There was no hassle about getting in. The guy went ahead, opened the door in the first-floor rear, then left. Pat flipped on the light, we both stood there like dummies, then Pat took the kitchen and I checked out the bedroom.
Ginnie Mathes had nothing much to brag about except maybe cleanliness. Her chief possessions were the clothes in her closet and two drawers of a dresser; to this estate, you could add a little portable TV and a clock radio and not much else. Everything was neatly arranged, the few items of food in the refrigerator fresh, and no garbage in the trash container.
Pat said, "This place has been turned."
"What?"
"Look at the rug."
I hadn't noticed, but it was in a pretty awkward position. Under the sink, the cabinet doors were slightly ajar and he nudged them open with his toe. I saw what he meant. A real tidy girl wouldn't have left them that way.
I shrugged. "Guess I've been away too long, Pat."
"Look at the bathroom."
That one was easy. Somebody had lifted the seat, taken a piss, and didn't flush.
I knew Pat was waiting to see what I'd do next, so I went over and looked at the lock on the door. There were no scratches on the metal, no marks on the woodwork, so I closed the door and leaned against it.
"Okay, Pat—it's a cheap lock and easy pickings, but at the least it was a minor pro job. I don't think they expected to find anything, because she was dead before they got here."
"All right then, Mike—what did she have on her before they got here?"
"Thirty-five bucks and tips in cash."
"Somebody was after more than a waitress's weekly pay and tips."
I caught his eyes and got the point. "This wasn't random."
"I'll make a detective out of you yet," he told me.
"Something big enough to kill for?"
"Come on, Mike. In this town anything is big enough to kill for."
I nodded. If the mugging had been deliberate, and the killer hadn't gotten what he was after, he still had the girl's address in her purse and figured she wouldn't be I.D.'d until the following day. So he had time to go over her place....
But what was he looking for?
"So whoever shook this place down," I said, "had a whole night to do it in."
Pat was thinking. "We don't buy the possibility that the mugging and a break-in here are two separate events?"
"No way."
"Then there's still something that bothers me."
"Street muggers and B-and-E guys are two different animals."
"Right on," he said. "The only time a mugger breaks and enters is when he's smashing a window in an abandoned building to flop for the night."
I was nodding. "That girl got off a shift after the supper hour on a pay night. It was something she had been doing for a long time. If some creep spotted her routine, saw an easy mark, and followed her just for the cash she had on her, that would be one thing."
"Only she's mugged well away from where she lived and worked," Pat said. "What was she doing there, in that combat zone?"
"That's the question."
"Still could be two people," Pat said. "A mugger is hired to grab her bag, and somebody else is hired to toss her apartment."
"That's three people—including whoever hired both of them. Unless it's somebody who did this all himself."
"Or herself."
"You can kid yourself and say Doolan is a suicide, Pat, but this is a murder."
"Of course it's murder..."
"Not a mugging murder—a murder that needs solving. Are you going to help?"
He raised his hands in surrender. "I'm simply going to make sure you get your fill of this before the system gets it sorted out the old-fashioned way."
I gestured around the sad little apartment. "Really? Then how come the captain of Homicide is messing with a chintzy kill like this?"
"Humoring an old friend. Ready to go over and see Ginnie Mathes's mother?"
I felt my eyebrows go up. "You've been doing your homework, little boy."
"Plain old-fashioned cop stuff, friend. Lots of manpower and the right questions."
Six blocks away, we made a call on Mrs. Lily Mathes, whose dead husband had left her an entire four-story brownstone. Three floors were rentals, so you might think she was well-off; but rent control meant it took Social Security, too, for her to manage a modest living.
Mrs. Mathes was a plump sixty-something in a dark blue dress that may have been as close to black as she had handy. Her white hair was mixed with remnants of the blonde that, along with her attractive face, she'd passed along to her late daughter.
That face wore no makeup at the moment—perhaps it never did or maybe she just was saving herself the trouble of having it run and smear. Her eyes were red, but dry.
She seemed almost glad to see us—maybe it was a relief just to have someone to talk to.
There wasn't much she could add to the picture. Her daughter had been living alone for over two years. During that time, Ginnie had several jobs as a waitress, moving on only when a place closed. No, her daughter had never been in trouble. As far as the mother knew, Ginnie dated once in a while, but lately whenever she had time off, she spent it taking dancing lessons someplace across town.
Pat said, "Did she ever dance professionally?"
"Oh, no," the seated woman told us. "She was too shy for that."
Pat glanced at me, but didn't mention anything about the cabaret license on her daughter. Some things were better left unsaid.
While Pat was getting background, I made a casual circuit of the room. Like most women her age, Lily had her family photos on display. Her late husband was in several with her, a few were of mother, father, and daughter growing up, and one was six snapshots of teenaged Ginnie in a homemade montage—Ginnie and a stocky, blonde-headed guy in two, and with a skinny, shorter guy in the other four.
Lily Mathes smiled when she saw me looking at them. "Those were taken right after Ginnie got out of high school."
"Boyfriends?"
"Oh, you know how girls are."
"Ginnie still see either of these boys?"
She waved a hand dismissively. "That blonde one, he's married and lives in Jersey now. Joseph Fidello, the other one? He's been gone a long time. I think he became a seaman."
When I put the picture back, she said, "I'm afraid you gentlemen are wasting your time. Nobody... nobody who knew Ginnie ... would ever... ever want to ... to hurt her."
A tissue-filled hand covered her eyes and she let her head droop. She went on: "It was just this ... this terrible city ... these awful muggings ... they happen all the time. It's like ... like living in hell."
I wasn't the best guy to give her an argument.
Pat bent over and took her hand gently. "Just one more thing. Did your daughter always walk home?"
"Yes. On nice nights. If it rained, she took a cab."
"On a nice night—would she go walking farther afield? Or take a cab somewhere, maybe to go to a restaurant or club, or see a boyfriend, and then walk by herself...?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Where they found her, Ginnie wasn't anywhere near her apartment. She wasn't near to her work."
"Yes, we know...."
"She would never, never go down a street like where they found her. They tell me it was all torn up and not a safe place at all. I knew my daughter. She'd never go down such an unsafe street."
We didn't have to go any further. We said a gentle goodbye and left.
Once outside, Pat said, "So what do you make of it?"
"Three possibilities," I said with a shrug. "Ginnie was going to meet somebody, she was trying to elude somebody, or somebody was chasing her."
"All for thirty-five bucks and tips?"