Nan. Claire. Janine. Marie. Sheila. Leslie. Annette. Tina. Erin. All of them smiling at him, so glad to be with him, never getting the chance to turn on him, sneer at him, look at him with contempt. In the end, when they understood, it had been so wonderfully satisfying. He regretted that he hadn’t given Nan a chance to realize what was happening, to beg. Leslie and Annette had pleaded for their lives. Marie and Tina had cried.
Sometimes the girls came back to him one by one. Other times they appeared together. Change partners and dance with me.
By now the first two packages would have arrived. Oh, if only one could be the proverbial fly on the wall, watching the moment when they were opened, when the puzzled expression changed to comprehension.
Copycat.
They wouldn’t call him that anymore. Now had Janine been next, or Marie? Janine.
September twentieth, two years ago. He’d send her package now.
He went to the basement. The boxes with the shoes were such an amusing sight. Pulling on the plastic gloves he always used when he handled anything that belonged to the girls, he reached for the one behind the place card marked “Janine.” He’d send it to her family in White Plains. His eye lingered on the last place card. “ Erin.” He began to giggle. Why not send hers now? That would really put their copycat notion in the gutter. She’d told him her father was in a nursing home. He’d send them to her New York address.
But suppose no one in her apartment building was smart enough to give the package to the police? What a waste to have it gathering dust in some storeroom. What about sending the shoes care of the morgue? After all, that was her last address in New York. How funny that would be.
First, make sure to wipe the shoes and boxes thoroughly just to make sure there were absolutely no prints on them. Get out the identification. He’d plucked their wallets from their purses, then buried the purses. Wrap fresh tissue around the mismatched sets. Close the lids. He admired his sketches. He was getting better. The one on Erin ’s box was as good as any professional could do.
Brown wrapping paper, sealing tape. Address label. Any one of them could have been bought anywhere in the United States.
He addressed Janine’s package first.
Now it was Erin ’s turn. The New York telephone book would give the address of the morgue.
Charley frowned. Suppose some dumb klutz in the mailroom didn’t open it, just gave it back to the postman. “Nobody with that name works here.” Without a return address the package would go into the dead-letter office. There was one other possibility. Would it be a mistake? No. Not really. He giggled again. This will certainly keep them guessing! He began to print the name of the person he had chosen to receive Erin ’s boot and special slipper.
DARCY SCOTT…
On Saturday, Darcy met Box 1143, Albert Booth, for brunch at the Victory Cafe. She judged him to be about forty. In their telephone conversation she’d managed to learn that his ad claimed he was a computer expert, enjoyed reading, skiing, golfing, waltzing, leisurely strolls through museums, and listening to records. He also said he had a good sense of humor.
That, Darcy decided, after Booth asked her “if meeting a box number made her feel boxed in,” stretched truth to the breaking point. By the time she had finished her first cup of coffee, she also doubted just about everything else he’d claimed except computer expert. He had a soft couch-potato look that did not hint of a skier, golfer, waltzer, or walker.
His conversation consisted solely of the past, present, and future of computers. “Forty years ago a computer took two big rooms of heavy equipment to do what the one on your desk is doing now.”
“I finally bought one just last year.”
He looked shocked.
Over eggs Benedict, he shared his disgust with the way clever students were manipulating school records by breaking into computer systems. “They should go to jail for five years. And pay a big fine too.”
Darcy was sure that desecration of the sanctuary or ark of the temple would not have been any more serious to him.
Over the last cup of coffee, he finally finished expounding his theory that future wars would be won or lost by experts able to crack enemy computers. “Change all the figures, see what I mean. You think you have two thousand nuclear warheads in Colorado. Somebody changes it to two hundred. You have armies deployed. The statistics change. Where’s the Fifth Division? The Seventh? You don’t know anymore. Right?”
“Right.”
Booth smiled suddenly. “You’re a good listener, Darcy. Not many girls are good listeners.”
It was the opening she needed. “I’ve just started to answer personal ads. You certainly meet a variety of people. What are most of them like?” “Most of them are pretty boring.” Albert leaned across the table. “Listen, you want to know who I took out just two weeks ago?”
“Who?”
“That girl who was murdered. Erin Kelley.”
Darcy hoped she would not overreact. “What was she like?”
“Pretty girl. Nice. She was worried about something.”
Darcy gripped her coffee cup. “Did she tell you what was worrying her?” “She sure did. She told me she was finishing some necklace and it was her first really big job and as soon as she was paid she was going to look for a new apartment.”
“Any reason?”
“She said the superintendent was always brushing against her when she passed him and making excuses to be in her apartment. Looking for a water leak, a heat blockage, that kind of thing. She said she supposed he was harmless, but it was kind of creepy to walk into her bedroom and find him there. I guess it had just happened again the day before I met her.”
“Don’t you think you ought to let the police know about this?” “No way. I work for IBM. They don’t want any of their employees ever to be mentioned in the papers unless they’re getting married or buried. I tell the police and they start checking on me. Right? But I wonder. Do you think I ought to drop them an anonymous note?”
The vast resources of the FBI swung into high gear for the search for the retail outlet where the high-heeled evening slipper that had been returned to the home of Claire Barnes and the one found on Erin Kelley’s body had been purchased. In the case of Nan Sheridan, fifteen years ago the police had traced the slipper to a shoe outlet on Route 1 in Connecticut. No one then had had any memory of who had bought it.
The Claire Barnes slipper was expensive, a Charles Jourdan, sold in fine department stores all over the country. Two thousand pairs, to be exact. Impossible to trace. Erin Kelley’s was a Salvatore Ferragamo, a current model. Agents and NYPD detectives began to fan through department stores, shoe salons, discount outlets.
Len Parker was brought in for questioning. He began immediately to rant about how rude Darcy had been to him. “I just wanted to apologize. I knew I’d been mean. Maybe she did have a dinner date. I followed her and she wasn’t lying. I waited outside in the cold while she ate in that fancy restaurant.” “You just stood there?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“She got right in a cab with some guy. I took one too. Got out down the block. The guy walked her to the door and left. I ran up. After all I went through to apologize, she slammed the door in my face.”
“How about Erin Kelley? Did you follow her?”
“Why should I? She walked out on me. Maybe that was my fault. I was in a bad mood when I saw her. I told her all women were rotten gold diggers.” “Then why didn’t you admit that to Darcy Scott? When she asked you, you denied meeting Erin.”
“Because I knew I’d end up here.”
“You live on Ninth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street?”
“Yes.”
“Your trustee at the bank thinks you have another residence. You withdrew a large sum of money five or six years ago.”
“It was my money to spend as I please.”
