Murder in Greenwich Village Page 15

  “And your father will love it.”

  “He called already. He thinks I’ll get a Hollywood contract.”

  “What, and leave me in the lurch?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Hack came over and put his arm around her.

  “I gotta go, Flora. I’m exhausted and tomorrow’s a workday.”

  “Glad you’re OK and it worked out.”

  “So what’s on Flora’s mind tonight?” Hack said when she hung up.

  “Just checking on me. What’s with the two of you? You never talk about it, but whenever she mentions your name, she says ‘that son of a bitch Hackett.’ ”

  He laughed as they walked back to the living room. “An unforgiving woman. Like most, I’d guess.”

  “So what happened?”

  “It was a long time ago; I couldn’t give you a year. I think I was a captain at the time. No, maybe still a lieutenant, and maybe she was a captain, too—so ten, eleven years ago. I knew of her but I don’t think we’d ever met. I got word of an opening for a sergeant and I had a great one working for me, smart as a whip. The grapevine said the guy who got the job would serve a short period to learn the ropes and get a non–civil service bump-up in salary, almost to the lieutenant’s level.”

  “SDS,” Jane said, referring to a Supervisory Designation Salary. “Suds money.” That referred to the beer the guy would lavish on the cops and detectives who had made him look so good.

  “Right. Flora had a candidate too, a woman—”

  “Of course,” Jane interjected. Flora’s life mission was moving women up in the job.

  “Of course. And she got pretty nasty about it. My candidate was much better qualified than hers and I said so, and she didn’t take it well. My candidate got it.”

  “And she never forgave you.”

  “As I said, she’s not the forgiving type.”

  “So who was the guy? Did he work out?”

  “Ah.” He was enjoying this. “Interesting question. Yes, my candidate worked out and went on to lots of good things. But there’s something you missed, something that ticked Flora, and that’s what she’ll never forgive me for.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “My candidate was a woman.”

  “That’s a good punch line, Chief. You’re right; she’ll never forgive you. It took away her best argument.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re very up tonight, Hack. Something doing? You turning the Bronx around single-handedly?”

  “Do I look like the Messiah?”

  She laughed. “So tell me.”

  “All in good time. Let’s have our ice cream. It’s getting late.”

  After he left, she thought about his mood. He was a man who could switch from dark to light. His work was the greatest influence on his temperament, and she could often discern just from the tone of his voice on the phone whether something had gone wrong or less frequently, if he had heard good news. In the ten years they had been together, she had learned to read the moods, to sense when to try to change them and when to leave him alone to work through them himself.

  It had taken a while. Ten years ago, when they first started to see each other, they were on their best behavior. They met for a furtive cup of coffee or a drink at a bar, often with other cops around. Then a day came when he wanted to see her alone. He would drive into the city to pick her up instead of taking the train, and they would sit and talk, eat Chinese in the car, and talk some more. A New Yorker and a cop with a law degree, his bag was city politics and deparment politics, but his interests extended well beyond that. He was a family man, too, and he spoke often of his daughters and his parents, but never mentioned his wife. He had described his marriage once as having drifted away or off course; she couldn’t remember the exact words, but it was not a subject of further conversation.

  Her mother was still alive at that time, and she told him one cold evening that she was adopted, that she felt lucky beyond anything she could explain to have ended up with her parents. He touched her hand while she spoke, sending heat through her body, but that was the extent of their intimacy, talking and touching hands. The tension drove her nuts. She had made up her mind, even if he hadn’t.

  She could not recall clearly how long the courtship took. It was more than days and less than months, probably several weeks, maybe a bit more. One night he drove her home—she lived in the West Eighties at that time—and a car pulled out of a space as he turned onto her block. He slid into it and she swallowed and said, “You want to come up?”

  “You know I want to come up.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  It had come out sounding flip, which she hadn’t intended, but he didn’t seem to notice. Inside the apartment, their relationship changed forever. He paused only long enough to put his gun on top of the refrigerator—hers was in her bag— and then nothing stopped until they lay resting beside each other on her bed, the faint taste and scent of sweat and tobacco and satisfaction wafting between them.

  It was what she always thought of as the moment of truth, the time when someone said, “See you tomorrow,” or “Jeez, is it that late?” or “Shit, I’ll miss my train if I don’t run.” She listened to the silence that night, waiting for his truth to be spoken.

  “We’re a good fit,” he said finally. He reached out to the night table and she realized she had not thought to give him an ashtray. He was a smoker at that time; he smoked until she severed their relationship the previous year and then couldn’t live with her decision.

  She sensed he had measured his words carefully, and she measured hers with just as much precision. “You’re a good lover.”

  “I hope,” he said, his right hand barely skimming her left arm, “that I can be more than that and better than that for you.”

  “And me for you.”

  “Good enough.” He sat up and she touched the smooth line of his back. “You mind if I smoke?”

  “I’ll get you an ashtray.”

  “Stay there; I’ll get it myself.”

  It was the quietest time they had spent together, a warm, intimate quiet, two decisions made, one cigarette smoked, a silence they had earned after the weeks of spicy chicken and unending talk. When he started to dress, she told him to shower.

  “I’ll shower when I get home.”

  “Do it now, Hack. She’ll know. I’m all over you.”

  He gave her an odd look and took her with him, and they somehow managed to get clean under the clogged showerhead—he installed a good one the next time he came—and then he left. She had broken her rule about married men, but she knew she was in love with him, and for the first time in a long time, she refused to consider consequences. She just wanted to see him again. And again.

  When the phone rang about an hour later, she knew it was Hack, and she answered with, “Hi.”

  “You a mind reader?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I just found a pay phone and I thought . . . How’s Thursday?”

  “Thursday’s fine.”

  “No more Chinese, OK?”

  “I’ll pick something up.”

  “I’ll get there when I get there.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Jane?”

  “Yes?”

  The phone clicked and the coin dropped.

  “I’ll see you Thursday.”

  24

  THE MOOD AT 137 the next morning was expectedly up. Graves was a happy man, and McElroy wore a smile that never faded. To add to the good feelings, the van had been found overnight, parked on the street near Peter Montana’s video store. It was already in custody, to be worked over by the crime scene unit.

  Jane called Defino at nine, elated to hear a clearer voice and the intelligibility that came with the sedative wearing off. He wanted to know the whole story, and she gave him as much as she could in a few minutes.

  “You looked where?” he said when she mentioned the foray into the Lex. “The whi
p must’ve been ready to kill you.”

  “He was. He still is, but he’s keeping it to himself till this is over.”

  “Shit, where’d you get the Lex from?”

  She told him about Curtis Morgan and said there was more. She didn’t want to mention the Second Avenue subway over the phone. He would get a charge out of that when she finally let him in on it.

  McElroy came by and said that Graves wanted to see them in his office. Smithson was already there.

  “The three of you did real good,” the whip said. “Detective Smithson, you’ll get a recommendation from me, through channels, to the chief of detectives. You deserve it. Glad you and Detective Bauer worked well together.”

  Smithson thanked him. A letter like that from a man like Graves would go a long way to giving him an upgrade, not to mention another bar for his medal board, and maybe an eighth of a point on the next sergeants’ promotion list.

  “I’m releasing the detectives in the conference room to return to their commands effective sixteen hundred tomorrow. That should allow for a wrap-up of the paperwork and an extended lunch. Until Detective Defino is allowed to return to work, you can stay on as Detective Bauer’s temporary partner, if you’d like to.”

  “Sure,” Smithson said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “OK with you?” Graves looked at Jane.

  “Fine. Very good.”

  “Then that’s settled. I’ll square it with your lieutenant. I’d like to remind you all that our case is the murder of Micah Anthony, just in case anyone’s forgotten. What you two dug up yesterday about the TA worker Charley Farrar is the best lead we’ve had since what Jane and Sean developed about Curtis Morgan. Let’s find out where Farrar works, where he lives, who his friends are. You’ve got his sister’s name and address if you need it. The Rockaway cops are keeping a watch on that house where Defino was found in case those two mutts turn up there. And we’ll find out from the crime scene folks what they dig up.” He looked around. “Any questions?”

  Jane wanted to know what was happening with the cache of guns in the subway, but that was a secret, even from the detectives in the conference room, so she kept quiet.

  “OK. Let’s get some work done around here for a change.” Graves offered a small smile to indicate he was being humorous.

  Smithson moved into the office and sat down at Defino’s desk. He brought little with him, just a jacket he hung on the pole. He was a shirtsleeves man.

  “Here’s what I’ve got,” MacHovec said, assembling papers. He handed two copies off to them and started reading. “This guy Farrar’s been with the TA since he was twenty. I can’t check his career against Morgan’s—you know about that, Warren?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Jane’ll brief you. Anyway, he’s done the same kind of work Morgan did, so we can assume they met somewhere earlier in their careers. You’ve got Farrar’s address there, his wife’s name, all the stuff I could get on his sister. Looks like he pulled his sister’s house out of a hat to hide Defino in.”

  “That was my impression,” Jane said. “Testa didn’t want him in his place. Manelli couldn’t use the apartment he lives in with Judy Franklin, and Farrar’s married. Not sure his wife would’ve approved of a kidnapped cop in her guest room.”

  “I gave you everything I could get on his career. Don’t know if it’ll help,” MacHovec said.

  “Did he ever work for that guy Barry Collins, Morgan’s supervisor?”

  MacHovec riffled paper. “I’m not sure.” He made a note.

  “Or if he knew Holy Joe Riso.”

  MacHovec was scribbling. “I’ll see what I can do. But it’s sure starting to look like this guy Farrar was a player in the Micah Anthony case. I’ll look for a family member that could be a Transit cop.”

  “Good idea. Meanwhile, let’s get started looking for him.”

  “He could’ve gone to work today,” Smithson said. “Even if he knows that Defino’s been found, he doesn’t know Testa gave him up. He and Manelli dropped Defino off and returned the van, maybe put the keys through the mail slot at the video store.”

  “Farrar must have been the person who drove to the Catskills last week to talk to Manelli,” Jane said, remembering what Judy Franklin told her. “And Farrar could be the guy Randolph called from Rikers after Gordon and I visited him.”

  “Nice when it falls into place,” Smithson said.

  “Nicer if we can find Farrar.”

  “Let’s get on it.”

  They started by checking the TA to see if Charley Farrar had reported for work that day. He was expected at four, Jane was told. That was still many hours away and he might call in sick again. In the meantime, he could be at home, if they were lucky. His home address was in Brooklyn, which was also the home of his sister. They lived about two stations apart on the subway.

  Jane took Smithson to the coffee room, where she filled him in on what they had so far, except for the guns.

  “The way it looks now,” she said, “is that Charley Farrar was an unknown participant in the Micah Anthony killing. He may have been the connection between the three guys who were found in the crib in the West Fifties and the unknown Transit cop we think was running the show. Defino and I talked to Carl Randolph at Rikers a week ago yesterday. We didn’t get anything out of him, but that night an inmate was murdered, someone Randolph knew. We think Randolph paid this guy, Tommy Swift, to make a phone call to say we’d been there and then killed him so he wouldn’t talk.”

  “How do you know about the phone call?”

  “Something happened, Warren. I can’t talk about it unless Graves gives the OK. But we know Randolph got a message out of Rikers, and they were watching him, so we know he didn’t make the call himself. Now that we have Charley Farrar’s phone number, MacHovec can find out if Farrar’s number was called that day from Rikers. We won’t be able to find out who made the call, but it would confirm our theory.”

  “And on Friday Defino got snatched, which looks like a crime of opportunity if what this guy Testa said is true.”

  “But Charley’s the link,” Jane said. “Charley knew Manelli. Manelli and his girlfriend were up in the Catskills for a week on vacation, and the girlfriend saw Manelli talking to someone through the trees. I have to believe that was Charley Farrar because he’s the guy who got the call from Randolph.”

  “So Farrar has wheels of his own. He didn’t need that van.”

  “It was his friend Testa who had the van, and they used it to drive over to Manelli’s. It works, Warren. And you’re right, the kidnapping was a crime of opportunity. Farrar didn’t expect to find a cop in Manelli’s apartment. Testa was there because he’s Charley’s friend. They rang Manelli’s bell, Defino told him to answer and waited a few feet behind him, Manelli signaled these two guys to overpower Defino, and the rest is history.”

  “Why did you look for Defino in the subway?” Smithson asked.

  “Because we couldn’t get anything out of Randolph, and he’s in Rikers. You guys dug into Manelli’s background from when he was in the womb—”

  “And found nothing.”

  “But there was a third guy who was in the crib the night Micah Anthony was murdered, a TA trackman named Curtis Morgan. He died of natural causes a few years ago, so I chased down his wife and found out he worked on the Lex. I figured he might know a place in the tunnels where he could hide a person or a body.”

  “Why did you need his wife?” Smithson was making notes, trying to put the pieces together. “He’s got a file at the TA.”

  “It’s been expunged,” Jane said.

  Smithson’s eyebrows went up. “Shit. The whole file?”

  “His work experience. Where he worked, what he did. His name’s there, his Social Security stuff, insurance, pension, just nothing about where he worked.”

  “You think Charley Farrar got rid of it?”

  “Could be. Or the Transit cop who was running the show.”

  Smithson looked at his notes
. “I’ve got the picture. Now we find Farrar and get him to talk.”

  “Sounds simple,” Jane said. “Got your car?”

  “Right downstairs.”

  25

  CHARLEY FARRAR WAS expected at work at four. It was a good bet he was at home sleeping, preparing for a shift that would end at midnight. They picked up Smithson’s car and drove to Brooklyn, using the tunnel. Smithson seemed to know his way around the borough.

  “You ever work in Brooklyn?” he asked as they approached Prospect Park.

  “Never. I’ve spent my career in Manhattan.”

  “And glad of it.”

  “You bet. I worked the Six for ten years. Now I live there.”

  “And you work the city.”

  “That’s how it’s turned out. The Six is in my blood. I see faces sometimes when I’m out walking and they look familiar. I just can’t remember whether they’re the good guys or the bad guys.”

  Smithson laughed. “Probably not much difference.”

  She had thought that herself, how slight the difference could be. “It was a lot of fun,” she said. “I had a great partner and we never stopped running.”

  “You still friends?”

  “Oh, yeah. We went up to Rodman’s Neck together a couple of months ago.” Rodman’s Neck was the range where cops learned to shoot and then continued their annual firearms qualification and tactics training.

  “Reminds me.” He stopped for a light at a busy intersection. Women pushed strollers, old people hobbled on canes, building heights were low, store followed store followed store. “Should be around the corner.” The light changed and he turned right, moving slowly to check numbers on buildings. Everything here was old, prewar at the newest. Apartment houses alternated with groups of single- and two-family homes. Between them were narrow driveways that tested the skills of any driver who backed a late-twentieth-century car out of an early-twentieth-century driveway, built when cars were shorter and narrower.

  “Must be in the next block,” he said. “These are all sixteen hundreds.” He crossed Quentin Road and parked in a space just vacated by a van.