A Cruel Season for Dying Read Online Free Page B

had killed two men. But the image wouldn’t hold. In part because the twentysomething dancer had sad,
     innocent eyes. But mostly because he had a reasonable alibi.
    Philippe Lambert, who shared this dinky walk-up with three other dancers, claimed to have stayed late in the theater after
     a performance on the night Carrera had died; he returned to his apartment with two of his roommates immediately afterward.
     Of course, it was a fool who said you could tell a killer by his eyes. And alibis, like promises, were made to be broken.
    “I want to help,” the dancer was saying. He was pacing in the small space that served as living room and kitchen. “It’s just
     that I answered all these questions in my statement.”
    “As I explained on the phone, Mr. Lambert, jurisdiction in this case has been transferred to a Special Homicide Unit. We’re
     reinterviewing everybody involved in this case.”
    Some of the tension seemed to drain out of the dancer. He sat down in a peeling chair. One of two that matched the table.
     A fifties dinette set in gray and blue. On top sat a carved jack-o’-lantern.
    “Let me summarize,” Talbot picked up the thread. “You said Mr. Carrera had not felt well, that he called Thursday morning
     to say he wouldn’t be coming in to the studio, or attending the performance that evening. Then when you couldn’t reach him
     all the next day, you went to check at his apartment.”
    The brown eyes closed shut. “It was horrible.”
    “How did you get in?”
    “I have a key.”
    “You found no evidence of forced entry?”
    “No.” The eyes went wide.
    “That suggests that Mr. Carrera knew his killer, or invited him in. Do you have any idea if he might have been expecting anyone
     that Friday?”
    “No. Most everybody was at the performance.”
    “Who was he seeing socially?”
    “You mean, who was he sleeping with?”
    “Yes.”
    “He was sleeping with me.”
    “Only with you?” He watched carefully for the reaction.
    “I believe so,” Lambert said easily enough. “Luis was not promiscuous.”
    “Does the name David Milne mean anything to you?”
    “I don’t think so…. Is he a dancer?”
    “Mr. Milne owned an art gallery in the East Village.”
    “You’re talking about that other guy who was murdered?” Lambert caught on quick. “Are you saying he was killed … like Luis?”
    “I haven’t said that at all, Mr. Lambert. And repeating that kind of rumor could be considered interference with a police
     investigation. You understand?”
    “Sure.” The eyes said he was shaken.
    “You have no idea who killed Mr. Carrera?”
    “No.”
    “He didn’t mention anyone new? Someone he’d just met, perhaps?”
    “No, he didn’t. The truth is, Luis was becoming more and more isolated.”
    “Why was that?”
    “He could get pretty depressed. Luis was a huge star before he injured his back. You know his history?”
    “I know he defected from Cuba.”
    “Luis came here as part of an international troupe—the hottest thing going in the Cuban National Ballet. Castro caused a big
     stink when the State Department gave him asylum. Luis had been trained by the Russians. Was supposed to be the next Baryshnikov.”
    “And was he?”
    “Yes, until the injury. Lumbar compression. He couldn’t do the lifts. Of course, the good side of his not being able to dance
     the major roles was that he threw himself into teaching the younger dancers in the company. Helping people like me.”
    “So, he was liked by the younger dancers.”
    “By everyone in the company. And that’s really saying something.”
    “Why?”
    “The company is a very small world, Detective Talbot. You’re together all the time. There are a lot of petty jealousies.”
    “But not with Mr. Carrera?”
    “I guess there might have been a lot of envy at the beginning. But not later.”
    “Still, he must have had
some
enemies.”
    Lambert sighed. “Well, there was one person that Luis had a problem with. You