“Just that it had been born, and it was a boy.”
“What else?”
She laid a hand on her heart, as if to quiet it. Frank figured it was pounding like a trip-hammer. “That . . . that they were all mad at Nainsi, because they didn’t think Antonio was the father.”
“What did Dickie say to that?” Frank asked, the contempt in his voice thick.
“Nothing!” she claimed. “He just . . . he just wanted to know, that’s all.”
“Why would he even care about a thing like that?” Frank asked, watching her face carefully.
“I don’t know! Because she worked for him, I guess,” she tried. “He was just . . . interested.”
“Oh, he was interested all right. He wanted to know how long it had been since he’d slept with her until her baby came. He wanted to know if it was his.”
“No!” she cried fiercely. “It couldn’t have been his!”
“Why not?” Frank asked with interest.
“Because he doesn’t—” She caught herself, too embarrassed to speak of such things to a stranger.
“I know he doesn’t,” Frank assured her. “He’s usually real careful, but not with Nainsi. He had a little slip with Nainsi, you see. That’s why he wanted to know when her baby was born, so he’d know if it was his.”
“He didn’t love her,” Brigit insisted. “He didn’t love any of them!”
“Does he love you?” Frank asked curiously.
“Yes, he does!” Her swollen eyes glowed with pride.
“He’s going to marry me, too.”
Frank couldn’t help the wave of pity he felt for her.
“Don’t you know he’s already married?”
“His wife’s real sick, though,” she informed him. “She’s going to die, and then we’ll be married.”
This was all very interesting, but not getting him any closer to solving Nainsi’s murder. Frank gave himself a little shake. “Congratulations,” he said sarcastically. “Meantime, tell me the rest of what happened the night the baby was born.”
“Nothing happened!”
He raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Does that mean you spoke to him, and then you all went straight home to bed?”
“No, we . . . we just . . . We danced a little. Dickie wasn’t real happy that night. He kept staring off at nothing, like he was thinking about something real hard. I know he was thinking about her.”
“Nainsi?”
“No, his wife,” she corrected him testily. “Why would he think about Nainsi?”
“Because he was afraid she’d just had his baby, and the Ruoccos were going to throw her out, and she was going to end up on his doorstep asking for money.”
Brigit didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but she was thoroughly frightened. “Even Nainsi wouldn’t be that stupid!”
“Wouldn’t she? Well, it doesn’t matter now because she’s dead. What I want to know is how long did Dickie stay with you?”
“As long as he always does. He has to be home by midnight, so he left a little before. He checks his pocket watch all the time to make sure he’s not late. He doesn’t want to worry her. She’s sick, like I said.”
“He’s very considerate.”
“Yes, he is.”
Frank figured Brigit missed the irony. Well, at least he’d established Keith’s alibi for the entire night. Too bad. He would’ve liked to see a man like that sit down in Old Sparky, New York’s new electric chair. He’d just have to hope there was a special place in hell for people like Dickie Keith.
Frank was just about to tell Brigit to get herself cleaned up and off to her job when they heard a scream. Frank ducked out onto the landing, looking up and down to see if he could tell from what direction it had come.
“Murder!” someone was screaming from above. “Help, somebody! It’s murder!”
11
Frank set off up the stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time he reached the top floor, people had started emerging from their flats, eyes wide with curiosity and fear. A middle-aged woman stood in front of a half-opened door wailing in terror. Then he saw which door it was, and he groaned.
Frank showed his badge, and the woman pointed. “All that blood! She’s dead, ain’t she?”
He pushed the door open all the way and peered in. The first thing he saw was the sprays of blood all over the wall.
The metallic smell filled his nostrils. Mrs. O’Hara sat in the same chair she’d occupied when he’d called on her a few days ago. The ties she’d been sewing were still spread on the table, only now the woman was slumped over them. Her dark blood had stained them, pooled on the tabletop, and spilled onto the floor.
He stepped back and pulled the door closed behind him.
When he turned, he saw a sea of horrified faces staring at him, waiting for him to make sense of it. Brigit had followed him up the stairs. She stood on the landing, her tear-blotched face now a ghostly white.
“Somebody go find a beat cop,” he said, using the tone that demanded obedience. No one moved, so Frank pointed at a young man. “You!” he said sharply. The fellow turned tail and fairly flew down the steps.
“Ain’t you gonna help her?” the woman who had been screaming demanded desperately.
“No one can help her now. Are you the one who found her?”
The woman’s eyes were unfocused. She was probably in shock. “We go to the market every Friday, but she didn’t come down, so I come up to get her,” she said in wonder.
“When she didn’t answer, I opened the door . . .” She swayed, and one of the other women caught her before she fell. Several others hurried to get her into a neighboring flat.
“Why’d anybody want to kill Mrs. O’Hara?” Brigit asked Frank.
Frank could think of a lot of reasons, and those reasons pointed to several people in particular. He was beginning to think things might finally be falling into place.
The medical examiner had been looking around the room and at the body for much longer than Frank’s patience would permit.
“How long does it take to figure out somebody cut her throat?” he asked with annoyance.
Dr. Haynes gave him a jaundiced look. “Not long, since they told me that before I even left my office,” he said, matching Frank’s tone. “I thought you’d like to know how it happened, too, or am I wasting my time?”
“All right, you win. How did it happen?” Frank asked wearily.
“Looks like she was sitting here at the table, working on these . . . ties, are they?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Somebody came up behind her. Probably, he grabbed her by the hair. See how it’s all sticking up on top there, like somebody pulled it?”
Frank nodded.
“He pulled her head back.” The doc pretended to be grabbing himself by the hair on his head with his left hand and pulling it back. “Then he sliced her throat from behind.” He made as if he were holding a knife and drawing it across his throat from left to right.
“Doesn’t look like she put up much of a fight,” Frank observed.
“He probably snuck up behind her and took her by surprise. Maybe the door was open, and he just walked in. Or maybe it was somebody she knew who’d come to call, and she never expected him to grab her from behind and cut her throat.”
“Not many people expect that.”
“It’s a messy way to kill someone,” the doc added, pointing at the blood sprayed on the wall in front of where Mrs.
O’Hara had been sitting.
“So he would’ve had blood all over him?” Frank asked.
“Not likely, doing it from behind like that. The blood would shoot out in front. He’d get some on his hand and maybe his sleeve, but that’s about all. When he let her go, she was still alive for a minute or two. She’d be sitting up, bleeding on everything, and then she slumped down on the table when she died. Killer would’ve been long gone by the time the blood started dripping onto the floor, so he didn’t step in it, either.”