The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries Part 23

"Can I use your phone?" she asked as I was freshening my makeup.

"Go ahead." I motioned toward the nightstand.

She got an outside line and punched in a local number. When the party answered she started right in. "Roger phoned me awhile ago." A pause and then, "Well, I don't like it."

I tried to keep busy with my make-up to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. "I'm at the hotel now," she said, "but I'll be back to my apartment shortly. What'll I do if he comes up and wants the money?"

She listened intently after that, finally said, "All right," and hung up with a sigh.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked casually, finis.h.i.+ng with my makeup.

"No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is."

We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. "Less traffic this way," she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.

Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. "Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we'll be on our way."

It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr & Mrs R. James Liction. "The landlord," she said by way of explanation. "A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up." She led the way to her second-floor apartment.

"It's so large!" I marveled.

"I have the entire second floor," she answered with pride. "These old houses are great bargains." She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. "d.a.m.n!"

"What's the matter?"

"He's down there in a car. I think we were followed."

"Roger?"

"I'm going to shower," she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. "Here's something you might like even if you did quit smoking."

I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette with crimped ends. "What is it, pot?" I asked.

"Sure! It's good stuff. Helps you unwind after a day's work."

"No thanks. But go ahead if you want one."

She shrugged and tossed the joint on the bedside table. "I don't like to smoke alone."

Wearing only a bra and panties she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, rummaging in a cabinet for a bath towel. "Come on in, Susan. Talk to me while I shower." She handed me the towel to hold.

I sat on the closed toilet seat, feeling uncomfortable as she shed her underwear and tossed it into a laundry hamper. Then she felt the spray of water with her hand and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind her. "Tell me about the Manhattan store," she called out over the rush of water. "Is it true a homeless man lived there for days before he was discovered?"

"I've heard stories like that, but I-"

Betty Quint screamed, just once, chilling my spine. Then there was a thump as her body went down in the tub. "Betty!" I yanked open the shower curtain and stared at her body, drenched in the pounding spray of hot water.

She'd been stabbed once in the back with a slender dagger that still protruded from the b.l.o.o.d.y wound. A second, identical dagger lay in the tub near her foot. Otherwise the tub was empty.

I was alone in the steamy bathroom with her body.

Irving Farber scratched his nose and stared at Susan. "That story is impossible, you know. It couldn't have happened the way you told it."

"But it did!" she insisted. "I called 911 and the police were there within minutes."

"And they arrested you."

"Not right away. They questioned me for hours, trying to make me change my story. They accused me of all sorts of wild things, especially after they found the pot. I told them neither of us had smoked it but they kept pounding at it. One of the detectives suggested we'd been high on pot and made love to each other, and then I killed her to hush it up. That's when I demanded a lawyer."

Farber's face was grim. "What was the detective's name?"

"Sergeant Razerwell."

He made a note of it. "Tell me, Susan, what's your explanation for Betty Quint's death?"

"I have none. I agree it's impossible."

"Did you touch anything in the apartment after you phoned the police?"

"No. I didn't even turn off the shower. I couldn't go back in there and see her again. I just sat in the bedroom and s.h.i.+vered until I had to open the door for the police."

Farber glanced at Mike Brentnor. "Will the store go bail for her?"

The question startled him. "I I don't know. Depends on how much it is, I suppose." He wasn't about to admit he had no authority in the matter.

"Who's your boss?"

"Saul Marx."

Irving Farber glanced at his watch. "Is he in the office by now? It's nearly ten."

"He should be."

"Get on the phone and ask him about bail. Meanwhile, I'll talk to the a.s.sistant D.A. and find out how much they'll be wanting."

"Is there a chance I'll get out of here?" Susan asked, her hopes soaring at the thought of it.

"Depends on the D.A. 's office. Don't get your hopes up." He put the yellow pad in his attache case and snapped it shut.

Susan glanced at her watch. "I'm supposed to be in court in ten minutes."

"They'll come for you when they're ready. Sometimes these things are a bit loose. If they don't get you there, it's their fault, not yours."

The attorney and Mike Brentnor departed, leaving Susan to wonder just where she stood. She'd investigated a few murders in the past, during her travels for Mayfield's, but she'd never been accused of committing one herself. The killing of Betty Quint while she was alone in the shower seemed so impossible that, paradoxically, Susan felt the solution must be a simple thing she could easily discover once she was free.

Presently one of the guards came for her. "Am I going before the judge?" she asked.

"Not yet. They want to question you some more."

Susan was immediately on guard. "My attorney-"

"He's been notified."

She was ushered into one of the interrogation rooms, where she sat down at the bare table to wait. Presently the door opened and a stocky red-haired man she'd never seen before entered. He was carrying a briefcase and Irving Farber was right behind him. "Good morning, Miss Holt," the redhead said, flas.h.i.+ng a smile that was quickly gone. "I'm Adam Dullea, US Secret Service." He flashed an ID that looked like miniature currency with its finely engraved borders.

Susan panicked, imagining some labyrinthian plot against the president. What had she gotten herself into? "What do you want?"

"I just have a few questions regarding your relations.h.i.+p with Betty Quint." He opened his briefcase and took out a clear plastic envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. "Have you ever seen one of these?"

"A hundred dollars? I guess I've seen a few."

"Did Betty Quint ever show you one?"

"No." Then she remembered something. "She came to New York for a meeting about six months ago. We went out for dinner and drinks later and I remember she paid for the drinks with a hundred-dollar bill. I was a bit startled, but some people like to use big bills when they travel."

"This one is counterfeit," he said.

Susan peered at it more closely. It looked fine to her. "What's its connection with Betty?"

"She pa.s.sed it at a local restaurant. There've been a few other incidents too. We've had her under surveillance."

"Is it true you can do these on a good color copier?" she asked.

"Not of this quality. We think it was printed overseas."

"How-"

"I'm asking the questions, Miss Holt. Did Betty Quint ever show you or give you a hundred-dollar bill?"

"Just that one time when she paid for the drinks. And she gave it to the waiter, not to me."

"I understand from your statement to the police that she received a phone call from someone named Roger while driving you to your hotel."

"That's correct."

"Did she identify him further?"

"Not to me, no."

"And she made a call from your hotel room?"

"Yes. I'm sure you could trace that. Most hotels keep a record of phone charges for billing purposes."

Adam Dullea looked at her sadly. "The call was made to the local Mayfield's store, Miss Holt."

That surprised Susan and she must have shown it. "We'd just left there. Why would she ?"

He took a deep breath. "Look, Miss Holt, we're inclined to accept your story for the moment, and so are the local police. If you had killed her, you would certainly have come up with a better story than you did a burglar on the fire escape or a prowler under the bed, for example. Also, your coworker Mike Brentnor has informed the police that you've been helpful with other murder cases in the past. You'll be released on your own recognizance, but you're to remain in the city for at least forty-eight hours pending another court apperance on Thursday, when charges may be dismissed. Is that agreeable?"

"I suppose it'll have to be." What were they doing, giving her two days to find the real killer?

The Secret Service agent departed and Farber smiled encouragement. "Come on, Susan. You're on your way out of here."

In the courtroom it went exactly as predicted. The preliminary hearing was adjourned until Thursday morning at ten and she was released on her own recognizance. Mike Brentnor was waiting in the back of the courtroom. "Let's go celebrate!"

"I've nothing to celebrate, Mike. A woman's been murdered and I'm the only one who could have killed her."

That was when Adam Dullea reappeared, his smile a bit more sincere this time. "Now that you're released from custody, I wonder if we could talk."

"About the murder?"

He nodded. "If you'll excuse us, Mr Brentnor-"

Susan was happy to escape from Mike's eager clutches. She allowed herself to be guided out of the courthouse and into Dullea's car. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"Back to the scene of the crime. Isn't that how these things are done?"

She laughed. "I'm no psychic, you know. I don't pick up the killer's thoughts or visions. Sometimes I notice things that others have missed."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

This time as the car pulled up to the house a white-haired man came onto the front porch to greet them. He introduced himself as James Liction. "I own the place. You folks more police?"

Dullea showed his identification. "Secret Service. The victim was part of an ongoing investigation into counterfeit currency. Could I ask you if she paid her rent in cash?"

He shook his head. "Always a check, first of the month. My wife Mona was just saying what a nice tenant she was. Never any trouble. I can't believe she was involved with counterfeiters."

His wife a stocky woman who moved slowly, came out to join them. "Tell 'em about that suspicious-looking guy across the street, James."

"Well, I already told Sergeant Razerwell."

"Tell me too," Dullea requested.

Liction s.h.i.+fted his gaze to Susan. "I happened to see the two of you drive in. After that a fellow parked across the street. He just sat there in his car for a long time. It was too dark to get a good look at him. When he heard the sirens coming he left quick."

Susan remembered that Betty Quint had glanced out the front window and become upset when she saw the car. "We're going to take another look upstairs," Dullea told him.

James Liction shrugged. "Go ahead." He and his wife went back inside.

The apartment was much the same as the day before, except that the door was sealed by yellow police crime-scene tape. Dullea pulled it away and used a key to enter. Inside Susan noticed signs that the drawers and closets had been searched by the police or Dullea's people. "What are you looking for?" she asked. "More counterfeit money?"

He nodded. "A great deal of it. Before she went to work for your store, Quint was employed on the reservations desk of a major airline. Her boyfriend, a copilot on international flights, brought back several small packages of counterfeit money, all hundreds like this one. They're often printed overseas and used as bulk payoffs for drugs." He brought out the bill he'd shown her earlier, in its clear plastic envelope. He pointed to the lower right of the portrait where it read "Series 1996" in small print. "Notice anything wrong with it?"

She shook her head. "There's Ben Franklin, looking the same as ever."

"That's what's wrong. Beginning in 1996 the hundred-dollar bills changed significantly. The portrait is larger and off-center. There's a new watermark and other safety features. Skillful as this job is, the counterfeiters made a fatal mistake in using the old design and dating it 1996. These bills couldn't be pa.s.sed in bulk overseas, where a suitcase full of drug money would be carefully examined by the seller, so they were smuggled into this country to be pa.s.sed individually."

"You think Susan's boyfriend hid them here?"