stuck his head out. His eyes met Worthington's and locked. He stared at the producer with contempt.
"You?" Worthington said incredulously, perplexed and dazed at his misfortune.
"Whatever happened to 'live and let live'?" T.S. asked him, turning away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was light outside by the time Santos reappeared. Even T.S. had been asleep for several hours. They raised their groggy heads in response to his disgustingly cheerful greeting and tried without success to conceal yawns. Auntie Lil's curls were flattened on one side of her head but sprang out in clumps of wild disarray on the other side, making her look a bit deranged. Rather than alert her to this fact, T.S. surreptitiously ran his fingers through his own hair, forcing his thick locks back into place. Herbert and Lilah looked remarkably intact, though sleepy.
The first thing they all noticed was that Detective Santos held a thick sheath of notes in one hand. The second thing—at the moment, more important—was that Billy was right behind him bearing a box full of goodies from the Delicious Deli. He smiled and laid out fresh coffee, cappuccino and pastries on the table. Without a word, he nodded good morning and left to return to his work.
"Born and bred in Hell's Kitchen," Santos reminded them proudly. "People like him are the neighborhood, understand? Not these jerks." He threw his papers on the table and took his time selecting a large pineapple pastry. Then he pried the top off a cup of steaming black coffee and sighed. "We don't know everything," he admitted. "But we know most of it. If I tell you, do you promise to go home and leave me alone?"
Auntie Lil ignored the question. "What don't you know?" she asked instead.
"We still don't know Emily's real name," the detective admitted sadly. "But I think we have enough to go on now. Trust us. It's just a matter of time."
Still no name for Emily? Auntie Lil was disappointed and her face showed it.
"Maybe the column will help," T.S. consoled her.
"Column?" Santos stared pointedly at Auntie Lil.
"Well, tell us what you do know," she demanded, ignoring his question and flapping a hand at him impatiently.
Santos took his time chewing his pastry and surveyed her carefully. "You mean you want to know the whole story?" he asked idly, teasing her. At last, he held the upper hand. And he was going to make her pay.
Auntie Lil glared and Detective Santos pushed a cup of cappuccino across the table to her with a laugh. "Sit back and relax, Miss Hubbert," he told her. "This may take a while." Shuffling his notes, he cleared his throat with exaggerated care and began:
"For starters, 'The Eagle,' as you call him, is singing like a canary. But Lance Worthington is not. We can't even get Emily's real name out of him. If he knows it. However, like I say, that's just a matter of time. And we have been able to fill in some details, thanks to his girlfriend, Sally St. Claire. Who, surprisingly enough, really is named Sally St. Claire and appears to be a not very bright girl from Des Moines who came to the Big Apple and went bad. I would not want her for my girlfriend. Loyalty is not her strongest suit. Neither are hearts.
"Who is this man we call The Eagle, also known as the lovely Leteisha Swann?" Santos was enjoying his moment in the spotlight and milking it for everything he could get. "Apparently, he is Rodney Combs, a not very productive member of society who comes to New York via Los Angeles where, by the way, he left behind two dead friends, five outstanding felony warrants and a record as long as your nose, Miss Hubbert. Which is saying a lot. He is not a nice man and, apparently, an even nastier woman. He works for himself, so to speak, to pick up pocket change. He also does some very odd jobs for his landlord and part-time employer, Mr. Lance Worthington.
"Now, who is Lance Worthington?" The detective sipped at his coffee while he stared at some notes. "This is a more difficult question. He has no record and appears to be a legitimate, if marginally successful, producer of plays. He made a bit of money fifteen years ago on some Oh, Calcutta! rip-off that had actors disrobing all over the stage. He's spent the last decade or so trying to emulate his one success. From what we can piece together, he has lately turned to