“That’s all right,” Quinn said, as if Sanderson had been seeking reassurance. “I’m here about something else. A woman was badly beaten last night, not far from where you live.” He watched Sanderson’s reaction. He’d know the beating took place a long walk or subway ride away from his apartment.
Sanderson maintained his poker face and shrugged. “Well, it ain’t the safest neighborhood. I’m thinking about moving.”
Quinn stared at him. “Let’s talk about this out in the lobby.”
“Sure. But remember I’m working. We’ve gotta finish this up in another few hours.”
“This won’t take long.”
“That’s what they tell you when they hang you.”
Quinn guessed that was a joke and managed a smile. He remembered a woman who’d hanged herself in her bedroom years ago and hadn’t done a good job. It had taken her long, agonizing hours to die in a noose that was too loose, at the end of a rope that was too short. He thought that people who killed themselves had a responsibility to give it some thought first. They owed it to whoever was going to find the body.
The lobby was angular and carpeted in red. Though there was enough glass to qualify it as a greenhouse, the brightness was intensified by overhead track lighting. There was a low black sofa along one wall, but neither man moved to sit down. Quinn got what he wanted, a close look at Sanderson’s face in good light. There was no sign of scratches or gouges, or of makeup covering any. This wasn’t the man Weaver had clawed.
But that didn’t mean he hadn’t had something to do with the assault.
“We gotta have time to get those restrooms cleaned,” Sanderson said, pointing to a door with the international symbol of a woman in a skirt standing squarely as if she were in a snit.
“You’ll have it,” Quinn said. “Where were you between seven and ten last night?”
Sanderson rubbed his chin, making a show of trying to remember. “I don’t know if I could tell you exactly, but around seven-thirty or so I went out for a walk. I was gone quite a while.”
“What’s a while?”
“I dunno. Maybe two, three hours.”
“You’re quite a walker.”
“Yeah. It helps to get rid of stress.”
“What’s stressing you?”
“Same things stressing lots of people. Getting by, getting around, stretching a buck, holding on to a job because it’s not easy to get another one if you’ve spent time behind the walls.”
“Woman trouble?”
“Huh?”
“You didn’t mention woman trouble.”
“Right now, I ain’t got any. Not that I didn’t have lots of it once. But you know all about that.”
“Not all, maybe.”
Sanderson shrugged one shoulder beneath his gray uniform. “Well. ..”
“Anybody see you during this walk?”
“Sure. Hundreds, I suppose. You know New York. But I doubt if any of them would remember me.” Sanderson smiled. “I mean, I don’t remember any of them, do I?”
“Did you go in someplace and get a cup of coffee? Maybe stop to buy a newspaper or magazine?”
Sanderson took a long time to answer, putting on another show of searching his memory. “No, I didn’t stop or do anything that anyone might remember.”
“These walks you take, do you have any sort of destination when you set out?”
“Never. That’s part of why they relieve stress.”
“Do you ever pick somebody at random and follow them? Just for something to do?”
Sanderson appeared shocked by the conversational swerve. “Follow somebody? No, that’s nutty.”
Quinn smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He held out his hand for Sanderson to shake. “You can get back to work. Thanks for your time.”
“Sure.” Sanderson shook the proffered hand.
But Quinn didn’t let go. He tightened his grip slowly and powerfully. Not as tight as he might. Just letting Sanderson know he could easily crush all his fingers. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with a woman getting beaten up last night, would you?”
Sanderson was too proud to show any sign that his hand hurt. He’d learned in prison not to reveal vulnerability. “It wasn’t that cop, Pearl, that got worked over, was it?”
“Why would you think so?”
“I don’t think so. I’m asking ’cause I don’t know. I kind of liked Pearl, is all. She was nice. I wouldn’t wanna think somebody beat the shit out of her.” He took a deep breath and let it out, but still didn’t change expression. “Say, you wouldn’t mind letting go of my hand, would you?”
Quinn acted surprised that he was still clasping Sanderson’s hand. “Oh, sorry.” He turned the hand loose.
Sanderson grinned. “I need that hand for work.”
“And, since you don’t have any woman trouble right now, not just for that.” Quinn winked and turned to leave.
“Thinking about Pearl,” Sanderson said.
Quinn felt a stab of anger and turned back around.
“You never answered me whether it was Pearl that got beat up last night,” Sanderson said.
“Somebody else,” Quinn said.
“Good. If something happened to Pearl, I’d wanna know myself who had a hand in it.”
Quinn stared at Sanderson, wondering if the little bastard was quicker off the mark than he seemed.
“I better get back to sweeping up,” Sanderson said.
Quinn nodded. “That’d be your best bet.”
As he left the YMCA, Quinn had a better understanding of why Weaver thought Sanderson might be worth watching.
However, Weaver was probably wrong. There was no doubt about Sanderson’s alibi for the night of Judith Blaney’s murder. And for that matter, no doubt that he wasn’t the man who assaulted Weaver. Sanderson was just another smalltime ex-con with a devious streak and a healthy skepticism, probably a fraction as smart as he saw himself.
Weaver had been right in her suspicions but wrong in her conclusion.
Exactly what Quinn had spent much of his life trying to avoid.
Still, Quinn had respect for intuitive reasoning, and Weaver had demonstrated that quality in other investigations.
It might be a good idea to put a tail on Sanderson for a while.
To make sure.
55
Verna Pound was past the point of waiting until no one was looking. She simply walked up to the wire trash receptacle, which was chained to a light pole at the corner, and began poking through its contents. She saw a roach skitter away from a white foam box. It was the small kind that wouldn’t accommodate much food, but well worth a look.
She scooted the roach farther away with the backs of her fingers, and opened the box.
It contained half a hamburger and another cockroach. This cockroach took its leave even before Verna could brush it away or whisk the chewed hamburger and bun from it.
She was grateful. Even if she found nothing more, this was enough food to hold her until breakfast tomorrow morning at the chapel.
She hunched her body around the foam container and limped away from the trash barrel. Her plan was to find a safe place to sit down, eat her meal along with the third-full bottle of wine she’d bought from a friend, and then walk across town to the shelter. She’d rest a few blocks from the shelter and see if she could beg a few more dollars. It was best to get a jump on her tomorrows, assuming she could hide the money safely from the thieves that came in the night. That was a problem at the shelters. That and sex. Why any of those sickos would want to force sex on the sorts of poor and battered women who slept in such places was beyond Verna’s comprehension. And it was absurd that any of the street women would want anything to do with the homeless and hapless-and bathless-men who bedded down at the shelters. Dirt and desperation were mood breakers. Not to mention hunger.
There were exceptions, of course. On her better days, Verna liked to think of herself as one. And perhaps inside his ragged clothes and dirt-smeared exterior was a man worth knowing. One who could see beyond Verna’s exterior to the beauty inside.
Some women-or maybe all women-never gave up hope.