The Prodigal Son (29 page)

Davina was pallid, distressed; Uda simply stood, listened.

“You called Uda by my maiden name,” Davina said.

“She is your sister, we know that,” said Abe.

“I get baby,” Uda said, accent at its worst. “Vina, put on coat and boots.”

“You will plant evidence!” Davina cried. “No one is here to watch you, you will plant evidence!”

“No, ma’am, we won’t do that,” Abe said, and to Donny, “Go with Miss Savovich, please.”

It took half an hour to get the women out of the house, but finally it was done. All four of them had seen the baby, and made their own conclusions. A calm child, as happy with Uda as he was with Davina; both women doted on him. Far handsomer than Jim Hunter had been as a baby, they were sure, therefore not very like him except for the eyes.

“We search Uda’s premises first,” Carmine said. “If we find anything there, we’ll decide what else to do.”

The house had owned a roomy attic that had been converted to a proper apartment for Uda. Its windows were dormered and contained cushioned seats, the carpet throughout was finest wool, and the furniture expensive. Uda liked less adventurous color schemes than her showy sister: green seemed to be her favorite hue, and was present everywhere, including a green-tiled bathroom that held a large shower stall as well as a full-sized tub. She had a living room that looked across the roof of Dr. Markoff’s residence toward the basaltic bluff of North Rock — a real picture in the fall, thought Abe, as it was a forest view. A kitchenette was clearly never used save to make coffee in the Turkish manner — half an inch of sludge in the bottom of a tiny cup.

The most interesting room was Uda’s workplace. One wall held books in German, French and Italian as well as in English. Uda was highly literate. The titles varied enormously, but among them were volumes on poison, British murder trials, psychology, brainwashing, genetics, twins. Uda had a sewing table with a professional sewing machine let into it; the surface was carefully arranged with piles of fabrics and partially finished dresses, a number of stunning hats, even silk
underwear upon which Uda was embroidering tiny rosebuds. Instead of a work basket Uda preferred a tradesman’s tool box that opened out in a series of stepped shelves, some divided up, some intact. On another table were inks, drawing pens, various art papers, gouache paints, brushes, sketching pads and an IBM golfball typewriter.

“A woman of many talents,” Tony said.

“No, I think Davina works here as well,” said Abe.

“Where do you want me, Abe? Writing down the titles of her books?” Tony asked.

“Good idea. Title, author, and language,” said Abe. “I might do the sewing table, I think. That leaves the art to you, Donny. We’re looking for one of those home-made injection devices, syringes, hypodermics, and glass ampoules. All in disguise of some sort, okay?”

They had worked together for over a year now, and knew Uda had no secret compartments: Abe’s alarm bells weren’t ringing, so Carmine had gone down a floor to search.

Neat and orderly to the point of obsession, Abe was thinking as he lifted each item on a stack, shook it out, examined it, then folded it again. Sloppy searching wasn’t tolerated; if the subject of the search could see at a glance what had been messed with, police advantages were lost. If things looked undisturbed, the subject had to guess.

She had a compartment in her tool box for the more esoteric of sewing’s paraphernalia: devices for unpicking stitches, threading elastic through a fabric tube, other devices. But no home-made injection gizmo or anything else of interest.

“For once it looks as if we’ll have egg on our faces,” Abe said as he stared at the art table. “She’s a tidy worker, which makes our job easier. Tubes of paint all lined up in rows and graduated according to color — she must get through a lot, each color has at least six tubes. Yeah, obsessive.”

“What’s phthalocyanine green?” Donny asked.

“A peacocky green,” Abe said. “Rich.”

“Weird name. Could be a poison.”

Abe picked up the first tube in the row of six tubes of phthalocyanine green; it had been squeezed from its bottom and the end folded over. “How many artists ever bother to do that?” he asked in wonder. “Usually they just grab the tube and squeeze, so what’s at the bottom never comes out — too squashed.” He picked up the next tube and went down the row, a frown gathering, then he went back to the first full tube and weighed it in his hand experimentally. Each full tube was weighed like so, after which Abe put the fourth, fifth and sixth tubes aside. “I don’t think these contain paint,” he said.

Tony went to the sewing table and came back with two pairs of scissors, one stout if small, the other very small and fine, with pointed tips.

“The tubes are lead,” Abe said, opening and closing the blades of the stouter pair. “These will cut the crimped bottom off, whereas I think Uda uncrimped the bottom so as not to shorten the tube — painstaking!” Working carefully, Abe cut off the crimped end of the tube over a drawing block to catch any leftover paint that might emerge along with whatever else was inside. But none came out. “Uda will just have pushed
whatever’s up there in through the open bottom, but for us to get it out the same way would take ages.” He picked up the fine scissors. “I’ll just slice up the side of the tube all the way to its top and then lay its interior bare like a butcher a carcass.” He inserted the thin, sharp under blade of his tiny scissors into the severed base and cut the lead up one side all the way to its threaded neck, snipping through the enveloping paper label as well. That done, he took one leaf of the cut in his left hand, the other leaf in his right hand, and peeled the cladding back to reveal a glass ampoule; a clear, colorless fluid slopped inside it.

“Bingo!” from Donny. He had recorded every step of the process with his camera.

“Do we open the other two?”

Tony asked picking up scissors.

“Go to it, Tony, said Abe, smiling in quiet vindication.”

“Why is it liquid?” Donny asked, continuing to photograph. “I thought the stuff was a powder.”

“So did I,” said Abe. “If this is tetrodotoxin, then someone put it into solution before it went into this ampoule. The answer might be in the other paint tubes, which is why we open them. Each weighs differently.”

The fifth tube contained another glass ampoule, but broken into two halves, and empty; the sixth contained a tube of thick cardboard, inside which was a rolled-up piece of paper.

The piece of paper was a letter on cheap stationery typed on an old manual machine with a faded fabric ribbon.

It said:

“A little gift from a well-wisher. Break the neck of the glass and pour the liquid into a drink. No taste, water will do. Certain death for two people.”

“No date,” said Donny, rolling the letter up again, his hands gloved. “I wonder when Uda got it?”

“Before John Hall’s death, I’m guessing,” said Abe. “It’s been hidden at leisure, not in a panicked hurry.”

“Who has an old manual typewriter?” Tony asked.

“No one we know of, and we’ll never find it,” Abe answered positively. “It’s sitting somewhere belonging to someone entirely unconnected to the case.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m going to find Carmine.”

Carmine returned with Abe to inspect the find. “Well, it’s hard evidence,” he said, “and you could make a case involving the death of Emily Tunbull. Do you want to try?”

“If the full ampoule contains tetrodotoxin and the empty one used to contain it, I think the D.A. will want to try Uda for Emily’s murder. You know Horrie better than I do, Carmine, but that’s how it strikes me.”

“You’re right, Horrie will prosecute for Emily Tunbull, not John Hall. If the ampoule contains an oral dose, and I’m betting it does, then Emily’s the right charge.” Carmine grimaced. “The only trouble is that the defendant should be Davina, not Uda.”

“Right on!” Abe gave a wry laugh. “That means we cops will be working to undermine Horrie’s chances of success. We can’t see the wrong woman convicted.”

“What I don’t get,” said Donny, “is why Uda ever kept the evidence. That’s why I don’t think it was Davina — she’s too smart to hide evidence in her own home, even if she were fool enough to have kept it. The Imaginexa premises would have been safer. I mean, why this elaborate business with paint tubes? A clear, colorless solution could have been hidden in plain view.”

“That implies it could have been safely removed from the ampoule,” said Carmine, “and I don’t think either woman had the confidence to do that. It’s not their poison. Some vegetable alkaloid would have seen them comfortable. This stuff? No.”

“Solution does indicate that this stuff doesn’t go off after it’s dissolved,” Abe said. “Even so, our mastermind didn’t trust the women to do it, he sent them solution. I don’t think he had a time frame in mind, he was just hedging his bets against the moment when pressure on the Savovich sisters built up to murder as a desirable end result.”

“I agree,” Carmine said.

Abe sighed. “I’m arresting Uda for the murder of Emily. Do we oppose bail?”

“What do you think, Abe?”

“The opposite. Ask for bail, and hint that we’re not worried about other murders in the Tunbull household. Bail should be set at an affordable sum.”

“Then we arrest and arraign her tomorrow morning.”

THURSDAY, JANUARY 16, 1969

T
he Tunbulls were still at breakfast when Abe Goldberg arrived, followed by a squad car with a woman cop in its back. Protesting her innocence in shrill broken English that worsened the more agitated she became, Uda Savovich was put into the squad car and driven off, handcuffed and alone.

“I suggest you find a lawyer capable of arguing for bail when Miss Savovich is arraigned later today. As you can testify, she was cautioned in the proper manner.”

“You’re very helpful, Lieutenant,” Max said, skin ashen.

“Not at all, sir. I simply understand that news like this is a shock and you may not think of what has to be done.” Abe gave Max a businesslike nod and went to his car, drove off.

“Savovich?” Max asked the stunned and stricken Davina. “He called her Savovich.”

“She is my twin sister,” Davina said, regained the use of her legs and marched to the nursery. What would she do without Uda? Was there more formula mixed and refrigerated?

She was greeted by a hungry, cranky Alexis, his routines disrupted, and already missing Uda. Her witch’s eyes blazed at Max, who instinctively backed away. For long moments she forgot him, even managed to shut out the noises coming from her baby, all her being concentrated on this disaster. Oh, Uda, Uda, fool that you are! I told you to get rid of all of it, but obviously you didn’t. Those clever cops have found it among your things … What do I do, what do I do?

The years rolled back, they were a pair of starving kids again, fleeing to some kinder place where the rule of men was less bestial if still a reality … Always looking out for Uda, always thinking of what she would do, how she would go about attaining her objective, which was to be safe, warm, lapped in luxury yet permitted to carve a career. Without Uda she was infinitely diminished, without Uda she was half a person. Now here was Uda threatened with prison, and that could not be let come to pass. Chez Derzinsky, as much devil as twisted angel: torturing Uda to make her obey his commands, yet lending her, Davina, the money to found Imaginexa. Putting her under the control of Emily — had Chez told Emily his secrets about her and Uda for the sake of ongoing control, or a simple malice? Not that it mattered. Emily knew too much, yet luckily was the type who had to drop broad hints, not concrete events. Well, Em had been afraid for Chez as well as intent upon making mischief for her, Davina. Always mysterious, until after that last veiled threat when she came in her blue dress and her blue shoes implying knowledge of — what? It was only when she, Davina, visited
her in her studio shed that Em dribbled her poison about Chez and the New York City years. Bolstered by her pussycats and her horses’ heads, the new Michelangelo …

Max was staring at her, frightened and confused; the baby was beginning to howl. And there she was, her veneer in patchy streaks with the old Davina thrusting through its weaknesses. Her temper snapped.

“Don’t just stand there!” she snarled at Max. “Go look in the refrigerator for Alexis’s formula. If there’s any there, put a bottle in a jug of hot water and bring it here.
Move, Max!
”

He stumbled away to do as commanded, came back in five minutes with the jug. Snatching at it, Davina found a towel, took the bottle out, dried it, tested it — still too cold.

“Uda was born wrong,” she said, Alexis whinging on her knee. “In a family as old as ours, it happens. It’s why we bred some Chinese and a lot of Negro blood into our veins — a different breeding stock. I take care of Uda, who repays me with hard work. I ask nothing else of her. Many years ago, when we first came to the United States, we agreed that in front of other people I would treat Uda like — well, dirt. It saved the kind of long explanations I am forced to give you now, yet they change nothing.”

“Vina, I’m your
husband
! Couldn’t you have confided in me?”

“To what purpose?” The bottle was warm enough; Davina shoved its teat into Alexis’s mouth and watched him suck with greedy pleasure. “Why do I have no milk?” she asked the air. “It hurts that he must get his food from a tub, and full of chemicals.”

“You should treat your sister better than a slave, Davina,” Max persisted. “Don’t you understand how cold-hearted you seem?”

“The whole business is a crock of shit, Max. Leave Uda to me, she’s perfectly happy with our arrangement. Uda and I are twins, we have a kind of love beyond ordinary sisters. Think of us as one person facing opposite ways. Vina light, Uda dark.” She laughed in genuine amusement. “Sometimes it’s Vina dark, and Uda light. You never can tell with twins.”

An awful realization had been growing steadily in Max’s mind; he stared at his wife in sudden horror. “
You
killed Em!”