., including the dancers'. Which was what Amy needed. Although, now that I thought about it, I couldn't see even this place hiring someone with blue hair and a nose stud. Down in the City yes. Up here in Syracuse, no way. I decided to ask some questions, anyway. It couldn't hurt, and I was already here.

I was heading for the bar when I was intercepted by a man who was so fat he'd have to buy two seats for himself on a plane if he wanted to fly. “There's a ten dollar cover charge and a two drink minimum,” he informed me in a gravelly voice. Even though it was cold in here, his forehead was beaded with sweat.

“I don't want to come in. I just want to talk to the manager,” I told him.

“That's me.” He folded his arms across his chest and regarded me with basset hound eyes.

“It's about Amy Richmond.”

“Don't know her,” he promptly replied.

“Maybe she uses another name.” I described her.

“Still don't know her.” I tried reading his face but it was like trying to read Play-Doh. I continued, anyway. “A friend of mine said he saw her here a couple of days ago.”

“He must have made a mistake. Maybe he meant someplace else.”

“It's possible,” I conceded. Then I asked him if I could talk to the performers, anyway.

He pursed his lips and flicked a sausage-like finger in the direction of the stage and told me it was out of the question. “My money, my time,” was how he put it. “Now if you don't mind, I have work to do. Are you staying or going?”

“Going.”

I thought he muttered “good” under his breath, but I couldn't be sure. Then he turned and waddled away. The two men at the bar, who had been watching our conversation, continued watching me with unblinking eyes. I felt as if I was the pre-entertainment entertainment. I gave them a little more by describing Amy to them and asking if they had seen her. They both said no and turned back to their drinks. Maybe they preferred being observers to being participants.

But I wasn't ready to go home yet. I walked around to the side of the building, found the back entrance, and pulled on the door handle. It was locked. I didn't want to knock in case the manager opened it. It looked as if I were going to have to wait till the “performers” came out. I went back to the cab and pulled it up until it was blocking the alley. Then I waited. Half an hour later the back door swung open and a woman came out.

I got out to greet her. She jumped when she saw me and clutched her bag more tightly. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“I'm looking for Amy Richmond. I was hoping you could help.”

“Never heard of her.” She took another step forward. I took a step with her. “Look,” she said to me, “if you don't mind. I got to go home and relieve the sitter.” Under the streetlights she looked all skin and bones. The skin on her face was pitted with acne scars. She had a bump in her nose where it had been broken and badly set. She looked about as sexy as a tablecloth hanging on a clothesline. I couldn't imagine anyone stuffing dollar bills in her G-string.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.” Right. I had her pegged for thirty-five. At least. “Why?”

“Just curious. Amy's fifteen.”

She raised her eyebrows. They were penciled in and gave her face a hard cast. “What's that got to do with me?”

“Don't you think she needs to go home, too?”

“How would I know? I told you. My babysitter's waiting. Go ask one of the other girls. Maybe they know something.”

“Listen, I know she was here. I know she danced. All I want to do is talk to her. It's very important.”

“You her mother?”

“No.”

“Her aunt?”

“No.

“Then what?” She moved her arm slightly. Her jacket fell open and I saw the pin. It was round and made of gold wire that had been wound into a circle. A red stone sat in the center. It reminded me of one of the sketches I'd seen in the assignment book I'd found in Amy's room. The woman followed my gaze.

I pointed to the pin. “She made that, didn't she?”

The woman took a step back. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I've been in her room. I've seen her work. That's hers. Where is she?”

The woman tried to look angry and came off looking frightened. “I don't know. I already said that.”

I leaned forward a little. “I know what you said and now I want you to listen to what I'm going to say. The police have an APB out on Amy. They want to question her about her father's death. If you're hiding her, and she did kill her father, you could be charged as an acessory after the fact.”

The woman flinched. “I don't know nothing about that.”

“It was in the papers. Her father's name is Dennis Richmond. Listen, I'm not going to hurt her. All I want to do is talk to her.” I raised a hand. “I swear.”

The woman started fiddling with the clasp of her pocketbook. “She didn't say nothing about no killing,” she said, sullenly. “She just told me there was this big family fight and she ran out.”

“What else did she say?”

“She told me she needed to make some money. Sometimes the prize at amateur night gets as big as two hundred dollars.”

“How'd she do?”

“Not so good.” Her voice took on a professional tone. She could have been an English professor critiquing a student's paper. “Her body's okay, but I told her she'd have to lose the hair. I offered to lend her one of my wigs, but she didn't want to listen.”

“How'd you get the pin?”

“I felt bad for her. I've been out on the street too. I offered her ten bucks for it.”

“Where was she going?”

The woman tugged on a strand of hair. “She didn't say. Last time I saw her, she was walking down North Salina.”

“And you're positive you don't know where she was headed?”

“She said something about picking up her stuff.”

“Did she say from where?”

“No.”

“Was she alone?”

“I didn't see no one with her.” I wondered where Toon Town was, as the woman glanced at her watch. “Shit,” she cried. “You made me miss my bus. Now what am I going to do?”

I drove her home to Solvay. Then I went to see if Amy was at the warehouse. Maybe I'd get lucky. Maybe I'd find her. And maybe she'd know where Toon Town was.

I
t had begun to snow, as I drove across town. The first of the season. Glittering flakes danced under the streetlights, melting away when they hit the ground. In a way, they reminded me of Amy. I could see her—I had seen her—but when I tried to grasp her, she disappeared into the air. I felt as if I were chasing a chimera. Oh, well. It was a feeling I was familiar with by now. In fact, it was a feeling I seemed to specialize in.

I turned on the radio, started on a piece of bubble gum, and told myself that this time it would be different. This time Amy and I would finally talk. For the rest of the ride, I hummed along with the oldies on Station 92.5 FM and tried to decide whether or not I was going to go to my twenty-fifth high school reunion in the spring. I mean, what would I say to everyone? I didn't have a husband. I didn't have children. I wasn't working on the paper anymore. I was running a business that was marginal at best. There were some people, though, I would like to see.

I still hadn't decided what I was going to do when I reached the warehouse. One of the boards that had been nailed over the front windows had been yanked off and was lying on the ground. As I turned into the alley, I noticed more bricks had fallen out of the wall's corner, giving it a snaggletoothed appearance. If things kept on going at this rate, the warehouse wouldn't even be habitable for people like Amy in another year or so. The strips of plastic that caught in the trees at the edge of the lot fluttered a greeting, as I parked the cab. I took the can of mace I often carry out of the glove compartment and got out. I wasn't taking any chances with Toon Town this time. On the way to the door, I accidentally kicked a beer can. The clattering reverberated through the night, underscoring its silence.

I was on the third step when I noticed the piece of plywood that covered the hole in the door was slightly off to one side. Someone hadn't refastened it properly. My pulse went up a notch. Then I told myself I was just being silly. Amy, or whoever else was inside, probably hadn't bothered replacing the wooden rectangle. Just because Manuel had taken such pains with the door didn't mean that everyone else did.

I ducked down and edged my way through. Everything seemed the same, except it was colder. But that was to be expected. Brick and cement hold the temperature. The colder it was outside, the colder it was going to get inside. My breath formed clouds of vapor, as I walked down the hall. The overhead light was swinging slightly—probably from a draft—but it gave everything a sinister cast. When I got to the end of the corridor, it angled off to the left. I followed it, trying to walk as quietly as I could. If Toon Town or Amy were in the building, I didn't want them to know I was coming.

After about four feet, I began smelling the faint odor of garbage. It got stronger as I continued on. Discarded beer cans, half eaten apples, banana peels, and cereal boxes dotted the floor, and I had to be careful where I walked. I trailed my hand along the wall. The concrete chilled my fingers. It was covered with graffiti. Fat initals, thin initials. Pictures of smiley faces. Pictures of smiley faces frowning. Pictures of smiley faces with bandanas.

If this wall were found three thousand years from now, would the archeologists give those faces significance? Would they posit a religion based on them? I was wondering if that was what the cave paintings in Spain and France were really about, when the hallway ended and I found myself standing on the edge of a large, open space. Most of it was dark, but in one corner near to where I was standing, someone had hung another light from an overhead pipe. It acted as a spotlight, illuminating everything within its circle.

My eyes were drawn to the two pup tents huddled close to each other. Then I noticed the tarps and the three sleeping bags. The charred remains of a campfire lay a little ways away. Two rats scampered away from the plate of spaghetti that sat nearby. The Boy Scouts had never envisioned camping like this, I thought, as I spotted a bundle of clothes and took a step forward. Maybe that was Amy's stuff. Then I spotted a white oval and realized my mistake. For a few seconds, I thought I was looking at a large rag doll. But I wasn't.

I was looking at a person.

I was afraid it was Amy.

I moved closer.

It wasn't. It was Melanie, the girl I'd seen running from Toon Town. I felt relieved and then I felt awful that I felt that way.

A dark pool of liquid fanned out from beneath her chest.

Her mouth gaped open.

Her eyes stared out into the blackness.

She wasn't going to be running away from home any more.

Her parents would always know where to find her.

They could visit her grave once a month.

What a waste.

I wanted to cry, and then I wanted to punch something, only there was nothing to punch. I was taking a step towards her when I caught a whiff of something. For a few seconds, I couldn't identify the odor—then I could.

It was gas. The place smelled faintly of gas.

A pipe must be leaking somewhere.

Instinctively, I whirled around and started to run. All I could think of was the beam crashing down on my legs when my store had burned down and the time I'd spent recovering in the hospital. Not again, I thought. Not this time. I was at the entrance to the first hallway when I heard a sharp crack. A gunshot. Someone was shooting into the warehouse. I ran faster. I was gulping air. George was right, I thought: I am really out of shape. I should go to the gym.

I was three-quarters of the way down the first hallway when I felt the shock waves under my feet. I put on a burst of speed, turned the corner, sprinted down the last corridor, and threw myself through the door. I heard a whoosh as I reached the other side. I looked up. Tongues of fire were floating in the sky. I stumbled towards the cab, got in, and drove it across the grassy median to the next warehouse parking lot. The car bumped up and down, as I negotiated the ruts. Fingers of tree limbs tapped on the cab's side windows, as I reached in the glove compartment for my cell phone. I was dialing 911 as I pulled onto the other lot.

It took a little over three minutes for everyone to start arriving. You mention the words “gas leak” and people hustle. When I heard the wail of the fire trucks, I walked out front to meet them. By the time I got there, the street was cordoned off. It was full of Ni Mo emergency trucks, pumpers, and police cars. Men, hoses, and lights all seemed to meld into one blur. The only people not there were the media, and they would arrive soon enough.

I was thinking that this was definitely a five o'clock news kind of event, when a man in a yellow jacket came over and asked if I was all right.

Amazingly, I realized that I was.

My clothes were torn and dirty, but, outside of that, I was okay.

He left and was replaced by a policeman who asked for my statement. I told him what I knew, which wasn't much.

“You're sure she was dead when you saw her?” he asked, when I got to the part about seeing Melanie. “You're positive?”

I thought about the way her face had looked and nodded. “Absolutely.”

“And you don't know this girl's last name or where she lived?”

“She had a friend, Cindy. But I don't know her last name either. ”

The cop tapped his pad with his pen. “Can you think of anyone else who might be acquainted with her?”

I gave him Justin's name, but I didn't tell him about Manuel. The less that kid had to do with the authorities the better, I decided. Then I told him about Toon Town's fight with Melanie. This had gone beyond protecting Amy. Melanie's death had changed the equation.

The cop shook his head as he wrote. He looked as if he'd been on the job long enough to have seen more than he should have or wanted to. “Was anyone else in the building?”

“Not that I know of.”

He lifted his eyes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I didn't see anyone else.”

“Okay.” He flipped to a new page. “You said you heard a gunshot before the explosion?”

“Yes.” I watched the red lights dancing off his face.

“How can you be sure?”

“I've heard them before.”

I thought he'd ask me where I had, but he didn't. Instead, he closed his notebook. “Wait here,” he ordered. “I'll be right back.”

I watched him thread his way through the trucks and the hoses. For a second, he was there, and then he disappeared behind a ladder truck. I knew I should wait. I knew he'd be pissed. But I didn't. I turned around and started towards my cab. I'd told him everything I knew. He had my name and address. If he wanted me bad enough, he'd come and get me. As it was, I'd have to go downtown tomorrow and talk to people, anyway. A lot of people. But before that happened I needed to try and sort things out. And call my lawyer. Have some Scotch. And smoke a cigarette. Especially, smoke a cigarette. I glanced around. No one was paying any attention to me. All attention was focused on the warehouse.

I tried not to think about Melanie, as I trotted towards my cab. Poor kid. Poor parents. Poor everyone. Did stuff like this happen when I was growing up? Maybe it had and I didn't know about it, but I didn't think so. I turned the key and the engine kicked over. It seemed very loud. I expected someone to come running over. No one did, though. All their attention was riveted on the blaze. A few seconds later, I was out on the street and driving away from the fire. Half a mile down the road, I saw a mini-mart and stopped to buy a pack of Camels. Gum just wasn't going to cut it anymore. The sales clerk stared at me, while I counted out the change. I guess I looked worse than I thought, or maybe it was because my hands had started shaking and I couldn't get them to stop and it took me forever to get my money out of my wallet. Delayed reaction, the part of my mind that had walled itself off noted with a detached, clinical interest. I lit up in the car and went home.

Zsa Zsa was wagging her tail when I opened the door. I knelt down and she licked my chin and the corners of my mouth. I hugged her. She licked my fingers. That's when I noticed my hand was smeared with blood. I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. I had a gash on my chin. It didn't look bad—nothing that required stitches—but I had a thin line of blood running down my neck. My face was smudged with soot. So was my jacket. No wonder the sales clerk had stared at me.

“Jesus, what did you get into?” Manuel asked.

I jumped. For some reason I hadn't expected him to be home.

“There was an explosion at the warehouse.”

“You're kidding.”

“Do I look as if I'm kidding?”

He swallowed. “No.” He hiked his pants up. “What happened?”

“I'm not sure. There was a gas leak. I think someone shot into the warehouse and set it off.”

“On purpose?”

“I don't think they were hunting rabbits.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“That girl Melanie was killed.” I rubbed my head. My temples were beginning to throb. My legs ached. I felt as if I couldn't walk another step. I had to sit down before I fell. “Actually the blast didn't kill her. She was dead before.” I stopped because I realized I was babbling.

“Who was killed?” A voice enquired from the kitchen.

I cocked my head. “Who's in there?”

Manuel took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “You're not gonna believe this. It's Amy.”