Murder at the 42nd Street Library: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Book) (20 page)

“I heard something. I felt something was wrong.”

“Do you have extrasensory perception?”

“I’m a good listener.”

“Do you think Dominic was lurking in the alley?”

Raymond shrugged.

“It’s over now, right?”

He didn’t answer. She liked that he looked worried. He really did watch over her. The cab ride to her apartment around a couple of short blocks and up one long one took longer than it might have because of the traffic and one-way streets.

“I found some things in the Yates collection I want to show you,” she said, “photos of Nelson and his daughter when she was very young. I’m hoping I’ll find more.”

“Do you still think Emily Smith is Emily Yates?”

“I haven’t ruled it out,” she said with a sly smile.

After she opened the cab door, on impulse, before she got out, she leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. The kiss startled him. She couldn’t tell what his reaction meant, whether it was surprise, delight, or irritation. It was the first time she’d kissed him since the night her mother died, the night he stayed with her and comforted her, the night they’d never spoken of.

*   *   *

Mike Cosgrove thumbed through the James Donnelly murder book, reading the interviews the homicide team had conducted since the Donnelly investigation began. Somewhere, he’d find a piece of information—a missed observation, a glossed-over fact, an odd remembrance—about this cipher James Donnelly that would tell him why he got himself murdered. That was one of Ray’s ideas, and he liked it, not that he’d tell him. At some point in his life, Donnelly did someone an unforgiveable harm—cheated a cousin out of an inheritance, welshed on a bet, inadvertently or purposefully ruined a man’s life—hurt someone bad enough to earn the ultimate revenge. It might have happened recently. It might have happened a long time ago. Somewhere along the line he’d wronged someone. The same had to be true of Nelson Yates. Somehow—unless you accepted the improbable but not impossible idea that the murders were unrelated—they must have wronged the same person.

Donnelly wasn’t a gambler or an investor, so not likely money was his problem. His bad habit was young women—too young. That could attract a spurned lover, a jealous husband, an enraged father. There’d been a couple of college girls he’d led down the garden path. More interesting was a fling with a high school girl when Donnelly was a young professor—married to Kay Donnelly and a junior colleague of Nelson Yates. Kay Donnelly hadn’t mentioned it.

*   *   *

Adele had been walking by Johnny’s mother’s apartment every few days for a while now, and she wasn’t going to stop because some thug wanted her to, especially since Emily wanted to be friends. She’d walk over to Tenth Avenue on her way home, even though it was a long block past where she should turn, and back toward her apartment along 49th Street, lingering down the block and across the street from Emily’s apartment for a few minutes.

At the library, whenever she had a few moments, she continued her search for information about Emily Yates. She didn’t know what she hoped to find, as she didn’t know what she expected to find by walking past Emily Smith’s apartment. It wasn’t really to spy on her, or see who came and went from the apartment. In a way, walking past the apartment or stopping to linger helped her think about Emily. Perhaps she’d run into her as she left the apartment. They’d go for coffee. She’d ask her about herself, where she grew up and things like that, and check on whatever story she told her.

On this evening, as she sat on a wall across the street from Emily Smith’s apartment, she watched a cab pull up in front of the apartment building. She hesitated and then froze, as Harry Larkin got out and brushed himself off, looking up at Emily and Johnny’s building before heading toward the door. Stunned, she watched him, not sure what to do. For the first few minutes after he went into the building, she thought about leaving, pretending she didn’t see him, that this never happened.

There was any number of possibilities. He might coincidently know someone else in the building or he might know Emily Smith or … But she knew what it meant. Harry Larkin would have known Emily Yates, as he knew her father, from his time at Hudson Highlands University.

She sat on the wall for a long time. The sun sunk behind the buildings and the evening grew cooler. She shivered and waited. Finally, the door she was watching opened. Harry came out. Across the street from Emily’s apartment building was a Catholic school, next to the wall Adele sat on. He stood for a long moment looking at the school, as if it might help him decide something.

For a split second, when Adele approached him, his face tightened with anger, but it quickly softened with sadness. “Have you been following me?” He spoke so quietly she hardly heard him.

“Of course not.”

“Were you waiting for me?” Again he spoke softly.

“I saw you go in.”

“Do you know who lives here?”

“I think so. Did you go to see Emily?”

“Yes.”

“Is she Emily Yates?”

Harry hesitated. “Do you know her?” Before she could answer, he smiled, taking on a priestly manner that radiated kindness, reminding her of the smiling, bumbling, compassionate parish priest of her childhood. She felt a tremendous sadness, missing her mother. “Oh Adele—” He shook his head like he’d caught her at some mischief. “Is Ray with you?”

“No. I met Emily a few weeks ago. Actually, I met her son.…” She stammered her way through the story of her involvement with Emily and Johnny.

“How did you know she was Emily Yates?”

“I didn’t until you got here. I suspected she might be when I thought I saw her at Nelson Yates’s memorial service. When I saw you go into her building, it was too much of a coincidence for it to be anything else.”

“How strange.” He really did look like the kindly village priest, an incarnation of Raymond’s Father Brown. “On top of all she’s been through, I’ve led you to her hiding place.”

“Why is she hiding? Is she in trouble?”

Harry began walking. “Let’s find a place we can sit down.”

Adele walked rapidly beside him. “Is she afraid what happened to her father will happen to her?”

Harry kept walking.

“You have to tell me—”

“I don’t want Emily to look out the window and see us together.”

They found a café on Ninth Avenue and took a table near a large window. While Harry waited for their coffee drinks to be brewed, Adele stared out at the street and pondered how she would tell Harry what she knew about his departure from Hudson Highlands University.

When he returned to the table, she looked him in the eye. “I know what happened in the past … to you.”

He continued to look at her, his expression meek, as he bent to place the coffees on the table, before he sat down heavily across from her. “I suppose what you’ve discovered, what you’re having a difficult time telling me, is that I left the university under a dark cloud.”

“A child accused you—” She looked into a deep pool of sadness.

“If I tell you the accusation was a cry of pain from a wounded child because she couldn’t find the words to direct it to where the hurt and harm came from—”

“I see,” Adele said. “I’m so sorry.…”

Harry smiled, so that his face became cherubic, beatific. Sometimes, watching him at work, she’d thought he might actually be a saint, and now to hear him speak of child molesting.

“If I told you I was innocent, of course, you’d believe me. But I can’t prove it, so there will be doubt, doubt from everyone, even a glimmer of doubt in your mind.” He held up his hand to stop her protests.

“Was it Emily?”

“Does anyone else know about Emily? Does Ray know?”

“No one knows. I told Raymond I suspected she might be. He didn’t really believe me.”

Harry’s eyes bore into hers, his face reflecting such agony she expected blood to shoot out of his pores. “Could I ask that you not tell anyone what you found out?”

She thought about her answer for a moment, her chest bursting with the thought of not telling Raymond. Realizing this, she wondered if she was being selfish. Did it make any difference that she knew Emily Smith was Emily Yates? Would knowing this be important or was she just excited at the idea of telling Raymond she’d been right?

“Why Harry? You have to tell me why.”

He shook his head. “I know something from hearing confession I can’t divulge.”

Adele felt a shiver run through her. Harry’s expression was ghastly. “Does what you know have anything to do with her father’s murder? Is Emily in danger?”

“I need you to trust that I’ll do everything in my power to protect Emily.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “I respect that Raymond and you, too, want only what’s best and would feel terrible if your efforts brought suffering and disaster to someone who doesn’t deserve such a fate.”

She told him she needed to think. She’d give him a day or two while she thought about what he told her and what she should do about it. And she wouldn’t say anything to Raymond.

Chapter 17

When the doorbell rang from downstairs, Johnny jumped from the couch, grabbed his glove and his Yankee cap, and headed for the door. His mom cut him off before he reached it.

“Remember what I told you.”

“I do! I do!” He was jumping in place.

She put her cigarette in her mouth, reached out with both hands to straighten the collar on his shirt. “You need a jacket. It gets cool at night.”

It was thrown over the back of the living room chair. He retrieved it. “I gotta go. I gotta go! He’s waiting.”

“Remember. You don’t talk about the family—nothin’ about what happens at home … nothin’ about me. If he asks anything, clamp your mouth shut and keep it that way.”

Johnny ran down the stairs. The man standing at the bottom was smiling. Mr. Ambler was taking him to the ball game. He was so happy to see him. What he liked the most was how peaceful he was, how everything was safe and easy around him, so you didn’t have to watch out about anything.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Ambler hollered up the stairs.

“He has a key,” Emily hollered back.

They walked to Columbus Circle to get the train. It was cool, so his mom was right about the jacket. He put it on. Mr. Ambler wore a windbreaker and walked pretty fast. He didn’t have to run, but he had to pay attention, concentrate, to keep up.

“You look just like a boy should look when he’s on his way to a Yankee game,” Mr. Ambler said as they headed into the subway. A lot of the people on the train wore Yankee hats. Some wore jerseys with numbers on the back that he recognized, 2 for Derek Jeter, 13 for A-Rod, 20 for Jorge Posada. A couple of other kids in the subway car carried baseball gloves. The train felt good; a hum of excitement, everyone in a good mood, having fun.

When they came out of the subway, they were pushed along by the crowd that kept getting bigger and bigger because people were coming down the stairs from the el stop above the street, as well as up from the subway. He saw a ball field across from the el and for a moment thought it was the stadium. It was small and dingy with weak lights shining on the field. It didn’t look like it could even hold all the people from the subway. He didn’t say anything and was glad he didn’t because a couple of seconds later the real Yankee Stadium loomed in front of him. It was gigantic and round, a kind of beige color, taking up the entire block, with crowds swarming all around it.

They pushed along with the crowd. Mr. Ambler knew where to go, pushing him through a turnstile in front of them and handing the man tickets. They walked up a cement ramp that was kind of dark, next to walls that were kind of dingy. But all of a sudden they came out of the dinginess, and the diamond opened in front of them. His breath caught in his chest. The field was brighter than daylight, the green grass sparkling, the white of the pinstriped uniforms glowing. He’d never seen anywhere so bright. Nothing seemed real. He didn’t realize he stopped and was staring, blocking the path of the people behind, until Mr. Ambler nudged him forward.

Mr. Ambler told him it should be a good game. And he was right. First, the Red Sox scored a run in the first inning. Then, the Yankees came up and somebody hit a home run and right after that A-Rod hit a home run, so the Yanks were ahead.

Next time up, the Red Sox scored again, but the Yankees were still ahead. In the fourth inning, the Red Sox tied the game. Mr. Ambler had a scorecard and a pencil and marked things down. After the Red Sox tied the game, the Yankees scored four runs in the bottom of the inning. Everyone cheered, even Mr. Ambler. But, in the top of the next inning, the Red Sox scored so many runs he lost count, and everyone was mad and groaning and booing and the Red Sox were ahead again. Things looked bad. Mr. Ambler said the Yankees were a bunch of bums, particularly the pitcher who gave up all the runs. But the Yanks came back and scored four runs in the bottom of the fifth and they were ahead again. Everybody yelled and cheered, and Mr. Ambler threw his scorebook up in the air and over his shoulder.

On the way home, Mr. Ambler said, “You’ll certainly remember that game, won’t you?” And of course he’d remember. He was tired and his head spun when he tried to remember all the runs scoring. He’d eaten two hot dogs, peanuts, crackerjacks, and ice cream. Soon after they got on the subway and sat down, he felt like he was sinking. The next thing he knew, he was holding Mr. Ambler’s hand walking up the subway stairs into the lights of Columbus Circle, which used to seem really bright, yet after the stadium lights looked like a dark alley. He saw himself like a little kid holding his dad’s hand. He felt dumb, glad none of the kids from school could see him. But he didn’t let go.

*   *   *

Ambler decided to walk home after dropping Johnny off. His mother didn’t come to the door. Johnny said that was okay; she was probably asleep. What he meant was she was probably passed out. He waited until the boy signaled from the window before beginning the trek back to Murray Hill. He could have taken a cab but thought the walk might help him beat back some ghosts.

Being at the ball game with the kid, taking him home to his passed-out mother stirred up too many regrets, crystal-clear memories of his son, child of the streets, way too old for his years, as sweet as the boy was. It was uncanny that for a few moments at the game, he’d looked down at Johnny; his heart had swelled; tears pushed against the back of his eyes. He was watching Ron Guidry pitch and his son was sitting beside him.