PART 35 (21 page)

“That's about a hundred feet from the factory,” Mike gauged.

“About. And on the day of the murder, it was raining heavily. Therefore, most of the windows must have been closed. Now all we have to worry about is if the women could see someone running on the roof. Come on,” said Sandro, crossing the street. They stopped at the factory and looked back and upward.

“Anybody who could see anything on that roof'd have to have eyeballs two stories high,” said Mike.

“Or an imagination the same height. Let's go up to the roof for a minute.” They crossed again, entered 153, and walked up to the roof.

“Look at that front coping,” said Sandro. “Anything that went on on this roof happened behind that front wall. A person in the factory couldn't see a thing up here because this is two stories higher, and there's a seven-foot wall between. Mike, damn it, I have to hand it to you. You did it.”

“Yeah, terrific, hanh?” Mike smiled widely.

“Now we've eliminated the factory as a possible haven for witnesses—and also eliminated the necessity for a canvass. We're going to need some pictures of all this, just in case those women show up in court.”

“Okay.” They started down. “But why would these women say they saw things that they couldn't have?”

“There are lots of people who talk a lot about things after everything is over. Maybe someone from the factory was just running off at the mouth,” Sandro replied.

“Maybe Soto is giving us a snow job.”

“He's not that bright,” Sandro replied. “He's just a silly guy who's trying hard to be helpful.”

“How come we took his wife's statement and not his?” asked Mike.

“He doesn't know anything firsthand,” Sandro replied. “He was at work, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So what he tells us gives us leads, but he can't give any evidence. His information is all hearsay. His wife can testify about being locked from the inside when she went out may be very valuable.”

“How do you mean?”

“Remember that she said the Italian woman across the yard told her that the man on the fire escape was in the apartment first? Then, later, he couldn't open the windows when he was on the fire escape?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if she's going to testify to that, we can create a lot of doubt with Mrs. Soto's statement about the locks. If the guy had been inside first he'd know whether he had opened the locks or not. He wouldn't have to wait until he came down the fire escape to find out. It just wouldn't make any sense.”

Mike's eyes narrowed as he studied Sandro. “But then how come the locks were open when Mrs. Soto came home?”

“That's easy, Sam Spade. What time did she get home?”

“She said about eight o'clock. And there were cops all over, in and out of there after the murder, right?” Mike figured out for himself.

“Exactly. The cops must have opened and closed those windows a million times for fingerprints, pictures, all kinds of things.”

“Where to now?”

“Me, I'm going to my apartment, a nice warm bath, a warm drink, and who knows what else warm.”

“That's a nice way for a nice Italian boy to talk. Santa Claus won't come down
your
chimney.”

“Did you know that Santa Claus was Italian?” Sandro asked.

“Come on,” Mike scoffed. “He was Puerto Rican, from Ponce, I knew his sister.”

CHAPTER XXI

Santa Claus had come and gone, and Alvarado had been in the Tombs just half a year. Sandro drew his overcoat about him more snugly as he walked up the few steps to the Criminal Courts Building. The sky was overcast, and it looked as if the first snow of the new year would be coming soon. As Sandro walked the long entranceway to the front doors, he saw a swarthy man with dark glasses and a beard standing just within. He was dressed like someone who hung out on corners pushing junk.

“Hello, Charlie,” Sandro said to him.

“Hey, Sandro. How's it going? I haven't seen you for a while.”

“I've been pretty tied up with some cases. I'm glad you could get over here. Where are you assigned now?”

“Over in the Delancey area. Been there for about six months.” Out of costume and role, Charlie D'Andrea was a New York City policeman. He was assigned to the narcotics squad and was one of the undercover agents who patrol the high-density drug areas, making friends of junkies, learning their buying and selling habits, ultimately arresting drug users and pushers, and all the rest of the procurers, prostitutes, and thieves on the edges of their world. These undercover agents look like, talk like, dress like rundown junkies.

“That's exactly the section I wanted to talk to you about,” Sandro said. “But first I have to adjourn a case in One-D. You going up?”

“No, I just finished. I'll meet you over in Happy's,” D'Andrea suggested. Happy's is a bar behind the courthouse frequented by policemen, D.A.'s, and lawyers on recess from the court.

When Sandro entered Happy's, he saw Charlie D'Andrea sitting on a stool at the bar talking to one of the detectives on the D.A.'s squad. He walked over.

“Hi, Sandro,” said the other detective.

“Hello, Frank, how are you?”

“Keeping busy, what else?”

“I'll have some cognac, Louie,” Sandro said. “See what Frank and Charlie want.” Louie poured drinks all around. “Cheers,” said D'Andrea, raising his glass. They all raised their glasses and drank.

“What's up, Sandro?” D'Andrea now asked.

“Since you've been in Delancey, have you come across a junky by the name of Salerno from Stanton Street?” Sandro inquired.

“Salerno, Salerno. That sounds familiar. Where on Stanton does he live?”

“Stanton near Suffolk.”

“Yeah, I know that guy. He's sort of a nut. Not really a nut, just a dumb kid. He's really like a kid. What do you need?”

“Whatever you can tell me about him,” Sandro replied.

“Is it important?” D'Andrea asked.

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute, then.” D'Andrea got up and walked to the telephone booth. He closed the door. Sandro saw him dial a number.

Frank, the detective from the D.A.'s squad, was now talking to someone on his other side. At the booths around the room, many discussions of cases pending that day in court were going on simultaneously. Some detectives were explaining how they were being cross-examined by defense counsel, some defense counsel were telling other defense counsel how liberally the judge was handing out sentences this morning. Laughter exploded from the end of the bar near the front door.

D'Andrea opened the door of the phone booth and returned to the bar. “His yellow sheet reads like a junky tour guide. Mostly all drugs.” The yellow sheet is the record maintained in the police department's Bureau of Criminal Identification for each person arrested in New York City. Each new arrest or conviction or sentence goes on it, making the yellow sheet an up-to-date criminal history. It is always printed on yellow paper. “His last arrest was 1966. He was sentenced to a year at Riker's. He did nine months and was released last July fifteenth.”

“What date did you say?”

“July fifteenth.”

“You mean he was in jail on July third, 1967?”

“Yeah, why? What's so important?”

“Nothing much. Somebody thought he might be a witness against me in some case, but I guess he can't be. The crime took place on July third.”

If Salerno was in jail on July third—and the nine months preceding Lauria's death—he couldn't have killed Lauria; he couldn't even have been part of the job. Sandro absently traced wet circles on the top of the bar. Why was Salerno acting so suspiciously? Perhaps, Sandro decided, he should go and see Salerno. If Salerno was in jail, he couldn't be a people's witness, and Sandro ran no risk of compromising himself. This story about Salerno didn't make any more sense than the story about the gang-bang.

“Let me buy you a drink,” D'Andrea said, breaking into Sandro's thoughts.

“No, this is on me. Louie, the same again, on my tab,” Sandro called to the bartender.

“Here's a happy New Year, Sandro,” said Charlie.

“That's right. Happy New Year, Charlie.” Sandro raised his glass. “Charlie, do you figure a bunch of cops would gang-rape a woman? Let's say they were all full of piss and vinegar, worked up about something like a cop-shooting, and the woman was the wife of a defendant.”

“That depends,” Charlie answered slowly, studying Sandro's eyes.

“Depends? On what?”

Charlie smiled. “On whether she's a good-looking broad or not.” He shrugged.

“What can I expect from a wise-ass cop?”

“What do you want? I answered your question,” Charlie smiled.

“One other thing, while I've got you here. Do you know a guy named Snider who was in narco a few years ago? Had some kind of trouble.”

“No. I know the guy you mean. I heard about it, you know? But I never met him. He left before I got in the squad.”

“What kind of trouble was it?”

“I don't know. A lot of guys were involved. A big shake-up. I think some guys were on the take. I don't know about Snider.”

“I've got to run now, Charlie. Want another drink?”

“No, I got to go to court this afternoon. I don't want the jury to sniff an alcoholic cop.”

“Thanks a lot, Charlie. I'll talk to you soon. Louie, here's some money, keep the change. Take care now, Charlie,” Sandro said, moving out into the street. The cold felt good, but he still had lots of questions, and not too many answers.

CHAPTER XXII

“I can't figure that out at all,” Mike said with annoyance, as they drove toward Stanton Street. Sandro had just finished repeating what Charlie D'Andrea had told him.

“Sorry. I know how you liked that idea.”

“Okay, so Salerno was in jail. What's all this suspicious stuff, then, if the guy was in jail?”

“Maybe he's just one of those people who go around confessing to different crimes for kicks, you know?”

“C'mon, Sandro, for Christ's sake. I'm serious.”

“So am I. How else can I explain it. Unless he wasn't in jail. Maybe D'Andrea made a mistake.”

Mike turned into Stanton Street and looked for a parking space.

“Unless he's in with some other people who weren't in the can,” Sandro suggested.

Mike turned in the middle of maneuvering into a tight space. “That's a possibility.”

Sandro knocked on the door of Apartment 2B. They could hear a radio playing inside and a baby crying.

“Yeah, who is it?” demanded a female voice from inside.

“Mr. Salerno home?” Sandro inquired.

“Who is it?” the female voice demanded again. The radio had been turned down, and the baby had stopped crying.

“Mr. Luca, a lawyer,” Sandro answered.

The door opened a crack. Sandro saw an eye peer out. It was a short woman with her hair pulled tight in a ponytail. As the door opened more fully, Sandro recognized her as the young woman who had been so venomous the first night he had been in this building, the one who wanted to put Alvarado into the electric chair without a trial.

“I'm sorry,” Sandro said abruptly. “I was looking for the Salerno apartment.”

“You found it.” She was as cold and defensive as before. Mike looked at Sandro, confused.

“Is this where Salerno, I mean, Mr. Salerno, lives?”

“That's right. What can I do for you?”

“Is he home?”

“Who is it, Carmen?” said a thin, dark-haired young man, coming to the door. He was in need of a shave and about twenty good meals.

“This is the lawyer for that guy who killed the cop on the roof,” she said coldly.

Salerno looked at Sandro, then Mike. “You want something?”

“I'd like to talk to you for a minute,” said Sandro.

“About what?” the woman demanded.

“Are you, do you live here, too?” Sandro asked her.

“I'm Mrs. Salerno.”

“Oh? Fine. Can we come in for a minute?”

Mrs. Salerno shrugged.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Salerno. He smiled. “Come on in. Let the lawyer come in, honey.”

Mrs. Salerno moved to the side of the doorway to allow Sandro and Mike to enter. She closed the door and leaned against it, her arms folded across her bosom, watching the two strangers.

“Mr. Salerno, we'll make it brief. I represent, as Mrs. Salerno told you, the man accused of killing the cop on the roof here in July.”

“Which one do you represent, the guy from this block or the other one?”

“The other one, Alvarado. And I'm trying to interview all the possible witnesses. I'm trying to eliminate people, really. When I talk to someone who doesn't know anything about the case, then I can forget about them.”

“Right. What can I do for you so you'll forget about me?”

“Well, I already spoke to your wife. She told me she wasn't here that day, didn't know anything about it.” Salerno looked at his wife. She was busy watching Sandro. “I just wanted to check all the people in the building. Were you here that day?”

“No, I wasn't here,” he said. He smiled with the inoffensive smile of a junky. He didn't want any enemies; he had enough. “I was at the hotel, if you know what I mean.”

“How long were you away?” Mike asked.

“About nine months, yeah, nine months,” he recollected.

Mrs. Salerno was tapping her foot lightly now as she watched.

“You couldn't know much about the crime then if you were away,” said Sandro.

“Right.” He smiled again briefly. “Not only couldn't. Don't want to, you know?” He nodded knowingly to Sandro. “I don't want no more trouble. I was away for nine months. Before that I was in Lexington. I don't even know my own wife. We only been married two years, and I been away almost two years.”