Manslaughter (Stanley Hastings Mystery, #15) Read online

  I tried not to be too effusive in my thanks.

  I followed Balfour up the Henry Hudson to where it turned into the Saw Mill River Parkway. That used to be a toll booth too, but it’s long gone. If my understanding is correct, what happened was the toll booth finally collected enough money to pay for the road, so they took it down.

  The mind boggles.

  Balfour kept going, took the Cross County Parkway east to the Hutchinson north, and got off in White Plains. He cruised around a few blocks of mid-to-upper-scale suburbia, and turned into the driveway of an ultramodern two-story monstrosity that might have served as a term project for some architectural student. One with a gentleman’s C.

  A Nissan Sentra and Ford station wagon were parked side by side in front of what appeared to be a garage—it was hard to tell, as the wall pattern was carefully designed so as to belie the presence of any discernable door. Balfour pulled in behind the Nissan.

  A young girl erupted from the front door of the house. She was wearing a sweater and blue jeans, the sweater rather baggy, the jeans rather tight. Her hair was cut in an irregular pageboy, the bangs straight, the rest of the hair casually haphazard. A young, fresh look, as if she had taken no care whatever with her hair. A look, it occurred to me cynically, that probably took hours to perfect. Her schoolgirl face was bright, her eyes were flashing, and her white teeth gleamed as she opened her mouth in protest. Without hearing a word, I could read her lips perfectly.

  “No, no, no, Daddy,” she cried, waving her arms.

  The message was clear. She was going out, and she didn’t want her father blocking her car.

  Balfour gave in with good grace, backed up, and parked behind the station wagon.

  His daughter got in the Nissan Sentra, backed down the driveway, and pulled out.

  I gave her a two-block head start, then fell in behind.

  I must say I felt rather smug.

  Alice is always ragging me about how unobservant I am, and what a terribly memory I have, and how I couldn’t even recognize Madonna, for instance, if she changed her hairstyle.

  Well, Balfour’s daughter may have had a different hairstyle, but I recognized her all right.

  She was Barbie from the bar.

  11.

  I FOLLOWED BARBIE back the way we came, down the Hutchinson, across the Cross County, down the Saw Mill River Parkway through the toll that wasn’t there, down the Henry Hudson through the toll that was, under the George Washington Bridge and down the West Side Highway.

  She got off at Ninety-sixth Street, took Broadway to Eighty-sixth, and went through Central Park. She came out at Eighty-fourth Street. That’s the benefit of the Eighty-sixth Street eastbound crosstown—you gain two blocks. At least you do if you’re going downtown. If you’re going uptown you lose two, but nobody takes it uptown.

  Barbie went down Fifth Avenue, across Seventy-ninth, and down Lexington. She slowed as she hit the Fifties and pulled into a parking garage.

  Here’s a hint for wannabe PIs: If you’re tailing someone and they go into a garage, don’t. Not unless it’s a huge multilevel affair attached to a shopping mall where you park it yourself. But if it’s the type of thing where you have to surrender your car to someone, that’s bad news. You either wind up standing face-to-face with the person you’re tailing while you wait for your car, or alone like a schmuck while the person you’re tailing drives off. Neither is a good result.

  Anyway, there were parking meters on the street. I took one of them. The fact Barbie hadn’t indicated she might be staying awhile.

  Barbie hopped out of her car and accepted the claim ticket from the parking attendant. She jammed it in the back pocket of her jeans and headed down the street.

  I followed at a discreet distance. After all, the girl had ditched me once.

  She walked down Lexington and turned into a door with the sign in front, MIDNIGHT LACE. The sign was simple, understated. No neon lights, no photos, pictures, or even silhouettes. Just a simple, hand-painted sign.

  Well, if she could, I could. I gave her a minute or two, then followed her in.

  It was an upscale topless bar. Very upscale. The clientele for the most part wore suits and ties, gave the impression they had just stopped in on the way home from work. There were even some women—not hookers or shills, but actual women—sitting at the tables chatting with the men, just as if it were a perfectly natural thing to do. Unless they were hookers or shills. In which case they were wonderful actresses, superbly cast.

  So were the dancers who paraded on the catwalk between the tables. There were no over-the-hill strippers with too much makeup, who only got by by virtue of the tons of silicone pumped into their chests, and the fact no one ever looked at their faces much anyway. The girls were reasonably young, reasonably attractive. They didn’t strip naked and twist their bodies like pretzels into a series of revealing poses. Instead they kept their G-strings on, paraded the catwalk like fashion models. This added to the upscale image, allowed the patrons to pretend they were doing something they were not. Or rather, to pretend they were not doing something that they were, i.e., gaping at female flesh. The entertainment at Midnight Lace was discreet, artistic, high class.

  It was also boring as hell. Don’t get me wrong. I never met a breast I didn’t like. Gazing at them is one of my favorite pastimes. But I have nothing against vaginas either. And if you’re going to spend your time gaping at naked women, it seems to me you ought to admit that’s what you’re doing and go the whole hog.

  Please don’t write in. I’m aware that was a sexist comment. I’m a guy. I like naked women. I understand in certain circles that makes me socially unacceptable. On the other hand, saying I didn’t like naked women would be hypocritical. Is there a safe middle ground? I doubt it. So when you start putting together your list of sexist pigs, count me in.

  A waitress in a plaid skirt and a black leotard came by my table. She was attractive, but her outfit implied if I tried to touch her there’d be trouble. There was a large gentleman seated at the bar who seemed to be watching the customers more than the girls.

  “Can I get you something?” the young lady said. Her tone implied if I said no, the large gentleman might escort me to the door.

  I ordered a Diet Coke, was impressed by the speed with which she got it to my table. And by the fact it cost seven- fifty. I gave her a ten. She seemed surprised I expected change, reluctantly counted it out. I threw a dollar back on her tray. She looked at me as if I were the last piker on earth and hurried off in quest of fresh game.

  I whipped out my cell phone and called Alice. “Hi, I’m in a titty bar.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to be home late. I’m in a topless bar.”

  “Talk louder. I can’t hear you.”

  “I can’t talk louder. I’m in a titty bar.”

  “Stanley, have you lost your mind?”

  “Oh? You heard me that time?”

  “Stanley, what are you talking about?”

  “You remember the girl I lost?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I found her. I just called to say I’m gonna be late.”

  “Stanley—”

  “Here she comes. Gotta go.”

  Barbie came down the runway like a queen, head back, chin high, eyes bright.

  Breasts out.

  I tell ya, there’s nothing like familiarity. Barbie was certainly a beautiful girl, but no more so than some of the others who had preceded her. But having seen her slap MacAullif in the bar, having seen her saunter down Broadway and give me the slip, having seen those breasts bob under that skimpy outfit and wanting like hell to see them. There they were. Same breasts. Instant wish fulfillment. Ultimate gratification.

  Balfour’s daughter?

  Damn.

  My adolescent fantasies came to a screeching halt. This was my client’s daughter. Those were my client’s daughter’s nubile young breasts.

  Bummer.

  It was a relief to
know she’d keep her G-string on.

  Boy. Talk about approach/avoidance. Or whatever the hell the word is. Ambivalence?

  Barbie left the bar at ten-fifteen, after a good three hours of work, during which time I had nursed thirty dollars worth of Diet Coke. It would have been less. Believe me, I was drinking those suckers slow, but every time I had to run out and put quarters in the parking meter, the waitress would clear my glass, then appear like clockwork upon my return to inquire what I was having.

  What I was having was a very bad time.

  The dancers were all the same. Literally. Some old ones left, some new ones came on—after a while it was all a blur. But Barbie went on a half a dozen times, and I’m sure her playmates did too. The only thing that turned over was the crowd.

  Except for me.

  Long about the end I noticed the waitress eyeing me with more than her usual disdain. And the bouncer at the bar was eyeing me with downright suspicion. Which was only natural. No one, except an obsessive stalker, sits at places like the Midnight Lace drinking Diet Coke and gawking at the girls for three hours straight. I had a feeling the next time I returned from my car I was going to get stopped and patted down.

  It occurred to me long about then that since my car was parked with a clear view of the front door, I could just as well sit in it waiting for Barbie to show. That would thwart the waitress and save on my Diet Coke bill.

  I pondered that proposition as I headed back into the bar.

  Anyway, Barbie appeared in her street clothes a little after ten. A guy with greasy black hair and a shiny suit and tie, the only man in the place besides me and the bouncer to have been in the bar all night, rung up no sale on the cash register and began pulling out bills. Even from where I sat I could see him lift the cash tray and fumble underneath where the hundreds and fifties were kept. Evidently topless dancers made more than PIs. I found that somewhat depressing.

  Barbie accepted the money from Greaseball without a hint of thanks. Her body language gave the impression the son of a bitch had hit on her and she had put him in his place, not the most difficult of deductions.

  Barbie folded the money, jammed it in her pocket, sailed out the door.

  I got up from my table, found my way blocked by the bouncer. Kicked myself in the head for not waiting in my car. The guy had indeed taken me for a stalker and wasn’t about to let me follow one of the girls out.

  I quickly converted my frown at seeing two hundred and fifty pounds of malevolent roadblock into a slightly anxious inquiring glance. “Where’s the men’s room?”

  His face relaxed. He pointed.

  Of course, it couldn’t have been near the front door. And now I had to go. In more ways than one.

  I picked my way across the floor, went through a beaded curtain where there was a sign, REST ROOM. I pushed open the door, found a single toilet and sink. I availed myself of them, went out, peeked through the beaded curtain, a needless precaution. Since I had asked for the men’s room, I would no longer be of interest to the bouncer.

  Wrong again.

  He was sitting at the bar, watching for me to come out. Right between me and the front door.

  While Barbie made her getaway.

  I walked over to the bar, jerked a dollar bill out of my pocket, said, “Excuse me, can I get change for the parking meter?”

  I could feel the bouncer next to me relax. Greaseball was close enough to hear me too. If I could just get change, I was home free.

  I waited impatiently while the bartender drew two drafts. I looked at my watch to give the impression my anxiety was not from the girl escaping, but from my parking meter running out. I accepted the quarters, headed for the door. No one tried to stop me. I went on out to my car.

  Next to the meter a street sign proclaimed, ONE HOUR PARKING, 8:00 A.M. TO 10:00 P.M. As I got in my car, it occurred to me that metered parking in this neighborhood stopped at ten o’clock, after which one could park for free.

  There was no need to put money in the meter.

  Down the street, Barbie stood in front of the garage, waiting for her car.

  In my rearview mirror, I could see the bouncer and the sleazy manager come out the door. They didn’t look happy.

  The bouncer’s eyes locked on my car.

  I fired the engine, pulled out of the space. Or at least tried to. A Cadillac had boxed me in. I maneuvered forward, back, forward, back. Did I remember to lock my doors? Would it matter? Would his hand come right through the glass? Even if it didn’t, what was going to happen when I got out of my spot? Was I going to roar off and leave Barbie to her own devices? Would they connect me to her? Would they stop her and grill her? And what would she say? Had she seen me in the bar? Had she tipped the guy a wink, ratted me out to the Greaseball? Was that why they were on me now? Were they all in collusion? Was she just standing there pretending to get her car to hang me out to dry?

  I lurched free of my parking space just as Man Mountain collided with the back of my car. Under other circumstances I might have considered suing for whiplash. After all, I know a good negligence lawyer. As things were, I was merely happy to be alive. I gunned the motor, screeched down the street.

  Ahead of me, Barbie pulled out of the parking garage. So she wasn’t in collusion with the others. She caught the light at the corner, drove down Lex. I sped up as the yellow changed to red, and gave chase.

  Behind me, Greaseball and the Incredible Hulk stood in the street, glaring after me helplessly in impotent rage.

  Some days you get lucky.

  12.

  BARBIE DROVE UP THIRD Avenue, stopped at a fireplug on East Eighty-first. I’d already turned onto the street, so I had no choice but to double-park or drive on by. I pulled to the side, put my flashers on, popped the trunk release. I hopped out of the car, keeping my head averted, raised the trunk, and peered around it to see if Barbie had noticed.

  She hadn’t. Barbie was out of her car and heading away from me down the sidewalk. She suddenly froze like a deer in the headlights, then shrunk back into the shadows behind the front steps of a brownstone.

  Two doors down a woman was coming out of a town house. It was hard to tell at that distance, but she seemed well dressed, attractive, in a matching red skirt and jacket that neither hid nor revealed her figure but appeared quite stylish. Her hair was short, her features delicate.

  She turned left at the bottom, heading straight for Barbie, who crept farther back into the shadows, and me, who stifled an impulse to climb into the trunk.

  The woman breezed on by. Though attractive, she was older than she had looked at a distance, probably in her forties. Her face was drawn, her chin set, her lips determined.

  Her eyes hard.

  Seeing her expression, I couldn’t fault Barbie for wanting to keep out of her way. I continued playing with my tire iron as she sailed on down the street and disappeared around the corner on Third Avenue.

  Barbie emerged from her hiding place and hurried down the street to the town house. She went up the front steps and went in.

  With her car at a hydrant Barbie didn’t figure to be long.

  She was long enough. A cop car came down the street and pulled up behind the Nissan. The cop got out, looked at the plate. He jerked a fat ticket notebook out of his pocket, flipped it open, took out a pen.

  Barbie came out the front door of the town house, spotted the cop. Her face drained of color. Then she came pelting down the front steps, yelling and waving her hands. As a New Yorker, I understood the motivation. A parking ticket is upward of fifty bucks, and once a cop puts pen to paper you’re sunk. There’s no way he’s voiding it, tearing it up, going through the paperwork and making the explanation that would entail. If the guy’s started writing, you’re dead meat.

  The cop hadn’t started writing. And Barbie was one attractive girl. Feminists, take note. You want true equality, accept the parking tickets I’d be dorked with if it were my car. Don’t flirt your way out of them.

  Barbie did
. She gave him the Aw shucks, aren’t I stupid routine, the Hey, big boy, give me a break routine, and the Oh, you big handsome man, can’t you help out poor little old me routine. I suppose you can’t expect a topless dancer to be a true feminist; even so, it burned me up knowing it was going to work.

  It did. The cop folded his ticket notebook, put it away, then stood there grinning like a dope while Barbie hopped into her car, practically blowing him a kiss good-bye. The officer watched her drive off, then turned and looked down the street.

  Uh-oh.

  I could imagine his mind going. Having failed to tag the car at the plug, how about one double-parked? That wouldn’t do. I am frankly rather poor at flirting my way out of parking tickets.

  I hopped in my car, fired the motor, switched off the hazard lights, and pulled out. I did my best not to look guilty as I drove past the cop.

  I could feel his eyes burning into me, looking for an excuse to pull me over. Alice would say I’m being paranoid. But Alice could flirt her way out of a ticket too.

  It’s a no-win situation.

  The light at the corner was red, so I had no problem catching up with Barbie. I followed her up Madison to Eighty-fifth, went into the park, and came out at Eighty-sixth. That’s the benefit of the Eighty-sixth Street crosstown west. If you’re going uptown, you gain a block.

  Barbie was. She took Amsterdam to Ninety-sixth and got on the West Side Highway.

  I figured she was heading home, but I tailed her awhile just to make sure. I told myself that going through the toll booth would clinch it. She did, but then I had to go through the toll booth too. Once I’d done that, I figured I might as well make sure she got on the Cross County Parkway. When she did, there was no way to turn around, so I had to get on too.