“You wanted it to go in the books as a burglary. Eddie could make it a lot more convincing. He could lock her door from the inside and put the chain latch on before he went back out the window. I saw the police report. They had to break the door down. That was a nice touch, made it look a lot less like a possible inside job.”
“Why would I want her dead?”
“That’s easy. You wanted her apartment.”
“Look around you,” she said. “I’ve already got an apartment. Ground floor, no stairs to climb. What did I need with hers?”
“I spent a lot of time downtown today. Most of the morning and a good part of the afternoon. It’s hard to chase things through the municipal record system, but if you know how to do it and what you’re looking for, there’s a lot you can find out. I found out who owns this building. An outfit called Daskap Realty Corp.”
“I could have told you that.”
“I also found out who owns Daskap. A woman named Wilma Rosser. I don’t suppose it would be terribly hard to prove that Wilma Rosser and Willa Rossiter are the same person. You bought the building and moved in, but you told everybody that you were just the super, that you got the apartment in return for your services.”
“You have to do that,” she said. “No landlord can live on the premises unless you hide the fact from your tenants. Otherwise they’re after you all the time for one thing or another. I had to be able to shrug and say the landlord says no or I can’t reach the landlord or whatever I had to say.”
“It must have been tough,” I said. “Trying to generate a positive cash flow here, with all of the tenants paying rent way below market.”
“It is tough,” she admitted. “The woman you mentioned, Gertrude Grod. She was rent-controlled, of course. Her annual rent came to less than what it cost to heat her place during the winter. But you can’t believe I’d kill her because of that.”
“Her among others. You don’t own just this building. You’re the principal in two other corporations besides Daskap. One of them, also owned ultimately by Wilma Rosser, owns the building next door. Another, owned by W. P. Taggart, owns two buildings across the street, the ones where you’re the superintendent. Wilma P. Rosser was divorced from Elroy Hugh Taggart three years ago in New Mexico.”
“I got in the habit of using different names. My political background and all.”
“The buildings across the street have been a very unsafe place to live since you bought them. Five people have died over there in the past year and a half. One was a suicide. They found her with her head in the oven. The rest all died of natural causes. Heart attacks, respiratory failure. When frail old people die alone, no one looks too hard to see what did it. You can smother an old man in his sleep, you can haul an old lady across the floor and leave her with her head in the gas oven. That’s a little dangerous because there’s always the possibility of an explosion, and you wouldn’t want to blow up the building just to kill a tenant. That’s probably why you only used that method once.”
“There’s no evidence of any of this,” she said. “Old people die all the time. It’s not my fault if the actuarial tables caught up with some of my tenants.”
“They were all full of chloral hydrate, Willa.”
She started to say something. Her mouth opened, but something stopped the words. She breathed heavily, in and out, and then her hand moved to her mouth and her index finger rubbed at the gum above the two false teeth, replacements for the ones she’d lost in Chicago. She sighed again, heavily, and something went out of her face and the set of her shoulders.
She picked up her coffee cup, took it over to the sink and emptied it. She got the bottle of Teacher’s from the cabinet and filled the cup. She drank deeply and shuddered. “God,” she said, “you must miss this stuff.”
“Sometimes.”
“I’d miss it. Matt, they were just waiting to die, just hanging on and hanging on.”
“And you were doing them a favor.”
“I was doing everybody a favor, myself included. There are twenty-four apartments in this building, all with pretty much the same layout. Renovated and sold as co-ops, every apartment in the building would bring a minimum of a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. You could probably get a little more for the front ones. They’re a little nicer, they’re airier, the light’s better. Maybe you could up the numbers a little if you did a really nice renovation. Do you know what that comes to?”
“Two million dollars?”
“Closer to three. That’s for each building. Buying them cost me every cent I inherited from my parents, and they’re mortgaged to the hilt. The rent roll barely covers payments and taxes and maintenance. I have a few tenants in each building who are paying close to market, and otherwise I couldn’t keep the buildings. Matt, do you think it’s fair that a landlord has to subsidize tenants by letting them hang on to an apartment for a tenth of what it’s worth?”
“Of course not. The fair thing is for them to die and for you to make twelve million dollars.”
“I wouldn’t be making that much. Once I’ve got a large percentage of vacant apartments I can sell the buildings to somebody who specializes in co-op conversions. If everything comes together the way it should, my profit will be about a million dollars a building.”
“So you’ll make four million.”
“I might hang on to one of the buildings. I’m not sure, I haven’t decided. But either way I’ll make a lot of money.”
“It sounds like a lot to me.”
“It’s actually less than it sounds like. A millionaire used to be a really rich person. Now when the top prize in a lottery is a million dollars it’s considered small-time. But I could live nicely on a couple of million dollars.”
“It’s a shame you won’t be able to.”
“Why won’t I?” She reached out and took my hand, and I felt her energy. “Matt, there won’t be any more killings. That ended a long time ago.”
“A tenant in this building died not two months ago.”
“In this building? Matt, that was Carl White, he died of cancer, for God’s sake!”
“He was full of chloral, Willa.”
Her shoulders sagged. “He was dying of cancer,” she said. “He would have died of his own accord in another month or two. He was in pain all the time.” She raised her eyes to mine. “You can believe what you want about me, Matt. You can think I’m the reincarnation of Lucrezia Borgia, but you really can’t turn Carl White’s death into a murder for gain. All I did was lose whatever rent he would have paid in however many months of life he’d have had left to him.”
“Then why did you kill him?”
“You’ll try to find a way to twist this, but it was an act of mercy.”
“What about Eddie Dunphy? Was that an act of mercy?”
“Oh, God,” she said. “That was the only one I regret. The others were people who would have killed themselves if they’d had the wit to think of it. No, Eddie wasn’t an act of mercy. Killing him was an act of self-preservation.”
“You were afraid he would talk.”
“I knew he would talk. He actually waltzed in here and told me he would talk. He was in AA, the poor damned fool, and he was babbling like some kind of religious convert who had Jesus Christ appear to him on the side of his toaster oven. He said he had to sit down with someone and tell him everything, but that I didn’t have anything to worry about because he would keep my name out of it. ‘I killed somebody in my building so the landlady could get her apartment, but I won’t tell you who put me up to it.’ He said the person he was going to tell wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“He was right. I wouldn’t have.”
“You’d have overlooked multiple homicide?”