SWF Seeks Same

room and treat herself to a long, hot shower. Maybe take a nap, if she could sleep. She didn’t feel completely secure here at the Willmont, and it wasn’t only the police she feared.

This evening she’d phone Kennedy again from a booth, then go to the Village. To Wild Red’s, and see if anybody there remembered Hedra.

Springs twanged as she got up from the bed. She walked into the bathroom and moaned when she looked at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Her hair was greasy and plastered close to her head. Her face was pale. Her eyes, haunted and wide, stared back at her like those of a creature that had just sensed it was merely a link in the food chain, wild and cornered and resigned to death.

Hedra had done this to her. Turned her into this.

She washed her face and used her fingertips to do what she could with her hair. A comb and makeup; something else she needed to get while she was out.

After about ten minutes she again studied herself in the mirror. She was satisfied. Her reflection looked older, with eyes still haunted, but it wouldn’t frighten children.

Most children.

Though she was exhausted, sleep was impossible. Allie climbed out of bed at six o’clock that evening and discovered she was hungry. After relieving herself in the bathroom that smelled like the Canadian woods, she unwrapped and ate one of the cheese Danishes she’d bought earlier that day, washing it down with a can of fizzy, warm Pepsi. Later, maybe, she’d take time to eat a more traditional supper.

After dressing in her new jeans and blue sweater, she slipped into her black windbreaker and went downstairs. It buoyed her spirit, wearing new clothes, even if the ensemble’s style had turned out to be Paris-punk.

The two old men in the lobby had been joined by a third. They all stopped talking and stared at her as she walked out to the street. What am I doing? she wondered. Swinging my ass? Sending out vibes? Are they expecting me to return with a man? She didn’t much care if they thought she was an innocent prostitute and not someone wanted for murder.

She walked for a while on Seventh Avenue, lost among the thronging tourists taking advantage of a clear night. Then she used a phone in a Brew Burger at 52nd Street to call Kennedy.

“I’m afraid you’re in some trouble, dear,” he said when she’d identified herself and been put through to him.

Allie was soothed by his gentle, amiable voice. She pictured the bulky detective leaning back in his chair with his big feet propped up on his cluttered desk, a row of cigars protruding from his shirt pocket. She searched for words, then said simply, “I didn’t do it.” That sounded hollow even to her.

“ ‘Course not, dear.”

“It was something done to me. Something I let happen. It won’t be easy to believe; I know that.”

“Ah! I’m listening, though.”

And in a rush of words she told him about Hedra and Sam, and about Graham, and what had actually occurred at the Atherton Hotel.

Kennedy waited until she was finished and said, “Your neighbors at the Cody Arms told us you lived alone. They never saw this Hedra.”

“But that was the idea!” Allie said in exasperation. “Her being there was a violation of the lease. I had to pretend I lived alone.”

“Well, it’s a big and impersonal kind of place, all right, so what you say’s surely possible. Tell me, dear, is there no one who could verify that you had this roommate?”

“No, there isn’t. The only two people who could are dead. That’s why she killed Sam! And maybe she even murdered Graham.”

“So she could impersonate you without interference?”

“Yes. I think she planned to kill me, but then it wasn’t necessary. She just blamed Sam’s murder on me and saved herself the risk and trouble. She thought I’d be arrested and out of her way. I think she’s spent time in a mental hospital. Maybe she’s done it before, killed other women she’s lived with.”

“What makes you think she’s killed other roommates?”

“There are all those newspaper clippings about murders.”

“But didn’t you just tell me you saw only one such clipping, on the back of a recipe?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then you’re not really sure about the others.”

“No. Yes! God, I don’t know. If you’ll look for her we can find out.”

“But why would she want to impersonate you?”

“She didn’t just want to impersonate me—she wanted to be me! Psychiatrists probably have a word for it, like they do everything else. It was as if she didn’t have a personality or an identity of her own, so she needed mine to fill the vacuum. She’s mentally ill. Twisted. Do you understand?”

“I’m trying to, dear. Be patient with me. And you really think she killed this Graham Knox, too?”

“I don’t know. I—” Allie suddenly drew in her breath. “You’re trying to keep me talking so this call can be traced.”

“Don’t be so romantic and excitable, dear. That kind of thing happens mostly in movies and mystery novels.”

“Don’t call me ‘dear’ again!”