Murder in Hell's Kitchen Read online

  “Margaret. Well. It’s a long time since I’ve heard from Margaret.”

  “Do you have an address for her?”

  “May I ask why you want to find her?”

  “It concerns a homicide that took place in a building she lived in a few years ago.”

  “Yes, I remember that very well. Her neighbor was murdered in the downstairs area.”

  “That’s right. We’d like to talk to her about it.”

  A “hmm” came across the line. “Well, I tell you what. I don’t like doing business over the phone. I’m sure you can understand that. If you want to come and show me some identification, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “How about first thing tomorrow morning, Miss Phelps?”

  “That will be just fine. I usually leave for work about eight-fifteen. If you can be here before eight, we can talk.”

  The address wasn’t far. Catherine Phelps lived on West End Avenue in the Seventies, and Jane could walk it in fifteen minutes or less. Getting up early was preferable to knocking herself out tonight and not getting any packing done. There were linens and clothes still to be taken care of, a couple of small rugs to be rolled and tied. In fact, everywhere she looked there seemed to be something else that needed to be packed.

  That left the number for Jerry Hutchins. She dialed it and waited while it rang several times, finally answered by a youngish-sounding man.

  “I’d like to speak to Jerry Hutchins.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Hutchins, Jerry Hutchins.”

  “No one here by that name right now.”

  “Maybe someone by that name stayed at your address a while back. I really need to talk to him.”

  “Hey, babe, anyone in New York could’ve lived here a while back. Hold on.”

  There were voices in the background. It almost sounded like a bar on Saturday night. Then another man said, “This is Al.”

  “I’m trying to find Jerry Hutchins.”

  “Jerry Hutchins.”

  “Yes.”

  “It kind of rings a bell.”

  “Does he live there?”

  “If he does, it’s news to me. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s lived here without my knowing it.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “When do you think he was here?”

  “About three or four years ago.”

  “Four years! Lady, in this place that’s a lifetime.”

  “Al,” she said plaintively, “I really need to find him.”

  “OK, hang on and I’ll ask around.”

  Maybe it was a dormitory, not a bar. The voices sounded male, and there was a lot of laughing. She waited over a minute before he came back.

  “You’re right, he did live here for a while. But he’s been gone for a long time.”

  “Tell me, Al, is this a hotel? All Jerry gave me was a phone number.”

  “Nah, we’re a loft downtown. People stay awhile, then move on. Jerry was one of them.”

  “You have any idea where he went?”

  “He left the city. Went back to where he came from. One of the guys thinks maybe Omaha.”

  “OK, thanks, Al.”

  “Hey, a pleasure. Call anytime.”

  Not likely.

  She worked for the next hour. Going rapidly through a box of more or less important papers, she was happy she and Hack had never written each other letters. He gave her gifts that she treasured, things that she used or wore and would continue to do so, but there was almost a sense of relief that their relationship was not documented on paper, little notes or long letters folded into envelopes, precious missives that would demand rereading, that would evoke all the wrong emotions.

  The floors, bare of the rugs, looked odd. She saw for the first time how the sun had bleached the uncovered areas in the living room, how the shape of the rug remained like a memory.

  Every step along the path to moving out made her more eager to leave. She was tired of this place; weary was a better word. She found that she hated the glossy paint on the trim around the doors, hated the fact that not one door closed. How had she put up with it for so long? The apartment seemed like a gift when she moved in, and, happy at her newfound independence, like a woman newly in love she had ignored or been blind to all its faults. Now it seemed shabby and worn, a place she could hardly remember liking.

  She picked up the Manhattan phone book to put it in a carton and remembered Hollis Worthman, the black tenant on the second floor. She went through the Worthmans, but found no Hollis and no H. Looking at the addresses, she picked one in the Thirty-second Precinct in Harlem and dialed it.

  “Hello?” It was the voice of an old woman.

  “Is this Mrs. Worthman?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m trying to reach Hollis Worthman.”

  “Hollis? My son Hollis?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Hollis died, dear.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear it. My information must be wrong. Can you tell me when it happened?”

  “It’s more than four years ago now. Hard to believe it’s that long.”

  “Was it illness?” Jane asked, as long as the woman seemed content to keep talking.

  “You mean was he sick? No. My boy was a healthy person. He wasn’t sick a day in his life. It happened in the street. It was a mugging. I don’t know why they had to kill him. He gave them his wallet and his watch. They were just mean. All the young people nowadays, they’re mean.”

  Jane felt a quickening of her heart. Another death from unnatural causes. “I see. Where did this happen?”

  “Just on the way to the little grocery store. It’s around the corner from us. He often took a walk there at night. He liked the exercise.” Her voice trembled.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Worthman. I apologize for the intrusion.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I wasn’t doing much anyway.”

  Things were in good shape by the time she was ready for bed. The medicine chest was empty, and all the old leftovers in the refrigerator were in the garbage. The few canned goods and cooking necessities were packed as well.

  In her slippers and robe she made a circuit of the apartment, looking for things she had missed. There were two more evenings before moving day. As she passed the answering machine, she stopped. There were no old love letters, no tapes, and no videos. She pressed the play button and listened to his voice one last time. Then she erased the tape.

  6

  JANE RANG THE bell to Catherine Phelps’s apartment on West End Avenue at a quarter to eight. She identified herself through the intercom and made her way in a shaky elevator to the ninth floor. When she walked down the hall, she held her ID in front of her. The door opened and a woman, perhaps in her fifties, scrutinized the ID before smiling and inviting her in.

  “I’ve got coffee for you, Detective Bauer. Just drop your coat on a chair and come sit at the kitchen table. Can I give you an English muffin?”

  “No, thanks.” Jane did as she was told and took a seat in front of a tall mug of coffee. She had had breakfast at home but this was a nice way to hold an interview. “You said you knew Miss Margaret Rawls.”

  “I did. Knew her for years. Tried to get her to leave that place she was living in and move up here, but she wouldn’t have it. Said the rent was just right and it left her enough money to take a nice trip every summer.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “You want a date?”

  “As close as you can get.”

  “Well, I’m not too good on dates, but it was a few years ago. She called me one evening in a panic. She sounded over the edge, I can tell you that. There’d been a murder in her building some months before and it had left her looking over her shoulder everywhere she went. Then someone else in the building died, but I can’t remember the circumstances.”

  “Do you remember if it was a man or a woman?”

  Miss Phelps closed her
eyes and tilted her head downward. She could have been praying. “A woman, I think. Died of old age. But you know, it was very unsettling, the way they found her there.”

  “I understand. Then what happened?”

  “Margaret said she’d stick it out. Then one day something else happened, a mysterious death, and she found the body, poor thing. That was when she called me and asked if she could move in, just until she found something permanent.”

  “Did she tell you anything about the mysterious death?”

  “I guess he tumbled down the stairs is what she said. Don’t ask me for any names. I’ve got a head like a sieve. But coming home and finding that poor soul . . . it was the last straw.”

  “Did she move in with you?”

  “She did. She grabbed a suitcase and took a cab up here.”

  “How long did she stay?”

  “A couple of weeks. I don’t think it was as long as a month.”

  “The coffee is very good, Miss Phelps. I really appreciate it.”

  She smiled. She was a well-proportioned woman wearing a gray wool suit with an antique pin on the lapel. Her fingernails were manicured and polished with a shade of pale pink. Antique gold rings decorated many of her fingers, and several gold bracelets were visible at the cuff. A light scent perfumed the air. “I enjoy a good cup of coffee,” she said.

  “Where did Miss Rawls go when she left you?”

  “She sublet an apartment, as I remember, somewhere around here. I never got to see it because she didn’t stay very long. She said her sister called her one night and said there were several openings in the company she worked for, and why didn’t Margaret come back to Tulsa.”

  “That’s Tulsa, Oklahoma?”

  “That’s right. The sublet was only for a couple of months, so she could find a place without feeling rushed. When it was over, she picked up and moved back home.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “I’ve got the address right here for you.” Miss Phelps pushed a piece of paper across the table. “She went to live with that widowed sister who called her. They’d always been close, and it seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Jane looked at the address and phone number. “Then I should be able to find her here?”

  “I should think so. But I have to tell you, we’re no longer on the best of terms. After she moved back, we just lost touch. I didn’t expect regular letters or phone calls, but I certainly thought she’d send Christmas cards. When she didn’t, I crossed her off my list.”

  “Well, I thank you for your help.”

  “Anytime. Always happy to do my part.”

  Jane took her coat and went down the hall to the elevator.

  Downstairs she made a brief detour and went to the post office to change her address. Then she called in and said she’d be late. It was after nine when she got to the Centre Street office. Defino was just as she had left him yesterday, sitting at the typewriter as though he had been there all night.

  “Got something?” he said, turning around to say hello.

  “Got an address and phone number for Margaret Rawls, and I’m starting to get a lot of bad feelings.” She told them about her call to find Jerry Hutchins and the conversation with Hollis Worthman’s mother.

  “So of the three you’ve got one a homicide and two left the city,” Defino said.

  “That’s the way it looks. What’s the time difference between here and Oklahoma?”

  MacHovec checked a card. “One hour and thirteen hundred seventy road miles.”

  “Better wait an hour then for Miss Rawls. Nebraska’s at least an hour, too, but you can call Information and see if Hutchins is listed. If he’s not, we’d better see if we can find out anything from the place where he was working. It should be in the file or on that list Bracken gave us.”

  MacHovec was already on the phone asking for Hutchins, J., Jerry, Jerome, or Jerold. There was a lot of silence, and his pen didn’t move. He got off the phone and said, “Nada. I guess maybe he could live in a suburb. Why don’t I call the Omaha police first and see if they have anything on him?”

  “And maybe they’ll look in some suburban phone books.”

  “Omaha’s across the river from Iowa,” Defino said. “He might commute from out of state.”

  MacHovec wrote it all down and got on the phone. Jane walked over to where Defino was sitting at the typewriter. “This case is giving me the chills,” she said.

  “Too many deaths?”

  “And too many disappearances.”

  “You think Bracken should’ve been onto it?”

  “That’s not it. He had no reason to go back and reinterview the tenants. He talked to them early on. There’re plenty of DD Fives on them. He knew Mrs. Best had died. She was the first. So he was still back at the building six months after the Quill homicide. But I’m starting to feel . . .” She didn’t like what she was feeling.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m not sure what homicide we should be investigating.”

  “Soderberg was a possible; Worthman sounds like a homicide.”

  “Sean can dig up the Sixty-ones and Fives on Worthman.” Sixty-ones were original complaint reports, formally called Uniformed Force or UF61s. That would be the first report on the homicide.

  In twenty-four hours they had fallen into roles as surely as if they had been assigned. MacHovec would handle the phone and do the research. Jane and Defino would do the legwork.

  “Maybe you should call the woman in Tulsa. She might respond better to you.”

  “Sure.” She got her notebook and opened it. “I’ll call Quill’s wife too. Maybe I can set up an interview for today. And then there’s Bracken’s partner, Otis Wright. Sean can get that started.”

  “I’ll tag along if you set something up with the wife,” Defino said before turning back to his typewriter.

  Before calling the wife, Jane took a sheet of unlined paper and sketched the house on Fifty-sixth Street, putting in the names of the tenants. It was a lopsided picture, with four occupied apartments on the left side and only two on the right. There was no apartment on the right side of the ground floor, and only Soderberg and Quill had lived on that side. The sketch didn’t provide any insights, so she pushed it aside, leaving it where she could look at it, and called Laura Thorne, Arlen Quill’s ex-wife.

  “This is Laura Thorne,” a pleasant voice answered.

  “Mrs. Thorne, this is Det. Jane Bauer. I have some questions to ask you about Arlen Quill. We’re reinvestigating his murder.”

  “I told the police everything I knew when it happened. That was a long time ago.” The voice turned less pleasant.

  “I’m sure you did, but I’d like to talk to you myself. Can I stop over this morning?”

  “I’m very busy this morning. Perhaps we could look at a day next week.”

  “Next week is pretty far away. Suppose we try for lunch hour today?”

  Laura Thorne exhaled in resignation. “Twelve-fifteen,” she said. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby of my office building. I assume you know where that is.”

  Jane read off the address. It was a large building on the west side of Sixth Avenue.

  “Fine. I’m wearing a black coat with a red silk scarf.”

  “I’ll see you at twelve-fifteen.”

  Defino relinquished the typewriter, and Jane typed up a Five on Catherine Phelps. When she was finished, she called the Tulsa number Miss Phelps had given her. The woman who answered had a sweet southern voice.

  “I’d like to speak to Margaret Rawls,” Jane said.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “This is Det. Jane Bauer of the New York City Police Department. It’s not an emergency. There’s nothing to be concerned about. I need some information from Miss Rawls.”

  “I’m Miss Rawls’s sister. I’m afraid my sister passed away, Detective.”

  And stopped sending Christmas cards to Catherine Phelps. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me
the circumstances of her death?”

  “May I inquire why you are asking these questions?”

  “We’re reinvestigating the murder in the building your sister lived in. It seems a strange coincidence that she died, as well as the man whose body she found.”

  “Well, then. Margaret died in a traffic accident. She was hit by a car. It was a hit-and-run. She never had a chance.” The voice choked up slightly.

  “I see. And when did this happen?”

  “About . . . it must be nearly three years now.”

  Jane was aware that Defino had stopped what he was doing and was watching her, listening to her responses. So was MacHovec.

  “Ma’am, did your sister ever talk to you about the murder in the building she lived in in New York?”

  “She talked about it a lot. It was the reason she left New York and came home. She’d lived there for a long time but that murder unnerved her. And then what happened afterward.”

  “What are you referring to?”

  “She came home one day and found the body of a neighbor lying on the floor in the hallway. She moved out that night.”

  “I spoke to Miss Catherine Phelps this morning,” Jane said.

  “Yes, she’s the one Margaret moved in with for a while. She’s a good woman and a good friend. I’m afraid I never really informed her of Margaret’s death.”

  “Ma’am, could you tell me your name, please?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m Nancy Hopkins.”

  “Mrs. Hopkins, did your sister tell you anything about the third death in the building she lived in?”

  “That would be Henry. She said he fell down some stairs. That’s all I can remember about the accident, but what was so terrible for her was that she knew him.”

  “She knew him?” Jane said.

  “Yes. She told me all this when she came back. She’d been on her way to have some dinner one night when she ran into him doing the same and he suggested they have dinner together.”

  “I see. Did they do that on other occasions?”

  “I think they did. I don’t want to make too much of it, but Margaret was a lovely-looking woman with great charm. I think they found each other interesting, although I wouldn’t say they had a serious relationship.”