Murder in Alphabet City (2 page)

2

T
HEY TOOK THE
Lex to Seventy-seventh Street, walked a block west to Park Avenue, and then south. One of New York's finest residential streets, Park Avenue was a world away from its origins. Through most of the nineteenth century, there was no street at all. Trains traveling to and from New York moved on tracks in a depression far below street level. It was only after the tracks were covered that a street was created. The filth and stench of smoke were replaced by fresher air and the most expensive apartments in Manhattan.

The divider was kept clean and well-planted, uniformed doormen graced every entrance, and yellow taxis outnumbered private cars on the roadway. Even on a raw day, one sensed the elegance and opulence of the area.

At the entrance to the massive apartment house where Flavia Constantine lived, they showed their shields and photos to a uniformed man at a desk who was obviously expecting them.

“First right. Take the elevator up to nine.”

“This is gonna be something,” Defino said as they rode up.

It was. The elevator opened into a small foyer with one door opposite the elevator. Jane rang. Mrs. Constantine herself opened the door.

“Please come in. Marian, take their coats.”

Marian was a maid in a black-and-white uniform out of an old movie. She said nothing, took the coats, and hung them in a closet. Mrs. Constantine led them across the marble floor of the entry to the living room.

Windows looked out on Park Avenue, but it wasn't the view that was breathtaking; it was the paintings on the walls. Jane was hardly a connoisseur, but she had taken an art appreciation course in college and she was sure the largest painting was a Picasso. It was the first time she had seen one outside a museum.

“Make yourselves comfortable, please. If you'd like coffee or anything else, I'll be glad to get it for you.”

It was the first time Defino hadn't asked for anything. “No thanks,” he said, and Jane shook her head.

“I'm Flavia Constantine,” the regal woman on the sofa said. She was dressed in a pewter-colored silk dress that rustled. A diamond pin displayed tiny flashes of color when she moved. Her makeup was perfect. It made Jane wonder if she had remembered to renew her lipstick before they left Centre Street.

“I'm Detective Jane Bauer. This is Detective Gordon Defino. We're part of a squad that investigates open homicide cases.”

“It's about time,” Mrs. Constantine said. “I've waited eight years for the police department to recognize that my brother's death was no accident.”

“We're investigating the possibility that it's a homicide,” Defino said.

“I understand. I will do whatever I can to assist you. Andy was not suicidal. He was sometimes confused and muddled, but I never heard him suggest he wanted his life to end.”

“Would you like to tell us about him?” Jane asked.

Mrs. Constantine sat erect on the sofa. Her ringed hands rested on her lap, but she moved them occasionally as she spoke. She was a slim, handsome woman about fifty with dark, perfectly arranged hair, slender legs wearing shoes whose cost Jane could only estimate. There was nothing smiling or warm about her. She was as cool and stiff as her silk dress.

“My brother was a poet,” she said. “He wrote magnificent poetry. The words sang as you read them. He wrote with passion and intensity. All the things he could not articulate in speech found their way into his writing. He had a great mind, too great, perhaps, the mind of a philosopher, and his brilliance emerged in his poems. My brother lived in two worlds, a bad one and a worse one, and somehow he found a way to write about both of them with feeling and clarity.”

“Was he writing anything in the time before he died?” Defino asked.

“There were papers lying on the floor and on the table next to him, but nothing was intelligible. Most of it wasn't even legible. If you're thinking he might have left clues to his death, I can assure you there weren't any. I have every piece of paper that was in the apartment when he was found.”

“Did your brother work at all outside his apartment?” Jane asked.

“He volunteered sometimes at a homeless shelter. Not very often. He had difficulty keeping to a schedule. If the spirit moved him, he would go down and help out for an hour or two, serving meals or reading to the children. He liked children, but they frightened him. They were unpredictable.” For the first time, she smiled. “He wrote a wonderful children's story and he read that to them. I've read it to my granddaughter. It's a remarkable story, full of allegory and symbolism. My brother was a brilliant man but he was afflicted, through no fault of his own. I have often wondered how God chooses those who will suffer.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Constantine,” Jane said. “Can you tell us what makes you think that your brother's death was a homicide?”

“I've given you one reason, that he was never suicidal. He hated the bad times, but no one ever heard him say he wanted to die. There are other reasons. He was looking forward to coming here for Christmas. When I spoke to him the last few times, he mentioned it. He had been working on a play and he thought he might get a group of local amateurs to produce it. He was very excited about that; he said it would make him credible, give him a leg up. Off-Broadway might be next. In a circumstance like that, you don't sit down in a chair and stop eating and drinking.”

“I don't mean any disrespect, Mrs. Constantine,” Defino said, “but the medical examiner said it took at least two weeks for him to die. I gather you weren't in contact with him during that time.”

“No, I wasn't. I was away for almost a month. I talked to him a few days before I left. He was in good spirits. Then I called him the night before my trip. He didn't answer. That wasn't unusual. Sometimes he was out. Sometimes he didn't want to be bothered and he didn't answer the phone. It was late and I couldn't go down to check on him. I sent him a postcard from France. It was in his mailbox when the police found him.”

“There were pizza boxes in the apartment when the police came. Is that what he ate mostly, takeout?”

“Andy didn't cook. He heated things up, he ordered out, he went out and ate in one of the local places. Often he didn't have a clear concept of time or he just didn't care what time it was. He slept when he felt like it, he ate when he was hungry, he changed his clothes when he decided he was tired of what he was wearing.”

“But he ate when he was hungry,” Jane said. “And he had the money to pay for it.”

“He always had the money and yes, he ate. He didn't eat much, just enough to fill himself up. He was like a newborn that way. You know how they push the bottle away when they're done eating? That was Andy. At one moment he decided he'd had enough and he didn't take another bite.” She moved her eyes from one to the other, talking to both of them equally.

“Did he have a girlfriend?” Jane asked.

She didn't answer. She rubbed her hands together and a diamond ring caught the light. Then she said, “Andy shared much of his life with me. But I was not intrusive. He wasn't a child and I couldn't ask about personal things, sexual things. I saw to it that he had clothes to wear and money to spend. If there was a woman in his life, or women, he kept that to himself. I'm sure he was capable of that kind of love.”

“Who might know if he had a relationship?”

“The police claim to have interviewed everyone in the apartment house, all the people in the neighborhood who might have known him, waitresses, the super. Nothing like that turned up. And I hired a private detective. You're welcome to talk to him. He didn't find anything either.”

“What do you think happened to your brother, Mrs. Constantine?”

“I think that someone who pretended to be his friend prevented Andy from leaving the apartment, from eating, from drinking. I think Andy became too weak to resist, and eventually he died.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Perhaps they thought I might arrive and they could extort money from me. I know you find this hard to believe. I see the skepticism in your faces. You think my brother became tired of life, he was weak, and his mind was racked with pain, he lacked the energy to call for a meal and it was just easier to sit in the chair and fade away than keep himself alive. There was someone in that room with him, Detective Defino, Detective Bauer.” The eyes moved. “Someone prevented him from living, and that's murder.”

“Is there anyone in particular that you suspect?” Jane asked.

“It's not someone who lived in the building. I think it's one of the homeless people who imposed himself on Andy. Andy sometimes let people come into the apartment, maybe even stay overnight if it was cold. I think it was one of those people, someone who ingratiated himself with Andy, who saw him take money out of his pocket and sensed there was a source for the cash. But the police got there before I did and that person disappeared.”

“Well, we'll explore that idea as far as we can,” Defino said. He was edgy; he wanted to go.

“There's something else. After they took Andy away, I went through the apartment myself. It was quite messy and it hadn't been cleaned for some time. The crime scene people took a number of things from the apartment and they dusted for fingerprints. I'm not criticizing the job they did, but I found something on the floor.” She reached for a small leather pouch that had lain on the end table near where she sat. It was a few inches long and wide and zipped shut. She handed it to Jane. “Look inside. Be careful.”

Jane unzipped it. Inside were perhaps twenty tiny beads. She took one out between her fingers, looked at it, and passed the pouch to Defino.

“I had them checked by a jeweler,” Flavia Constantine said. “They're not seed pearls as I thought they might be. They're ordinary commercial beads and they're not worth anything.”

“They were strung on a necklace,” Jane said. A tiny hole had been drilled through the bead in her hand.

“Andy didn't wear jewelry, nothing. He had a watch but he refused to wear it. It was on his night table and the battery had died. With a digital watch, you can't tell when it stopped. But he had no rings, no necklaces, no bracelets. He never wore anything around his neck. In fact, he liked loose collars. Someone else wore those beads. The string broke and they fell to the floor. The floor was slanted—it's a very old building—and when they hit the floor, they rolled into one corner of the room. I found them behind a bookcase.”

“Did you show them to the detective working the case?” Defino asked.

“I showed it to Mr. Shreiber. I gave him one. He said essentially what the jeweler told me, that it couldn't be determined where they came from. Nor did he know who had worn them. But there had to be more than the beads I put in that pouch. There's barely enough there for a small bracelet. And the police assured me there was no string with more beads on it.”

“So it looks like the string broke, the wearer grabbed what was left, and let the others go.”

“Yes.” She smiled. Defino had told her what she had figured out herself. “The person wearing the necklace took the rest of them with her. Him. Whatever.”

“We'll certainly try to track down the owner,” Defino said, giving Mrs. Constantine hope, fulfilling their mission of the afternoon.

“Take a few with you. Do you need a bag for them?”

“I've got one.” Jane pulled a plastic sandwich bag out of her bag, part of the equipment she regularly carried.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Constantine said. Her eyes had become bright. “I've waited so long for someone to take this seriously.”

“We're taking it very seriously, Mrs. Constantine. What can you tell us about Wally Shreiber?”

“The detective? He seemed competent. He was well recommended. He did all the right things but he turned up nothing. I don't blame him. I just think that people with a new perspective may be more successful.”

“We'll give it our best shot.” Defino handed the pouch to her.

“And you'll keep me informed.”

“Every step of the way.”

Mrs. Constantine stood and Defino leaped to his feet. Jane hoped it wasn't as apparent to Mrs. Constantine as it was to her how much he wanted to get out of there.

Jane walked over to the large painting and found the signature. It was a Picasso. Something like a chill passed through her. She owned little besides her clothes and the contents of her apartment. Here was a woman who owned a world treasure.

“It's a Picasso,” the voice of their hostess said behind her.

“Yes. I thought so. It must be a great joy to have it here.”

Mrs. Constantine blinked. “It is. It's a wonderful piece. I'm glad you like it.”

They walked to the foyer and were given their coats. The maid went outside and pressed the button for the elevator. Jane assured Mrs. Constantine that they would report whatever they learned. The door closed before the elevator arrived.

Defino lit the cigarette between his fingers as soon as they were on the sidewalk. He inhaled as though it were air and he had been suffocating. “We get back to Centre Street, I'm putting in my papers.”

Jane tried not to laugh, then stopped trying.

“That's funny? We're a couple of babysitters making nice to a kid on the verge of a tantrum. Except the kid is in her fifties and lives in a museum and if we're not good to her, she'll go crying to the governor.”

The characterization wasn't unfair. “Let's give it two weeks, Gordon. One more pound of paper. We'll find a couple of new sources. We'll tie it up with a red ribbon and hand it to Graves.”

“Find a homeless guy who hung out at Tompkins Square Park eight years ago and kept Stratton from eating. Shit, she might as well have asked us to locate a dog. And the fucking love beads.”