Victims (10 page)

Mrs. Peterson put her glasses back on and glared across the table at Miranda. “If you want any information about anything personal in Mary Hynes’s life, you can just go and ask Mary Hynes.”

“Yes. I think you are probably right,” Miranda agreed.

“Well, then. I’m sorry if I came on strong just then. But Mary is a friend, you understand. And...what happened to her daughter, it’s so terrible. So terrible. Well, I’ve been here long enough. I’ve got to get back to my job.”

Mrs. Peterson pulled herself away from the table, and Miranda stood up and offered her hand. They exchanged a firm grasp.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peterson. I appreciate your time.”

“Yes. Yes, and...and...that’s all.”

Miranda watched Mrs. Peterson walk with heavy firm steps across the cafeteria. Then she disconnected the small microphone from the flap of her shoulder bag and wound up the cord around the tape recorder and wondered how much of what she had learned about Mary Hynes was pertinent. To anything at all.

M
IRANDA SKIMMED THROUGH THE
reports that had been compiled by the squad members, making sure both she and Stein had copies of everything available. The witnesses corroborated one another; they told more or less the same story, if from various perspectives. Nothing different or new or very helpful at this point.

Dunphy came out of the captain’s office and handed her a slip of paper.

“Here’s the name of the tenant in apartment 6-A, 10-43 Barclay. Arabella Vidales, a stewardess with Avianca. I’ll leave this for you—unless you want to come out to Newark with me?”

Miranda shook her head. “No, thank you very much.”

There had been a rape-murder in Newark, and a suspect was in custody. Nothing unusual or spectacular except that the guy had been spending the hours since his capture the night before informing the Newark homicide cops of ten other murders he had committed in New Jersey and in New York.

Including that woman, that nurse, that girl in Forest Hills, in Queens. Yes, he insisted, he did that one too. God told him to. He couldn’t remember anything at all about it, except that he had done it.

He was a six-foot-six-inch very dark black man dressed in his old high-school basketball uniform. Background check confirmed he was a psycho: in and out of mental institutions for the last ten years. There was no doubt about the rape-murder he
had
committed moments before he was apprehended. There was considerable doubt about the long list of other crimes he was claiming.

There had been four other confessions to the murder of Anna Grace. One from a seventeen-year-old Iranian student who called the police to his apartment on the Columbia campus and lectured them on the politics of murder. Two others from a pair of chronic confessors who had been taken to Bellevue and Kings County, respectively. A fourth from a lunatic calling from some phone booth, demanding that a limousine pick him up and take him to City Hall, where the Mayor was to appear with him for a televised confession. “Don’t think the Mayor doesn’t know more than he’s telling,” the hysterical voice informed an unimpressed desk sergeant in mid-Manhattan. “Yeah—yeah, right, pal,” the sergeant said, “you come on in and we’ll set it up with the Mayor. He’ll be glad to do it. He loves TV interviews.” The caller hung up. He wasn’t heard from again.

“Okay, Miranda. You come up with anything, leave a message. I’ll call in a couple times. How you doing with Stein? Where is he, by the way?”

“He’s gone out to talk with the bus driver. A mucho-macho. Mr. Stein thought he would feel more comfortable talking man to man. I don’t think he’ll come up with anything more than what he said in his initial report.” She looked up at Dunphy. “Jim, you aren’t worried about anything, are you? About Mr. Stein? He’s writing a series of articles about the witnesses. He’s not interested in anything but the witnesses.”

“I just hope he doesn’t scare them off, in the event we find the guy. They’ve all given a damn good general description. I wouldn’t like them to fade away because Mike Stein gives them a hard time.”

Miranda thought it very unlikely that they would have an opportunity to make an ID. If this was—as it seemed at this point—a random killing, with nothing to connect victim to murderer, the odds were with the killer. Unless Anna Grace knew her murderer, the possibility of apprehension was bleak.

At first, the personnel director at Avianca was reluctant to answer Miranda’s questions on the telephone.

“As you wish,” Miranda said, and then, in Spanish, she told him, “You will make it necessary for me to escort you to my office. You will lose time. There would be gossip from your co-workers. It would all end exactly the same. You
will
give me the information. We are questioning nearly two hundred people who live on Barclay Street. Ms. Vidales happens to have an apartment whose windows face the street. So, if you don’t want to tell me her working schedule, now, over the phone, please have the information ready for me when I come out to your office. Only, you see, I won’t accept it there. I’ll insist you come back here with me. Silly, no?”

Ms. Arabella Vidales was on a layover. She was not due to report for a flight until Saturday—tomorrow morning. At 9
A.M.
According to the record of the personnel manager at Avianca, Ms. Vidales, along with a group of other stewardesses, rented an apartment at Parker Towers, a large luxury housing complex on Queens Boulevard in Forest Hills. There was nothing to indicate that she had rented an apartment on Barclay Street.

“So you see, you have misinformation, Detective Torres. A group of stewardesses get together, they take large apartments in different cities. The way their schedules are, the apartments are used in rotation, so after all this, you see, it would appear that Arabella Vidales
doesn’t
have an apartment on Barclay Street at all. Or we would have this in our records.” There was a silence and then the Avianca man’s voice went a few pitches higher with suspicion. “And I am curious as to who, exactly, you say you are. And what this is all about.”

Miranda never deserted someone who gave her information. There was no point to do what she had seen colleagues do—cut the man off and let him worry. She restated her name, her office phone number. She calmed him. She might need him again.

“So you see, there is nothing to be upset about, yes? Thank you so much, you’ve made my job easier. Apparently there was a mistake and you have saved me much time, for which I thank you.”

That calmed the personnel man down. He became polite and helpful and confidential. He offered her a deal on an eight-day tour of Colombia.

Miranda sat and studied Dunphy’s notes. According to the apartment manager on Barclay Street, the two-year lease, signed a year ago, was in the name of Arabella Vidales, employed by Avianca Airlines.

She had no idea what the discrepancy meant.

Parker Towers was literally across the street from the 112th Precinct. It was a huge, circular grouping of buildings that stretched along Yellowstone Boulevard, and that had been built with a carefully tended expanse of grass and shrubbery and garden statues at its center. The lower levels of the twenty-two-story complex contained a variety of professional offices: dentists, doctors whose nameplates suggested various specialties; psychologists; someone who had a small discreet sign designating herself as “Naomi—Fashion Consultant.” There was a brightly painted door in the lobby leading to a nursery school. Miranda stood back out of the way as a small mob of screaming sunburned little kids, waving some sort of paper constructions over their heads, threw themselves at a group of young mothers. Miranda smiled and waited until things quieted down.

She went over to the security officer at the desk. She couldn’t resist pointing out to him how lax his security was.

“I just walked in, with the group of young mothers. I could have been anybody. I tell you this so that you will maybe get a little angry. But with yourself.”

Her criticism was not appreciated, but, before he could answer, Miranda held her gold shield toward him.

“There are a group of stewardesses in this building? What apartment number, please?”

Even with the obvious morning-after look, Miranda would have taken the young woman for a stewardess. There was a perfection just under the sleepy surface: tall, slender but curvaceous, a body that would keep the male passengers interested but not too aroused, a manner that would make even the most tedious flight somewhat pleasant. The smile was automatic. Miranda wondered if the woman was even aware of the fact she was smiling.

“How may I help you?” she asked. Coffee, tea, a pillow? “Come on in, sit, excuse the mess. We’ve been partying—just a little bit.” She glanced toward a partly opened door, excused herself for a moment. “Be right back. Please, get comfortable. This chair—oh, you settle down here, you’ll never want to get up.”

Miranda sat on the edge of a contoured leather chair and scanned the large room. It was furnished the way a good hotel suite is furnished: everything right, everything expensive, everything coordinated by a decorator accustomed to providing a neutral, bland decor. A room that would not intrude on or interfere with the occupants: comfort without hominess; style without statement. Leathers and suedes and rough-textured fabrics, all pale and colorless. Bright pillows, large and lush, silks and linens. The sweep of window, overlooking Queens Boulevard, was covered with narrow fabric-covered blinds. Someone had come into this huge room, made a quick drawing, gotten immediate approval, and with a snap of the fingers the transformation from empty space to up-to-the-minute décor had been accomplished. There was no trace whatever of any individual occupant.

The place was filled with the residue of an all-night party. From what was left over on various tables, on the shiny bar top and in the dining area of the room, Miranda made a quick calculation: the party had been airline style. There was a collection of small bottles—scotch, gin, vodka, liqueur. She wondered whether they also walked off with little dishes and trays of the pseudo food. Or would it spoil between Kennedy and Forest Hills? Or would anyone notice after a couple of the small bottles?

“There, okay. We got a full house and I’ve got to check the time. A few girls are working tonight. Is it hot out? We keep the air conditioner way up. So, can I get you anything?” The bright, white smile was automatic; the words were by rote.

“Is Arabella Vidales here? I’d like to speak with her.”

“Ara? No. Wait a minute.” The girl ducked her head down: the perfectly straight-cut shiny black hair fell over her face. She flung her head up: the hair swung back neatly.

“No. That was last week. Ara... no, she isn’t here. But I think she
is
on layover. Yes... but she isn’t here.”

“Have you any idea where she is? Where I can find her? I’d like to talk with her.”

“Ara? No. I think... Could you tell me again, please, what it was you said when you came in? I’m a little groggy. We had a big thing here last night.”

“Are you sure Ara wasn’t here last night? Could she have been here, if you had a big party, maybe she was here?”

Something in Miranda’s voice, her tone or manner, alerted the stewardess. The smile froze, and for the first time she really looked at and saw Miranda.

“You say you are a detective? With who?” She glanced around, her eyes darting about the room. She reached out and palmed a small bottle with a tiny Dewars label.

Miranda leaned forward. “Relax, I don’t care about that—or anything like that. I’m with the New York City Police Department. I’m investigating a murder and my job is to interview possible witnesses. That’s all; nothing to do with anything else at all.”

“You want to talk to Arabella? About a murder? My God, what would she know about a murder?”

“Probably nothing at all. Look, she’s just a name on a long list of names. My job is to see each person, to make a check alongside each name, the way you do against a passenger list.”

Yes, Arabella Vidales was one of the eight stewardesses who rented the apartment. At any given time, there were usually four women using the apartment. Very rarely, the apartment was empty, but for no more than a night or two. Even more rare were the times when all eight were present at the same time. Their schedules were such that generally one group arrived as the second group left. No, she, Jeanine Feliz, did not work with Arabella. Wait, maybe once or twice, but not as a general thing. Christine Valapo, yes, that’s who Ara worked with. They’re good friends, and no, Christine Valapo was not in the apartment, either. But yes, Christine had a piece of the apartment.

“But they are on layover,” Miranda said. “Have you any idea where they would be, if not here?”

Jeanine Feliz shrugged elaborately, and her smile was not the automatic smile of the stewardess. It was one woman to another.

“Say, the ideal layover is not here, in this apartment. This is a check-in place, no? You can always hope for something better. If nothing better turns up, sometimes we party here. I don’t know Ara or Christine too much, but maybe they had plans. Sometimes you get an invitation to a beach house, out on Long Island, you know. There are a lot of nice parties, on Fire Island, the Hamptons, you know? Nice, not wild or anything. People get the wrong idea, but let’s face it, you could go crazy spending so much time in an apartment with girls you work with. Maybe they went to Long Island or someplace nice. You know, this Queens, it is...” Jeanine rolled her large dark eyes, raised her arched brow and shook her head.

“Does Arabella have any family here, in Queens? Do you know anything about her renting a small apartment here, in Forest Hills?”

“Here. She shares rent here. You mean
another
apartment? No. I wouldn’t know. Wait. She was partners last year with Sonyia Garcia. If you would wait for a moment, okay?”

After about ten minutes, Jeanine came back into the living room with a young woman who looked like her twin sister, only sleepier. The forced smile, the pleasant inquiring tilt of her head, the fall of her shiny, tangled but clean black hair, were identical: part of the stewardess uniform.