on this building. Something is wrong and I don't like it at all."
They hurried out of the claustrophobic hallway and paused on the outside steps.
"Why in the world would that woman lie like that?" Auntie Lil wondered.
T.S. thought of what had been going on in the occupied sixth-floor apartment, and of the disarray in Emily's rooms. "I don't know. But it isn't good."
"Perhaps she got killed for her rent-controlled apartment?" Auntie Lil suggested. "I read about this case in the July True Detect… well, this periodical I have a subscription to, that told about a woman who was killed for that very reason."
"Killed for an apartment?" T.S. interrupted. "That's a bit extreme, even for New York City."
"People get killed for twenty-five cents in this town," Auntie Lil protested.
T.S. thought about it. "You're right. I'll find out who owns the building and we'll go from there."
"We should also start watching the building," Auntie Lil added. "And we need to talk to people at the soup kitchen ourselves."
"Then we need some more help," T.S. said firmly. "That's all there is to it. Whether the police believe us or not, we need someone else to watch this building while we poke around the neighborhood."
Just then, an Asian man passed by. He was wheeling a dolly cart loaded with boxes of fresh produce as he headed toward a corner fruit and vegetable stand. T.S. and Auntie Lil watched his progress down the block, then turned to one another in mutual inspiration.
"Herbert Wong," T.S. said, smiling because—for once—he'd beaten Auntie Lil to the punch.
"Herbert Wong," Auntie Lil agreed with relieved enthusiasm. "Herbert Wong is most definitely our man."
CHAPTER SIX
They had gotten no farther than a few feet down the block when a tall black woman sauntered past them. She was dressed in an orange mini-dress that barely covered her butt in back and was stretched to within a millimeter of popping at the sides. It hugged her ample chest tightly and had long sleeves pulled so far down her shoulders that they resembled matching gloves. Unfortunately, the effect was spoiled by a large rip under one of her arms that exposed a strip of coffee-colored skin and a ragged black-lace bra. The woman wore one dangling fake diamond earring and swung a small black purse in idle circles. Her makeup-smudged eyes were wide and vacant and she took no notice of either Auntie Lil or T.S. Passing them slowly, she promptly bumped into a trash can and careened right off without missing a beat. Her eyes closed a bit as she focused on a nearby building and she began to mutter beneath her breath while swatting at imaginary flies with the pocketbook.
Auntie Lil stared after her. "My goodness. I guess she dresses in the dark."
"She dresses for the dark," T.S. corrected her. He stared after the woman's lanky form. "She looks familiar. I think I've seen her before, too.
Auntie Lil surveyed her with distaste. "I can't imagine where," she finally said. "And if you remember, I don't think I even want to know."
T.S. was trying to figure out how someone could move as slowly without simply freezing into one position. "I think she's on drugs," he told Auntie Lil.
"I should hope so. There must be some excuse for that outfit."
As they watched her curiously, the woman peered up at the numbers of several buildings, then abruptly turned and picked up speed. Eyes fixed on the front door, she wobbled up the front stairs of Emily's apartment building, her body teetering dangerously close to the edge of the top step as she attempted to unlock the front door while balanced on high spike heels. She dropped her keys, bent over to pick them up and managed the task only after hiking her skintight dress nearly to her waist.
"She's wearing a girdle," T.S. observed. "Another inch and I'll tell you the brand."
"That despicable overgrown Peter Pan man said there was no one over thirty in the entire building," Auntie Lil said indignantly. "That woman is forty if she's a day."
"And she certainly gives new meaning to his contention that the whole building was in the business," T.S. added. "You wait here."
He crept up behind the woman and caught a whiff of stale liquor mixed with Giorgio perfume. He considered either scent vile in its own right, but the combination was as deadly as mustard gas. He took a step back, which was, unfortunately, downwind, and waited. No wonder she was wobbling, mixing her drink and drugs in