Murder in Greenwich Village (15 page)

25

CHARLEY FARRAR WAS expected at work at four. It was a good bet he was at home sleeping, preparing for a shift that would end at midnight. They picked up Smithson's car and drove to Brooklyn, using the tunnel. Smithson seemed to know his way around the borough.

“You ever work in Brooklyn?” he asked as they approached Prospect Park.

“Never. I've spent my career in Manhattan.”

“And glad of it.”

“You bet. I worked the Six for ten years. Now I live there.”

“And you work the city.”

“That's how it's turned out. The Six is in my blood. I see faces sometimes when I'm out walking and they look familiar. I just can't remember whether they're the good guys or the bad guys.”

Smithson laughed. “Probably not much difference.”

She had thought that herself, how slight the difference could be. “It was a lot of fun,” she said. “I had a great partner and we never stopped running.”

“You still friends?”

“Oh, yeah. We went up to Rodman's Neck together a couple of months ago.” Rodman's Neck was the range where cops learned to shoot and then continued their annual firearms qualification and tactics training.

“Reminds me.” He stopped for a light at a busy intersection. Women pushed strollers, old people hobbled on canes, building heights were low, store followed store followed store. “Should be around the corner.” The light changed and he turned right, moving slowly to check numbers on buildings. Everything here was old, prewar at the newest. Apartment houses alternated with groups of single- and two-family homes. Between them were narrow driveways that tested the skills of any driver who backed a late-twentieth-century car out of an early-twentieth-century driveway, built when cars were shorter and narrower.

“Must be in the next block,” he said. “These are all sixteen hundreds.” He crossed Quentin Road and parked in a space just vacated by a van.

They got out and walked half a block to a redbrick six-story building. An elderly tenant was leaving, and they got in without ringing the Farrars' bell. The elevator was new, indicating that the old one had died a permanent death. No landlord of a rent-controlled building would spring for a new elevator if not pressed to the wall.

A smell of cooking permeated the fifth-floor hallway, which was dark in spite of several bare ceiling lights.

“Pee-yew,” Smithson said, stressing the second syllable. “Glad I'm not married to her.”

Jane smiled. They stopped at 5D and Smithson pressed the bell. A sharp ring sounded inside.

“Who's there?” a woman called.

“We need to talk to Charley,” Jane called.

The door opened. A woman of about fifty looked at them. She was dressed in jeans and a gray shirt, no jewelry except for a gold ring on her left hand. “Who are you?”

They showed their shields. “Detectives Smithson and Bauer, Mrs. Farrar. May we come in?”

She backed up. “What's wrong? Is Charley hurt?”

“No, ma'am,” Jane said quickly. “We need to talk to him.”

“He left. I don't know where he is. You sure nothing's wrong?”

They walked into the living room, where a vacuum cleaner stood in front of the sofa. Mrs. Farrar moved it and sat.

“He's fine,” Smithson said. “We're just looking for him. When did he leave?”

“I don't remember. He got up, had breakfast, and said he had to go somewheres before he goes to work. He's working this afternoon at four.”

“Does he have a car?”

“Not anymore. We got rid of it a couple of years ago. If he has to drive somewhere, he borrows one from a friend.”

“What friend?”

“There's a gas station the other side of Kings Highway. Charley knows the owner—what's his name?” She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “Dante something. The place is called Dante's.”

“Did your husband borrow the car last week?” Jane asked.

She thought about it. “He didn't mention it, but he had a couple of days off, Thursday and Friday, I think. I didn't see him all day Thursday, and then on Friday he got a call and he went out with a friend. I don't think Charley had the car that day.”

“You know the friend's name?” Smithson asked.

“Charley has a lot of friends. He knows them from the TA. They're always going somewhere on a day off, having a beer. I couldn't tell you who it was. Why are you asking me?”

“We have some information we need to confirm,” Jane said. “You think Charley may have borrowed Dante's car on Thursday?”

“I think it was Thursday.”

That would fit. Jane and Defino had seen Carl Randolph on Wednesday morning, meaning that Charley Farrar had gotten the message from Rikers the night before or possibly even Wednesday afternoon, giving him time to get into the Second Avenue subway tunnel and retrieve the Beretta. After leaving the gun in Riverside Park and making certain it was found, Charley could then have borrowed the car and driven to the Catskills to tell Manelli what was happening. Manelli would have told Farrar as a matter of course where he would be that week. They kept in touch.

“Did Charley get a phone call Wednesday afternoon or night?”

“A phone call? Charley gets phone calls all the time. I told you. He has a lot of friends.”

“After the phone call, he would have left the house.”

“I'm not sure,” Mrs. Farrar said, her voice less certain. “He works odd hours and he could have been going to work.”

“Does your husband have a cell phone?” Smithson asked.

“He hates them. He had one once for a month and he got rid of it. This is his only phone.”

That squared with what Testa had said.

Jane glanced at Smithson, then said, “Thank you, Mrs. Farrar.”

“What should I tell Charley?”

“I wouldn't tell him anything if I were you.”

“Why?”

“You want him to come home tonight? Keep quiet about our visit.”

They went down to the car. The next chance to find Farrar would be when he showed up for work, several hours later.

“So what's next?” Smithson said.

“Let's go back to Manhattan. Maybe we can find Manelli's girlfriend and have a heart-to-heart. She has to know that she's never seeing Manelli again outside of prison. If she knows something, she can help herself.”

“Your call. Where do we go?”

“Let me try Macy's and see when she's working.” She managed to get the information without talking to anyone in the handbag department who might tip Judy Franklin off. Judy was working all day today.

“We'll have to get rid of the car,” Jane said as Smithson took off. “I wouldn't try to park near Macy's if you want to see your car in one piece again.”

“I know a place.”

She smiled. There were cops who always knew a place.

Back in Manhattan, Smithson drove up the West Side on the highway that wasn't, the old West Side Highway having almost fallen down when Jane was a child. The elevated structure had been removed from the Battery Tunnel up to Fifty-ninth Street and replaced with a street-level low-speed substitute with traffic lights. He turned right in the Thirties and parked in a garage where he got a hearty welcome, probably, Jane thought, because of favors he had given in the past. From there they walked to the western end of Macy's and worked their way to the handbag department.

Jane let him go ahead, as Judy Franklin had never seen him and would not be anticipating trouble. From a distance, Jane watched as he smiled and talked his way over to her, then let her know who he was. Jane could see her face collapse as she realized she'd been had.

Smithson walked her over to Jane.

“What do you want from me?” Judy said. “My lawyer doesn't want me to talk to you. I haven't seen Sal. I don't know where he is. I'm working and I can't take time off.”

“We want to tell you something,” Jane said quietly.

“Not here where people can see. I'll lose my job if they find out about you.”

“We can go outside.”

They made their way to the Herald Square exit, stood in front of a display window, and Smithson lit up. Judy said nothing.

“Your boyfriend's in big trouble,” Jane said.

“I told you. I haven't heard from him.”

“Really big trouble. Kidnapping a cop is not the way to go when you report to a parole officer.”

Judy remained silent but her eyes misted.

“You are never going to see Sal again outside of prison.”

“He didn't do anything,” Judy wailed.

“He kidnapped a cop.”

“They found him, right? The cop? I watched the news last night.”

“No thanks to Sal. If you know where Sal is and you tell us, things'll go a lot better for you.”

“I didn't
do
anything. You know I didn't. I was with you, for God's sake. You know that. They were gone when we got back to the apartment.”

“Judy, when we find him, we are going to prosecute him for the kidnapping and assault of a policeman. That's not eighteen months like his last bit.”

“I don't know where he is,” Judy said in a low voice. “You have to believe me. Sal hasn't called since that day. Nobody's called. If I knew where he was . . .” She looked distraught, but she didn't finish the sentence.

“I want names and addresses of his friends.”

Judy shook her head. “I don't know them. He talks on the phone to people, but I don't know who they are. Sal's a real family man. He likes to have a hot meal and sit with his feet up. We go to a movie sometimes. We don't go out with his friends.”

“We heard he had a friend named Charley,” Smithson interjected.

“Charley. Maybe I've heard him on the phone with a Charley, but I've never met him.”

“Who comes to the apartment?” Jane asked.

“Now and then some guy.”

“What guy?” Smithson said, sounding annoyed.

Judy shrugged. “They come to the door, Sal goes out with them. They don't hang around the apartment. It's not a cocktails-and-snacks visit.”

“Sal know anybody who works for the Transit Authority?” Jane said, her final question.

“I wouldn't know.”

“Think about it. Think hard.” Jane handed her her card.

“I have one of those.”

“Here's another one. Put it where you'll see it. It may remind you of what you have to do.” Jane turned and walked away, Smithson just behind her.

“What do you think? She holding back?”

“I don't know. I hope we can break Charley Farrar.”

They went back and got the car—“No charge, Detective. Come back and see us soon.”—and drove to Centre Street for lunch and a few hours of waiting before going down to where Charley worked.

“Preliminary report from the crime scene guys,” MacHovec said when they got back after lunch. “They got nothing. That is, they got a lot but it doesn't mean much. That van's been used to transport so many things, the list's half a mile long. Fur—”

“The furrier Testa worked for borrowed it last Friday. He may have had some coats moved,” Jane said.

“Sounds like good stuff, mink and maybe sable. But no blood. Van looked like it had been washed down before it was left on the street. But they're still looking. Something may turn up, you know, Locard's Exchange Principle.” He was referring to the French criminologist Émile Locard, who said that any person passing through a space will unknowingly leave something there and take something away, essentially the basis of crime scene work.

“We've got Defino. He knows he was in the van.”

“I guess you didn't bump into Farrar.”

“His wife said he went out this morning,” Smithson said. “We'll head over to the TA this afternoon, see if he shows up for his shift.”

“Not if his wife tells him we were there,” Jane said.

“He doesn't sound like the kind of guy that rings his wife every time he's got a free minute.”

“Let's hope.”

Defino had called in the morning and Jane called him back. He was itching to leave the hospital—no surprise there. The broken rib hurt him and affected his ability to walk. But he was feeling much better and wanted to hear about the case. Jane briefed him.

“This guy we're hoping to get hold of this afternoon works for the TA,” she told Defino.

“So you could close this soon,” Defino said with a hint of regret.

“Nothing goes smoothly, Gordon.”

“They find anything in that van?”

“Fur and a lot of other things, but nothing important so far. Hold on.” She turned to MacHovec, who was butting in. “What's up?”

“We got it, the phone call from Rikers. Look at this.” He underlined something in red and passed the paper over.

“Is that Farrar's number?”

“You bet.”

“Gordon, listen to this.”

It was good news, even though they couldn't prove that Randolph was involved in the phone call. Charley Farrar had received a call from Rikers the day Jane and Defino had talked to Randolph. She let Defino know, feeling good. Their theory was right. Farrar had been a key person in the Micah Anthony killing and had avoided being in the crib that night, by plan or by lucky accident. This time they would get him. This time they would make him talk.

26

THEY ARRIVED AT Farrar's station, Canal Street on the A line, at three. Smithson hung around the area where the workers punched in. Jane made herself scarce, not wanting to stand out as a woman in a crowd of men. They had no photos of Farrar, but they snagged a TA supervisor to identify him when he walked in. He would change his clothes before beginning his tour and change them back afterward. After Jane's two hikes into the underworld, she understood why. Remembering those walks on the tracks gave her a chill.

At four she got nervous. At four fifteen she called Farrar's wife.

“I haven't heard from Charley since you were here.”

“If you're holding back, Mrs. Farrar, you'll—”

“I told you the truth. He left this morning before you came and I haven't seen him since. Or heard from him. And now you've got me scared.”

They could check the calls to her phone, but that might not yield anything besides a pay phone number if she were lying. Jane made her way to where Smithson and the supervisor were observing incoming workers. She didn't have to ask.

“Looks like he got the word,” Smithson said.

“He's got a good record for punctuality,” the supervisor said. “And I checked. He didn't call in. He's called in for the last few days. Today he was supposed to come back.”

“You know who his friends are?” Jane asked.

“I don't get involved in personal lives. Farrar's a good worker, a maintainer. He walks the tracks looking for problems. Got a lot of years and a good record. I can't help you any more than that.”

“Let's give it more time,” Jane said.

They stayed till five. Jane called McElroy and said they were giving up.

“You think it was the wife?” he asked.

“Could be. Randolph doesn't know what we're doing.

Manelli's out of the loop now. I believe Judy Franklin doesn't know Manelli's friends. He would keep her out of it. Farrar's never seen us, so he couldn't have made Smithson, and I kept out of sight.”

“OK. You did what you had to. It's after five. I'll have Annie sign you out. Go home.”

“Thanks, boss.”

She sent Smithson on his way and took the subway home, since she was already in a station. In the Village, she picked up dinner at a takeout, not in the mood to cook and clean up. After she had eaten, Flora Hamburg called.

“How's your partner?”

“He's doing fine. They won't let him back for a while. That rib has to heal, and he'll have to go through all the crap I went through in December. But he's in good spirits.”

“You did good, Jane.”

“You know the drill, Flora. We all did good.”

“You sound tired.”

“Not tired, discouraged. We had a guy in our sights and we lost him. Someone tipped him off, probably his wife. We'll never find him now. He's the second guy we've lost, and this one was key. He knows something we have to know, and there's no one else.”

“What about the guy in Rikers?”

“I don't think he knows. I think this guy today was the crucial link. He may even be the one who shot Micah Anthony.”

“No fooling.” The wily inspector sounded genuinely impressed.

“But he reported to someone else, and without him, there's no link.”

“Listen, I'm close by. You up for company?”

Why not? “Sure. I've already eaten and I'm just lying around thinking about how we could've avoided screwing up.”

“I'll be there in five. Make coffee.”

Jane went to the bathroom and removed Hack's toothbrush, then pushed the hangers with his jeans and shirts to the back of the closet. Not that Flora would conduct a search; she had visited before and looked the apartment over, but just to make sure.

It was more like ten minutes till the bell rang. Jane flicked on the coffeemaker, buzzed her in, and opened the door to the hallway, listening for the elevator. Flora wouldn't walk. Hack walked unless the lobby was clear. Flora was of indeterminate age, but not young, overweight, and carried her belongings in a shopping bag. After years of wondering, Jane had finally decided she did it to annoy her colleagues, not because she disliked handbags. Her gun flapped on her hip and never moved from that position.

The elevator door opened, and Flora stepped into the hall and waved. “Good to see you,” she called, a slight echo preceding her. At the door, she gave Jane a motherly hug and they went inside. “I stopped at a bakery.”

“You'll be my downfall.”

“Well, I was instrumental in your rise; now we'll even things out.”

“What are you doing in the Village?” They went into the kitchen and Jane poured.

“Having dinner with an up-and-coming young sergeant.”

Jane smiled. “She gonna be commissioner someday?”

“Maybe. I think she's got what it takes. Except that male appendage that counts for more than brains. Good coffee.”

“And dessert. How did you know I loved cannoli?”

“You must have told me. I love them too. Can we talk?”

“I thought that's what we were doing.”

“Seriously. I'm thinking of retiring.”

The word hit Jane like a blow. “Flora.”

“I'm not young anymore.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“My knee hurts when I walk. I don't talk about it but I feel it.”

“It'll hurt just as much if you're home.”

“Probably more. You mind if I smoke?”

“I'll get you an ashtray.”

“Thanks, Jane.” Flora lit a cigarette and took a couple of drags before continuing. “I didn't say I was retiring. I just said I was thinking about it.”

“Your health OK besides the knee?”

“Pretty good. These things'll get me someday.” She held up the cigarette before flicking off the ash. “I'm glad you never started.”

“Flora, when you think about retiring, give a thought to the people on the job who will vote against it. Like the young sergeant you just had dinner with.”

“I know. You women are my pride and my burden. Well, I didn't come here to talk about myself.”

Jane refilled both their cups. “What can I do for you?” “You have twenty years and you're a first grade. It's time you took the sergeant's exam.”

“We've talked about this. I don't want to study. I'm not an administrator. I want to work. It's what I do best.”

“And you don't want to be chief of D's.”

“Never. Besides, I'm too old to go through the ranks.”

“I think it would be good for you to study, keep that brain of yours working.”

“I read, Flora. That keeps my brain going.”

“With me, every test I passed boosted my ego. I loved moving up. I loved the power, if you want to know the truth. With rank I could accomplish more. I could get in more people's faces.”

It was an old story. Flora was forever pressuring her women to do more, achieve more, rise in the ranks. Jane suspected Hack would be pleased if she took the sergeant's exam, but Hack's career and hers had diverged near their starts, reflecting their different goals—Hack's closer to Flora's.

“You know I'm not interested in rank. I get my highs figuring things out, not doing paperwork.”

Flora exhaled, clouding the air between them. “It's not all pushing paper.”

“I know that. Look, I'm first grade. I know that's the end of the line, but I never thought I'd make it. And this cold case stuff has turned out to be much more challenging than I thought it would. Making sergeant would mean a pay cut.”

“I withdraw.”

“You're annoyed.”

“I just think you could do more. Let's change the subject.” She looked down at the table. “You didn't fill in those bullet holes.”

“I'm not going to.”

“They're not a happy reminder.”

“They remind me I'm alive. There are nights I need a little prodding.”

Flora laughed. “I know the feeling. Make me a fire and when I'm nice and warm, I'll leave you to your bullet holes and your case.”

They moved to the living room. Jane had already laid a fire. Now she lit it, hoping it would not embarrass her. Fires were undependable, sort of like most of the men who had been in her life. You went through the process each time and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't.

This time it worked. The flame flared, the starter caught, and the logs began to burn. She sat back with pleasure, watching.

“You're a real master at that,” Flora said approvingly. “I've never learned the trick. Not that I've tried many times.”

“It's your rank, Flora. When you're an inspector, you're expected to have a sergeant light your fires for you.”

“Touché. I won't mention it again.”

Jane gave her a disbelieving glance. “That'll be the day.”

Flora raised her eyebrows. “Enough chitchat. Tell me about the Anthony case.”

“It's in big trouble. We lost our best suspect today. His wife probably warned him off. He wasn't where he should have been this afternoon, and we don't have a clue where to look.”

“Today you don't have a clue. Tomorrow you'll have seven. Who is this guy?”

“A TA worker, a track maintenance man. He's the guy that wasn't in the crib when they arrested the three that stood trial.”

“There was a fourth man involved?”

“And a fifth, the brains. This guy knew him, maybe the only one of the four who did.”

“You've come a long way, Jane.”

“Not far enough. Shit, we were this close.” She held her thumb and index finger an eighth of an inch apart. “We were waiting for him and he didn't show up for work at four. He'd been taking days off, one at a time, when they were trying to figure out what to do with my partner. Today he was going back to work.”

“I would guess you had the place in Rockaway covered.”

“Solid.” She got up and nudged the fire, renewing the flames.

“You do that like a pro,” Flora said.

“My next career, lighting fires.”

“You've been doing that for twenty years.”

“This is a big case, Flora.” She put the poker back on its stand and returned to her chair.

“And you can't discuss it. Well, Medal Day's coming up. I bet your father can't wait.”

“He's buying a new summer suit for the occasion.”

“A suit! Who wears a suit in New York in the summer anymore?” Her voice rose and fell in an old New York cadence.

“John Bauer.”

“Well, God bless him.” Flora shook her head in disbelief and perhaps some admiration. As she began to add another comment, the phone rang.

It was McElroy. “Hi, Loot.”

“Got some bad news.”

“Farrar?”

“One and the same. His body was found near a siding about an hour ago. He'd been dead for a while, maybe since this morning. Whoever did it made sure his body was away from the track.”

“A transit cop,” Jane said miserably.

“Could be.”

“And he was the link. We were just one day too late.”

“Not your fault. I'll give Smithson a call. You can tell Defino. Have you told him about the guns?”

“Nobody.”

“Keep it that way.”

“Lost your guy?” Flora said.

“Yeah, our missing link, the only one who could lead us to the top guy. They just found his body.” She sat down in the living room, trying to think where to go next.

“Sleep on it, Jane.” Flora raised herself from the sofa and retrieved her shopping bag.

Jane got her coat out of the closet and helped her on with it. “Don't agitate yourself.”

“This guy has lived ten years too long. I want him.”

“We all want him.”

When Flora had left, Jane called Defino and gave him the news. Smithson called a little while later.

“I need some inspiration,” Jane told him.

“That makes two of us.”

“I'll see you in the morning. I'm all talked out.”

She washed the dishes and poked the fire. That was depressing news, their one lead gone. Whoever the TA cop was, he was free as a bird now, safe and secure. Neither Randolph nor Manelli could finger him. She wondered what Graves would do about the guns in the Second Avenue subway.

They had traded war stories, she and Hack, after the relationship became firm. They were, after all, cops, and they had lots of stories. But their careers had been so different, they could have worked at different jobs. He had made detective much earlier than she, and then with his law degree and his appointment as sergeant, his life on the job became largely political. He worked with cops. Jane worked with crime, with criminals. His tales were of cops in trouble, cops trying to move up in a system that was often hostile, cops dying; hers were of collars cleverly orchestrated, of close calls and near misses, of panic and fear and, occasionally, laughter. And of cops dying.

He didn't use the
L
word for weeks, maybe more than a month; she couldn't remember now. It happened the first night he brought ice cream, as though a connection existed between love and sweet food, and maybe it did. What it meant for Jane was that she would always think of love when she ate ice cream, not a stretch, really, as almost all the ice cream in her life was eaten with Hack.

About a year into the relationship, he told her he wanted to leave his wife and marry her. He had alluded in the past to their being together on a permanent basis, but that night he laid it out. He would give his wife the house and he would put his daughters through college. He was a captain now and he could manage it.

“I just want to be with you,” he said when the plan was on the table.

She was sitting next to him on the sofa, nestled against him, his left arm around her. Feelings of comfort, love, and security enveloped them. They had eaten, left the dishes, and moved to the living room because he wanted to talk. Listening to him she felt a conflict so sharp, so severe, that for a moment she could not find her voice.