Murder in Greenwich Village (16 page)

“Something wrong?” he asked easily.

“Your daughters need you. You shouldn't leave them, Hack. They're early teens. It's so important for them to grow up with a father in the house.” She had told him that she was adopted but hadn't said anything about the child she had given up. Even a dozen years later, it was hard to talk about.

“They'll have me. I'm not going to the end of the world. I love you, Jane. It's hell waking up without you every day.”

“I know. But their lives are important too, maybe more important than ours.”

“Do we have a problem?”

“No!”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure. You know I'm sure.” She hadn't looked at another man since the first time they'd had a drink together. She started unbuttoning his shirt.

“We'll talk about it again.”

“OK.”

He stayed longer that night, and he smoked more. She found herself feeling terrible. She had disappointed him. And she had disappointed and confused herself. Her reaction to his proposal had been double-sided: profound happiness that he loved her so much, and absolute certainty that she did not want to marry.

She wasn't sure why. His relationship with his daughters was certainly part of it, but the stuff that made her who she was was at least half of it. It wasn't fear of commitment; she was committed to him. It was something about a togetherness that went on without break. What he wanted, to wake up next to her each morning, scared her. She had a need to spend time alone, to talk out loud to herself if she had something to say, to take off down a street if the mood struck her, to eat when she felt hungry and sleep when fatigue hit her, even in the middle of the day. All of that said, or reflected, she wanted him forever. It crossed her mind that if she maintained this stance, however, she might lose him.

Perversely, she found she could understand him better than she could understand herself. Her parents would love to see her married, and they would somehow get over the fact that he had had to leave a wife to become their daughter's husband. She wished she could explain what made her the way she was. Was it knowing she was adopted? Was it giving up that baby girl she had seen only once?

Whatever, she thought, pushing away shadows, moving a large log out of the center of the dying fire. Charley Farrar was dead and the man who had killed him was on the loose, maybe for the rest of his life. The man, she thought, who had ordered the death of Micah Anthony.

27

IT WAS NOT a happy Friday morning. MacHovec, who didn't like to think about work after he left Centre Street, got the word when he sat down with his coffee. He had hardly uttered his four-letter comment when Annie placed herself in their doorway.

“The inspector's office, Detectives.
Now
.”

“She taking over for McElroy?” MacHovec growled in a low voice as she left.

“Save it,” Jane said.

“You've all heard the news,” Graves said before they had finished sitting down. “This puts us in a tight spot. I think we go back to Randolph now and squeeze him. Offer him a better deal, get him sprung, whatever it takes to get him talking.”

Jane shook her head absently. “You have a better idea, Detective Bauer?”

“Randolph doesn't know Farrar's contact. They worked it so only Farrar knew him. The other three may have known there was a cop at the top—Curtis Morgan knew it—but that's all they knew.”

“But they knew Farrar.”

“We've established that. Manelli knew him. Curtis Morgan had to know him because Morgan told his brother there was a cop at the top. Randolph had Farrar's phone number, but I'll bet he rarely used it.”

“Till you and Defino went to visit him,” Smithson said.

“Detective Smithson, your group looked into Manelli's life from birth to last week. You come up with anything we can run with?”

“Sorry, sir. Manelli's friends were a bunch of dirtbags, but there's no indication they were in on the Anthony hit. And he kept them separate from the woman he lived with.”

“Has anyone talked to her recently?” Graves's eyes swept the room.

“We did, yesterday morning,” Jane said.

“Do I have a Five on that?” Graves was sounding more like an irritable boss than a smooth-talking TV head.

“On my desk.” Defino had taken care of typing the Fives. She had done that one while they were watching the clock before going after Farrar.

“I want it on
my desk.
”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did she say?”

“Manelli had friends. They called, they came over and picked him up, but they never stayed. Or he went out to meet them. She didn't know them. She thought maybe he had a friend named Charley.”

“Joe Riso,” Graves said, pulling out the last name Jane could think of. “Is it worth going back with some tough questions? Or bringing him in?”

“I think he told us all he's going to, maybe all he knows,” Smithson said.

“That leaves us with no one.” Graves looked at MacHovec. “You got any ideas?”

“Manelli's a dead end, Morgan's a dead end. I've been looking into Charley Farrar's work record.”

“OK,” Graves said with a note of hope.

“It doesn't appear to have been tampered with. He looks to have a pretty clean record. I've got names of supervisors going back twenty years.”

“He ever work on the Second Avenue subway?”

“I haven't gotten back that far. And he could've met Morgan somewhere else in the system. It's hard to pinpoint it, since Morgan's got no history.”

“OK, Detectives, that's where you pick up the case.” Graves put down the pen he had been holding. “Any questions?” It was clear he didn't want any. “Then get cracking.”

They got up and Jane hung behind as the men left. When they were gone, she closed Graves's door. “Smithson doesn't know about the guns.”

“Right. That slipped my mind. I mentioned the Second Avenue subway, didn't I? Tell you what, brief him. We can't have him working on a case he isn't fully informed about.”

“Thanks, Inspector. Are you leaving the guard there?”

“With Farrar gone, I think we'll pull them. I'm talking to the chief of D in half an hour. We'll work something out.”

In the office, with the door closed, she and MacHovec told Smithson the story.

He whistled at the revelation of the guns in the subway. “How'd you find them?”

“That's my secret.”

“
You
found them?”

“With someone I know who has access. We knew roughly where Curtis Morgan had worked and we looked in likely places. I wasn't looking for them; I was looking for my partner.”

“Some find.”

Jane took the Fives she had completed yesterday and dropped them in Graves's in box while MacHovec dug up Farrar's work history. He pulled the names of supervisors going back to the beginning of Farrar's career. The work assignments were similar, just in different locations. He had worked Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens, and he had lived in Brooklyn for over thirty years at the address Jane and Smithson had visited the day before.

“OK, here's the connection,” MacHovec said. “Farrar worked on the Second Avenue subway at least part of the time Curtis Morgan did.” He had two sheets side by side on his desk, the one on the left a printout, the one on the right handwritten notes, which had to be information Jane had gotten on Morgan. “Doesn't look like he worked there a long time, but you only need a day to meet a guy.”

“That was about twenty years before the Micah Anthony killing,” Jane said. “They could have met and stayed friends, or they could have been assigned the same location again later.”

“Hard to tell without Morgan's record. I would guess these guys run into each other from time to time. Cops do. You think his wife remembers where he worked?”

“She gave me the Lex and the Second Avenue subway. I'll give her a call.” Jane dialed the number.

“Detective, I don't have the time, and I'm sitting with all of these people around,” Emma Morgan said.

“A couple of quick questions, Mrs. Morgan.” She asked about locations and took notes as the woman spoke.

“Did your husband know a track maintenance man named Charley Farrar?”

A phone rang in the background and a distant voice answered. “I think he knew a Charley,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I don't know if I ever met him. He wasn't a good friend like some of the others I told you about.”

“Did he ever know a Transit cop?”

“A cop? Never.”

“You're sure.”

“I'd swear to it.”

“Thanks for your help.” Jane hung up. “She remembers the Broadway line in Manhattan before ‘the incident with the cop,' and Morgan never knew a Transit cop. We're not going to get much more out of her.”

“Farrar worked the Number One line,” MacHovec said. “About two years before Anthony was killed. So we've got two overlaps. Give me a minute and I'll have it all together.”

Smithson took the supervisors during the first half of Farrar's career and Jane took the rest. One of Smithson's was dead; one of Jane's was off today. As she was about to make another call, McElroy appeared at the door.

“We've got a preliminary report on Farrar's body. My office.”

They trooped over. What he had was handwritten notes, obviously taken from a telephone conversation.

“One shot to the back of the head,” McElroy said when they were seated.

“Gun?” The word came from Jane and Smithson at the same moment.

“Small-caliber. Probably a throwaway. Body looked like it had been dragged, but not far. The shooter wanted him off to the side, not on the tracks, not where he'd be seen readily. He was probably dead six to eight hours when he was spotted.”

“Who found him?” Smithson asked.

“A homeless guy who sleeps down there. He walked to the nearest station and told a clerk.”

“A Good Samaritan.”

“Probably thought he'd get a reward,” MacHovec said glumly.

“He available for questioning?” Jane asked.

“I've got a fax of the Five, the names of the cops who responded, and the detectives who caught the case.” He pushed papers across his desk.

Jane grabbed the Five and read it, Smithson looking over her shoulder. The man, who gave his name as Catty Fellows, had been questioned and released by the time McElroy got the news the night before. By now he could be sleeping in the Bronx.

“They didn't get much out of him,” she said.

“I don't think there was much to get. The guy stumbled over a body. We should thank him for reporting it before the rats got to him.”

“So Farrar was shot with a small-caliber gun,” Smithson said, “and Fellows says he didn't see anything.”

“He reported it several hours after the shooting.”

“Doesn't mean he didn't see it and wait.”

Smithson was right, Jane thought. Fellows could have been around, hunched up in the shadows. He could have heard the shot even if he didn't see anything, and then waited, maybe trying to decide whether to report it or forget about it.

“We should look for him,” she said without enthusiasm. The prospect of another hike in the tunnels left her cold.

“You get your kicks down there?” Smithson asked.

She gave him a look and said nothing.

“You're right, Jane,” McElroy said. “That's your next step. You may want a change of clothes, and we'll get you a guide from the TA.” He turned to MacHovec. “You dig up anything?”

“Two overlaps between Farrar and Curtis Morgan.”

“Good work. Take the paperwork and get busy.”

“Why don't you let me call Farrar's supervisors while you folks enjoy yourselves in the tunnels?” MacHovec said when they were at their desks.

Jane pulled out an old pair of sneakers and socks that she kept in a drawer for emergencies and left the office. Next case, she thought, maybe I'll get to take a trip on a cruise ship. Back in the office, Smithson was pulling a T-shirt over his head. He, too, came prepared. His shirt and jacket hung over the back of his chair, the tie neatly folded on his desk. He looked down at his pants as though wishing them a fond farewell.

Annie came by with the name of a TA worker and where they could find him. “What's it like down there?” she asked.

“Hell with rats,” Jane said.

Annie shivered. “Sorry I asked.”

“We may as well take the subway,” Smithson said grimly. His mood had changed. The case had turned sour. Maybe rats weren't his thing.

28

“YEAH, CATTY FELLOWS,” Carl Hidalgo, their TA contact, said when they arrived. “He gets rousted a lot. Nice guy except that he stinks. Don't seem to be crazy. Don't fight you, kinda docile. You wanna see where he found the body?”

They said they did, and followed Hidalgo to the front of the platform and descended the stairs. It was a fairly long walk, and they did it without saying much. When they got to the crime scene, it was taped off, an unlighted triangular area a few feet from the tracks. Hidalgo flashed his light around the ground. Rusty bloodstains were still visible, though hard to see. The area was clean of debris, possibly not the way it had been found.

“I heard they found a coffee cup around here,” Hidalgo said. “Maybe they got some DNA off of it.”

And maybe it came from some other homeless guy, Jane thought. Whoever the killer was, he wasn't stupid.

“Yeah,” Smithson said, and Jane knew he was thinking what she was.

“How far is the next station?” Jane asked.

“This is, like, halfway,” Hidalgo said. “Catty coulda gone either way. Maybe he went back, because that's where his friends are.”

A train approached and they moved toward the wall, although they were safely away from the tracks. There was no conversation until it roared past.

“What friends?” Smithson asked. “Where do they hang out?”

“There's, like, four or five of 'em. Sometimes they're on the street, sometimes down here, 'specially in the winter. It's getting warm out now so they stay aboveground more.”

“Show us where they stay,” Smithson said.

“We gotta go back.” He said it as though it might be negotiable.

“Let's go.”

The place where they often found Catty Fellows was between the crime scene and the station they had come from. It was another small alcove that could accommodate one man, maybe two if they were small. No full-size human being could stretch out; he would have to sit with his knees up, his back against the wall. But the area was dry, unlike some others they had passed.

“You show the cops this place?” Smithson asked.

“I didn't, but someone else did. I know they came here. See how clean it is? They musta taken all his junk.”

“What kinda junk?”

“He coulda left garbage, like that cup I told you about. Maybe some rags. No food, though. Catty wouldn't leave food.”

It would be eaten by the rats if he did. “You know where we can find him on the street?” Jane asked as they started back to the station.

“Just up the stairs and down the block. You won't find 'em all together when it's daylight. They scatter like roaches.”

Thanks for the graphic description, she thought.

They walked in silence, mounted the stairs to the platform, and thanked Hidalgo for his help. Then, brushing off their clothes, they went up to the street.

The sunlight was blinding. Jane pulled sunglasses out of her bag and put them on as she fought off a sneeze. “I see a guy down the block on this side,” she said to Smithson, who was facing her. “He's sitting against a building. Looks pretty gross.”

“Can't be any worse than what we've just been through.”

“That your first time?”

“And my last. I think I'd rather freeze my ass on the streets than spend the night down there.”

They walked slowly down the street. The man propped against the building had long filthy hair, a straggly beard, and the expected layers of disintegrating clothes. On either side of him stood a couple of fat shopping bags that probably held his worldly possessions, most of them worthless except to him. His head hung over as though he were half-asleep. One hand grasped a Styrofoam cup that stood on the sidewalk. As Jane and Smithson approached, the man lifted the cup for a donation. Smithson dropped a couple of quarters in it.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, ma'am. God bless you.”

“You the guy they call Catty?” Jane asked.

“Nah. Catty's gone.”

“Where'd he go?”

“I couldn't tell you. I saw him yesterday. Maybe it wasn't yesterday, maybe the day before. Said he was going to Brooklyn. He's got a place there.”

“You know where?”

“Just over the river. Stanley can tell you.”

“Where's Stanley?”

The man leaned forward, and for a moment Jane was afraid he might topple over. He pointed his glazed eyes farther down the block. “He's usually down there, other side of the street. Tell him Rocky sent you.”

“Thanks, Rocky.” Jane put a dollar in the cup and they walked away to Rocky's blessings.

“You see anyone?” Smithson asked.

“No. Let's keep walking. He could be taking his constitutional.”

“What's constitutional about sitting on the sidewalk?”

“I'm not in the mood for politics. Keep your eyes open.”

They walked two blocks, turned around, and came back on the other side of the street. Smithson said he was hungry, so they found a coffee shop and had lunch. That killed half an hour. Jane called McElroy and kept him posted.

“Keep at it.”

That was the name of the game.

They resumed their walk but found no Stanley. They started looking inside places where he might be picking up food. Still no luck.

“What's that?” Smithson said, shading his eyes. “Down there?”

A man who might be their guy or might just be a sloppy dresser had just emerged from a store. He stood on the sidewalk as though deciding which way to go. Finally, he turned away from them and started walking.

“Let's get him,” Jane said, and they started to run.

Traffic at the corner was heavy and they had to wait for it to go by.

“We're gonna lose him,” Smithson said, edging forward.

The light changed and the usual three cars went through the red before the fourth one stopped. They pushed through the pedestrians and down the street. Their target was still visible, walking slowly, eating something, Jane thought. As they caught up with him, they slowed, still behind him, Smithson walking to the man's left, Jane to the right. The man had a backpack that looked new and stuffed to capacity, torn faded jeans, two or three shirts, disintegrating sneakers, filthy hair, and a smell.

Jane moved forward to the man's side. “Stanley?”

He stopped cold. “Who wants to know?”

“I do. Rocky sent me to find you.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm looking for Catty Fellows. Rocky said you'd know where he is.”

“What'd he do?”

“He didn't do anything. I have to find him.”

“You wanna buy me lunch?”

“Sure.”

Stanley suddenly became aware that Smithson was standing to his left. His eyes showed his fear. “Who're you?”

“I'm with her. We need to talk to Catty.”

“You're cops, right?”

“We're cops,” Jane said, “but we're not after Catty. We just need some information from him.”

“About the body he found?”

“Right.”

“Who was the dead guy?”

“We're trying to find out. You want lunch, Stanley? You can have a great lunch. Just tell us where to find Catty.”

He considered his options. He wasn't as thin as the last guy they had talked to, but he could use some calories, not to mention a bath. “First station over the East River on the A train. Catty likes the A train. That'll put you in downtown Brooklyn, near Borough Hall. High Street I think is the station.”

“Where do we find him when we get off the train?”

Stanley looked around, up at the sky, down at the street, as though taking a measure. “It's nice weather. He'll be on the street near the station. Catty likes to stay near stations. Makes him feel less stressed.”

I should try that myself, Jane thought. “You're sure about this, Stanley?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“You send us on a wild goose chase, we'll find you, man,” Smithson said.

Stanley turned away from him. “You taking me to lunch?”

“Will a ten buy you a good one?”

“Ten dollars?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, a real good one.”

Jane took a ten out of her wallet and handed it over.

Stanley stared at it. “Thanks,” he said. “I'll remember you.” He stuffed the ten in his jeans pocket and walked away.