Blood Innocents Part 22

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure."

"You said you left your apartment not long after they all went upstairs. On your way out of the building, did you see anyone who looked like he might be following them, or coming up to their apartment?"

Mrs. Malloy thought for a moment. "Well, at about eleven o'clock I heard someone knock at their door. There was a knock, some voices, then one of the women spoke to the man for a while, then the man went inside the apartment."

"Do you know when he left?" Reardon asked.

"Not exactly," Mrs. Malloy said, "but he couldn't have stayed for too long."

"Why not?"

"Because it wasn't but just a few minutes after he went in that them girls was at each other again."

Reardon nodded.

"He must have left before that," Mrs. Malloy said.

Reardon nodded and continued writing in his notebook.

Mrs. Malloy laughed. "Them two was moaning and groaning and screeching the bed springs to beat the band," she said.

What Reardon wanted to know was who was watching them.

22.

Reardon had hardly sat down at his desk when Piccolini burst out of his office.

"There's another witness," Piccolini said. He stood directly in front of Reardon's desk, the noise and movement of the precinct house circling him like a whirlwind.

Reardon looked up. "Who?"

"Some old lady," Piccolini said. "She telephoned and the canva.s.s went over to her home to ask some questions."

It was clear to Reardon that Piccolini was excited by the prospect of an eyewitness. Piccolini was really losing his reason over this case, Reardon thought. Anyone could say they were a witness to anything, but were they? And if so, what had they seen? And how well had they seen it? n.o.body really had a witness until they had sufficient answers to those questions. He wondered why Piccolini had forgotten that. "What did she see?" he asked.

"She saw the man who killed the fallow deer."

"She's sure?"

"Yes," Piccolini said, smiling broadly.

"Did she describe him?" Reardon asked.

"I didn't go into that, but if it's Petrakis she saw, then that's it. No more nonsense. That's a conviction. Anyway, get over there." He handed Reardon a piece of paper on which he had written the name and address of the witness: Mrs. Eleanor La.s.siter

203 East 69th Street

"Take a picture of Petrakis with you. She may be able to make a tentative identification from the photo."

"All right," Reardon said. He rose and began to put on his overcoat.

Piccolini rubbed his hands together eagerly. "The folks downtown are going to be real happy about this."

"Did you tell Van Allen yet?"

"Not yet," Piccolini replied. "Why?"

"Hold off a while."

Piccolini smiled, "Okay, I'll do that."

"Good," Reardon said.

"Just don't forget to take a picture of Petrakis. And call me the second she makes the identification. I want to know right away."

Reardon was getting a little weary of being instructed like a rookie. "All right," he said.

"This will tie it up," Piccolini said jubilantly. "I can just feel it. We got this case in the bag."

As he turned to walk back to his office Piccolini slapped Reardon affectionately on the back, as if they were old buddies again, fellow travelers on Saint Crispin's day: We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

Reardon took a picture of Andros Petrakis and slipped it in one of his coat pockets. He suspected that Piccolini was right, that within the next few minutes Petrakis would either be convicted or cleared. Before now he had hoped for another witness as the only means of exonerating Petrakis. But now he had his doubts: the witness might identify Petrakis.

He stopped at a sidewalk newsstand to get a paper and was surprised to find that the Daily News was still carrying the killing of the fallow deer as its lead story. He turned to page two and was confronted once again with the faces of the three Van Allens and Andros Petrakis. He folded the paper back and read the story as he walked. There was nothing new. The killing was reiterated in one column. In another the activities of the Van Allen family in New York were traced through the previous fifty years. Another story related how the killing of the fallow deer had been held back by the press until a "suspect" was apprehended. Reardon tucked the newspaper under his arm. By this time tomorrow, he thought, he would be reading the story of the woman who saw the fallow deer slaughtered.

The closer he came to Mrs. La.s.siter's address, the slower he walked. He did not want to interview her, and he knew it. If she identified Petrakis, then Reardon knew he had discredited himself, that he had trusted a feeling and the feeling had betrayed him. More importantly, it would mean that Petrakis had no hope of clearing himself, and even now Reardon could not believe that that insensible shadow of a man could possibly have roused himself to the brutal frenzy which the killing of the fallow deer required.

But if she could not identify Petrakis it would only mean that the case must be continued, and it had already exhausted Reardon like a fever. He knew that he had burned himself out on this case, lost the spirit of pursuit, the perverse energy of the chase itself. He had never had enough of that hunting instinct. But now even that animal vitality * the glint in the eye of the bird of prey * had fled him. He had no more questions left for Cain.

203 East 69th Street was a brownstone. It was clear to Reardon immediately that whoever the witness was she was a person of considerable means. It did not surprise him that a servant greeted him at the door.

"May I help you?" the woman asked. She was a small black woman dressed in a nurse's white uniform. She had a slight Jamaican accent.

"I'm Detective John Reardon, New York City Police Department." Reardon displayed his gold s.h.i.+eld.

"I believe Mrs. La.s.siter is expecting you. Won't you come in?" The woman opened the door and stepped back to let Reardon enter. "Would you mind waiting a moment?" she asked, and disappeared through a hallway adorned on both sides with paintings.

Looking around him Reardon realized that he had never seen a home so beautiful. Even the Van Allen penthouse lacked this subdued elegance. It was stately, even reverent. Everything * every book, piece of furniture and gla.s.s inlay * looked as though it had been carefully wrought by hands trained in a more patient age.

"Mr. Reardon?" a voice said.

Reardon felt as though he had been wrenched from a brief reverie. He turned around in the direction of the voice. "Yes?"

"Mrs. La.s.siter is in her garden," the black woman said. "She would prefer meeting you there."

"That would be fine," Reardon said.

She conducted Reardon through the hall of paintings and out into a small, shaded j.a.panese rock garden surrounding a shallow, irregular pool. Water trickled through a bamboo pipe, over a large stone and into the pool.

"This is Detective Reardon," the woman said to Mrs. La.s.siter.

"Won't you sit down?" Mrs. La.s.siter asked.

"Yes, thank you," Reardon said. He sat down in a small rattan chair. "This is a lovely garden."

"It's pleasant," Mrs. La.s.siter replied, "but it is not Heaven." She was bundled up in a heavy blue coat which complemented the grayness of her eyes. Her head was covered by a thick wool shawl and her hands were tightly clothed in brown suede gloves. She sat in a large white wicker chair near the center of the garden. She was very old, or so she appeared to Reardon. The hair that crept out from underneath the shawl was white. Still, her face retained a beauty that Reardon guessed had once been extraordinary.

"You are here about the deer, I suppose?" she said.

Reardon laid the newspaper on a table that stood between himself and Mrs. La.s.siter and took out his notebook. "I understand that you have some information which might help us."

"Yes," Mrs. La.s.siter said, "I have."

Reardon nodded for her to proceed, but she did not. Instead she said, "I'm sorry that I could not receive you inside."

"That's all right," Reardon said.

"It is difficult for me to move," Mrs. La.s.siter explained. She glanced at her gloved hands. "I have very severe arthritis. There are times when any movement is extremely painful for me."

"I'm sorry," Reardon said.

"I don't like to receive guests in the garden," Mrs. La.s.siter continued. "It never seemed to me to be a proper place." She smiled. "Especially so late in the fall."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Reardon said.

"Perhaps not," Mrs. La.s.siter said. "Things are much more casual now than when I was a girl. Things were very formal then, you know. Such formality is thought to be rigid now. My grandchildren, for example, are most informal in everything."

"I see," Reardon said, letting her go on, work herself up to what she had seen * if, in fact, she had really seen anything.

"Most informal," Mrs. La.s.siter repeated. She paused. "Are you married?"

"I was married," Reardon said.

Mrs. La.s.siter lowered her eyes. "Oh, divorced," she said quietly.

"No," Reardon explained, "my wife died."

"Oh," Mrs. La.s.siter said, "I'm sorry."

"It's quite all right," Reardon said.

"Divorce is very prevalent now," Mrs. La.s.siter said, looking somewhat apologetic.

"Yes, it is."

"A shame, I think," Mrs. La.s.siter said, "families breaking up like that. Sacred covenants broken." She paused to watch a small breeze skirt a flank of dead leaves across the garden. "Were you married only once?"

"Yes."

Mrs. La.s.siter nodded approvingly. "Any children?"

"One," Reardon said, "one son."

"I see," Mrs. La.s.siter said. "I have two daughters. They *"

"Mrs. La.s.siter?" Reardon interrupted. It was time, now, to move on.

"They have both been married," Mrs. La.s.siter continued, undeterred. "Now they're both divorced. I suppose that's the way things are now."

Reardon was beginning to wonder if Mrs. La.s.siter had seen anything at all. He remembered all the times before when lonely people had called the police with no more justification than a desire to talk to someone * anyone * about anything. The falsely reported burglaries, noises, a.s.saults outside their doors, faces reflected in late-night window-panes. Reason suspected that Mrs. La.s.siter might identify anyone, any photo that he showed her.

"Mrs. La.s.siter," Reardon began again, "about the deer a"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. La.s.siter said. "Of course, that's why you're here. Forgive me for my digression." She smiled faintly. "It is said to be a prerogative of old age."

"One of our officers reported that you had information that might be of help to us."

"Yes," Mrs. La.s.siter said, "I have." Her voice was full of authority, and Reardon could not doubt that she, herself, did at least believe that her information was important.

"Can you tell me?" he asked politely.

"Of course," Mrs. La.s.siter said. Painfully, she s.h.i.+fted a bit in her seat. "I was in the park when the deer were killed."

Reardon jotted down her first statement in his notebook. "I see." He looked up at Mrs. La.s.siter. "About what time was that?"

"I'm not sure."

"You're not?" Perhaps she had not seen anything at all, he thought, if she did not know the time of the crime.

"It was sometime in the early morning."

"I see," Reardon said. "Which morning?"