Murder in Alphabet City (19 page)

“On that trip? Oh yes.”

“And if it wasn't the ponies or the stock market, you don't know what it was.”

“Not the faintest.”

“I know this is far-fetched, but did she ever say anything about a Chinese laundry?”

“You mean like taking her clothes there?”

“Anything at all.”

“We didn't talk about things like that.”

“OK. Thanks, Ms. Raymond. I'll keep you updated.”

Her elbow on her desk, Jane put her forehead in her palm.

“Getting to you?” Defino said.

“Yeah. Raymond just admitted Rinzler said she had some extra money coming in. She didn't tell me that the first time.”

“When did it start?”

“Maybe a year before her death. I need a break.” She went to the coffee room, poured a cup, and sat at a table. She was the only person there, which was what she wanted, no conversation, no clever remarks, just silence with a distant buzz.

The players were Erica Rinzler, Bill Fletcher, maybe Larry Vale. They were buying or selling some product and they were using the Chinese laundry, possibly as a meeting place, perhaps as a storehouse for the product. Little Rose may have been the unwitting delivery person for that product, or perhaps her packages contained messages for Rinzler from Fletcher.

Arthur Provenzano's name flitted through her mind. Was it believable that he had not heard of Rinzler's death? And could Patricia Washington know more than she had told them? Maybe there were questions they had failed to ask her.

Jane shook her head. Rinzler had to be the central operative. Vale, if he was involved, was some kind of facilitator. Maybe his job was just to make sure that Stratton stayed alive and malleable. He may even have been the one who saw to it that Stratton took his drugs. Fletcher must have worked with Rinzler, either buying or selling the product. In addition, he was a hatchet man, a useful guy to have around when things went bad.

So what had happened? Some
event.
She thought of it that way, in italics. Maybe someone caught on and robbed the Chinese laundry. Since neither money nor shirts were taken, the owners would not have reported the robbery. But they would have let Rinzler know. Rinzler had to keep away from Stratton and the area, Vale stopped looking after Stratton, Fletcher tried to smooth things over. End of operation, end of Stratton. The laundry stayed open but its ties to Rinzler and the others dissolved. Rose grew up and went to college knowing nothing.

“Just about what I know,” Jane said aloud, finishing her coffee. God, I hope I find Maria Brusca tonight.

25

J
ANE ADDED HER
off-duty S&W to the ankle holster, dressed warmly, and took a taxi to Third Avenue and Twelfth Street. It was dark and the women were walking to keep warm or standing in storefronts to stay out of the wind. Legs were visible beneath short skirts, and an occasional flash of sequins jazzed up the mournful atmosphere.

She had memorized the photo as well as she could and she tried to identify the face from across the street. In the picture, Maria Brusca was a good-looking, dark-haired girl in her twenties with a nice smile. Few of the faces had smiles tonight, except when a car pulled over to the curb and a woman was summoned.

Jane crossed the street and stopped to talk to the women. She asked for Sparkle. Several of the women knew her. One walked down the street, looking for her, but came back alone.

“She could be working.”

“Did you see her tonight?”

“I don't think so.”

Jane went down the block asking her questions. No one had seen Brusca that night.

“She's usually here by now,” one gum-chewing girl with bright red hair volunteered. “Maybe she's sick.”

“I heard she was visiting a friend this afternoon. You know who her friend is?”

Shrugged shoulders. “You want her to call you?”

“No thanks. I'll keep looking.” Maria knew from her mother who was looking for her.

Jane kept walking, turning onto Fourteenth Street, trying to match faces with the one in her memory. The girls were black, white, and Hispanic, shivering in the cold regardless of race and ethnicity. Winter was an equal opportunity season.

She stayed an hour, then got a cab over to Brusca's apartment. In front of the door, she listened for sounds. Somewhere inside a radio or TV was playing. She rang the bell. The sound inside the apartment went dead. She waited, then rang again.

“Maria?”

“Who's there?” A hostile, or perhaps frightened voice.

“I want to talk to you.”

“Go away.”

“I'm not leaving. Open the door so I don't have to shout.”

The door opened and the dark-haired young woman stood before her, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe. “Show me ID.”

Jane had her shield in her hand. She held it up along with the photo.

Maria backed up, let her in, closed the door, and bolted it. “What do you want from me?”

“Just some information.”

“You the one who called my mother?”

“Yes.”

“Before we talk, you have to promise me something.”

Jane knew what it was and she promised.

“My mother thinks I'm a high-class call girl. You ever tell her different, you're in big trouble.”

Threats didn't sit well with detectives. “Maria, I have the shield; you have the problem and the record. I have no reason to talk to your mother about anything if you tell me what I want to know.”

“She said it's about that social worker.”

“We're investigating her. Your mother said she ruined your life. What did she do to you?”

“Oh Jeez,” the girl said under her breath. “She made me promises and she broke them. When I needed her, she wasn't there. She never came back.”

“Do you know why?”

“Nobody told me. They sent someone else.”

“What was that person's name?”

She closed her eyes, then shook her head. “It was years ago. The only one I really remember was Miss Rinzler. I trusted her, you know? I never made that mistake again.”

“Is your mother on welfare?” Jane asked.

“My mother? No. My mother makes out OK. She would die before she would go on welfare.”

“What was your connection to Social Services?” It seemed odd that a mother was self-sufficient and a child wasn't.

“I had problems, OK? I needed to work things out. I needed help. That's all I can tell you.”

“Maria, you're not going to get in trouble. I'm here about Erica Rinzler, not you. What happened between you?”

She took a deep breath and her body quivered. “Nothing. She just took off. I can't tell you no more.”

“Did Ms. Rinzler ever bring anyone along when she came to see you?”

“Like another social worker? No. She came alone. We talked about my problems and then she left.”

“Did she ever talk about a man named Bill?”

“She never talked about other people.”

Jane took her card out of her pocket and gave it to Maria. “If you decide to tell me more, you can reach me here. If you leave your first name, I'll get back to you.”

Maria looked at the card, then nodded her head and put it on the end table next to the sofa. “Could you go, please? I still got time to make a few bucks.”

Jane left.

Standing in the doorway downstairs, she buttoned her jacket up high and put her gloves on. A taxi might come along, but she'd have a better chance of finding one on an avenue and once she was on an avenue, she could pick up the subway on Forty-second Street and tin her way home. It would take less time and be just as warm.

She walked down the few stairs to the street and turned east. It was damn cold; maybe a taxi would be better. Hands in pockets, she walked with the wind from the Hudson River at her back. It was quiet, almost no traffic, and few pedestrians.

When the shot rang out, it was so stunning, so unexpected, that she stopped dead for two seconds before reacting. Then she turned and started running back to the building she had just left, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket as she ran. With her teeth, she ripped off her right glove, then started dialing 911. She identified herself as she went up the outside stairs. “Gunshot on West Forty-third between Ninth and Tenth, maybe number four-one-one. I am going to apartment four-A.” She folded the phone closed and dashed up the stairs. No one had passed her on the street or on the stairs, no one had been running west as she approached the building. That meant the shooter had gone up to the roof or down the fire escape or into another apartment in the building, but she didn't have time to look for him. She reached two in seconds and continued up. The door to Maria Brusca's apartment was ajar and Jane went in, weapon in hand.

“Maria?” she called loudly. “Maria? It's Detective Bauer. Are you here?”

She heard a sound, a whimper, and she followed it to the bedroom. The girl was on the floor near one of the two twin beds. Jane flicked the light on and knelt beside the bloody form.

“Maria? Can you hear me?”

The girl moaned and her hand curled around Jane's.

“We'll get you to a hospital. Who did this to you?”

There was no sound.

“Maria?”

The fingers relaxed. From the distance, sirens cut through the night, coming closer. For the girl on the floor, it was too late.

Jane held the girl's wrist, seeking a pulse, then set the hand down. She got up and backed out of the bedroom, touching nothing, and walked into the living room. Her eye fell on the end table next to the sofa where, not ten minutes ago, Maria had placed Jane's card. It was gone.

26

B
EFORE THE COPS
pounded up the stairs, Jane dialed Larry Vale's number on her cell phone. He answered brusquely on the third ring.

“Mr. Vale, this is Detective Bauer.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Just wanted to see if you were home.”

“Why?” His anger flew across the city. “Somebody rob a grocery store in my neighborhood?”

“Something a lot worse. Sorry I disturbed you.” She hung up. The first cops were rushing through the open door. “She's dead, gunshot. In the bedroom. Don't bother calling a bus.”

Two more cops entered the apartment, then another two right behind them. While they checked out the apartment, Jane called McElroy and briefed him.

“You think it's this Fletcher guy?”

“Has to be. He watched Gordon, now he's watching me. He must have followed me upstairs, gone up to the next landing, and waited till I left, then come down and knocked on her door. She probably thought I had come back. I'm sure it didn't help that she told him she hadn't answered my questions.”

“I think we have some DNA on him, but it doesn't help if he has no record. We still have to find him.”

“I called Vale a few minutes ago. He's in his apartment in Alphabet City. It couldn't have been him unless he flew.”

“So we gotta find Fletcher.”

“ ‘Fraid so. I'll stick around, make sure they don't destroy the crime scene.”

“Good idea. You in Midtown North?”

“Yes.”

“Don't set your alarm tonight.”

What he meant was that it would be a long night. Before the body could be removed to the morgue, much work had to be done, including sketches, lifting of prints, photos, and a close inspection of the furniture and its contents, the closets, and anywhere else that information on the deceased and the killer might be found. The crime scene guys would be busy for hours.

Jane had suggested to the last cops in the apartment that they check out the roof and fire escape, but she held little hope for finding the shooter. He had been waiting for her to leave and then he came in, asked Maria a question or two, and shot her. Jane thought Maria had probably been trying to run away from him, which was why she lay on the bedroom floor.

“Door to the roof's locked,” one cop said, coming back. “He must have used the fire escape. We'll check it out.”

“It's in the bedroom.”

It took twenty minutes for a pair of detectives to arrive. Jane briefed them and they dismissed the uniforms. A crime scene van was on its way but wouldn't arrive for some time. They were based in Jamaica, Queens. Jane walked around the apartment herself, having borrowed a pair of plastic gloves from a detective. She turned the coffeemaker off. They didn't need a fire on top of a homicide.

Nothing seemed out of order. Dirty dishes lay in the sink and a dish of sliced turkey and salad was on the kitchen table, along with a mug half filled with coffee. She stayed out of the bedroom, where the detectives were working, but looked in the bathroom. No drugs were in the medicine chest except some cold remedies and aspirin. The makeup, she thought, would be in the bedroom. She took her cell phone out again and called Defino.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Now he's following you.”

“Looks like it. McElroy said they had some DNA from Fletcher.”

“Yeah, they called. And Angela sat with an artist. We've got a drawing.”

“And it's not Vale.”

“Nah. Vale's too old.”

She told him she'd called Vale.

“Good thinking. So we gotta find this scumbag Fletcher.”

“Hold on.”

“Looks like he used the fire escape,” the cop who had checked the roof said, entering the apartment. “The bottom section's pulled down. We walked around out back, but nobody's there. He probably went up to Forty-fourth Street and melted into the crowd.”

“Thanks, Officer.” She went back to the phone and told Defino what she had just learned.

“So he's a gymnast.”

“Not necessarily. It's an easy walk down and not much of a jump to the ground. We'll check out the other apartments. Boro Homicide Task Force will send over a couple of teams to do the canvass before it gets too late. I'm not expecting much.”

“What else is new.”

She stayed around till they called the morgue at two
A.M.
Everyone had been busy. “I'll have to call her mother,” she said to the detectives who had caught the case.

“You sure you want to?”

“I'm sure I don't, but she gave me Maria's address. I owe her.”

Life was full of debts, she thought as she went down the stairs. She knew the detectives would have done it and she wanted them to, but it was a matter of honor. And a matter of responsibility.

As the first member of the service at the scene, it was Jane's duty to be at the morgue to identify the body she had found, but she felt a personal responsibility to Maria's mother to be there at the same time. At six
A.M.,
Jane met Mrs. Brusca at the morgue at First Avenue and East Thirtieth Street. She was a thin woman with a face that reflected all the worry her daughter had caused her. Jane had arranged for a car from her precinct to drive her over. A single woman bearing the worst burden in the world, Mrs. Brusca could not have managed to get there on her own at any hour.

With one bony hand she clung to Jane, the other, holding a tissue, blotted her eyes and face. “Tell me what happened,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“I talked to her in her apartment. I left her there, walked down the street, and heard a shot. I went back and found her.”

“Was she . . . was she alive?”

“She was alive. I held her hand. She only lived a minute after I got there.”

“Thank God you held her hand.”

She identified her daughter and nearly collapsed. They sat her down, gave her water, and let her rest. Jane remained with her, saying nothing.

“What did she tell you?” the mother asked finally.

“Nothing.”

“She didn't tell you what happened?”

“No.”

“Who killed her?”

“Someone who thought I was getting information from her.”

“For this they killed my child?”

“It looks like it.”

“You gonna get him?”

“Yes. We will. And we will charge him and we will try him and I will testify against him.”

“It won't bring her back.”

Jane held the pale hand. “I know.”

“You come around, I'll tell you everything I can. God forgive me. I want him dead.”

“Thank you.” They stood. “I'll call before I come.”