that the victim was dead, she hadn’t been wearing the coat, but she still had on bloodstained shoes. There was speculation that she’d returned to the scene of the crime to retrieve something she’d left in the victim’s room, or perhaps to pretend to discover the body and divert suspicion from herself.
From items found in the dead man’s room, authorities soon identified the woman as Allison Jones of 172 West 74th Street. A quiet woman, neighbors said. Kept to herself.
She’d disappeared after the murder and was now being sought by the police.
The news story didn’t say where the bloodstained blue coat was, but Allie knew. She remembered it draped over a hook in her closet. Where Hedra had put it after killing Sam, then phoning her and watching her leave the Cody Arms. And she’d played into Hedra’s hands by being dumb enough, and upset enough, to leave the bloodstained shoes behind in the apartment before fleeing from the police.
Of course, the news account didn’t mention Hedra. Hedra the elusive, who had moved through Allie’s life like an evil illusion, a trick of the light that had left no trace.
As Allie set the newspaper aside, she was astounded to see Graham’s photograph. She snatched the paper back up, smoothed the fold hard against her thigh, and stared. Graham was sitting in what looked like an untidy office, looking directly into the camera, his lopsided smile so radiant it seemed to jump from the black-and-white photograph in three dimensions. But this couldn’t be Graham Knox! Not the Graham Knox she knew! Because the caption beneath the photo read “Playwright Struck and Killed by Taxi.” This couldn’t connect to her or Graham’s life. There’d been some sort of mixup; why should she even be interested in this?
But she sat forward, hunched over the paper, and read about the other Graham’s death. On the successful opening night of his play,
By the time Allie finished reading, it was the Graham she knew. Had known. The one who lived upstairs and who sneaked her free Diet Pepsi’s at Goya’s, the lanky, friendly terrier.
And suddenly Allie realized what Graham’s death meant. Now no one could corroborate her claim that Hedra had shared her apartment. A slab of ice seemed to form in her stomach, and she shivered and wondered if Graham’s death really
Either way, Allie now had no way of proving Hedra had ever existed. Sometimes even she doubted if there’d ever really been a Hedra Carlson.
Allie had tried to learn about Hedra before choosing her as a roommate. Afterward,
But find her how?
Allie hurled the apple core away, frightening half a dozen pigeons into frantic, flapping flight, and stared at the ground between her feet. The grass was worn away by the feet of people who’d sat there; the earth was dry and cracked, half-concealing the curled pull tab from a can of soda or beer. She was aware of people walking past her, nearby, but she didn’t look up.
After a while she remembered something. The man who’d accosted her on the street, mistaking her for Hedra, had mentioned a place called Wild Red’s where, supposedly, they’d seen each other and talked. Perhaps made some kind of sexual covenant.
Leaving the newspaper on the bench, Allie left the park and walked until she found an office building with a public phone and directory.
Wild Red’s was listed, with an address on Waverly Place in the Village.
The Village. Well, she was in the Village already; she wouldn’t have to spend Mayfair’s money on subway fare. And the Village was where she wanted to sell Mayfair’s computer no-questions-asked.
She dug in her pocket for the change she’d stolen from Mayfair’s apartment and shook it so it jingled in her hand. It felt good rattling against her palm.
You never could tell about men. All it had taken was a little breaking and entering, and Mike Mayfair was turning out to be her best friend.
Chapter 30
Allie sold Mayfair’s lap-top computer at a place that repaired and sold used electronic equipment down on Houston Street. A narrow shop with a door below street level and a blue canvas awning that had been torn by wind or malicious hands.
She got only eight hundred dollars for the computer, though she knew that even second hand it was worth twice as much. The smiling old man behind the counter had suspected it was stolen, she was sure. She’d probably confirmed that suspicion by accepting such a low price, but she didn’t care. Within days the computer would probably be sold again for less than the going rate, also to somebody who knew it was stolen, and it would be in no one’s best interest to inform the police.
After leaving the shop, Allie found a phone booth on the street. It wasn’t a booth really, but it did have a curved Plexiglas shield to deflect traffic noise. She remembered how in the movies the police often reasoned out where a call had come from by the background sounds. Before dialing, she stood for a moment and listened to make sure there were only the usual Manhattan noises: roar of traffic, rush of thousands of soles on concrete, echoing car horns and distant emergency vehicle sirens, millions of hearts and hopes breaking.
She nestled into the booth as close as possible to the phone and fed coins into the slot, then held her cupped hand next to the receiver’s mouthpiece to make sure she could be heard.
Allie was told by a desk sergeant that Detective Kennedy had been on vacation but was due in this afternoon around three o’clock. He asked her who was calling and could anyone else help her. She hung up.
