Murder in Greenwich Village Read online

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  She got her lists together and went home, stopping for a take-out dinner. When she had eaten, she began making calls, getting nothing useful. Finally, at eight, she called the Fitzhugh number with the dead cop’s voice on the answering machine. The phone was answered by a woman.

  “Mrs. Fitzhugh, this is Det. Jane Bauer, NYPD. May I speak with your husband?”

  “My husband died, Detective. What is this about?”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. We’re investigating a theft in the subway system, a large theft that took place several years ago.” She added a few identifying details.

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Was your husband involved in the investigation?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” Nothing in the tone of her voice hinted at cooperation.

  “May I ask why your husband’s voice and name are on your machine?”

  “For my protection. I don’t like strangers to know that I live alone.”

  “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “No bother.” The woman hung up.

  Jane looked at her watch. It was too late for Mrs. Fitzhugh to be leaving for the evening. Jane could be at the Queens address in forty minutes or less. She put her Glock in her bag, slipped into a jacket, and went to the subway.

  The door was opened by a good-looking woman in black pants and a pink silk shirt. Her left hand had a diamond engagement ring next to a band of diamonds. A pendant of diamonds in the shape of a heart lay exactly at her throat. Gold bracelets jingled sweetly on her right forearm.

  “I’m Detective Bauer, Mrs. Fitzhugh. We spoke earlier this evening.”

  “I told you all I know. What are you doing here?”

  “I had a few more questions.” And a desire to see how the widow looked and where she lived.

  “Come in.”

  The apartment was on a high floor of a building housing middle-class New Yorkers. From the outside, there was nothing special about it. But inside this apartment, the name of the game was luxury.

  Mrs. Fitzhugh led the way to the living room and sat in a chair upholstered in a fine silk print. Jane took a firm side chair and pulled her notebook and pen from her bag. Her feet rested on a large Oriental carpet, and when she looked up she faced windows at the far end of the room. The apartment cleared other buildings by several floors and was too high to allow sounds from the vehicles below. The sky outside was cloudless.

  “Can you tell me how your husband died?” Jane asked.

  “Colon cancer. He was sick about a year.”

  “What hospital did he die in?”

  “Long Island Jewish Medical Center here in Queens.”

  Jane wrote it down. That was easy enough to check. “I have some names I’d like to read to you. If you recognize any, please tell me.” She went through them all, her eyes on the attractive woman, her legs crossed, her left hand rubbing a ring on her right hand that Jane had not noticed. “Nothing?” Jane asked.

  “Nothing. I don’t understand why you’re asking me. Whoever they are, they certainly weren’t friends of ours. If my husband knew them from work, there’s no reason why he would have mentioned their names to me.”

  “You seem to live quite well, Mrs. Fitzhugh. I wonder how you’ve managed that on a sergeant’s salary.”

  A faint, condescending smile crossed the red lips. “We invested well. I inherited a little money from my parents when my mother died, and Garry did too from his. When I worked, we put away every cent I made.”

  In a little tin box, Jane thought, remembering the lyrics of an old Broadway show song. “May I use your bathroom?”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Fitzhugh pointed to a door and Jane took her bag and went.

  The bathroom was fitted with a marble pedestal sink and a matching marble toilet. The faucets were gold. The floor and walls were also marble. She opened the mirrored cabinet and looked at the bottles to see if Fitzhugh’s name was on any labels. It wasn’t. She flushed the toilet, then ran the water in the sink, wetting her hands and using a guest towel.

  When she returned to the living room, Mrs. Fitzhugh was standing at the window. “It’s a clear night,” she said. “You can see the stars and the lights in Manhattan. We don’t get many nights like this in the city.”

  “You’re right. You’re lucky to see it without obstruction.”

  “It’s the main reason we picked this apartment.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  Mrs. Fitzhugh opened the door for her and said good night.

  41

  FITZHUGH HAD BEEN dirty. The story of inherited wealth and nimble investing didn’t wash. That didn’t mean he was the sarge, just that there was enough there to pursue the investigation.

  Feeling restless, Jane took out a box of gun-cleaning equipment and took apart her S&W. It hardly needed attention, but it was the kind of mindless activity she turned to to avoid cleaning the apartment. She and Hack had left their guns in New York when they flew to Paris. One of the joys of walking along the Rue de Rivoli or the Champs-Elysées was not being weighed down with all the metal that cops routinely carried. It had made her feel light—in spirit as well.

  They had been so happy for so many days, and then, that last night, sitting at the small table in the restaurant near the Arc de Triomphe, he had asked her to marry him.

  “Hack—”

  “Don’t say no. Don’t say anything. Just listen. We love each other, right?”

  “Right.”

  “We get along.”

  “Yes.”

  “We love being with each other.”

  “It’s all true.”

  “It’s ten years. You know I won’t hurt her. I’ve made up my mind, Jane. I’m in a marriage that benefits no one.”

  “Your daughters,” she said, as she always did.

  “I can handle my daughters.”

  “Hack, you can’t ‘handle’ your daughters. They’re not cops in your command. They won’t say, ‘Yes, sir,’ when you tell them you’re leaving their mother for someone else. They’re your daughters, not your subordinates.”

  “They’ll understand. They’ll like you. It’ll take a while for a divorce to come through. When you and I get together, it won’t be a shock.”

  “I’ll always be Daddy’s whore.”

  “Jane.” He closed his eyes briefly, as though to recover from the shock of the word.

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Jane, you are not . . . you have never been . . . I can’t believe you would use that word to describe yourself. Is that the reason you’ve always been so reluctant to consider marriage?”

  She wished she had an answer to that. “Partly.”

  “What’s the other part?” His voice reflected irritation, as though it were all getting away from him.

  “I don’t know. There’s something about marriage. . . .”

  “Are we committed to each other now?”

  “Of course we are.”

  “Then I fail to see . . .”

  She smiled. “You’re sounding like a cop.”

  “I am a cop. I want to live with you, Jane. I want us to have a whole life together.”

  The waiter approached the table with a tray of blue cheeses. Jane made several choices, Hack a few more. The interlude defused the tension.

  “I’m a real blue lover,” he said, and she knew he wanted to put an end to the discussion, at least for the moment.

  The blues were wonderful, each with a bite that left a memory. When dinner was over, they walked on the Champs-Elysées, away from the Étoile, toward the distant Place de lá Concorde. They passed Metro stations and taxis, but he did not move to take one or the other.

  “I want you to think about this, Jane,” he said after a silence. “It’s important to me.”

  She didn’t answer. He had never put anything that way to her. Their ten years had been largely devoid of the kind of arguments that people living together
fell into, and she liked that. They lived to please each other, to enjoy each other, to integrate their lives so that each one was better than a life without the other. Why could she not go that last step? And how important was it to him that she do so?

  She felt a fluttering of fear. Was it possible that he wanted marriage more than he wanted her? Was her reticence, her reluctance, her downright refusal a deal-breaker? In the ten years they had loved each other, that thought had never occurred to her.

  At the hotel he made an excuse for not making love to her. It was a good excuse—he was tired and had eaten too much—but it scared her. She wanted to talk to him about it, but she was afraid to bring it up. This was not the first time they had discussed marriage, but it was the first time he had stated so firmly that he wanted to leave his wife, that he was prepared to leave her, and was ready to marry Jane.

  They flew back without mentioning it. At the airport, he kissed her and put her in the first taxi. “Think about it,” he said before he closed the door, knowing she would understand the reference.

  That was an order she had no difficulty following.

  “So what happened last night?” Smithson said as he walked in on Friday morning.

  “Something interesting,” Jane said.

  “Finally.”

  She told him about the Fitzhugh apartment and the Fitzhugh widow.

  “Marble bathroom,” Smithson said. “My wife would give anything for that.”

  “Here’s his name, the hospital, and the date of death.” She handed it to MacHovec.

  He picked up the phone and a minute later was arguing with someone about how long it would take to check out the records. “I understand your difficulty,” he said, “but I need this right away. I don’t want to have to go up there with a warrant.” He sat listening, making motions with his head. Then he gave his phone number and hung up. “Half an hour, she tells me. What else you got?”

  “Just find everything you can about him. And I’ll make a call, too.” She called Ron Delancey.

  “Still working on that case?” he said. “They’ll have the Second Avenue subway done by the time you find your perp.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Tell me, you ever hear of a Transit cop named Garrett Fitzhugh?”

  “Fitzhugh, yeah. I think he died, Jane, several years ago. He was out on terminal leave for a long time.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He was a sergeant last I saw him, but I think he was studying for the lieutenant’s exam. I don’t know if he ever took it. You want to point me in the direction you’re going?”

  “I visited his widow last night. Her apartment is furnished like a palace and she’s dressed like a queen.”

  “Gotcha. You think he was the guy who did the big job.”

  “Either that or something like it. The guy I’m looking for was alive Tuesday night of this week.”

  “Then Fitzhugh’s not your man.”

  “I thought he might have faked his death.”

  Delancey laughed. “You’re reaching. Maybe you can do that if you blow up a building, but it’s pretty hard in a New York hospital.”

  “OK. If you think of anything, let me know, like if he’s connected to the big one. I should be home tonight.”

  MacHovec’s phone rang and he picked up, talked to the hospital source, and got off the phone. “They’re faxing the death certificate. If Fitzhugh was the mastermind of the big trick, that wasn’t him up in Queens on Monday night.”

  “Then let’s find another sergeant.”

  Smithson took off with his list. MacHovec got back to his calls. Jane made more calls, took more notes, never feeling as though she had hit the jackpot. The chances were that Fitzhugh was dead and had been dirty, although not involved in the truck thefts. He had obviously lived carefully enough that no one had suspected him of being on the take until now.

  She kept coming back to John Beasely. Finally, she walked over to McElroy’s office.

  “Come in. Got something?”

  She told him about the Fitzhugh apartment.

  “But he’s dead,” McElroy said.

  “Right. And I’m wondering about Lieutenant Beasely.”

  “Let’s leave him alone. The inspector’s pretty sure he’s clean.”

  “Suppose I went up and talked to his wife.”

  The lieutenant took a deep breath. “What are you planning to ask her?”

  “Just about Micah Anthony, their friendship. I won’t ask anything about her husband. I’d like to see their apartment.”

  She could see McElroy didn’t like it. “OK. Give it a try. And don’t agitate.”

  “Thanks, Loot.”

  Before leaving, she called Beasely’s number. A woman answered and Jane hung up. In the background she had heard a child’s voice, so the Beaselys had a youngster. She told MacHovec where she was going. He showed her Fitzhugh’s death certificate. The cause of death was colon cancer, as the widow had said. And the home address was the one Jane had visited the night before. That much, at least, had been true.

  42

  SHE TOOK THE subway uptown, changing for the Broadway line. The train was nearly empty, a few older people, a few men who should have been at work, and assorted others. She got off at One Hundred Forty-fifth Street, one stop north of City College. As she walked, she found the pay phone the calls to the Farrar number had come from. Then she sped up and went directly to the building where the Beaselys lived.

  Like many buildings on the block, it was a fine old brownstone converted into several apartments. The Beaselys were on the third floor, and a woman called from inside to find out who had rung.

  “Det. Jane Bauer, NYPD.”

  The door flew open. “Is my husband—”

  “Your husband’s fine, Mrs. Beasely. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

  The woman put a hand over her chest, as though to calm herself. She looked at Jane’s ID, then said, “Come in.”

  “I’m investigating an old case,” Jane said as they walked from the foyer into the living room. A small boy came out of a bedroom and looked up at Jane with big brown eyes.

  “Go back to your room and play,” his mother said. “OK?”

  He nodded and turned around, sneaking a peek as he retraced his steps to the bedroom.

  “He’s a handful,” Mrs. Beasely said.

  Jane smiled.

  “You said an old case?”

  “The murder of Micah Anthony.”

  “Micah. Yes. Sit down. I was just in the middle of cleaning up.” Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing jeans and a man’s blue shirt.

  The room looked pretty clean and well furnished. “It’s a lovely apartment,” Jane said, picking a chair.

  “We were lucky to find it. John’s parents live nearby, and his mother looks after the kids sometimes.”

  “How close were you to Detective Anthony?” Jane asked.

  “John was very close. They grew up together. I met him when we were going out. And I became friendly with Melodie after we all married.”

  “Are you still friends?”

  “We’re friends but we don’t see each other much. We’re here and she’s on Staten Island. For a long time, she didn’t really want to go out, although we asked her to join us.” A slightly different take from that of Mrs. Appleby.

  “Were they getting along at the time of Detective Anthony’s death?”

  “They always got along. Why are you asking? She was distraught when Micah died. He was young, she was pregnant, they’d just bought a house—it was a nightmare.”

  “How did you hear about his death?”

  “John called me.”

  “Was he working that night?”

  “Yes. He was a sergeant then, and I think he was doing four-to-twelves.”

  “Detective Anthony was murdered after midnight.”

  Mrs. Beasely looked confused. “I don’t know. I was sleeping and the phone rang. It was John, and he said some
thing terrible had happened and he couldn’t come home. He had to go to Micah’s apartment. Maybe he was working midnight to eight. It was a long time ago.”

  The little boy called her and she jumped up and dashed into his bedroom. Jane stood and took a close look around the room. The furniture was good stuff. The rug was Chinese with soft blues in the design. Jane walked to the window, which looked out over the street. A car drove by, then nothing. It was a quiet place to live, not a druggie in sight.

  “Sorry.”

  Jane turned around. “This is a lovely location.”

  “We’re quite happy here. The kids can walk to school and the neighbors are nice.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Almost seven years. We’ve been restoring the apartment slowly. It’s a big job but a worthwhile payoff. Can I ask why you’re here? I mean, talking to me?”

  “My team has been assigned the Micah Anthony homicide and we’re interviewing people who weren’t originally interviewed.”

  “What for? What do you expect to learn that could possibly be useful?”

  “You never know until you ask the question,” Jane said. “Did you go to the wake or the funeral?”

  “We went to everything. I stayed over at Melodie’s apartment. She wouldn’t leave it. I slept on a couch in the living room and heard her cry all night.” Mrs. Beasely’s face looked infinitely sad. “You’re a cop. You know what those times are like.”

  Jane asked to use the bathroom, and Mrs. Beasely walked her to it. Like Mrs. Fitzhugh’s the night before, this one was elegant and expensive, with top-of-the-line plumbing, if not marble. When she left, she glanced over at the kitchen.

  “You have a beautiful kitchen,” she said, admiring the stainless-steel refrigerator and sink, the large stove, the tile floor. “It looks professional.”

  “What was here when we moved in was falling apart. We decided to do it right. We don’t have a dining room, so this is where we sit down to dinner when we entertain. I’m a good cook and I love every minute I spend here.”

  “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Beasely. Just one more question. Do you know Mrs. Appleby’s new husband?”

  “We’ve met. We didn’t go to the wedding because it was very small and private. But we got to know him and he seems like a good man for her. She deserves a good man.”