Murder at the 42nd Street Library: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Book) (27 page)

“What are you going to do?” His face tightened with sudden rage. “What the fuck are you going to do? I’ll hurt you and him both if I want.” He rolled his shoulders. “You’re—” The sound of the downstairs door opening, followed by the sound of voices, interrupted him.

One of the voices belonged to Emily; it was high-pitched and agitated. Adele couldn’t make out what she was saying. The other voice, a man’s, was muffled, maybe more than one voice. Dominic cocked his head toward the sound.

Footsteps slapped against the steps, along with creaking, rattling, and jangling. Adele couldn’t take her eyes off Dominic, who looked trapped. He paid no attention to her, focused entirely on the sound coming up the stairs.

She took a deep breath as she saw something dark blue float in the space at the top of the stairs, first morphing into a face, and then into the form of a uniformed New York City police officer. Behind him, leaning back over her shoulder to complain at a second officer, Emily was in high dudgeon, demanding a search warrant and telling them they couldn’t come into her apartment.

“We’re not searching, ma’am. We don’t need a warrant. We’re not going into the apartment unless we see something’s wrong.”

Hearing this, Dominic started for the apartment door.

“Hold it, fella,” the officer said. “If you go in, I’m coming in after you.”

Emily, Dominic, and Adele stood together on the landing in front of Emily’s apartment door, with the two police officers seeming to surround them.

“What’s the problem here?” The older cop looked at Adele. She started to answer. So did Dominic and Emily.

“One at a time,” the cop said.

“Nothin’s wrong. Nobody has a problem,” said Dominic.

“Is that right?” The cop looked at Adele.

“Not exactly. If I could leave, that would be fine.”

Both cops stiffened.

“Leave.” Dominic seemed to growl rather than talk. “Who’s stoppin’ you?”

“You were—” The buzzer from the downstairs door interrupted her.

Johnny, still in the doorway, looked at his mom.

“Open the door,” one of the cops said.

Johnny pushed the buzzer. Everyone turned to see who would come up the stairs.

Adele saw him first. “Raymond?”

“Are you all right?”

“Who the hell is he?” the older cop asked Adele.

“My friend Raymond Ambler.”

After a few minutes, the police sorted things out and told Emily they wanted her to come with them to the precinct to answer some questions from the homicide detectives.

Ambler nodded toward Dominic. “I think Detective Ford might want to talk to him.”

The cop appraised Ambler. “How would you know?”

“I spoke to him—”

“I think we’ll do what we were asked to do.” He turned to Dominic. “Can I see some identification?”

Dominic showed him something, glaring at Ambler as he did.

“I don’t want to go to the precinct.” Emily folded her arms across her chest. “They want to ask me something, let them come here.” She spoke louder than necessary and her voice shook.

“Ma’am, you’re not under arrest. We’ll give you a ride if you want to talk to Detective Ford. If you don’t want to come with us, we won’t force you.”

Ambler tried again. “Would you please check with Ford? I’m sure he’d like to talk to Dominic and Emily.”

“Who the fuck asked you?” Dominic rolled his shoulders.

“The talkative cop turned to Adele and Ambler. “You two can leave.”

“I don’t think—” Ambler began.

The cop folded his arms, a copy of Emily’s stance.

As soon as he and Adele reached the bottom of the stairs, Ambler called Detective Ford on his cell phone. “Dominic is here. They’re letting him go. They won’t listen to me.”

“Good for them,” Ford said. “I’m in the neighborhood, maybe I’ll stop by and say hello if he’s still there.

*   *   *

“What are you doing?” Adele asked as Ambler ducked into a doorway across the street from Emily’s building.

“Making sure Dominic waits for Detective Ford.”

“That’s a stupid idea. He’s dangerous.”

“We don’t know where he lives. He might have given the cop a false address.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk to him.”

Adele squinted, lowering her eyebrows, as if she wasn’t seeing him quite right. “Somehow, I don’t see that working out.”

Ambler’s cell phone rang. It was Benny. Benny never called him. “Of all the times—” He flipped the cell phone open. “Benny? Sorry. This is a bad time. I’ll have to call you back.”

“No.” Benny’s voice was hushed. “You can’t. I’m at the runaway center. I’m not supposed to do this.”

The door to Emily’s building opened. Dominic! Ambler cupped his hand over the phone and whispered. “I can’t talk now. Call back and leave a message on my voice mail.”

*   *   *

“Wait here,” Ambler told Adele and headed after Dominic, who walked quickly toward the blur of lights and traffic sounds of Ninth Avenue.

“Say, Dominic,” he called. No cars moved on the street. The sidewalk was empty. The streetlights reflected off the windshields of the cars parked along the curbs on both sides of the street.

Dominic stopped and turned. He looked past Ambler at the police cruiser parked in front of Emily’s apartment. “You’re pretty brave when you got backup, librarian. One of these times, I’ll get you alone.” His eyes met Ambler’s, his expression eerily lifeless. “How about we take a walk together over toward the river? Nobody bothers us over there.”

“I want to talk to you about Emily.”

Behind Dominic, the Ninth Avenue traffic hummed, punctuated by blasting horns, lights flickering as headlights passed the intersection. The air around them was still. Dominic shifted his stance. “You’re gonna be sorry you ever laid eyes on her.”

“If you’re trying to protect her, you’re doing a lousy job.”

Something changed in Dominic’s stance, a flinch, a flicker in his stone-like glare. “You don’t know nothin’ about Emily.” He moved closer to Ambler, inches from him. He was taller, with the sloping shoulders of a weight lifter, his neck thick.

Ambler stood his ground, though he shifted his stance—legs shoulder width, most of his weight into his front leg, knees bent. “You do take care of Emily, don’t you?”

Dominic moved back a step. A deadly seriousness replaced the bluster. “What’s that mean?”

“How much do you know about her past?”

“More than you—” Another deadly pause. “Maybe not. I asked you what you think you know.”

“Did you know James Donnelly?”

The coldness of Dominic’s stare was unsettling, different from the earlier standoff when it was a man-to-man thing. Ambler felt he was looking into the eyes of an executioner. “Sometimes you know too much.”

“Whatever it is,” Ambler said. “You could leave Emily out of it.” As he spoke, he sensed, heard, rather than saw a car behind him. A nondescript gray Dodge pulled up alongside the parked cars in front of them.

Dominic turned when he heard the car. “Fuck,” he said, and turned to walk away.

Ford was out and had Dominic jacked up against a parked car in a flash. He patted him down and stood him up. Turning to Ambler, he said, “Take a hike.”

Ambler joined Adele next to the cruiser parked in front of Emily’s apartment. He watched another nondescript car pull up behind Ford’s and two men get out, young, husky guys, one white, one black, dressed like they might be longshoremen or truck drivers. Shortly after they arrived, the uniformed officers came out of the apartment and joined Ford and the other two men. They talked together in something resembling a football huddle for a minute until the uniformed cops walked back to their car. The talkative uniformed cop beckoned to Ambler.

He looked up to see the door to Emily’s building closing behind Adele and started to follow her, but the cop flagged down a cab that had emptied down the block. He held the back door open for Ambler in a way that brooked no resistance. Once in the cab, Ambler checked his voice mail, hoping to find something from Cosgrove. Instead, he found Benny’s message. After listening, he called Benny.

“She’s leaving.”

“Keep her there.”

“I can’t, Ray.”

“Can you find out where she’s going?”

“We try to find a friend or relative they’re comfortable with. She didn’t come up with anything.”

“You’re going to let her go out into the night, just like that?”

“I’m trying to talk her into letting us contact her parents.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“I’ll ask her.”

“Hello?”

“Denise. It’s Ray Ambler. Will you wait there for me?”

“Not if you’ll tell my father.”

Ambler hesitated. “I won’t.”

Chapter 23

Emily opened the door, a cigarette in her hand. Dragging on the cigarette, she met Adele’s gaze and quickly looked away. Scared and nervous, she seemed fragile.

“You poor kid,” Adele said.

“What do you want?” Her tone was gruff, but the expression in her eyes told a different story. She was close to tears.

“I want to make sure you and Johnny are okay.”

Emily stared into the empty space of the hallway, sneaking a peek at Adele. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. After what seemed a long time, she swung the door open and walked into the apartment. Adele followed and waited next to the couch while Emily went into the kitchen. She came back with a bottle of vodka, two glasses, and a carton of orange juice. She poured two drinks, mostly vodka.

Adele took a sip. The drink tasted awful but she took another swallow anyway.

“Johnny’s asleep finally. Why’d you come here when I wasn’t here? What were you looking for this time?”

Adele told her the truth. She’d read something in the papers she’d taken from the briefcase that Ambler thought might belong to James Donnelly.

“He thinks Dominic killed James. Does he think he killed my father, too? It’s a different briefcase. I told him.”

Adele hesitated. “I read something disturbing—”

Emily sat still, staring beyond Adele. “I don’t know what you read. I told your boyfriend. I was helping James. We were writing something together. I changed my mind. I didn’t want to do it anymore. He gave me back the book. James and I were okay. Dominic didn’t kill him.”

“It’s true? What I read?”

Emily looked at the wall beyond Adele. “Our super-close, father-daughter relationship?”

“No wonder you ran away.”

Emily continued to stare at nothing. “I’m sorry you read it. What happened is no one’s business. That’s why I didn’t want to do the book. It’s why— You’re not helping me. I don’t need pity.”

“I didn’t read it on purpose.” Adele took another swallow of her drink, this time for fortification. “Emily, all of this is awful and terribly unfair. But you need to think of Johnny. You need to take him and get away from Dominic—no matter what he’s done for you, no matter what you think you owe him.”

Emily finished her drink and poured another one. “Everything I did, I couldn’t help doing. It was decided long ago, everything I’d do. You don’t understand. I was evil. I was born evil—possessed. I didn’t hate my father. I wanted to be with him—me and him.”

Adele reached for Emily. “You’re not evil. You loved your father. You felt what little girls feel—”

Adele heard the door to the apartment open. So intent was she on getting through to Emily she didn’t think about what it meant until she saw Dominic. The police hadn’t taken him in.

*   *   *

Mike Cosgrove watched his hands shake as he sat in his car. It was guilt. Shame. Rage. He was a fucking fool, like one of those slimy, behind-the-back street punks, stealing from people worse off than they were, ratting on a partner the first time push came to shove. He was wrong, and being wrong had no courage. He loved Anne. She loved him. Why couldn’t they stand up and say so? Take their lumps. He’d made a mess of his life. Now, Denise would follow in his footsteps. He started the car.

On the way back to Manhattan, he called the Missing Persons Squad and asked for George Ehnes. He’d worked a couple of cases with Ehnes, sad ones, when homicide compared notes with the runaway team. “My daughter’s missing … ran away,” he said after the briefest of preliminaries, the most difficult admission he’d ever made.

He gave Ehnes the particulars, said he’d drop off a photo later, and headed down the BQE toward the Williamsburg Bridge and the Lower East Side. The LES had become trendy, beyond trendy now, the shooting galleries and flophouses of years past overrun by gentrifiers, except for the building here and there where rent stabilization protected a few longtime tenants.

Danny O’Neil was probably a good kid, not some degenerate who picked her up at the Port Authority and put her on the street. Now, he was kidding himself, whistling past the graveyard. He drove up one teeming, narrow street and down the next—from Delancey to Houston, from Bowery to the projects. At one point, he parked on Ludlow Street and walked the narrow sidewalk of Rivington Street, sticking his head in the doors of bars, walking the aisles of small, stuffed-to-the-gills grocery stores.

He knew what he looked like to the few people he happened to ask. He’d seen people like himself too many times, the haggard expression, the begging eyes, the fading hope that a missing husband or son or wife or daughter wasn’t dead, that there was some mistake. Now, it was his turn, he who all his child’s life knew the dangers beyond the walls of home, saw each day how evil lurked everywhere. He who knew better than anyone, in the end, couldn’t protect her. When his phone rang this time, he saw that it was Anne, and answered.

“I found Danny O’Neil’s address.” She gave it to him, speaking in a hurried whisper.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll be all right.”

That wasn’t the same. “Do you need to get out? I can find somewhere for you to go.”

“One crisis at a time, Mike. I can’t leave Kate and her brother, and he wouldn’t let them go. He’d come after us. It’d be war.”

“We can’t keep on doing—”

“Find your daughter, Mike. Gotta go.”

The address was on Rivington Street, a few blocks back the way he’d come. He walked quickly, working out what he’d do if Denise was there. And if she wasn’t, he’d have to judge real quick whether the guy was lying about knowing where she was.