C. Lawrence: Silent Stalker

“Could be,” Mrs. Chen replied. “Old people up early.”

“Like us,” said Louie with a grin, displaying a set of broad, yellowing teeth.

His wife gave a disapproving frown. “Not so old-run business, take care of grandchildren, work all day long!”

Louie looked at the two men and shrugged, as if to say, Women-what can you do?

To Lee’s surprise, Butts smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re not so old, not in my book.”

After refusing another serving of tea and moon cakes, Lee and Butts left the Chens to interview the other tenants in the building. They began with Mrs. Mingelone, who lived on the second floor. Unfortunately, she was a rather addled person-kindly and eager to help, but forgetful and easily flustered. Perhaps the presence of the police in her apartment was too much for her-she offered them gingerbread cookies three times, apparently having forgotten that she had already done so. Lee thought her behavior indicated early stages of dementia.

Sitting with them at her kitchen table, Mrs. Mingelone tried valiantly to be helpful. “Mindy only moved in about six months ago,” she offered, wringing her hands. Her knobby knuckles were swollen with arthritis, the skin dry as parchment. She wore a faded housedress and fuzzy pink slippers, but had slapped some bright red lipstick on her thin lips. From time to time she fussed with her hair, which she wore in a loose chignon. Lee felt sorry for this sweet, muddled old woman, alone in her Hell’s Kitchen apartment, and was glad to see family pictures stacked three deep on top of the bookshelf in the hall.

“You ever see her with a boyfriend?” Butts asked after refusing a third offer of homemade cookies.

Mrs. Mingelone shook her head slowly. “No… I don’t think I ever saw her with anyone. Except once, another woman-older, I think, another theatre type.”

“How so?” asked Butts.

“Well, she was dramatic, you know-the way they are. Looked like she had put her outfit together from bits and pieces of costumes she found in thrift shops.”

“You get a name?”

“It was exotic-Devonia, Camellia, Carlotta, something like that. Mindy introduced me. She thinks I’m lonely, but I’m not. I can’t stand it when people think just because you’re old it means you’re lonely. Know what I mean?”

“Sure,” said Butts. “Anything else you remember that might be useful? Anyone in the building who looked like they didn’t belong, or who you’d never seen before?”

Mrs. Mingelone broke off a piece of cookie and popped it in her mouth. Bits of crumbs clung to her mouth, brown punctuation marks on the cherry-red lips. “I don’t think so… only that nice young man who carried my grocery bags for me.”

“When was that?” asked Butts.

“Last night, when I got home from the store. I was struggling to get out my keys, and he just seemed to come out of nowhere. Very sweet, made sure I got up to my apartment.”

The detective’s expression didn’t change, but Lee noted the subtle adjustment in body language indicating he was on high alert.

“And you never saw him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What time?”

“It was late-I volunteer at the library, you know, and it’s open late on Thursdays. I had a bite to eat and did some shopping afterwards. It was after eleven.”

Lee did the math in his head. Mindy was attacked between eleven and twelve, according to Okorie, which meant her killer would have had plenty of time to wait for her, behind the staircase, across from the Chens’ apartment.

“Can you describe him?” Butts asked.

Mrs. Mingelone looked puzzled. “Well, I suppose I can try, but I don’t think-I mean, he was such a nice boy.”

They always are, Lee thought, until they murder someone.

“Sure,” Butts said, “but we have to check out every lead.”

“Of course, Detective,” she said, blushing. For a moment the years fell away and Lee saw the shy young woman she had been-rather lovely, with her large, dark eyes and delicate nose, though she had the kind of bone structure that hadn’t aged well. “I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look at him.”

“Just tell us what you can remember.”

“He wasn’t tall-solidly built, though… He had strong hands.”

“Any facial hair?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Eyes? Hair color?”

“He was wearing a hat. Pale, though, I believe. Caucasian.”

“Would you be willing to go down to the station and work with a police sketch artist?”

“I don’t know how helpful it would be, but I suppose so.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Mingelone,” Butts said, rising from the table.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cookie?” she asked, waving the plate in front of Lee.

“Sure,” he said, taking one. “Thanks.”

The other tenants were no more helpful. Shocked, stunned, and sad to hear the terrible news, but without insight into who might want poor Mindy dead. She seemed to be well liked but not very well known. No one had seen her with a boyfriend; she seemed to be a hardworking girl who was always on her way to work or rehearsals. Butts did manage to get the name of the company she acted with, a group specializing in classic revivals, the Noble Fools Theatre Troupe. They were residents of a little off-Broadway place just off Eighth Avenue, so Butts decided to make that their next stop.

But the only thing they had approaching an actual lead so far was Mrs. Mingelone’s helpful grocery bag boy. As they ventured back out into the damp chill of February, Lee thought it didn’t seem like much.

The Noble Fools performed in a tiny black box theatre on the second floor of a commercial building on West Fifty-fourth Street. As he trudged up the drafty staircase, Lee wondered what it was about theatre that lured people into a life that was anything but glamorous. The theatre was cramped and claustrophobic, with no windows. The bare brick walls were covered on one side with a black felt curtain, and a rickety-looking spinet piano listed to one side on the raised stage. Lee figured the place could fit fifty people on a good night. At least the seating looked comfortable-rows of old-fashioned plush movie house seats, probably snatched up during the demise of the revival movie houses that had bitten the dust in the last few decades.

As they entered the theatre, a large red-haired woman in a purple flowered kimono swished toward them, trailing a cloud of sandalwood perfume. “Davillia Metcalfe-Smythe,” she purred, extending an extravagantly braceleted hand. “I’m the director. Can I help you?” Her accent was mid-Atlantic, artificially refined, reminiscent of film actors of the 1930s and ’40s.

“Detective Leonard Butts, NYPD,” Butts said, shaking her hand. The jewelry on her arm jingled like tiny bells, and her large round hoop earrings bobbed like buoys stranded in a sea of henna.

Everything about her was oversized, from her blowsy figure to the extreme shade of her abundant curly hair-bright crimson with purple overtones. Her skin was so white that Lee wondered if she was an albino, but the paint on her face made it impossible to tell. Her lips were a crimson Cupid’s bow, her arched eyebrows were penciled in an expression of permanent surprise, and mascara hung like Spanish moss from her eyelashes. Her nails matched her lipstick, and had been filed to a point, like talons. He imagined them ripping into flesh… actors probably watched their step around her. Even her name was too much. Davillia Metcalfe-Smythe. Who was she trying to impress?

But Detective Butts seemed unimpressed, grunting as she led them to seats in the audience section of the theatre.

“Now then, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” she asked, settling across from them in a canvas director’s chair. Lee wondered if her name was stenciled on the back.