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Authors: Selma Eichler
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telling you that when Diaz is on duty, he isn’t on duty, if you get my meaning.’’
For the life of me, I couldn’t see the perpetrator sitting on his hands—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter—from three o’clock or even earlier until almost eight. And I hate loose ends. I had to find out how he was able to slip past Harris. ‘‘Look,’’ I said in this nice, even tone, ‘‘if something demanded your attention for only a few seconds, that’s all the killer would have needed to—’’
‘‘How many times do I have to tell you?’’ Harris inter
rupted angrily. ‘‘No one got past me. No one!’’
‘‘Sorry. Just one last question, okay?’’
‘‘What is it?’’ he said, his manner making it clear that one was all I’d get.
‘‘Did you have to provide any special assistance of any kind that night? To an older person? Or someone in a wheelchair? Or—’’
I could see that he was about to break in with another denial when suddenly he froze, his mouth hanging open and his skin rapidly losing its color.
‘‘What is it?’’
Just then, a young couple entered the building, and Har
ris held the door for them. When he turned back to me, the elderly doorman’s face was gray. ‘‘God help me,’’ he said softly, ‘‘I guess it could have happened when Mrs. Garvin came home.’’
‘‘When was that?’’ I asked gently. At that moment, I was
not too pleased with myself for doing my job.
‘‘Around seven-thirty. I think it could have been a few minutes after the first Foster twin came in; only don’t hold me to it. But I do remember thinking how late it was for Mrs. Garvin; she usually gets in around six. Well,’’ he went on, nervously licking his lips, ‘‘Monday night, she pulled up in this big stretch limo—she never came home by limo be
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
53
fore—and the driver started unloading these two huge car
tons from the trunk. I found out later her office was moving, and the cartons were filled with papers she was storing in her apartment for the time being. But that’s not here or there, is it? Anyway, what happened was one of the cartons got stuck in the trunk, and the driver started yanking at it. All of a sudden-like, the carton came loose and it caught the guy off balance. I thought for sure he was going to drop it, so I ran over to give him a hand. But by the time I got to the curb, everything was okay; he had a good grip on it.’’
Harris paused for a second or two, then looked at me pleadingly. ‘‘All I did,’’ he said shakily, ‘‘was to run over to the limo—just a few yards away—and then turn right around and come back. So how long could I have been away from the door?’’
And then, in a strangled voice, he answered the question
himself: ‘‘Just long enough.’’
Chapter 7
Getting in touch with Peter wasn’t easy. First thing in the morning, I tried reaching him at the office number he’d given me. His secretary—or whoever it was who answered his phone—informed me that he’d taken a leave of absence. So I called him at home. I got the answering machine and left a message. Then I waited. And waited . . .
At noon, I went out to keep an appointment in connec
tion with one of the two other cases I was working on. And when I returned to the office an hour and a half later, I waited some more.
It was close to four when Peter finally got back to me.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been at the hospital all day, and I just now called home for my messages.’’
‘‘How is she?’’
‘‘About the same,’’ he answered. But there was a little lift in his voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘‘I was speak
ing to her neurosurgeon today, though. And he says that every day she’s still alive, her chances go up. It’s Friday now—that’s four days since she was shot. And they didn’t even expect her to last through the first night.’’
I wanted to respond
For the life of me, I couldn’t see the perpetrator sitting on his hands—or any other part of his anatomy, for that matter—from three o’clock or even earlier until almost eight. And I hate loose ends. I had to find out how he was able to slip past Harris. ‘‘Look,’’ I said in this nice, even tone, ‘‘if something demanded your attention for only a few seconds, that’s all the killer would have needed to—’’
‘‘How many times do I have to tell you?’’ Harris inter
rupted angrily. ‘‘No one got past me. No one!’’
‘‘Sorry. Just one last question, okay?’’
‘‘What is it?’’ he said, his manner making it clear that one was all I’d get.
‘‘Did you have to provide any special assistance of any kind that night? To an older person? Or someone in a wheelchair? Or—’’
I could see that he was about to break in with another denial when suddenly he froze, his mouth hanging open and his skin rapidly losing its color.
‘‘What is it?’’
Just then, a young couple entered the building, and Har
ris held the door for them. When he turned back to me, the elderly doorman’s face was gray. ‘‘God help me,’’ he said softly, ‘‘I guess it could have happened when Mrs. Garvin came home.’’
‘‘When was that?’’ I asked gently. At that moment, I was
not too pleased with myself for doing my job.
‘‘Around seven-thirty. I think it could have been a few minutes after the first Foster twin came in; only don’t hold me to it. But I do remember thinking how late it was for Mrs. Garvin; she usually gets in around six. Well,’’ he went on, nervously licking his lips, ‘‘Monday night, she pulled up in this big stretch limo—she never came home by limo be
MURDER CAN RUIN YOUR LOOKS
53
fore—and the driver started unloading these two huge car
tons from the trunk. I found out later her office was moving, and the cartons were filled with papers she was storing in her apartment for the time being. But that’s not here or there, is it? Anyway, what happened was one of the cartons got stuck in the trunk, and the driver started yanking at it. All of a sudden-like, the carton came loose and it caught the guy off balance. I thought for sure he was going to drop it, so I ran over to give him a hand. But by the time I got to the curb, everything was okay; he had a good grip on it.’’
Harris paused for a second or two, then looked at me pleadingly. ‘‘All I did,’’ he said shakily, ‘‘was to run over to the limo—just a few yards away—and then turn right around and come back. So how long could I have been away from the door?’’
And then, in a strangled voice, he answered the question
himself: ‘‘Just long enough.’’
Chapter 7
Getting in touch with Peter wasn’t easy. First thing in the morning, I tried reaching him at the office number he’d given me. His secretary—or whoever it was who answered his phone—informed me that he’d taken a leave of absence. So I called him at home. I got the answering machine and left a message. Then I waited. And waited . . .
At noon, I went out to keep an appointment in connec
tion with one of the two other cases I was working on. And when I returned to the office an hour and a half later, I waited some more.
It was close to four when Peter finally got back to me.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve been at the hospital all day, and I just now called home for my messages.’’
‘‘How is she?’’
‘‘About the same,’’ he answered. But there was a little lift in his voice that hadn’t been there before. ‘‘I was speak
ing to her neurosurgeon today, though. And he says that every day she’s still alive, her chances go up. It’s Friday now—that’s four days since she was shot. And they didn’t even expect her to last through the first night.’’
I wanted to respond
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