Murder in Alphabet City (10 page)

Among the letters were some from the Weissman children, sweet missives from camp and from holidays. It appeared that Erica's warm feeling for her niece and nephew were genuine. The letters were in a small folder and arranged by date.

Also arranged carefully were letters from a friend in California. Apparently, Erica and this woman, Ellie Raymond, had gone to school and gotten their master's degrees in social work together. The correspondence ended abruptly two years before Erica's death when Ellie Raymond announced she was buying herself a computer and would begin to send e-mail to Erica's office. The letters, Jane observed, all began “Dear Bee-Bee.”

Jane made a note of the name and address. There was little else in the carton with similar potentially useful information. No check stubs or statements, no paid bills, and no address book or wallet. All of that must have found its way to another place. They would have to decide at some point whether to request that kind of material, but that was not a concern at this moment.

By the time she was tired enough for bed, Jane had organized everything in the carton. She had not called the second whip, nor had he called her. That could all wait for Monday morning.

She was about to turn her light off when she decided to call Ellie Raymond. The three-hour time difference meant it was only eight-thirty on the West Coast. Information had a listing for Raymond at the return address on the letters and Jane dialed. On the third ring, a male voice answered.

“I'd like to talk to Ellie Raymond,” Jane said, not certain what the full first name was.

“She's out. Who's calling?”

“An old friend. Is there a time tomorrow that I can reach her?”

“She gets home around five.”

Eight o'clock eastern. That was time enough.

13

J
ANE TOOK A
taxi to work in order to get the carton of papers to Centre Street. The mood among the team became swiftly upbeat as she announced Erica Rinzler's suicide.

“Looks like we got a case,” Defino said, eyes brightening.

“Who knows what case, but something sure smells,” Jane said.

“Want me to call McElroy?” MacHovec asked.

“Sure.”

But the second whip appeared at their door as she spoke. “Anything?” he said.

“Lots.”

“Let's talk here. Captain Graves is out this morning.”

She delivered her briefing in an almost staccato style. The call to Arthur Provenzano, the meeting at the museum, the name of the sister and her address, the bombshell of the suicide, the meeting in Chappaqua, the beads, the nickname, the papers, the friend in California.

“You putting in for overtime?”

Jane gave him a grin. “I'll get it back when I need a short afternoon. I had nothing on my calendar.”

“Thank God for dull weekends. So what've you got in the box?”

She pulled out bunches of papers, some paper-clipped, some rubber-banded.

“Jeez,” McElroy said, “you already cataloged it.”

“Just made piles. I hate to tell you, but there isn't much. I think Sean should go over it; he's got an eagle eye. And we have to get the file on Rinzler's suicide. Should be an autopsy on that one. The sister said she was supposed to be having lunch with a friend that day. I don't know if we can track down who that was.”

“If it was anyone. She could've told the sister a story.”

“She met someone. I don't buy suicide.”

“OK. I'm giving you a go on this. We'll talk to the captain this afternoon, but as far as I'm concerned, one cold case is as good as another.” Before he was out of the room, MacHovec was on the phone.

The West Forties and low Fifties were filled with drab hotels that dated from before World War II. Comparatively small, they were built to serve tourists and businessmen on modest budgets. Lobbies were compact and inelegant. Some rooms lacked private baths. But all were close to the center of excitement: the theater, Fifth Avenue, and enough restaurants to satisfy any taste.

In the late twentieth century, most of the hotels had undergone renovations. While the rooms could never be considered luxurious, they became cleaner and more modern-looking. Overseas travel agents booked their clients there and the hotels began to live new lives. Judy Weissman had referred to the place where her sister died as “seedy.” If it had not been gutted, at least they could see the room Rinzler had died in. Not that it mattered. The autopsy report would contain plenty of information.

“They'll dig up the autopsy,” MacHovec said, hanging up. “Shouldn't take too long. Let me go through the papers.” He reached for the piles on Jane's desk.

She turned to Defino. “West Fifties is Midtown North. Let's find out who caught the case.”

MacHovec dropped the file he was holding and reached for the phone. He talked for a few minutes, giving a date and the name. “Yeah, that's the one.” He started writing. “Good. Thanks. He around? . . . Fine.” He hung up and handed Jane his notes. “Guy named Lew for Lewis Beech caught the case. He's due in at ten.”

Jane looked at Defino. He got up and grabbed his coat.

They stopped at the desk on the way up to the squad room and asked a couple of questions. Det. Lewis Beech had been a member of the squad for eight and a half years, having been transferred from the City-Wide Anti-Crime Unit when he was awarded his gold shield shortly before the date of Erica Rinzler's death.

“Sounds like he was long on collars and short on squad experience,” Defino said as they climbed the stairs.

“Well, he's eight years smarter now, so let's see what he remembers.”

Beech was a blue-eyed fiery redhead in his thirties. He was on the phone when they arrived and he nodded at them to sit. “Don't give me that shit,” he said into the phone. “I said I had to have it.
I have to have it.
” The conversation continued but he didn't seem any closer to getting what he wanted when he hung up than when they had arrived. “Sorry,” he said. “I'm Lew Beech. You are . . . ?”

They introduced themselves. “We wanted to talk to you about an apparent suicide eight years ago,” Jane said. She handed him a sheet of paper with the particulars.

He frowned. “Hold on. Let me get the file.”

He returned five minutes later with a thin file. “I remember it now. It was a month or so after I got my shield. She shot herself in a hotel room. The maid found her in the morning. It was messy. The victim was a woman in her thirties, nice-looking, out of work, despondent—”

“Who said she was despondent?” Jane asked.

“She committed suicide. You're happy, you don't kill yourself.”

“Go on.”

“That's it. We talked to the family. The sister was too distraught to say much. The brother-in-law didn't believe it was suicide, but who ever does? Her prints were on the gun, she had rented the room that day for one night. That was it.”

“She check in with a suitcase?” Defino asked.

“We didn't find one.”

“She leave a note?”

“Ditto.”

“We're working on a cold case this woman was connected to. We'll need the file.”

Beech looked as though he didn't like that. “What case you working on?”

“Guy's name is Stratton. He died in the Nine. Across the street from Tompkins Square Park.”

“What's the connection?”

“You gonna give us the file or what?” Defino said, clearly irritated. A detective at a nearby desk looked in their direction.

“What are you trying to do, make me look bad? I handle a dozen stiffs a year in this squad and they all turn out closed with results.”

“How many homicides or suicides had you handled up to this case?”

Beech looked embarrassed. “That was my first.”

“Give us the file.”

“Yeah, OK. I'll have it sent over. Leave me your address.”

“What the fuck was his problem?” Defino's temper had flared and for good reason. They had every right to the file.

“He may be eight years smarter but he's still an idiot.”

“Want to walk over to the hotel she died in?”

“Sure.”

The lobby floor was new and clean, the paint was light, the front door glass. They approached the desk where a couple with wheelies were checking in, showed their ID, and asked to speak to anyone who had been at the hotel eight years ago. A minute later a man came from an inner room and ushered them to the end of the counter for privacy.

“I'm William Steiner. How may I help you?”

“A woman committed suicide here about eight years ago,” Jane said.

“Yes. Yes. You needn't go any further. That was a horrible incident. I was on the desk that morning when she was found. She shot herself. It was gruesome.”

“You went upstairs to look?” Defino asked.

“I had to. I was the senior person on duty. I took a quick look and called the police. Two cars came, then a couple of detectives a little later. One of them had red hair. I've forgotten his name.”

“Detective Beech.”

“Yes, of course. It took most of the day before they removed that poor woman. There was crime scene tape everywhere. The van from the morgue parked outside. It was horrible.”

“What did you know about her?” Jane asked.

“Nothing. She paid for the room with cash, said it was for one night. We gave all the documents to the police.”

“Was the room reserved in advance?”

Steiner thought a moment. “I don't believe so.”

“What floor was she on?”

“Six. The top floor.”

“And no one heard a gunshot?”

“The hotel wasn't full that night. Most of six was empty. Nobody reported a loud sound.”

“Did anyone find a suicide note?” Jane asked.

“I never went into the room after the police came. You better ask them. They took a lot of stuff, sheets, towels, I don't know what. They would know.”

“Can you show us the room, Mr. Steiner?”

“Come with me.” He stopped to pick up a ring of keys, then led the way to the elevator, which was near the front door.

“Has the building been renovated or changed since that happened?” Defino asked.

“We did a renovation about a year before the incident. Nothing has changed except to freshen up the paint and update the TVs.”

On six they followed him down the hall to a door near the back of the building. He unlocked it and stepped aside for them. With the lights off, the room was dark. Its one window faced an airshaft. Behind the hotel a much taller building overshadowed the smaller one. The room had its own bathroom and here the effect of the renovation was visible. The tub, sink, and toilet were comparatively new and the floor tiles were late twentieth century.

A double bed, a nightstand, a small desk and chair, and a dresser crowded the small bedroom. A suitcase would have to be wedged between the bed and the wall to keep it out of the way. So much for guests with large wardrobes.

“Anything I can show you?” Steiner asked.

“Where was she lying?” Defino said.

“On the floor next to the bed, as if she'd fallen from a sitting position.”

“What was she wearing?”

“Her clothes.”

“All of them?”

Steiner took a breath. “I only saw her that once for a few seconds, but she appeared to be fully dressed.”

“Shoes?”

“I think her shoes were on too.”

Defino looked at Jane. She shook her head.

“Thanks,” Defino said. “Thanks for your help.”

“So no one found her asleep and shot her.” They were on the street, Defino lighting up for the first time that morning. Maybe he was cutting back.

“That was the lunch date she told her sister about. Only it wasn't lunch. What the hell was going on?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Right. It's that time of day.”

The streets between Fifth and Sixth were full of restaurants. Defino agreed to forgo his usual pasta and they opted for a Chinese restaurant where Jane ordered a noodle bowl with seafood. Defino, who had chosen a beef and vegetable dish, eyed hers with skepticism. Jane could remember a time, when she was in her twenties, when she refused to eat anything she hadn't eaten at her mother's table. It had been a date who had challenged her, calling her a provincial. Angry at the characterization—she was a born-and-bred New Yorker, after all—she had allowed him to order for her and her world had changed.

“Real tough to prove that was a homicide,” Defino said, forking food into his mouth while Jane used chopsticks. “All her clothes on looks like suicide.”

“Even if it was suicide, something was going on that made her do it. I just don't like the fact that she left no letter. She was living with her sister; she loved those people. They deserved an explanation, and even if she couldn't give the true one, she could at least have said she was sorry.”

“Maybe there was no paper to write on in the room.”

“Good thought. We'll have to call Steiner and ask. But there must have been something in her handbag to write on, even a Kleenex.” The contents would be detailed in the file. She hoped it would come soon.

They ate and talked, tossing ideas back and forth. What was Rinzler involved in? Was Stratton involved too or was he a convenient fall guy? And how did he help her?

“How the fuck are we going to find out who she met for ‘lunch' eight years ago?” Defino asked, echoing her own thoughts.

“Her sister may know who some of her friends were.”

“This wasn't a friend; this was a business associate.”

“Gordon, there have to be papers, some kind of records. What the sister gave me was sanitized. She knows what was going on or, at least, she has an idea. That carton she gave me was the sweet and lovely side of Erica Rinzler, the letters from her niece and nephew, from her wonderful old friend in California. The tax return shows how honest she was. We need the papers from the black side, the names and addresses.”

“Maybe she had them memorized.”

“Even the Mafia has lists. She couldn't trust her memory with everything.”

“The sister'll give you a hard time.”

“I know, but there's more in that basement in Chappaqua, even if the husband isn't aware of it.”

“You think she's keeping it to herself?”

“He told me he didn't think Erica was suicidal. The wife said it was a shock but didn't put it as strongly as her husband. It was a blow but she accepted it. You heard what Beech said. If she hadn't been despondent, she wouldn't've killed herself. That's how he knows she was despondent.”

“He's a little light on gray matter. That good?” He nodded at her almost empty noodle bowl.

“Delicious. Shrimp and other stuff, lots of noodles, and the soup is out of this world. You should try it. Think of it as Chinese pasta.”

He gave her a little grin. “I'll think about it.”