were always the heroes, the victim always the wronged party, and the murderer always the villain. Cops were always happy to meet an author who didn’t tell the story from the murderer’s point of view, which so many of them now seemed to do.
After taking down Tom’s name and number, he turned to Charlotte. “And who do we have here?” he said with the brazen look which comes from years of sizing up women in terms of their sexual availability, a habit so ingrained it couldn’t be turned off, even for a seventy-year-old woman.
“Charlotte Graham,” she replied.
The cop suddenly stopped writing, and gave her the once-over again.
“Well, how do I look?” asked Charlotte sharply. She hated being scrutinized like this. She could hear him telling his wife: she must be seventy, if she’s a day .
“Pretty damned good for an old warhorse,” he said.
Charlotte had to smile. It was one of her life’s little benisons that she had aged well. Her black hair was worn pulled back into a chignon now rather than in her famous pageboy and she had gained a few pounds, but her skin had held up, partly because it was so pale that she had always taken pains to protect it.
“I read Murder at the Morosco , by the way. Not only are you a helluva actress, Miss Graham, you’re also a helluva detective. Now, about our friend here,” he said, nodding down at the corpse. “When did you last see him? Alive, I mean,” he added with a smile that revealed a gap between his front teeth.
Tom explained about the incident at the opening, which the other guests had also attributed to drugs. It had come out afterward that Randy had been a cocaine user, and that his behavior of late was becoming increasingly bizarre.
“How long has he been dead?” Tom asked.
“At least a couple of days by the looks of him,” said the detective. He looked down at the bloated body, which was being removed to the morgue wagon that had just pulled into the vacant lot. “We’ll find out when we get the medical examiner’s report.”
“A homicide?” asked Tom.
Did Charlotte detect a hopeful note in his voice? After all, he had just finished a book, and was scouting around for a new subject.
“Got to be—unless he wrapped himself up in that sheet. Which might very well have been the case. I’ve seen suicides do stranger things.”
“How would he have killed himself?” asked Charlotte.
“Jumped. We get a lot of suicides. The observation bridge is almost as popular as the Golden Gate. But he would have had to jump in above the Falls to end up in the raceway system. The intake valve’s just up river from the Spruce Street Bridge.”
“Why the sheet, then?” asked Charlotte.
“Maybe he wanted to keep himself from changing his mind. With his arms pinned to his sides like that, he wouldn’t have been able to swim.” The burly detective shrugged. “Just speculation.”
“It wouldn’t have been easy to wrap himself up like that,” said Tom.
“You’re right,” said Voorhees. He pointed the end of his pen once again at Tom and Charlotte. “I’ll tell you one thing …”
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“If it’s a homicide, you’ll be hearing from me.”
4
Voorhees called Charlotte at nine the next morning. She had just finished a leisurely breakfast in bed at her townhouse in the Turtle Bay section of Manhattan when the phone rang. She welcomed the interruption. Not long ago, she had signed a contract with a publisher to write her memoirs. Over the years, she had often been approached about doing an autobiography, but she had always resisted. She rarely even gave interviews, so jealously did she guard her privacy. So why write a book? But Tom had finally convinced her that she owed her life story to an adoring public who had supported her for half a century with their loyalty and love. What had finally won her over was his argument that writing her memoirs needn’t necessarily require laying bare her life, nor need it be a
After taking down Tom’s name and number, he turned to Charlotte. “And who do we have here?” he said with the brazen look which comes from years of sizing up women in terms of their sexual availability, a habit so ingrained it couldn’t be turned off, even for a seventy-year-old woman.
“Charlotte Graham,” she replied.
The cop suddenly stopped writing, and gave her the once-over again.
“Well, how do I look?” asked Charlotte sharply. She hated being scrutinized like this. She could hear him telling his wife: she must be seventy, if she’s a day .
“Pretty damned good for an old warhorse,” he said.
Charlotte had to smile. It was one of her life’s little benisons that she had aged well. Her black hair was worn pulled back into a chignon now rather than in her famous pageboy and she had gained a few pounds, but her skin had held up, partly because it was so pale that she had always taken pains to protect it.
“I read Murder at the Morosco , by the way. Not only are you a helluva actress, Miss Graham, you’re also a helluva detective. Now, about our friend here,” he said, nodding down at the corpse. “When did you last see him? Alive, I mean,” he added with a smile that revealed a gap between his front teeth.
Tom explained about the incident at the opening, which the other guests had also attributed to drugs. It had come out afterward that Randy had been a cocaine user, and that his behavior of late was becoming increasingly bizarre.
“How long has he been dead?” Tom asked.
“At least a couple of days by the looks of him,” said the detective. He looked down at the bloated body, which was being removed to the morgue wagon that had just pulled into the vacant lot. “We’ll find out when we get the medical examiner’s report.”
“A homicide?” asked Tom.
Did Charlotte detect a hopeful note in his voice? After all, he had just finished a book, and was scouting around for a new subject.
“Got to be—unless he wrapped himself up in that sheet. Which might very well have been the case. I’ve seen suicides do stranger things.”
“How would he have killed himself?” asked Charlotte.
“Jumped. We get a lot of suicides. The observation bridge is almost as popular as the Golden Gate. But he would have had to jump in above the Falls to end up in the raceway system. The intake valve’s just up river from the Spruce Street Bridge.”
“Why the sheet, then?” asked Charlotte.
“Maybe he wanted to keep himself from changing his mind. With his arms pinned to his sides like that, he wouldn’t have been able to swim.” The burly detective shrugged. “Just speculation.”
“It wouldn’t have been easy to wrap himself up like that,” said Tom.
“You’re right,” said Voorhees. He pointed the end of his pen once again at Tom and Charlotte. “I’ll tell you one thing …”
“What’s that?” asked Tom.
“If it’s a homicide, you’ll be hearing from me.”
4
Voorhees called Charlotte at nine the next morning. She had just finished a leisurely breakfast in bed at her townhouse in the Turtle Bay section of Manhattan when the phone rang. She welcomed the interruption. Not long ago, she had signed a contract with a publisher to write her memoirs. Over the years, she had often been approached about doing an autobiography, but she had always resisted. She rarely even gave interviews, so jealously did she guard her privacy. So why write a book? But Tom had finally convinced her that she owed her life story to an adoring public who had supported her for half a century with their loyalty and love. What had finally won her over was his argument that writing her memoirs needn’t necessarily require laying bare her life, nor need it be a
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