Murder in Greenwich Village (25 page)

44

SHE FOUND GARLAND and sat down with him in an empty office. Jane handed him one photo after another while she kept her eyes glued to his face. He recognized Beasely as a Transit cop but didn't know his name. One of Smithson's possibles, Pete Fasio, evoked a smile and a comment. He stopped at Fitzhugh, saying he hadn't seen him for a while and his name was Fitz something. After that he identified one more sergeant by name, one of MacHovec's choices. Equal opportunity, Jane thought.

She went through the same routine with Crawford. He too recognized Fitzhugh but had nothing to say about him. When she was done, she returned to Centre Street.

She turned on the lights in her office, and in the briefing area and sat down at the computer.

The night before, she had gone through MacHovec's printouts. One sergeant among the possible suspects was in each group of names. The key was to find one other known name, one of the suspects in the big theft, or another sergeant on the list, or anyone whose name had come up in the investigation. Jane was fairly certain that Fitzhugh was their man, although she hadn't discounted Beasely as the mastermind of the big theft and as the sarge in the gun deal. She accepted that Fitzhugh was dead; therefore he had to have had a partner or someone who took his place when he went on medical leave.

She had gone through sheet after sheet, scanning for names. In each class she had marked the possible suspect, then searched for another familiar name, checking them against her master list. She knew that chance might give her some combinations, but every one of them would be investigated. Plenty of cases were solved by chance.

Her phone rang.

“Why is your cell phone off?” Hack asked. “I haven't been able to reach you.”

“Sorry. Things have been popping. I turned it off this morning and forgot to turn it back on. How are you?”

“Up to my ears. Sounds like you are, too. What are you doing in the office on Saturday?”

“Working solo. I think I may have nailed the guy who they called ‘the sarge.' Trouble is, he's dead.”

“I told you to start there first.”

She grinned. “But he must have had a partner, and I've been looking through classes and duty rosters all the suspect sergeants were in, to see if some name shows up that rings a bell. Where are you?”

“In a moving vehicle. I may see you soon.”

“That sounds good.”

“Keep your cell phone on.”

“I will.”

The lists had eventually yielded a couple of matches, neither of them with Fitzhugh. One of the sergeants was Smithson's, one MacHovec's. They could look at them Monday. No one except Jane Bauer would spend a minute working on a cold case on the weekend.

She booted up the computer and worked her way into classes at the Academy. Fortunately, the class rolls had been put on the computer as far back as Fitzhugh's class. She printed it out, stuffed it in her bag, and went home.

She kept thinking about the case as she walked. Fitzhugh had to be the man at the top. Charley Farrar had been his right-hand man, the fourth man in the crib, but it hadn't been Charley over in Queens on Tuesday night. Fitzhugh had had access to the Second Avenue subway tunnel, had met Charley somehow, maybe even brought in Curtis Morgan, unless Charley had done that. They were a cozy little group that had added Carl Randolph and Salvatore Manelli.

Fitzhugh had to be Alicia Beringer's boyfriend at the time of Anthony's death. If they exhausted every other lead, they would take her to the Six and question her. She would be scared enough to tell them the truth. Or Jane hoped so.

Unless it was Beasely.

And as often happened, it could be none of the above.

She had a light lunch and read the paper, which she had picked up on her way home. Out there was a world of turmoil, not much different from the world she worked in. Three weeks before she had thought they would be lucky to learn anything new, no matter how small, in the case of Micah Anthony, but they had gone so far, learned so much, that she wanted to put an end to it, find the bastard and put him away.

She put the paper down. What was the next step? Then she remembered that she had stuffed something in her bag before leaving Centre Street. She pulled the papers out of her bag, unfolded them, and sat at the table. It was Fitzhugh's class at the Academy, the last group of cops she had a list for. She found Fitzhugh and marked his name. Then she started at the top of the alphabetical list.

The name leaped out at her like a sprung coil. “Holy Mother of God,” she whispered. She took a couple of breaths, went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice and drank it in seconds, thinking what she had to do, whom she had to tell.

She grabbed her bag and went out into the street, walked to a phone booth and called Hack's cell phone.

“Hackett.”

“I need to talk to you on a landline.”

“Are you all right? You sound—”

“I'm fine. This is very important.”

“I need—hold on.” She heard him call, “Over there,” to someone. “Sorry. I can't call right now; I'm not alone. Will you be home?”

“I'll go home now and wait for your call.”

“Half an hour.”

She drifted more than walked back to the apartment. I don't want this to be, she thought. I want to go back three giant steps and hand this case over to someone else. The apartment was quiet, one of the advantages of not facing the street. She wanted to call Lisa, her lovely daughter, and listen to college chatter, but there wasn't time. She had to leave the line free for Hack's call.

When the phone rang, she took it in the kitchen and sat down at the table, her eyes grazing the bullet holes and the sheet of paper with one mark on it next to Fitzhugh's name.

“Hello?”

“OK. Tell me what's up.”

“Hack, you said a couple of weeks ago, when I first started working the Anthony case, that Harold Bowman had a girlfriend.”

“Right.”

“Do you know where she lived? Was it in the Village?”

“Let me think. No, I'm sure it wasn't.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he told me, or I overheard him telling someone else where he was going. It wasn't the Village, Jane.”

“Where was it?”

“I don't remember. But it wasn't the Village. What's going on?”

“I have to think. I don't want to talk about it.”

“Can I see you tonight? I've finished all the crap I had to do this week.”

“That would be great.”

“Six, seven. I'll bring dinner. I miss you.”

She smiled. “I'll be waiting.”

Garrett Fitzhugh had graduated from the Police Academy with Harold Bowman. They had known each other over thirty years. If this connection held, Bowman was the top guy in the Anthony murder, the gun deal, maybe even the big truck theft. It meant you couldn't believe one word that Lieutenant Bowman claimed he had heard from Micah Anthony on the night of the murder. For all Jane and all the other investigators of this case knew, Anthony may have heard the name Fitzhugh at the crib that night or he had met Charley Farrar for the first time. Maybe Charley had inadvertently dropped the name when he meant to say “the sarge.” And when Anthony called Bowman and told him, or when Farrar reported it after the meeting, Bowman knew it was all down the tube and Anthony had to die. Whether Bowman pulled the trigger, or Fitzhugh or Charley Farrar, it was Bowman's order that made it happen.

I can't bear this, she thought. Anthony's life was in his hands from the first day of the operation. Melodie Anthony trusted him so completely. Everyone did, the whole fucking police department.

She wanted to go to Alicia Kislav's apartment and tear her apart. She must have recognized Fitzhugh's picture from a quick accidental encounter. But that was not the way to do it. That was the way to make mistakes that would cost the whole investigation.

The phone rang. She felt dazed, glanced at her watch. “Hello?”

“It wasn't the Village,” Hack's voice said. “It was on the east side, Twelfth or Thirteenth Street. Alphabet City.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Thanks, Hack. I'll see you later.”

45

HACK ARRIVED WITH dinner, wine, and his briefcase. He was casually dressed, a short-sleeved shirt for a warm day. It was almost June.

“I don't like the way you look,” he said.

“Harold Bowman was the top man in the gun deal.”

“You think he ordered Anthony killed?”

“Or killed him himself.” She saw him wince. “He and the dead Transit sergeant that I picked as the top guy went to the Academy together. Last night I found the woman that I think had the affair with Bowman. She lives in an apartment on the block where Anthony's body was found. She stopped when she saw the picture of Fitzhugh—the sergeant—but said she'd never seen him. Her name is Alicia Beringer Kislav and she used to live in Alphabet City with a roommate. They didn't get along because when Alicia's boyfriend came calling, they locked out the roommate. The roommate told me the boyfriend was a cop. So they split up and Alicia took an apartment on Waverly Place.”

“And kept seeing the boyfriend.”

“Right.”

“And you want to kill him.”

She nodded. “I've never felt this way about a—about a perp. The man has no decency. How could he call Mrs. Anthony and console her? How could he order a hit on his own detective?”

“It's all about money.”

“Not to Micah Anthony, it wasn't.”

“Let's have something to eat and we'll talk about it.”

“I don't know if I can eat, Hack. I don't know—”

“Let's try some food first. It's a good wine. I think you'll like it.”

It was a good wine. She thought maybe she should ask her father for the crystal he had not used since her mother's death. It would be nice to drink from that rather than dime-store glass, although Hack never complained.

They talked about it as they ate, fitting the small pieces into the small gaps, the large into the large.

“How did all the previous teams miss out on the number of men in the crib?” he asked.

“Because Charley Farrar wasn't there when the cops arrived. Charley must have left just after Micah Anthony. He may be the actual killer; I don't know. If it wasn't him, it was the sarge, Fitzhugh, or possibly Bowman himself.”

“Harold wouldn't dirty his hands that way. He'd delegate.”

“And the three guys that were left kept their discipline.

Fitzhugh must have promised them plenty of money if they just kept quiet. That's why he had to pull a big theft, so he could buy their silence.”

“And that was the truck theft.”

“I think so. Four trucks worth a million dollars. Probably on the high seas by the next morning. Everyone paid well enough that they kept quiet. And enough left over to pay off Farrar, Morgan, Randolph, and Manelli. Not to mention Fitzhugh himself.”

“And some small change for Bowman.”

“That son of a bitch.”

“You know you've only got a circumstantial case against him.”

“I've been worrying about that all afternoon. There are going to be phone records that we can trace to him. Charley Farrar must have called him, and he called Charley. And calls between Fitzhugh and Bowman. Maybe Alicia Kislav will admit Bowman was her lover and that she saw Fitzhugh once, waiting in a car outside her apartment. And Bowman may still have the gun he used to shoot Manelli.”

“I think you've got enough for a search warrant, both his office and his home. He may keep a second phone in his desk, maybe even the gun.”

“I'll tell McElroy we need a meeting with Graves Monday morning. This isn't going to be good news for Graves.”

“That's not your problem.”

“I'm too independent for him, Hack.”

“Tell me about it.” He smiled, and she smiled back. “Can I change the subject?”

“I wish you would.”

He went to the foyer and came back with his briefcase. “I have something for you.” He reached down deep and pulled out two keys on a round key ring. “These are for you.”

She took them, not comprehending.

“They're for my apartment.”

“Your what?”

He reached back into the briefcase and took out an envelope, from which he drew a document bound in blue. He laid it on the table facing her. “This is my separation agreement.”

She looked at it, then at him, then put it together. “You didn't hear a word I said to you in Paris.”

“I heard every word, Jane. I probably memorized that whole conversation, I turned it over so many times. And then I had a talk with myself. I've spent almost my entire career working with people and I'm damned good at it. But when I try to work with the one person who means the most to me, I never get it right. So I decided to do what I knew was right for me, right for my family, and right for you too. I talked to my wife when I got back from Paris and we filed for a separation. Then I got myself an apartment, and I moved in today.”

She swallowed, thinking that this was what it was like to be at a loss for words. Finally she said, “How are your daughters taking it?”

“One's OK; one isn't.”

That, at least, was honest. She nodded. “Where's your apartment?”

“East of here. In an old renovated factory. It's about the size of this kitchen.”

She smiled, feeling a little teary. Hackett the compromiser. Unexpectedly, she felt light. It was done. He had made the break, and they had each other and two apartments.

He covered the hand that lay on top of the separation agreement. “I can take you there. It's pretty clean and I've got a good bed.”

“Take me.”

They drove in his car, parked a block away, and walked. It was not just old; it had gargoyles and other decorations from a time when buildings were built to be beautiful, not just serviceable. They took the elevator and he used her key to let them in.

It was a small box with a kitchen area that could be closed off, a closet that was actually large, and a bathroom with a stall shower. All the fixtures were new and gleaming. The bed was made in military fashion, tight sheets, square corners, no spread. A table with two chairs was near the kitchen, and a small leather sofa filled in the remaining wall space.

“I love it,” she said.

“They call it a one and a half. I've found the half. I'm still looking for the one.”

“It's wonderful, Hack. I can't believe this.”

“You're not angry.”

“I should be.” She grinned at him, Harold Bowman and Micah Anthony left behind for the moment as she surveyed the apartment. “I'm not. I feel . . . I'm happy. Why should I feel happy?”

“Because we've done the right thing.”

“You did.”

“I did, we did, it's the same thing now.” He put his arms around her, kissed her, moved his face against hers. “Let's do what we do best. I haven't slept in the bed yet.”