Creepers Page 8

  But at night, alone in his bed, Miguel prayed to his God to show him the right way. To the teeming public of Spanish Harlem he was untouchable. But naked at night, he was no more than a child-willing to learn, often scared, lonely sometimes to the point of pain. But he knew he was lucky. He’d met Willie, and every day he was taking more steps away from the pointless life of the street that surrounded him. And he was toying with the idea of returning to school or maybe getting his high-school-equivalency diploma. Serving as a Dog of Hell had rounded the sharp corners of his life. And for that Miguel was grateful.

  “I tole you, man, that’s all I know,” Miguel repeated slowly with an edge of bitter sarcasm. He’d already been with this damned cop for fifteen minutes and there was no sign he was ready to let up; fucking Corelli wanted to hear the same story over and over again. “Slade kept looking out the window sayin’ he’d seen somethin’, somethin’ gray like a bag of rags. I thought maybe it was a workman or-”

  “Just gray? Nothing more?” Corelli interrupted.

  “Gray. Like rags. Creeping along the tracks, that’s all.”

  “Are you sure he said creeping?” Miguel nodded. No one who belonged down in the subway crept anywhere; it was too dangerous. The first rule of working in the subway was to make yourself as visible as possible.

  “Look, Corelli, I’ve got somewhere special to go. How about giving me a break?” Miguel was getting really pissed now. He had a hot afternoon date with Marylu, and shit, here it was three o’clock and he was still sitting in the waiting room of Grand Central Station. It just didn’t figure, Willie playing cozy with a cop. The whole deal was beginning to smell like Hoyte was selling out to the municipal authorities. Next thing, he’d take an official job and dump Dogs of Hell like so much shit in a sack. Well, that was no skin off Miguel’s nose. He had to do what was right for Miguel Esperanza. And right now that meant getting into Marylu’s pants.

  “Can I go now, or what?” he asked sullenly. “Yeah, sure,” Corelli reluctantly agreed. The kid wasn’t much help anyway. “But if you come up with anything else, let Willie know. Hell pass the message on to me.”

  “Willie’s getting real good at passing messages,” Miguel said bitterly.

  “Don’t underestimate him, Miguel. He’s a good man.” Ten minutes later Corelli still sat in the waiting room, idly watching a few stray passengers find their way to early commuter trains. He hadn’t moved because he needed to think. Before talking to Miguel, Corelli had pictured the kind of misfit who’d take pleasure in a mutilation such as Slade’s. New York was full of sick people, both men and women. People poured from state institutions into the uncaring city, where they found neither the medical attention promised them nor the homes even stray animals usually managed. It wouldn’t have surprised Frank if any of these poor creatures took out their frustration in crimes like Slade’s murder.

  But Corelli was forced to discard the notion. Those people acted irrationally; Slade’s death was calculated. The method was precise-except for the damage to his lower torso. That was insane, all right, but to Corelli right then it smacked more of impatience than insanity. Impatience? He turned the word over in his mind. Why had he chosen that word? The surgical wounds on Slade’s upper body had taken time; the others were done quickly, without thought. Maybe someone was coming and time was running out. Maybe a train was bearing down on the killers. That would explain the impatience. They’d have to be in a hurry to remove the flesh before taking it away and… What?

  Crazy people, like those who roamed the city streets screaming at imagined devils during the day, and who slept in doorways at night, weren’t crafty, they were crazy. Since talking to Miguel, Corelli had begun to suspect that his adversary was something else, something low and hulking, creeping furtively along the tracks, close to the wall, lying low to avoid detection. It might be mistaken for a bag of rags or a swirling mass of newspapers. That was the idea-to be seen as one thing but to be another. But what? There was a cunning intelligence at work, a mind crafty enough to play on the frailties of human observation. And that meant that whoever was killing people down in the subways was far more dangerous than the average loony tune, for he killed intentionally, for a reason. And Corelli was beginning to think he’d stumbled onto that reason…and he prayed to God he was wrong.

  He left the waiting room, heading toward the Lexington Avenue exit. Louise Hill, too, had mentioned seeing something gray she thought was newspapers. It was just possible that under a little friendly pressure she might remember something more about her daughter’s disappearance. After all, so far she was the only witness who’d actually been in the vicinity during the crime. Corelli checked his watch: three-fifteen. He quickly crossed the station’s cavernous lobby to a double bank of telephones.

  As the dime clanged down into the phone’s belly and Frank began to dial, he smiled. So, calling Louise Hill was police business, huh? Just who the hell did he think he was kidding?

  Had it not been for Corelli’s call, Louise would have gone to bed with a book and then quickly fallen asleep. She found lately she was sleeping a lot, catching little unexpected naps in the afternoon, dozing off after breakfast, or, worst of all, during work in her studio. She understood that the mind’s defenses are powerful, self-activated shields, and as the days since Lisa’s “accident” dragged on, Louise began to understand how terribly affected she was by her loss. It seemed there wasn’t a waking moment when she was not thinking about Lisa-the way she looked, laughed, told her mommy how much she loved her. And when the images of her daughter momentarily relented, the specter of her own guilt took their place. If only she hadn’t been so abrupt with the child. If only she’d been more watchful. If only she’d seen something. If only…

  Louise was glad Frank-that was his first name, wasn’t it?-had called. She needed company, if only for a few minutes. Even if the policeman’s presence reminded her of how and why they had met, Corelli was sympathetic, and right now Louise needed that more than anything. Since the day Lisa disappeared, her friends seemed to have followed suit. Not that they weren’t solicitous-at first. In fact, the night the story broke, the phone never stopped ringing with condolence calls. A few friends even brought food. It was all different now. Louise only heard from the police, and that was only when she called. The news was always the same: no news. She’d called a few friends, but they were “too busy” to talk. The women with children were the worst. It was almost as if Louise had contracted a dread infection that might spread to them if they weren’t careful. She wanted to empathize, to understand their fears, their insensitivity, but every snub made her realize just how alone she was in all this. She had to think of other things.

  But there were no other things. Nothing other than her lost baby, whose picture she carried with her throughout the apartment. It was a constant companion during the lost, lonely waking hours that punctuated her spells of sleeping. Even now, as she sat at her bedroom’s vanity table while drawing a brush lazily through her hair, Louise’s vague pleasure at hearing Corelli’s voice was overshadowed by Lisa’s haunting smile. She’d heard stories like her own before, dreaded them in some deep recess of her mind which she never admitted existed-until Labor Day. And now Lisa was gone. Taken from her. In the hands of a stranger. Or worse.

  An ennui so seductive she had to stand to fight it engulfed Louise. The call to sleep was not to be denied, but she must! Frank Corelli wanted to question her some more. He hadn’t been specific on the phone, but she guessed from his voice that Lisa wasn’t his sole reason for wanting to see her. Louise hadn’t done much dating since David walked out, but she doubted if the male animal had changed all that much in only a year. Behind his earlier questions was a healthy male curiosity about Louise Hill, about what type of woman she was, apart from her tragic situation. Corelli’s attention had momentarily taken her mind off Lisa, and for that blessing she would gladly talk to him for hours.

  The doorman’s buzzing signaled Corelli’s arrival. Startled, Louise t
ook a last fleeting look at herself in the mirror and fled the bedroom to answer the intercom. Two minutes later she opened the door to Frank Corelli. He looked exactly as she’d remembered-a tough, overgrown kid with a quick smile and devastating blue eyes. But be was obviously no kid. His manner was authoritative and direct. He was a man who knew what he wanted and was used to getting it.

  “Sorry to bust in on you like this, Mrs. Hill.” The smile showed he was actually happy to be there.

  “Not at all.” She led him down the hall to the living room. “To tell the truth, I could use the company. I’ve just made coffee. I’ll get us some.”

  While she was gone, Corelli unbuttoned his jacket and leaned back against the soft cushions of the couch. He liked this apartment. He felt like he’d drifted into a country house far from the city. During their first interview Louise Hill had mentioned being a textile designer; that explained the proliferation of floral patterns and prints. Corelli wasn’t much interested in furniture and decorating-as long as there was a comfortable place to sit, he was happy-but in this room you’d have to be blind not to see the time and taste that had gone into decorating it. Almost against his will, Frank began to wonder what kind of a jerk would divorce someone with as many attributes as Louise Hill.

  “This time I promise to keep the coffee off the floor,” Louise joked as she returned with a full tray. “I’m not usually so all-thumbs, but under the circumstances…”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Numb. Like I’d been shot full of novocaine.” She settled in a wing chair opposite him and poured the coffee. “You take cream, no sugar, right?” He nodded. “I feel these past two days have really been years.”

  “It’s a natural reaction.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know there were natural reactions to having your daughter kidnapped. Or should I say disappear?” She sipped her coffee. “Have you heard anything, Frank? Off the record? I only get a cold shoulder from the police.”

  “Sony,” he said, blushing. He’d forgotten they were on a first-name basis; she made his name sound sexy. “The NYPD is still investigating…it’s a big city.”

  “That’s always the reason for everything that goes wrong here, isn’t it-it’s a big city. It’s an unfeeling city, is what you really mean.”

  Corelli could see the toll her pain was taking on her. Yesterday, despite the tears, Louise had seemed alert and alive. Today she was bedraggled, like she hadn’t been sleeping or had been sleeping too much. A patina of listlessness was slowly enveloping her. Corelli had seen it happen before. Confronted with a terrible situation with no action to take, the mind often closed down-rolled over and went to sleep, as it were. In its extreme form, catatonia set in, isolating the person totally from the world. In its more pedestrian form, life became dull and the little daily tasks of taking care of oneself grew to monumental proportions. Louise Hill seemed right now on the verge of falling into the abyss.

  “You don’t have to give in to it, Louise,” Corelli blurted out, his thoughts a non sequitur.

  “What?” She looked puzzled.

  “Letting this kill your spirit.” Jesus, he was preaching at her. That wasn’t why he’d come over. Was it?

  “And what would you suggest, Detective Corelli?” Her voice was strident, full of anger and embarrassment. “What’s your prescription for what ails me?”

  “Fight it, Louise! Stand up against it. You’re dealing with your own anger and it’s dragging you down. For Christ’s sake, if you’re angry, yell, throw furniture, beat someone up…something!”

  Louise listened impassively. Corelli had edged forward and now sat at the front of the couch, his coffee cup clasped tightly between the palms of his hands. The muscles of his neck were tensed. She mentally traced them from his collar to his jawline. He was right, but she didn’t believe the answer to what she felt could be so simple. The weight of her helplessness had crushed her; getting out couldn’t be as easy as he made it sound.

  “Sounds like you’re talking from experience,” she finally said.

  “I am.” He fell back against the cushions and drank from his coffee. “But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?”

  “Just why are we here, Frank?”

  And suddenly Corelli no longer knew why. The chances were that Louise wouldn’t be able to remember anything new. She was an artist. She was used to observing, looking for details. Prodding her memory was probably useless. He really didn’t need her help any longer. But maybe she might need his. That was it. That was why he’d telephoned her to invite himself over. Yesterday, in his arms, as the anguish of her loss won out, Louise Hill had needed him. She’d needed him there to tell her it was all right. For the first time since Jean’s death, a woman had needed him. And that was why he’d come back-to let Louise know he was there for her.

  “I want to help,” he finally answered, simplifying the complex reasons and emotions.

  “Thank you.” She held his eyes for a moment, then stared into her coffee cup. “You’re unique, you know that, Detective Corelli? You’re a transit policeman who seems to spend most of his time aboveground helping ladies in distress, a man who works his off-duty hours. And a man who also happens to make a damned fine cup of coffee.”

  “You don’t do so badly yourself.” He drained the coffee. “Now, I want to admit something to you-I just stopped by to see that you’re okay.”

  “And I appreciate it, Frank. Right about now I could use a friend.”

  “Then you’ve got one.” There was a long, awkward silence. “Look, I’ve still got some things to do. I’d better get going.” He stood up and followed her to the front door. “I know this might be the wrong place and the wrong time, but I never was much good at the social amenities. How about having dinner with me one night? It’ll do you some good.”

  “I’d like that,” she said without hesitation.

  “When?”

  She threw her head back and laughed, sending her hair swirling around her long, graceful neck. God, it felt good to laugh. “How about tonight? That is, if you’re not too busy.”

  “I’ll pick you up here, about eight?” She smiled in agreement. “See you then.”

  Corelli walked south on Columbus Avenue to give himself time to calm down. Jesus, he was feeling like a high-school kid about to go out on his first date. Louise Hill was a great-looking lady. And she had a head on her shoulders, to boot. There weren’t many women he could say that about. At least not the women he’d spent time with since Jean’s death. The truth was, he hadn’t been looking too hard. Being in perpetual mourning had its advantages, after all. It kept life small and manageable. The pain of loneliness was a familiar if somewhat unpleasant companion. Before today, Corelli never considered that his prolonged grief over Jean’s death might be a way to avoid the responsibility and reality of his own life. He’d always felt a great part of himself had died that night with her- and now he began to feel he wanted that life back. Jean was dead. Frank Corelli was very much alive.

  5

  Louise was nervous. Actually nervous! Like a college girl waiting for a blind date. Not that she’d been one of the flighty girls who viewed a higher education as four years of sowing wild oats before getting married. She’d wanted to learn, enjoyed the process. And had gone into Fine Arts because she had a decided talent for drawing and painting. It had paid off in a successful career. Textile design might not be the epitome of artistic endeavor, but it satisfied her creative spirit and it filled her bank account to overflowing.

  But now, once again sitting at the vanity table, all the money in the world couldn’t have made Louise feel less nervous about her date with Frank Corelli. She rearranged a wild wisp of hair, wishing, not for the first time, that after her divorce she’d done a little less work and spent a little more time investigating the appealing and slightly frightening world of men. Before her marriage she was always being asked out, but she limited herself to one date a week, even on summer vacation. Only after she met and married
David Hill did it occur to her that she was afraid of men-as evidenced by a long series of one-time dates with an endless number of faceless men.

  But David hadn’t let her off the hook so easily. He was a grad student in business administration when Louise was in her junior year. He followed her, talked to her, cajoled her, and eventually convinced her she’d be better off with him than without him. Louise acknowledged this barrage of flattery by giving him her virginity during her senior year. And for two weeks after, David avoided her, stopped calling, and refused to answer her calls. Louise was convinced she’d been a fool and had paid the ultimate price for her naiveté. It seemed the classic case of the unwilling virgin seduced and abandoned by the older man. Until David resurfaced with profound apologies and a gushing display of tears that both fascinated and embarrassed her.

  “I needed the past two weeks… alone…to think,” he shyly explained over dinner their first night back together.

  “Think about what?” she asked coldly.

  “You…me…us.” He easily declined the pronouns.

  “You mean now that you’ve gone to bed with me, what are you…me…us…going to do about it?” Louise mocked in a voice intended to be lighthearted but that was filled with deep hurt at her betrayal.

  “I want to marry you, Louise,” David blurted out. “Look, we both know I’ve been around, but this is the first time I’ve ever felt like this.”

  “Oh?” was all Louise could manage to say. The fact was, she didn’t know David had “been around.”

  “I know you’re not the kind of woman who plays around, then walks away laughing. You’re serious. And I like that.” He smiled and played with his chin like he always did when he was serious. “So, what do you say? Marry me?”