On the Street Where You Live

  Seven hours later, Marty Browski went to the jail where Lake was being detained to interview him.

  “In your natural habitat again, I see, Joel. You never learn, do you?”

  The permanent sneer on Joel Lake’s face hardened. “I do learn, Browski. I stay out of houses with old ladies in them. Too much trouble.”

  “It could have been a lot more trouble if Emily Graham hadn’t gotten you off on the murder charge. We all thought you did the hit on Ruth Koehler.”

  “You thought I did it? You changed your mind?” Lake looked surprised.

  The bad seed, Browski thought, as he looked intently at Lake. Twenty-eight years old and in trouble since he was twelve. A juvenile rap sheet an arm long. Probably attractive to some women, though, in a cheap kind of macho way, with his powerful build, dark curly hair, narrow eyes, and full mouth.

  Emily had told Browski that Lake had tried to come on to her a couple of times. He’s the kind who won’t tolerate rejection, Browski decided now as his hopes began to build that he was face to face with the stalker.

  The time frame was right. Joel Lake had broken parole and dropped out of sight right about the time the stalking began.

  “We’ve missed you, Joel,” Browski said pleasantly. “Now let me get your Miranda warnings out of the way before we get down to business. It’s a waste of words, of course. You know it by heart.”

  “I told the guys who arrested me that I happened to be passing by, saw the door was open, and thought I should look in and just make sure no one was in trouble.”

  Marty Browski laughed heartily. “Oh come on, you can do better than that. Joel, I don’t give a damn about your burglary. That’s up to the cops here in Troy. I want to talk about where you’ve been lately. And I want to know about your interest in Emily Graham.”

  “What about Graham? The last time I saw her was in court.” Joel Lake grinned. “I really got her attention. I told her that maybe I did kill the old lady. You should have seen the look on her face. Bet that’s been eating her, wondering if maybe I wasn’t kidding and knowing I couldn’t be tried for it again.”

  Marty felt an urge to punch the insolent face, to wipe the nasty, satisfied smile from the felon’s lips.

  “Ever been to Spring Lake, Joel?” he snapped.

  “Spring Lake? Where’s that?”

  “In New Jersey.”

  “Why would I go there?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. Never been there in my life.”

  “Where were you last Saturday morning?”

  “I don’t remember. Probably in church.” As he spoke, Lake wore an expression of mock sincerity, and a sneer curled at his lips.

  “That’s just where I think you were. I think you were in St. Catherine’s church, in Spring Lake, New Jersey.”

  “Listen, are you trying to pin something on me? Because if it has to do with last Saturday, you’re wasting your time. I was in Buffalo where I’ve been for the last year and a half—and where I should have stayed.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “You bet I can. What time are you talking about?”

  “Around noon.”

  “Couldn’t be better. I was having a sub and a couple of beers with some buddies in the Sunrise Café, on Coogan Street. They know me as Joey Pond. Get it? I figured if I can’t be a Lake, I’ll be a Pond. Pretty good, huh?”

  Marty pushed his chair back and got up. That had been the name on the ID Lake had been carrying when he was arrested. No doubt the alibi would check out, and anyhow, when you came right down to it, this guy just didn’t seem either subtle or sophisticated enough to carry out the kind of stalking campaign Emily Graham was enduring.

  No, Marty thought, this bum got his revenge on Emily for rejecting him by hinting he was guilty of Ruth Koehler’s murder, and letting her blame herself for helping him to walk out of the courtroom a free man.

  “No more questions, Browski?” Lake looked surprised. “I kind of enjoy your company. What happened in Spring Lake that you wanted to pin on me?”

  Browski leaned on the table that separated him from Lake. “Somebody’s been bothering Emily Graham down there.”

  “Bothering? You mean stalking. Hey, that’s not my thing,” Joel told him.

  His tone low and menacing, Browski said, “You had some pretty scummy friends rooting for you at your trial. If any one of them got a fixation on Emily Graham after seeing her in court and you know about it, you’d better come clean now. Because if anything happens to her, I warn you that your butt will never see the outside of Attica again.”

  “You don’t scare me, Browski,” Joel Lake sneered. “I thought old lady Koehler’s son was supposed to be the stalker. Gee, Browski, you’re batting zero. You were wrong about me, and you’re wrong about him. You better take a brush-up course on how to be a detective.”

  WHEN HE GOT BACK to the office, Marty called Emily to tell her that Joel Lake had been located and was definitely not the stalker. “Something else,” he said. “He brought up the fact that he’d hinted to you that he might actually have killed Ruth Koehler. Just in case you have even the most lingering doubt that you got a killer off, he admitted he just did it to upset you.”

  “When you told me that Ned Koehler had confessed, any lingering doubt I had about Lake was gone. But I’m still glad to hear it from his lips.”

  “Nothing more from the stalker, Emily?”

  “No, not so far. The alarm system is state of the art, although I admit that in the middle of the night I think about how Ned Koehler disarmed the one in the townhouse. But I do feel that the cameras Eric Bailey put in are added security. In a way, I’m sorry Joel hasn’t turned out to be the stalker. At least I’d have the comfort of knowing he’s behind bars again.”

  Browski could hear the nervous tremor that occasionally surfaced in Emily Graham’s voice. He felt angry and frustrated that he was again completely without a stalking suspect. He admitted to himself that he was also deathly afraid that Emily was in very real danger.

  “Emily, last year we checked out as many as possible of the people who might have been upset at some of the not guilty verdicts you got for your clients. They all seem to be clean. How about that building where you had your office? Was there anyone who might have had big eyes for you or become jealous after you came into all that money?”

  Emily had just gone into the kitchen to make a sandwich for lunch when Marty’s call came. When she answered, she had picked up the phone and walked to the window.

  After the cloudy morning, the day had turned sunny, and there was a pinkish haze around the trees. I always watch for that haze, she thought. It’s the first sign of spring.

  Marty Browski was desperate to find another suspect who might be the stalker. She understood why. Like Eric and Nick, he was afraid that at some point the stalker, whoever he is, might make an overt move to harm her.

  “Marty, I have an idea,” she said. “You know that Eric Bailey worked in the office next to mine for several years. Maybe he could come up with the name of someone in our building or even one of the deliverymen that he thought was a little strange. I know he’d be glad to talk to you. He calls every few days to make sure I’m okay.”

  It would probably be another dead end, Marty thought, but then you never know. “I’ll do that, Emily,” he said, then added, “I’ve been reading about Spring Lake. Pretty nasty business, finding two more bodies there yesterday. Papers are saying that if that psycho follows the pattern, there might be another murder on Saturday. It might be a good idea if—”

  “If I leave Spring Lake and hole up in the apartment in Manhattan?” Emily said. “Marty, thanks for the concern, but I have some new documents I’m studying, and I honestly think I’m making progress on my own investigation. You’re a doll, but here I stay.”

  Cutting off his continuing protest, she said firmly, “’Bye, Marty.”

  THE TELEVISION RECEPTION in the van parked six blocks away was exce
llent. Eric sat in the small but comfortable chair he had placed in front of the television set. Very good, Emily, he thought in silent approval. Thank you for the vote of confidence. I’d hoped to stay another day, but now I’ll have to get back to see Mr. Browski tomorrow. Too bad.

  He had an excellent shot of Emily opening the door for George Lawrence, but it would be unwise to send it to her now. He would return on Friday night.

  fifty-four ________________

  “MR. STAFFORD ASKED if you’d mind waiting for a few minutes, Mrs. Frieze. He has to finish writing up a contract.”

  Twenty-three-year-old Pat Glynn, Will Stafford’s receptionist, smiled nervously at Natalie Frieze, who thoroughly intimidated her.

  She’s so glamorous, Pat thought. Every time she walks through that door I feel as if everything about me is wrong.

  When she’d gotten dressed that morning, she’d been pleased with her new red wool pantsuit, but now she wasn’t so sure. It didn’t hold a candle to the cut and fabric of the dark green pantsuit that Natalie Frieze was wearing.

  And she had just had her hair drastically styled into a cap cut that barely covered her ears, something that two days ago had seemed to her the height of fashion. But now, when she looked at Natalie’s long, silky blond hair, Pat was sure she’d made a dreadful mistake.

  Natalie Frieze appeared to have on no makeup, but no one could look that good without some help, could they? Pat thought hopefully. “You look gorgeous, Mrs. Frieze,” she said shyly.

  “Why, how nice of you.” Natalie smiled. She was always amused by the awe she knew she inspired in Will’s plain young secretary, but realized that it gave her an unexpected lift to hear a compliment. “It’s good to hear a kind word, Pat.”

  “Don’t you feel well, Mrs. Frieze?”

  “Not really. My wrist is terribly sore.” She held up her arm, causing her sleeve to slide back and reveal an ugly purple bruise.

  Will Stafford emerged from his office. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What’s with your wrist?”

  Natalie kissed him. “I’ll tell you all about it over lunch. Let’s go.” She turned toward the door, then glanced over her shoulder and gave Pat Glynn a perfunctory smile.

  “Back in an hour, Pat,” Will said.

  “Make that an hour and a half,” Natalie corrected him.

  As they exited, Will pulled the door closed behind them, but not before Pat Glynn heard Natalie say, “Will, I was scared to death of Bobby this morning. I think he’s going crazy.”

  It was apparent she genuinely was on the verge of tears. “Calm down,” he said sympathetically as they got into his car. “We’ll talk over lunch.”

  They had a reservation at Rob’s tavern two miles away, in the neighboring town of Sea Girt.

  When they were seated and their orders taken, Will looked at Natalie, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “You do realize that Pat probably overheard what you said about Bob, and that she is something of a gossip? She’s probably on the phone right now, filling in her mother.”

  Natalie shrugged. “At this point I really don’t care. Thanks for agreeing to go out with me, Will. I think you’re my only real friend in town.”

  “There are plenty of nice people in town, Natalie. Oh, sure, some of them didn’t like it when Bob dumped Susan for you, but on the other hand, these are fair people. They all know it wasn’t much of a marriage, even though Susan kept trying to make it one. I think everyone feels she’s better off without him.”

  “That’s really good news. I’m so happy for her. I’ve given five years of my life to Bob Frieze. Five important years, I might add. Now he’s not only going to hell in a handbasket financially, but he’s getting weird.”

  Will raised his eyebrows. “Weird? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll give you an example, something that happened just last night. I know Bobby has told you that he’s an insomniac and often reads half the night?”

  Will smiled. “Looking at you, I’d say that’s a bit of a waste.”

  Natalie smiled wryly. “See why I made you come out to lunch with me. I needed to hear that silver tongue of yours.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

  “You do. But about last night—Will, I went downstairs at 2:00 A.M. and looked into Bobby’s study. There was no sign of him. I looked in the garage, and his car was gone. I don’t know where he went, but this morning I found a note in his pocket from some woman, saying she wanted him to call her. When I confronted him about it, he was shocked. I honestly don’t think he remembered meeting her! He tried to make some lame excuse, but I believe he may have blacked out. In fact, I think he’s been having intervals of blacking out for some time.”

  Natalie’s voice was rising. Will noticed that the elderly women at the next table were openly listening to the conversation.

  “Best keep it down, Natalie,” he suggested.

  “I don’t know if I want to,” she retorted, but then, her voice slightly lower, she went on. “Will, I keep thinking back to that night at the Lawrences’ party. I mean the night before Martha vanished.”

  “And?”

  “It’s funny, but you know how when you really concentrate, you do remember little things? I mean I hadn’t thought about the fact that Bobby was wearing that stupid boxy jacket he seems to think makes him look younger—”

  “Boy, when you’re down on someone, you don’t quit.”

  Natalie flashed a worried smile across the table, as the waitress placed steins of beer in front of them. “I really got to him today,” she admitted, then asked, “Why did I order beer?”

  “Because it goes well with a corned-beef sandwich.”

  “I swear, if Bobby had this kind of restaurant instead of that Seasoner mausoleum, maybe he’d have made a buck.”

  “Forget that, Natalie. Are you suggesting that Bobby stole Rachel Wilcox’s scarf?”

  “I’m saying that when I went into the powder room, I noticed it on a side table, but when I came back, it was gone.”

  “Did you see Bobby anywhere near it?”

  A shade of uncertainty flickered over her face. “I’m pretty sure I did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell this to the police?”

  “Because until the other night nobody knew they were asking about the scarf. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll just keep concentrating on trying to remember that night; maybe something more will come to me,” Natalie concluded, as she took a healthy bite of her sandwich.

  fifty-five ________________

  “I HAVE SOME OTHER BOOKS you might be interested in seeing, Emily. May I drop them off in half an hour?”

  “Dr. Wilcox, I don’t want to inconvenience you. I can pick them up.”

  “It won’t inconvenience me at all. I’m going out now to do a few errands.”

  When she replaced the receiver and checked the time, Emily was surprised to realize it was four o’clock. After Marty Browski called, she gave herself a short break, then returned to the research materials she’d spread out in the dining room, to continue to try to trace and identify the 1890s serial killer.

  There were more Monopoly houses placed on the map she had sketched, all of them neatly marked with the names of people who had lived at that address at that time. She had added houses for the Mayers and Allans and Williamses and Nesbitts. The names of their daughters or sons appeared in the lists of those regularly present at gatherings and parties and picnics and cotillions attended by Madeline Shapley, Letitia Gregg, Ellen Swain, Julia Gordon, and Phyllis Gates.

  She had opened one of the boxes George Lawrence brought over and was thrilled to see that it contained diaries and letters. Fascinated, she immediately began to read some of them, then realized she should complete her study of the museum material first.

  In the end she compromised and worked with both sources simultaneously. As the collective personal stories began to unfold, she felt as if she was stepping back in time and
actually sharing the world of the 1890s.

  Sometimes she found herself almost wishing she had lived then. Life in the 1890s seemed so much more sheltered, so much less demanding than her own life.

  Then Emily asked herself abruptly if she was crazy. Sheltered! she thought. Three of those friends who had confided in each other, who had shared gatherings and picnics and dances, died at ages nineteen, eighteen, and twenty. That’s not very sheltered.

  One bundle of letters that she was sure would be very promising had been written over the years by Julia Gordon to Phyllis Gates, when the Gates family returned to Philadelphia after the summer ended. Obviously Phyllis Gates kept them and then returned them to the Lawrence family.

  Julia became engaged to George Henry Lawrence in the fall of 1894. That winter he traveled to Europe on business with his father, and when he returned Julia wrote to her friend:

  Dear Phyllis,

  After these three long months, George has returned, and I am so very happy. The best way I can make you understand the depth of my emotion is to quote from the collection of letters I have recently read.

  To attempt to describe my joy and feelings at meeting and greeting my dear one must prove a failure. We spent the evening very sweetly and pleasantly.

  And now we plan our wedding, which will take place in the spring. If only Madeline and Letitia were here to be my bridesmaids along with you. What has become of our dear friends? Madeline’s family has moved away. Douglas Carter has taken his own life. Edgar Newman continues to be very low in spirits—I do believe he loved Letitia very dearly. We must continue to keep all of them, the missing and the dead, in our thoughts and prayers.

  Your loving friend,

  Julia

  Her eyes moist, Emily reread that letter. She doesn’t mention Ellen Swain, she thought, then realized that Ellen did not vanish until over a year later.

  I wonder what Julia would have thought if she could have looked into the future and known that her great-great granddaughter, Martha, would be found buried with Madeline.