He took out his detective’s shield. “My name is John Reardon. I’m investigating the murder of one of your employees. I’d like to talk to whoever supervised Miss Ortovsky.”
“That would be Helene Pynchon,” the receptionist said. “You’d like to talk with her now?”
Reardon gazed patiently at the receptionist. “Well, two women have been murdered,” he said.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” the receptionist said. “Just a moment, please. Please have a seat over there. I’ll call Miss Pynchon right away.” She sounded to Reardon a lot like his son’s secretary, a person who spent her life protecting somebody who wouldn’t use the same toilet she did.
When Helene Pynchon walked out into the foyer her appearance did not surprise Reardon. She was tall and dark-haired with thin, pale arms. She was dressed in a loose-fitting pastel blouse and a long skirt. Reardon guessed her age at approximately forty-five. She looked like hundreds of other women Reardon had seen and faintly desired as they walked along Park Avenue or Central Park West.
“Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly as Reardon rose from his chair. “I’m Helene Pynchon.”
“My name is Reardon. I’m investigating the murders of Karen Ortovsky and her roommate. Is there someplace we could talk?”
“Of course. Come into my office, won’t you.”
In her office Miss Pynchon offered Reardon a chair and seated herself behind the desk.
“Now,” she said, “how can I help? We were so upset when we found out about Karen this morning. Her death, I mean.”
“Did you know her very well?”
“Not very. Only professionally. She did excellent work at Tristan.”
“Did you ever see her socially?”
“No. Never. It was purely a professional association. I make it a point never to have personal relationships with anyone on my staff.”
Reardon nodded. He didn’t go out with the mayor much either. “How about anybody else on your staff?” he asked. “Did she have any close friends here?”
Miss Pynchon thought a moment. “I believe she and Laura Murray had a nonprofessional relationship.”
“Nonprofessional? You mean they saw each other away from work?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Do you know of anybody else who might have been a friend of Miss Ortovsky?”
Miss Pynchon shook her head. “No, I don’t know of anyone else. Laura might know, however.”
“I’d like to see her.”
“Surely,” Miss Pynchon said. “Take a right at the end of this hall. Laura’s office will be the fourth one on your left.”
When Reardon entered her office Laura Murray was busily sketching designs on a pad of unlined paper. Her desk was covered with dress patterns, pencils and pieces of cloth. They seemed to flow over the desk like wax down the sides of a melting candle.
“Laura Murray?” Reardon asked.
She looked up quizzically. “That’s me.” She was dressed in a red turtleneck sweater, which in its brightness seemed less modest than the woman who wore it. She had a plain, undistinguished face – one, Reardon knew, that would be difficult to recall without a photograph.
Reardon pulled out his identification. “My name is John Reardon,” he said. “I’m investigating the murders of Karen Ortovsky and her roommate.”
He saw her face suddenly tense, but he did not know whether the chance meant fear or embarrassment or sorrow. “I understand that you knew Miss Ortovsky. Socially, I mean. Away from work.”
“Yes, I did.” She nodded toward an empty chair. “Please sit down.”
When Reardon had sat down Laura Murray stood up, quietly closed the door of her office, then returned to the chair behind her desk. She folded her hands in front of her and rested them on the desk. Reardon could see that they were trembling very slightly.
“How well did you know her?” he asked.
“We were close friends. We met here. She’d been working here for a year when I came. I guess I’ve known her for about four years.”
Reardon noticed that when Laura Murray spoke to him she seemed to stare over his shoulder or down at some object on her desk, not wanting their eyes to meet. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Miss Murray,” he assured her. “This is just routine. Legwork, that’s all. We have to interview everybody we can find who knew Miss Ortovsky.”
She snapped a pencil from the top of her desk and rolled it between the fingertips of both her hands.
“So you knew her for about four years?” Reardon said.
“Yes. We were close friends.”
Suddenly the door to the office opened. Laura started in her chair, and Reardon turned to see a short, middle-aged man standing in the doorway, his hand still resting on the doorknob. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were busy, Laura. Miss Pynchon just wants to know when your sketches will be ready.”
“This afternoon,” Laura snapped.
“Thanks,” the man said. He retreated out of the doorway, carefully closing the door behind him.
Reardon could see that Laura was jittery, almost panicky. “Miss Murray,” he said gently, “would you like to go for a walk with me? Someplace where we can talk privately?”
She smiled sadly. “Yes, that might be the best thing.”
“There’s a coffee shop just down the street,” Reardon said. “It should be just about empty this time of day.”
“Fine,” Laura said.
At the coffee shop Reardon felt it necessary to make something very clear. “Miss Murray,” he said, “we know a lot about Karen Ortovsky already. Or at least I think we do. What I mean is, we know
…” Reardon stopped. He could not think of the right words. “We know her sexual habits.” They were still not the right words, and Reardon knew it.
Laura looked at him with relief. “I see,” she said. “I’m glad. There’s no point in avoiding anything then. We had – Karen and I – we had the same – as you say – sexual habits.”
“I’m only interested in this if it could have had anything to do with her death,” Reardon said quickly. “Believe me, Miss Murray, it’s of no importance to me. This is a murder investigation. I’m not concerned with anything else. I just want to know who killed Karen and her roommate.”
“I didn’t know her roommate very well,” Laura said. “But before Lee came along Karen and I were very close. I don’t know what you think about anything, Mr. Reardon, but Karen was a good person, a sweet person.”
“I’m sure she was,” Reardon said, and he meant it. He suspected that the same could be said for Laura Murray.
“I loved her,” she said. “For a while as a lover, then later as a friend. When I first came to New York from Virginia I didn’t know anybody. I’m shy. It’s hard for me to get to know people. For a year I didn’t know anybody except the local grocer, people like that. People you just say ‘hello’ and ‘good-bye’ to, and that’s it. Then I came to work at Tristan, and I met Karen. For a long time we were just friends. That’s all. Just friends. We’d go to movies together, or to dinner, things like that. We even double-dated a few times. Then one night – after a double date, as a matter of fact – I stayed at her apartment. It was late and so rather than make my date go all the way to Brooklyn Heights with me on the subway, I just stayed with Karen. It seemed like the most reasonable thing to do.” She stopped and looked at Reardon, evaluating him, then came to some decision in her mind. “We made love that night. I don’t know how it happened. It just did.”
The tension was gone from her face, and all the nervousness. She sat calmly, glancing occasionally out the window at nothing in particular. For a moment Reardon was lost in the spacious decency of her face. He wondered if that was what it felt like, to be released.
“When did you see her last?” he asked quietly.
“Wednesday. The Wednesday before she died. At work. I haven’t seen Karen outside the office for two years. She met Lee, and after that I didn’t see her anymore except at work.”
“Did you know Lee?”
“Lee? I met her a few times when she would meet Karen at the office in the afternoon. That’s all. But I know Karen must have been absolutely devoted to her. There was no other way for Karen. It had to be total or nothing.”