Murder in Alphabet City (15 page)

“Not always.”

“I can stay longer tonight if you don't think Flora'll come knocking on your door.”

“I don't think she will. What if you get a call at the hotel?”

“I'm in the bar. Isn't that where off-duty cops usually are?” The sarcasm was thick.

“Usually.”

The ice cream was finished. Hack had used his spoon to scrape out the last of it. They went slowly back to the bedroom and got undressed. Everything was slow this time, the kisses, the touches, the whispers, the rise, the arrival, and eventually the fall.

“I think it's the ice cream that does it,” he said, holding her.

“Gotta be something.”

“Go to sleep. I'm exhausted.”

He had set his watch alarm for five but his internal alarm went off before it. She watched him dress—shirt, pants, shoulder holster, jacket, tie in the pocket. His hair was a mess. She got out of bed and smoothed it while he touched her naked body. The jeans were folded over a chair. Next laundry, she would wash them, keep them fresh for the next time, whenever that would be.

“What are you looking at?”

“Your jeans.”

“I didn't hang them up. You mad?”

“Hack—”

“What, baby?”

She went over and put her hands on the jeans where they covered the back of the chair. “
L
isn't for Larry.”

“Then what?”

“
L
is for laundry.” She turned to face him in the dark. “Something was in the package of laundry. That's why Rinzler was there when Rose delivered it. It wasn't a coincidence. She was there to open the package. Whatever they were dealing, it passed through the Chinese laundry.”

18

D
EFINO LOVED IT
. “You think there were drugs in with the shirts?”

“There was something. Maybe instructions about when to pick them up. Or where. Rinzler didn't give a damn about Andy Stratton. She was there for business.”

“We're not going to get anything out of those folks in the laundry, you know that.”

“Then we have to get it somewhere else.”

“You gonna sweet-talk Vale this afternoon?”

“That's what he thinks.”

“Wear your medals.”

She laughed. They were on their way to Brooklyn. The train rattled and swayed through the tunnel under the East River. They exited in Brooklyn and set off.

Patricia Washington's house was a five-minute walk. She lived on the second floor of what had once been a two-family house that now had four apartments. Her apartment was in the back and overlooked a small garden.

“Good morning,” she said pleasantly as she opened the door. Her eyes moved from one shield and ID to another and then to the faces. “Please come in. I have coffee on. Will you have some?”

“Love it,” Defino said.

“Thank you. That's very nice of you, Ms. Washington.”

They followed her into a small dinette furnished with a round table, four chairs, and a hutch whose shelves were full of individual dishes standing in tracks along the rear. Cups and saucers were displayed in front of them.

“Nice collection,” Jane said, sitting down.

“Oh, thank you. Some of the plates were my mother's. They're quite old.”

Washington poured coffee and offered cream and sugar. A platter of cookies lay in the center of the table. She had gone out early to prepare for this meeting.

“This is Detective Defino, Ms. Washington. We're working on the case together.”

“You want to know about Erica.” She had sat between them at the third cup, a woman in her forties wearing a beige pantsuit, the V-necked jacket with large white buttons down the front.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“The day she left. There was such turmoil that day, tears, screaming, you can't imagine. She just clammed up, emptied her desk, and left. I went downstairs with her—I think maybe Arthur came too—and we got her a cab so she could get home with all the stuff.”

“Is there a reason why you never saw her again?”

“I called her. She said she couldn't talk. She said she'd get in touch but it would take time. She needed a job, she needed a place to live that wouldn't cost so much. But she said she would call. I tried again a couple of weeks later and her phone had been disconnected and there was no forwarding number. I was very—” She took a sip of coffee. “I guess you could say disappointed. We had been friends, real friends, not just coworkers. I didn't understand what had happened.”

“What was the nature of your friendship?”

“You mean like what did we do together?”

“Yes.”

“We talked on the phone a lot. We went to movies. We went to dinner. We were friends. We had like an understanding. She was a Jew and I was black and there were things we shared. She was friends with Arthur too, you know, Arthur Provenzano.”

“Yes. How long did you know her?”

“Oh, a long time. We'd both been at Social Services for years. Other people came and went but we stayed on. We joked that we'd still be there when they outlawed welfare. I probably will be. I have a lot of years now and I wouldn't want to lose my pension.”

“So you never talked to her again after that last phone call. Did you hear anything?”

She looked a little confused. “Well, she died, you know.”

“And what did you hear about that?”

“It was terrible. It was unbelievable. She went to a hotel on the west side and she— They said she shot herself. I don't know why she would do that.”

“The last month or so of her life, did you notice a change in Erica?”

“I did, yes. She seemed tense. Sometimes she had phone conversations where she almost whispered. My desk wasn't too far from hers.”

“Did you ask her about it?”

“It wasn't my business. I thought maybe she'd met someone, a man, and there were problems and she didn't want to talk about it.”

“You didn't think it had anything to do with work?”

“No. If it had been work, she would have talked about it.”

“Do you know why she left Social Services?”

“I wish I did.” Her face had grown sad. “There were a lot of rumors but no one knew for sure.”

“Tell us what the rumors were.”

“Well, there were two main ones, that she quit and that she was fired. If she quit, it was probably because she got burnt out. She couldn't take the amount of work anymore, she thought she could do something better with her life and maybe make more money. But I don't think that was it. She would have told me. She would have told Arthur. She turned her back on both of us.” It was clear that had hurt.

“So you think she was fired.”

“But I don't know why.” It was almost a wail. “She walked in a minute after I did, she went to her desk, the supervisor called her in, and five minutes later it was all over. And if she was fired, she waived her right to a hearing.”

“What's the name of the supervisor?” Defino asked, his notebook open.

“Miss O'Neill. Margaret. She was an old-timer. There aren't many of them left. They've all retired. And good riddance,” she added. “They were by-the-book old maids. Listen to me talk, I'm an old maid myself.” She smiled and her face lit up.

“Hardly,” Jane said, thinking of her conversations last night, of how the world sees you in contrast to how you see yourself. “Did any of the rumors say that Erica had done something to get Miss O'Neill angry?”

“What I heard was that Erica screwed up on the job, that she failed to see clients but that her records showed she had seen them. You can't do that. I'm sure you understand. But Erica wouldn't do that. She had integrity. If she said she did something or went somewhere, she did. She had no reason to lie. Maybe there was a mix-up in a file, information recorded in the wrong place, but I can't believe Erica deliberately falsified anything.”

“Did she ever mention a man named Larry? Or did you hear her use that name when she was on the phone?”

“Larry. It's so many years ago, I couldn't tell you for sure.”

“Were there men in her life?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you know her sister?”

“I met her once. She's a nice woman, a good sister. Erica loved those children.”

“Did you ever meet any of Erica's boyfriends?”

Washington shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Did you know her friend Ellen Raymond?”

“Ellie? The one in California? I never met her but Erica went out to visit her a couple of times. I think they knew each other from when they got their degrees in social work. They were old friends.”

Jane pushed her chair back slightly and Defino took up the questioning. “Ms. Washington, I'm going to ask you something that may upset you, but we both want you to know that you're not under investigation for anything and what you tell us will stay with us. Did Ms. Rinzler do drugs? Smoke a little pot?”

She swallowed, reached for a cookie, took a tiny bite, and sipped her coffee. “Not in my presence. She knew what I thought of that. I have a brother with a problem. I wouldn't go near the stuff. And she didn't do hard drugs. I'm not saying she smoked anything; I'm just saying I never saw her do it.”

“Is it possible she was dealing?”

“Erica?” Her voice was shocked. “Never.”

“Is there anything else she might have been involved in that was, let's say, a little shady? Maybe she was importing diamonds or stolen artwork.”

Washington laughed. “Detective, you're barking up the wrong tree. You've just got the wrong person. You know, our job is full-time. You're lucky to have the two days at the end of the week to clean your house and do your laundry and see a movie.”

“But if she was skipping client visits, maybe she had more time than you're aware of.”

“If that were true, of course there would be time.” She looked troubled, a frown creasing her forehead.

“Do you know any other people Ms. Rinzler was friendly with?”

“Arthur was a friend. She was friendly with almost everyone at work, but she wasn't their friend, if you know what I mean.”

“Did she ever talk to you about Anderson Stratton, the man who was found dead in his apartment?”

“Maybe a little. I think she liked him. Oh yes, she said he wrote wonderful poetry. I remember that. He was schizophrenic, wasn't he? You know what I remember? Several caseworkers were assigned to him, one after the other, and he threw them all out. They sent Erica because she was so good with people. And it was the right thing to do. She didn't get thrown out. I heard he starved to death. Is that true?”

“We don't know,” Defino said. “That's why we're looking into his death. Did you ever meet any other friends of Ms. Rinzler's?”

“Just Mimi. We went to dinner and the theater together a few times.”

“Do you know if Ms. Rinzler owned a gun?”

“I can't tell you that she didn't, but I never saw one, and she never said she owned one.” Something seemed to click in her mind. “Do you think Erica was murdered?”

“It's something we're investigating,” Jane said.

“My God. Does her sister know?”

“We've spoken to her sister. I just have one more question. How did you find out that Erica had died?”

She thought about it. “It was quite a while after it happened. Either I called her sister or she called me. I don't remember now. I never told a soul. I suppose I should have told Arthur, but he'd been transferred and I didn't see him much.”

Defino took his card out and laid it on the table as Jane did the same. “You can call either of us,” he said, “if something comes to you. Maybe you'll think of a reason why someone might have wanted to kill Ms. Rinzler.”

Patricia Washington studied both cards. “I don't think so,” she said. “No one could have wanted her dead.”

They passed the living room on the way to the door and Jane noticed a pipe in a large ashtray, a brown tobacco pouch beside it on the end table. Maybe not quite an old maid.

“So we got zip,” Defino said as they walked back to the subway.

“Except that something was going on in Rinzler's life the last month of Stratton's life.”

“Which we knew. What do you think we should do about the Chinese laundry?”

“Let's not jump the gun. We should try to get the Social Service records for Rinzler, personnel and her clients.”

“We'll need a warrant. They'll scream about privacy issues.”

“Then we'll do it that way. And maybe find Miss O'Neill. She sounds like the nuns when I was a kid.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Get my hand whacked again.”

“It sure as hell didn't work on me.”

19

A
FTER LUNCH
J
ANE
took the subway up to Fourteenth Street. MacHovec was expecting to hear from his friend at the telephone company this afternoon and Jane promised to be back after her interview with Vale. That wouldn't take much time. By now, Vale had rehearsed his new story and unless he slipped up again, he would just repeat the new set of lies. Jane didn't think there was much chance he would tell her any truths.

He must have seen her approach through the living room window as he opened the door before she was down the steps. “Nice to see you, Detective,” he said in the new, be-nice-to-the-cops voice. “Come in.”

“Hello, Mr. Vale.”

“Some coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, let's sit in the living room and talk.”

She took out her notebook, flipped to an empty page, and dated it. “I'm listening.”

“You were quite right that I knew Erica Rinzler, Detective. I hadn't mentioned my relationship with her to the police or to that private detective. What was his name?”

“Shreiber.”

“Of course, Mr. Shreiber. He and I got on very well, you know.”

“That's because you neglected to tell him everything you knew. You didn't tell him about the little Chinese girl delivering Mr. Stratton's laundry.”

“It didn't seem to matter. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Let's get back to Erica Rinzler and your relationship with her.”

“You might call it a brief affair, Detective Bauer. We were drawn to each other in a sexual way. Very drawn. Although she was ostensibly visiting Andy as a caseworker, she was really coming to see me. The relationship didn't last long, but it was quite intense.”

“How long did it last, Mr. Vale?”

“I'm not sure I could put a number of days or weeks on it, Detective Bauer. I'm sure you know how these things are. The hotter and heavier they are, the sooner they burn out.” He attempted a smile, drawing her into his little circle of disappointed lovers. He had paid her the compliment of comparing her to himself. “And when it was over, Erica stopped coming here.”

“So you're telling me that her visits to Andy Stratton were excuses to see you.”

“Precisely. Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee? A glass of wine?” The charm was stifling.

“Let's stay on track here, Mr. Vale. My information about Ms. Rinzler is that she was a dedicated worker. You're telling me that wasn't correct.”

“I'm sure she was dedicated. She said as much to me. But you know how affairs of the heart can affect one's work.”

“No, I'm afraid I don't. Would you like to tell me?”

The attempt at a happy face faded. “When we broke up, Erica stopped coming to this building. That's all I know.”

“What caused the breakup?”

“As I said, these hot fires don't last long.”

“Mr. Vale, I appreciate your way with words, but that doesn't answer my question.”

“She— I just got tired of the relationship. I knew it wasn't going anywhere. I told her it was over.”

“What about your business relationship with her?” She kept her eyes on his face, looking for the telltale loss of color. “Did you break that off too?”

“There was no business relationship.” His color remained neutral. “I told you, we had a sexual—”

“Come on, Mr. Vale. You and Erica were making a little money on the side, weren't you? It wasn't what you were doing in bed, it was what you were doing on your feet.”

“Detective, I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Was this little story about the affair the truth you wanted to get on the record?”

“It is the truth. I can't prove it. Erica's gone, but—”

“Were you at her funeral?”

“No. I didn't even know she was dead for some time.”

“How did you find out?”

That stumped him. “I heard it. I don't remember from whom. Maybe Andy—”

“Andy was dead, remember?”

“Yes, of course. He died during that period, when she stopped coming.”

“And you never looked in on him? He was your friend and you never thought to go up a couple of flights and see how he was doing? There must have been weeks when you didn't see him from this window.”

“It was a busy time.” It was starting to get to him. “I don't check up on the tenants unless they call for help.”

“Larry,” she said, her voice raised, “this wasn't a tenant. This was a friend. This was a guy who sat and talked music with you, remember? This was Andy Stratton who had dinner with you sometimes. Why the fuck didn't you go up and check on him?”

The outburst left him speechless. He stood and walked across the room, then back again. “I didn't expect this from you,” he said.

“Just answer the question,” she said in a normal voice. “Why didn't you go up and check on Andy? You knew he had problems. You didn't see him for weeks. I wonder if you didn't want him dead, Mr. Vale, you and Erica Rinzler both.”

“I can't believe you said that.” He ran his hands through his hair. This interview he had prepared to ace was turning into a nightmare. “I was busy. I had a lot of things on my mind. I regret that I didn't go up, I'll admit that. I had a lot of sleepless nights after Mrs. Bender called the police and they found Andy. But I wasn't responsible for his death. I didn't know how ill he was. I didn't realize that without constant observation he might do such a thing to himself.”

“Who did Erica Rinzler get a gun from?”

“I— You mean the gun she killed herself with?”

“That gun, yes.”

“I don't know. I suppose there are places. I don't believe in owning a firearm so I've never looked into it.”

“She didn't believe in firearms either. Strange that she set her principles aside and acquired one.”

“It is strange, now that you mention it.”

“Did you ever see the little Chinese girl again after Andy Stratton died?”

“I don't recall. I don't go to the laundry. I wash my clothes in a machine.”

“This has been very interesting, Mr. Vale. If you decide on another version of the truth, please let me know. You have my number.”

Getting out of that overheated room and into the cold air felt better than anything else that day.

MacHovec had the phone records when she got back to the office. His friend had called and given him a synopsis of what he'd found; then he'd faxed the pages, which had just come in the last few minutes, and MacHovec was going through them, making marks in red.

“Can't prove they went to bed together, but they did a lot of talking,” he said. “The records don't register what extension Vale called at Social Services but he sure as hell called the main number a lot over a period of maybe six months.”

“I'm more interested in the business than the sex,” Jane said. “Vale was pushing the sex part this afternoon, as though that and his unbearable charm would get him off the hook. He didn't admit to any business.”

“Well, he called her at work and called her at night and on weekends at her home number. But that all stopped weeks before she died.”

“How about before Stratton died?”

MacHovec checked some papers on his desk, came back to the faxed material, and said, “Before Stratton's body was discovered anyway. If we figure he was dead one or two weeks before he was found, yeah, hold on, no phone calls probably for the last week or so of his life.”

“We need a time line,” Defino said from his typewriter.

Jane agreed. “I can—”

“My specialty,” MacHovec said. “How do you want it? Black and white or multicolor? I can do a rainbow.”

Jane grinned at him. “Do your thing, partner. Anyone want to hear Vale's new story?” She briefed them, which took almost no time.

“So he decided we should think he and Erica were taking a tumble and that's what went on between them,” MacHovec said.

“And that's
all
that went on between them. And since I'm a sucker for his sticky charm, I'll believe him. After this, he'll be asking for you, Gordon.”

Defino laughed, a real laugh, his face brightening.

“What I want to know is: If Vale didn't kill Rinzler, who told him she was dead?”

No one responded. Jane took the phone records when MacHovec had given them the once-over. He had marked the calls between Rinzler and Vale on both their records. Eight to ten years earlier there were fewer cell phones in use and these two had had only the phones in their homes and office. While Vale's calls to Social Services could not be identified as having terminated at Rinzler's desk, she was as sure as MacHovec was that they had. Otherwise, he was having quite a dialogue with Social Services.

On Rinzler's record Jane found several calls to Ellie Raymond's number in California. There were also frequent calls, mostly in the evening, to Patricia Washington and to Judy Weissman. The records were more detailed than telephone bills, which normally noted only long-distance calls. Here, every call placed from the number was listed. Jane went through many pages, writing down frequently called numbers. Something might come of that. She picked up the phone and called one, just to see who answered.

It was a woman with a young voice. “I'm sorry,” Jane said cordially. “I thought this was my friend's number. I haven't called her in some time. How long have you had this number?”

“Two years, I think. Maybe three.”

“Sorry for bothering you.”

Defino was looking at her.

“I bet they just shut down whatever the operation was, turned off their phones, maybe even moved. I hope this doesn't all come down to sweating the Chinese laundry people. The review board'll have us up on charges.”

“They'll use Rose on the front page of the
Daily News
with insets of you and me beating her.”

“I'll vouch for you,” MacHovec said, raising his head from his artwork. “And I'll try to find out who had those numbers eight years ago.”

Jane looked over at his work. MacHovec was a man of several talents, most of which he kept to himself. The time line he was drawing could have come from the hand of an artist. He was using colored pens, rulers, and a roll of paper he had found somewhere and never used before. It gave him great length. When he was done, they could tack it on the wall.

He left before it was finished, just as Jane's phone rang.

“Hi,” Hack's voice said.

It made her smile. “Hi. Where are you?”

“Still in that bar I spent the night in.”

“Good place for you.”

“I'm glad we're together again, Jane.”

“So am I.”

“I'll see you in a week or two.”

“Good.”

“I know you're in a crowd over there so don't say anything, but I'm all alone and I love you.”

“That makes two.”

“Bye.”

She hung up and heard Defino's phone ring. He reached for it from his seat at the typewriter. “Yeah, Defino.”

Jane moved over to MacHovec's desk to admire the time line. It began with Stratton's move into the apartment in Alphabet City about ten years ago. The next point on it was the arrival of Erica Rinzler as his caseworker. As Jane's eyes moved from left to right, she heard Defino's conversation.

“She can't. . . . Because I say so and you say so. Put her on the phone. . . . Dammit— . . . Then you tell her. She stays home. I come home and find her gone, she'll be in more trouble than she's ever been before. . . . I don't give a shit. That's the way it is. . . . She what? . . . Yeah, I'm on my way.” He banged the phone down. “That kid'll be my death. She met some guy, wants to go out with him tonight. ‘An older man,' ” he said, mimicking his daughter. “I'll give her an older man.” He had left the typewriter, pulled the page out, and dropped it on his desk.

“Gordon—”

“Am I wrong?”

“No, you're right. Just control your rage when you talk to her.”

“Rage is right.” He put his coat on. “Jesus, what else does she have in store for us?”

Plenty, Jane thought. “Good luck.”

“Thanks. See you in the morning.”

She watched him go, thinking of her father when she was a teenager. He had not shown rage, although Jane was sure he must have felt it. He had simply been incredulous. How had this happened? Their beautiful, wonderful, perfect daughter had acted like someone else's trampy no-good child.

She pushed MacHovec's chair away from the desk and put her coat on. It was quiet outside her office, the detectives on their way home to their good and bad children, Annie off to a fun evening with her friends. Not bothering to wait for the elevator, she went down the stairs. As she walked to the subway, she thought about Hack's call and the stack of phone records on her desk. A little while ago, a piece of equipment at the telephone company had recorded his phone making a call to hers and how long the call had lasted. Records existed of his office phone and cell phone calling her at home, this apartment or that, for ten years. If someone suspected their relationship and had the wherewithal, as MacHovec did, he could get those records without a warrant, just as Sean had today.

They were always careful. There had been nights when Hack had called from a pay phone to say he couldn't leave the group he was with and their date was canceled. The question was: Was it enough? She went down into the subway.

Carrying bags of groceries and a bundle of firewood, she moved through homeward-bound New Yorkers from the center of the sidewalk toward her front door. Preoccupied, she failed to notice a man coming from the other direction and they collided.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, reaching to prevent one bag from slipping from her grasp. “I wasn't looking. You live here?” He was tall and handsome, dark hair a bit too long, well dressed, not more than thirty.