The Passover Murder Read online

  I laughed. “It was a little like that, now that I think of it.”

  “Sitting in the open for sixteen years and no one ever saw it?”

  “It was on the floor of a big coat closet, off to the left, with a bunch of boots and umbrellas in front of it. If anyone ever saw it, they probably thought it belonged to Marilyn’s mother. But the truth is, I don’t think anyone ever saw it. It was in a corner. It was black. Iris had probably pushed it there so it would be out of the way. That family lived in that apartment for fifty years or more. If they cleaned out the closet, it was probably to take down a coat or jacket to give it away. When’s the last time you bought a new pair of rubbers or boots?”

  “Don’t embarrass me. Well, this is really great news. You found evidence pointing to the fact that she didn’t pick up and decide to go home, and you’ve got all sorts of goodies inside that may give you some leads.”

  “Right on both. Her wallet’s in there, her credit cards, a little engagement book with lots of things noted, that kind of stuff. And I can tell you where the body was found.”

  “OK.”

  “In the oil yards at the top of Manhattan.”

  “Way up there?”

  “Marilyn said it’s near Baker Field.”

  “Nice part of town,” he said caustically. “But the view is good. You can see the East Bronx, the West Bronx, and New Jersey. What else is there in life?” He pulled into a space in front of Ivy’s, grabbed the bottle of wine, and we went in. As usual, it was packed, but our table was ready and we were seated right away. Jack ordered Stoly, and I passed. The wine would be enough for me.

  “That oil yard is in the Three-Four,” he said, as though our conversation had not been interrupted. “I know someone there, I just have to think who.”

  “That’s great, Jack. I’d really hate to walk in cold off the street and start asking questions.”

  “Won’t happen, I promise. I’ll find—oh, I know who it is, Greg Jarvis. We took a course together a couple of years ago and then got together on a funny case. He’s a nice guy. I’ll give him a call.”

  “How likely is it he was there sixteen years ago?”

  “Not very. He’s about my age, maybe a year or two older. Sixteen years ago we were just kids. But we’ll find the guy who was on the case. And if we can’t, there’s always the file. Anyway, you can be pretty sure she didn’t get up there herself if she left her money in the apartment.”

  “Also her subway tokens. They’re in a separate change purse. I don’t believe she would have taken a token and nothing else and then got lost in the subway.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Either she went downstairs to meet someone or she went out for a walk. Either way, it sounds like a deliberate murder, probably someone with a car.”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Not that the detective in charge is going to do much about it at this late date, but what you’ve got is evidence in a homicide, so you’ll have to turn it in.”

  “I will. Now tell me about Kips Bay. Who was Mr. Kips?”

  “Mr. Kip. Jacob, a Dutch farmer. He owned the property around what was called the ‘bay.’ It’s all been filled in now and it’s loaded with high-rise buildings, and that whole area in the East Thirties is called Murray Hill.”

  “Just a little piece of New York history you picked up along the way.”

  “Why not? It’s my city. There was a major confrontation there between gangs and police in the 1863 draft riots.”

  “You really do know everything,” I said with wonder.

  “Read the menu. I’m starved.”

  10

  Sunday we relaxed. Jack made breakfast and we picked up Gene on the way to mass. In the afternoon, while Jack read for his Monday night law classes, I scoured Iris Grodnik’s pocketbook, making notes of everything she had, a list of all her credit cards, even the brand and color of the lipstick she wore. Since I had to give up this very valuable piece of evidence, I wanted to be certain I would be able to recall every item it contained. Only then did I reluctantly agree with myself that I would turn it over to the police.

  When I had completed my notes, I called Marilyn.

  “Chris, how nice to hear from you,” she said warmly. “How are things going?”

  “Jack has a friend at the precinct where the oil yards are located, and I’m going to try to get down there tomorrow. But right now I have a couple of questions to ask you.”

  “OK.”

  “In Iris’s little engagement book, she’s written an M on the day of the second seder. She never seems to write names to go with her appointments. Can you think what the M for that day might mean?”

  “Well, my name is an M and so is Mel’s. Maybe she meant she would see one or both of us.”

  “Do you recall where the second seder was going to be?”

  “It would have been different for everyone, but maybe Iris was going to Queens to my brother’s.”

  “Your brother Dave?”

  “Yes. He lived in Queens at the time.”

  “Question number two. She has a bridal shower noted for the Saturday after Passover. The initial there is C. Whose shower do you suppose that was?”

  “A shower for a C? Offhand, I can’t think who that would be. When was Carol married?” she asked herself. Then she said, “Chris, that’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Jews can’t get married between Passover and Shavuoth.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are no Jewish weddings during that period. No rabbi will perform a wedding ceremony. If you don’t get married before Passover, you just have to wait. I can’t imagine a bridal shower two months before a wedding. It seems a little early.”

  “I wonder whose shower it could be then.”

  “Maybe someone’s at work. Iris was very close to the girls at work.”

  “So you’re pretty sure it wasn’t a family affair?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then I guess that’s it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Jack and I had a brief conversation about his sister’s problems and my proposed solution, but the upshot was, let’s wait a day or so and see. I agreed to wait.

  On Monday morning Jack called a little while after he got to the Six-Five, the precinct where he works in Brooklyn and where I had met him while investigating my first case. “Got hold of Greg a little while ago,” he said. “He’s still at the Three-Four.”

  “That’s great.”

  “What’s even greater, he checked the Grodnik file, and the original detective on the case is also there.”

  “Terrific.”

  “His name’s Harris White, and Greg says he’ll see you whenever you want.”

  “Can I call him?”

  “Sure.” He gave me the number. “Greg’s told him you’re my wife, so you can expect the royal treatment.”

  “Do I have to wear my diamond tiara?”

  “Ah, hold that for another visit. You going today?”

  “Can you think of a better time?”

  “No, ma’am. Enjoy.”

  I promised I would and called the Thirty-fourth Precinct and talked to Detective Harris White. He’d been expecting my call and was, he said, looking forward to my visit. I told him I would be there in an hour and a half, and he said that would be fine. I put Iris’s purse back in the shopping bag and was on my way.

  Having left time for losing my way, I got to the station house on Broadway near 182nd Street early. The desk sergeant pointed me to the stairs, and I went up to the squad room. As I entered the door marked 34th Detective Squad, I noticed a wooden replica of a gold and blue detective shield on the wall with slots for name boards. Two of the slots were filled. Det. White and Det. Farbman were “in.”

  “Help you?” the man at the nearest desk said as I entered.

  “I’m looking for Detective Harris White.”

  “Over there by the window, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.�
� The man at the desk by the window had his back to me. I walked over and he turned as I got there. He was in his early forties or thereabouts, black, closer to trim than most of the detectives I had met, and had a nice smile, which he used to greet me.

  “Mrs. Brooks, glad to meet you.” He offered a hand and shook mine firmly. “I’m Detective Harris White. Please sit down. I hear you’re interested in one of my first cases.”

  “Iris Grodnik. I’m a friend of the family.”

  “Well, I can tell you, that’s one case I would like to lay to rest. I caught it about a week after I got my gold shield, and I was young and cocky and figured I’d close it pretty quick. Now it’s sixteen years later and I don’t know any more than I knew a couple of days after they found the body.”

  I put the shopping bag on his desk. “I found something, Detective.”

  “Harris. We’re friends, OK?”

  “Fine. I’m Chris.”

  He looked inside the bag, murmured something I couldn’t hear, and pulled out the black leather purse. “Her handbag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in God’s name did you find this?”

  “In the closet in the apartment she was visiting the night she disappeared.”

  “They told us her purse and coat were gone.”

  “They were wrong. Her coat was gone, but this was pushed into a corner and probably hasn’t been moved or seen since that night.”

  “That must be one hell of a closet.”

  He had it open and was looking at the contents as I had over the weekend. “Money, keys, credit cards, a little date book. Looks like she left everything in it when she walked out of that apartment.”

  “It does to me, too.”

  “So she definitely planned to go back for it before she went home.”

  “Without those keys she couldn’t have gotten into her own apartment.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Was she wearing her coat when she was found?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah, she had her coat on, had a nice dress on, no evidence of sexual assault. Whatever he wanted from her, it wasn’t sex and it sure wasn’t what’s in this bag.”

  “So it could have been something she told him or it could have been something she was carrying with her.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Can you tell me how she died?”

  “Before we get into that, can you tell me exactly what your interest in the case is?”

  “I’m a friend of Iris’s family. I live across the street from her grandniece. They invited me to the family seder on Passover this year, and afterwards they told me how Aunt Iris had disappeared from a seder a long time ago. I’ve had some experience investigating homicides unofficially and very unprofessionally, and the family asked me if I would look into this. I’m not very optimistic because it happened so long ago and no one has anything to go on, but I thought I’d give it a try. I met my husband while I was looking into my first homicide.”

  “Jack Brooks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Greg told me about him. Says he’s a real nice guy.”

  “Well, I think so.”

  Harris smiled. “I’m sure he is. OK. You want to look over the file, ask me questions—?”

  “Both, actually. Why don’t I ask first so you can get back to work while I look at the file.”

  “At your disposal.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Coupla kids with a dog.”

  “That was a day and a half or so after she disappeared, is that right?”

  “Just about.”

  “What was the estimated time of death?”

  “The ME felt she’d been killed sometime during the night she disappeared.”

  “Was she wearing her jewelry?”

  “We weren’t sure it was all there. Everyone in the family remembered something different. She had her watch and a ring that her relatives said she always wore, and there may have been a bracelet—I’d have to check—but some of them thought she’d been wearing a gold pin and some of them thought she’d had a gold chain on. But it didn’t look like a robbery.”

  “How did she die, Harris?”

  “He used his hands and fists and feet on her. There was no indication of any weapon. Basically, he beat her to death.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “People kill in a lot of different ways, but I would say this is the way that shows anger, retribution, revenge. If you go out to kill someone, you take a weapon with you. I’d almost guess this was a case where she got him angry to the point where he lost control.”

  “Someone in the family thinks she may have promised to lend someone some money. Maybe she didn’t bring it with her or maybe she didn’t bring enough, and that set him off.”

  “Could be, but we couldn’t find anyone like that. Most of the neighbors never heard of her, her family all seemed on very good terms with her—they didn’t talk about each other behind their backs—and we really couldn’t find anyone with a grudge.”

  “How about the people she worked with? According to her niece, Iris worked on Park Avenue for a man named Wilfred Garganus.”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She wasn’t working there anymore. She’d left about a week before she died.”

  “Did she quit?”

  “That wasn’t clear. I interviewed and reinterviewed people in and away from that office myself. I always had the feeling they knew something that they didn’t want to tell me. For the record, she left voluntarily. Me, I didn’t think it was so voluntary. But I never got anyone to say otherwise.”

  “I’m really surprised about that. As far as her family’s concerned, she’d been working there for years and she was still working there the day she died.”

  “Either they don’t know or they don’t want to tell you.”

  “Do you have the name of the company?”

  “Sure.” He looked through some papers and pulled one out. “GAR, Inc. Some multinational corporation. Their headquarters were at 102 Park Avenue, but I can tell you they’re not there anymore. They moved to Long Island about ten years ago. But it’s possible they’ve left some of their corporate staff in that building. You want to talk to them?”

  “I was told her boss, Mr. Garganus, died some years ago, but if there was anyone who remembered her, I’d really like to talk to them. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. Just so long as you let me know if you learn anything.”

  “That’s a promise. One more thing. Did you learn anything about boyfriends or men she went out with?”

  “There was someone. Hold on.” He made a quick search and said, “She’d had like a steady boyfriend at one time, a Harry Schiff. It was a little touchy interviewing him. He had a wife, had her all the time he was seeing Iris Grodnik.”

  “That was my impression, too. I guess you didn’t think he was a suspect.”

  “Didn’t seem like it to me. He was really broken up about Iris. He cried when we talked. He told me he’d been in love with her for years, but she broke up with him because he couldn’t or wouldn’t divorce his wife. He was a man in his sixties, struck me as a nice guy. I had to consider him, of course, but I didn’t seriously think he’d killed her.”

  “Did you hear anything about a newer boyfriend?”

  “Nothing we could track down. You know something I don’t know?”

  “Iris’s sister said there was a new man in Iris’s life. She has no name. I just wondered if you did.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I suppose you checked out her finances, whether she was paying money to anyone or getting money from anyone besides her employer?”

  “She got her check from the company every week and made her own deposits. She usually didn’t deposit the whole thing, but who does? Was she paying anyone blackmail? Not by check, she wasn’t. Did she have any mysterious income we couldn’t account for? Didn’t look like it. She had some
savings, some investments, some interest. Anything else I can tell you?”

  “Let me look at the file for a while. I can always get back to you afterwards.”

  “Sure thing. There’s an empty desk right over there. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thanks.”

  I spent the rest of the morning looking at the file. There were some ugly pictures of Iris’s body that I only glanced at and then turned facedown. The autopsy report was pretty technical, but I gathered she had died the way Harris White had described. Then there were the interviews with people who lived in her building, most of whom had never heard of her till she died. The next-door neighbor, a single woman in her thirties, had known and liked Iris. They didn’t socialize, but they chatted with each other, sometimes dropped in on each other in the evening. If there had been a boyfriend, Miss Able wasn’t aware.

  Wilfred Garganus, the man for whom Iris had worked for so many years, gave a long interview, but he was vague about Iris’s reasons for leaving. He said there was a chance she might come back, that she was thinking of doing some traveling, that she had some personal problems she wanted to take care of. He was shocked and saddened by the news of her death and wanted the family to know he would contribute to any memorial they established in her memory. Whether he ever told this to the family was a mystery to me. Marilyn certainly had never referred to such a gesture. There were also a couple of interviews with neighbors of Abraham Grodnik, people who might have seen Iris leave the apartment during the fateful seder, but none of them had.

  Finally there was a brief interview with Shirley Finster. It was done by telephone, apparently initiated by Shirley, who called the police to inquire about her friend’s case. She gave no address and no phone number, and it appeared that she hung up when she decided she’d answered enough questions. The ones she did answer gave me nothing new. She had known Iris since they were children, they loved each other like sisters, she couldn’t imagine who would do such a thing to such a wonderful person. No, she hadn’t seen Iris for a while, but that was because Shirley had moved and they had both been very busy. And that was it. All in all a tough case with few leads, and those pretty cold now after so many years.

  Harry Schiff’s address was in the West Seventies, hence Aunt Sylvie’s mistaken belief that he lived near Abraham. I wrote it down and also the name of Iris’s next-door neighbor, with little hope of finding her still there, and then borrowed a Manhattan phone book and looked up GAR. Sure enough, there was a listing at 102 Park Avenue. I turned to the S’s and found an H. Schiff at the address Harry had lived at when Harris White interviewed him. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. I thanked the detective, promised again he would hear if I learned anything, and was on my way.