Emily managed to escape Dr. Hightower's office without getting her ass groped, but it was a near thing. Old goat, she thought, shoving her notes on Barney Finks' death under her arm. She wouldn't miss him when she left.
As she cut through the lobby, the receptionist waved her over. "Emily, phone for you."
"Who is it?"
"A detective, he said. You in trouble?"
"Not more than usual." She scooted around the desk and reached for the handset.
Dolores didn't give it up right away, warning in a low voice, "Make it quick, Matron is zooming around on her broom."
"Thanks. This is Nurse Prentiss," she said into the handset as Dolores stepped away to answer a question.
"Prentiss, Hotch. Does the hospital keep patients' personal effects?"
"If the cops don't take 'em, we try to get them back to the family, but it's not a quick process. You want me to check and see if they're here?"
"Just Wilton's. We have the rest. Dr. Reid called me to say the killer might have taken trophies or left items on the bodies."
Emily's face screwed up at the thought. "I'll see what I can do, sir."
"Thank you. Did you find anything out from Hightower?"
"Nothing startling. Same pattern as the others. I'll fill you in tonight." A familiar step sounded behind her, and Emily straightened up. "Sir, the patient you're inquiring about was released this morning."
"I assume you have to go," Hotch said, and hung up.
"Thank you for calling." She hung up and turned around. "Yes, Matron Bartle, did you need me?"
The matron eyed her. "Nurse Prentiss, personal calls while you're on duty are strictly forbidden."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll keep that in mind if I ever feel the urge to make one."
"Good." Although the look she gave Emily before she left was anything but good.
By night, Rossi imagined, the Coconut Room would look sophisticated and elegant. By the harsher light of day, it merely looked brittle and tawdry.
The owner answered his questions while doing inventory in a back room. Finks had only worked there a few months. He was a hard worker, but kept to himself. There wasn't anybody, customer or staff, that had a beef with him. "I'm sorry he's dead," Owens said, "but I've got work to do, okay?"
Rossi hadn't questioned anybody in years. He'd forgotten how much of a pain in the ass it could be. Damn, did he wish he still had his badge, to stick in this guy's snotty face. "Was there anybody who started coming here a lot recently? Somebody who always asked to be seated in Finks' section, or near his section? Or somebody asking questions about him?"
"Just you."
"Ever heard the names Walter Wilton, Randall Garner, or Doug McLeod?"
"Who the hell are they?"
About what he'd expected.
"Can I talk to your staff?"
"Don't keep them from their work."
Oh, yeah, he missed his badge. His gun, too.
In the lounge, Rossi found a group of waiters, folding napkins, and started asking questions. He didn't get too far before one of them said, "Sir, we already told the other fella all this."
"Crompton," one of the others muttered. "Can't you tell he's a cop?"
"Didn't show us his badge, did he?" Crompton looked back at Rossi. "Maybe you should compare notes with him. Guy name of Morgan. You know him?"
Rossi nodded. "We've met. He talk to Owens?"
"Ha," Crompton said.
"One last question," Rossi said. "Did Finks ever talk about his time in the Army?"
This got him a blank look from every man there. Crompton said, "He was in the Army?"
Interesting.
Rossi found his way to the kitchens, where Morgan was just finishing up his questioning of the cook. His brows jumped slightly when he spotted Rossi, but otherwise he remained cool. "Rossi."
"Morgan. Just thought I'd see the place."
"Me too," Morgan said neutrally. "Already interviewed most of the staff, except for the owner."
"Save yourself the trouble, son, I got him." Rossi noted the slight narrowing of Morgan's eyes at the "son," but pretended he didn't. "Any luck?"
"A few of them knew Wilton or Garner, but not from here. They all said Barney didn't know 'em. Zilch on McLeod."
Rossi nodded. "Any new regulars? Anybody following him?"
"Nope. Nobody asking about him, either, that anybody remembers."
"Owens told me the same. Where you headed from here?"
"Gonna take a walk to where Barney was found."
"I'll go with you."
"Suit yourself." Morgan led the way through the kitchens. "This is the staff exit. He left through here that night."
When the door closed behind them, Morgan stopped and looked around. "So," he murmured, mostly to himself. "I'm waiting out here."
"More likely on the street," Rossi said, and watched Morgan's eyes narrow again. He gestured. "Back here, you're more noticeable. The only people with a reason to be back here are the place's staff, so any stranger stands out."
"Mmm." Morgan went toward the street, and looked up and down it. "Stay here a minute, would ya? Right here at the mouth of the alley."
Rossi leaned against the wall, mildly amused at the order. He'd trained too many youngsters, including one Aaron Hotchner, to be offended at this one. He watched Morgan pace up and down the street, checking out shaded doors and nooks, and garnering a number of suspicious looks from nightclub owners starting their day. He missed his badge again.
Morgan came back. "There's only a few spots where I can see you," he said. "And only one of them would be logically deserted that time of the morning."
"Make a note of it. We'll come back. What did your friend do when he left work?"
"According to the other waiters, went that way with a group." He pointed down the street. "Walk, I'll follow. See how close he'd have to be."
"Ah," Rossi said. "Maybe we want to switch places." He tilted his head at one particularly beady-eyed man, standing in his doorway with his arms crossed.
Morgan blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."
They retraced Finks' route. Rossi tried to imagine this street at nighttime, closing down hours after the rest of the city. Two in the morning wasn't even so late by this district's standards. The Coconut Room may have closed, but others would have been open. He took note of the places they passed, none of which were mentioned in the official report. If Detective Cox had been under his watch, he would have been busted so far down he would have counted himself lucky to be on goddamn traffic duty.
Morgan stopped at a corner and allowed Rossi to catch up. "Half a block, then?"
"Maybe. Or less, in the dark."
"Three of the waiters walked this far with him," he said. "Then he kept going while they caught a bus."
"Why didn't Finks? It's not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump back to Harlem from here."
"The way the bus routes run, it would take almost as long to ride as to walk," Morgan said. "And he liked walking. Always did."
Rossi looked away, down the street, and waited until Morgan spoke again. "The scene's a block that way."
Now they were passing stores with closing times closer to sunset than sunup. There were apartments above most, but they found the crime scene in a windowless alley. It hadn't rained for close to three weeks, and a patch of the alley's wall was still speckled with dark spots. Morgan stood looking at them for several moments, then down at the ground. Rossi wondered if he could picture his friend's mangled body on the concrete.
He took in a breath and turned on his heel, heading for the mouth of the alley. "So," he muttered. "He catches up with Barney on the street. Hey, how ya doin', remember me? Gets him in here. He's got a gun and a pipe both." He held up his hands, one as if holding a gun, the other as if wielding the pipe. "Where did he keep them so Barney didn't spot them right off?"
"Gun's not hard to hide," Rossi pointed out.
"But a pipe is, especially one long enough and heavy enough to inflict that kind of damage. Trenchcoat?"
"The mercury hit ninety-seven that day, and muggy. Like breathing wet cotton." He'd had to take Irene to the hospital because her asthma kicked up. It had scared the hell out of him. "Even at two in the morning, it woulda still been hellish."
"Yeah. You're right. He had to have left it here." Morgan walked in a few paces, then reached out to run his fingers down a dull metal drainpipe. Against the red brick, it described a straight line up the building, clearly visible. "Lean it up against the wall here, right next to this one, nobody'd spot it from the alley but you'd know right where it was, even in the dark." His hand curled around an imaginary pipe.
"Miss Prentiss mentioned he'd need both hands for the pipe," Rossi pointed out.
"Right. First blow to the leg." He swung, so hard he grunted. Rossi felt the breeze of his clenched hands, passing by.
"To drop him," Rossi said. "And then, most likely overhand blows once Finks is on the ground for more power."
Morgan straightened up. "Not quiet," he said. "None of it." He looked around. "But we already know that these places were closed up."
"There are apartments," Rossi pointed out. "Night like that, you'd have every window open."
"Mama on a two a.m. feeding or a restless sleeper might've heard something. Especially the gunshot."
"Plus, the places around us are open now. Killer had to leave the pipe there sometime."
"You thinking he did it during the day?"
Rossi headed for the mouth of the alley. "Evening's more likely. Let's go find out how late they're open."
When Hotch got home, juggling Wilton's and Garner's personal effects, he found Mrs. LaMontagne in the dining room, frowning at two more boxes.
"Captain Rossi dropped this off earlier," she told him. "And Mr. Morgan that one."
"Ah. Thank you." He set his two down, forming a row of dead men's things across the polished surface of the table. He'd meant to have a look at their contents before the others arrived, but he was loath to do so in front of his landlady.
"Will they be here again tonight?"
"Yes." He remembered the supply of coffee and cookies she'd provided, and could tell by the smell that she'd baked again. "Mrs. LaMontagne, I know things have been tight with just me renting here. I want to thank you for welcoming my - " He paused, struggling with terminology. "My friends here. I can give you some extra money this month to make up for the coffee and the baking."
"Thank you. That would help."
He nodded and turned back to the boxes, pulling a list off the top of the first one.
From behind him, she said, "And you can also do me the courtesy of telling me what's going on."
His hand clenched briefly around the first list, crinkling the paper. "It's a police matter."
"Most police matters don't take place in my dining room. Nor do they include a nuclear physicist, a nurse, a librarian, and a colored private investigator. Any three of you people would be the first line of a bad joke. What is this?"
"Dr. Reid is here in his capacity as a student of psychology."
"As I said."
He set the paper down and turned. "Mrs. LaMontagne, they're civilian consultants on a police matter, and - "
"You keep saying that. If it's a police matter, why aren't you at the station?"
"My superior is . . ." He grimaced. "Not in agreement with me that the murders are connected."
She let out her breath. "So they are purposeful murders, and not just robberies that went wrong."
He gritted his teeth, annoyed at having let that slip.
"At least," she continued, "you're so convinced of that, you come home after a full day of hunting other criminals, and you put in more hours doing this."
"Four men are dead, including one who was under my command. If the killer follows pattern, there'll be more soon. I'm not going to let that happen. You don't need to worry," he said, more gently. "I won't let this touch you or Henry."
"You can't make that promise," she said. "It's already touched us. We know the McLeod family. Henry's played with Corrina." She tangled her fingers for a moment, then pulled them apart and put her hands straight down at her sides, shoulders back. There was something familiar about the stance, but her words distracted him. "I spoke to Annabelle today. I want to help."
"That's very kind of you," he said. "But I don't foresee any capacity in which you could be of assistance."
"What about the funeral? It's tomorrow. I'm going anyway. I could talk to her, find things out - "
"I'll be doing that."
She let out her breath. "I'm sure you're more than able to talk to the men, sir, but Annabelle is a different matter. You can talk to her, and maybe you should, but I'll get more."
"Because you know her?"
"Army families have their own sphere, different even from their fathers and husbands. And another Army widow? Sir, it's a sisterhood in all but blood. Even though he didn't die in combat, it's as sudden and shocking as if he had. Worse, because he was home." She must have seen something flicker in his face. "Do you really want to risk missing something because the wrong person asked her?"
He let out a breath. "Very well."
"Thank you. And I want to sit in tonight. If I'm going to know what to listen for, I'm going to have to know the details of these men's deaths."
"They're not pretty," he warned.
"My husband died after being poisoned by the contents of his own bowels. Yes, Emily told me," she said to his sharp look. "I asked her to. I can handle ugly."
Hotch looked down at the boxes, and then up at the ceiling. "Where's Henry?"
"Listening to the radio. He's deaf to anything but Fibber McGee and Molly."
He closed the door anyway. "The first victim was found four weeks ago . . ."
Emily hit the stairs at quarter after five, lecturing herself that it wasn't that far to the subway and a cab was a needless indulgence, especially right now when she had better things to do with her paycheck, but oh shit was she tired, and the day wasn't over yet.
Dolores waved at her from the desk. "Em, phone call."
"Christ on a crutch, what now?"
"The night matron from Sacred Heart. She asked for you, but I'll pass it on to someone else. Go home."
It took a moment to percolate, and then all the tired fell away. "No, I'll take it."
"Your shift ended fifteen minutes ago," Dolores pointed out.
"Yeah, well," Emily said, and grabbed the phone. "Nurse Prentiss."
"Prentiss? Greenaway. I was thinking about your call last night, and someone came to mind."
Emily's eyes narrowed. "Tell me more."
