I could see what was coming next. "How much did you give him?"
Mr. Strich answered, disgusted. "Fifty dollars!"
"But he needed it," his wife insisted. "He owed money to the person she was staying with and he—"
"We waited over two hours," Mr. Strich said. "Then we called you."
I nodded.
"Is there anyone at your house in case your daughter calls?"
"My sister's there," Walter Strich said.
"How long do you plan to stay in the city?"
"We don't have any plan, really." He was a little ashamed. "Do you think...how long usually do...?"
I told them I'd have a better idea how things stood in the morning, suggested they check into a hotel for the night, and gave them the address of the Lincoln Towers on 34th Street; it had an underground garage.
At the door, we shook hands. Their skin was cold and frail to my touch. In their watery, sleepless eyes I saw a desperation that embarrassed me. Against my better judgment I told them there was nothing to worry about, their daughter was fine.
I'd looked for a lot of runaways since I took up the trade, first as an apprentice at Metro Security Inc. and for the last three years working freelance. The usual route was to canvass the youth hostels, shelters, and halfway houses, looking for Missy or anyone who may have seen her, but it was too late to start that process now, a little after eight P.M.
It bothered me that Melissa never picked up the money. A hundred dollars pulled a lot of weight on the street. Something obviously prevented her from getting it; I just didn't know what. Rather than rely on my psychic powers, I put my mouth to work for an hour calling the area hospitals and asking if Melissa Strich or a Jane Doe fitting her description had been admitted in the last two days. Everywhere I called Louise Strich had preceded me. I guess calling hospitals is a parent's first reflex.
I indulged a reflex of my own and called my "in" at the 9th Precinct on the Lower East Side.
Billie Mallow had only been on the force three years, but she'd already perfected her professional tone of bored hostility. Of course, that all changed when she heard my voice: the hostility was no longer bored.
"What do you want?"
"Fine, thanks, and yourself, Billie?"
"Look, I'm busy here, Payton."
We used to date. It was more than five years ago, when we were both enrolled at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, and only lasted four months, but I never lost the urge to hear her voice. As for Billie, I don't think she'll ever forgive herself for going out with me in the first place.
I quickly gave her Melissa Strich's description and asked if anyone matching it had been collared over the last couple of days. At least it would've explained why Missy hadn't claimed the cash.
Billie laughed gruffly. "Is that what you think I do? Stand by the door, stamping their hands as they pass through? Goodbye, Payton."
Click.
Still, it'd been nice to hear her voice.
A minute later, the phone rang and it was Billie.
"Hey, Payton, you said Tuesday, right?"
"Yeah."
"Uh-huh. Your runaway got a name?"
"Sure. Why, what you got?"
"Maybe nothing. What's her name?"
There was an official edge to her voice that made me sit up and squeak my swivel chair.
"That depends who's asking, Bill."
"How about a couple of first grades who'd love to spend the whole evening asking? They're looking for a kid like yours, snatched a purse outside the Outsiders Cafe Tuesday noon."
"Things must be slow, detectives working on a purse-snatching."
"They're homicide. The purse belonged to Charles Marburger's niece."
The name was fresh in my memory. I thanked Billie for the information, but hung up on her angry demands for the girl's name. I dug yesterday morning's Post out of the garbage, shook out the cigarette butts, and read the article:
GRAMERCY PARK SLAYING
A 72-year-old autograph expert
was found fatally stabbed in his
Gramercy Park townhouse Tuesday
afternoon by police responding to
a 911 call. Mr. Charles Marburger
was pronounced dead on arrival at
Bellevue Hospital, from numerous
wounds to the chest and throat.
Detectives are investigating
robbery as a motive.
The assailant or assailants may
have gained entrance with keys
obtained earlier that day when
a purse belonging to the victim's
niece, Celia Janssen, was stolen
outside an East Village cafe.
Police are seeking a young
female suspect in connection
with both crimes...
I read another account in the Times that provided a lengthy obit for Marburger, highlighting his career as an autograph expert (his crowning achievement the denouncement of a diary purported to be Hitler's). I dropped the papers back in the trash.
I had to hand it to myself. I was really giving the Strichs their money's worth, an hour on the job and already trying to tie their daughter in with a homicide. Brooding over it did no good. I got out the white pages and looked up Celia Janssen, but she wasn't listed. I did find a Charles Marburger on East 20th Street though. I dialed the number, closed my eyes, and let it ring.
Long after I'd lost count, a woman's voice answered, standoffish at first, until I assured her I wasn't "yet another reporter" (not that being a private investigator endeared me to her).
"I'm calling about the purse-snatching."
I could hear her breathe. I wondered what she looked like.
"Well, what about it?"
I hate interviewing witnesses over the phone: Half of what you can learn from somebody is lost on their unseen gestures and facial expressions. I told Ms. Janssen I had to see her in person, offering to meet at her convenience the next day.
"If it’s that important," she said. "I could see you now."
I glanced at my watch. Nine o'clock. I said that would be fine.
The neighborhood of Gramercy Park appears like the last holdout to a forgotten age of gentility in Manhattan, the elegant era of Edith Wharton. At its center is the park, completely enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, its locked gates protecting the green grass, gravel lanes, and flower gardens from the outside world. Its small forest towered above the surrounding buildings, two- and three-story townhouses dating back to the 1800s in Italianate, Greek revival, and Victorian Gothic styles. It must've been a quaint place to live until Marburger's murder.
Curved white marble steps led up to the entrance of the dead man's townhouse, a gaslit globe flickered over its doorway. There were separate buzzers for Marburger and Ms. Janssen. I touched hers once and the door opened to a black-haired young woman with long, coltish limbs and a boyish physique. She had on a dark blouse and a white satin skirt that clung to her like a layer of thick cream.
She looked at me with a kind of happy relief. I don't know what she saw in my eyes, but her dazzling smile was easy to take.
"Mr. Sherwood?"
I handed her my identification. As she read, I looked over her shoulder into a hallway of cozy Victorian decor. To the right a spiral staircase led to the upper floors, the walls decorated with autographed photos of celebrities and statesmen. Over her other shoulder, I saw down the facing passage to a closed oak door wrapped up like an unwanted present in yellow ribbon: CRIME SCENE—DO NOT ENTER.
Grabbing a black knee-length coat and a Chanel shoulder bag, Ms. Janssen stepped out and closed the door behind her.