Bad to the Bone (25 page)

“That seem right to you?”

“Whatta ya mean?”

“Most burglars only do what’s necessary to get away from the scene. Why’d the perp hang around long enough to kill him?”

“It’s the crack. It makes ’em crazy.”

“Yeah, sure, maybe it was crack, but there’s another possibility. Maybe Williams knew the intruder. Maybe the perp
had
to kill him.”

Calaverri shrugged. “It ain’t my business, really, but I’ll tell you something weird. This guy must’ve lived like a goddamn monk. You know how when you lift prints you always come up with a dozen that turn out to be friends and acquaintances? The only prints we picked up in Williams’ apartment were his. The scene wasn’t wiped clean, either. This guy was a hermit.”

“Did you canvass the neighborhood? Before you got pulled off?”

“Are you kidding? Solving crimes ain’t my job.
This
is my job.” He held up a handful of files. “The only people I spoke to were the nosy neighbors hanging around the scene. The porter says he saw a colored guy come outta the building an hour before the body was discovered, but he didn’t see the guy’s face well enough to make an ID. I think the porter’s name is Jackson, but don’t quote me.”

Twenty minutes later, Moodrow was sitting in Calvin Jackson’s basement apartment, pulling on a cup of coffee. Jackson was a slow-moving, elderly man who’d been working in the building for ten years.

“Wasn’t anyone I ever seen in this neighborhood. My eyes ain’t much good no more, but I could see the boy was an African-American. Big bastard. Ain’t no African-Americans livin’ round here. ’Cept for me.”

“Did the man look like a drug addict?”

“Shi-i-i-it. Every time you white folks see black skin you start thinkin’ crack and dope. This boy was dressed too good. Had on a leather sport jacket must’ve cost near five hundred dollars. Shined up shoes and a big diamond on his left hand. Crack addict? The man looked more like a pimp. I been tryin’ my whole life to get along with you people, but it ain’t no use. I still get watched every time I walk into the five and dime. We all thieves and dope addicts to you.”

Jackson’s tone was matter-of-fact and Moodrow, knowing he was right, took his time asking the next question. “You say there are no black people living in this neighborhood. Weren’t you suspicious when you saw a black man come out of the building at that hour of the morning?”

“That’s just it. The boy didn’t
act
suspicious. He come down the stoop like he was the damn landlord. Didn’t try to hide his face or nothin’. There’s a couple of airline stewardesses livin’ on the top floor. I figured maybe they was havin’ a party. Them airline women do like to party. Maybe they was changin’ their luck.”

“Did you speak to them after the body was discovered?”

“Naw. Turns out they was in Seattle that night. Most likely partyin’ with them pilots. Say, I gotta get back to work. Don’t mind chattin’, but if them garbage cans ain’t by the curb, they ain’t gonna get picked up and the tenants’ll be all over my black ass.”

“Just a couple more questions. Please?”

Jackson shrugged and looked at his watch. “Got five minutes, maybe.”

“What’s your impression of Williams? You know him?”

“The man was only here a couple months and he mostly kept to himself. Nod at me when he seen me, but nothin’ more. Funny thing about it is he had a kid with him when he come here. Little girl name of Terry. She was the friendly one, but she up and disappeared one day. Never did find out where she went.”

“You never asked him?”

“Damn, man, don’t you know nothin’? Calvin Jackson is the goddamn colored
porter
. I ain’t no tenant to be socializin’ with the white folks. When I’m lookin’ for company, I go back where I come from. Back to Harlem where I still got some family.”

Moodrow nodded thoughtfully, but he felt his pulse quickening as pieces of the puzzle began to come together. This was the way all his investigations worked. You pushed and pushed until the parts made a whole. He took out a copy of the photo Flo Alamare had sent to her mother. He’d been carrying it in his inside jacket pocket since the case began and this was the first time he’d found anyone to show it to.

“You ever see this woman around here?” he asked, passing the photo to Calvin Jackson.

“Shit, ’thout my glasses, that just look like someone done spit on the paper.” He rumbled through a kitchen drawer for a moment, then came out with an ancient pair of glasses. Both eyepieces had been taped and he had to hold the glasses to his face while he peered at the photo. “Yeah, I seen the woman. But not with that kid.”

“You sure.”

“I said I seen the woman. Nasty bitch walked right past me with her nose in the air. She was with Williams’ little girl. That’s Terry. Terry’s face was all painted up. That’s how come I remember. That little Terry was the
nicest
child, but when she stopped to talk to me that day, the bitch kept on pullin’ her along.”

“When was this?”

“Can’t really say. Maybe three weeks ago. Maybe a month. Fact, now that I think on it, Terry disappeared right after. You ain’t hintin’ this bitch had nothin’ to do with that?”

“If her father didn’t complain to the cops, I doubt there was force involved.”

“ ’Less she done scared the shit out that white faggot. Boy always looked scared to me.”

“Yeah, well I’m a detective, Calvin, and right now I’m still detecting. I don’t wanna make any judgments until I’m sure. Do me a big favor and take another look. Make sure this woman is the woman you saw that afternoon.”

“Don’t gotta look. What I seen, I seen. Damn but that child was nice. Used to talk to me every afternoon on her way home from school. When she didn’t get off the bus that afternoon, I was surprised. Then she come walkin’ up with the woman in that picture.”

Moodrow nodded thoughtfully. “Can you describe Terry Williams to me? Anything I can use to identify her.”

“Williams didn’t have no picture of his own daughter?”

“It’s a crime scene, Calvin. I don’t wanna bust through the tape and I don’t have time to get permission.” Moodrow was thinking of the task force on the other side of the Bronx. Did he know anyone in the Four Six? Would they be willing to let him in without some clear connection between Terry Williams’ disappearance and the murder?

Calvin Jackson looked at Moodrow in disbelief. “Never met no cop with scruples before. Guess it’s true when they say you ain’t never too old to learn. Lemme see. She was a pretty little white girl. Blonde hair and blue eyes. Them kind all look alike to me, but there’s one thing you might use. Her right eye was kind of out to the side a little bit. Not real bad, now, but if you looked close you could see it.”

Moodrow managed to contain his excitement long enough to put away a meatball parmigiana hero and a bottle of beer. Then he surprised himself by calling Betty Haluka instead of Jim Tilley. The phone rang a dozen times before he gave up and dialed his ex-partner’s number. Tille’s phone only rang twice.

“Hi, we’re not home now, but…”

Moodrow hung up in disgust. Betty was after him to get an answering machine
and
a beeper, but he hated the idea of being available every minute of the day. His uncle had expressed a similar emotion when he spoke of the transition to radio that had made every cop a slave to the precinct dispatcher.

Still, Moodrow was definitely disappointed. He needed to go over it with someone, but it was clear that he was going to have to settle for his own counsel. He consoled himself with two slices of pizza and a large Coke, then pushed his thoughts back into the investigation. He had absolutely no doubt that Hanover House and Davis Craddock were at the center of the puzzle. Williams had been silenced because he had seen Flo Alamare on the day she had her…Accident? Attempted murder? Illness?

The heroin in her body had come to her through Craddock. Despite all the evidence, Hanover House was somehow involved with drugs. Of course, that didn’t explain the black male Calvin Jackson had seen on the morning of Williams’ murder. As far as Moodrow knew, the commune had no black or Latino members. Maybe they’d brought in a professional to handle Williams, although it didn’t seem likely that Craddock had those kinds of connections.

Bits and pieces. It still came down to that. Bits and pieces and how to prove the final piece at the very center of the puzzle was Davis Craddock. For the first time Moodrow entertained serious doubts that Michael Alamare was alive.

Restless, he went back to the phone and dialed Betty’s Brooklyn number. He expected her answering machine, but she picked up on the third ring. He quickly outlined his conversation with Calvin Jackson, then begged her not to go back into Hanover House.

“Williams was viciously beaten,” he explained. “Way beyond what was necessary. Craddock is a psycho. He’d kill you without thinking twice. We’re not talking about a stroke victim and a missing child anymore. We’re looking at drugs and murder.”

“But if I could find Terry Williams, wouldn’t that prove Flo Alamare had been inside Hanover House recently?”

“And what are you gonna do with that information? Start a lawsuit? I gotta tell you the truth, Betty, I don’t think Michael Alamare is alive. And if he’s not, why are you risking your neck? What have you got to gain?”

“Suppose he is alive, Stanley. Then he’d be in grave danger, wouldn’t he? My therapist told me if I came back for a few more sessions he’d introduce me to the other Hanoverians. And I don’t think there’s much risk, either. You’ve got a lot of possibilities, but no proof of anything. Maybe they’ll offer me drugs.”

“You’re a goddamned amateur. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Don’t yell at me, Stanley.”

A
BOU JUST
WOULDN’T
UNDERSTAND
. Wendell Bogard was trying his best to kick it out there, but Abou kept shakin’ his head. Wouldn’t even
hear
about it.

“White man
cannot
be no brother,” Abou said for the tenth time. “When the shit come down, the white man will leave you to eat it. Nothin’ wrong ’bout usin’ a white man to get some bank. Can’t get
around
the white man when it come to money. They owns every goddamn thing. But when you talkin’ ‘brother,’ you talkin’ crazy.”

“Now look here, Abou.” Wendell’s voice began to rise. “You workin’ for
me
. Ain’t no reason I got to explain nothin’. I’m tryin’, cause
ya’ll
my brother, too.”

“That’s what I’m
talkin’
’bout.” Abou kept calm. No sense in messin’ with the man. “Ain’t too many brothers on the Lower East Side and them Puerto Ricans wouldn’t never give me no chance to show my bidness side. You picked me up when I didn’t have nothin’ and I’d damn near die for you. Ain’t no white man gon’ do that. Specially no
crazy
white man. You call a crazy white man yo brother, sooner or later, you gon’ get fucked up.”

That was the
hardest
part for Wendell to explain. About the craziness. About singin’ songs in the van and sharin’ the white man’s personal bitch. About how he was
sure
the white man loved him.

“Check it out, Abou. Like I
seen
Davis Craddock do murder. Like he didn’t ask
me
to pull nobody’s ticket. Most white men expect the nigger gon’ do the dirty work. Craddock be fightin’
me
’cause he wanna do the killin’ for
hisself
. And he done it cold, Abou. The man is
altogether
cold.”

“Okay. I ain’t disputin’ that Craddock ain’t no punk. He’s hard, Wendell, but that don’t make him no brother. The way I know is do bidness with the white man, then come home to yo
real
brothers. That’s the way I know. Mus’ be ah’m too old to change.” Abou was twenty-three.

Abou was drinking Glenfiddich, a single malt scotch. Wendell had picked that up from Craddock and Abou didn’t have a problem with the juice. Abou liked livin’ large and Wendell didn’t allow him to do drugs.

Wendell filled their glasses and decided to give up on the convincing business. “Lemme tell y’all what the white man done last night,” he said.

Abou drained his glass, then leaned back to hear the story. The white man
was
crazy and the stories were bad. Be even badder if they was in a movie instead of fuckin’ up Wendell Bogard’s life. “I spose ya’ll be singin’ or some shit.”

Wendell’s face turned to stone. “You dissin’ me, now.”

“I ain’t poppin’ junk, Wendell.” Abou beat a hasty retreat. Wendell’s temper was legendary. “Jus’ playin’.”

“Best chill, Abou.” Wendell refilled his lieutenant’s glass, then waited. He wanted Abou’s cooperation, if not his approval. The money here was large and he didn’t need to be watching his back.

“I’m chill, bro.” Abou drained his glass for the fourth time that night and found that he was, indeed, ‘chill.’

“What it’s about is
time
. You seen the merchandise and you know its power. Ain’t no question about the power of PURE.” Wendell paused, got a nod of agreement, then continued. “The man is busy makin’ this shit happen. Only need a month or so and he ain’t lettin’
nothin’
get in his way. You know that white man got his ticket pulled in the Bronx? Name of Williams?”

“You done told me all about it.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t tell y’all ’bout Williams havin’ no kid. Check it out. Other day this kid name of Terry start axin’ ‘Where’s my daddy. How come my daddy don’t come see me no more. I wanna go to the Bronx. See my daddy.’ Ain’t no way the bitch gon’ see her daddy ’cause her daddy done got his ticket pulled.”

“That
do
make it hard,” Abou observed. He was feeling no pain whatsoever.

“Yeah, that make it
impossible
. Meanwhile, the little bitch be stirrin’ up trouble with them faggots live in the commune. Like you can
see
the shit gon’ come down if the man don’t do nothin’. We up in Davis’ room one night. Me, him and his bitch, Marcy. Davis say, We have a serious problem here. We have to deal with it before it gets out of hand.’

“Marcy say, ‘I know what you’re thinking, Davis. You can’t hurt that child.’

“Davis say, ‘You know how much money we’re talkin’ about here?’