Do or Die. Barbara Fradkin

      “One of my many talents, Inspector. I’ve always doodled, and sometimes the hours at the library are long and boring. I draw sketches of the people I see, just for fun. In fact, I drew a picture of Jonathan Blair last week.”

      He stared at her. “You’re kidding!”

      She jumped to her feet. “I’ll show it to you. I look for special faces, unique expressions...”

      She skipped out of the room, and Green found himself looking around for clues to her many facets. The apartment was small and crammed with cheap furniture. In the corner of the room stood a ten-speed and a child’s bike. Bunched into the cushions of the sagging sofa was a young girl’s jacket, and a pair of children’s rain boots stood by the door. Stacks of notes, books and old newspapers covered most of the surfaces. A busy woman, he thought, full of curiosity and ideas, but not enough hours in the day for them all.

      She emerged from the other room holding up a sketchpad in triumph. He was struck by how vividly blue her eyes were. It was an effort to force his down onto the paper she held. Then he received a second surprise. Jonathan Blair gazed out at him from the sketch, sad and contemplative. His face, partly cast in shadow, was breathtakingly handsome. The drawing was brilliant.

      “Was he really this handsome?”

      Reverence glinted in her eyes as she studied the picture. “Yes, he was. Thick dark hair and blue eyes you could die in. That’s why I noticed him. He was reading this journal article and taking notes, just like any other student on the floor. But then he set down his pen, rested his chin on his hand and stared into space. There was such profound despair on his face! Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He stayed that way for the entire fifteen minutes it took me to draw him.”

      “Had you seen him before or since?”

      “I had, in fact. He was a regular, and once you see that face you never forget it.”

      “Ever talk to him?”

      She smiled and shook her head, suddenly sheepish. “No, I keep my fantasies to myself. The last thing I need is a man in my life.”

      I don’t know about that, he found himself thinking and pulled himself firmly back on track. “Ever see anyone with him?”

      “A few times he had a girl with him. Hung all over him. She was gorgeous, too.”

      Green’s pulse quickened. “Describe her.”

      “Mediterranean-looking. Maybe Arab or even a light-skinned Indian. Thick, wavy black hair that framed her face like a halo. Large black eyes, long-lashed. That satiny milk chocolate skin that doesn’t have a flaw in it.”

      “I can tell you hardly gave her a second glance.”

      She laughed. “You’re much nicer when you’re human, Inspector. I can draw her for you too.”

      He felt himself flush. “Could you? I’m serious. These are important witnesses. Could you draw all four? The guy who pulled the fire alarm too?”

      “No problem. I’ve got the day off and my daughter’s not back from school till three-thirty. I can have them ready for you by tonight.”

      He knew there was no further reason to stay. Not with a dozen leads to follow up and his report to Weiss already two hours overdue. He was reluctantly closing his notebook when the bedroom door yanked open and Sullivan emerged, tight-lipped and grim.

      “Mike, you’re not going to believe this. Another problem. No one in the rescue crew remembers even seeing a kid in a red plaid shirt!”

       Three

      “I talked to the paramedics, the firemen and the rookie patrolman who took the call,” Sullivan reported. “No one remembers a student coming to meet them.”

      Green leaned against the wall outside Carrie MacDonald’s apartment, shaking his head. The warm flush of a moment ago had vanished. “I don’t believe this is happening. A potential eyewitness, maybe even a suspect, and he slips through our fingers. Didn’t you seal off the building?”

      Sullivan inspected a spot on the far wall, and for a moment Green thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he did, his voice was tight. “Of course we sealed off the building. But the student would have been long gone before that, in the madhouse created by the fire alarm.”

      “Which is why he pulled it in the first place, Dummkopf! This is probably our guy!”

      On the way back to the police station, Green suffered through ten minutes of stony silence and screeching tires before he finally sighed.

      “Brian, I’m sorry I called you a Dummkopf. We can’t let this case get to us. We’ve got to pull together.”

      “You also humiliated me in front of a witness.”

      “I know. I was wrong.”

      Sullivan stopped at a red light, and Green saw him gradually deflate. “Yeah, but you were also right. I should have followed up on that student right away.”

      “You should have. But then you would have just had one more failure to report to me.” They exchanged glances and laughed. “It’s good we can joke about it. Let’s hope the other guys are luckier.”

      Back at the station they dodged cameramen and crime reporters as they made their way to the second floor. The death of Jonathan Blair was no longer a secret; it had become front page news. Shutting the door to his little alcove office, Green seized his radio even before he sat down.

      “Now to get the reports from the troops,” he muttered as he called. Two minutes later, Detective Jackson responded to his page. Traffic roared in the background.

      “Have you come across a guy with thick black hair and a big mustache?” Green asked.

      “Mustache? No.”

      “Keep looking, it’s important. How about a gorgeous dark-haired woman?”

      “Not yet. But I’ll be glad to start looking for her.”

      “Ask Blair’s friends if they know her. Arab-looking, wavy hair, big eyes. If you find her, call me.”

      “Will do.”

      “Got anything useful yet?”

      In the background, Green heard a car engine roar, and Jackson raised his voice over it. “Lots of background, no leads. Everybody’s in shock, can’t believe somebody would do that to such a nice kid, that sort of stuff. Nobody knows any enemies.”

      “Seen the ex-girlfriend?” “Vanessa Weeks? She wasn’t at her office. Do you want us to go out to her home?”

      “No,” Green said impulsively. “Give the address to me.”

      When he hung up, he swung on Sullivan. “Passion—that’s what I’m betting on. A handsome guy and too many women. I’ve got to check this one out myself.”

      Sullivan was halfway out of his seat. “What do you want me to do?”

      “Stay put so you can field the calls. Get a media plea out on the dark-haired student in the red shirt. Then man the radio and get progress reports from everyone. I’ll be back in an hour.”

       *

      The young woman who answered the door after almost three minutes was neither dark-haired nor gorgeous, at least in her present state. Vanessa Weeks’ face was puffed and blotchy, her eyes webbed in red. Oily blonde hair straggled across her forehead and down her neck. She clutched a cotton dressing gown around her with one hand and pressed a kleenex to her eyes with the other.

      Oh God, Green thought. Tears.

      He followed her into a small studio apartment strewn with papers, dirty dishes and cast-off clothing. The building was not air-conditioned, and the steamy air