Murder in Greenwich Village Page 11

  She nodded. “He never came home again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t give you anything else, Detective. I’ve given you his brothers, his sister, all the friends I can think of. I’m sorry that detective has been kidnapped, but my husband didn’t do it.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Jane got up and left Mrs. Morgan still sitting on her chair.

  “That should be easy,” MacHovec said, looking at the name of Curtis Morgan’s brother. “I’ll call Attica after I check him out. You up for a trip upstate?”

  “Whatever it takes. How do I get there?”

  “Fly to Buffalo and thumb a ride.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where’s the old Jane Bauer enthusiasm?”

  “I lost it in a subway tunnel. You ever been down there?”

  “Not in this life. Rats with four feet give me the willies.”

  “What’ve you got?” It was McElroy, standing in the doorway.

  “Morgan’s brother is doing a bit in Attica for armed robbery. Sean’s checking it out.”

  McElroy closed the door. “Any connection to the TA?”

  “Not from what Mrs. Morgan told me.” She flipped open her notebook and gave him what she had.

  “What about those TA people you mentioned this morning?”

  “We haven’t even had a chance to talk about it. I just got back from BAM, Loot.”

  “Maybe we should pull in a couple of detectives from the conference room.”

  “We may have to. And I may be on my way to Attica when Sean gets off the phone.”

  When McElroy left, Jane called for a sandwich to be delivered. This was not a day to take time off to eat. MacHovec’s brown bag was on the floor as usual.

  “Timothy Morgan’s been transferred to Sing-Sing,” MacHovec said as he hung up. “Or to be politically correct, Ossining Correctional Facility, which means he must’ve found God or turned his life around. He’s a model prisoner. You can talk to him any time you want.”

  “Good. I can drive up tomorrow morning and do it all in half a day. What do you have on Holy Joe?”

  “Joe’s alive and well, living across the river in New Jersey. He took early retirement a couple of years ago. You can take a ferry and then a cab, you can rent a car, you can even have the fun of a bus from Port Authority. And a cab after that.”

  “New Jersey. It’ll take all afternoon.”

  “It’s not that far.”

  “Riso know I’m coming?”

  “He said he’ll be home all day.”

  Just as her sandwich came, Graves asked for them in his office.

  “You going to see Morgan’s brother?”

  “Yes, sir.” She explained where he was.

  “You can do it tomorrow. Rent a car. Use your credit card. We’ll square things and take care of the paperwork later. We’re being careful not to alert anyone.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “What else’ve you got?”

  She told him about Joe Riso and said she would leave for New Jersey in half an hour.

  “Do that. Maybe you should go with one of the conference room detectives.”

  “Sure.”

  Graves told McElroy to pick one.

  MacHovec then read off the results of his other queries, the names of old fellow workers of Curtis Morgan. He had located Barry Collins, Morgan’s supervisor. “Sounds like a hard-ass.” Collins would be working tonight and could be reached at the Forty-second Street station. MacHovec had the details. He had also located William Parnell, one of the friends Emma Morgan had mentioned the previous night. Parnell had a desk job now and would be at work Tuesday and Wednesday.

  “I’ll see him Wednesday,” Jane said.

  “You can’t handle all these interviews yourself, Jane,” Graves said, using her first name for the first time in several days.

  “I know that, but I’d like to choose the ones I talk to.”

  “Fair enough. All right, reserve your car for tomorrow, get up to Ossining and back. Let’s hope Curtis Morgan and his brother had heart-to-hearts.”

  When a doctor says, “Let’s hope,” you know he’s run out of science. When a detective says it, he’s run out of leads. Jane nodded and got to her feet. She had little time and much to accomplish.

  “Make your rings,” Graves said as she opened the door.

  MacHovec offered to reserve the car, and she handed him her credit card as she ate. By the time he hung up, she had finished lunch and McElroy was at the door with a guy about her age.

  “This is Det. Warren Smithson,” McElroy said.

  “Jane Bauer.” She stood and leaned over her desk to shake Smithson’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you. We leaving soon?”

  “Right now. We can take the ferry.”

  “I’ve got a car.”

  She smiled. “I like you already.”

  McElroy nodded. “Jane’s the senior detective on the case,” he said, then departed.

  “If you don’t come back today,” MacHovec said, “here’s the confirmation number on the car.”

  17

  THEY DROVE THROUGH the Lincoln Tunnel and got to Joe Riso’s house before two. The area was half high-rises and half little houses from another era. They talked on the way, Detective Smithson asking about Defino. It was obvious his group had exhausted every possible lead in trying to find Manelli.

  Jane heard the dejection in her own voice, which had still not healed completely from shouting Defino’s name in the Lex early Saturday morning.

  “You guys close?” Smithson asked.

  “We’re partners.” Her voice had a frosty edge.

  They got out of the car and went to the door of Riso’s house. A tall, lanky, muscular man, he opened it himself and gave them both a welcoming handshake. “Come in. We can sit in the garden. Lizzie made some lemonade.”

  They followed him through the living room to the back-yard, and they sat at an umbrellaed table on comfortable outdoor chairs. The house was situated high up, and the breeze was so refreshing it was a pleasure just to inhale.

  “I hear you want to talk about Curtis Morgan. Nice guy, Curtis. Got himself in some stupid trouble way back and ruined his life. But at least he stayed out of jail.”

  “Mr. Riso,” Jane began, “that stupid trouble you mentioned. We think Curtis Morgan had someone in the TA he was working with or reporting to.”

  “Hey, don’t ask me.” He rolled up the sleeve of his left forearm, baring a large tattoo of a crucifix. “I worked with Curt, I drank with Curt, I think we even went out with our wives once or twice, but I didn’t know nothin’ about what he was involved in.”

  “When did you find out about his involvement?”

  “When he was arrested. It was in the papers the next day.”

  “Did you talk to him about it?”

  “After the trial I did. You know, they gave him back his job after he was acquitted. He said he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  She was getting tired of hearing the phrase. “Curtis Morgan was involved in the theft of guns that he was going to sell for a lot of money.”

  “Curt? You got the wrong guy.”

  “Mr. Riso,” Smithson said, “we already know we’ve got the right guy. What we’re looking for is who he was working with.”

  “How would I know?” Holy Joe looked insulted. “I didn’t have no part in that.”

  Mrs. Riso came out of the house at that moment with a tray of tall glasses of lemonade. As Emma Morgan had described, she was a little woman with a giggle. She left the tray, told them to enjoy it, and went back inside.

  They each took a glass and a napkin. When Joe reached for his, Jane saw a simple cross tattooed on the back of his hand. She flicked her eyes upward to the vee of skin at his open collar. A chain around his neck with a cross hanging from it was tattooed on the visible skin. Holy Joe.

  “A detective was murdered over those guns,” Jane said.

  “Curt was acq
uitted. That’s good enough for me.”

  “It isn’t good enough for us.”

  “You think I was involved in that murder? In that gun deal?”

  “We think you may know something about it, and you may have an idea who else in the Transit Authority was involved with Curtis Morgan.”

  “You got the wrong guy.” Joe pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and tapped one out. He lit it from a book of matches and left the matches on the table. “Curt was a friend. If he was involved in something like that, he kept it to himself.”

  “Tell us about Barry Collins,” Jane said.

  “The supervisor? What a shit. Nothin’ was good enough for him. Didn’t matter how much you worked, how hard you worked, he was always on your back to do more, do better. If Curt was gonna kill anybody, it would’ve been him.”

  “I’m told he’s still alive,” Jane said.

  “Only the good die young.” He took a long pull on the lemonade and drew on the cigarette, flicking the ash on the patio. The loose, friendly demeanor had vanished. Holy Joe was under siege.

  “If you know something, Mr. Riso,” Warren Smithson said, “now’s the time to come clean. We’re sitting here talking to you. You know what that means.”

  “You done a lot of digging.”

  “Right.”

  “And you’re gonna keep digging till everybody’s in the shit.”

  “So tell us,” Jane said.

  Mrs. Riso poked her head out the door. “Joe, honey, you shouldn’t be smoking.”

  “Give it a rest, Lizzie.” He was angry and agitated. His wife retreated. He finished the cigarette down to the last quarter inch, dropped it on the brick patio, and stepped on it. “Look, I heard a few words once. I wasn’t part of it. Curt had a friend, a piece of trash named Sal something. Guy was always looking for an angle, never held a real job. They hooked up with a third guy, the one that took the fall in the cop’s murder. I don’t remember his name. Black guy. I don’t know how Curt knew him, maybe through Sal. He was the one stole the guns.”

  “Where did he steal them from?” Jane asked.

  “Beats me. I just know there were guns and the black guy stole them. He was making a deal to sell them when they got busted.”

  “What happened to the guns?” Smithson asked.

  “How should I know? Maybe they’re in Sal’s house. Anyone look there?”

  “We looked there.”

  “So they’re somewheres else.” He moved his shoulder. “Look in the black guy’s place. He’s the one made the deal.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jane asked.

  “I heard Curt on the phone once. He was talking too loud, and what he said didn’t make sense. When he got off, I asked him what was going on. He said he was doing a little deal that would get him some tax-free cash, a onetime thing, he said. I asked him how much cash and he gave me a number, maybe ten thousand, maybe twenty, I don’t remember.”

  “He talked about this on the phone?”

  “He was in an empty office. I saw him inside and went in and got an earful.”

  “Who was he talking to?” Smithson asked.

  “Damned if I know. He never said a name.” He looked up at the house. “Lizzie, this is a private conversation, you mind?”

  “OK, honey.” She smiled brightly and backed away from the screen door.

  “And he talked about the guns over the phone?” Smithson said.

  “He said something that made me think guns. Look, this conversation was about ten years ago. I don’t remember every word.”

  “Did he say where the guns were hidden?”

  “I already answered that question. I didn’t hear and he didn’t tell me.”

  “If you’re holding back, Joe—”

  “I’m not holding back,” Riso said, raising his voice. “I’m telling you what I never told anyone. I don’t see what difference it makes. Curt’s dead. He didn’t kill the cop.”

  “How do you know?” Jane asked.

  “All those guys were picked up at that place the black guy had somewhere over on the West Side. You think they would’ve killed a cop and gone right back to where they’d been? Where the cops knew they had a place? Those guys weren’t crazy. They didn’t know the cop was dead or they’d’ve scattered. Doesn’t take a lot of brains to see that.”

  “You’re a smart guy,” Smithson said. “You got it all figured out.”

  Holy Joe gave Smithson a withering look. “I’m smart enough,” he said in a low voice. “I keep out of trouble. And that’s all I know, folks, so I think it’s time for you to go.” He pushed his chair away from the table and walked to the garden, hands in his pockets, looking at the shrubs that surrounded the yard. He bent and pulled a weed at the farthest point, the domestic gardener at home.

  “Let’s go,” Jane said under her breath.

  “He knows more.”

  “He’s done talking today.” Jane faced Riso’s back. “So long, Joe. Thanks for everything.”

  Joe didn’t answer. Jane and Smithson walked through the house to the front door.

  Jane got back in time to brief Graves. Smithson joined her, but let her do most of the talking.

  “You said you think Riso knows more,” Graves summarized. “Are you telling me he was involved?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane said. She looked at Smithson, who shrugged. “He was getting pretty agitated at the end. I think maybe Morgan told him more. He could know who else was involved, but it was in his best interests to keep quiet ten years ago—”

  “Because of his job?”

  “Yes. And if he talks now, well, he’s been withholding evidence. He doesn’t know where Defino is, and that’s our priority now. We need to find out who the big guy in the TA is, the one who ordered the hit on Micah Anthony, the guy who’s behind leaving the Beretta in Riverside Park and kidnapping Gordon. I’m seeing Collins, the supervisor, this evening, and then I’ll talk to Morgan’s brother, Timothy, at Sing-Sing tomorrow, see if either of them can take me a step higher.”

  “The guy in Sing-Sing may want to deal.”

  “I’ll call you if I think he has something.”

  Graves considered this. “I’ll be at my phone till I hear that you’re leaving.”

  “Thank you.”

  Smithson left at five. Jane stayed in her office. Rather than go home and then walk back to the subway to go up to Times Square, she would have a bite nearby and then go uptown.

  She called her father and had a leisurely talk with him. Then, on a lark, she called her daughter’s number at the dorm in Kansas.

  “Hello?”

  “Lisa, it’s Jane.”

  “Oh, hi. Sorry, I’m half-asleep. I’m studying for exams.”

  “Shall I call another time?”

  “Oh, no. It’s good to hear from you. I put a couple of pictures in an envelope for you last week but I haven’t mailed it yet.”

  “That’s OK.” Jane was smiling. “When they come, they’ll cheer me up.”

  “Is something wrong?” The young voice sounded concerned.

  “I’m on a tough case. It’s driving a lot of us crazy. How’re you doing?”

  “Not bad. It’s just the biology that’s killing me. I stayed up most of last night to study and now I can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “When’s the exam?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Then I’m done till the next day. You know what? I got a job for the summer, right here on campus.”

  “That’s great. Won’t your parents miss you if you’re not home?”

  “Oh, they’ll get to see me. We’re practicing independence this summer.”

  Jane laughed. “I’ve been practicing it for twenty years and I still haven’t got it down.”

  “I’ll give you some tips if I learn any.”

  “I have to go, honey. I just had a few minutes and thought I’d like to hear your voice.”

  “I’m glad you called.”

  Strange feeling, she th
ought, being a mother twenty years after giving birth, strange and rewarding. She looked at her watch. Time for a quick supper.

  Barry Collins’s office was buried in the Times Square station. Without assistance, Jane could never have found it, but when she arrived Collins was there, sitting at his desk, his face contorted over a long printout. She knocked; he looked up, waved her in, and set aside the printout as though he were glad for an excuse not to contend with it.

  “Yes?”

  She held up her ID. “Det. Jane Bauer. I’d like to have a word with you about a man who reported to you some years ago.”

  “Sit down if you can find a place. What man?”

  “Curtis Morgan.”

  “Morgan. Yeah. I remember Morgan. You may have to refresh my memory on details.”

  “He got caught up in the murder of an NYPD detective.”

  “Right. Tried and acquitted. I remember that.”

  “I understand he was given his job back after the acquittal.”

  “Not the same job. I never saw him again. He was reassigned. I think he died.”

  “He did.”

  “Got arrested again, too.”

  “Right on that also. You keep up with your former employees.”

  “It made the papers and the rumor mill. What do you want to know?” Suddenly he seemed anxious to return to the boring work he was glad to leave five minutes before.

  “Besides the murder of the cop, that group was involved in stealing guns. You ever hear anything about that?”

  “Me? You kidding? All I know about Morgan and his pals is what I heard on the news. I had a lot of people working for me at that time. We weren’t friends, you understand? You go to dinner with your captain? You sit around and gab with him? It’s all business down on the tracks. You get too friendly with the men, they don’t respect you.”

  “You know who Morgan was friendly with?”

  A small smile crept over his lips. “Yeah. I remember. A jerk named Joe something, Holy Joe. I can’t remember his last name, but he covered himself with religious tattoos. Fucking idiot. He and Morgan were bosom buddies. If anyone knows what Morgan was up to, Joe does. Sorry I can’t think of his last name.”

  “You think he was involved?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Collins said quickly. “I said he knew Morgan, and if Morgan was up to something, Joe would know. Rizzo, his name was. No, that’s not right.”