“Everything’s difficult in New York,” he said, as if commiserating with her.
“I’d read about this woman in the papers”—a glance at Allie—“just after she killed that poor man in the hotel. One of the news items mentioned her address. The Upper West Side was exactly the area I wanted. I knew that, unless she was tried and acquitted in record time, her apartment would be available as soon as her rent wasn’t paid, so I kept an eye on the place and was first to apply. I was prepared to wait. Justice seldom moves swiftly, does it, Sergeant?”
“No, but it moves.”
For an instant he reminded Hedra of Justice itself, a force as inexorable as the swing of planets. She reassured herself he was nothing more than a very human, overweight cop. Nothing for her to fear if only she kept her head. Did he know how she’d convinced Myra Klinger to accept her for the apartment? Aging, ugly Myra, so grateful for someone like Hedra. “I did what was necessary in order to get the lease, Sergeant. I took advantage of Allison Jones’s predicament. That kind of thing’s done all the time to get an apartment in this city. One person’s misfortune is another’s good luck.” She stood very straight. “I’m not ashamed.”
He studied his snubbed-out cigar intently, as if at any second it might be the beneficiary of spontaneous combustion. “No, I expect you’re not.”
“I’ve never before laid eyes on Allison Jones.”
“Well, I can’t agree with that,” he said in a level, amiable tone, as if he were differing with her about the Mets’ chances to make the playoffs. “She’s here to positively identify you, which she’s done. And she says you and she lived here together for several months. That little by little you stole her life, her lover, her identity. That only two other people knew about you. One was murdered. The other died, maybe in an accident, though I suspect not. And you disappeared, leaving behind a mutilated corpse and a murder charge that appeared to belong to her.”
Hedra didn’t bother feigning surprise. “And now I’ve come back here?”
“You thought the real Allie Jones was in prison, possibly for life. No murder had been committed in the apartment. No one suspected a woman fitting your general description ever lived here. So it figured you’d return. There was no reason for you not to, this time. You’d almost have to, wouldn’t you, if you were Allie Jones?”
“This time’?”
“You’ve assumed other identities, other personalities, before Allie Jones.”
“But I told you, I only did what was needed to get the apartment. I never told anyone I was Allie Jones. I’m not Allie Jones.”
He rolled the cigar between his fingers. “Aren’t you?”
It was time for positions to be made clear. Hedra said, “This is all very serious. For you, if you can’t prove any of it. Which you can’t, because it isn’t true. If this woman says it is, I think you better have her sanity tested. Or maybe she’s sane as they come and she’s cooked up a story to give her the best possible deal in court. And anyone who can corroborate it, or prove to you it isn’t true, is conveniently dead. Doesn’t that make sense? If she’s under indictment for murder, what’s she got to lose?”
“The indictment’s been dropped,” Kennedy said. “Her story’s been corroborated.”
Hedra felt her heartbeat quicken, the blood pulse in her temples. She should have anticipated this. Don’t let them bluff you. “You said the only two people who could corroborate it were dead.”
“And they are.” Kennedy leisurely unwrapped the plain brown package he was holding. Peeled away the thick paper with maddening slowness, crinkling it noisily. He had fingers the size of sausages, with blunt, tobacco-yellowed tips and almost nonexistent nails. Allie sat quietly with her eyes fixed on Hedra. She was even thinner than before. There was a worn resignation in the limpness of her hands resting palms-up in her lap, the slope of her shoulders. But her eyes were bright, almost as if glowing with fever.
Inside the brown wrapping paper was a thin cardboard box that had contained typewriter paper. Kennedy set the crumpled wrapping aside and lifted the lid slowly, as if something alive were inside.
He said, “Miss Jones was convincing enough for me to do what you might call some exploratory police work. A woman was killed and mutilated with a knife six months ago in her apartment on the Lower East Side. Her name was Meredith Hedra Carlson. That prompted us to look a bit further into what Miss Jones had told us. It turns out the Times does have a record of Allison Jones placing a classified ad in their ‘Apartment to Share’ section. So we examined Graham Knox’s possessions and found this.” He nodded toward the box. “It contained notes, an outline, and the first several scenes of what was to be Knox’s next play, based on material he acquired by listening through the ductwork at his vent in the apartment above this one. He titled it SWF Seeks Same. It’s about a Manhattan apartment dweller and her secret roommate.”
He set the box on the sofa arm and shifted his bulk so he could lever himself to stand. “You must be somebody, dear. Who are you?”
Hedra wasn’t aware of making a decision. No more than a trapped animal consciously decides on a final, desperate burst for freedom. An effort of nerve and heart and muscle that allows for thought later, in sweet and silent safety.
She was at the door, flinging it open, hurling herself into the hall.
In the corner of her vision she saw fat Sergeant Kennedy struggling ponderously up out of the sofa, knocking the box and its contents to the floor. Heard him say, “Dammit, come back here! You trying to kill me, too?”
Chapter 37
ALLIE sprang to her feet as she saw Hedra bolt out the door. Not again! Hedra was real! Here! Now! Allie couldn’t bear the thought of her disappearing again. Ceasing to exist.
Kennedy was flailing away, trying to get to his feet; he posed no threat to the swift and panicked Hedra. Allie ran for the open door, banged her hand on the knob as she raced through, and wheeled, almost falling, to dash after Hedra.
As she rounded the final corner in the hall, there was Hedra standing inside the elevator. Her back was pressed to the metal wall and she was watching with strange and dreamy detachment as Allie ran toward her. Fear had rushed her from reality.
When Allie was fifty feet from the elevator, Hedra’s eyes widened in mild alarm.
At twenty feet, the elevator doors began to slide closed. Hedra might have smiled.
Allie dived at the elevator like a ballplayer sliding headfirst into a base. She felt the carpet burning her elbows, her chin, her stomach where her blouse had twisted.
She managed to thrust an arm between the closing doors. Her wrist was clamped by hard steel beneath soft rubber. An animal caught in a spring trap.
She struggled to a kneeling position. Something smashed loudly against the inside of the elevator doors. Hedra kicking at the intrusive wrist and hand. Allie could feel the vibrations of each blow. A bolt of pain shot up her arm as Hedra’s foot mashed the back of her hand. Her wrist felt sprained.
Writhing to a crouch, she’d managed to work her other hand into the crack between the doors and was prying them open. Hedra gripped a finger and bent it back. Pain! Oh, God! Through her agony Allie could hear Hedra’s breath hissing fiercely inside the elevator.
Gradually, then all at once, the doors slid open. Allie flung herself inside.
She grabbed Hedra in a wild, brutal hug, feeling an incredible satisfaction.
Hedra was real, all right. Solid and reeking of terror and in her grasp at last. Hissing, “Let go, Allie. Goddamn you, let me go!”