Victims by Dorothy Uhnak Page A

forward. “Relax, I don’t care about that—or anything like that. I’m with the New York City Police Department. I’m investigating a murder and my job is to interview possible witnesses. That’s all; nothing to do with anything else at all.”
    “You want to talk to Arabella? About a murder? My God, what would she know about a murder?”
    “Probably nothing at all. Look, she’s just a name on a long list of names. My job is to see each person, to make a check alongside each name, the way you do against a passenger list.”
    Yes, Arabella Vidales was one of the eight stewardesses who rented the apartment. At any given time, there were usually four women using the apartment. Very rarely, the apartment was empty, but for no more than a night or two. Even more rare were the times when all eight were present at the same time. Their schedules were such that generally one group arrived as the second group left. No, she, Jeanine Feliz, did not work with Arabella. Wait, maybe once or twice, but not as a general thing. Christine Valapo, yes, that’s who Ara worked with. They’re good friends, and no, Christine Valapo was not in the apartment, either. But yes, Christine had a piece of the apartment.
    “But they are on layover,” Miranda said. “Have you any idea where they would be, if not here?”
    Jeanine Feliz shrugged elaborately, and her smile was not the automatic smile of the stewardess. It was one woman to another.
    “Say, the ideal layover is not here, in this apartment. This is a check-in place, no? You can always hope for something better. If nothing better turns up, sometimes we party here. I don’t know Ara or Christine too much, but maybe they had plans. Sometimes you get an invitation to a beach house, out on Long Island, you know. There are a lot of nice parties, on Fire Island, the Hamptons, you know? Nice, not wild or anything. People get the wrong idea, but let’s face it, you could go crazy spending so much time in an apartment with girls you work with. Maybe they went to Long Island or someplace nice. You know, this Queens, it is...” Jeanine rolled her large dark eyes, raised her arched brow and shook her head.
    “Does Arabella have any family here, in Queens? Do you know anything about her renting a small apartment here, in Forest Hills?”
    “Here. She shares rent here. You mean another apartment? No. I wouldn’t know. Wait. She was partners last year with Sonyia Garcia. If you would wait for a moment, okay?”
    After about ten minutes, Jeanine came back into the living room with a young woman who looked like her twin sister, only sleepier. The forced smile, the pleasant inquiring tilt of her head, the fall of her shiny, tangled but clean black hair, were identical: part of the stewardess uniform.
    Arabella Vidales had a younger sister: Maria? Maybe Maria. A college girl. Queens College? No. No, wait: St. John’s College. Yes, a Catholic university. Sonyia remembered that last year Ara had rented a small apartment for the girl, somewhere in Forest Hills. Close by, so that she could keep an eye on the girl when she was on layover. Was that helpful information?
    Miranda thanked the Avianca stewardesses and left her phone number with them.
    “If Arabella turns up, please have her call me. It probably isn’t at all important, but when I talk to her I can check her name off my list. We all have our lists, yes?”
    It wasn’t a long walk, even on a hot afternoon, to Barclay Street. Maybe Miranda would get lucky. She’d check out Arabella Vidales’ apartment. Maybe she’d come up with her college-girl sister.
    It would seem that Maria Vidales was the only Spanish girl living on Barclay Street, and enough people seemed to have thought she was the victim of last night’s attack.
    Miranda wondered what Maria, or her sister, would have to say about that. If anything.
    It was a waste of time. No one was in the top-floor apartment. Miranda rang a few bells and left her card with neighbors, who