its blunt handle.
I couldn't bear the sight of her eyes.
Stepping closer I saw a piece of paper in her hand. An age-yellowed sheet inscribed with a cramped, ornate writing, one word foremost on the page: 'Cupid.'
My torn pants and scraped face didn't discourage the responding officers from jumping to the wrong conclusion. They handcuffed me and left me in the backseat of their cruiser while they went off to direct the arrival of the EMS van and the crowd forming around the park's northeast entrance.
More police, uniformed and plainclothes, converged on the scene. Through the side window of the cruiser I watched two sour-faced detectives question the jogger who'd attacked me. It obviously helped my situation that he'd been standing over me at the moment the girl was killed, because when the detectives came over to talk, they removed my handcuffs.
Before I answered any questions, I asked them to call Billie Mallow at the 9th (the precinct was just a few blocks away). Not only would she be a good character reference, but I knew she'd get a kick out of seeing me raked over the coals.
Then I told them what I knew, what I thought I knew, and one way I hoped I could prove it. During my third telling, Billie arrived. They asked if she knew 'this yo-yo.'
Reluctantly, she admitted it. Gritting her teeth, she vouched for me.
She looked sensational. She'd cut her long red-brown hair to neck length, the silky tresses forming around her cheeks. I wanted to say something, but there was no time—if what I believed was true, proving it meant acting fast.
Nobody liked my idea, except for its expediency. The police wanted to send one of their own men, but I convinced them I had a better chance of getting in. If I saw anything incriminating, something that might be destroyed before they could get a warrant, I could admit them to the Gramercy townhouse.
I climbed the marble steps for a second time that evening and pushed the intercom buzzer several times to the tune of 'Fur Elise.'
A scratchy voice came back, 'Who is it?'
'Payton Sherwood. More questions.'
'Go away.'
I didn't know if she was listening, but I said, 'You never lost your keys.'
Silence. A curtain moved behind a narrow stained-glass window of the upper floor. I saw a distorted view of her face behind one ruby panel. Seeing if I was alone.
The door lock buzzed and I went inside.
The hallway's coziness had diminished, the warm glow now a murkiness casting the corners of the stairwell into shadow.
A door creaked open on the upper landing and from the wedge of light, Celia Janssen stepped out wearing a white terrycloth robe. Her hair was wet, but not as if she'd been in the shower, more like she'd been sweating.
She walked to the head of the stairs and stared down at me.
'What do you want?'
'Your key to Gramercy Park.'
'What?'
'Your keys were stolen two days ago, but you still have your key to the park.' I advanced a step up the stairs. 'That bothered me. I guess it's hard to part with privilege.'
'You're not making sense.'
'It doesn't mean anything, of course,' I said. 'But it got me thinking. Then there was the way you acted at the restaurant, as if you wanted someone to steal your purse. Maybe you did. Part of your plan.'
'Are you insane?'
'Have your purse stolen and claim your keys and wallet were inside. Make it look like someone used them to get in here and kill your uncle.' I gripped the banister as I moved up, my dry palm squeaking on its smooth surface. 'Too bad you didn't snag some homeless guy or junkie, you might've pulled it off. But you had to settle for a runaway girl.'
'You're trying to protect her. Is that why you're making all this up?'
'No one can protect her anymore. You killed her tonight.'
Celia tried to look surprised, but all I saw was her fear. I took two steps at a time.
'You got scared when I asked to see you about your purse. You thought I was a threat, maybe a blackmailer. Is that why you brought me to the park, kept us in the shadows? Did you have your knife with you then?'
She didn't seem to hear or sense me in any way, distracted as if she were busy dividing multiple fractions in her head.
I shouted, 'I was a threat. I knew who the girl was. What if I found her? What would she tell me? Would I believe her? You couldn't take that chance, so when I left, you followed. And I led you to her. I helped you kill her.'
'Get out of here! Or I'll—'
I didn't remember getting to the top of the stairs but suddenly I was on the landing, my hands reaching out for her.
She backed away from me, collided with the wall, and knocked one of the hanging photos to the floor, the glass shattering.
She tried to get by me but I grabbed her arms and twisted them. I wanted to hurt her. I could feel the slender bones in my grip. And something else, a dampness under my left hand, seeping through my fingers.
I held up her arm and examined where I'd grabbed her. The sleeve was wet with blood. She must've walked home from the park and hadn't had time to change. Beneath the robe, her blouse was still soaked with the dead girl's blood.
She tried to shake me loose, but I held on and dragged her with me into the next room until I found the intercom and buzzed in the police. Then I went and washed my hands.
I only got to see Billie for a moment outside the townhouse before they escorted me to a car and downtown for more questioning. Her smile and quick wink were the only good things about the new day.
It was dawn before they finally cut me loose. The sky was the color of faded blue denim. Outside I saw people jogging, walking their dogs, slurping coffee in one hand and skimming headlines in the other. I hadn't slept in thirty-three hours, but didn't feel the fatigue. Didn't feel anything. Missy Strich was dead and in some way I'd help make her that way. And now I had to face her parents and tell them.
I smoked a cigarette, then flagged down a cab and told the driver to take me to the Lincoln Towers Hotel.
Before I could ask the desk clerk to ring the Strichs' room, someone shouted my name across the climate- controlled marble lobby. In the Rose Lounge, Walter and Louise Strich waved table napkins at me from where they sat eating a continental breakfast.
Mrs. Strich's eyes were fretful with concern over my bruises and torn pantleg.
'Oh dear, you look awful, Mr. Sherwood. What's happened to you?'
'Rough night.'
Mr. Strich was forking fried egg into his mouth and smiling.
'Not working for us, I hope,' he said between chews.
'I'm afraid I was...I'm sorry.' I breathed deeply. 'I have some news—'
'—Nooo,' Mrs. Strich cooed, 'we're the ones who are sorry. We should've called you last night.'
'It's bad news, Mrs. Strich.'
'Don't be silly. We have wonderful news. Missy called.'
'What?' I said. 'Called you? When did you talk to her?'
'A little after ten.'
Ten o'clock, I thought. Two hours before—
'You'll never guess where she is,' Mr. Strich said.
On a cold steel table, her flesh gray under lights without warmth.
'She's home! In New Hampshire.' He raised his coffee cup in a toast.
I couldn't quite process it, wasn't sure I'd heard right.
