know. They live very close to that life and it's frightening to see them go over to the other side. Yet, you have to admire their verve at taking it on, if only as a temporary disguise."
"She said she could fool anyone," T.S. repeated. "And I bet she could."
Auntie Lil was quiet, considering his words. T.S. caught on and fell silent as well.
"She could fool anyone," Auntie Lil admitted. "Perhaps we would do well to remember that."
"Did you get Santos?" he asked. The thought of one little old lady murdering another was depressing, but did nothing to squelch his appetite. His plate arrived and he dived right in. He was hungry. Watching Auntie Lil eat often had that effect.
"He's going to send some men to canvass the apartment building again. This time they'll check every apartment, not just the one we think is Emily's. If The Eagle's there, they'll find him. But I heard something else that's intriguing."
"What?" he asked, hurrying through his pork chops before Auntie Lil decided she was hungry again.
"Bob Fleming of Homefront has obtained information that a sinister, wealthy man in a black limousine was riding around the neighborhood three nights ago, flashing photographs of Emily dead. Where did he get those photos? What is he doing with them? The young black boy in Emily's photos, Little Pete, saw the man. He was frightened and ran away."
T.S. stared at her, mouth open and pork chops forgotten.
"For heaven's sake, Theodore. Close your mouth when you chew."
"Auntie Lil," T.S. said, horrified. "He's talking about me." Unwillingly, a flush crept up his neck and across his face. "When I stopped to get the photos developed, I had to do it at Times Square. It was the only place open. A young black kid was in the crowd. He saw me and ran away."
Auntie Lil stared at him. "You might have told me this earlier. Didn't you recognize the child when you saw the photos in Emily's apartment?"
"No, I did not. Remember, I did say I thought I had seen him before."
He cut into his pork chop with defensive energy. "Besides, the kid I saw on the street looked a hell of a lot older and wiser than the kid in the photograph."
"It's the same one. I hope to meet and talk with him today."
"Well, then, you'd better keep an eye out," T.S. warned. "So far as I'm concerned neither of these kids is much of a kid. Either one of them, or both of them, might have set Emily up. So watch your step."
It was the most depressing theory yet.
CHAPTER TEN
It felt strange to be back in his apartment in the middle of the afternoon. The television stood, dark and cold, in one corner of his living room—now nothing more than a reminder of his past boredom. He passed by it without so much as a glance. It was the telephone he was after. Maybe it was just an excuse to get to see her—and maybe it was a wild goose chase—but if it was a choice between spending time with Lilah and being ordered around by Auntie Lil, he had no trouble reaching a decision.
He reached Lilah on his first attempt and she quickly agreed to clear her schedule and be a part of his plans to learn more about Lance Worthington.
"You are much more than a prop," he assured her formally. "I don't want you to think I'm just using you and your money. Your presence will be essential to my morale."
She laughed merrily, although he had not intended to be funny. He was vaguely embarrassed, but relief took its place when she promised, "I'll be there if you need me."
The next phone call would be harder as it required a host of lies and, despite his Peter Pan performance earlier, T.S. was basically scrupulously honest and thus not a good liar at all.
He located the number easily enough, took a deep breath, told himself he was as good a fabricator as Auntie Lil any day, and dialed.
The breathy redhead answered on the first ring. She had been expecting a call from one of her many admirers. "Broadway Backers," she cooed. "Home of tomorrow's hits. How may I help you?"
"Lance Worthington," T.S. demanded in a deep executive voice. "And hurry. I'm returning his call and I've got another appointment on tap."
"Certainly, sir," she replied promptly. "Whom may I tell him is calling?"
T.S. winced at her affectation. Correct grammar did not excuse an improper voice. But even worse,