Read Online New York Nocturne by Walter Satterthwait - Free Book Online Page B

natural, of course,” said Mr. Vandervalk. “It’s inevitable. But then one night, things went a little too far—”
    â€œThings never went anywhere .”
    â€œMaybe he didn’t touch you,” said Becker. For the first time, he smiled at me. Slyly. “Is that it? That’s why you hated him? That’s why you killed him?”
    I shook my head, not so much to deny the idea as to shake it away, to shake away the nightmare that was beginning to settle around my shoulders. “This is . . . crazy. This is absolutely crazy. I didn’t hate my uncle. I admired him.”
    â€œOf course you did,” said Vandervalk, nodding again, encouraging me. He smiled, and all at once I realized that his smile and his concern were both utterly false. He was as convinced as Becker that I was responsible for John’s death. Or convinced that I should be.
    â€œOf course you did,” he said. “You admired him. You respected him. And then he did something that frightened you. Something you could never forgive. One night when you were sleeping, he came to you and—”
    â€œThat is just not true,” I said. I turned to Becker. Of the two men, he had suddenly become the less unpleasant. His hostility, at least, was open. I said, “I’d like to talk to a lawyer, please. I have a right to talk to a lawyer.”
    I sounded enormously grave to myself, but clearly I amused Lieutenant Becker. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked me.
    â€œIt’s in the Constitution of the United States.”
    â€œYeah?” he said. “The Constitution of the United States? Does that say anything about minors? Because that’s what you are, little girl .”
    The words were spoken with such easy contempt that for a moment I was stunned. My throat clamped shut, and I felt a swelling behind my eyes. I blinked, swallowed painfully, and took a deep breath. I would not cry in front of this man. I would not cry in front of either man.
    Sensing my vulnerability, I believe, Vandervalk leaned forward. “Look, Amanda,” he said, sincerity purring in his voice, “we’re trying to help you. Believe me, no jury in the world would convict you if they knew the truth.”
    â€œBut that isn’t the truth.”
    He sat back, sighed, and shook his head, vastly disappointed in me.
    Becker attempted another approach. He said, “Did your uncle lock the door when you two came back last night?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow many keys are there?”
    â€œPardon me?” I said.
    â€œWas that a complicated question? How many keys to the apartment?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m not sure. I had one. Albert had one.”
    Becker turned to Vandervalk. “Albert Cooper. The butler. We talked to him, he’s alibied.”
    I realized that until that moment, I had never heard Albert’s last name. I wondered how Becker had learned it.
    Becker said to me, “And your uncle’s key—it was in his pocket. That makes three.”
    â€œThere could’ve been more,” I said. “Someone else could have come in last night. Anyone.”
    â€œWho?” said Becker.
    â€œI don’t know. But—”
    â€œThe door was chained shut,” he said.
    â€œPardon?” I said.
    â€œThe front door to the apartment. When the detectives got there, they heard you unchain it.”
    I glanced at Vandervalk. His arms were crossed, and his head was cocked.
    â€œYes,” I said, “but I chained it shut myself. This morning, after I called the police.”
    â€œAnd why do that?”
    â€œTo stop—to keep out whoever did that to . . . my uncle.”
    â€œLittle late, wasn’t it?”
    â€œI wasn’t—”
    â€œYou know what defensive wounds are?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWounds on the hands and arms. They happen when someone’s trying to stop someone else from cutting him. With a