he must have been unconscious, or, at the very least, deeply asleep, to have missed an event as spectacular as Lilah undressing him.
He discovered the note taped to the bathroom mirror. "Dear Theodore," it read. "I've had an idea. I'm going to check on it and will stop by later. Don't worry about the pajamas. It was imperative that you change clothes. I promise I looked the other way."
Had it been anyone other than Lilah, T.S. would have been positively scandalized. As it was, it left a warm glow in his stomach, which was a sensation vastly preferable to the one it replaced.
He reread the note. An idea? What idea would be so important that she'd rush out early and forget her evening coat? And why was it imperative that he change clothes?
That puzzle, too, made his brain ache to contemplate. T.S. decided that what he really needed was an ice pack, more aspirin and a few more hours of sleep. On his way to the kitchen he noticed the answering machine. Its light blinked furiously, demanding to be noticed. When he rewound his messages, he discovered six from Auntie Lil, each one more incoherent than the last. She wanted all details, immediately, of the party and of his search at the Performing Arts Library the day before. But he simply did not have the energy to talk to anyone, much less his beloved but demanding aunt.
He erased the taped pleas, turned off the telephone, retrieved the largest cooking pot that he could find, and filled it with ice and water. He returned to the bedroom—followed by a satiated Brenda and Eddie—and drew the curtains tightly. The room grew dark and seemed instantly cooler. It was as peaceful as a church. He took a large towel and dipped it into the icy water, then draped it gratefully around his head.
He lay down stiffly in the center of his bed and arranged the pillow so that it hit just above his shoulders. His head lolled back gently, cradled in a cool balm. If he lay very, very still and pretended he was in the Bahamas, floating on a raft in a clear warm sea, the pounding in his temples actually faded to a dull throb.
With any luck, he'd survive whatever it was that he was going through. At least until Lilah returned to fill him in.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
All it took was a single sentence to the desk sergeant at Midtown North—"The old woman found in the river had jet black hair"—and Detective Santos was out in a flash. He did not look happy. In fact, he did not even look well. His tie was loosely knotted over a crumpled shirt, his eyes were red and bleary and his thick hair stood up in small wispy spikes.
"Not here," he said firmly, leading Auntie Lil toward a small set of stairs nearly hidden against one far wall. They ascended and maneuvered a narrow second-floor hallway that was littered with metal desks stacked at one end. At the very end of the hall, they reached a tiny room containing one small table with a scuffed plastic surface and three beat-up metal chairs. Piles of cleaning supplies dominated an entire wall.
"Charming," Auntie Lil joked but the detective's expression did not change. He was staring at her intently and his mouth was set in a small, unpleasant line.
"It's obvious you know who yesterday's floater was," he said grimly.
Inexplicably, Auntie Lil felt guilty and looked down at her shoes.
"I know who she is, too," the detective continued. "You see, we do some things right around here." He stared harder at Auntie Lil and she looked away. What was he leading up to, anyway?
"I called around the neighborhood shelters," he continued. "To see if anyone was missing. It was the same thing I did when your friend Emily was killed. Only this time I got lucky. I tracked her down to The Dwelling Place on Fortieth Street. The Franciscan sisters there were very worried. One of their residents had not returned the night before and the missing woman was usually very reliable."
"She lived in a shelter?"
"A shelter," he confirmed. "Not a bad one as shelters go, but a shelter just the same."
"Are you sure it was Eva La Louche?" Auntie Lil asked faintly. "I was under the impression the woman I'm seeking had her own apartment."
"It's the same woman," Detective Santos said angrily. "Jet black hair. Only her real name is Eva Stubbs. Which sounds a hell of a