Murder in Alphabet City (9 page)

12

I
T HITS YOU
like a thunderbolt. There's something there. There's a case. Maybe Anderson Stratton starved to death because he stopped eating and maybe someone saw to it that he died, but here was a suspicious death, a voice in her ear using the word
suicide.

“Mrs. Weissman, I am looking into the death of a man your sister knew. I didn't know she had died. I'm sorry for your loss. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Not now I can't. It's five o'clock and I have to feed my kids. My husband and I are going out tonight. And I don't want to do this over the phone. I want to see you and see some identification. I want information from you.”

“That's no problem. Tell me what will be convenient for you.”

They arranged for the next day at eleven. Judy Weissman gave her precise instructions on trains and schedules. Then Jane called Lieutenant McElroy.

“So Mrs. Constantine may have been right. Looks like you got yourself a case.”

“I'm taking the train up to Chappaqua tomorrow morning to talk to her. I just wanted to keep you informed.”

“Good. We'll talk Monday morning.”

She called Defino because she knew he would want to know. From the upbeat sound of his voice, she sensed he appreciated the call. MacHovec would not appreciate it. When MacHovec left Centre Street, he cut the cord that linked him to the job. On Monday morning he would reestablish it. He was a different kind of cop.

The next morning, Sunday, she took the train from Grand Central Terminal, watching the scenery go by most of the way. She had a book with her but she didn't read much. She had a lot to think about.

Before leaving the apartment, she had checked her voice mail at the office. Mrs. Constantine had returned her Friday call after Jane had left for the weekend, but it was too early to call before she left to catch the train.

At the Chappaqua station she looked for the maroon SUV that Mrs. Weissman had described and found it easily. Not many people were traveling this morning. Jane took out her shield and photo ID and made them visible as she approached the woman.

“Detective Bauer?”

“Yes. Good morning.”

“I'm Judy Weissman. Let's drive somewhere. I don't want to have this conversation in my home. My kids are there and they don't know the story.”

“This is a lovely town,” Jane said as they left the station.

“And the schools are good. We wouldn't be here if not for the schools.”

She parked on a picturesque street with little shops, people walking dogs, and a small restaurant two doors down the block. Inside they took a table for two near enough to the fireplace that Jane could feel the heat. They both ordered coffee.

While they waited, Jane explained that there had been a death in New York several years ago, a client of Erica Rinzler's. “There's been a controversy about the cause of the man's death,” she explained. “As he was your sister's client in the Social Service system, we thought it might be productive to talk to her.” She heard herself using the kinds of words and phrases that tended to irritate her when she was on the receiving end. But she had to be careful not to give away anything that might keep this woman from telling what she knew about Erica Rinzler.

“When I called you,” Jane said, “I was hoping you could give me an address and phone number for your sister so we could talk to her. After what you told me, I'd like to hear the circumstances of her death.”

“It wasn't long after she quit her job. She called me when that happened and said she'd have to give up the apartment because she didn't know when she'd get work and the rent would drain her savings. I told her to stay with us for a while. I felt she didn't really want to, but she put her furniture in storage and came up here.”

“Did she look for another job?”

“She seemed somehow preoccupied, as though her mind were elsewhere. She never really talked about the circumstances of her leaving her job. I sensed she left under a cloud but I didn't want to ask. We were close, but still, I didn't want to intrude.”

“What did she do while she was living with you?”

“I will say she went through the listings in the
Times
on Sunday and followed up on a lot of them. We had just gotten a fax machine and she sent her résumé so it would be there Monday morning when the office opened. She got some calls and she went into the city for interviews, but nothing worked out.”

“Was she depressed?”

“I guess you could say she was unhappy. She had warned me she would have trouble finding a good job, but she never said why. I suppose if she was fired, she wouldn't be able to get a good reference, and after working for the city for so many years, that reference would be very important.”

“I would think so. Did she tell you she was fired?”

“She said she quit. She said she walked in one morning and there was a problem and it was the straw that broke her back. She had a pile of complaints about the office, the people she worked with, the clients—it went on and on. I just assumed she burned herself out.”

“Where did she sleep in your house?”

“We have a guest room.”

“You said she stored her furniture.”

“It was in a place in Queens. She came to us with just a couple of suitcases, clothes mostly.”

“Did she eat well? Did she participate in family conversations?”

“She was fine. You're asking to see how unhappy she was. If I had thought she was dangerously depressed, I can assure you, I would have insisted she see someone. She was good with my kids. She loved them and it was mutual. She was the aunt who came and gave them a good time. When she died, I made up a story. They were young, in grade school. I couldn't tell them the truth.” She motioned to the waitress and asked for refills. “Would you like a roll or a piece of pastry?”

“No thanks.”

She was an attractive woman and Jane could see the resemblance between this woman and the sketch of Erica Rinzler. Judy Weissman was wearing black wool slacks and a gorgeous sweater with shades of rose and purple over a collared pink shirt. “Before we go any further, I'd like you to tell me what you wanted to talk to Erica about.”

“A man's body was found in his apartment in lower Manhattan about eight years ago. According to the medical examiner, he starved to death. He had mental problems so it was assumed his death was accidental. A member of his family thought his death might have been murder and we reopened the investigation. We learned that the deceased was a client of your sister. That's why we wanted to talk to her.”

“I see. So she could help you research your case.”

“Exactly. Did she ever mention any of her clients to you?”

“Hm.” Judy Weissman sipped her coffee. “Not really. She would tell my kids about the poor people she worked with, how she was trying to help them get on their feet. But she never mentioned names. She was very discreet, very professional. I wish I knew what went wrong at her job.”

“I'd like to know that myself,” Jane said. “Are you able to tell me about her death?”

“I know very little about it. A few weeks after Erica came to us, she took the train into New York. She said she had an interview for a job and she might meet a friend for lunch. She said not to wait dinner for her. I never saw her again.” Judy Weissman's eyes were wet.

“Where was she found?”

“In a seedy hotel on the west side of Manhattan, Fifty-fourth Street.”

“How had she died?”

“A gunshot to the head.” Her voice almost broke.

“Your sister owned a gun?”

“Apparently. I knew nothing about it.”

“Did she leave a note?”

She shook her head.

“Did you find that strange?”

“I found the whole thing strange. I found it unbelievable. Why would she do such a thing? She'd had good interviews and she was looking in new areas for work. She could have gotten something that would have given her an income and tided her over till she found something better. No one even suggested that she should leave us. She was my sister. I wanted her alive. She was young. She had most of her life ahead of her. I just don't know why she did it.”

“Mrs. Weissman, did she have files or records of any sort from her job?”

“I have a box of papers. After she died, I kept some of her things and sold most of the furniture. My children and I were her heirs. Our parents were gone. I've been through everything and there wasn't a clue anywhere to why she killed herself.”

“May I see the papers?”

The woman nodded. “Come to the house with me. I'll give them to you.”

“Thank you. I'll give you a receipt for whatever I take and I promise you'll get it all back.”

“Maybe you'll find out why Erica took her life.”

“That's possible.” It was more than possible. This suicide, or apparent suicide to be precise, would almost surely become part of the investigation into Stratton's death. “There are two questions I need to ask you. One is, did anyone ever call your sister Bee-Bee?”

The surprise on Mrs. Weissman's face was genuine. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Someone described a woman, perhaps a caseworker from Social Services, as being called Bee-Bee. I gather that was a nickname for your sister.”

“It was. When she was born, my mother had a private nurse to help out for a couple of weeks. I don't know where the woman was from but she refused to call my sister Erica. She called her ‘Baby' but with her accent, it came out Bee-Bee. I loved that and I called her that all her life.”

“And other people must have too.”

“They did. Erica never liked her name that much—I don't know why; it's a perfectly fine name—and outside of work she often told people to call her Bee-Bee.”

“One other thing: Someone found some beads in the apartment of your sister's client after he died. I'd like to show them to you.” Jane took out the small plastic bag and set it on the table.

“Oh my,” Judy Weissman said, her voice catching. She picked up the bag and looked at the tiny beads. “These could be . . . I'm almost sure these were Sandy's, my daughter's. She gave them to my sister. Erica wore them frequently. At least, she usually wore them when she visited. Sandy was thrilled. She had been afraid they were too small for Erica. My sister loved beads and wore strings of them every day, but most of them were much larger than these. Is this all there are?”

“There are a few more, perhaps ten or fifteen altogether. We assumed the string broke while the wearer was in the apartment of the deceased, and before she was able to save them, several fell to the floor and rolled into a corner behind a bookcase. The floor had a slight slant.”

Judy Weissman fingered the beads through the plastic. “I never thought I'd see these again.”

Jane retrieved the bag and dropped it in her handbag. “Why don't we go to your house so I can get that carton of papers?” She took out her wallet to pay for the coffee but Judy Weissman had flagged the waitress and handed her a bill.

The house was on a picture-perfect street with well-cared-for trees and lawns. Large cars and a few small ones sat on driveways, a couple of women pushed strollers, stopped and chatted in the middle of the street, moved out of the way for the Weissman SUV, and waved. The house was a traditional colonial with fancy embellishments, a porchlike structure over the front door to shield against inclement weather, a double front door with small stained-glass windows, and several chimneys indicating fireplaces inside.

They went through the garage, Mrs. Weissman warning Jane that there would be no discussion of Erica with the children. In fact, only the son was visible as he closed the refrigerator, said a quick “Hi,” and dashed to the stairs. Steven Weissman carried the carton up from the basement to the kitchen where Jane glanced quickly through the contents, spying a tax return, an appointment calendar, and some letters. She wrote a receipt for the Weissmans and Steven took the box out to the car.

“You're looking into my sister-in-law's death?” he asked after he had shoved the box on the backseat.

“That wasn't our original mission, but we may have to. Anything you want to tell me?”

“I don't think she killed herself. I saw her every day she was here and that was a few weeks. If she was suicidal, then I'm not much of a judge of human nature.”

His wife seemed troubled by his statement, but she said nothing.

“I'd like to ask you one last question,” Jane said. “Erica's funeral. Who attended? I talked to a friend of hers yesterday and I don't think he knows she's dead.”

Steven Weissman watched as his wife answered. “Very few people came. We notified almost no one. It was just Steve and me, a rabbi, and a couple of friends.”

“Thank you both for your help. We'll keep you informed.” Jane handed her card to Judy. Then she climbed into the SUV and Judy drove her to the station.

She spent what was left of the day and evening sorting the contents of the box. She was aware that what was here had been culled from a larger amount of documents. Anything that the Weissmans thought might be important enough to save or personal or even incriminating would have been removed years ago and locked away or destroyed.

The tax return, which had caught her eye first, was the last one Erica had made out, and she had done it without the help of a professional. That didn't surprise Jane. Erica, like Jane, was a salaried worker whose taxes were automatically withheld, along with Social Security and a few other things, from each paycheck. According to the return, she had modest interest from bank accounts and she owned stock in a few companies with well-known names and one that Jane had never heard of. The return was simple and anyone with basic arithmetic and a little time to devote to it could figure it out.