As a Favor (20 page)

He shrugged, a small movement. It tired him. “Yes, I was there.”

I motioned the clerk for more coffee. “Bring a couple.” To Delehanty, I said, “You were there when she was killed. What happened?”

The coffee cup shook in his hand. “What? Killed? Is she dead?”

“Look, Delehanty, you were there, one of the last persons there. There’s blood all over the room. You left, got drunk, and stayed drunk until we brought you in here. Are you trying to tell me nothing happened at Anne Spaulding’s?”

The clerk put down the fresh coffees. Delehanty gulped one. He gasped at the heat, but the shock seemed to wake him. He looked at me. “Let me tell you what happened. I do remember. I have a very good memory. Surprising for one of my habits, isn’t it? But I haven’t always been a drunk. I used to hold quite a respectable job.”

“What about Monday night?”

He winced. “Of course. Well, as background, let me tell you that Anne Spaulding enjoyed cheating people. She was completely dishonest She—” He stopped as he noticed my expression. I didn’t have time for another account of Anne Spaulding’s character.

Shifting in his chair, Delehanty said, “Last week, that bitch cut off Tad Yeville.”

“Your friend who overdosed?”

“Yeah. When I heard, I was furious. I’m still furious. Look at my hands, they’re shaking. I started to drink, then I thought, no, that bitch won’t get away with it. I knew where her place was. I’d seen her when I went to Sri Fallon’s. I went there. I told her about Tad. Do you think she cared, even then? Do you?” He glared at me.

“Did she?”

“Not shit. But she was scared. I told her this was the end. I was going to make her pay. I was going to the papers, the police, Legal Aid, and whoever else would listen. I was going to tell them about her shaking down clients on the Avenue. That would be it. Jail.”

“And?”

“She laughed. Real cool. She said no one would believe me. Maybe she was right, I don’t know, but it made me so mad that I picked up a lamp and came at her.”

I held my breath.

“I raised the lamp. It hit the door. The edges were jagged. I smashed it at her—her arms and her shoulders. She was scared. She caught my arm. God, she was strong. She pulled the lamp out of my hand. She came at me with it.” He flung open his shirt. “Look.”

There were scabs on his shoulders, upper chest and arms. He could have bled a lot from those.

“Then what happened?”

“I started for her, but she hit me again. God, she was strong. She got cut up too, like I said, on her upper arms and her shoulders. Do you want to see the bruises on my legs?”

I shook my head, recalling the blood-spotted linen dress. The blood was on the sleeves and the bodice. Delehanty’s explanation fit.

“Well, the whole thing really put me off balance. She slammed the bedroom door and I just stood there, pressing on the wounds to stop the bleeding. I must have stood there for ten minutes. I was going to pound on the bedroom door again, but somehow it didn’t seem important. I just picked up my windbreaker and walked out.”

“Anne was still alive?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“You walked out?”

“I stood on the porch, letting the cool air bring me around. I decided to go back. I started to bang on the door and changed my mind. Then I went upstairs to Sri Fallon’s.”

“Didn’t he notice the blood?”

Delehanty shook his head. “No. My hands were okay. My windbreaker covered the cuts. Anyway, I didn’t stay. I was too hopped up. I couldn’t get into it. I left.”

“After how long?”

“Ten minutes, maybe.”

I wrote quickly, letting Delehanty start on another cup of coffee. I could imagine Anne Spaulding’s panic. Once an investigation started it wouldn’t be long before it moved from her shaking down street artists to exploring whatever she was up to with those hotel cases. Delehanty had been threatening to expose more than he realized.

It all fit in. Anne was scared but alive when he left her with the black woman. Pencil poised, I asked, “The black woman, Delehanty, who was she?”

Delehanty looked up, his bushy gray eyebrows trying to arch in surprise. “What black woman?”

“The one at Anne Spaulding’s.”

He put down the coffee cup. “Come on, Officer, I was straight with you. Don’t be like that.”

“Delehanty, who was she?”

“Officer, there was no one there but me and Spaulding. We were screaming and fighting. You think someone else was there just watching?”

“I didn’t say just watching.”

He stared directly at me and spoke slowly. “There was no one there but me and Spaulding. No one, black or white.”

“Look, Delehanty,” I said, straining to keep a semblance of calm, “we’ve got a lot against you—resisting arrest, drunk and disorderly, inciting a mob—don’t press your luck.”

“There was no one there. What do I have to tell you?”

“A witness saw a black woman.”

He drew in his breath, lifted the empty cup and put it down again. “I wish there had been a black woman there, then you’d be coming down on her instead of me. I hate Spaulding. If she’s dead, I won’t be going to her funeral. But I am civilized. I don’t condone murder, and I damn well don’t put myself between the murderer and the police. So believe me, if I knew of anyone, I’d be jumping up to tell you.”

I’ll get some more coffee.” I wanted the time to think. Delehanty seemed straight. Had the black woman been hiding in the house? Had he seen her but forgotten? Or had she indeed not been there at all? I hurried with the coffee. If I took time to sift the information through, Delehanty would go back to sleep.

Putting the cups before him, I said, “To save us both time, I’m going to tell you that I know your hotel is used as a mail drop. I know people hang around the lobby on the first of the month waiting for checks to be delivered. One of them was a black woman.”

Delehanty thought a minute, then nodded.

“What did she look like?”

He shrugged. “She was a black woman with an Afro.”

“Tall, short, light, or dark?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Come on.”

“No, honestly. I remember the Afro. It was big. I guess she couldn’t have been too big, because the size of the Afro really stood out.”

“What about her color?”

He appeared to be trying to remember. He shook his head. “I only recall seeing her from the back.”

“Was she Ermentine Brown?”

Delehanty shrugged. “I know Ermentine, but I wouldn’t recognize her from the back.”

“What about Yvonne McIvor?”

“Who?”

“Yvonne McIvor.”

“Don’t know her.”

“She lived in the hotel.”

“Wouldn’t be her, then. There’s no reason to hang around the lobby if you live there. The walls are so thin you can hear everything from your room. And when the mailman gets there on the first there’s plenty to hear.”

“Well, then, who was she?”

Delehanty slammed down his hand, spilling the remaining coffee. “I told you, I don’t know. It could have been anyone.”

But it couldn’t have been
anyone.

If Alec Effield had been in the bank, as Mona told me, then the accomplice was an unknown black woman. If I could prove Alec had not been in the bank, if Alec were not the safe-deposit box Johnson, then the accomplice was Mona.

And that, Sri Fallon would remember.

E
VERYTHING LOOKED THE SAME
as it had the first day I’d come to Sri Fallon’s building. Curtains were drawn in both apartments—Anne’s just as I had left them.

A low moan snaked down from the upstairs flat. I tried the door, was not surprised to find it open, and made my way up the dark purple stairway into the incense-heavy room.

Fallon sat at the far end, back to me, facing a small altar. Between us ten devotees sat cross-legged, eyes closed. All chanted softly, in fear, I supposed, of the neighbors.

Stepping around the devotees, I made my way to Fallon, tapped his shoulder and when his eyes remained closed, hissed, “I have to talk to you, now.”

His eyes opened slowly, his mouth pulled down in irritation before he controlled his face and the calm expression returned. Nodding, he bowed to the altar and motioned me toward the back, into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry to disturb you.…”

He nodded, cutting me off.

“Do you remember the woman you saw in the welfare office the other day?”

He nodded again.

“She was in the bank—”

Another nod.

“Does she have an account there?”

He shook his head.

“A safe-deposit box?”

“No.”

I could barely hear his whisper. “Would it be easier to talk outside?” I asked.

He opened the door and led me out onto a wooden landing from which stairs led down to the ground. For a group that chanted as loud as this one, they took great precautions to protect themselves from disturbance.

I pulled out a picture of Alec Effield I had gotten from the beat officer. “Have you seen this man at the bank?”

He stared at it. “Yes.”

“Does
he
have an account?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Safe-deposit box?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Sri Fallon closed his eyes.

I waited then asked, “Was it Effield?”

“No, no. That doesn’t sound right.”

“Johnson?”

“Perhaps. It doesn’t ring a bell, but a common name like that wouldn’t.”

“Was the woman in the welfare office with him?”

He thought a moment, then said, “No.”

“Was there a woman with him at all?”

“No.”

“Thanks.”

I made my way back through the chanters. It was just six
A.M.
as I stepped outside. The chanting was now audible on the street, and I found to my surprise it was not so irritating as I had at first thought. Of course, I was awake, and it was just a matter of time till I brought in a murderer.

I drove quickly. The streets were still empty. I knew I should feel tired, but I didn’t. A day ago I was tired. Now I was exhilarated.

Double-parking in front of the station I ran in.

Mona Liebowitz was sitting downstairs under the eye of one of the rookies. Her feet were drawn up under her, a tired and very angry expression marked her face. When she saw me, her frown deepened. “I’ve been here half the night—”

“I had to check your story, about Effield in the bank. It checks. You’ll be able to go home soon.”

“Does that mean you know who killed Alec?”

“I just need to be sure of one thing. You can tell me.”

Mona sat up, feet on the floor. “Sure.”

Once again, the case hinged on those dummy folders. I thought of them as I first had seen them in Anne’s office—the manila folders had held four or five legal-size forms, no small memos with address changes, no notes, no NCR copies. “Mona,” I said, “what do you put on receipts when you give them to clients?”

“What receipts?”

“The ones you give clients for the verifications you take from them. What do you give a client when you take her rent verification?”

Mona leaned forward. “I never give receipts. They’re just more work.”

“What did Anne do?”

“Anne? Well, she was a different story. Anne was nothing if not careful. She’d take an NCR pad—they’re in all the booths—people are always walking off with them. Anne would write something simple, like such-and-such was received on such-and-such a date, and sign it.”

“And the copy?”

“In the case folder.”

“It was always in the case folder?”

“Anne always covered herself.” Mona pressed her lips together. “She always watched out for herself. She was not a trusting soul.”

“Do you have a key to the office?”

“Sure. We all do.”

“I need it.”

I went straight to Effield’s desk and opened the McIvor folder. The copy of the NCR note was on the right side. Taking it out I held it and the original Yvonne McIvor had given me up to the light. It was the copy, all right. No forgery, this.

I also knew the receipt had not been in the case folder the last time I looked through it. It had been put there after Effield had shown the folder to me at four-thirty yesterday afternoon.

Leaning against the desk, I pictured Yvonne as she had scurried around searching for the NCR note.

I realized how wrong I had been about the case. From the first, I had been wrong.

I
CALLED THE DISPATCHER
for a back-up, not sure I would need one.

The shops below the apartment were dark; they wouldn’t be open for hours. The stairway to the door seemed more tunnel-like than ever and I had to bang four times before I got even a groggy answer.

“Open up. It’s the police.”

“What?”

Inside the apartment I could hear feet scurrying, the thwack of things being bumped into. It was a good five minutes before the door opened, revealing Yvonne McIvor.

“It’s the middle of the night. What do you want?”

“First, I want to come in.”

She stepped back automatically and I pushed in before she had time to think.

“You’re under arrest for embezzlement and for the murder of Alec Effield.”

Her mouth dropped open. Her head moved back and forth, trying to shake loose the sleepy hangover from the night. She was deciding her next move.

“Listen, lady,” she said, forcing her face into a bewildered expression, “you’ve made a mistake. I’m just livin’ here on the county, tryin’ to get by.”

“It’s too late for that. It was a good act, a very good act, but you blew it with that receipt.”

She edged away from me, but I kept between her and the door.

“Why did you kill Effield? Was I getting too close? Did you realize it was only a matter of time till I got proof of his involvement?”

She moved closer to the door, but it led only to the bedroom and bathroom.

“He would have talked, wouldn’t he? He would have turned you in, after you’d arranged such a foolproof escape.”

She was in front of the bedroom door, her hand on the frame.

“With Effield dead, all the money is yours, or it would have been if you could have waited till Monday and gotten to the safe-deposit box. Isn’t that right, isn’t—”