8.
Kiss Her Goodbye
The big man sank to his knees and tipped forward, landing face-first on the carpet.
“Great,” Borden said. “That’s going to make us popular with the police.”
“How popular were you before?” Erin said.
Borden took Tricia by the arm. “What the hell were you thinking, Trixie? Did you really think he was going to let you walk out of here after you told him you wrote a book detailing a three million dollar robbery?”
“He said—”
“He said,” Borden scoffed. “If I said I’d step out that window and fly to Minnesota, would you buy tickets to see it?”
“No,” Tricia said, “but he’s a policeman and you’re a liar.”
“Well, kiddo, I think you’ve just had a valuable lesson in how honest New York’s Finest are.” Borden knelt beside O’Malley on the floor, yanked the man’s belt out of his pants and used it to bind his hands behind his back.
“Should we take his gun?” Erin said.
“Absolutely, that’s a great idea. Because we’re not in enough trouble as it is.” Borden looked around the dark little room. “I really liked this office, too.” Beneath him, O’Malley started groaning. His eyes were still closed, but how long would that last?
“Ladies, would you please wait for me outside in the hall?” Tricia and Erin stepped outside, shut the door behind them. Through the hole in the glass, Tricia saw Borden give O’Malley another clout with the heavy base of the lamp. O’Malley stopped groaning and lay still. A moment later, Borden joined them in the hallway.
“Is he dead?” Tricia asked.
“Just napping,” Borden said. “Though he’ll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Erin—will you let Billy know what happened?” Erin nodded. “Tell him I’ll be working out of 902 till the heat’s off, assuming it ever is. Now, Trixie: I need you to explain to me how this made-up robbery of yours could somehow actually have happened.”
“I don’t know,” she said miserably.
“You’re telling me you didn’t steal three million dollars from the Sun,” Borden said.
“Would she still be living here if she had?” Erin said.
“I need to hear it from her,” Borden said. “Trixie, do you swear on your life—on your mother’s life—on my life, that you didn’t steal any money from the Sun?”
“Of course not,” Tricia said. “What do you take me for?”
“I didn’t take you for a novelist, and look how that turned out.”
“I’m not a thief,” Tricia said.
“All right, fine. If you didn’t steal the money, someone else did. And if it happened the way you described in the book, it means whoever did it must’ve read the book.”
“Thousands of people have read the book by now,” Erin said. “Probably tens of thousands.”
“Sure—by now. It’s on every newsstand in America now. But a month ago? That would have been a bit harder, considering it hadn’t been published yet. The question is, who could have read the book a month ago? Who had access to the manuscript?”
“The printer?” Erin said.
“Moe? Moe’s seventy years old and walks with a cane.”
“Any of the girls could have read it,” Tricia said. “They all saw me working on it, and I just kept it in a box under my bed. But I didn’t think any of them were interested—”
“Apparently one of them was,” Borden said. He crossed the hallway. “Maybe more than one.” He knocked briskly on the door to the chateau. “Everyone decent in there?” he called. “I’m coming in.”
“Just a minute,” a voice called back. It sounded like Rita.
“Come on, Charley,” Erin said. “You really think one of the girls could pull off a heist like that? Forget about climbing eleven stories and opening a safe—just picture one of them trying to lug three million dollars around. How much would three million dollars even weigh?”
“Couple of tons, if it’s pennies,” Borden said. “Couple of ounces if it’s diamonds. If we’re talking about hundred dollar bills?” He thought for a second. “Maybe fifty, sixty pounds. I know men who couldn’t carry that much and girls that could. Besides, who’s to say our girl didn’t have help? Any of them could’ve gotten a boyfriend involved in it.” He knocked again, on the glass this time and louder. “Or a girlfriend.”
An image of Joyce sprang into Tricia’s mind—and Tricia knew Erin was thinking the same thing. Strapping, six-foot-tall Joyce, who from the first day had seemed so resentful of Tricia. She certainly could’ve carried fifty pounds if she had to.
Borden turned the knob, swung the door open. Rita was buttoning a blouse she’d obviously thrown on hastily—the buttons were one hole off all the way down. Annabelle was lying on her cot in a transparent nightie and slippers, blissfully unconcerned about being seen that way. The other cots were empty; from the bathroom came the sound of a shower running.
“Jeez,” Rita said. “Can’t a girl have a little privacy here?”
“No,” Borden said. He strode over to the writing desk, where Tricia’s typewriter was still set up. A small stack of pages next to it held her latest attempt at a short story. It hadn’t been going very well, and she’d been on the verge of giving up on it and starting another book instead, maybe something about a rugged, two-fisted detective this time, or maybe an assassin, cruel but principled. She had no shortage of ideas, and the prospect of another five hundred dollars was a powerful incentive. But now that opportunity seemed to have shattered along with the glass across the hall.
“Which one’s yours?” Borden asked.
Tricia pointed out her cot and he bent to look under it. He pulled out a box of manuscript pages labeled “I Robbed the Mob!” in his own handwriting. Her original title, which he’d crossed out, had been Dark Temptation.
Borden turned to Annabelle and Rita. “Girls, do either of you remember ever seeing anyone going through Trixie’s things when she wasn’t around?”
“Why?” Annabelle said. “Is something missing?”
“No,” Erin said, “we’re just trying to figure out who might have been reading Trixie’s book.”
“Her book?” Annabelle said, in a tone of voice that sounded roughly as puzzled as if she’d been asked which of her roommates had been riding Trixie’s unicorn.
“Yes, her book,” Borden said. “This thing.” He opened the box, took out a batch of pages, waved them in the air.
“Did you ever see anyone other than Trixie reading it?”
Rita and Annabelle exchanged a glance.
“What is it, girls?” Borden said. “Spill.”
“Couple of times, while you were out working, Trix, Joyce would pull it out, read from it out loud,” Rita said. “She’d read a line or two and laugh, and some of the other girls would laugh along. I never did.” After a second she added, “Annabelle, neither.”
“You ever notice anyone paying particular attention when she did this?” Borden said.
“Sure, Stella,” Rita said. “Back when she was here, she was always egging Joyce on to read more.”
“Any particular part she seemed interested in?” Borden said.
“The part where the guy steals all the money? She got a real kick out of that.”
Borden turned to Erin. “So, what happened to Stella? Why isn’t she here anymore?”
“Nothing happened, Charley. She just moved out,” Erin said. “Girls come, girls go—” She kissed her fingertips and blew it off in whatever direction girls go. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
“And when was this?” he said. “That she moved out?”
Erin shut her eyes, as if she didn’t want to see Borden’s reaction. “About a month ago,” she said.