Dear Old Dead(102)

“Excuse me,” she said again.

Then she marched past a stunned Gregor into Robbie Yagger’s room and right up to the figure in the trench coat. The figure had frozen, syringe in the air. Now a shudder seemed to pass through its body; the syringe dropped on the floor. The nun got a grip on the figure’s wrist and refused to let go.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “What are you doing with those shoes? Those are Karida Johnson’s shoes.”

Gregor looked down at the shoes. They were hidden under the long white pants, but what he could see was the thick bottom of a high platform, the kind of thing the whores wore to make themselves look five or six inches taller. Gregor himself had seen Karida Johnson in those shoes.

“Take that silly thing off your head,” the nun said, pulling at the stocking. “I know who you are.”

That was when Hector Sheed decided to join the festivities. The huge detective stumbled out of the closet, tripping over the equipment that came cascading after him like a metallic waterfall.

“That trench coat,” Hector said. “Where did he get that trench coat?”

“It’s not a he,” the nun replied with contempt. “It’s a she, of course. Anybody could tell.”

The small nun tugged at the stocking mask again, and now the figure decided it was time to bolt. It crouched into a ball and swiftly shot up again, knocking the Sister backward. Then it spun around and sprinted for the door. This was definitely not Gregor Demarkian’s strong suit. He not only couldn’t sprint, he could barely walk at what Bennis Hannaford called “a normal pace.” Still, what had to be done had to be done. He couldn’t just let this person go sailing out of here before they’d had time to make a positive identification. He reached out as the figure sped by.

It worked. Gregor Demarkian had no idea how it worked, but it worked. He caught hold of the trench coat’s sleeve. Unbalanced, the figure tottered on her high platform heels and began to fall sideways. Then Hector Sheed was there, pulling the stocking mask apart.

“Goddamn it,” he bellowed. “I’ve had enough of this, I really have. I’ve had enough of this.”

“I’ve had enough of this, too,” Victor van Straadt said, appearing in Robbie Yagger’s doorway. “Is it over now? Doesn’t she get away with it this time?”

“Who is she?” Hector Sheed exploded.

Gregor would have told him, but he didn’t have to. The stocking mask Hector had been ripping at gave way. It tore into pieces and fell back off the figure’s head.

At that point, everybody could see that the woman in the trench coat and the platform heels was Ida Greel.