Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (11 page)

“Very nice to meet you. My name is Singh.”

“Mr. Singh, we’re sorry to pull you away from your store,” I said. “But we’re investigating the murder of a prostitute a few months back. We hear she was a frequent customer of yours and that you are one of the last people to see her alive.”

His face turned serious, his wide smile quickly straightening and he scratched his salt and pepper beard.

“Of course. It is very sad what happened to her. Very sad indeed.”

“But you weren’t exactly surprised. Were you?”

“Surprised? Well no. She was a troubled person. Anyone could see that. She would come by my store all the time. Every day, once at least. Always paid in pennies or nickels. Always short on money. If something cost two dollars, she give me a dollar seventy-five and ask if she could owe the rest. Most times I refuse. What can I do? If I do for her, I have to do for the entire neighborhood.”

“I understand.”

“It is not easy to run a business here. I work long hours. I drive a beat-up old Toyota. These people think I drive Mercedes Benz or something. Believe me, I don’t.”

“I understand, Mr. Singh. I can tell you’re a hardworking man.”

“Yes. Just me, my wife and my son to man the store. And we stay open twenty-four hours a day. Eight hour shifts a day for all of us. We do the best we can. I usually man the night shift. In fact, when we are done here, I’m going home for a little rest.”

“Of course. We won’t keep you much longer. Just tell us what you saw that night. Anything that you can remember.”

“Okay. The girl, she stopped by twice. Earlier in the night she buy a few items. Cigarettes, beer and potato chips. Then, she come back later and ask to buy a single cigarette. I tell her no. She asks for free book of matches. I give it to her just to get rid of her. Really, the matches are only to be given out when you buy a pack of cigarettes, but it was late and I just wanted her to move along.”

“So you gave her a book of matches, and then?”

“She walk on. I see the policeman in the car have a few words with her in front of the McDonald’s next door. Then I see a man in an Oldsmobile look her over. He probably want to, well you know, he want to…”

“We know. It’s okay. He wanted to pay for her services.”

“Exactly. I know what she does, but I mind my own business. I’m not wanting any trouble, you understand. The Oldsmobile came back around. I see him again about five minutes later. Like I say, I try to mind my own business, but at three o’clock in the morning, a white guy in an Oldsmobile…I take notice.”

“Did you see what he looked like?” Vic asked.

“Not that good. He was in the car.”

“Did you see anything else, Mr. Singh? Anything at all unusual? Any other person in the area?”

“I did see another guy. I told the other policeman this.”

“Another guy?”

“Yes. Like I said, I already told the cop this. The one who was here before.”

“Detective Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, tell us. Please.”

 “Of course. After the girl walked away, and the cop drove away, and then the Oldsmobile passed, I saw another guy.”

“What did he look like?”

“He look like bum. You know, homeless guy.”

“White? Black? Latino?”

“White guy. It wouldn’t be strange, except I never see this white guy before. And I never saw him after. Just that one time. And most of the bums and street people in this neighborhood I see time and time again. This guy I see one time. Just that night.”

“Okay. That’s very good, Mr. Singh. Tell us anything you can remember about him.”

“It was dark. I didn’t stare at him. Just glanced out the window and saw him pass. He was white guy, maybe forty-five or even fifty. He had long hair but bald on top. Scratchy face but not a beard.”

“Five o’clock shadow?”

“Is that how you say?”

“He was unshaven?”

“Yes, unshaven.”

I scratched furiously in my notebook and then read it back to him. “White guy, forty-five to fifty years old. Long hair in the back, bald on top with a five o’clock shadow. Can you remember anything else? Skinny, heavy set?”

“Skinny. Tall and skinny. But not too tall.”

“Six feet?”

“Yes. I would say about six feet.”

“Hair color? Eye color?”

“Hair looked dark brown, but like I say, it was dark.”

“Okay, Mr. Singh. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so, officer. I want to help, but that’s all I remember.”

“Great. You’ve been a great help, Mr. Singh. Thank you so much for your cooperation. If we have any follow up questions, can we reach you?”

“Certainly.”

Mr. Singh gave me his phone numbers, Vic and I thanked him again, and then he went on his way.

We got back into Vic’s cruiser and headed towards the Major
Deegan
Expressway. I looked over my notes, then turned to Vic.

“The guy in the Oldsmobile isn’t our guy.”

“Maybe not.”

“Howie Barnes is lazy. That’s obvious. He doesn’t even put mention of this vagrant in his report.”

“I agree. That’s shoddy work there.”

“Very. He doesn’t care about this case. That’s obvious.”

“Be fair, Hank. It’s a lot more likely that the john killed the hooker than some random bum did.”

“In general, sure. But not if you actually look at the facts here.”

“You could be right. I’m just trying to give Barnes a little benefit of the doubt.”

“Why?”

He waved me off; there was no point arguing about it.

* *

As we merged onto the expressway, Vic picked up his cell phone and began pushing buttons.

“I called my guy over at Missing Persons last night.” Vic said. “I got to thinking about Thomas Blake and his business partner going missing. Maybe there’s something there that ties to this case. He said to give him a call back today. He’s
gonna
run some things through his database and see what he can come up with.”

“Sounds like a good idea.”

The phone connected and Vic spoke, “Johnny, you got anything for me? Really?” He paused. The silence was promising. His man must have found something. “Right. That’s interesting. Sure. Could be coincidence. I’ll check it out. If I find anything, I’ll make sure to let you know. Okay. Thanks.”

“Okay. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Johnny runs over some files and does some checking and cross checking. He’s looking for anything that may be relevant.”

“I’m with you. What’s he got?”

“A girl named Nicole
Leifson
went missing a while back. It’s about two months after the hooker was found dead that she was reported missing. It’s also just a couple weeks after Bill Palmer was reported missing.”

“The timeline sounds reasonable. What’s the connection?”

“So far, just the address.”

“The address?”

“Yes. Her home address is 99
Mangin
.”

“Is that that swanky, luxury high rise?”

“Exactly, the nice building next door to the building Ginny Olsen lived in.”

“And was killed in.”

“Exactly. Maybe Missing Persons needs to turn the Nicole
Leifson
case over to Homicide.”

“Maybe.”

“At this point, I told Johnny I’m going to check it out. If my case and his case become the same case, we can worry about jurisdiction later. At this point, he’s happy to pass the burden over to me.”

“Let’s check it out.”

We crossed over into Manhattan and Vic jumped onto the FDR Drive. There was the usual midday traffic congestion, so Vic gave a quick blip of the sirens and cars moved aside. He picked up his phone again and pushed a speed-dial button.

“Checking in with your wife?” I asked in a mocking tone.

“Very funny. I just have to let Tate know what I’m up to.” Then into the phone he said, “What’s up, Tate. Yeah, I know. Listen, I’m following another lead. I’m headed back up to Houston Street.” I couldn’t hear, but it was obvious Tate was complaining again. “I know. Look, this case is not dead. You handle the other thing. It’s not like you need me. If you do, give me a call and I’ll be right over.” There was a long pause, then just a simple, “Yup.” Then he hung up.

“Lovers quarrel?”

“That guy just hates doing his own paperwork.”

“He could come meet us if you think it’s necessary. He is your partner.”

“Believe me, he’s happier at the stationhouse. If things heat up, he’ll get off his ass.”

“You two make a heck of a team.”

“He does his job.”

“I’m sure, but not an iota more.”

“He’s got sixteen years in. He’s just coasting through the last four to earn his full pension. He’s not alone.
Lotta
guys like that.”

“Not you, Vic.”

“Nah. Me, I’m half martyr, half crusader. I still think I can do some good.”

I laughed. “A few more years with Tate and that asshole Howie Barnes and you’ll learn.”

“Not me. I’m not like that.”

“I know.”

We got off at the Houston Street exit and pulled over close to the building. As usual, there were no legal spots. So we left the car in front and walked up to the door. There was a doorstop propping open the front door, and we walked right in.

 “May I help you?” Asked a doorman in a dark blue uniform sitting at a desk with a newspaper and a cup of coffee lying on top. He looked mid-fifties and spoke in a polite and polished tone.

Vic flashed his badge and said, “I’m Detective Ortega with the NYPD.”

“Yes, officer. How may I help you today? Are you here to see someone?”

“Actually, maybe you can help us.”

“I can try.” He took a gulp from the white Styrofoam cup then licked his lips.

“We’re investigating the disappearance of a girl who lives here. Nicole
Leifson
.”

“Sure. We’re all really worried about Nicki.”

“Then you know her.”

“Of course. I’ve been working here over twenty years. I remember the day she was born.”

“So she’s about what, nineteen?”

“Yes, I believe she is nineteen.”

“Her parents must be wealthy to afford this place.”

He nodded sheepishly. “No one in this building is exactly a pauper.”

“Of course,” Vic continued. “So listen, I don’t want to pry, but it’s my job. You sit out here, you must know who comes and goes. And who they come and go with.”

“Sure.”

“So, who did Nicole…Nicki?”

“Yes, Nicki.”

“Who did Nicki spend her time with?”

He looked both ways to make sure we were alone. “It’s not my place to pass judgment on people, but since you asked, and since she’s missing for so long, I have to be honest.”

“Please.”

“Nicki was a good kid before she starting hanging out with this other rich girl. Then she changed.”

“Another rich girl?”

“Yeah. Mackenzie Blake. You probably heard of her father. Thomas Blake.”

Victor shot me a look like maybe he thought I’d been holding out. I shrugged to let him know this was news to me too.

“I’ve heard of Thomas Blake,” Vic said. “So Nicki and Mackenzie Blake were pals?”

“That’s an understatement. They spent night and day together. Those two were regular B.F.F.s.”

“B.F.F.?” Vic asked.

“You know, best friends forever.”

Vic and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. He joined in as well.

“Did they really talk like that?” I didn’t figure this guy made up a term like B.F.F.

“Oh, yeah. Those two were like the
Bobbsey
twins. Dyed their hair the same color. Same clothes. Same handbags and jewelry. If I wasn’t looking closely, I couldn’t tell them apart.”

“So, you say Mackenzie Blake was a bad influence on Nicki?” Victor took control of the questioning again, and I sat back and jotted some notes.

“Oh, yeah. She was real trouble that one. I knew from the minute I laid eyes on her. Sometimes you just know.”

“Sure. I know what you mean. But can you give us some examples?”

“They’d come stumbling in late some nights, reeking of booze and pot. I’m no moron, I know the smell. But it was more than that. Some nights, those two would sniff cocaine, right in my lobby.”

“That must be awkward for you.”

“Damn right it is. I don’t want to be the guy to complain to Mr.
Leifson
. He’s a nice guy. Works hard. Doesn’t want to be bothered. Some nights they’d come in giggling, get on the elevator, and not even wait for the doors to close. I could hear the snorting noises. And if I looked up at the mirror, I could see right inside. I’m mean, have some courtesy and discretion for heaven’s sake.”