Night Secrets Read online

  She stopped briefly under the hotel’s elegant gold-and-white awning, nodded politely to the doorman, then headed south again, moving slowly, her shoulders hunched, as if against a cold wind that wasn’t really there. At the corner of Fifty-ninth Street, she stepped off the curb and hailed a cab.

  Frank waited a few seconds, then did the same. “There’s a cab up ahead,” he told the driver. “It has some kind of black bumper sticker. Stay close to it.”

  Mrs. Phillips’s taxi didn’t stop again until it reached the heart of Greenwich Village, a brownstone on West Twelfth Street mat looked only slightly less elegant than the one on Sixty-fourth.

  Frank remained in his cab, watching at a safe distance, while Mrs. Phillips paid the fare, then stepped into the building’s vestibule.

  Then he got out, walked to the building and copied the name on the buzzer into his notebook: Kevin A. Powers.

  It was only an hour later when she came out again. From a shadowy corner almost a block away, Frank watched as she hailed a cab, then stepped out and hailed his own. She went directly home, marching up the street and through the black wrought-iron gate.

  Frank took up his position once again, his eyes staring blearily at the ornate brass knocker on East Sixty-fourth Street. He opened his notebook and went over the brief details he’d recorded in it. As far as he could tell, she’d done nothing unusual, though he’d check out this Powers person.

  Mr. Phillips arrived home at six in the evening, and by that time, Frank was feeling the long day’s tedium like an angry man screaming in his face. Still, to do the job right, you had to wait and wait and wait. Farouk called the long hours his “meditation time,” and seemed to withdraw into some remote corner of his mind, find things to engage him there and come out only when a sudden move drew him back into the broader world. But to Frank, it was just waiting.

  Farouk laughed as he came through the door of Frank’s office.

  “You look as you did yesterday,” he said. “Perhaps it is the wrong work. Perhaps you could sell shoes.”

  Frank flipped the next page of the magazine. A tall woman stood before a wild tropical setting, a fan of brightly colored birds spread out behind her like a peacock’s tail. At first glance, the birds seemed merely part of the background, placed behind the woman like a wall of flowers, but their eyes were intense. As his eyes lingered on the picture, Frank realized that they were watching the woman with that sinister stillness that all birds of prey assume at the instant before they dive. “They’re going to tear her apart,” he said softly.

  Farouk looked at him. “What?”

  Frank shook his head, then turned the page.

  Farouk eased himself back in the sofa, his body draped in a soft purple light that came through the window. “Toby,” he said. “She returns soon.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes,” Farouk said. “It is a good thing, a woman.”

  Frank instantly saw the other woman—not Mrs. Phillips, but the other woman—as he’d seen her the night before, moving unhesitatingly toward the waiting police car, its blue light pulsing over her as she walked.

  “You know that fortune-teller you went to yesterday?” he asked.

  Farouk nodded.

  “She was murdered.”

  “Yes, I know,” Farouk said. “From the street I hear it is, as they say, open and shut.”

  “Maybe,” Frank said. “What do you know about the woman who was murdered?”

  Farouk looked surprised by the question. “Know? Nothing.”

  “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “I have observed her at various times.”

  “You mean, for pay?”

  Farouk shook his head. “No. I have seen her here and there. She is not entirely new to the neighborhood.” He looked at Frank piercingly. “What is your interest, Frank?”

  “Well, I walked right into the middle of it early this morning,” Frank told him. “They were still stringing the tape when I got to that little storefront she worked out of.”

  “You saw the body?”

  “No, I didn’t see the body. But the CSU car was there, and they were snapping pictures inside the place.”

  Farouk stroked his chin thoughtfully. “And the officer in charge, did you get his name?”

  “It was Tannenbaum.”

  “Ah, yes. And what did he say?”

  “That one of the women did it,” Frank told him. “The younger one.”

  “And the woman herself,” Farouk asked, “what does she say?”

  “Nothing. She won’t talk to anybody.”

  Farouk shrugged. “The Gitano, they are a curious race.”

  “Gitano?”

  “The Gypsies,” Farouk said. “How was the murder done?”

  “She used a razor,” Frank said. “Right across the throat.”

  Farouk looked doubtful. “That would not be usual,” he said. “Of course, it could have happened. In a moment of great rage, we use whatever is at hand. But it is not usual. Especially for a woman. It is very ugly. And it is not as fast a way as people think.”

  “They were bringing the woman out while I was talking to Tannenbaum,” Frank told him.

  “Ah, so you saw her, as well?”

  “Yes, I did,” Frank said.

  Farouk’s hand crawled from his chin to the right corner of his mustache. He studied Frank’s face carefully, as if the shadow of something new had just risen unexpectedly from its battered form, but he didn’t speak.

  “Tannenbaum said she wouldn’t talk. I mean, not a word. She wouldn’t even tell them her name.”

  “Perhaps she is mute?”

  “Mute?”

  “It is possible,” Farouk said. “And the Gypsies sometimes do not bother with writing.” He thought a moment longer, turning something over in his mind. “But Tannenbaum believes her to be the killer?” he asked finally.

  “Yes.”

  “On what evidence?”

  “Blood, prints, witnesses … quite a lot.”

  “Motive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Opportunity?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  Farouk considered it all a moment longer, then shrugged. “It does not seem so interesting, Frank,” he said disappointedly.

  “Well, there’s one other thing,” Frank added hastily. He took the white paper from the envelope and handed it to him, the bead tucked securely inside.

  Farouk held the bead up to the light. “From the curtain, yes?” he said.

  “I think so.”

  “When did you get it?”

  “I heard something out in the corridor last night. It must have been around two in the morning. I heard something, and then I saw somebody running up the stairs. The most I could get was a glimpse of feet.”

  Farouk lifted the small envelope and waved it slightly. “The bead came in this?”

  “Yes.”

  Farouk looked at the bead again, this time more closely, turning it slowly in his fingers. “From the woman?”

  Frank nodded.

  “In place of her signature,” Farouk said.

  “More or less.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  Frank reached for his notebook. “Yeah, I do.”

  Farouk looked quizzically at the notebook. “You are doing an investigation?”

  “I talked to the woman’s lawyer, that’s all,” Frank told him.

  Farouk looked surprised. “When was this?”

  “Early this morning,” Frank said. He found the page he was looking for. “Here’s the name,” he said. Then he got up, walked over to Farouk and handed him the notebook.

  Farouk looked at the name for a moment, then let his eyes drift slowly back up to Frank. He said nothing, but Frank could see a strange disturbance in his eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Farouk glanced back down at the notebook. “The Gitano are not all the same,” he said.

  “Meaning what?” Frank a
sked.

  “For them there was also a diaspora,” Farouk said. “They are scattered across the world.”

  “What does that have to do with the woman?”

  Farouk smiled quietly. “My father used to say that a soul should be like a woman’s veil, not lifted by too slight a wind.”

  Frank stared at him determinedly. “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman is playing games,” Farouk said. He handed the notebook back to him. “What she told the lawyer,” he said. “It was not her name. Only a gorgio—one who is not a Gypsy—would think it was.”

  Frank looked down at the name: Puri Dai. “If it’s not a name, what is it?”

  “A place in the world,” Farouk answered authoritatively. “A high function. It means ‘Tribal Woman’ in Romany, the Gypsy language.” He smiled, but with an unmistakable darkness. “It means that this woman, she is the keeper of the errate,” he added, “the pure blood of her race.”

  “Then how would I find out her name?” Frank asked.

  “There is no name,” Farouk answered. “The Tribal Woman is a thing.” He shrugged. “That is the way it is with some of the Gitano.”

  Frank started to ask another question, but Farouk stood up abruptly.

  “I must go now,” he said.

  “You don’t want a drink?”

  Farouk shook his head. “Not now,” he said. “There is a problem with someone. I am being of assistance.”

  “Okay.”

  Farouk nodded, then walked to the door. “Believe me, my friend,” he said as he opened it and stepped out into the darkened corridor, “when it comes to the Tribal Woman, there is nothing you can know.”

  Frank walked back to his desk and sat down. For a long time he thought that Farouk must be right. Then he saw her again, the black eyes and raven hair, and by some shift whose exact currents he could not fathom, he decided suddenly that no, Farouk was wrong, that whatever else she might be, she was still a woman, and her secrets could not be covered by the night.

  He took out his notebook and looked up the name of Deegan’s law firm. Then he picked up the phone and called it.

  “Andrew Deegan, please,” Frank said.

  “I’m sorry, the offices are closed,” the woman said. “This is only the answering service.”

  “It’s very important that I talk to Mr. Deegan,” Frank insisted.

  “I can’t give you his number, sir,” the woman told him a little crisply.

  “Then get in touch with him,” Frank said, “and tell him that Frank demons called.” He gave the woman his number. “Tell him to call me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do, sir,” the woman said, then hung up.

  Frank waited by the phone, his urgency growing as the minutes passed. He wasn’t sure where it came from, perhaps nothing more than the intensity of her look, the dark skin and black eyes, the long, loosely tangled hair. Often, momentous things could be reduced to such small elements, slight and trivial in themselves, but that produced an atmosphere of inescapable longing, a profound disturbance of the peace, an urge to test the limits once again.

  The phone rang, and Frank snapped it up immediately. “Yes?”

  “This better not be a habit, Clemons,” Deegan said sharply. “I’m not on duty twenty-four hours a day, you know.”

  “It’s just that I only have the nights to work this case,” Frank explained.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “I was wondering if you’d had time to check me out yet”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Any problems?”

  “You aren’t always nice to people,” Deegan said bluntly.

  “It depends on the people.”

  “Where does my client fit in?”

  “I’d like to see her for a few minutes.”

  “Well,” Deegan said after a short hesitation, “I guess that could be arranged.”

  “Tonight,” Frank said firmly. “It’s the only time I have.”

  “All right, I’m too fucking tired to argue the point,” Deegan said. “I’ll clear you. Be at the Women’s House of Detention in half an hour.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. He felt a sudden excitement lift him up like a wild wind, the kind he could still remember from his youth, that careened along the great stone face of the granite canyon, then suddenly shot upward violently, like a spirit from beneath the river’s flat green surface, its cold invisible fingers tearing at his hair.

  He hung up immediately and headed for the door. The old woman groaned as he stepped over her, then glanced up fearfully, her hand reaching for his leg.

  He knelt toward her instinctively and briefly touched her hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s only me.”

  She was escorted by a female guard who held her arm very gently as she guided her into the room, then stepped in front of her and looked sternly at Frank.

  “This the one you wanted to see?” she asked.

  Frank stood up from the long wooden bench, which sat behind an equally long row of tables.

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “The captain said you could only have ten minutes,” the guard told him. “They’re not supposed to have visitors after eight o’clock.”

  “I understand,” Frank told her.

  The guard nodded stiffly and left the room.

  For a moment Frank simply stared at her, noted the small losses that were already visible, the sleek black hair now somewhat dulled, a slight pallor beneath the darkness of her skin. But she stood very erect, and her dark eyes stared directly at him, still immobile and unflinching.

  “My name is Clemons,” he told her quietly.

  She said nothing.

  “I’m a private investigator,” he added. “I spoke to your lawyer right after you were arraigned.”

  The dark eyes glared hotly, but she didn’t speak.

  “He got me in to see you,” Frank said. He stepped toward her, and she reacted to his movement instantly, her entire body growing very taut, as if preparing for an assault.

  He stepped back immediately and sank his hands into his pockets. “I’m here to help you,” he said softly.

  Her eyes remained on him, sharp and glittering, like two small fires glowing out of the jungle thickness. Her long brown fingers curled into fists, the nails biting fiercely into the soft flesh of her palms.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Frank said. He waited for her to reply, then went on when she didn’t. “Mostly about the day of the murder,” he added. He took out his notebook and flipped to the first blank page. “A friend of mine had his fortune read by your …” He stopped, looking at her penetratingly. “By the woman who was killed.”

  The Puri Dai said nothing. One of her eyes glimmered slightly, but there was no other sign that she heard him.

  “Who was she?” Frank asked.

  Silence.

  “The woman who was murdered,” Frank continued, “whoever she was.” He could feel himself being drawn toward her, almost physically, as if he were standing on a carpet which tiny, invisible legions were tugging gently toward her. “Was she a relative, a friend?” he asked.

  The Puri Dai did not reply.

  Frank walked behind one of the long benches a few feet away, sat down and tapped the opposite side of the table. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  She did not move.

  “We only have ten minutes,” Frank reminded her.

  The Puri Dai remained in place.

  “All right,” Frank said, twisting around slightly so that he could watch her closely, “you can stand up if that’s what you want.”

  Her eyes shot over to him, then darted back, staring straight ahead at the light-green wall of the room.

  “Anyway,” Frank began, “I think you sent me this.” He pulled the bead from his jacket pocket and held it up. “Didn’t you?”

  She glared at the single red bead he lifted toward her. Her lips parted briefly, then closed together in a rig
id line.

  “Didn’t you?” Frank repeated.

  Her eyes narrowed quickly, then snapped back.

  “It came from the curtain,” Frank said. “The one in that storefront you lived in.”

  She didn’t speak, but Frank could see a terrible woundedness in her eyes, along with a powerful, perhaps irresistible urge to escape one way or another.

  He leaned toward her. “Do you want to die?” he asked very gently. “Is that what you want?”

  Her face stiffened.

  He looked at her, felt a stirring in himself, fought to keep it from his voice. “Because if you do,” he said, his voice growing firm, “believe me, I understand it.”

  Her eyes softened, but she did not turn toward him.

  “I understand it,” Frank repeated, as if he were admitting it to himself as well.

  Her eyes closed slowly, then opened. She said nothing.

  Frank got to his feet, walked directly over to her, let his eyes bear down toward hers. “Live or die,” he told her, “but don’t accept this in-between.” He turned and started toward the door, then glanced back as he opened it.

  She was standing completely still, her arms flat against her sides, until, just as he started to leave, one of them rose very slowly upward, the wrist limp, the fingers dangling gracefully, delicately, like long brown strands of Spanish moss. Then one of her legs shot into the air, and she made first one rapid turn, then another and another, her legs flying higher and higher as she flung herself wildly into the air, spun and spun, her body thrashing madly as she whirled, her face lifted slightly toward the overhanging lights, but her eyes directly on him, steady and unflinching within the chaos of her dance.

  It ended almost as abruptly as it had begun, and she stood rigidly near the center of the room, her long naked arms pressed tightly against her sides.

  For the few seconds before the matron rushed forward, seized her and pulled her from the room, Frank simply stood, staring, transfixed, so much her prisoner that as the cell door clanged shut behind her, it seemed to open one for him.

  “Night crawling again, Frank?” Tannenbaum asked, as Frank walked up to his desk.

  Frank nodded as he glanced about the room. It was entirely deserted, nothing but plain green walls and empty desks. The clock at the far end of the room said that it was a quarter past midnight.