Murder in Alphabet City (8 page)

10

R
OSE
T
SAO HAD
arrived punctually at the station house and was already sitting with the artist when they arrived.

“Oh hi,” she said as they entered the room. “Was I supposed to wait for you?”

Jane smiled. “Not at all. Don't let us interrupt. Will it bother you if we hang around?”

“Of course not.” Rose turned back to the face-in-the-making. “A little too thin,” she said. “That makes her old.”

The artist, a sergeant named Giordano, made the face slightly fuller.

“I'll be back,” Defino said and left the room.

Jane took her coat off and sat where Rose couldn't see her. She had watched similar sessions a few times and enjoyed seeing a face materialize from one person's memory and another's artistic talent. They worked for about an hour. Rose was a perfectionist and kept making small changes. The hair wasn't quite right, the eyes were too close together, the cheekbones—should they be so prominent?

Finally, she sat back, looking exhausted. “I think that's all I can do,” she said apologetically. “It's not perfect but it's not wrong either. It needs a little more life in the eyes. She was a vibrant woman. She smiled a lot. And you know what? She needs beads around her neck.”

“What kind of beads?” Giordano asked.

“Just beads. Colorful beads, blue, silver. She had some of those crystal beads that change color when you move. Prisms, I think they're called. I remember being fascinated by them.”

“A grown-up flower child,” Giordano said, sketching some blue beads along the side of the neck.

“Yes. Like that.”

“You can go whenever you want,” Jane said. “We're very grateful you took the time to do this.”

“My mother always warned me about the park,” she said as she put her coat on. “But there were a couple of people, park people, who would say hello as I came by. Sometimes they gave me a piece of candy or gum. I never had the fear that other people did. I thought they were pretty nice, even if they didn't have a real place to live.”

“I'm sure you were a very sweet little girl,” Jane said, thinking that that hadn't changed.

She found Defino talking to a detective in the squad room. He was an old friend from early in Defino's career and they were having a good time when she got there. Defino got up quickly, said his good-byes, and he and Jane went to collect copies of the sketch.

“His partner's on medical leave,” Defino said. “He was attacked by a wild man with a knife six inches long.”

“He coming back?”

“Looks like it. He doesn't have twenty years yet and he has kids ready for college.”

“That'll keep you on the job.”

The sketches of Rinzler were still warm. They took twenty copies, hoping to hand them out to anyone who would take them.

“Let's see if we can find Irma Bender. I talked to her on the phone and it sounded like she cracked the door every time she heard a footstep.”

“Sounds like my mother-in-law. I don't know when she has time to watch all the TV in her life.”

The building Irma Bender was living in now was on East Ninth Street, east of Avenue C, a short distance from the station house. As they walked east, they could see the Jacob Riis Houses at the edge of Manhattan and just south of them the Lillian Wald Houses. Named for two early movers and shakers in social work, the buildings were home to low-income New Yorkers. On the eastern face these complexes offered their occupants a splendid view of the East River and Brooklyn and Queens on the other side, the three old bridges that spanned the river, and, Jane had always thought, magnificent sunrises.

Defino must have been thinking the same thing because he said, “The poor always get the best views. Have you noticed?”

“It's free.”

“Not on the Upper East Side.”

That was true. There, a view east could cost thousands a month. Mrs. Bender lived on the fourth floor of an old, dilapidated walk-up. Her name was on the mailbox but there was no response to the bell. Not that it mattered; the inner door was unlocked. They climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell, which sounded loudly.

“Who's there?” The voice was loud and somewhat fearful.

“Detective Bauer, Mrs. Bender. We spoke on the phone the other day.”

The door was unlocked immediately. “Oh. Who are you?”

“Detective Defino.” He held up his ID as Jane was doing.

“Come in and sit down. I can feel safe awhile. I'm not sure I remember how it feels.”

The apartment was shedding paint and cracks lined the walls, but Irma Bender kept it clean and her furniture made it look almost upscale. They sat in the living room and Jane handed the woman the sketch.

“Oh yeah,” she said before she was asked. “I remember her. Tall, nice-looking girl. She was there all the time in Andy's apartment.”

“You mean she lived there?” Jane asked.

“No, I mean she came a lot. There was hanky-panky going on, if you know what I mean.”

“I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Bender,” Defino said. “Could you spell it out for us?”

“I think they had a, you know, a relationship.”

“Do you remember when she started coming around?”

“Not right away when he moved in. Maybe the last year he lived there. You know what? She started coming around the time his health got worse.”

“Tell me about that. How did his health change?”

“He didn't look so good. I brought him food, you know, a little of this, a little of that. I didn't want the poor thing to waste away. I would see the pizza box in front of his door. What kind of a diet is that, pizza all the time? You need some red meat if you're gonna make it in this world.”

“Did he stop going out?” Jane asked.

“Maybe he didn't go out as much. I wasn't there all the time, so I don't know what he did every minute of the day.”

“Did they go out together?”

She shrugged. “Not that I saw. You folks want a little coffee? I can make it in five minutes.”

Jane looked at Defino. He was the big coffee drinker.

“No thanks,” he said.

“So how do you like this dump I live in? I had such a nice apartment over on Tenth Street. The landlord said he was renovating, I nearly died. I had a lifetime of stuff to move and I knew I'd never find anything as good for that price. Even this place, as bad as it is, costs more than Tenth Street. They let those landlords get away with murder.”

“You remember the super on Tenth Street?” Jane asked, steering her back to the relevant topic.

“Larry? Yeah. I remember him. He's OK. He doesn't like to be bothered if it's not an emergency, but who does?”

“Was he friendly with Andy Stratton?”

“Could be. But I didn't see Larry in Andy's apartment too often.”

“Did you ever talk to this woman?” Jane asked, pointing to the sketch.

“I don't know. Maybe I said hello on the stairs.”

“Did you know her name?”

“How would I know that?”

Typically, the brash New York answer was a question. “Mrs. Bender, you said you brought food to Andy. Did you try to give him anything or just talk to him before he died?”

“Sure. I knocked on the door, I called, he didn't answer. Once—I remember now you asked—I left a little something wrapped in foil outside his door in case he was sleeping or out when I knocked and he didn't answer.”

“And?”

“It was there the next morning. I didn't want to leave it too long so I took it back. You know what food in the hallway can bring.”

Jane knew. She had been in enough buildings crawling with them.

“Did you see that woman during that time when he didn't answer the door?” Defino asked.

“How could I remember? You're asking about a long time ago. I saw her, I didn't see her. I saw him, I didn't see him. He looked good, he looked not so good. And then I smelled something and it made me sick to my stomach, not so much the smell but because I was afraid of what it meant.”

“Did you tell the police about this woman when they came around?”

“That's a good question. I told them he had friends, I told them about the pizza. If they had showed me a picture, I would have said, ‘Sure. She comes around a lot.' But there wasn't any picture, and you know, they didn't start asking questions until a long time after poor Andy died.”

When Mrs. C. started getting her back up.

“Thanks, Mrs. Bender,” Defino said.

“You hear of a good apartment that I can afford, you let me know, OK?”

Defino smiled. “I'll do that, ma'am.”

Out on the street they decided to show the sketch to Larry Vale. Defino liked the idea because they would disturb him during his emergencies-only period, thus disrupting his afternoon.

Vale called “Who is it?” from inside after they rang.

“Detectives Bauer and Defino,” Jane said. She was sure she could hear the hiss of an obscenity as he approached the door.

“What now?” he asked. “Haven't I answered enough questions?”

Jane handed him the sketch and watched his face. It paled noticeably. Vale seemed transfixed by the picture, his eyes glued to it.

“Who is she?” Jane asked.

It wasn't that cold out but a tremor ran across Vale's shoulders. He backed into the apartment, letting them enter. “Where did you get this?” he asked.

“We're asking the questions,” Defino said. “Detective Bauer asked you who this woman is.”

“I don't know her name.”

“But you know who she is.”

“Just from memory. I saw her once or twice before the renovation.”

“What was she doing here?”

“I don't know. I just recognize the face.”

“And it scared the shit out of you.”

“No, of course not.” Vale had recovered and reverted to his usual offensive demeanor. “It was just a shock seeing a face from so long ago. It's a very good likeness.”

“What was her relationship to Stratton?” Jane asked.

“To Andy? Did he know her?”

“Mr. Vale, this woman knew Andy Stratton. You know that and we know that. Now you tell us everything you know about their relationship.”

He handed the picture back to Jane but she said “Keep it,” and refused to take it. “Tell us what you know.”

“As I said, I didn't know her. I saw her once or twice. If she knew Andy, that's news to me. I don't know her name. I don't know why she was here. I just recognize the face.” He passed a hand through his hair. His color had returned as well as his composure.

“You saw her once or twice eight or nine years ago and you recognize her in that sketch? Come on, Vale, you can do better than that.”

“I can't. I've told you everything I know.” He put the sheet of paper on a chair. “Is that all? I have work to do.”

“We'll be back,” Defino promised.

“All we know for sure,” Jane said, looking across the desk to Graves, “is that Vale knew who she was and seeing that picture shook him up.”

Ellis McElroy had joined them in Graves's office and MacHovec was sitting quietly in a corner drinking coffee.

“It doesn't mean Vale killed Stratton,” she continued, “or that Erica Rinzler did. Something was going on, maybe drugs. Vale's not going to give an inch till we have something that scares him more than the sketch.”

“OK,” Graves said. “We're not pressed for time. Keep at it.” He turned to MacHovec. “Anything more on Rinzler?”

“Not right now.”

“Have a good weekend.”

11

J
ANE SLEPT A
little later Saturday morning, dressed, and had breakfast. She called her father, thinking she might go up and visit, and found him busy with Madeleine, his neighbor and friend. What she really wanted was to go to Alphabet City and do a little canvassing on her own. She liked Defino and she trusted him as much as she trusted Marty Hoagland, her last partner, but the truth was she enjoyed being alone. She would miss having someone to talk to, but the joy of walking down a street, turning left or right at a whim, would more than make up for it.

Saturday errands took the better part of an hour. She was carrying her smaller, five-shot Smith & Wesson Chief, an antique from her earlier police career, not that she could tell the difference in the weight. The crap she had to carry daily had left a permanent dent in her left shoulder where she carried the bag.

Before leaving the apartment, she pulled out MacHovec's list of the three people at Social Services who had been friends of Erica Rinzler. Just on a lark, she looked up the first name, Arthur Provenzano. It wasn't in the Manhattan book so she tried Brooklyn. The name appeared with an address in the Park Slope section and she decided to give it a try. He answered on the second ring.

“Mr. Provenzano? This is Detective Jane Bauer of the Cold Case Squad in Manhattan. You work for Social Services, is that correct?”

“That's correct. Is something wrong?”

“No, sir. I have your name as having been acquainted with Erica Rinzler.”

“Erica, yes. That was several years ago.”

“I'd like to talk to you about her.”

“I'm on my way out.”

“Could we meet somewhere or could I come to your home?”

He made little sounds of irritation. “I'm going to be in the city this afternoon. I'm meeting someone at two at the Museum of Modern Art.”

“Suppose I get there about twenty minutes before two. Would that work?”

“Yes, it could.”

“Inside the lobby on the right near the inner door to the gift shop.”

“Sounds like you know the museum.”

His voice echoed surprise. How would a dumb cop know anything about an art museum? “I know it well. I'll have my shield on my jacket.”

“See you then.”

Good, she thought. He hadn't said no, he hadn't denied knowing the Rinzler woman. Maybe he was a lead. She would take the subway up to the Fifties when she was through with Alphabet City.

Feeling in need of exercise, she decided to walk from her apartment in the West Village. It was almost due east and she began by picking up Waverly Place, which ran along the north side of Washington Square Park. At Fifth Avenue, she zigged north a block and walked through the Washington Mews, a beautifully preserved block of old stables converted into chic and very expensive living quarters. She felt the uneven cobblestone surface beneath her feet and wondered what the horses would think if they knew who the current occupants of their quarters had become.

She worked her way over to Seventh Street and continued east, passing McSorley's Old Ale House, which famously had managed not to serve women for over a hundred years, until a group of determined women entered in 1970 and caused a revolution. She had been there on several occasions and never quite understood what the fuss was about. The waiters were surly, as though they still resented the intrusion of the second-class citizens they now had to serve.

Seventh took her along the southern edge of Tompkins Square Park. She continued to the east corner and then went into the enclosed children's section, where several women sat talking with strollers at their feet. As it was Saturday, a number of young fathers were also in the park, assisting their children on the slides and swings and other paraphernalia that had been developed after Jane's childhood.

Aware that her mission bordered on futility, she went from mother to mother, offering each the sketch onto which she had clipped her card. Head after head shook to indicate lack of recognition.

“Hang on to it,” Jane said conversationally. “Maybe you have a neighbor who'll recognize her.”

“When was she here?” a woman asked.

“Eight or nine years ago.”

“I didn't even know my husband then.”

“I was living in Chicago,” another said.

“Ask around, OK? It's really important. We're looking into a questionable death.”

She tried the men with no better results. One of them looked at Rinzler for a long time, then shook his head. “Good-looking girl,” he said. But no dice.

She left the children's area and started through the main section of the park, immediately sensing a hostility that had been entirely missing among the people she had just questioned. They gave her charged looks and turned their heads away. She knew it was useless and decided not to make the effort. She had left a number of sketches and cards among people who might take her request seriously; that was enough for one morning.

She entered the lobby of the museum at one-thirty and pinned her shield and its leather case carefully to the lapel of her coat. No one near the gift shop entrance looked like her man, so she took a turn through the shop, wondering if she needed a calendar for her kitchen or study. A pack of notecards caught her eye and she bought them. The pictures were by Monet and projected a sense of serenity. She would use them to write to her daughter, Lisa. They had gotten along so well at the December meeting, she wanted to keep the good feelings flowing.

It was exactly one-forty when she slipped her change in her purse. The gold-and-blue enamel shield was visible on her unbuttoned jacket. She was still wearing the casual clothes she had put on in the morning for her walk to Alphabet City.

A thin, dark-haired man near the entrance to the gift shop was standing and looking around. She walked over and said, “Mr. Provenzano?”

“Oh, yes. Detective Bauer?”

“I see a couple of seats together over there. Shall we sit?”

“Sure.”

They crossed the lobby and sat. “I'm told you were a friend of Erica Rinzler.”

“I was. But I haven't seen her in years.”

“Why did she quit? Or was she fired?”

“It was a murky situation. I don't know the answer to your question, but Erica said she quit and that was good enough for me.”

“Any idea why she would do that?”

“Ah.” It was clear this was something he would rather not talk about. “There were rumors that she was falsifying records.”

“What kind of records?”

“Where she went, what clients she saw, what she did. People she was supposed to have visited called and said she never showed up, but the record showed she'd been there. I don't know what was going on. She's a smart woman. She knew her business. She got along with people. Then . . .”

That was what you waited for, the pause, the hesitation. She said, “What happened then?”

“Maybe it got to be too much for her. Maybe she had a nervous breakdown. Maybe she fell apart. Maybe she burned out. I don't know what happened, but she wasn't the kind of person who would do what they accused her of doing.”

“Did you have a relationship with her, Mr. Provenzano?”

“If you mean did we date, no. We went places together because we were friends. We talked at night sometimes, mostly about work, but also about city politics. You work for the city; you know what goes on.”

Jane smiled. “I do indeed. Go on.”

“That's it. We were friends.”

“How did you find out she was quitting?”

“I came to work one morning and she was clearing out her desk. I said, ‘Erica, what's going on?' She said, ‘Arthur, everything ends eventually. My career just ended.' ”

“That was it? No explanation?”

“Not at that point. I helped her pack a few things—she didn't keep much personal stuff in her office—and then she left. It was, I don't know how to put it, it was mind-boggling. One day she was an admired supervisor; the next she was leaving.”

“Did you talk to her after she quit?”

“I did, yes. I called her at home that night. As I said, we used to talk at night sometimes. She picked up the phone and said, ‘Arthur, I can't go into it. They're giving me my vacation pay and some accumulated days. I'm too young for a pension but there may be an arrangement where I can get it when I'm old enough.' ”

“How old was she?”

“Thirties. I'm not sure of the exact number. I'm forty-four now and I always thought she was a little younger than I, so she'd be forty-one or -two now.”

“Was that the last conversation you had with her?”

“I called her once more, maybe a week later, but her phone had been turned off. So yes, that was the last conversation. I never heard from her again.” The thought clearly distressed him. “I miss her, you know?” He looked Jane in the eye. “We were friends. If something went wrong in her job, that didn't have to mean our friendship was over.”

“I understand. Do you have any idea where she went?”

“No. I dropped over at her building on Thirty-sixth Street and they told me she had moved out.”

“How long was that after she quit?”

“I don't remember. It's years since this happened.”

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Was there a friend she could have moved in with? A family?”

“She talked about California. I guess everyone does, don't they?” He smiled sadly. “If she's there, I wouldn't have any idea where. She had a sister, you know.”

“Where did the sister live?”

“In one of the suburbs. I don't remember which one, but Erica used to visit. She had a niece, I think, maybe more than one.”

“Do you remember the sister's name?”

“Ah.” He bent his head. “Her first name was Judy. Erica used to talk about her. Judy did this, Judy said that. But her last name.” He looked toward the main door and his face brightened. “There's my friend.” He stood.

“Mr. Provenzano, it's really important, the sister's last name.”

He seemed agitated. “I really can't spend any more time at this.” He looked over toward the door and began to walk away.

“Mr. Provenzano, please. Try to think of the name.”

“Arturo,” a man said, approaching.

“Hold on just one minute, Frank.” Then, in a murmur, he said, “Judy, Judy.” He shook his head. “You know, it could be Weiss or Weissberg. And his name was Steven. Judy and Steve. She said that a lot. ‘I'm visiting Judy and Steve this weekend.' ”

“Think about where they lived,” Jane pressed, not wanting to let go while his brain was doing the right thing.

“Up the Hudson. She took the train. She would see the river. One of those upscale towns. What the hell was it called? Frank, you remember Erica Rinzler?”

“Yeah. She quit all of a sudden.”

“That's the one. Where did her sister live?”

“Chappaqua.”

“Yes.” Arthur Provenzano smiled. “That's it. She lived in Chappaqua. Is that it?”

“That's great. Thanks a lot. Enjoy the museum.”

That was a lucky break. Jane walked over to the Midtown North station house on Fifty-fourth Street and enlisted the aid of a detective with a computer. There was no Steven Weiss or Weissberg in Chappaqua, but there was a Weissman. She used the phone and called the number. No one answered. It was Saturday afternoon and they were probably doing family things together. Jane took the subway downtown, picked up a steak for dinner. There were baking potatoes in the refrigerator, a couple of fresh vegetables, and the makings of a salad. She would eat well tonight.

At five she tried the Weissman number again. This time a woman answered.

“Mrs. Weissman,” Jane said after she had identified herself, “I believe you're the sister of Erica Rinzler.”

“What is this about?” The voice sounded tense.

“Her name has come up in a police investigation. We'd like to talk to her.”

“That's impossible,” the woman said.

“I'm sorry?”

“You can't talk to Erica. It's too late. She's dead. My sister committed suicide several years ago.”