Murder in Greenwich Village Page 7
“No, I want one place. Randolph’s got so many connections in Bed-Stuy we could spend a week looking.”
“Let’s see what the Manelli crowd is doing.”
A second team of detectives had moved into the conference room. Sitting in shirtsleeves and T-shirts, they could have been a boiler-room operation for selling penny stocks.
“What’s up?” MacHovec asked.
“They’re sweatin’ the girlfriend at the Six right now,” a guy named Finster said. “Nothing yet.”
“She’s a dead end,” Jane said, knowing they were doing what they had to. “What else?”
“Warren and me are going to Brooklyn. Manelli’s mother lived there most of her life and he lived with her. We’ll do a little canvassing. There may be some boyhood friends there.” He stood as he spoke, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the door.
That might yield something, Jane thought.
“You Bauer and MacHovec?” another detective asked.
They said, “Yeah.”
“Chris Collins.” He stood and shook their hands.
“George Clemente.” He nodded to the fourth detective, who was copying something off the screen. “We’re trying to find his cellmate from the last time he was inside. George found a wife but not the guy. What else is new?”
“So you’ve got Manelli pretty well covered,” MacHovec said.
“As good as we can,” Collins said with a shrug. “Manelli didn’t go far from home. His friends and relatives are all right here, almost walking distance. Same with the guys he did business with. If they wanted to hide Defino somewhere, there’s a dozen places they could’ve gone in a mile radius, waited for dark, and taken him out of the van. What are you up to?”
“Looking into Randolph’s contacts. No one’s talking.”
“This isn’t a Randolph operation,” Collins said. “Manelli’s behind it.”
“I’m not so sure,” Jane said. “Manelli didn’t have time to call for help after I left his place with the girlfriend this afternoon. I think all of this comes from the visit Defino and I made to see Randolph at Rikers on Wednesday. He got someone to make a phone call and that started the ball rolling. The girlfriend saw Manelli talking to someone at their vacation place yesterday or the day before, and that’s what put the blue van in front of their building at four o’clock today.”
“Just when Defino was there alone with Manelli.”
“Right. Someone dropped by to tell Manelli what was going on, that new people were looking into the Micah Anthony homicide.”
“Well, we’ll do our best.”
“Thanks,” Jane said.
They ran into McElroy on the way back to their office, but he had nothing new either.
“You want to keep after Randolph’s friends?” MacHovec asked.
“I really don’t. Unless we find one of them at Rikers and we can make a deal with him, these people aren’t going to help.”
“OK,” MacHovec said, waiting for another idea.
“When did Curtis Morgan die?”
He opened a file folder and turned some pages. “Three years ago. Lung cancer. About a week after a B and E.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifty-one. These guys never give up.”
“Address?”
“Brooklyn. But he was white. He didn’t live in Bed-Stuy.”
“See what you can find out about him, Sean.”
He began his search, said, “Shit,” under his breath, and kept at it. He shook his head, kept keying, then gave up and picked up the phone and dialed. “Yeah, Det. Sean MacHovec. ” He went through the ID procedure and asked about the file for Curtis Morgan, giving the date of his last alleged crime. “I really can’t wait, Sarge. We’ve got a missing detective, possible kidnap, and we—Thanks.”
“What’s going on?” Jane asked.
“My computer’s not doing its thing. I’m calling the Eight-eight in Brooklyn, where he was last arrested. The son of a bitch had the good grace not to pull a job in his own precinct. They should have something on file. Yeah, I’m here,” he said into the phone. He listened for a full minute without comment, then said, “Can I have the name and phone number of the detective who caught the case?”
Jane watched him write, listening to his murmurs.
“And that’s it?” he asked finally. “OK. No, I appreciate it.” He hung up and turned to Jane. “This is gonna blow your mind. My computer tells me there’s nothing on Morgan besides information on his death, and they just looked at the paper file at the Eight-eight and it’s empty.”
“What?”
“Got his name, the detective’s name, and a notation that Morgan died at Kings County Hospital. That’s it.”
“This guy had history.”
“Yeah. And someone wants to keep it a deep, dark secret.”
11
JANE TOOK A few seconds to consider it. “You’re right. It does blow my mind. I think the whip has to hear about this. I’ll find McElroy.”
He was in his office, a day’s growth of stubble darkening his face. He looked up and motioned her in. “What?” he said.
She told him.
“Shit.”
“Right.”
“You got the name of the catching detective?”
“Sean does.”
“This better go to the inspector. Keep at it.” He picked up the phone as she left the office.
MacHovec was on the phone with the detective when she returned. “Hold on,” he said. “I want to conference my partner, Jane Bauer.”
She got on the phone and wrote down the detective’s name, Greg Turner.
“Sean’s just telling me about the Morgan file. It’s a couple of years ago and I didn’t do much on it—the guy died—but it’s coming back to me. I think we arrested him and he started coughing up blood and we bussed him over to Kings County. He never came out and that was the end of the case. He had a partner, I think, and we made a case against him. Morgan didn’t live long after the arrest, a week at the most. I don’t know why the file would be empty. I typed up some Fives, did some follow-up.” His voice petered out.
“Anyone talk to you about the case?” Jane asked.
“Not that I remember. Morgan and his partner had broken into an auto parts store at night, cleaned out the cash that was left, and picked up a lotta stuff they could sell. Looked like they were working for a chop shop about a mile away. It wasn’t their first, I can tell you that. Morgan was too old and too sick to be doing that kind of work. His partner was younger but I can’t remember his name.”
“Any reason you can think of why Morgan’s file would be missing?” MacHovec asked.
“Not offhand. This wasn’t big stuff.”
Jane nodded to MacHovec, and he thanked Turner and finished the conversation.
“This feels bad to me,” MacHovec said. What no one had said out loud, including McElroy, was that the empty paper file and the missing computer information indicated a high-level police intervention.
“Me too.” She looked at her watch. It was after nine. “I’m calling Kings County.”
Like Bellevue Hospital in Manhattan, Kings County Hospital in Brooklyn had the reputation of working their tails off to save police lives. Cops were known to stuff a wounded comrade in a radio car and take him to Kings County rather than call an ambulance from a nearer hospital that might not try as hard. The hospital itself was a collection of many buildings, old and new, on a large campus. At this hour Jane had little hope of getting a quick response to a question that required searching a three-year-old file. As expected, she was shunted from the first human voice to another and another. Each time she introduced herself, she talked about the urgency of her request.
Finally, a woman said she would personally see to it that the file on Curtis Morgan was retrieved in the morning.
“If I come over tonight, can someone direct me to the files and let me search myself?”
Silence. “I don’t know if we can.”
“All right.” The woman sounded beat. “I’ll take you there myself.” She gave Jane her name and an easy location to find. Then Jane could call on an internal phone.
“I’m going,” Jane said, gathering her notes.
“I’ll look in on the Manelli crowd.”
She checked in with McElroy, who had spoken to Graves. “You got money on you for cabs?”
“Plenty.”
Downstairs the evening had turned cool and pleasant, an unaccustomed freshness in the air. She saw a cab coming toward her, its roof light on, signaling that it was empty, and she hailed it.
She got in and said, “Kings County Hospital.”
The cabbie, a Pakistani, turned and gave her a skeptical look. “The one in Brooklyn?”
“Right, Brooklyn.”
“I don’t know if I can find it.”
Jane took out her shield and stuck it in his face. “I’ll help you get there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He flipped the meter and headed for Brooklyn.
The nurse’s name was Melissa George. She was young and cute, but looked as though she needed a night’s sleep. “I’ll unlock the door for you. When you leave, it’ll lock automatically. There’s a phone in there if you need help.” She asked about the year the patient was at the hospital. When they got to the records room, she went inside and pointed Jane in the right direction.
Curtis Morgan had died in June, nearly three years before. When she finally found the file, the death certificate was on top. She copied down the name of the doctor, the cause of death—mesothelioma—and Morgan’s address. Then she called Melissa George.
The phone rang several times before an older woman answered. Melissa was on break; she’d be back in ten minutes.
“This is Det. Jane Bauer, ma’am. I’m researching a death at Kings County Hospital. Can you tell me what mesothelioma is?”
“It’s a kind of lung cancer.”
“And do you know a Dr. Darshna Patel?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. What department is he in?”
“I guess lung cancer.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Wait a minute. I have a directory here.” She put the phone down and flipped pages. “Yes, he’s listed here. You can probably reach him in the morning.”
“Does he have a home phone listed?”
“I couldn’t give that out.”
She went through her story.
“Give me your shield number and I’ll call and check it. Wait a minute. Here’s Melissa.”
Jane went through it again and Melissa gave her the number. It was 516, a Long Island area code.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“I hope it works out.”
Not as much as I do, Jane thought. She found a place to sit down and dialed the number for the doctor.
He answered on the second ring. She went through her story again.
“Three years ago? I’d have to refresh my memory.”
“He was a prisoner when he was brought in. He’d been arrested for breaking into an auto parts store and when he started coughing up blood, the police brought him to the emergency room.”
“Yes, I do remember. What is it I can tell you?”
“According to the death certificate in the file, he died of mesothelioma. What exactly is that?”
“It’s a kind of lung cancer, not the kind you get from smoking, although he may have been a smoker, too. I can’t remember a detail like that without looking at the record.”
“What causes that kind of cancer?”
“It was probably work related. He may have inhaled steel dust or asbestos. Again, I would have to check to be sure.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to have disturbed you at home.”
Something was starting to play in her mind. She found the address for Morgan and called the operator for the phone number, identifying herself once again. The operator came back with a number and Jane dialed it. It was near midnight now, and no one was going to be happy to get a phone call. A woman answered, sounding wide-awake.
“Is this Mrs. Morgan?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
Jane went through it again.
“What do you want?”
“I need information on Curtis Morgan.”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m aware of that, ma’am. I’d like to know what kind of work he did.”
“He wasn’t working the last few years of his life. He was too sick to work. He was on disability.”
“Before that. What did he do?”
“He was a track walker for the Transit Authority, you know, an inspector on the rail system. It’s what killed him in the end, all that dust. It got into his lungs. He was only fifty-one.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry about that. Did he work on one particular area of the subway?”
“The Lexington line for a lotta years.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Are you at this number during the day?”
“I work. Can’t live on his pension, can I?”
Jane got the daytime phone number from her and thanked her again. Then she called MacHovec.
“Yeah,” he said after several rings.
“It’s Jane. I’ve got something.”
“Thank God. Nothing’s turning up for Manelli.”
She gave it to him.
“OK. I’ll get into the TA system and see what I can dig up on Morgan. Sounds promising.”
“Let’s hope. I’m on my way back.”
Inspector Graves had arrived at 137 by the time Jane got there. She and MacHovec went into his office and sat down.
“What’ve you got?” the whip asked curtly.
She told him.
“So you think they’ve got Defino hidden away in the Lex.”
“I think it’s possible. I think we have to try it. Morgan may just be the key to this whole thing. He worked the tracks and he knew every in and out of the Lex. There have to be alcoves there where you could tie a guy up and leave him. When Morgan was working with Randolph and Manelli, he could have taken them down there and taught them the ropes.”
“Do we have a prayer of getting something out of Randolph?”
“No, sir.”
“Inspector,” MacHovec put in. “Jane called me from Kings County and I’ve been playing around the TA computer system.”
“Got anything?”
“I found what we’ve been finding. Most of the information on Morgan has been expunged. There’s no record of where he worked or in what capacity. They’ve left the stuff they need for his pension, length of service, cause of death. Someone went in there and sanitized the file.”
Graves said, “Shit,” under his breath. “I like this less and less. We’re all gonna be wearing bulletproof vests pretty soon and looking over our shoulders.” He rubbed his eyes. “All right. Where was I? Jane, where would you start to look? There has to be twenty miles of track on that line.”
She had thought about that on the taxi ride back from Kings County. “They got Defino in the Village. If they drove east and a little north, they’d hit the Astor Place station.”
“You yourself said they’d wait till dark to transfer him out of the van. They could have been cruising around for hours.”
“Right. But they don’t want a brightly lit area, and Astor Place is on the dark side. Look, I could be wrong, but we have to do something and we have to start somewhere. The teams in the conference room are searching for Manelli. We should look somewhere else. Randolph is a dead end. The girlfriend doesn’t know anything. This could be a lead.”
“I don’t see it,” Graves said. “Morgan’s been dead three years. You’re telling me he showed Manelli and Randolph how to get down into the subway ten years ago. Why? What does it buy them? You have to love rats to walk around down there.”
MacHovec turned to her
. “You think they planned to take Micah Anthony down to the tracks?”
“No. I think they made him, and they wanted to know what he knew before they killed him. He was a dead man when they picked him up. But they may have had another use for the subway. They may have stashed two hundred twenty-seven stolen guns there.”
Graves said, “Hm.”
“I like it,” MacHovec said.
“All right. We’ll give it a try. This will take a while to set up. I’ll have to get the Transit Authority in on this. They’ll have to slow down the trains and maybe cut the power to the third rail. This is a big operation.”
“Then we should do it at night,” Jane said.
“Right.” He shook his head. “I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase. I’ll let you both know what’s going on when I know.”
“I’m part of it,” Jane said, aware that she should have asked, not announced.
“I think you’re better off here.”
“Sir, he’s my partner.”
After an indecisive moment, Graves said, “You’ll need the right shoes and your bulletproof vest.”
“I’ve got both here.”
“Give me half an hour.”
12
“DEFINO LEAVE ANY clothing here?” It was Graves, standing at the door, jacket gone, shirtsleeves rolled, stubble visible. “They’re bringing in the canine unit.”
That was welcome news. “Maybe a pair of shoes.” Jane slid over to Defino’s desk and looked underneath. “Yes. He kept them here in case of snow.” She pulled them up and set them on the desk. They were old and worn, the leather cracking, but they would do the job.
“Perfect. You can take them over to Astor Place. We’ve set entry time at two A.M. Gives you an hour and a half. Go home, clean yourself up, and go over there. Take your cell phone with you. I’m going to meet you over at Astor Place at two, see who’s there, give them a pep talk.” No one could do that better than Frank Graves.
Jane got up. “See you then. Sean, what are you doing?” “Going home for a few hours of sleep. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
In the apartment, Jane plugged in the cell phone, which she rarely used, hoping for an adequate charge. Then she showered, changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, and put her shield on a cord around her neck. She emptied her bag, holstering the Glock and distributing the necessities of her life in pockets. Then she slipped a small, high-intensity flashlight into a nylon scabbard, checked the batteries, and slipped her belt through the loop. She checked her magazines and put the extra pouches on the belt. A pair of tight leather gloves went into her back pocket. On her feet she wore the sturdy boots that she reserved for such infrequent occasions.