“Not yet,” I said.
I watched as pain and fear came into his eyes. Showing, not for the first time, that a bad liar is often a good man.
“He said he was her brother, her older brother, and he said he was working with the police. But both of those things—”
“Weren’t true.”
“He said she had a mental condition, that’s what he called it, a condition. And that was why she saw men for money. That part’s true, isn’t it?”
“That she had a mental condition?”
“That she saw men for money. I got that impression, the visitors I’d see coming down from her apartment. And Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
“The tips she’d give me,” he said, “were the highest of anybody in the building. Everybody knows working girls are the best tippers.”
“Let’s get back to our friend here,” I said. “How’d he find you?”
“He rang the bell. I came upstairs. He wasn’t out here, he was in the hallway. Either he had a key or somebody held the door for him. They’re not supposed to do that, but it’s human, you know? You don’t want to insult a man by shutting the door in his face. And he was dressed nice, suit and tie.”
“So he didn’t look like a junkie, there to steal a TV set.”
“No, he looked respectable.”
“You never saw him before?”
“When would I see him? Oh, he was here before? He was her—”
“Client, yes.”
“My God,” he said. “I let him into her apartment. I waited for him while he went around, opening drawers, touching her things.” He looked at me. “He acted like he had the right. Do you know what I mean?”
I nodded.
“And he gave me money. Not like, ‘Here’s a hundred bucks if you’ll let me into her apartment.’ More like the family wanted him to check on her, because of her situation, and taking his wallet out of his breast pocket while he’s talking, and he takes out the bill and folds it and says, ‘Something for your trouble,’ and tucks it into my hand.”
Yes, that would be how he would do it.
“Did he say his name?”
“Lipscomb, the same as hers. But if he wasn’t her brother—”
“Then his name probably wasn’t Lipscomb. No first name?”
“I can’t remember.”
“He would have wanted you to get in touch with him,” I suggested. “To let him know if she came back.”
“He had this little notebook, wrote something and folded it and slipped it into my palm the same way he gave me the money for my troubles.” He frowned at the phrase. “A name and a phone number. I thought, No, sir. I’m not about to call you.”
“This was after he’d been in her apartment.”
He nodded. “I stayed there, and we walked out together, and I locked up. And then he gave me that slip of paper.”
“You still have it?”
“No way I was gonna call that man.”
“But you kept the paper.”
“I believe I’ve still got it. If I threw it out I’d remember, wouldn’t I?”
We walked the length of the hallway and took the flight of stairs that led down into the basement. Because the first floor was half a flight up from sidewalk level, the basement got a certain amount of light from the street. He was evidently a good super, he kept it neat, and his apartment was a comfortable one, and nicely furnished.
In my experience, superintendents generally had decent furniture. Tenants moved out and left things, and the supers got first choice.
If there was a wife in the apartment, Vietnamese or otherwise, she kept out of sight and silent. But his place looked like that of a neat man who lived alone. He offered me a chair, which I didn’t take, and asked if I wanted a glass of water or something. I said I was fine.
“It’s here somewhere,” he said, as if unsure exactly where, and then went unerringly to a desk, opened the top drawer on the right, and drew out a folded 3x5 sheet of ruled paper. He opened it, gave it a quick read, then refolded it and handed it to me.
Paul Lipscomb, I read, and a phone number.
It couldn’t be that easy, I thought, and I drew out my own notebook and found the right page. If he’d given the super his home number, or the number of his personal cell phone, then I had him. Five minutes in front of my computer and I’d know everything I needed to know about the son of a bitch.
But, as it turned out, it really couldn’t be that easy. The number he’d written down, next to the name that wasn’t his, was in fact the same burner he’d used for his calls to Ellen.
I folded the slip and found a spot for it in my wallet. He looked as though he might have wanted it back, but didn’t know how to ask for it.
I said, “You won’t be calling him.”
“Of course not. Can I ask you something? Did you used to be a cop?”
“Years ago.”
“Thought so. You got the manner, but—”
“But I’m a few years past retirement age. I’m working private now.” I found a business card. “Matthew Scudder,” I said.
He repeated my name, told me his was Henry Loudon. I wrote that down, and asked him his phone number, and wrote that down, too. “He might call,” I said.
“He hasn’t so far,” he said. “If he does, well, any number I don’t know pops up, I let it go straight to voice mail.”
“It’s also possible he’ll show up.”
“That man rings my buzzer, I’m in the middle of a furnace repair.”
“Good,” I said, and got out my own wallet, and found a hundred-dollar bill of my own. He didn’t want to take it, insisted it wasn’t necessary.
I insisted it was, told him he’d helped me and saved me a lot of time. And that he had my card, and if our friend got in touch, I wanted him to let me know right away.
“I’d do that anyway,” he said. “When you showed me his picture, you know I recognized that man right away.”
“I got that impression.”
“Why I lied about it, I was ashamed of myself. Taking that man’s money, letting that man into her apartment.”
“You thought he was her brother.”
“Not by the end of it I didn’t. You know what he did?”
Went in the closet, I thought, and had a look at her alligator handbag.
“I said he touched her things.”
“Yes, you told me.”
“Almost like he was touching her, and not like a brother. And you know what else? He went into the bathroom.”
“Oh?”
“She has this clothes hamper. Wicker, you know? He screened it with his body, so I wouldn’t see, and then he lifted the lid and reached in and fumbled around with her dirty clothes. Took something out.”
I waited.
“Panties, I think. Didn’t get a good look, didn’t want to get a good look, but I think it was panties. Panties from the dirty clothes.” He took a deep breath. “So that’s why I acted like I didn’t recognize him.” He corrected himself. “Why I told you I didn’t recognize him. On account of I wanted to put all of that out of mind.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder. “No worries, Henry,” I said. “It’s all going to work out.”
Panties.
Not a good sign.
I was sitting at the computer when Elaine came in, pleased to report that Father Tomislav would be happy to rent out the basement room for a second meeting. Fridays wouldn’t work, but they could have it every Thursday evening from 7:30 to 9.
“Then Marjorie and I had lunch, and then we went to her place and called everybody to let them know we’d be having a meeting tomorrow night. He’s nice.”
“Father Tomislav?”
“I’m not sure who he thinks we are.”
“You didn’t tell him the group name was the Tarts?”
“I said we were affiliated with Working Women of America.”