‘I like coffee mugs, myself,’ said Mallory.
‘Oh, so do I.’ The woman smiled as she pulled two ceramic mugs from hooks on the wall, then set them on the table.
‘Maybe it’s a clerical error.’ Mallory held up a photocopy of the ownership transfer. ‘This says you purchased the building from the estate of Anna Sorenson.’
Alice White, carafe in hand, hovered over the paper and read the pertinent line. ‘No, that’s definitely a mistake.’ She poured their coffee, then sat down across the table. ‘I didn’t buy the house. Anna Sorenson was my grandmother. She willed it to me.’
‘And you visited your grandmother – when you were a little girl.’ Ten seconds crawled by, yet Mallory did nothing to prompt the woman. She sipped her coffee and waited out the silence.
‘Yes.’ Alice White said this as a confession. ‘I was here that summer.’
Their eyes met.
‘The summer Natalie died.’ Her hands wormed around a sugar bowl and she pushed it toward Mallory. ‘The coffee’s too strong, isn’t it? Norwegians make it like soup.’ She reached for a carton of cream. ‘Would you like some – ’
‘No, it’s fine.’
And now it begins, Alice.
‘So, the last time you saw Natalie Homer – ’
‘I was twelve.’ Mrs White made a small production of pouring the cream carton into a pitcher, buying time to hunt for the right words. ‘She was so pretty – like a movie star. That’s what my grandmother said. Natalie gave me her old lipsticks and a pair of high heels.’
‘So you spent some time with her. Did she talk about herself?’
‘No – not much.’ Alice White was so rattled, she stirred her coffee, though she had added neither cream nor sugar. ‘I know her people were from the old country, but not Natalie. My grandmother said her Norwegian wasn’t good.’ The woman forced a bright smile. ‘I don’t speak a word myself. My parents only used it when they didn’t want me to know what they were saying. So when Natalie spoke Norwegian to Gram, I knew I was missing all the good stuff.’
Mallory shuffled her papers, then handed the woman another document. ‘This is a copy of Natalie’s marriage certificate. Her maiden name was an odd one, Qualen. That’s Norwegian?’
‘Never heard of it.’ Alice White stared at the certificate. ‘Maybe it’s a corruption. A lot of foreign names were changed at Ellis Island. I bet the original spelling was Kv instead of Qu. But that still wouldn’t make it a common name.’
‘Good,’ said Mallory. ‘That’ll make it easier to trace her family. It would help if I knew what state they live in. The only next-of-kin we have is a sister in Brooklyn. And she hates cops.’
‘So did my grandmother. She said they were all thieves. They were always ticketing the building for fake violations. Then Gram would give them some cash and – ’ She gave Mallory a weak sorry smile, suddenly remembering that her guest was also police. ‘But that was a long time ago. I’ve never had any problems like – ’
‘Can you remember anything that would tie Natalie to relatives out of state?’
‘I think she came from Racine, Wisconsin. My parents live there, and Gram asked Natalie if she knew them.’
Mallory reached for a folded newspaper at the edge of the table. It was days old. She opened it to the front-page picture of Sparrow being loaded into an ambulance. ‘Can we talk about this now?’
Alice White’s eyes were begging, Please don’t.
‘You knew the police would come.’ Mallory pushed the newspaper across the table. ‘This hanging was a lot like Natalie’s -the hair cut off and packed in her mouth. When you read the paper, you recognized the details. That’s why you were expecting me. I know you saw Natalie’s body. We have a statement from the police officer who saw you in the hall with another kid, a little boy. How old was he?’
‘Six or seven.’ Alice White was mistaking Mallory’s guesswork for absolute certainty. She showed no surprise, only the resignation of a true believer in police omniscience.
‘The two of you saw everything,’ said Mallory, ‘before Officer Parris chased you away.’
The woman nodded. ‘Officer Sticky Fingers. That’s what Gram called him. Or maybe that was the other one.’ She looked up. ‘Sorry – the cops in uniforms – ’
‘They all look alike. I know. So you saw everything, the hair, and the – ’
‘I can still see it.’
‘Who was the little boy? Your brother?’
‘No, I never knew his name. Gram found him wandering in the hall. She took him inside and went through all the stuff in his little suitcase. I remember she found a phone number, but there was nobody home when she called.’
‘Why didn’t she turn him over to the cops?’
‘She’d never – ’ Mrs White shrugged. ‘Like I said, Gram hated the police. She’d never trust them with a child, not that one. You see, there was something wrong with the boy. He couldn’t talk, or he wouldn’t. Well, my grandmother figured somebody must be expecting him for a visit – because of the little suitcase. When she opened it up, everything was still neatly packed. He smelled bad -I think he’d messed in his pants. Gram gave him a bath and changed his clothes. Then she went from door to door, all over the building, the whole neighborhood.’
‘So you were alone with the boy when the cops showed up.’
‘Yes. My grandmother was the one who called the police, but it took them forever to get here. This awful smell was coming from next door. Gram was just frantic. She had a key to Natalie’s place, but it didn’t work. A few hours after Gram left, I heard the cops out in the hall. One of them yelled, „Oh, God, no!“ ‘
‘And you were curious.’
‘You bet. More police showed up, men in suits. One of the men in uniform was guarding the apartment and shooing people away.
I waited till he walked down the hall to talk to a neighbor. Then I went to Natalie’s door. It was wide open.’
‘And the boy was with you.’
‘I was holding his hand. Gram told me not to leave him alone. Well, I saw the body hanging there – but it didn’t look like Natalie. Her eyes and that beautiful long hair – it was just – ’ Alice White took a deep breath. ‘And the roaches – they were crawling down the rope to get at her. The men just left her hanging there while they took their pictures. Then another policeman chased us off.’
‘What happened to the little boy?’
‘That night, a man came to take him away.’
‘Did you recognize him?’
‘No, I was in bed. I only heard the voices in the other room. I think Gram knew him. Or maybe she tried that telephone number again, the one she found in the suitcase. Yes, she must’ve talked to him on the phone. He didn’t have to say who he was when he came to the door.’
‘Did you tell your grandmother what you and the boy – ’
‘God, no. Gram would’ve been so angry. She told me to take care of that boy – not give him nightmares for the rest of his life.’
Charles Butler was no stranger to Brooklyn. He frequently made the trek to this outer borough for a poker game with friends. However, like any good New Yorker, he only knew his habitual routes. Before Riker had allowed his driver’s license to lapse, every other road had been a mystery, even this broad avenue along Prospect Park.
He waited in his car as the detective crossed the street and joined two uniformed policemen standing by a squad car. They were too far away for Charles to hear any conversation, and so he eavesdropped on their body language.
One of the officers shrugged to say, Sorry. Riker’s hands rose in exasperation, and he must have uttered at least one obscenity, for now the officer’s hands went to his hips to say, Hey, it’s not our fault. Behind dark glasses, the slouching detective stared at one man and then the other, giving them no clue to his thoughts. Suddenly both officers were talking with upturned hands, offering new forms of Sorry, probably accompanied by a mollifying sir. In an economy of motion, Riker waved one hand to say, Awe, the hell with it, then turned his back, dismissing them both. He was one very unhappy man when he slid into the front seat of the Mercedes.