Karen bided her time. It was three months more before her opportunity came. When it did, it was simplicity itself.
Dr. Golden’s cleaning girl interrupted Karen’s session to ask the analyst about some housekeeping problem. Annoyed, apologizing to Karen, Dr. Golden had accompanied the girl to the rear of the apartment. Alone in the office, Karen had quickly taken out the carefully wrapped block of wax she’d been carrying in her purse since the day Dr. Golden had shown her the strongbox. She had opened the drawer the strongbox was in, taken an impression of lock, and closed it. When Dr. Golden returned, Karen was lying on the couch just where she’d left her.
The next day, Karen had the key made. She carried it around with her until the day Dr. Golden had casually mentioned that her husband was away at a medical convention and she was all alone in the apartment. That night, Karen set out to steal the ruby ring. That night, Dr. Golden was murdered!
It was a night of sudden, sharp images for Karen. The door to the apartment surprised her by being open so that there was no need to use the key she’d long ago had made to fit it, the door opening on the pitch-black waiting room. The inner office then, and the montage of lightning-flash rememberings: the desk, the strongbox, the ring itself glittering in the palm of her hand, a shadow in the doorway, then sudden, glaring light and Dr. Golden popping out of the terrycloth robe she wore, standing there, not seeing Karen crouched behind the desk, and finally the unplanned shots and the blood and the dying gasps. Last of all, the remembrance of fleeing the room and bumping into the figure in the waiting room, and the scurry out the door to the blinding light of the hallway, and then the panic-stricken flight home.
Now the ruby ring lay at the bottom of Karen’s lingerie drawer. Now Karen sat and waited, filled with fear at the price she might have to pay for it. Now Karen sat in silence and remembered the pleading look on Dr. Golden’s face as she stood there dying.
So all three of the girls sat in Durango’s office in silence, each of them a prisoner of her own memories and regrets. Each of them so different in appearance, so different in character and background, yet each of them with the same unmentionable lust in common, each of them a Lesbian. This was the tie that bound them in hatred and in love. There they were-—
The Three Faces of Lesbos!
CHAPTER 15
Hang Them Separately!
“CAN I see you a minute, Tomas?” Sergeant Connors stuck his head into the interrogation room.
“Sure.” Durango followed him outside.
“You’ve had that trio in there a long time. How you doing with them?” Connors asked when they were a one.
“Getting nowhere fast,” Durango admitted morosely. “What’s up?”
“All your errands are taken care of. We found the driver who took Brenda Haley out to Coney Island. He happened to be in the garage when we called the dispatcher to check his trip sheets. He described Haley to us over the phone and he’ll be here soon to confirm it in person. Doesn’t sound like there’s much doubt. And from the time on his trip sheet, she couldn’t possibly have made it back to Manhattan in time to pull off the murder.”
“Okay. After the driver confirms, you can let her go. What else?”
“Bourdon and Thurmond are clean. The doorman confirms the time they left and Bourdon’s upstairs neighbor claims they were having such a ball they were keeping him from sleeping at just about the time the murder was committed. Should I turn them loose too?”
“Might as well.”
“And, oh yeah,” Connors added, “Golden’s here; he’s waiting in the squad room.”
“He’ll have to wait until I’m through with the three kooks.”
“Why don’t you try tackling them separately, instead of all together?” Connors suggested. “They might be more likely to talk than with the others listening.”
“Sometimes, Connors, you don’t have bad ideas. l will give that a try. Stand by, I may need you.” Durango went back into the interrogation room.
“. . . The luck o’ the Irish? Sure, an’ there’s no such thing,” Kevin Francis Connery was saying as Durango re-entered.
“Why do you say that, Connery?” Durango plunged right into the conversation.
“Sure, an’ aren’t you the proof of it? In a city full o’ friendly, smilin’ Irish cops, if there was anythin’ at all to an Irishman havin’ luck, would I be sittin’ here bein’ persecuted by a dark, Latin type the likes o’ you?”
“I’m sorry you don’t approve of my ethnic background, Connery,” Durango said bitingly. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. I’ll turn you over to one of those friendly, smiling Irish cops and we’ll see if he can get any further with you than I have.” Durango went to the door. “Connors,” he called, “come in here, will you?”
“What’s up, Tomas?” Connors looked at the three suspects seated around the table.
“I’d like you to meet Kevin Francis Connery. Mr. Connery feels that an officer of Irish extraction might be more sympathetic to him. Connors-Connery,” Durango mused. “Judging from the similarity in names, you two must have an ancestor in common somewhere back through the years. That practically makes you kinsmen. You should have no trouble at all getting a real rapport going. Take him into a nice quiet corner of the squad room, Sergeant Connors, and see if you can’t get a little meaningful conversation.”
“Sure, an’ we’ll get along just foine an’ dandy.” Sergeant Connors mimicked Connery’s brogue as he put an arm around his shoulders and led him out.
“You two wait here,” Durango told Cora Williams and Reggie Ivers. “I’ll be right back.” He walked back to the jail cells at the rear of the stationhouse.
Debbie Smith was awake and pacing the floor of her cell like a caged tigress. “just how long do I have to stay in this fleabag?” she demanded furiously when she saw Durango.
“Process your soul in patience, sweetie. You’re a lucky girl. There are no charges against you and you’re not officially under arrest. You’re just being cooperative.”
“I’m tired of being cooperative. I think maybe I should call a lawyer.”
“Now what do you want to be that way for? You call a lawyer and then we have to book you.”
“What’s the difference? I may not be under arrest, but I’m still in jail. What are you doing, just keeping me around until you’ve got the time to go to bed with me?”
“That’s the one bright thought in what’s been a pretty dismal day,” Durango replied, looking at her with self-satisfied lechery. “But, that’ll have to wait,” he added regretfully. “Right now, what I want from you is your help.”
“What kind of help?” Debbie was suspicious.
“The kind you’re best at. Back at ye auld scene of the crime before, you were all hot to play detective. Now I’m going to give you the chance to do it and put the talents of your harlotry to work at the same time.”
“Watch who you’re calling names.” Debbie sulked a moment. Then —“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“I’ve got a fellow there named Reggie Ivers whose big weakness is women.”
“Yeah. I remember him from the tapes. He thinks he’s a real Lothario.”
“Exactly. I want you to encourage him in that opinion. I'm going to have him stuck in this cell with you and I want you to milk him the best way you know how—and I’ll bet you know lots of ways.”
“Wait a minute! Is that ethical?“ Debbie asked.
“Whose ethics are you talking about? Yours, or mine?”
“Yours, of course. I make it my business not to have any. But is it ethical for a cop to try to pull something like this?”
“Nope,” Durango admitted cheerfully. “Will you do it?”
“I guess so.” Debbie shrugged. “What have I got to lose?”