Murder in Hell's Kitchen (20 page)

At West Fourth Street she climbed the many stairs up to the street, again without looking back. On the way to her apartment, she stopped and picked up a cup of coffee and a doughnut to eat when she got home.

Finally, sitting in her living room, sipping and munching, she considered the possibility that Hack could be involved in what was looking increasingly like a very big homicide.

24

ON SATURDAY SHE read the military file on the fake Henry Soderberg. She couldn't quite think of him as Wallace Caffrey yet, although if she found any living relatives, she would have to switch names. At the moment, it was uncomfortable.

Under his real name he had spent over twenty years in the navy, visiting more places than she had heard of or could pronounce. He entered the navy as an enlisted man in the mid-sixties and went for SEAL training. As a SEAL he was trained for special operations underwater, beach insertions, parachute drops, special weapons and intelligence gathering, and for a long time in the second half of his career, he specialized in electronics. His combat service started during the Vietnam War.

Also to his credit, he learned several foreign languages, most prominently Korean and Chinese at a place called the Presidio in California.

In his early twenties he married Angie Kim, a Korean girl whom he brought back to the States to live in a house near San Diego. Ten months after his marriage, his first daughter was born, and ten months after his next leave began his second daughter was born. Their names were Tina and Beth Caffrey. There were no addresses for them.

Seven years after taking their vows, Wallace and Angie Caffrey divorced. He spent most of the second half of his time in the navy as a single man. He earned a number of medals and retired from the navy in his early forties.

There was, of course, significantly more information in the file, uncountable details that blurred one's vision. His weapons skills were documented, his education, every ship he served on, every ribbon he earned, every medal he was awarded. There were medical records, shots he had received, life insurance documents; it went on and on. But the outline that Jane sketched on paper as she was reading gave her the important facts: he had been married, he had two children who were likely to be alive, he was smart, he was tough, and he was most likely pretty damn gutsy. So what had he done with those admirable attributes when he left the navy? The military file provided no clue.

The file of the real Henry Soderberg was a sad comparison to his namesake. He, too, had entered the navy as a young man, within a few months of the fake Soderberg. He was a year older, having worked at several jobs for short periods of time. Checking one file against the other, Jane found that both young men served on the same ship for about nine months. It was while they were on that ship that the real Soderberg suffered an accidental death. A month later, the fake was transferred to another command.

It occurred to her that foul play could have been involved. But there was nothing in either file to suggest that. Certainly there was no hint that Wallace Caffrey had played any part in Soderberg's death.

What the death provided Wallace Caffrey with was a name that he could use, a person his own age, whom he apparently knew, with much the same background. The real Soderberg had not lived long enough to acquire a wife. At the time of his death, he had one sister and a living mother. There was no mention of his father. Caffrey, too, had a living mother when he entered the navy. No other relatives were mentioned.

There was a faint hint of trouble in the military life of the real Soderberg. On occasion he was late to assignments. He failed some tests but passed them the second time around. He had volunteered for the SEALs but quickly washed out of the training course. At one time he asked for compassionate leave and was granted a month to visit his ailing mother. By contrast, Wallace Caffrey had such a splendid record, it practically glittered on the page. He worked himself up from a seaman, going to officer's school and coming out an ensign. Eventually he became an electronic warfare officer, serving in the command center of a battleship.

By that time he had shed his wife, and if he had any relationship with his daughters, it could not have been very deep. He spent little time in the town where he had set up housekeeping, choosing to travel to other parts of the States and to vacation in Europe and Asia. By the time Jane finished the file, she wondered whether she might have had a more enjoyable life had she joined the navy twenty years ago instead of the police department.

The reading of the files took most of Saturday, considering that she slept late, replenishing her energy. In the afternoon, Mike Fromm called. There was nothing new in the case. Hutchins was still missing; no significant calls had been made to Cory's phone; John Grant's recovery was progressing nicely. All of that was just the excuse he used to make the call.

She sensed he was taken with her, and she felt flattered. She knew, too, that she found him attractive. Still, she could not imagine taking on a relationship at such a distance. They were the city mouse and the country mouse, and which of them would be able to change and remain happy? Besides, her emotional life was in turmoil right now. Hack was still a warm memory, and her thoughts of Paul Thurston had managed to aggravate old wounds she had almost forgotten existed. And then there was Lisa Angelino.

It was too much to think about now. She decided to eat out. Maybe if she left the files and letter behind her, she could concentrate on food that she hadn't taken the trouble to prepare. Having had only one meal during the day, she was ready for dinner fairly early. She walked with the weekend crowd through the narrow streets of her new community, checking menus in windows, finally deciding on a restaurant that was fairly empty now but would be reservations-only in a couple of hours. And it was a small enough place that her tail, if there was one, wouldn't be able to come in off the street and sit down without her noticing him.

It was a good meal, a lot better than she would have cooked for herself. She wandered the streets, looking at jewelry and far-out clothes for a while. The weather had turned cold again tonight, and she thought it couldn't be much fun being outside, or even sitting in a car, if the tail had found a place to park.

In her bedroom, she looked at the snapshot stuck in her mirror. The eyes were clear, the smile genuine, the nose closer to Paul's perfect one than Jane's more ordinary one. Did she want this girl in her life? She didn't know. And she didn't know how long it would take her to make a decision. If that was possible.

She made a big brunch for herself on Sunday morning, eggs and sausages and a couple of slices of sturgeon she had picked up down the block. Enough coffee to drown in. She was on her third and last cup when the phone rang.

“Jane, it's Mike.” It wasn't the warm, friendly Mike; it was the cop speaking.

“Hi. Good morning. What's up?”

“Bad news.”

“Hutchins?” Her stomach tightened.

“He was dumped early this morning or during the night. A jogger found him.”

“He's dead,” she said, feeling the weight crush her down.

“He's alive, but he won't last. He's been beaten so badly, there can't be a bone they didn't break.”

“Shit.”

“You couldn't have known,” Mike said, understanding her guilt.

She swallowed the impediment in her throat. Her lashes were wet. “I feel terrible.”

“I know. I'm not going to give you the speech about how you just did your job. I feel terrible, too.”

“Have you told John Grant?”

“I'm about to.”

“Did he say anything at all?”

“The jogger says he mumbled a couple of words. I don't know if we'll be able to make any sense of them.”

“Thanks, Mike.”

“You take it easy, Jane.”

“Yes.”

“If we learn anything, you'll be the first to hear.”

Of all the possibilities one could think of besides the loss of a partner or another cop, this was the worst, the death of an innocent bystander, especially if it was your case. And in this instance, he had been tortured first. What had Soderberg—what had Wallace Caffrey been involved in? She thought again about Carl Johnson. Maybe he was the one Defino should sweat tomorrow, not poor Derek. Johnson had to know what Caffrey was doing, because he must have been part of the same thing.

She called McElroy at home. He was out. She sat looking at Graves's beeper number. Something in her didn't want to call a captain at home. Finally she dialed the number, hung up, and waited.

The phone rang so quickly she thought he must have been waiting for someone to ring him. She gave it to him in a few brief sentences.

“You have Sergeant Fromm's phone number handy?”

“Right here.” She gave him both, the station house and his home.

“Hutchins was alive when he was found?”

“Just barely.”

“It's interesting. You found Hutchins; the killer didn't. The killer must have traced him to that loft and lost him there. Or never even got that far. You still taking that vacation day tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can't caution you enough—”

“I know that. I've found a back way out of my—”

“I don't want to hear about it.”

“OK.”

“We'll talk tomorrow. I'm sorry this has broken up your Sunday.”

She was up early on Monday morning, having slept fitfully. She took the elevator down to the ground floor and walked through the lobby to the back door. On her shoulder was a bag with a change of clothes in case she didn't make it back tonight, although she hoped she would. She inspected the area behind her building from the door, saw no one, and hurried to the narrow walkway that led to the far street. Then, walking briskly, she headed for the subway. Halfway there, an empty cab glided to a stop at a light and she dashed for it.

“Penn Station,” she said, shutting the door.

The light turned green and he took off, racing through traffic as though she had said she was late for her train. They rode in silence—the driver an anomaly, a native New York cabbie with nothing to say—till he came to a stop at the station. The fare in her hand, Jane paid and dashed off, getting inside the building in seconds. She bought a round-trip ticket, thinking that that was a sign of optimism, and found the track for the train to D.C. Inside, she picked out a window seat on the far side of the train, shed her coat, sat down, and took a deep breath. She was on her way to her first vacation in months.

25

SHE CAUGHT UP on her sleep and her reading on the trip. At Union Station in D.C. she got a cab to Arlington, Virginia. The trip to the Navy League set her back about twenty dollars, but it gave her an impromptu sight-seeing tour.

At the Navy League there were men and women in and out of uniform everywhere. She found her way to the office that MacHovec had spoken to and talked to the secretary, a man in uniform. He said Lieutenant MacPhail had a busy schedule but could spare perhaps fifteen minutes. Jane said fifteen minutes would do it.

MacPhail was young and handsome and wearing a uniform that appeared to have just come out of its box. He welcomed her, offered her a chair, and asked how he could help her. She had not shown her shield to the man outside, and she had given a lot of thought to whether she should do it in here. She had decided, finally, that it was better to show it than not to, even on a vacation day.

“I'm Det. Jane Bauer, NYPD. I'm not here officially. I'm taking some vacation time in Washington and thought I would drop in and see if you could answer a question or two for me about a Navy League veteran who died about four years ago.”

“What are your questions?”

“I'd like to find any living survivors of this man.” She had written some facts on a sheet of paper, which she handed across his desk. It had Wallace Caffrey's name, naval ID, birth date, and a few other salient facts printed in bold black ink. “He had two daughters, Tina and Beth, and an ex-wife whose maiden name was Angie Kim.”

He looked at her handwritten sheet. The names she had just spoken were on it and he made marks next to them. “May I ask why you're interested in this man and these survivors?”

“Mr. Caffrey died about four years ago in what appeared to be an accidental fall. The case was reopened two weeks ago, and we are convinced that his death was a homicide. We're looking for a murderer.”

“I don't see how we could help you find that killer.”

“Interviewing his daughters and his ex-wife will help us.”

“Give me a moment, please.” He left the room and she sat back in the chair. She hoped he wasn't going to another telephone to call New York, which would be the end of her visit. She wanted to get up and check the view from his window, but she didn't want to be caught anywhere except in this chair. He was gone a long time, more than ten minutes by her watch. When he came back, he was holding some papers in his hand.

“Mr. Caffrey had a long and distinguished career with the navy,” he said, as though he were beginning an obituary. “He died a number of years after he was discharged from the service. It was apparently his wish to have a military interment, and we were able to provide that for him. His daughter Tina Caffrey was notified, and she participated in the arrangements.”

“Do you have her address?”

He passed a sheet of paper across the desk to her. “I've given you her address and that of her sister, in case Tina Caffrey married and changed names. The last address for the ex-wife is old, but that's noted also.”

“Where was he buried?” Jane asked.

“He wasn't. He was cremated and his ashes were buried at sea from a ship docked at Newport News, Virginia. It's a service we provide for navy veterans.”

“I see.” That meant no exhumation. “Do you have any information on what Mr. Caffrey did for a living after he retired from the navy?”

“None at all. He kept us informed of his address, which changed from time to time. The last known address was in New York City. I assume that's where he was living when he died.”

“That's right. I see his daughter Tina lived in Virginia.”

“Yes. That's probably why she was called when we arranged for her father's cremation.”

The other address was in California. She hoped the Virginia daughter had remained in the area and still had a name that could be traced. She folded the sheet and put it in her bag. “Thank you very much, Lieutenant.”

He stood and shook her proffered hand. “I wish you luck with your investigation, Detective Bauer. If I can be of further help, don't hesitate to call.”

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy your vacation. There are many wonderful places to visit here.”

The place she visited first was a telephone booth. She called Captain Graves and left a message with Annie that she had arrived. Then she found a Virginia telephone book and looked up Tina Caffrey. The book was a couple of years old, but the name and number were listed. The address was the one the lieutenant had given her. She called the number and heard a mechanical voice tell her the number had been changed. She pulled out a pen and wrote down the new one, thankful the time limit for forwarding calls hadn't expired. The new one was also in Virginia.

The voice that answered was young and girlish. “Is this Tina Caffrey?” Jane asked conversationally.

“Yes, it is.”

“Ms. Caffrey, this is Det. Jane Bauer of the New York Police Department. We are looking into the death of your father, Wallace.”

“My father died of an accident.”

“May I meet you and talk to you, Ms. Caffrey? I have some questions I'd like to ask.”

What could have been a sigh sounded across the wire. “I guess I could. Are you coming down from New York?”

“I'm in Arlington at the moment. I'm at the Navy League.”

“The Navy League. I could meet you there.”

“That would be great.”

“An hour?”

“I'll be just inside the front door.”

“And your name was?”

“Jane Bauer. I have my ID with me.”

“I'll see you in an hour.”

It was enough time to get a bite to eat and settle herself in a chair facing the door. When Tina Caffrey walked in, there was no mistaking her. She had a face that combined the traits of the two sides of her family, but she favored her Korean mother. She was slim, Jane noted enviously, had long, black, silky hair, and beautiful dark eyes. She was wearing a black coat and heels that looked expensive. Jane stood as she entered, and the young woman acknowledged her and walked over.

Jane had her shield and ID out. “I'm Det. Jane Bauer.”

“I'm Tina Wilson. I was married last spring.”

“Let's sit down.”

Tina Wilson wanted to know the whys of Jane's visit, and Jane explained them. Tina listened closely, her face solemn, as though she were hearing bad news. When she was satisfied, she said, “What do you need to know?”

“How well did you know your father?”

“Not very well at all.” She stood and took her coat off, as though she had finally warmed up. She was wearing a very dark gray suit and a white blouse. She had no jewelry on except a diamond ring next to her wedding ring. “Not as well as I would have liked. He and my mother divorced when I was a child, and I almost never saw him after that. Not that I saw much of him while they were married. He loved the navy more than he loved his family.” She said it with obvious pain. “It was very hard on my sister and me, and I couldn't exaggerate what it did to my mother. She needed a husband and all she got was subsistence.”

“Did he keep in touch with the family, even if he didn't see you that much?”

“He usually let us know where he was, the city and state anyway. He sent checks—the navy insisted on that, you know—but things were never easy for us.”

“What happened after he left the navy?”

She pressed her lips together, as though trying to decide what to say. “I don't know how to say this. It's something I've thought about a lot. When he left the navy, he sort of went crazy.”

“Tell me about it,” Jane said.

“He . . .” She took a breath. “Maybe he needed the discipline that the navy brought into his life; I don't know. He had always worked extremely hard. He went to school and learned a lot of things. But when he left the navy, his life seemed to fall apart.”

“Did he work?”

“He did, but he wouldn't talk about it. He moved from one place to another. The checks he sent my mother came from a different place every few months. It was as if he was trying to find himself when the truth was that he had left his real self in the navy.”

“Do you remember the places he lived in?”

“He was in California for a while; I don't remember what city. Then, suddenly, he was in Chicago, then here in Washington. He stayed here for some time and then he moved to New York. There may have been some other places in between.”

“Where did he live in New York?”

“In an awful place in the Fifties. I visited there once.”

“You went to his apartment?”

“I was in New York on business. I called him from the company I was visiting and told him I wanted to see him.”

“You had his phone number?”

“Yes. He always gave us his number. He said he didn't usually have a listing, so he'd be hard to find if we needed him. He said he would meet me somewhere, but I wanted to see where he lived. He met me outside the front door of the building, one of those tenements that look like row houses.”

“I'm familiar with them.”

“And he took me upstairs.” She was increasingly agitated. “The apartment was all right, I guess. I saw the kitchen and the living room. It was clean and very neat, but my father was always that way. But . . .”

“Something's bothering you.”

“I think he was—I can't really believe this—he was living with another man.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw a letter addressed to another name, and on the way out I saw that my father's name wasn't on the mailbox. My father wasn't like that. If anything he was the reverse. He liked women more than he should have.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

“I asked him who the letter was addressed to, and he said it was the man he was subleasing the apartment from. But I don't think he was telling me the truth. The letter was opened. The man must have been living there.”

“Do you remember what the name was?”

“Soderman, I think. I didn't know anyone by that name.”

“What did you talk about when you and your father were together?”

“Oh, he asked about my sister and my mother. I don't think he cared much about my mother but he asked anyway. He wanted to know how I was doing, if I had a boyfriend, what my job was like, the things you ask an old friend you haven't seen for a long time.”

“Did you ask him about what he was doing?” Jane asked.

“I did. He said he was in electronic sales. I got the impression it involved computers.”

“Was he in good health?”

“From his appearance I'd say he was. He was a muscular man and he always kept himself in good shape. He offered me a cup of coffee, but I was too nervous to drink it.”

“How long ago was this visit, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Four or five years ago. I guess it couldn't have been four. He died about four years ago.”

“How did you find out he had died?”

“I got a call from the Navy League. They said my father's body had been delivered to a local mortuary for eventual cremation. I was the closest next of kin, at least geographically. He had requested to have his ashes buried at sea. They arranged that for me.”

“What did they tell you about how your father had died?”

“Just that he had taken a fall and I guess he had broken his neck.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Yes.” Tina Wilson looked directly at Jane. “It surprised me very much. He always took such good care of himself, I couldn't believe he would fall down a flight of stairs. And then I thought, Well, if he's been living with another man in that kind of relationship, maybe something happened to him. Maybe he became ill and lost his balance.”

“He wasn't living with another man, Mrs. Wilson,” Jane said. Tina's discomfort was so great, so obvious, she wanted to put her at ease.

“How do you know that?”

“I think your father occasionally used other names in his work. The name you saw on that envelope and on the mailbox may have been one of those names.”

Tina's face lightened. “That would explain some things I've wondered about.”

“Like what?”

“His return address was a post office box. There was no name, just QX and a box number.”

“How did you know where his apartment in New York was?”

“He gave me the address over the phone when I called. When I went to the funeral home, and asked for Wallace Caffrey, they couldn't find him. There was some mix-up in names and it took some time till they got it straight.”

“I see. Let me ask you this: if you know that your father wasn't having the kind of relationship you thought he was, do you still think he was acting crazy after he left the navy?”

She smiled for the first time since Jane's arrival. She was extremely pretty, Jane noted, with a smile that softened and lighted up her face. Wallace Caffrey had been a fool not to enjoy this beautiful daughter of his. “Yes, I still do. Why didn't he let us know where he was living? Why did he use assumed names? Why couldn't he find a job and settle down in one place? There was something strange going on. I haven't talked to my mother about this, but my sister agrees. I think something snapped in him when he left the navy. I've always wished there were someone I could ask.”

“Did you ever know any of your father's friends?”

“Not really. When he was still living at home, sometimes he'd bring someone over. There wasn't anyone I remember, but they were always in the navy.”

“Mrs. Wilson, I know this has been a long and painful interview. I don't want to keep you. I want you to know that we are trying to find the person responsible for your father's death. If you think of anything that might be helpful, you can call this number.” Jane handed her her card. “You can call collect and you can leave a message with anyone who answers. I will get back to you.”