We were just finishing up our lunch when the restaurant’s matra d brought the phone over to our table and sat it down in front of me.
“Who knows you’re here, at the hotel?” Frank asked rather surprised.
I lifted the receiver to my ear. As far as I knew no one knew I was in New York except LaTanya our receptionist.
“Margaret. It’s David.”
“David! Where are you?”
“I’m in Park Slope at the home of Ray Jones. He lives downstairs from Sylvia Abramovitz and Rebecca Schuster.”
“What on earth are you doing there?”
“Following up on a lead.”
“I thought we all agreed that Rebecca was not the person we were looking for.”
“I know, but there was something about her. So, I followed up on a hunch and you won’t believe what I found. I’m on my way now. I’ll meet you at the hotel.”
“That was David. He says he has something he wants me to see. He’s coming right over.”
Twenty minutes later, we were back in our hotel room, joined by David, watching a video of Rebecca Schuster’s apartment.
“What is she doing?” I asked.
“Changing”, David said.
“I know she’s changing clothes, but …”
“No. I mean she’s changing into different people. One of her is a man and the other, is a woman, possibly two women. One called Mary and the other Rebecca. It’s what she says later that I want you to hear.”
I watched and listened as Rebecca Schuster, or rather, Lester Schuster and Mary Ellen Schuster argued amongst themselves and confessed to the murder of Kate Walker.
“Oh my God, David,” I said, wrapping my arms around the gentle six-foot giant who sat weeping in a chair as he watched the last few minutes of the tape. “They have a film of her burning, he said.”